CHAPTER SEVEN.

Mengedda

Sleep, when deep enough, is indistinguishable from vigilance.

-SORAINAS, THE BOOK OF CIRCLES AND SPIRALS THE BOOK OF CIRCLES AND SPIRALS

Early Summer, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, the Plains of Mengedda Broad black wings outstretched, the Synthese drifted on the early-morning wind, just savouring the curious familiarity familiarity of it all. The eastern skyline gradually brightened, then suddenly the sun cracked the horizon, lancing between the hills, over the corpse-strewn expanse of the Battleplain, and out into the infinite black, where it would, eventually, trace a thread incomprehensibly long . . . of it all. The eastern skyline gradually brightened, then suddenly the sun cracked the horizon, lancing between the hills, over the corpse-strewn expanse of the Battleplain, and out into the infinite black, where it would, eventually, trace a thread incomprehensibly long . . .

Perhaps all the way home.

Who could blame it for indulging in nostalgia? To be here again after millennia, at the place where it had almost happened almost happened, where Men and Nonmen had almost flickered out forever. Almost. Alas . . .

Soon enough. Soon enough.

It lowered its small human head and studied the patterns the innumerable dead had sketched across the plains, marvelling at the resemblances to certain sigils once prized by its species-back when they could actually be called such. Genera. Species. Race.

Inchoroi, the vermin had called them.

For a time it wondered at the sense of depth generated by the thousands of slow-circling vultures below, each sinking to the feast. Then it caught the scent it had been searching for . . . that otherworldly fetor-so distinctive!-encoded in case of just such a contingency.

So Sarcellus was dead. Unfortunate.

At least the Holy War had prevailed-over the Cishaurim, no less!

Golgotterath would approve.

Smiling, or perhaps scowling, with tiny human lips, the Old Name swooped down to join the vultures in their ancient celebration.

The distances writhed, twisted with maggot-white forms draped in human skins-with Sranc, shrieking Sranc, thousands upon thousands of them, clawing black blood from their skin, gouging themselves blind. Blind! The whirlwind roared through their masses, tossing untold thousands into orbit about its churning black base.

Mog-Pharau walked.

The Great King of Kyraneas clutched Seswatha about the shoulders, but the sorcerer could not hear his cry. Instead he heard the voice, uttered through a hundred thousand Sranc throats, flaring like bright-burning coals packed into his skull . . . The voice of the No-God.

WHAT DO YOU SEE?.

See? What could he . . .

I MUST KNOW WHAT YOU SEE.

The Great King turned from him, reached for the Heron Spear.

TELL ME.

Secrets . . . Secrets! Not even the No-God could build walls against what was forgotten! Seswatha glimpsed the unholy Carapace shining in the whirlwind's heart, a nimil sarcophagus sheathed in choric script, hanging . . .

WHAT AM- Achamian woke with a howl, his hands cramped into claws before him, shaking.

But there was a tender voice, shushing, cooing reassurances. Soft hands caressed his face, stroked sweaty hair from his eyes, daubed tears from his cheek.

Esmi.

He lay in her arms for a long while, periodically shuddering, straining to keep his eyes open, to see what was here-now.

"I've been thinking of Kellhus," she said after his breathing had settled.

"Did you dream of him?" Achamian half-heartedly teased. He tried to clear his voice of phlegm.

Esmenet laughed. "No, you fool. I sa-"

WHAT DO YOU SEE?.

A shrieking chorus, sharp and brief. He shook his head. "Sorry?" he said, laughing uneasily. "What did you say? I must have sleep in my eyes and and ears . . ." ears . . ."

"I said, just thinking just thinking."

"About what?"

Somehow, he could feel her cock her head, the way she always did when struggling to articulate something that eluded her. "About the way he speaks . . . Haven't you-"

I CANNOT SEE.

"No," he wheezed. "Never noticed." He coughed violently.

"That," she said, "is what you get sitting on the smoky side of the fire." One of her traditional admonitions.

"Old meat is better smoked." His traditional reply. He squeezed sweat from his eyes.

"Anyway, Kellhus . . ." she continued, lowering her voice. Canvas was thin, and the camp crowded. "With everyone whispering about him because of the battle and what he said to Prince Saubon, it struck me-"

TELL ME.

"-before falling asleep that almost everything he says is either, well . . . either near near or or far far . . ." . . ."

Achamian swallowed, managed to say, "How do you mean?" He needed to piss.

Esmenet laughed. "I'm not sure . . . Remember how I told you how he asked me what it was like to be a harlot-you know, to lie with strange men? When he talks that way, he seems near, uncomfortably uncomfortably near, until you realize how utterly honest and unassuming he is . . . At the time, I thought he was just another rutting dog-" near, until you realize how utterly honest and unassuming he is . . . At the time, I thought he was just another rutting dog-"

WHAT AM I?.

"The point point, Esmi . . ."

There was an annoyed pause. "Other times, he seems breathtakingly far far when he talks, like he stands on some remote mountain and can see everything, or almost everything . . ." She paused again, and from the length of it, Achamian knew he had bruised her feelings. He could feel her shrug. "The rest of us just talk in the middle somewhere, while he . . . And now this, seeing what happened yesterday when he talks, like he stands on some remote mountain and can see everything, or almost everything . . ." She paused again, and from the length of it, Achamian knew he had bruised her feelings. He could feel her shrug. "The rest of us just talk in the middle somewhere, while he . . . And now this, seeing what happened yesterday before it happened before it happened. With each day-"

I CANNOT SEE.

"-he seems to talk a little nearer and a little farther a little nearer and a little farther. It makes me- Akka? You're trembling! Shaking!"

He gasped for breath. "I-I can't stay here, Esmi."

"What do you mean?"

"This place!" he cried. "I can't stay here!"

"Shhh. It'll be all right. I heard soldiers talking last night about moving come today. Away from the dead-from the chance of vapours and-"

TELL ME.

Achamian cried out, struggled to retrieve his wits.

"Shhh, Akka, shhh . . ."

"Did they say where?" he gasped.

Esmenet had kicked free her blankets to kneel naked over him, palms on his chest. She looked worried. Very worried. "They said something about ruins, I think."

"Ev-even worse."

"What do you mean?"

"This place is shaking me to pieces, Esmi. Echoes. Echoes. R-remember what I s-said to Saubon last night? The N-No-God . . . His . . . his echo is too strong here. Too strong! And the ruins, that would be the city of Mengedda. Where it happened . . . Where it happened . . . Where the No-God was struck down. I know this sounds mad, but I think this Where the No-God was struck down. I know this sounds mad, but I think this place-I think this place recognizes me . . . place-I think this place recognizes me . . . M-me or Seswatha within me." M-me or Seswatha within me."

"So what should we-"

TELL ME.

"Leave . . . Camp in the eastern hills overlooking the Battleplain. We can wait for the others there."

Her expression darkened with other worries. "Are you sure, Akka?"

"We'll be safe . . . We just need to be far for a while."

With the accumulation of power, Achamian had once said, comes mystery. An old Nilnameshi proverb. When Kellhus had asked what the proverb meant, the Schoolman had said it referred to the paradox of power, that the more security one exacted from the world, the more insecure one became. At the time, Kellhus had thought the proverb yet another of Achamian's vacant generalizations, one that exploited the world-born propensity to confuse obscurity with profundity. Now he wasn't so sure.

Five days had passed since the battle. The last of the sun had boiled away among the western hills. The Great Names-including Conphas and Chepheramunni-had gathered with their retinues in an overgrown amphitheatre that had been excavated in ancient times from the side of a low hill. An enormous bonfire burned in its centre, transforming the stage into a hearth. The Great Names sat and conferred around the amphitheatre's lowest tier, while their advisers and caste-noble countrymen bickered and jested on the tiers above. Their ceremonial dress, much of it looted, glinted and shimmered in the firelight. Their faces shone pale orange. Before them, bare-chested slaves marched from the darkness to the stage, where they cast furniture, clothing, scrolls, and other worthless items from the Kianene camp onto the bonfire. A strange, iron-blue smoke whipped skyward from the flames. Its smell was offensive-reminiscent of the manural unguents used by the Yatwerian priestesses-but there was nothing else to burn on the Battleplain.

At long last, the Holy War was entire. Earlier in the afternoon, the Nansur and Ainoni hosts had filed across the plains and joined the vast encampment beneath the ruins of Mengedda-a once-great city, Achamian had told Kellhus, destroyed during the early Age of Bronze. For the first time since faraway Momemn, a full Council of the Great and Lesser Names had been called. Even though his rank and notoriety had earned him a place among those sitting above the Great Names, Kellhus had elected to sit with the knights, men-at-arms, and followers massed on the heaped mounds of earth and rubble opposite the amphitheatre, where he could cultivate his reputation for humility and easily survey the expressions of all those he must conquer.

For the most part, their faces exhibited startling contrasts. Some bore marks-bandages, puckered wounds, and yellowing bruises-of the recent battle, while others bore no marks at all, particularly among the newly arrived Nansur and Ainoni. Some were flushed with celebratory cheer, for the back of the heathen had been broken. While others were ashen with horror and sleeplessness . . .

Victory on the Battleplain, it seemed, had carried its own uncanny toll.

Ever since setting their pallets and mats across the Plains of Mengedda, various men and women of the Holy War had complained of suffering brutal nightmares. Each night, they claimed, they found themselves in desperate straits on the Battleplain, striving against and falling before foes they'd never before seen: archaic Nansur, true desert Kianene, Ceneian infantrymen, ancient Shigeki chariots, bronze-armoured Kyraneans, stirrupless Scylvendi, Sranc, Bashrags, and even, some had insisted, Wracu-dragons.

When the encampment was moved clear of the carrion winds to the ruins of Mengedda, the nightmares had only intensified. Some began claiming they'd dreamed of the recent battle against the Kianene, that they were burned anew by the Cishaurim, or that they fell to the battle-maddened Thunyeri. It was as though the ground had hoarded the final moments of the doomed, and counted and recounted them each night on the ledger of the living. Many tried to stop sleeping altogether, especially after a Tydonni thane was found dead one morning in his pallet. Some, like Achamian, had actually fled.

Then the pitted knives, coins, shattered helms, and bones started to appear, as though slowly vomited from the earth. At first here and there, found jutting from the turf in the morning, and in places men insisted they couldn't have been missed. Then more frequently. After stubbing his toe, one man allegedly found the skeleton of a child beneath the rushes of his tent.

Kellhus himself had dreamt nothing, but he'd seen the bones. According to Gotian, who'd explained the legends regarding the Battleplain in private council two days earlier, this ground had imbibed too much blood over the millennia, and now, like over-salted water, had to discharge the old to accommodate the new. The Battleplain was cursed, he said, but they needn't fear for their souls so long as they remained resolute in their faith. The curse was old and well understood. Proyas and Gothyelk, neither of whom suffered dreams, were loath to leave, both because the couriers they'd sent to Conphas and Chepheramunni had named Mengedda as their point of rendezvous, and because the streams running through the ruined city afforded the only expedient supply of water within a three-day march. Saubon also insisted they stay, though for reasons, Kellhus knew, entirely his own. Saubon did did dream. Only Skaiyelt had demanded they leave. dream. Only Skaiyelt had demanded they leave.

Somehow, the very ground of battle had become their foe. Such contests, Xinemus had remarked one night about their fire, belonged to philosophers and priests, not warriors and harlots.

Such contests, Kellhus had thought, simply should not be . . .

Ever since learning the desperate details of the Inrithi triumph, Kellhus had found himself beset with questions, quandaries, and enigmas.

Fate had had been kind to Coithus Saubon, but only because the Galeoth Prince had dared punish the Shrial Knights. By all accounts, Gotian's catastrophic charge against the Cishaurim had saved the Earls and Thanes of the Middle-North. Events, in other words, had unfolded precisely as Kellhus had predicted. Precisely. been kind to Coithus Saubon, but only because the Galeoth Prince had dared punish the Shrial Knights. By all accounts, Gotian's catastrophic charge against the Cishaurim had saved the Earls and Thanes of the Middle-North. Events, in other words, had unfolded precisely as Kellhus had predicted. Precisely.

But the problem was that he hadn't predicted anything anything. He'd merely said what he'd needed to say to maximize the probabilities of securing Saubon and destroying Sarcellus. He'd taken a risk.

It simply had had to be coincidence. At least this was what he'd told himself-at first. Fate was but one more world-born subterfuge, another lie men used to give meaning to their abject helplessness. That was why they thought the future a Whore, something who favoured no man over another. Something heartbreakingly to be coincidence. At least this was what he'd told himself-at first. Fate was but one more world-born subterfuge, another lie men used to give meaning to their abject helplessness. That was why they thought the future a Whore, something who favoured no man over another. Something heartbreakingly indifferent indifferent.

What came before before determined what came after . . . determined what came after . . . This This was the basis of the Probability Trance. This was the principle that made mastering circumstance, be it with word or sword, possible. This was what made him Dunyain. was the basis of the Probability Trance. This was the principle that made mastering circumstance, be it with word or sword, possible. This was what made him Dunyain.

One of the Conditioned.

Then the earth began spitting up bones. Wasn't this proof that the ground answered answered to the tribulations of men, that it was to the tribulations of men, that it was not not indifferent? And if earth- indifferent? And if earth-earth!-wasn't indifferent, then what of the future? Could what came after after actually determine what came before? What if the line running between past and future was neither singular nor straight, but multiple and bent, capable of looping in ways that contradicted the Law of Before and After? actually determine what came before? What if the line running between past and future was neither singular nor straight, but multiple and bent, capable of looping in ways that contradicted the Law of Before and After?

Could he be the Harbinger, as Achamian insisted?

Is this why you've summoned me, Father? To save these children?

But these were what he called primary questions. There were so many more immediate mysteries to be interrogated, so many more tangible threats. Such questions either belonged to philosophers and priests, as Xinemus had said, or to Anasurimbor Moenghus.

Why haven't you contacted me, Father?

The bonfire waxed brighter, consuming a small library of scrolls the slaves had hauled from the darkness. Even though Kellhus sat apart, he could feel feel his position among the caste-nobles arrayed before him. It was like a palpable thing, as though he were a fisherman manning far-flung nets. Every glance, every watchful stare, was noted, categorized, and retained. Every face was deciphered. his position among the caste-nobles arrayed before him. It was like a palpable thing, as though he were a fisherman manning far-flung nets. Every glance, every watchful stare, was noted, categorized, and retained. Every face was deciphered.

A knowing look from a figure sitting among Proyas's caste-nobles . . . Palatine Gaidekki.

He's discussed me at length with his peers, regards me as a puzzle, and thinks himself pessimistic as to the solution. But part of him wonders, even yearns.