But there was also Achamian to consider. Doubtless the Consult would keep close watch on Mandate Schoolmen, the only individuals who believed they still existed. Sarcellus and Achamian had made contact before, both directly, as evident from the sorcerer's reaction, and indirectly via Esmenet, who obviously had been seduced at some point in the past. They were using her for some reason . . . Perhaps they were testing her her, sounding her capacity for deceit and treachery. She'd told Achamian nothing of Sarcellus; that much was apparent.

The study is so deep, Father.

A thousand possibilities, galloping across the trackless steppe of what was to come. A hundred scenarios flashing through his soul, some branching and branching, terminally deflected from his objectives, others flaring out in disaster . . .

Direct confrontation. Accusations levelled before the Great Names. Acclaim for revealing the horror within. Mandate involvement. Open war with the Consult . . . Unworkable. The Mandate couldn't be involved until they could be dominated. War against the Consult couldn't be risked. Not yet.

Indirect confrontation. Forays into the night. Throats cut. Attempted reprisals. A hidden war gradually revealed . . . Also unworkable. If Sarcellus and the others were murdered, the Consult would know someone could see them. When they learned the details of Skeaos's discovery, if they hadn't already, they would realize it was Kellhus, and indirect confrontation would become open war.

Inaction. Watchful enemies. Appraisal. Sterile probes. Second-guessing. Responses delayed by the need to know. Worry in the shadow of growing power . . . Workable. Even if they learned the details surrounding Skeaos's discovery, the Consult would only have suspicions suspicions. If what Achamian claimed was true, they weren't so crude as to blot out potential threats without first understanding understanding them. Confrontation was inevitable. The outcome depended only on how much time he had to prepare . . . them. Confrontation was inevitable. The outcome depended only on how much time he had to prepare . . .

He was one of the Conditioned, Dunyain. Circumstances would yield. The mission must- "Kellhus," Serwe was saying. "The Prince has asked you a question."

Kellhus blinked, smiled as though at his own foolishness. Without exception, everyone about the fire stared at him, some concerned, some puzzled.

"I'm-I'm sorry," he stammered. "I . . ." He glanced nervously from watcher to watcher, exhaled, as though reconciling himself to his principles, no matter how embarrassing. "Sometimes I . . . I see see things . . ." things . . ."

Silence.

"Me too," Sarcellus said scathingly. "Though usually when my eyes are open."

Had he closed his eyes? He had no recollection of it. If so, it would be a troubling lapse. Not since- "Idiot," Saubon snapped, turning to the Shrial Knight. "Fool! We sit about the man's fire and you insult insult him?" him?"

"The Knight-Commander has caused no offence," Kellhus said. "You forget, Prince, that he's as much priest as warrior, and we've asked him to share a fire with a sorcerer . . . It's like asking a midwife to break bread with a leper, isn't it?" A moment of nervous laughter, overloud and over-brief. "No doubt," Kellhus added, "he's simply out of temper."

"No doubt," Sarcellus repeated. A mocking smile, bottomless, like all his expressions.

What does it want?

"Which begs the question," Kellhus continued, effortlessly grasping the "fortuitous turn" that had so far eluded Prince Saubon. "What brings a Shrial Knight to a sorcerer's fire?"

"I was sent by Gotian," Sarcellus said, "my Grandmaster . . ." He glanced at Saubon, who watched stone-faced. "The Shrial Knights have sworn to be among the first who set foot upon heathen ground, and Prince Saubon proposes-"

But Saubon interrupted, blurting, "I would speak to you of this alone, Prince Kellhus."

What would you have me do, Father?

So many possibilities. Incalculable possibilities.

Kellhus followed Saubon through the dark lanes of the ironwood grove. They paused at the edge of the cliff and looked out over the moonlit reaches of the Inunara Highlands. Clear of the hissing leaves, the wind buffeted them. The long fall below was littered with fallen trees. Dead roots reached skyward. Some of the fallen still brandished great sockets of earth, like dusty fists raised against the survivors.

"You do do see things, don't you?" Saubon finally said. "I mean, you see things, don't you?" Saubon finally said. "I mean, you dreamed dreamed of this Holy War from Atrithau." of this Holy War from Atrithau."

Kellhus enclosed him in the circle of his senses. Heart rate. Blush reflex. The orbital muscles ringing his eyes . . . He fears me. He fears me.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because Proyas is a stubborn fool. Because those first to plate are those first to feast!"

The Prince of Galeoth was both daring and impatient. Though he appreciated subtlety, he preferred bold strokes in the end.

"You wish to march immediately," Kellhus said.

Saubon grimaced in the dark. "I would be in Gedea now," he snapped, "if it weren't for you!"

He spoke of the recent Council, where Kellhus's reinterpretation of Ruom's destruction had amputated his arguments. But his resentment, Kellhus could see, was hollow. Though ruthless and mercenary, Coithus Saubon was not petty.

"Then why come to me now?"

"Because what you said . . . about the God burning our ships . . . It had the ring of truth."

He was a watcher of men, Kellhus realized, someone who continually measured. His whole life he'd thought himself a shrewd judge of character, prided himself on his honesty, his ability to punish flattery and reward criticism. But with Kellhus . . . He had no yardstick, no carpenter's string. He's told himself I'm a seer of some kind. But he fears I'm more . . . He's told himself I'm a seer of some kind. But he fears I'm more . . .

"And that's what you seek? The truth?"

Though mercenary, Saubon did possess a kind of practical piety. For him faith was a game-a very serious game. Where other men begged and called it "prayer," he negotiated, haggled. By coming here, he thought he was giving the Gods their due . . .

He's terrified of making a mistake. The Whore has given him but one chance.

"I need to know what you see!" the man cried. "I've fought many campaigns-all of them for my wretched father! I'm no fool when it comes to the field of war. I don't think I'd march into a Fanim tra-"

"But recall what Cnaiur said at Council," Kellhus interrupted. "The Fanim fight from horseback. They'd bring the trap to you. And remember the Cishaur-"

"Pfah! My nephew scouts Gedea as we speak, sends me messages daily. There's no Fanim host lurking in the shadow of these mountains. These skirmishers that Proyas chases are meant to fool us, delay us while the heathen gathers his might. Skauras is canny enough to know when he's overmatched. He's retreated to Shigek, barricaded himself in his cities on the Sempis, where he awaits the Padirajah and the Grandees of Kian. He's ceded Gedea to whoever has the courage to seize it!"

The Galeoth Prince clearly believed what he said, but could he be be believed? His argument seemed sober enough. And Proyas himself had expressed nothing but respect for the man's martial acumen. Saubon had even fought Ikurei Conphas to a standstill just a few years previous . . . believed? His argument seemed sober enough. And Proyas himself had expressed nothing but respect for the man's martial acumen. Saubon had even fought Ikurei Conphas to a standstill just a few years previous . . .

Cataracts of possibility. There was opportunity here . . . And perhaps Sarcellus need not be confronted to be destroyed. But still.

I know so little of war. Too little . . .

"So you hope hope." Kellhus said. "Skauras could-"

"So I know!"

"Then what does it matter, whether I sanction you or not? Truth is truth, regardless of who speaks it . . ."

Desperation. "I ask only for your counsel, for what you see . . . Nothing more."

Slackness about the eyes. Shortness of breath. Deadened timbre. Another lie. Another lie.

"But I see many things . . ." Kellhus said.

"Then tell me!"

Kellhus shook his head. "Only rarely do I glimpse the future. The hearts of men . . . that that is what they . . ." He paused, glanced nervously down the sheer drop, to the bleach-bone trees scattered and broken below. "That is what I'm moved to see." is what they . . ." He paused, glanced nervously down the sheer drop, to the bleach-bone trees scattered and broken below. "That is what I'm moved to see."

Saubon had become guarded. "Then tell me . . . What do you see in my my heart?" heart?"

Expose him. Strip him of every lie, every pretence. When the shame passes . . .

Kellhus held the man's eyes for a forlorn instant.

. . . he will think it proper to stand naked before me.

"A man and a child," Kellhus said, weaving deeper harmonics into his voice, transforming it into something palpable. "I see a man and a child . . . The man is harrowed by the distance between the trappings of power and the impotence of his birthright. He would force what fate has denied him, and so, day by day lives in the midst of what he does not possess. Avarice Avarice, Saubon . . . Not for gold, but for witness witness. Greed for the testimony of men-for them to look and say 'Here, here is a King by his own hand!'"

Kellhus stared into the giddy void at his feet, his eyes glassy with the tumult of inner mysteries . . .

Saubon watched with horror. "And the child? You said there was a child!"

"Cringes still beneath a father's hand. Awakens in the night and cries out, not for witness, but to be known known . . . No one knows him. No one loves." . . . No one knows him. No one loves."

Kellhus turned to him, his eyes shining with insight and unearthly compassion. "I could go on . . ."

"No-no," Saubon stammered, as though waking from a trance. "Cease. That's enough . . ."

But what was enough? Saubon yearned for pretexts; what would he give in return? When the variables were so many, everything was risk. Everything.

What if I choose wrong, Father?

"Did you hear that?" Kellhus cried, turning to Saubon in sudden terror.

The Galeoth Prince jumped back from the cliff's edge. "Hear what?"

Truth begat truth, even when it was a lie.

Kellhus swayed, staggered. Saubon leapt forward, pulled him from the long fall.

"March," Kellhus gasped, close enough to kiss. "The Whore will will be kind to you . . . But you must make certain the Shrial Knights are . . ." He opened his eyes in stunned wonder-as though to say, be kind to you . . . But you must make certain the Shrial Knights are . . ." He opened his eyes in stunned wonder-as though to say, This couldn't be their This couldn't be their message! message!

Some destinations couldn't be grasped in advance. Some paths had to be walked to be known. Risked.

"You must make certain the Shrial Knights are punished punished."

With Kellhus and Saubon gone, Esmenet sat silently, staring into the fire, studying the mosaic image of the Latter Prophet reaching out beneath their feet. She pulled her toes from the circle of a haloed hand. It seemed sacrilege that they should tread upon him . . .

But then what did she care? She was damned. Never had that seemed more obvious than now.

Sarcellus here!

Affliction upon affliction. Why did the Gods hate her so? Why were they so cruel?

Resplendent in his silvered mail and white surcoat, Sarcellus chatted amiably with Serwe about Kellhus, asking where he came from, how they first met, and so on. Serwe basked in his attention; it was plain from her answers that she more than adored the Prince of Atrithau. She spoke as though she didn't exist outside her bond to him. Achamian watched, though for some reason it seemed he didn't listen.

Oh, Akka . . . Why do I know I'm going to lose you?

Not fear, know know. Such was the cruelty of this world!

Murmuring excuses, Esmenet stood, then with slow, measured steps, fled from the fire.

Enfolded by darkness, she stopped, plopped down on the ruined stump of a pillar. The sounds of Saubon's men permeated the night: the rhythmic thwack of axes, deep-throated shouts, ribald laughter. Beneath the dark trees, warhorses snorted, stamped the earth. What have I done? What if Akka finds out? What have I done? What if Akka finds out?

Looking back the way she'd come, she was shocked to discover she could still see Achamian, dusty orange before the fire. She smiled at the hapless look of him, at the five white streaks of his beard. He seemed to be talking to Serwe . . .

Where had Sarcellus gone?

"It must be difficult being a woman in such a place," a voice called from behind her.

Esmenet jumped to her feet and whirled, her heart racing both with dismay and alarm. She saw Sarcellus strolling toward her. Of course . . .

"So many pigs," he continued, "and only one trough."

Esmenet swallowed, stood rigid. She made no reply.

"I've seen you before too," he said, playing games with their pretence about the fire. "Haven't I?" He waved a mocking finger.

Deep breath. "No. I'm sure you haven't."

"But yes . . . Yes! You're a . . . harlot." He smiled winningly. "A whore whore."

Esmenet glanced around. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sorcerers and whores . . . It seems oddly appropriate, I suppose. With so many men licking your crotch, I imagine it serves to keep one with a magic tongue."

She struck him, or tried to. Somehow he caught her hand.

"Sarcellus," she whispered. "Sarcellus, please . . ."

She felt a fingertip trace an impossible line along her inner thigh.

"Like I said," he muttered in a tone her body recognized. "One trough."

She glanced back toward the fire, saw Achamian peering after her with a frown. Of course he could see only blackness, such was the treachery of fire, which illuminated small circles by darkening the entire world. But what Achamian could or could not see did not matter.

"No, Sarcellus," she hissed. "Not . . ."

. . . here.

". . . while I live. Do you understand?"

She could feel the heat of him.

No-no-no-no . . .