Kellhus nodded, utterly unconcerned. "And this is why the Anagogic Schools have never been able to steal the Gnosis. Why simply reciting what they hear is useless."

"There's the metaphysics to consider as well. But, yes, in all sorcery the inutterals are key."

Kellhus nodded. "Has anyone experimented with further inutteral strings?"

Achamian swallowed. "What do you mean?"

By some coincidence two of the hanging lanterns guttered at the same time, drawing Achamian's eyes upward. They instantly resumed their soundless illumination.

"Has anyone devised Cants consisting of two two inutteral strings?" inutteral strings?"

The "Third Phrase" was a thing of myth in Gnostic sorcery, a story handed down to Men during the Nonman Tutelage: the legend of Su'juroit, the great Cunuroi Witch-King. But for some reason, Achamian found himself loath to relate the tale. "No," he lied. "It's impossible."

From this point, a strange breathlessness characterized their lessons, an unsettling sense that the ba.n.a.lity of what Achamian said belied unthinkable repercussions. Years ago he had partic.i.p.ated in a Mandate-sanctioned a.s.sa.s.sination of a suspected Ainoni spy in Conriya. All Achamian had done was hand a folded oak leaf containing belladonna to a scullery slave. The action had been so simple, so innocuous ...

Three men and one woman had died.

As always with Kellhus, Achamian needed only to gloss the various topics, and then only once. Within the course of single evenings Kellhus mastered arguments, explanations, and details that had taken Achamian years to internalize. His questions always struck to the heart. His observations never failed to chill with their rigour and penetration. Then at last, as the first elements of the Holy War invested Gerotha, they came to the precipice.

Kellhus beamed with grat.i.tude and good humour. He stroked his flaxen beard in an uncharacteristic gesture of excitement, and for an instant resembled no one so much as Inrau. His eyes reflected three points of light, one for each of the lanterns suspended above Achamian.

"So the time has finally come."

Achamian nodded, knowing his apprehension was plain to see. "We should start with some basic Ward," he said awkwardly. "Something you can use to defend yourself."

"No," Kellhus replied. "Begin with a Cant of Calling."

Achamian frowned, but he knew better than to counsel or contradict. Breathing deeply, he opened his mouth to recite the first utteral string of the Ishra Discursia, the most ancient and most simple of the Gnostic Cants of Calling. But for some reason no sound escaped his lips. It seemed he should be speaking, but something ... inflexible had seized his throat. He shook his head and laughed, glancing away in embarra.s.sment, then tried once again.

Still nothing.

"I ..." Achamian looked to Kellhus, more than baffled. "I cannot speak."

Kellhus watched him carefully, peering first at his face, then apparently at an empty point in the air between them. "Seswatha," he said after a moment. "How else could the Mandate have safeguarded the Gnosis for so many years? Even with the nightmares ..."

An unaccountable relief washed through Achamian. "It-it must be ..."

He looked to Kellhus helplessly. Despite all his turmoil, he truly wanted wanted to yield the Gnosis. Somehow it had become oppressive in the manner of shameful acts, and for whatever reason, all secrets clamoured for light in Kellhus's presence. He shook his head, lowered his face into his hands, saw Xinemus screaming, his face clenched about the knifepoint in his eye. to yield the Gnosis. Somehow it had become oppressive in the manner of shameful acts, and for whatever reason, all secrets clamoured for light in Kellhus's presence. He shook his head, lowered his face into his hands, saw Xinemus screaming, his face clenched about the knifepoint in his eye.

"I must speak with him," Kellhus said.

Achamian gaped at the man, incredulous. "With Seswatha? I don't understand."

Kellhus reached to his belt and drew one of his daggers: the Eumarnan one, with a black pearl handle and a long thin blade, like those Achamian's father had used for deboning fish. For a panicked instant Achamian thought that Kellhus meant to debone him, him, to cut Seswatha from his skin, perhaps the way physician-priests sometimes cut living infants from dying mothers. Instead he merely twirled the pommel across the table of his palm, holding it balanced so that the Seleukaran steel flashed in the light of their fire-pot. to cut Seswatha from his skin, perhaps the way physician-priests sometimes cut living infants from dying mothers. Instead he merely twirled the pommel across the table of his palm, holding it balanced so that the Seleukaran steel flashed in the light of their fire-pot.

"Watch the play of light," he said. "Watch only the light."

With a shrug, Achamian gazed at the weapon, found himself captivated by the multiple ghosts that formed about the spinning blade's axis. He had the sense of watching silver through dancing water, then ...

What followed defeated description. There was a peculiar impression of elongation, elongation, as though his eyes had been drawn across open s.p.a.ce into airy corners. He could remember his head falling back, and the sense that, even though he still owned his bones, his muscles belonged to someone else, so that it seemed he was as though his eyes had been drawn across open s.p.a.ce into airy corners. He could remember his head falling back, and the sense that, even though he still owned his bones, his muscles belonged to someone else, so that it seemed he was restrained restrained by the force of another in a manner more profound than chains or even inhumation. He could remember speaking, but could recollect nothing of what he said. It was as though his memory of the exchange had been affixed to the edges of his periphery, where it remained no matter how quickly he snapped his head. Always just on the threshold of the perceptible ... by the force of another in a manner more profound than chains or even inhumation. He could remember speaking, but could recollect nothing of what he said. It was as though his memory of the exchange had been affixed to the edges of his periphery, where it remained no matter how quickly he snapped his head. Always just on the threshold of the perceptible ...

Unknown permissions.

He began to ask Kellhus what had happened, but the man silenced him with a closed-eye grin, the one he typically used to effortlessly dismiss what seemed to be crucial questions. Kellhus told him to try repeating the first phrase. With something akin to awe, Achamian found the first words tumbling from his lips-the first utteral string ...

"Iratisrineis lo ocoimenein loroi hapara ..."

Followed by the corresponding inutteral string.

"Li lijineriera cui ashiritein hejaroit hejaroit ..." ..."

For a moment Achamian felt disoriented, such was the ease of reciting these strings apart. How thin his voice felt! He gathered his wits in the ensuing silence, watching Kellhus with something between hope and horror. The air itself seemed numb.

It had taken Achamian seven months to master the simultaneous inner and outer expressions of the utteral and the inutteral strings, and even then he'd started with the remedial semantic constructions of the denotaries. But somehow, with Kellhus ...

Silence, so absolute it seemed he could hear the lanterns wheeze their white light.

Then, with a faint otherworldly smile upon his lips, Kellhus nodded, looked directly into his eyes, and repeated, "Iratisrineis lo ocoimenein loroi hapara," "Iratisrineis lo ocoimenein loroi hapara," but in a way that rumbled like trailing thunder. but in a way that rumbled like trailing thunder.

For the first time Achamian saw Kellhus's eyes glow glow. Like coals beneath the bellows.

Terror clawed the breath from his lungs, the blood from his limbs. If a fool such as him could bring down ramparts of stone with such words, what could this man do?

What were his limits?

He remembered his argument with Esmenet in Shigek long ago, before the Library of the Sareots. What did it mean for a prophet prophet to sing in the G.o.d's own voice? Would that make him a shaman, as in the days described in the Tusk? Or would it make him a to sing in the G.o.d's own voice? Would that make him a shaman, as in the days described in the Tusk? Or would it make him a G.o.d G.o.d?

"Yes," Kellhus murmured, and he uttered the words again, words that spoke from the marrow of existence, that resonated at the pitch of souls. His eyes flashed, like gold afire. Ground and air hummed.

And at last Achamian realized ...

I have not the concepts to comprehend him.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

JOKTHA.

Every woman knows there are only two kinds of men: those who feel and those who pretend. Always remember, my dear, though only the former can be loved, only the latter can be trusted. It is pa.s.sion that blackens eyes, not calculation.

-ANONYMOUS LETTER

It is far better to outwit Truth than to apprehend it.

-AINONI PROVERB

Early Spring, 4112 Year-of-the-Tusk, Joktha

They ate in the privy dining chambers of the dead Grandee who had once ruled the Donjon Palace. The room possessed all the features Cnaiur had come to a.s.sociate with Kianene, as opposed to merely Fanim, decor. The threshold had been carved in the imitation of elaborately thatched mats. The single window opposite the entrance was shuttered with iron fretwork, which no doubt had once carried the same blooming vines he saw on similar windows throughout the city. And the walls were frescoed with geometric designs rather than images, stylized or otherwise.

The centre of the room dropped three steps, so that the table-which stood no higher than Cnaiur's knee-appeared to have been hewn from the floor. It was carved of mahogany and so polished that, given the proper angle, it possessed a mirror sheen. With a battery of candles as their only source of illumination, it seemed they sat in a sunken nest of pillows, surrounded by a shadowy gallery.

All of them were at pains not to rub knees-the perennial problem of dining at Kianene tables. Cnaiur occupied the head. Conphas sat to his immediate right, followed by General Sompas of the Kidruhil, then General Areamanteras of the Nasueret Column, General Baxatas of the Selial Column, and lastly General Imyanax of the Cepaloran Auxiliaries. To Cnaiur's immediate left sat Baron Sanumnis, followed by Baron Tirnemus, then Troyatti, the Captain of the Hemscilvara. The slaves hovered in the surrounding gloom, refilling wine bowls or removing spent plates. Two Conriyan knights in full battledress watched from the entrance, their silver war-masks drawn down.

"Sompas says lights were sighted on your private terrace," Conphas remarked. His tone was offhand in the probing way of devious family members. "What was it?" he asked, glancing at the man. "Some four or five days ago?"

"The night of the rain," the General said, barely looked up from his plate. He obviously harboured reservations, regarding either his Exalt-General's f.e.c.kless manner or the whole notion of dining with their Scylvendi captor. Probably both, Cnaiur mused-and much more besides.

Conphas stared in open expectancy of some kind of reply. Cnaiur matched his gaze, sheared the meat from a drumstick with exposed teeth, then returned his attention to his plate. He had suffered an unaccountable hankering for fowl of late.

He slurped back more unwatered wine, glimpsing the Exalt-General as he did so. There were still signs of bruising about his left eye. Like his Generals, he wore ceremonial military dress: a tunic of black silk chased in silver embroidery under a cuira.s.s stamped with stylized falcons about a colourless Imperial Sun. That the man had managed to have his wardrobe dragged across the desert, Cnaiur mused, spoke volumes.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw blood arcing across the walls.

Cnaiur had ostensibly summoned Conphas and his Generals here to discuss the arrival of the transports and the subsequent embarkation of his Columns. Twice now, he had quizzed the man on the matter, only to realize afterward that the answers the fiend provided only made apparent sense. But in truth, he cared nothing for the transports.

"Unnatural lights," Conphas continued, still staring at Cnaiur in expectation of an answer. Of course, Cnaiur's earlier refusal to reply-as obvious as it was-had accomplished nothing. Men such as Ikurei Conphas, the Utemot Chieftain understood, did not embarra.s.s. lights," Conphas continued, still staring at Cnaiur in expectation of an answer. Of course, Cnaiur's earlier refusal to reply-as obvious as it was-had accomplished nothing. Men such as Ikurei Conphas, the Utemot Chieftain understood, did not embarra.s.s.

Fear, however, was a far different matter.

He took another deep drink, watched Conphas's canny eyes following his wine bowl. There was cleverness to his look-an appraisal of potential weakness-but there was worry also. The matter with the sorcerer had spooked him, as Cnaiur had known it would.

Was this, he wondered, how the Dunyain felt?

"I wish," Cnaiur said, "to speak of Kiyuth."

Conphas pretended to occupy himself with his meal. He ate in the effete twin-fork manner of the Nansur caste-n.o.bility, drawing each piece of food as though searching for pins. Given the circ.u.mstances, perhaps he did search for pins. His eyes were hooded when he looked up, but the taint of elation was unmistakable. In fact, there had been something ... exultant exultant about his manner since his arrival. about his manner since his arrival.

He plans something. He thinks me already doomed.

The Exalt-General shrugged. "What about Kiyuth?"

"I'm curious ... What would you have done if Xunnurit had not attacked you?"

Conphas smiled in the manner of men who saw entire conversations from beginning to end. "Xunnurit had no choice," he said. "That was the genius of my plan."

"I don't understand," Tirnemus said, spilling duck from the corners of his mouth as he did so.

"The Exalt-General had taken every factor into account," Sompas explained with a soldier's first-hand confidence. "The seasons and the demands of their herds. Their sense of honour and the acts that would incite them. And most importantly, their arrogance ..." Sompas cast a quick glance at Cnaiur as he said this, one that somehow managed to seem both vicious and worried.

Of all the Generals present, Biaxi Sompas puzzled Cnaiur the most. The Biaxi were the Ikurei's traditional rivals in the Congregate, yet the man could scarce speak without licking Conphas's b.a.l.l.s.

"The Scylvendi think b.u.g.g.e.ry taboo," General Imyanax exclaimed in his thick accent, "the greatest of obscenities ..." He had lifted his eyes ceiling-ward while saying "greatest"; now he fixed Cnaiur with a gloating look. "So the Exalt-General had all our captives raped in open view."

Sompas blanched, while Baxatas scowled at the pugnacious Norsirai fool. Areamanteras laughed into his wine bowl but otherwise didn't dare look down the table. Both Sanumnis and Tirnemus cast discreet glances at their commander.

"Yes," Conphas said blithely as he worked his forks. Tap-tap. Sc.r.a.pe-sc.r.a.pe. "So I did."

For a long moment no one dared utter a word. Devoid of expression, Cnaiur watched the Exalt-General chew.

"War ..." Conphas continued, as though it were only natural that men should hang on his enlightened discourse. He paused to swallow. "War is no different than benjuka. The rules depend on the moves made, no more, no less."

Before he could continue, Cnaiur said, "War is intellect."

Conphas paused, carefully set aside his silver forks.

Cnaiur pushed his own plate aside. "You wonder where I heard that."

The man pursed his lips and shook his head. He dabbed his chin with his nap. "No ... You were there that day ... when I explained my tactics to Martemus. You were there, weren't you? Among the dead."

"I was."

Conphas nodded as though an old and arcane suspicion had been confirmed. "I'm curious ... It was just Martemus and I that day ..." He looked at Cnaiur significantly. "We had no escort."

"You wonder why I did not kill you?"

The Exalt-General smirked. "I was going to say try. " "

A slave's youthful hand reached from the darkness, drew Cnaiur's plate away. Gold and bones.

"The gra.s.ses," he said. "They knotted about my limbs. They bound me to the earth."

A door had opened somewhere. He could see it clearly in all their eyes-even in those of his so-called subordinates. A door had opened, and terror had stepped into their midst.

I see you.

Only Conphas seemed oblivious. It was as though he lacked the required organs.