In the blackness beneath a stand of carob trees, Serwe and another of her brothers awaited them, along with eight horses laden with supplies. Dawn had not yet broken when they heard the first of the horns, faint in the distance behind them.

A word dogged Emperor Ikurei Conphas, a word he had always regarded from the outside.

Terror.

He sat weary, leaning against the pommel of his saddle, watching the torches bob through the dark trees before him. Sompas waited quietly to his right, as did several others. Shouts echoed through the encampment behind them. The darkness teemed with searching lights.

"Scylvendi!" Conphas found himself crying out to the black. "Scylvendi!" "Scylvendi!" He need not look to his officers to see their questioning expressions. He need not look to his officers to see their questioning expressions.

What was it about this man-this fiend? How had he affected him so? For all the hatred the Nansur bore toward the Scylvendi race, they were perversely enamoured of them as well. There was a mystique to them, and a virility that transcended the myriad rules that so constricted the intercourse of civilized men. Where the Nansur wheedled and negotiated, the Scylvendi simply took-seized. It was as though they had embraced violence whole, while the Nansur had shattered it into a thousand pieces to set as splinters across the multiform mosaic of their society.

It made them seem ... more manly.

And this one Scylvendi, this Utemot Chieftain. Conphas had witnessed it, as much as any of the Columnaries whod quailed before him in Joktha. In the firelight the barbarian's eyes had been coals set in his skull. And the blood had painted him the colour of his true skin. The swatting arms, the roaring voice, the chest-pounding declarations. They had all seen the G.o.d. They had all seen dread Gilgaol rearing about him, a great horned shadow ...

And now, after wrestling him to the ground like some lunatic bull, after the wonder of capturing him-capturing War!-he had simply vanished had simply vanished.

Cememketri insisted no sorcery was involved, and for the first time Conphas appreciated his uncle's manic suspicion of the Saik. Could they have done it? Or could it be, as Cememketri had nervously suggested, the Faceless Ones? Several of his soldiers maintained they had seen Sompas Sompas leading the Scylvendi through the camp-a rank impossibility, given that Conphas himself had gone to the man immediately after leaving the Scylvendi. leading the Scylvendi through the camp-a rank impossibility, given that Conphas himself had gone to the man immediately after leaving the Scylvendi.

Faceless Ones ... Skin-spies the Mandate Schoolman had called them. Since learning from Cememketri that Xerius had been murdered by one of these things posing as his grandmother, Conphas had found himself rehearsing the Mandate fool's arguments from that day in Caraskand when they had debated the Prince of Atrithau's fate. They were not Cishaurim, Conphas had conceded that much. It was even more clear now that Xerius was dead. Why would the Cishaurim murder the only man who might save them?

They weren't Cishaurim, but did that make them Consult, Consult, as the Mandati had insisted? Were these truly the opening hours of the as the Mandati had insisted? Were these truly the opening hours of the Second Apocalypse Second Apocalypse?

Terror. How could he not be terrified?

All this time Conphas had a.s.sumed that he and his uncle had stood at the root of all that happened. No matter how the others plotted, they but thrashed in the nets of his hidden designs-or so he thought. Such errant conceit! All along, others others had known, others had watched, and he hadn't the slightest inkling of their intentions! had known, others had watched, and he hadn't the slightest inkling of their intentions!

What was happening? Who ruled these events?

Not Emperor Ikurei Conphas I.

His aquiline face outlined by torchlight, Sompas looked at him expectantly, but he kept his counsel like the others. They could sense his humour, understood that it was more than merely "foul." Conphas scanned the moon-blanched countryside, felt the despairing twinge all men felt when confronted by the dimensions of the world that had swallowed those they desired. Were he one, were he alone, it would be hopeless.

But he was not one. He was many many. The ability to cede voice and limb to the will of another-herein lay the true genius of men. The ability to kneel kneel. With such power, Conphas realized, he was no longer confined to the here and now. With such power, he could reach across the world's very curve! He was Emperor.

How could he not cackle? Such a wondrous life he lived!

He need only make things simple simple. And he would start with this Scylvendi ... He had no choice.

That he was Scylvendi Scylvendi could be no coincidence. Here Conphas stood on the cusp of restoring the Empire to all her past glory, only to discover that everything turned on killing a son of his ancestral enemy, the people who had overthrown the pretensions of his race time and again. He had said it himself, hadn't He? He was Kyraneas. He was Cenei ... could be no coincidence. Here Conphas stood on the cusp of restoring the Empire to all her past glory, only to discover that everything turned on killing a son of his ancestral enemy, the people who had overthrown the pretensions of his race time and again. He had said it himself, hadn't He? He was Kyraneas. He was Cenei ...

No wonder the savage had laughed!

The G.o.ds were behind this-Conphas was certain of it. They begrudged their brother. Like children of a different father, they resented resented. There was a message to this-how could there not not be? He had been served some kind of warning. He was Emperor now. A move had been made. The rules had been changed ... be? He had been served some kind of warning. He was Emperor now. A move had been made. The rules had been changed ...

Why? Why hadn't he killed the fiend? What vice or vanity had stayed his hand? Was it the iron hand clamped about his neck? The burn of the man's seed upon his back?

"Sompas!" he fairly cried.

"Yes, G.o.d-of-Men?"

"How does 'Exalt-General' suit you as a t.i.tle?"

The ingrate swallowed. "Very well, G.o.d-of-Men."

How he missed Martemus and the cool cynicism of his gaze. "Take the Kidruhil-all of them. Hunt down this demon for me, Sompas. Bring me his head and that shall be your t.i.tle ... Exalt-General, Spear-of-the-Empire." His eyes narrowed in menace as he smiled. "Fail me and I shall burn you, your sons, your wives-every Biaxi breathing. I shall burn you all alive."

Relying on Serwe's preternatural vision, they led their horses through the pitch of night, knowing their only advantage lay in whatever distance they could travel before sunrise. They picked their way across high scrub and gra.s.s slopes, then down into a wooded vale where the bitter of cedars braced the air. Despite his injuries, Cnaiur shambled after them, drawing on something as inexhaustible as l.u.s.t or fear. About him, the world reeled more and more, and simple things became nightmarish with intent. Dark trees clutched at him, drew nails across his cheeks and shoulders. Unseen rocks kicked at his sandalled toes. The ringed moon laid him bare.

Thought slurred into thought. He spat blood continually. The path before him, shadowy and granular, rolled beneath his staggering legs. A greater dark unfolded through the night, and he pa.s.sed out of memory, wondering, how could souls flicker?

Then Serwe was staring down at him. He felt her thighs beneath his neck, firm and warm through her linen tunic. She leaned forward and her breast brushed his temple. She retrieved a waterskin, used it to wet a rag. She had been tending to the cuts on his face.

She smiled and a ragged breath stole through him. There was such sanctuary in the lap of woman, a stillness that made the world, with all its threshing fury, seem small instead of encompa.s.sing, errant instead of essential. He winced as she dabbed a cut above his left eye. He savoured the sense of cool water warming against his skin.

The black plate of night was beginning to grey. Looking up, he saw the faint nimbus of hair about her jaw. He reached up to brush it, but hesitated when he glimpsed the scabs across his knuckles. He became alarmed. Though the pain of his wounds lay like a weight upon him, he jerked himself upright, coughed, and spat a mouthful of b.l.o.o.d.y sputum. They sat upon a gra.s.sy round on the summit of some hill. The east warmed to the unseen sun. Ridgelines wandered across the intervening miles, dark with vegetation, pale with nude stone faces.

"I'm forgetting something," he said.

She nodded and smiled the blithe and jubilant way she always did when she knew some answer.

"The one you hunt," she said. "The murderer."

He felt his face darken. "But I I am the murderer! The most violent of all men! They slouch forward in chains. They ape their fathers, just as their fathers aped their fathers before them, all the way back to the beginning. Covenants of earth. Covenants of blood. I stood and found my chains were smoke. I turned and saw the void...I am unfettered!" am the murderer! The most violent of all men! They slouch forward in chains. They ape their fathers, just as their fathers aped their fathers before them, all the way back to the beginning. Covenants of earth. Covenants of blood. I stood and found my chains were smoke. I turned and saw the void...I am unfettered!"

She studied him for a moment, her perfect face poised between thought and moonlight. "Yes ... like the one you hunt."

What were these shallow creatures?

"You call yourself my lover? You think yourself my proof? My prize?"

She blinked in dread and sorrow. "Yes ..."

"But you are a knife! You are a spear and hammer. You are nepenthe-opium! You would make a haft of my heart, and brandish me. Brandish me!"

"And me," a masculine voice said. "What of me?"

One of her brothers had sat to his right-only it wasn't one of her brothers. It was him ... the serpent whose coils ever tightened about his heart: Moenghus, Moenghus, the murderer, wearing the armour and insignia of a Nansur infantry captain. the murderer, wearing the armour and insignia of a Nansur infantry captain.

Or was he Kellhus?

"You ..."

The Dunyain nodded, and the air became yaksh dank-yaksh sour. "What am I?"

"I ..."

What kind of madness? What kind of devilry?

"Tell me," Moenghus said.

How long had he hidden in Shimeh? How long had he prepared? It did not matter. It did not matter! Cnaiur would crack open the sun with his hate! He would carve out its heart and bury all the world in endless black!

"Tell me ... what do you see?"

"The one," Cnaiur grated, "that I hunt."

"Yes," Serwe said from behind him. "The murderer."

"He murdered my father with words! Consumed my heart with revelation!"

"Yes ..."

"He set me free."

Cnaiur turned back to Serwe, filled with a longing so great it seemed his chest must implode. Creva.s.ses opened across her forehead, cheek, and chin; knuckled limbs reared from the perfect planes of her outer face. With a gentle tug, they pulled their tips apart. Her lips vanished. She leaned forward with a slow, encompa.s.sing ardour. Limbs, long and gracile, drew back, stretched outward, then clasped the back of his skull. As though within a fist, she held him tight to her hot mouth. Her true mouth.

He drew his legs beneath him, then effortlessly hoisted her into his banded arms. So light ... The dawn sun flashed across their intertwined forms.

"Come," Moenghus said. "The track awaits us. We must run down our prey."

In the distance they heard horns. Nansur horns.

Knowing Conphas would spare nothing to capture them, they rode as far as they could press their horses, heeding the cycles of exhaustion rather than those of sun, moon, and stars. According to the creatures, Conphas had sent a Column south of Joktha immediately after debarking. His plan relied on the Holy War's ignorance, and since Saubon was certain to discover his treachery, Conphas needed to bar all the ways between Caraskand and Xerash. This meant that the Nansur lay both behind and before before their small party. The best they could do was strike due south, slipping across Enathpaneah, then work their way eastward through the Betmulla, where the terrain would make interdiction unlikely and pursuit difficult. their small party. The best they could do was strike due south, slipping across Enathpaneah, then work their way eastward through the Betmulla, where the terrain would make interdiction unlikely and pursuit difficult.

Occasionally, Cnaiur spoke to them, learned something of their lean ways. They called themselves the Last Children of the Inchoroi, though they were loath to speak of their "Old Fathers." They claimed to be Keepers of the Inverse Fire, though the merest question regarding either their "keeping" or their "fire" pitched them into confusion. They never complained, save to say they hungered for unspeakable congress, or to insist they were falling-always falling. They declared he could trust them, because their Old Father had made them his slaves. They were, they said, dogs that would sooner starve than snap meat from a stranger's hand.

They carried, Cnaiur could see, the spark of the void within them. Like the Sranc.

As a child, Cnaiur had been fascinated by trees. Given their rarity on the Steppe, he only saw them in the winter months, when the Utemot moved their camp into the Swarut, the highlands that bounded the sea the Inrithi called Jorua. Sometimes he would stare at the bare trees for so long, they would lose their radial dimensions and seem something flat, flat, like blood smeared into the wrinkles about an old woman's eyes. like blood smeared into the wrinkles about an old woman's eyes.

Men were like this, Cnaiur realized, binding their manifold roots then branching in a thousand different directions, twining into the greater canopy of other men. But these things-these skin-spies-were something altogether different, though they could mimic men well enough. They did not bleed into their surroundings as men did. They struck through circ.u.mstances, rather than reaching out to claim them. They were spears spears concealed in the thickets of human activity. Thorns ... concealed in the thickets of human activity. Thorns ...

Tusks.

And this lent them a curious beauty, a dread elegance. They were simple in the way of knives, these skin-spies. He envied them that, even as he loved and pitied.

"Two centuries ago I was Scylvendi," it said once. "I know your ways."

"Who else have you been?"

"I have been many."

"And now?"

"I am Serwe ... your lover."

The determination of Conphas's pursuit became evident the third night of their southward flight. Along the Enathpanean frontier, they crossed hills arranged like longitudinal dunes, with sharp, wandering ridgelines and steep slip faces. Everything was green, but in the way of tenacious rather than lush things. Carp gra.s.ses choked the clearings, thronging along the cracks of even the sheerest of escarpments. Thickets of catclaw thatched the slopes, and stands of carob dominated many of the valleys, though it was too early in the year for them to offer any forage. At dusk, while filing along the crest of one of these hills, Cnaiur saw several dozen fires winking orange on a flat top some miles to the north.

The nearness of the fires didn't surprise him; if anything, he was comforted by the distance. The Nansur, he knew, had intentionally chosen the highest ground possible, hoping to spook them into pressing their horses too hard. It was the numbers numbers that troubled him. If they had tracked them this far, they knew their party hadn't fled to Caraskand to shelter with Saubon, which meant they knew Cnaiur meant to cleave east at some point. Whoever commanded the pursuit had likely already dispatched bands to the southeast in hopes of cutting them off. It would be like shooting arrows in the dark, certainly, but his quiver looked deep. that troubled him. If they had tracked them this far, they knew their party hadn't fled to Caraskand to shelter with Saubon, which meant they knew Cnaiur meant to cleave east at some point. Whoever commanded the pursuit had likely already dispatched bands to the southeast in hopes of cutting them off. It would be like shooting arrows in the dark, certainly, but his quiver looked deep.

Over the course of the following day, they encountered an Enathi goatherd. The old fool surprised them, and before Cnaiur could utter a word, Serwe had killed him. The soil was too rocky to effectively bury the man, so they were forced to tie the body to one of the spare horses-which of course further tired the beast. Even then, the vultures, which forever soared the margins of the world and the Outside, found and followed them. With vultures circling, they might as well have carried a banner as high as the clouds. That night they paused in one of the valleys, and though the sky was clear and moonbright, they burned the body.

They continued across the rugged Enathpanean countryside for a week, avoiding all signs of men save for one meagre village, which they plundered for sport and supplies. For two consecutive nights the skies were overcast and the darkness impenetrable. Cnaiur cooked his blade in a small fire, then scarred his shoulders and chest with the lives he had taken at Joktha. He avoided looking at Serwe and the other two creatures, who sat opposite, as silent and watchful as leopards. When he finished, he raved at them, only to weep in remorse afterward. There had been no judgement in their eyes, he realized. No humanity.

On no fewer than three different nights, they saw the fires of what had to be their Nansur pursuers, and though it seemed to Cnaiur they were more distant each time, he was not heartened. It was a strange thing, fleeing the pursuit of unseen men. Things unseen could not be pinned with the foibles and debilities that made men mere mere men. They lay unfixed and restless in the soul. As such, they had the habit of expanding into principle, into something that transcended the mundane world and lorded over it. men. They lay unfixed and restless in the soul. As such, they had the habit of expanding into principle, into something that transcended the mundane world and lorded over it.

Each time Cnaiur saw the fires of the Nansur, they seemed markers of something greater. And even though he he was the one who rode with abominations, it seemed all obscenity lay on the horizon behind him. The North became despotic, the West tyrannical. was the one who rode with abominations, it seemed all obscenity lay on the horizon behind him. The North became despotic, the West tyrannical.

They wandered red-eyed, exchanging moon-pale landscapes for sun-bright, and Cnaiur fell to reckoning the oddities of his soul. He supposed he was insane, though the more he pondered the word, the more uncertain its meaning became. On several occasions he had presided over the ritual throat-cutting of Utemot p.r.o.nounced insane by the tribal elders. According to the memorialists, men went feral feral in the manner of dogs and horses, and in like manner had to be put down. The Inrithi, he knew, thought insanity the work of demons. in the manner of dogs and horses, and in like manner had to be put down. The Inrithi, he knew, thought insanity the work of demons.

One night during the infancy of the Holy War-and for reasons Cnaiur could no longer recall-the sorcerer had taken a crude parchment map of the Three Seas and pressed it flat over a copper laver filled with water. He had poked holes of varying sizes throughout the parchment, and when he held his oil lantern high to complement the firelight, little beads of water glinted across the tanned landscape. Each man, he explained, was a kind of hole hole in existence, a point where the Outside penetrated the world. He tapped one of the beads with his finger. It broke, staining the surrounding parchment. When the trials of the world broke men, he explained, the Outside leaked into the world. in existence, a point where the Outside penetrated the world. He tapped one of the beads with his finger. It broke, staining the surrounding parchment. When the trials of the world broke men, he explained, the Outside leaked into the world.

This, he had said, was madness.

At the time, Cnaiur had been less than impressed. He had despised the sorcerer, thinking him one of those mewling souls who forever groaned beneath burdens of their own manufacture. He had dismissed all things him him out of hand. But now, the force of his demonstration seemed indisputable. Something out of hand. But now, the force of his demonstration seemed indisputable. Something other other inhabited him. inhabited him.

It was peculiar. Sometimes it seemed that each of his eyes answered to a different master, that his every look involved war and loss. Sometimes it seemed he possessed two two faces, an honest outer expression, which he sunned beneath the open sky, and a more devious inner countenance. If he concentrated, he could almost feel its muscles-deep, twitching webs of them-beneath the musculature that stretched his skin. But it was elusive, like the presentiment of hate in a brother's glance. And it was profound, sealed like marrow within living bone. There was no distance! No way to frame it within his comprehension. And how could there be? When it faces, an honest outer expression, which he sunned beneath the open sky, and a more devious inner countenance. If he concentrated, he could almost feel its muscles-deep, twitching webs of them-beneath the musculature that stretched his skin. But it was elusive, like the presentiment of hate in a brother's glance. And it was profound, sealed like marrow within living bone. There was no distance! No way to frame it within his comprehension. And how could there be? When it thought, thought, he was ... he was ...

The bead had been broken-there could be no doubt of that. According to the sorcerer, madness all came down to the question of origins origins. If the divine possessed him, he would be some kind of visionary or prophet. If the demonic ...

The sorcerer's demonstration seemed indisputable. It accorded with his nagging intuitions. It explained, among other things, the strange affinities between madness and insight-why the soothsayers of one age could be the bedlamites of another. The problem, of course, was the Dunyain.

He contradicted all of it.

Cnaiur had watched him ply the roots of man after man and thus command their branching actions. Nursing their hatred. Cultivating their shame and their conceit. Nurturing their love. Herding their reasons, breeding their beliefs! And all with nothing more than mundane word and expression-nothing more than worldly things.

The Dunyain, Cnaiur realized, acted as though there were no holes there were no holes in the sorcerer's parchment map, no beads to signify souls, no water to mark the Outside. He a.s.sumed a world where the branching actions of one man could become the roots of another. And with this elementary a.s.sumption he had conquered the acts of thousands. in the sorcerer's parchment map, no beads to signify souls, no water to mark the Outside. He a.s.sumed a world where the branching actions of one man could become the roots of another. And with this elementary a.s.sumption he had conquered the acts of thousands.

He had conquered the Holy War.

This insight sent Cnaiur reeling, for it suddenly seemed that he rode through two different worlds, two different worlds, one open, where the roots of men anch.o.r.ed them to something beyond, and another closed, where those selfsame roots were entirely one open, where the roots of men anch.o.r.ed them to something beyond, and another closed, where those selfsame roots were entirely contained contained. What would it mean to be mad in such a closed world? But such a world could not be! Ingrown and insensate. Cold and soulless.

There had to be more.

Besides, he couldn't be mad, he decided, because he possessed no origins he possessed no origins. He had kicked free of all earth. He didn't even possess a past. Not really. What he remembered, he always remembered now now. He-Cnaiur urs Skiotha-was the ground of what came before. He was his own foundation!