A look from one of the Tydonni. A momentary meeting of eyes . . . Earl Cerjulla.

He's heard the rumours, but remains too proud of his own battlefield deeds to concede anything to fate. He suffers the nightmares . . .

A passing glance from behind Ikurei Conphas . . . General Martemus.

He's heard much about me, but is too preoccupied to truly care.

From among the Thunyeri, a fiery-haired warrior, searching for someone among the crowd . . . Earl Goken.

He's heard almost nothing of me. Too few Thunyeri speak different tongues.

A contemptuous glare from among the Conriyans . . . Palatine Ingiaban.

He discusses me with Gaidekki, argues that I'm a fraud. My relationship to Cnaiur is what interests him. He too has stopped sleeping.

A steady, fixed look from among Gotian's diminished retinue . . .

Sarcellus.

One of what seemed a growing number of inscrutable faces. Skin-spies, Achamian had called them.

Why did he stare? Because of the rumours, like the others? Because of the horrific toll his words had exacted on the Shrial Knights? Gotian, Kellhus knew, struggled not to hate him . . .

Or did he know that Kellhus could see him and had tried to kill him?

Kellhus matched the thing's unblinking gaze. Since his first encounter with Skeaos on the Andiamine Heights, he'd refined his understanding of their peculiar physiognomy. Where others saw blemished or beautiful faces, he saw eyes peering through clutched fingers. So far, he'd identified eleven of the creatures masquerading as various powerful personages, and he had no doubt there were more . . .

He nodded amiably, but Sarcellus simply continued watching, expressionless, as though unaware or unconcerned that what he stared at was staring back . . .

Something, Kellhus thought. They suspect something. They suspect something.

There was a small commotion in his periphery, and turning, Kellhus saw Earl Athjeari pressing his way through the crowded spectators, climbing toward him. Kellhus bowed his head appropriately as the young caste-noble approached. The man reciprocated, though his declension fell slightly short.

"Afterward," Athjeari said. "I need you to come with me afterward."

"Prince Saubon."

The striking, chestnut-haired man worked his jaw. Athjeari was someone, Kellhus knew, who understood neither melancholy nor indecision, which was partly why he thought this errand demeaning. As much as he admired his uncle, he thought Saubon was making too much of this impoverished prince from Atrithau. Far too much.

So much pride.

"My uncle wants to meet," the Earl said, as though explaining a lapse. Without further word, he began pressing his way back to the amphitheatre. Kellhus looked out over the crowds below to the Great Names. He glimpsed Saubon nervously looking away.

His anguish grows. His fear deepens. For six nights now, the Galeoth Prince had assiduously avoided him, even in those councils where they shared seats about the same fire. Something had happened on the field,something more grievous than losing kinsmen or sending the Shrial Knights to their doom. An opportunity. For six nights now, the Galeoth Prince had assiduously avoided him, even in those councils where they shared seats about the same fire. Something had happened on the field,something more grievous than losing kinsmen or sending the Shrial Knights to their doom. An opportunity.

Sarcellus, Kellhus noticed, had left his seat on the tiers, and now stood with a small party of Shrial Priests preparing to assist Gotian in the inaugural rites. The general rumble of voices trailed.

The Grandmaster began with a purificatory prayer Kellhus recognized from The Tractate The Tractate. Then he spoke for some time of Inri Sejenus, the Latter Prophet, and what it meant for men to be Inrithi. "Whosoever repents the darkness in their heart," he quoted from the Book of Scholars Book of Scholars, "let him raise high the Tusk and follow." To be Inrithi, he reminded them, was to be a follower of Inri Sejenus. And who followed more faithfully than those who walked in his Holy Steps?

"Shimeh," he said in a clear, far-travelling voice. "Shimeh is near, very near, for we have travelled farther in one day with our swords than we have in two years with our feet . . ."

"Or our tongues!" some wit cried out. Warm laughter.

"Four nights ago," Gotian declared, "I sent a scroll to Maithanet, our Most Holy Shriah, Exalted Father of our Holy War." He paused, and all was silence save the cracking of the bonfire. He still wore bandages about both hands, which had been burned by dragging the fallen through fiery grasses.

"Upon that scroll," he continued, "I wrote but one word-one word!-for my fingers still bled."

Sporadic shouts broke from the masses. The Charge of the Shrial Knights had already become legend. "Triumph!" he cried. "Triumph!"

The Men of the Tusk exploded in exultation, howling and wailing, some even weeping. Shadowy beneath the stars, the mounds and debris of surrounding Mengedda shivered.

But Kellhus remained silent. He glanced at Sarcellus, who had his back partially turned toward him, and noticed . . . discrepancies discrepancies. Smiling, resplendent in firelight and gold-and-white, Gotian waved for the masses to settle, then called on them to join him in the Temple Prayer.

Sweet God of Gods, who walk among us, innumerable are your holy names . . .

Words uttered through a thousand human throats. The air thrummed with an impossible resonance. The ground itself spoke, or so it seemed . . . But Kellhus saw only Sarcellus-saw only differences. His stance, his height and build, even the lustre of his black hair. All imperceptibly different.

A replacement.

The original copy had been killed, Kellhus realized, just as he'd hoped. The position of Sarcellus, however, had not. His death had gone unwitnessed, and they'd simply replaced him.

Strange that a man could be a position.

. . . for your name is Truth, which endures and endures, for ever and ever.

After completing the purificatory rites, Gotian and Sarcellus withdrew. Stiff in their ornamental hauberks, the Gilgallic Priests then rose to declare the Battle-Celebrant, the man whom dread War had chosen as his vessel on the field five days previous. The masses fell silent in anticipation. The selection of the Battle-Celebrant, Xinemus had complained to Kellhus earlier that day, was the object of innumerable wagers, as though it were a lottery rather than a divine determination. An older man, his square-cut beard as white as hoarfrost, stepped to the forefront of the others: Cumor, the High Cultist of Gilgaol. But before he could begin, Prince Skaiyelt leapt to his feet and cried, "Wedt firlik peor kaflang dau hara mausrot!" He whirled from the Great and Lesser Names to those massed about Kellhus, his long blond hair and beard spilling from shoulder to shoulder. "Wedt dau hara mut keflinga! Keflinga! Keflinga!"

Cumor sputtered something indignant and unintelligible, while everyone else turned to Skaiyelt's Thunyeri for explanation. His translators, it seemed, were nowhere to be found.

"He says," one of Gothyelk's men finally shouted in Sheyic from the higher tiers, "that we must first discuss leaving this place. That we must flee."

The humid air suddenly buzzed with competing shouts, some accusatory, others crying out assent. Skaiyelt's monstrous groom, Yalgrota, jumped to his feet and began beating his chest and roaring threats. The shrunken Sranc heads about his waist danced like tassels. Inexplicably, Skaiyelt began kicking at the ground. He crouched with his knife, then stood, raising something against the bonfire's glare. Hundreds gasped.

He held a skull, half choked with dirt, half crushed by some ancient blow.

"Wedt," he said slowly, "dau hara mut keflinga."

The dead surfacing like the drowned . . . How How, Kellhus thought, could could this be possible? this be possible?

But he needed to stay focused on practical mysteries-not those pertaining to the ground.

Skaiyelt tossed the skull into the bonfire, glared at his fellow Great Names. The debate continued, and one by one they acquiesced, though Chepheramunni at first refused to credit the story. Even the Exalt-General conceded without complaint. Over the course of the debate, some looks wandered toward Kellhus, but no one solicited his opinion. After a short time, Proyas announced that the Holy War would leave Mengedda and her cursed plains come morning.

The Men of the Tusk rumbled in wonder and relief.

Attention was once again yielded to aging Cumor, who, either because he was flustered or dreaded further interruptions, dispensed with the Gilgallic rites altogether and came directly to stand over Saubon. The other priests seemed more than a little disconcerted.

"Kneel," the old man called out in a quavering voice.

Saubon did as he was told, but not before sputtering, "Gotian! He led the charge!"

"It is you, Coithus Saubon," Cumor replied, his tone so soft that few, Kellhus imagined, could hear him. "You . . . Many saw it. Many saw him, the Shield-Breaker, glorious Many saw it. Many saw him, the Shield-Breaker, glorious Gilgaol Gilgaol . . . He looked through your eyes! Fought with your limbs!" . . . He looked through your eyes! Fought with your limbs!"

"No . . ."

Cumor smiled, then withdrew a circlet woven of thorns and olive sprigs from his voluminous right sleeve. Save for the odd cough, the gathered Inrithi fell absolutely silent. With an old man's unsteady gentleness, he placed the circlet upon Saubon's head. Then stepping back, the High Cultist of Gilgaol cried, "Rise, Coithus Saubon, Prince of Galeoth . . . Battle-Celebrant! Battle-Celebrant!"

Once again the assembly thundered in exultation. Saubon pressed himself to his feet, but slowly, like a man wearied by a near-heartbreaking run. For a moment he looked about in disbelief, then without warning, he turned to Kellhus, his cheeks shining with tears in the firelight. His clean-shaven face still bore cuts and bruises from five days previous.

Why? his anguished look said. his anguished look said. I don't deserve this . . . I don't deserve this . . .

Kellhus smiled sadly, and bowed to the precise degree jnan demanded from all men in the presence of a Battle-Celebrant. He'd more than mastered their brute customs by now; he'd learned the subtle flourishes that transformed the seemly into the august. He knew their every cue.

The roaring redoubled. They'd all witnessed their exchanged look; they'd all heard the story of Saubon's pilgrimage to Kellhus at the ruined shrine.

It happens, Father. It happens.

But the thunderous cheering suddenly faltered, trailed into the rumble of questioning voices. Kellhus saw Ikurei Conphas standing before the bonfire not far from Saubon, his shouts only now becoming audible.

"-fools!" he railed. "Rank idiots! You'd honour honour this man? You'd acclaim acts that nearly doomed the entire Holy War?" this man? You'd acclaim acts that nearly doomed the entire Holy War?"

A tide of jeers and taunts swelled through the amphitheatre.

"Coithus Saubon, Battle-Celebrant Battle-Celebrant," Conphas cried in derision, and somehow managed to silence the rumble. "Fool-Celebrant, I say! The man who nearly saw all of you killed on these cursed fields! And trust me, this is the one place where you don't don't want to die . . ." want to die . . ."

Saubon simply watched him, dumbstruck.

"You know what I mean," the Exalt-General said to him directly. "You know what you did was arrant folly." Reflections of the bonfire curled like oil across his golden breastplate.

The masses had fallen utterly silent. He had no choice, Kellhus knew, but to intervene.

Conphas is too clever to- "The craven see folly everywhere," a powerful voice boomed from the lower tiers. "All daring is rash in their eyes, because they would call their cowardice 'prudence.'" Cnaiur had stood from his place next to Xinemus. Months had passed, and still the Scylvendi's penetration surprised him. Cnaiur saw the danger, Kellhus realized, knew that Saubon would be useless if he were discredited.

Conphas laughed. "So I'm a coward, am I, Scylvendi?" His right hand happened upon the pommel of his sword.

"In a manner," Cnaiur said. He wore black breeches and a grey thigh-length vest-plunder from the Kianene camp-that left both his chest and banded arms bare. Firelight shimmered across the vest's silk embroidery, flashed from his pale eyes. As always, the plainsman emanated a feral intensity that made others, Kellhus noted, stiffen in inarticulate alarm. Everything about him looked hard, like sinew one had to saw rather than slice.

"Since defeating the People," the Scylvendi continued, "much glory has been heaped upon your name. Because of this, you begrudge others that same glory. The valour and wisdom of Coithus Saubon have defeated Skauras-no mean thing, if what you said at your Emperor's knee was to be believed. But since this glory is not yours, you think it false. You call it foolishness, blind lu-"

"It was was blind luck!" Conphas cried. "The Gods favour the drunk and the soft-of-head . . . blind luck!" Conphas cried. "The Gods favour the drunk and the soft-of-head . . . That's That's the only lesson we've learned." the only lesson we've learned."

"I cannot speak to what your gods favour," Cnaiur replied. "But you have learned much, very much. You have learned the Fanim cannot withstand a determined charge by Inrithi knights, nor can they break a determined defence by Inrithi footmen. You have learned the strengths and shortcomings of their tactics and their weapons against a heavily armoured foe. You have witnessed the limits of their patience. And you have taught as well-a very important lesson. You have taught them to fear fear. Even now, in the hills, they run like jackals before the wolf."

Cheers spread through the crowds, gradually growing into another deafening roar.

Stupefied, Conphas stared at the Scylvendi, his fingers kneading his pommel. He'd been roundly defeated. And so swiftly . . .

"Time for another scar on your arms!" someone cried, and laughter boomed through the amphitheatre. Cnaiur graced the assembled Inrithi with a rare fierce grin.

Even from this distance, Kellhus knew the Exalt-General felt neither shame nor embarrassment: the man smiled as though a crowd of lepers had just insulted his beauty. For Conphas, the derision of thousands meant as little as the derision of one. The game was all that mattered.

Among those Kellhus needed to dominate, Ikurei Conphas was an especially problematic case. Not only did he suffer pride-almost lunatic in proportion-he possessed a pathological disregard for the estimations of other men. Moreover, like his uncle the Emperor, he believed that Kellhus himself was somehow connected to Skeaos-to the Cishaurim Cishaurim, if Achamian could be believed. Add to that a childhood surrounded by the labyrinthine intrigues of the Imperial Precincts, and the Exalt-General became almost as immune to Dunyain techniques as the Scylvendi.

And he planned, Kellhus knew, something catastrophic for the Holy War . . .

Another mystery. Another threat.

The Great Names moved on to bicker about further things. First Proyas, using arguments he'd rehearsed, Kellhus surmised, with Cnaiur, suggested they send a mounted force to Hinnereth with all dispatch, not to take the city but to secure its surrounding fields before they could be prematurely harvested and sheltered within its walls. The same, he declared, should be done for the entire coastline. Under torment, several Kianene captives had said that Skauras, as a contingency, had ordered all the winter grains in Gedea harvested as soon as they became milk-ripe. Swearing that the Imperial Fleet could supply the Holy War entire, Conphas argued against the plan, warning that Skauras yet possessed the strength and cunning to destroy any such force. Loath to depend on the Emperor in any way, the other Great Names were disinclined to believe him, however, and it was agreed: several thousand horsemen would be mustered and sent out on the morrow under Earl Athjeari, Palatine Ingiaban, and Earl Werijen Greatheart.

Then the incendiary issue of the Ainoni host's sloth and the constant fragmentation of the Holy War was broached. Here masked Chepheramunni, who had to answer to the Scarlet Spires, found a surprise ally in Proyas, who argued, with several provisos, that they actually should continue continue travelling in separate contingents. When the issue threatened to become intractable, he called on Cnaiur for support, but the Scylvendi's harsh assessment had little effect, and the argument dragged on. travelling in separate contingents. When the issue threatened to become intractable, he called on Cnaiur for support, but the Scylvendi's harsh assessment had little effect, and the argument dragged on.

The first Men of the Tusk continued shouting into the night, growing ever more drunk on the Sapatishah's sweet Eumarnan wines. And Kellhus studied them, glimpsed depths that would have terrified them had they known. Periodically, he revisited the thing called Sarcellus, who often gazed back, as though Kellhus were a boy with fine shanks that a wicked Shrial Knight might love. It taunted him. But such a look was merely a semblance, Kellhus knew, as surely as the expressions animating his own face.

Still, there could be no doubt-not any longer . . . They knew Kellhus could see them.

I must move more quickly, Father.

The Nilnameshi had it wrong. Mysteries could be killed, if one possessed the power.

Lounging beneath the bellied crimson canvas of his pavilion, Ikurei Conphas spent the first hour verbally entertaining various scenarios involving the Scylvendi's murder. Martemus had said little, and in some infuriated corner of his thoughts Conphas suspected that the drab General not only secretly admired the barbarian but had thoroughly enjoyed the earlier fiasco in the amphitheatre. And yet, by and large, this bothered Conphas little, though he couldn't say why. Perhaps, assured of Martemus's actual loyalty, he cared nothing for the man's spiritual infidelities. Spiritual infidelities were as common as dirt.

Afterward, he spent another hour telling Martemus what was to happen at Hinnereth. This had lightened his mood greatly. Demonstrations of his brilliance always buoyed his spirits, and his plans for Hinnereth were nothing short of genius. How well it paid to be friends with one's enemies.

And so, feeling magnanimous, he decided to open a little door and allow Martemus-easily the most competent and trustworthy of all his generals-into some rather large halls. In the coming months, he would need confidants. All Emperors needed confidants.

But of course, prudence demanded certain assurances. Though Martemus was loyal by nature, loyalties were, as the Ainoni were fond of saying, like wives. One must always know where they lie-and with absolute certainty.

He leaned back into his canvas chair and peered past Martemus to the far side of the pavilion, where the crimson Standard of the Over-Army rested in its illumined shrine. His gaze lingered on the ancient Kyranean disc that glinted from the folds-supposedly once the chest piece of some Great King's harness. For some reason the figures stamped there-golden warriors with elongated limbs-had always arrested him. So familiar and yet so alien.

"Have you ever stared at it before, Martemus? I mean, truly stared?"