The Warrior-Prophet s.n.a.t.c.hed it from the air just short of his neck. To the wonder of all, he raised the missile aloft. "Hear this, Hebarata," he cried. "From this day I count!" A cryptic statement that troubled even the Inrithi.

During this time, Coithus Athjeari ranged ever eastward with his hardened Gaenri Knights. They blundered into their first Kianene patrol south of a town called Nebethra. After a sharp melee, the Kianene broke and fled toward Chargiddo. Interrogating the survivors, the Galeoth Earl learned that Fanayal himself was in Shimeh, though none knew whether he planned to remain there. The Kianene claimed to have been sent out to gather intelligence on sites the Inrithi thought holy. According to one of the captives, the Padirajah hoped that securing and despoiling these places "would provoke the False Prophet to acts of stupidity."

This deeply alarmed the pious young Earl. That night he held a council with his captains, where it was decided that if any man should be provoked to rashness, it should be Coithus Athjeari. Using copies of antique Nansur maps, they staked out a route from holy place to holy place. After kneeling for the Temple Prayer, they joined their mailed kinsmen about the bonfires. Their Eumarnan and Mongilean chargers were led out of the darkness, and they mounted with a myriad of shouts. Then, wordlessly, they rode into the moonlit hills.

So began what came to be called Athjeari's Pilgrimage.

He rode first to survey Chargiddo, on the footings of the Betmulla. Since entering Xerash, the Men of the Tusk had heard much of this ancient fortress, and the Warrior-Prophet had bid Athjeari send him a report. After dispatching messengers with sketches and estimates, he struck through the foothills, twice surprising and scattering Kianene under the banner of Cinganjehoi. They found the hilltop village and shrine of Muselah-where the Latter Prophet had returned to Horomon his sight-a smoking ruin.

Upon that ground they swore a mighty oath.

In the meantime, all but the last elements of the Holy War joined their brothers outside the walls of Gerotha. The fact that the Xerashi made no sorties attested to their weakness, and in the Council of Great and Lesser Names both Hulwarga and Gothyelk pressed for an immediate a.s.sault. But the Warrior-Prophet chided them, saying that the nearness of their destination and not their confidence motivated their anxiousness to attack. "Where hopes burn bright," he said, "patience is quickly consumed."

They need only wait, he explained, and the city would fall of its own accord.

Music. This was the first thing Esmenet heard the day she began reading The Sagas The Sagas.

She hovered in that moment of consciousness that immediately follows awakening, a kind of twilight of thought, bereft of self or place, yet painfully alert. And there was music. music. She smiled in groggy recognition. The finger-drumming, the punctuated bow strokes, bold and dramatic: it was Kianene music, she realized, being played somewhere within the many-chambered Umbilica. She smiled in groggy recognition. The finger-drumming, the punctuated bow strokes, bold and dramatic: it was Kianene music, she realized, being played somewhere within the many-chambered Umbilica.

"Yes! Yes!" a m.u.f.fled voice called as the performance continued. She listened carefully, hoping to discern his his voice somewhere beneath the music and above the ambient rumble of the stirring encampment. He always spoke between sounds, it seemed. The song faltered, only to be drowned by the sound of laughter and sporadic clapping. voice somewhere beneath the music and above the ambient rumble of the stirring encampment. He always spoke between sounds, it seemed. The song faltered, only to be drowned by the sound of laughter and sporadic clapping.

It was the morning of their fourth day encamped about Gerotha and her stubborn walls. After vomiting, she struggled with her breakfast while her body-slaves fussed over her attire. With Yel and Burulan rolling their eyes, Fanashila explained the earlier music in her broken, but improving, Sheyic. Apparently three Xerashi captives, enslaved as porters, had pet.i.tioned Gayamakri for an opportunity to demonstrate their musical skills. What was more, the girl continued, one of them was more handsome than even the Conriyan Prince, or "Poyus," as she called him. Yel had laughed aloud at that.

After a moment's pause Fanashila blurted, "Slave may marry slave, no, Mistress?"

Esmenet smiled, but because of a pang in her throat she could do no more than nod.

Afterward, she weathered Opsara's glare as she visited Moenghus. As always, she marvelled at the way he seemed to grow from morning to morning, even as she avoided looking too long into his turquoise eyes. Their colour was not changing. She thought of Serwe, cursed herself for not missing the girl. Then she thought of the spark that burned within her own womb.

After learning the latest details of the siege from Captain Heorsa, she joined Werjau for the Summary of Reports. Everything seemed deceptively routine, from the kinds of incidents reported to the continuing challenges of maintaining a network of contacts and informants in an army on the march. They had all learned to stand on marbles by now, but every day it seemed someone disappeared and someone else re-emerged. Aside from the Xerashi musicians, the only matter of concern regarded Lord Uranyanka and his Moserothi clients. Though he'd publicly repented the ma.s.sacres at Sabotha, he continued to rail against the Warrior-Prophet in private. Uranyanka was an evil, black-hearted fool. More than once Esmenet had counselled his arrest, but Kellhus had deemed the Ainoni Palatine too important, one of those who had to be mollified rather than admonished.

Her duties as Intricati busied her long into the afternoon. She had grown accustomed to them enough to become bored, especially when it came to administrative matters. Sometimes her old eyes would overcome her and she would find herself gauging the men about her with the carnal boredom of a wh.o.r.e sizing up custom. A sudden awareness of clothing and distance would descend upon her, and she would feel inviolate inviolate in a way that made her skin tingle. All the acts they could not commit, all the places they could not touch ... These banned possibilities would seem to hang above her like the smoke hazing the canvas ceilings. in a way that made her skin tingle. All the acts they could not commit, all the places they could not touch ... These banned possibilities would seem to hang above her like the smoke hazing the canvas ceilings.

I am forbidden, she would think. she would think.

Why this should make her feel so pure, she could not fathom.

Late in the afternoon she baffled Proyas by laughingly calling him Lord Poyus during an extended briefing on the latest intelligence coming in from the field. Her bouts of impish humour were lost on him, she realized, not only because he was Conriyan, and so suffered an over-elaborate sense of gallantry, but because he continued to grieve their earlier animosity. Their parting was awkward. Then, following an update from Werjau regarding the Xerashi musicians, she somehow escaped the Nascenti and their endless requests, and discovered that she had nothing to do. This was how she found her way to The Sagas The Sagas.

She still thought of reading as "practice," though she'd found it quite effortless for some time now. In fact, she not only hungered for opportunities to read, she often found herself simply staring at her humble collection of scrolls and codices, suffused with the same miserly feelings she harboured toward her cosmetics chest. But where the paints merely balmed the fears of her former self, the writings were something altogether different-something transformative rather than recuperative. It was as though the inked characters had become rungs on a ladder, or an endlessly uncoiling rope, something that allowed her to climb ever higher, to see ever more.

"You've learned the lesson," Kellhus had said on one of those rare mornings when he shared her breakfast.

"What lesson might that be?"

"That the lessons never end." He laughed, gingerly sipped his steaming tea. "That ignorance is infinite."

"How," she asked, at once earnest and delighted, "can anyone presume to be certain?"

Kellhus smiled in the devilish way she so adored.

"They think they know me," he said.

Esmenet had thrown a pillow at him for that, and it had seemed a thing of wonder. Throwing a pillow at a prophet.

She knelt before the ivory-panelled chest that contained her library, raised and pressed back the lid. As always, she savoured the smell of oiled bindings. There were few books within; the Fanim of Caraskand had possessed little interest in idolatrous works, let alone Sheyic translations of them. Because none of her slaves could read, she'd been forced to pack the works herself, sifting through the shelves and scroll racks in what had been Achamian's room. She'd been reluctant to stow The Sagas The Sagas then, and now, spying the scrolls beneath Protathis, she felt that same reluctance. Scowling, she gathered them and carried them to her bed, wondering that the Apocalypse could feel so light. She propped herself against her favourite barrel-pillow. Then, running her fingers along the soon-to-be-unrolled parchment, she glimpsed the tattoo across the back of her left hand. then, and now, spying the scrolls beneath Protathis, she felt that same reluctance. Scowling, she gathered them and carried them to her bed, wondering that the Apocalypse could feel so light. She propped herself against her favourite barrel-pillow. Then, running her fingers along the soon-to-be-unrolled parchment, she glimpsed the tattoo across the back of her left hand.

It seemed a kind of charm or totem now-her version of an ancestor scroll. That woman, that Sumni harlot who had hung her legs bare from her window, was a stranger to her now. Blood joined them, perhaps, but little else. Her poverty, her smell, her degradation, her simplicity-everything seemed to argue against her.

The trappings, let alone the facts, of her power would be enough to make the old Esmenet weep for wonder. Within the concentric scheme of Nascenti and Judges that Kellhus had grafted onto the old Shrial and Cultic hierarchies, she, Consort and Intricati, occupied the second most powerful ring. Gayamakri answered to her. Gotian answered to her. Werjau ... Even potentates in their own right, men such as Proyas and Eleazaras, had to bow chin to chest. She had rewritten jnan! And this, Kellhus had promised her, was but the beginning.

Then there was the strength of her faith. The old Esmenet, the cynical harlot, would find this the most difficult to comprehend. Her world had been dark and capricious, a place where significance was apportioned only to those caught within some dread whimsy of the G.o.ds. The old her wouldn't fathom the indwelling awe that now accompanied her every heartbeat. If anything, her whorish hackles would rise, and in private moments she would counsel doubt and suspicion. She had lain with too many priests.

The old Esmenet would never accept an understanding indistinguishable from trust.

And the pregnancy, the thought that she carried not merely a son but a destiny destiny within her womb ... How she would laugh! within her womb ... How she would laugh!

But what would strike the old Esmenet the most, she had no doubt, would be the knowledge knowledge. In that one respect, she'd been extraordinary. Very few pondered their ignorance as she had. Their conceit compelled them to prize only what they knew beforehand. And since significance followed from followed from the already known, they always thought they possessed everything relevant to any question of truth. Obliviousness made obvious. the already known, they always thought they possessed everything relevant to any question of truth. Obliviousness made obvious.

She had always understood that her world, for all its grand immensity, was a sham. This was why she had made her custom into apertures, windows onto the world's various corners. This was why she had used Achamian as a doorway to the past. And now Kellhus ...

He had rewritten the world down to its very foundations. A world where all were slaves of repet.i.tion, of the twin darknesses of custom and appet.i.te. A world where beliefs served the powerful instead of the true. The old Esmenet would be astounded, even outraged. But she would come to believe-eventually.

The world indeed held miracles, though only for those who dared abandon old hopes.

Breathing deeply, Esmenet untied the leather string about the first scroll.

Like The Third a.n.a.lytic, The Sagas The Third a.n.a.lytic, The Sagas were one of those works familiar even to illiterate caste-menials such as herself. She found it strange recalling her impressions of such things before Achamian or Kellhus. The "Ancient North," she knew, had always seemed weighty and profound, a phrase with a palpable, skin-p.r.i.c.kling air. It lay like cold lead among the other names she knew, a marker of loss, hubris, and the implacable judgement of ages. She knew of the No-G.o.d, the Apocalypse, the Ordeal, but they were little more than curiosities. The Ancient North was a were one of those works familiar even to illiterate caste-menials such as herself. She found it strange recalling her impressions of such things before Achamian or Kellhus. The "Ancient North," she knew, had always seemed weighty and profound, a phrase with a palpable, skin-p.r.i.c.kling air. It lay like cold lead among the other names she knew, a marker of loss, hubris, and the implacable judgement of ages. She knew of the No-G.o.d, the Apocalypse, the Ordeal, but they were little more than curiosities. The Ancient North was a place, place, something she could point to. And for whatever reason, everyone had agreed that it was one of something she could point to. And for whatever reason, everyone had agreed that it was one of those those words, enunciations that, like "Scylvendi" or "Tusk," bore the whiff of overarching doom. words, enunciations that, like "Scylvendi" or "Tusk," bore the whiff of overarching doom. The Sagas The Sagas had been little more than a rumour attached to that word. Books, to be certain, were frightful things, but in the way of snakes to city dwellers. Something safely ignored. had been little more than a rumour attached to that word. Books, to be certain, were frightful things, but in the way of snakes to city dwellers. Something safely ignored.

Those times Achamian mentioned The Sagas, The Sagas, he did so only to dismiss or disparage. For a Mandate Schoolman, he said, they were like pearls strung across a corpse. He spoke of the Apocalypse and the No-G.o.d the way others described running arguments with their relatives, with a thoughtless, first-hand immediacy, and in terms and tones that would often set her hair on end. With Achamian, the "Ancient North," which for all its dread had remained blank and obdurate, became something intricate and encompa.s.sing, a frame for what seemed an inexhaustible litany of extinguished hopes. By comparison, he did so only to dismiss or disparage. For a Mandate Schoolman, he said, they were like pearls strung across a corpse. He spoke of the Apocalypse and the No-G.o.d the way others described running arguments with their relatives, with a thoughtless, first-hand immediacy, and in terms and tones that would often set her hair on end. With Achamian, the "Ancient North," which for all its dread had remained blank and obdurate, became something intricate and encompa.s.sing, a frame for what seemed an inexhaustible litany of extinguished hopes. By comparison, The Sagas The Sagas had come to seem something foolish, perhaps even criminal. Those rare times she heard others mention them, she would smile inwardly and scoff. What could they know of these things? Even those who could read ... had come to seem something foolish, perhaps even criminal. Those rare times she heard others mention them, she would smile inwardly and scoff. What could they know of these things? Even those who could read ...

But as much as she had learned about the Apocalypse, the fact remained that she knew nothing of The Sagas The Sagas themselves. The moment she gingerly unrolled the first section of scroll, that ignorance struck her with the curious force of undone deceptions. Despite the t.i.tle, she was surprised to discover that themselves. The moment she gingerly unrolled the first section of scroll, that ignorance struck her with the curious force of undone deceptions. Despite the t.i.tle, she was surprised to discover that The Sagas The Sagas consisted of a number of different works written by a number of different authors, though only two, Heyorthau and Nau-Ganor, were named. There were nine "sagas" in total, starting with "The Kelmariad." Some, she would later discover, were verse epics while others were prose chronicles. She chided herself for her surprise. Once again she'd found complexity where she had expected simplicity. Was that not always the way? consisted of a number of different works written by a number of different authors, though only two, Heyorthau and Nau-Ganor, were named. There were nine "sagas" in total, starting with "The Kelmariad." Some, she would later discover, were verse epics while others were prose chronicles. She chided herself for her surprise. Once again she'd found complexity where she had expected simplicity. Was that not always the way?

She had no idea where Kellhus had obtained the scroll, but it was very old, and as much painted as inked-the prize of some dead scholar's library. The parchment was uterine, soft and unmottled. Both the style of the script and the diction and tone of the translator's dedicatory seemed bent to the sensibilities of some other kind of reader. For the first time she found herself appreciating the fact that this history was itself historical. For some reason she had never considered that writings could be part of what they were about. They always seemed to hang ... outside outside the world they depicted. the world they depicted.

It was strange. Here she lay curled on her marriage bed, her head propped on silk-threaded pillows, the scroll at a lazy angle before her. But when she read the opening invocation, Rage-G.o.ddess! Sing of your flight,From our fathers and our sons.Away, G.o.ddess! Secret your divinity!From the conceit that makes kings of fools,From the scrutiny that makes corpses of souls.Mouths open, arms thrown wide, we beseech thee:Sing us the end of your song.

everything about her-the wrought canopy, the dim grottoes behind the screens, the hanging panels-disappeared. Reading, she realized, resituated resituated . It made gauze of what was immediate, and allowed what was ancient and faraway to rise into view. It unpinned here from the senses, and made it everywhere. It released now from the cage of the present, and lent it the aspect of eternity. . It made gauze of what was immediate, and allowed what was ancient and faraway to rise into view. It unpinned here from the senses, and made it everywhere. It released now from the cage of the present, and lent it the aspect of eternity.

Infected by a kind of floating wonder, she fell into the first of The Sagas The Sagas.

She found the going both difficult and curiously erotic, as though, aside from the masturbatory solitude of reading, her struggle to accommodate the writer's ancient a.s.sumptions was something too intimate not to be carnal. The realization that "The Kelmariad" was actually the history of Anasurimbor Anasurimbor Celmomas stole her breath-and sparked her first premonition of dread. This was not only the story of Achamian's dreams, it was also the story of Kellhus's blood. These times and places, she realized, were neither so ancient nor so faraway as she might have wished. Celmomas stole her breath-and sparked her first premonition of dread. This was not only the story of Achamian's dreams, it was also the story of Kellhus's blood. These times and places, she realized, were neither so ancient nor so faraway as she might have wished.

She gathered that the Dynasty of Anasurimbor was old and venerable even in those days of Far Antiquity. In fact, the verses were replete with references to times and places-the Cond Yoke, the G.o.d-Kings of umerau, the Rape of Omindalea-of which she knew nothing. For some reason, she had always thought of the First Apocalypse as the beginning of history rather than the end of one. Once again, what had been blank and monolithic became encompa.s.sing, a mansion with many rooms.

The birth of Celmomas II had been as ill-starred as any birth could be: he was the twin of a stillborn brother, named Huormomas. The line, His rosy wail could not stir his brother's blue slumber, made her restless with thoughts of Serwe and Moenghus. And the way the poet used this macabre image to explain the High King's flint-hearted brilliance made her inexplicably anxious. Huormomas, the poet insisted, ever stalked his brother's side, chilling his heart even as he quickened his intellect: Grim kinsman, frosting the breath of his every counsel.Dark reflection! Even the Knight-Chieftains bundle their cloaksWhen they catch your glint in their Lord's eye.

After this, the strange intensity that had nagged everything, from the mere thought of reading The Sagas The Sagas to the weight of the scrolls in her palm, took on the character of a compulsion. It was as if something-a second voice-whispered beneath what she read. Once she even bolted from the bed and pressed her ear to the embroidered canvas walls. She enjoyed stories as much as anyone. She knew what it was to hang in suspense, to feel the tug of some almost-grasped conclusion. But this was different. Whatever it was she thought she heard, it spoke not to some climactic twist, nor even to some penetrating illumination-it spoke to to the weight of the scrolls in her palm, took on the character of a compulsion. It was as if something-a second voice-whispered beneath what she read. Once she even bolted from the bed and pressed her ear to the embroidered canvas walls. She enjoyed stories as much as anyone. She knew what it was to hang in suspense, to feel the tug of some almost-grasped conclusion. But this was different. Whatever it was she thought she heard, it spoke not to some climactic twist, nor even to some penetrating illumination-it spoke to her her. The way a person might.

The next four days would be haggard. Jealousy, murder, rage, and doom before all ... The First Apocalypse engulfed her.

She quickly realized that, despite all her discussions with Achamian, her understanding of the Old Wars was merely episodic. "The Kelmariad" struck them into the shape of the Kuniuric High King's life, beginning with the dire warnings of his arcane counsellor, Seswatha, and culminating with his death on the Eleneot Fields. In many ways it began as a common tale: Seswatha was the Doomsayer, the only one who could correctly read the gathering signs. Celmomas, meanwhile, was the Arrogant King, the one who could see only what was self-serving.

Apparently, long before, a fugitive Gnostic School called the Mangaecca had somehow pierced the ancient glamour the Nonmen Quya had used to conceal Min-Uroikas, the legendary stronghold of the Inchoroi. While Celmomas was still a young man, emissaries of Nil'giccas, the Nonman King of Ishterebinth, approached Seswatha, the High King's childhood friend and Vizier. The Nonmen worried that the Inchoroi, whom they had driven to the four corners of the world in the days of Cu'jara Cinmoi, had found their way back to Min-Uroikas and with the Mangaecca had renewed their harrowing studies. They told him of the rumours they had extracted from their long-dead captives. They told him of the No-G.o.d.

So Seswatha began his Long Argument, his attempt to convince the Ancient Norsirai Kings of the impending Apocalypse.

Though none of the sagas took Seswatha as its subject, he surfaced and resurfaced throughout, like something continually kicked up in the rolling flotsam of events. In "The Kelmariad" he was a princ.i.p.al, the stalwart of a mighty and inconstant king. The same was true of "The Kayutiad," the verse epic of Celmomas's youngest and most glorious son, Nau-Cayuti, where Seswatha was both teacher and surrogate father. In "The Book of Generals," the prose inventory of events following Nau-Cayuti's death, his was the most powerful and most resented voice in council after council. In "The Trisiad," the verse account of Tryse's destruction, he was a shining beacon on the parapets, clawing dragons from the sky with sorcerous light. In "The Eamnoriad" he was the scheming foreigner who, for all his grand declarations, fled on the eve of the No-G.o.d's approach. In "The Annal Akksersa" he was hope incarnate, the Raised Shield of High King Cundraul III. In "The Annal Sakarpa" he was a lunatic refugee, cast out after cursing King Huruth V for not fleeing to Mehtsonc with the Chorae h.o.a.rd. And in "The Anaxiad," the grand and tragic saga of Kyraneas's fall, he was nothing less than the world's saviour, the Bearer of the Heron Spear.

Hated or adored, Seswatha was the pin in the navigator's bowl, the true hero of The Sagas, The Sagas, though not one cycle or chronicle acknowledged him as such. And each time Esmenet encountered some variant of his name, she would clutch her breast and think, though not one cycle or chronicle acknowledged him as such. And each time Esmenet encountered some variant of his name, she would clutch her breast and think, Achamian Achamian.

It was no small thing to read of war, let alone apocalypse. No matter how pressing her daily routine, images from The Sagas The Sagas dogged her soul's eye: Sranc armoured in mandibles freshly cut from their victims. The burning Library of Sauglish and the thousands who'd sought refuge within her hallowed halls. The Wall of the Dead, the cloak of corpses draped about the seaward ramparts of Dagliash. Foul Golgotterath, her golden horns curving mountainous into dark skies. And the No-G.o.d, Tsurumah, a great winding tower of black wind ... dogged her soul's eye: Sranc armoured in mandibles freshly cut from their victims. The burning Library of Sauglish and the thousands who'd sought refuge within her hallowed halls. The Wall of the Dead, the cloak of corpses draped about the seaward ramparts of Dagliash. Foul Golgotterath, her golden horns curving mountainous into dark skies. And the No-G.o.d, Tsurumah, a great winding tower of black wind ...

War and more war, enough to engulf every city, every hearth, to sweep up all innocents-even the unborn-into its merciless jaws.

The thought that Achamian continually lived lived these things oppressed her with an evasive, even cringing, sense of guilt. Each night, he saw the horizon move with hordes of Sranc; he shrank beneath the pitch of dragons swooping from black-bellied clouds. Each night, he witnessed Tryse, the Holy Mother of Cities, washed in the blood of her bewildered children. Each night, he literally relived the No-G.o.d's dread awakening, he these things oppressed her with an evasive, even cringing, sense of guilt. Each night, he saw the horizon move with hordes of Sranc; he shrank beneath the pitch of dragons swooping from black-bellied clouds. Each night, he witnessed Tryse, the Holy Mother of Cities, washed in the blood of her bewildered children. Each night, he literally relived the No-G.o.d's dread awakening, he actually heard actually heard the mothers wail over their stillborn sons. the mothers wail over their stillborn sons.

Absurdly, this made her think of his dead mule, Daybreak. She had never understood, not truly, how much weight that name must have possessed for him. Such poignant hope. And this, she realized with no little horror, meant that she'd never understood Achamian himself Achamian himself-not truly. To be used night after night. To be debased by hungers vast, ancient, and rutting. How could a wh.o.r.e wh.o.r.e fail to see the outrage that had been heaped upon his soul? fail to see the outrage that had been heaped upon his soul?

You are my morning, Esmi ... my dawn light.

What could it mean? For a man who lived and relived the ruin of all, what could it mean to awake to her touch, to her face her face? Where had he found the courage? The trust?

I was his morning.

Esmenet felt it then, overpowering her, and in the strange fashion of moving souls, she struggled to ward it away. But it was too late. For what seemed the first time, she understood: understood: his pointless urgency, his desperation to be believed, his haggard love, his short-winded compa.s.sion-shadows of the Apocalypse, all. To witness the dissolution of nations, to be stripped night after night of everything cherished, everything fair. The miracle was that he still loved, that he still recognized mercy, pity ... How could she not think him strong? his pointless urgency, his desperation to be believed, his haggard love, his short-winded compa.s.sion-shadows of the Apocalypse, all. To witness the dissolution of nations, to be stripped night after night of everything cherished, everything fair. The miracle was that he still loved, that he still recognized mercy, pity ... How could she not think him strong?

She understood, and it terrified her, for it was a thing too near to love.

That night, she dreamed that she floated over the deeps, stranded in the heart of some nameless sea. Terror pulled at her, like rocks bound about her ankles. But when she peered down, she could only see shadows in the blackening water beyond her feet. They bewitched her with their almost-clarity. Ponderous and vast, coiling about enormities. Though at first she refused to countenance it, her eyes gradually adjusted, and the monstrous forms became more and more distinct. Never had she felt so small, so exposed. The entire sea, beyond all the drowned horizons, lay placid and sun-green above black-boiling deeps. Flexing movement. Great milky eyes. Palisades of translucent teeth. And there, pale and naked, floating like a tuft through the midst of it ... Achamian Achamian.

His arm waved dead in the current.

Suddenly she was gasping and shaking in Kellhus's perfumed embrace. He shushed her, stroked hair from her eyes, explained that it was all a nightmare.

The desperation with which she held him shocked her. "I don't want to share you," she whispered, kissing the soft curls about his neck.

"Nor I you," he said.

She had never told him about Achamian, about their kiss that horrid night with Proyas and Xinemus. But it was not a secret between them-merely something unspoken. She had spent hours pondering his silence, and hours more cursing her own. Why, when Kellhus had so consistently coaxed her every weakness from her, would he pa.s.s over this one in silence? But she dared not ask. Especially not while labouring through The Sagas The Sagas.

She could see it all so clearly now. The derelict cities. The smoking temples. The strings of dead that marked the slave roads to Golgotterath. She followed the Nonmen Erratics as they rode across the countryside hunting survivors. She saw the Sranc digging up the stillborn and burning them on raised pyres. She watched it all from afar, more than two thousand years too late.

Never had she read anything so dark, so despairing, or so glorious. It seemed poison had been poured into wonder's own decanter. This, This, she thought time and again, is his night ... she thought time and again, is his night ...

And though she tried to beat the words from her heart, they rose nonetheless, as cold as accusatory truth, as relentless as earned affliction. I was his morning I was his morning.

One evening, shortly before completing the last of the cantos, she happened upon Achamian sitting oblivious on a tilted table of stone, soaking his feet in the green of the n.a.z.imel River. A gladness of heart struck her, so sudden and so simple that she actually gasped. Her dismay was equally abrupt, and far more complicated. She would have called out something like, "Killing the river now, are we?" for the man was nothing if not ripe. She would have plopped her b.u.m alongside him, traded lame jokes as they swished the water together. She would have quietly crept up behind him and shouted "Look out!" in his ear. But now, just watching him seemed ... menacing.

It was his fault for dying! If only he had stayed, if only Xinemus had said nothing of the Library, if only her hand hadn't lingered in Kellhus's lap ... She felt his heart hush for terror.

Esmi, he had said the night of his return from the dead, he had said the night of his return from the dead, "it's me "it's me ... Me." ... Me."

Beyond him a band of Thunyeri stripped nude, hopping as they struggled with their leggings. One of them ran howling, vaulted from a boulder into the burnished water. On the far sh.o.r.e, where the water trilled across gravel shallows, several women-slaves laundering clothes-held their sides in laughter. Out where the shade of the catalpa trees reached across the water, the Thunyeri broke the surface with a triumphant roar. Either ignoring the ruckus or insensible to it, Achamian leaned forward to scoop water into his palms. He splashed it across his face, grimaced and blinked. Sunlight winked from the black curls of his beard.

As though stunned, he stared into the waters, opening and shutting his eyes.

She had the abrupt sensation of awakening, as if the past months had been naught but one of those devious nightmares that somehow cloaked acts of horror in thoughtless normality. She had never succ.u.mbed to Kellhus. She had never repudiated Achamian. And she could call out, "Akka!"

But it was no dream.

Kellhus ran his warm palm from her shoulder to her breast, and she gasped as he pinched her nipple. Then his hand swept down across her belly to the bone-smooth curve of her hip, along her outer thigh, then around ... inside. She raised and spread her legs ... and Akka wept, clawed his beard in horror and disbelief. "Esmi!" he cried-he shrieked. "Esmi, please! It's me! It's me!

"I'm alive."

Tears had blurred him into the sepia glare. She stood upon stony earth and yet she plummeted, for she understood that her betrayal was without bottom, that her infidelity was without compare. The buzzing thoughts, the flush through face and thighs, that afternoon when Kellhus had accidentally brushed her breast. The hammering heart, the stinging breath, that night when Kellhus had hardened against the touch of her hand. The secret looks, the wanton reveries. The wonder of awakening beside him. The slick warmth between her legs when all was desert dry. The rapture of taking him, inside her knees, her womb-her heart. The strength of him, bearing into her. The moans.

The horror in Achamian's eyes.

Who was that base and treacherous woman? For Esmenet knew knew she could never do such a thing. She simply wasnt capable. Not to she could never do such a thing. She simply wasnt capable. Not to Akka Akka. Not him!

Then she recalled her daughter, somewhere out there there across the seas. Sold into slavery. across the seas. Sold into slavery.

Reaching back to hook a sandal, Achamian pulled a foot from the water. He hunched against his knee, began lacing the leather strings. There was resignation in his manner, and tragedy too, as though his acts were both aimless and irresistible. Breathless, her hands pressed to her belly, Esmenet stole away.

She abandoned him by the river, a sole survivor of the Apocalypse, a man grieving his single trust, his one beauty.

Mourning the wh.o.r.e, Esmenet.

That night she returned to The Sagas, The Sagas, slack of limb and heart. She wept when she finished the final canto ... slack of limb and heart. She wept when she finished the final canto ...

The pyres gutted, the towers fallen and black, The foeman glutted, our glory slung 'cross his back, The world's keel broken, our blood thinner than our tears.

The story spoken, as though the dead possessed ears.