Never had she seen such beauty. There was something inexplicable, something godlike and surreal, about his appearance, as though a breathtaking elegance, an impossible grace, laid hidden within his expressions, something that might flare at any moment and blind her with revelation. A face that made each moment, each heartbeat . . .

A gift.

She placed a hand on the gentle swell of her belly, and for an instant, she thought she could feel the second heart within her-no larger than a sparrow's-drumming through moment after thickening moment.

His child . . . His.

So much had changed! She was wise, far more so, she knew, than a girl of twenty summers should be. The world had chastened her, had shown her the impotence of outrage. First the Gaunum sons and their cruel lusts. Then Panteruth and his unspeakable brutalities. Then Cnaiur and his iron-willed madness. What could the outrage of a soft-skinned concubine mean to a man such as him? Just one more thing to be broken. She knew the futility, that the animal within would grovel, shriek, would place soothing lips around any man's cock for a moment of mercy-that it would do anything, sate any hunger, to survive. She'd been enlightened. Submission. Truth lay in submission.

"You've surrendered, Serwe," Kellhus had told her. "And by surrendering, you have conquered me!"

The days of nothing had passed. The world, Kellhus said, had prepared her for him him. She, Serwe hil Keyalti, was to be his sacred consort. She would bear the sons of the Warrior-Prophet. What indignity, what suffering, could compare with this? Certainly, she wept when the Scylvendi struck her, clenched her teeth in fury and gagging shame when he used her. But afterward she knew knew, and Kellhus had taught her that knowing was exalted above all other things all other things. Cnaiur was a totem of the old dark world, the ancient outrage made flesh. For every god, Kellhus had told her, there was a demon. For every God . . .

The priests, both those of her father and those of the Gaunum, had claimed the Gods moved the souls of men. But Serwe knew the Gods also moved as as men. So often, watching Esmenet, Achamian, Xinemus, and the others about the fire, she would be amazed that they couldn't see, though sometimes she suspected that, in their heart of hearts, they knew and yet were stubborn. men. So often, watching Esmenet, Achamian, Xinemus, and the others about the fire, she would be amazed that they couldn't see, though sometimes she suspected that, in their heart of hearts, they knew and yet were stubborn.

But then, unlike her, they didn't couple with a god-and his guises. They hadn't been taught how to forgive, how to submit, as she'd been taught, though they learned slowly. She often glimpsed the small, sometimes lonely ways in which he instructed them. And it was a wondrous thing, to watch a god instruct others. Even now, he instructed them.

"No," Achamian was asserting. "We sorcerers are distinguished by our ability, you caste-nobles by your blood. What does it matter whether other men recognize us as such? We are what we are."

With smiling eyes, Kellhus said, "Are you sure?"

Serwe had seen this many times. The words would be simple, but the way way would wrench at their hearts. would wrench at their hearts.

"What do you mean," Achamian said blankly.

Kellhus shrugged. "What if I were to tell you that I'm like you."

Xinemus's eyes flashed to Achamian, who laughed nervously.

"Like me?" the Schoolman asked. He licked his lips. "How so?"

"I can see the Mark, Akka . . . I can see the bruise of your damnation."

"You jest," Achamian snapped, but his voice was strange . . .

Kellhus had turned to Xinemus. "Do you see? A moment ago, I was no different from you. The distinction between us didn't exist until just-"

"It still doesn't exist," Achamian blurted, his voice rising. "I would have you prove this!"

Kellhus studied the man, his look careful and troubled. "How does one prove what one sees?"

Xinemus, who seemed unperturbed, chuckled. "What is it, Akka? There's many who see your blasphemy, but choose not to speak it. Think of the College of Luthymae . . ."

But Achamian had jumped to his feet, his expression bewildered, even panicked. "It's just that . . . that . . ."

Serwe's thoughts leapt. He knows, my love! Achamian knows what you are! He knows, my love! Achamian knows what you are!

She flushed at the memory of the sorcerer between her legs, but then reminded herself that it wasn't Achamian Achamian whom she remembered, it was Kellhus . . . whom she remembered, it was Kellhus . . .

"You must know me me Serwe, in all my guises. Serwe, in all my guises."

"There is is a way to prove this!" the Schoolman exclaimed. He fixed them with a ludicrous stare, then without warning hurried off into the darkness. a way to prove this!" the Schoolman exclaimed. He fixed them with a ludicrous stare, then without warning hurried off into the darkness.

Xinemus had begun muttering some joke, but just then Esmenet sat next to Serwe, smiling and frowning.

"Has Kellhus worked him into a frenzy again?" she asked, handing Serwe a steaming bowl of spiced tea.

"Again," Serwe said, and grasped the proffered bowl. She tipped a glittering drop to the earth before drinking. It tasted warm, coiled in her stomach like sun-hot silk. "Mmmm . . . Thank you, Esmi."

Esmenet nodded, turned to Kellhus and Xinemus. The previous night, Serwe had cut Esmenet's black hair short-man-short-so that now she resembled a beautiful boy. Almost as beautiful as me Almost as beautiful as me, Serwe thought.

She'd never known a woman like Esmenet before: bold, with a tongue as wicked as any man's. She frightened Serwe sometimes, with her ability to match the men word for word, joke for joke. Only Kellhus could best her. But she had always been considerate. Serwe had asked her once why she was so kind, and Esmenet had replied that the only peace she'd found as a harlot had been caring for those more vulnerable than her. When Serwe insisted she was neither a whore nor vulnerable, Esmenet had smiled sadly, saying, "We're all whores, Serchaa . . ."

And Serwe had believed her. How couldn't she? It sounded so much like something Kellhus might say.

Esmenet turned to look at her. "Was the day's march hard on you, Serchaa?" She smiled the way Serwe's aunt had once smiled, with warmth and concern. But then her expression suddenly darkened, as though she'd glimpsed something disagreeable in Serwe's face. Her eyes became hooded.

"Esmi?" Serwe said. "Is something wrong?"

Esmenet's look became far-away. When it returned, her handsome face wrinkled into another smile-more sad, but just as genuine.

Serwe looked nervously to her hands, suddenly terrified that Esmenet somehow knew knew. In her soul's eye, she glimpsed the Scylvendi toiling above her in the dark. But it But it wasn't wasn't him! him!

"The hills," she said quickly. "The hills are so hard . . . Kellhus says says he'll get me a mule." he'll get me a mule."

Esmenet nodded. "Make sure he . . ." She paused, frowned at the darkness. "What's he up to now?"

Achamian had returned from the darkness, bearing a small doll about as long as a forearm. He sat the doll down on the earth, with its back resting against the bonelike stone he'd been using as a seat moments earlier. With the exception of the head, it was carved from dark wood, with jointed limbs, a small rusty knife for a right hand, and engraved with rows of tiny text. The head, however, was a silken sack, shapeless, and no larger than a poor man's purse. Staring at it, it suddenly seemed a dreadful thing to Serwe. The firelight gleamed across its polished surfaces and gave the illusion that the words had been carved inches-deep. The small shadow that framed it was black as pitch against the stone and shifted uneasily with the twining glitter of the flames. It looked like a little dead man propped before a towering fire.

"Does Achamian scare you, Serchaa?" Esmenet asked. Something wicked and mischievous glinted in her eyes.

Serwe thought about that night at the ruined shrine, when he'd sent light to the stars. She shook her head. "No," she replied. He was too sad to frighten.

"He will after this," Esmenet said.

"He leaves for proof," Xinemus jeered, "and he returns with a toy!"

"This is no 'toy,'" Achamian muttered, annoyed.

"He's right," Kellhus said seriously. "It is some kind of sorcerous artefact. I can see the Mark."

Achamian looked at Kellhus sharply, but said nothing. The fire crackled and hissed. He finished adjusting the doll, took two steps back. Suddenly, framed by the darkness and the shining fires of the greater encampment, he seemed less a weary scholar and more a Mandate Schoolman. Serwe shivered.

"This is called a 'Wathi Doll,'" he explained, "something I . . . I purchased from a Sansori witch a couple of years ago . . . There's a soul trapped in this doll."

Xinemus coughed wine through his nose. "Akka," he rasped, "I won't tolerate-"

"Humour me, Zin! Please . . . Kellhus says he's one of the Few. This is the one way for him to prove it without damning himself-or you, Zin. Apparently for me, it's already too late."

"What should I do?" Kellhus asked.

Achamian knelt and fetched a twig from the ground at his feet. "I'll simply scratch two words into the earth, and you'll speak them, aloud. You won't be uttering a Cant, so you won't be marked by the blood-of-the-onta. No one will look at you and know you for a sorcerer. And you'll still be pure enough to handle Trinkets without discomfort. You'll just be uttering the artefact's cipher . . . The doll will awaken only if you truly are are one of the Few." one of the Few."

"Why's it bad that anyone recognize Kellhus as a sorcerer?" Bloody Dinch asked.

"Because he'd be damned! damned!" Xinemus nearly shouted.

"That," Achamian acknowledged, "and he'd quickly be dead. He'd be a sorcerer without a school, a wizard wizard, and the Schools don't brook wizards."

Achamian turned to Esmenet; they exchanged a quick, worried look. Then he walked over to Kellhus. Serwe could tell that a large part of him already regretted this spectacle.

With the twig, Achamian deftly scratched a line of signs in the earth before Kellhus's sandaled feet. Serwe assumed that they were two words, but she couldn't read. "I've written them in Kuniuric," he said, "to spare the others any indignity." He stepped back, nodded slowly. Despite the brown of innumerable days spent in the sun, he looked grey. "Speak them," he instructed.

Kellhus, his bearded face solemn, studied the words for a moment, then in a clear voice said, "Skuni ari'sitvua . . ."

All eyes scrutinized the doll lying slack against the stone in the firelight. Serwe held her breath. She'd expected that perhaps the limbs might twitch and then drawl into drunken life, as though the doll were a puppet, something that might prance on the end of invisible strings. But that didn't happen. The first thing to move, rather, was the stained, silk head-but it didn't loll with lazy life, or even slowly nod; instead, something moved from within within. Serwe gasped in horror, realizing that a tiny face tiny face-nose, lips, brow, and eye sockets-now strained against the fabric . . .

It was as though a narcotic haze had settled upon them, the torpor of bearing witness to the impossible. Serwe's heart hammered. Her thoughts wheeled . . .

But she couldn't look away. A human face, small enough to palm, pressed against the silk. She could see tiny lips part in a soundless howl. And then the limbs moved-suddenly, deftly, with none of the swaying stagger of a puppet. Whatever moved those limbs moved them from within, with the compact elegance of a body assured of its extremities. And with half-panicked thoughts, Serwe understood that it was a soul, a self-moving self-moving soul . . . In a single, languorous motion, it leaned forward, braced its arms against the earth, bent its knees, then came to its feet, casting a slender shadow across the earth, the shadow of a man with a sack bound about his head. soul . . . In a single, languorous motion, it leaned forward, braced its arms against the earth, bent its knees, then came to its feet, casting a slender shadow across the earth, the shadow of a man with a sack bound about his head.

"By all that's holy . . ." Bloody Dinch hissed in a breathless voice.

The wooden man turned its eyeless face from side to side, studied the dumbstruck giants.

It raised the small, rusty blade it possessed in lieu of a right hand. The fire popped, and it jumped and whirled. A smoking coal bounced to a stop at its feet. Looking down, it knelt with the blade, flicked the coal back into the fire.

Achamian muttered something unspeakable, and it collapsed in a jumble of splayed limbs. He looked blankly at Kellhus, and in a voice as ashen as his expression, said, "So you're one of the Few . . ."

Horror, Serwe thought. He was horrified. But why? Couldn't he see?

Without warning, Xinemus leapt to his feet. Before Achamian could even glance at him, the Marshal had seized his arm, yanked him violently about.

"Why do you do this?" Xinemus cried, his face both pained and enraged. "You know know that it's difficult enough for me to . . . to . . . You that it's difficult enough for me to . . . to . . . You know! know! And now And now displays such as this? Blasphemy? displays such as this? Blasphemy?"

Stunned, Achamian looked at his friend aghast. "But Zin," he cried. "This is what I am."

"Perhaps Proyas was right," he snapped. With a growl he thrust Achamian away, then paced off into the darkness. Esmenet leapt from her place by Serwe and grasped one of Achamian's slack hands. But the sorcerer stared off into the blackness that had encompassed the Marshal of Attrempus. Serwe could hear Esmenet's insistent whisper: "It's okay, Akka! Kellhus will speak to him. Show him his folly . . ." But Achamian, his face turned from those watching about the fire, pushed at her feebly.

Still bewildered, her skin still tingling in dread, Serwe looked to Kellhus beseechingly: Please . . . you must make this better! Xinemus must forgive Achamian this. They must all learn to forgive! Please . . . you must make this better! Xinemus must forgive Achamian this. They must all learn to forgive!

Serwe didn't know when she'd begun speaking to him with her face, but she did it so often now that many times she couldn't sort what she'd told him from what she'd shown him. This was part of the infinite peace between them. Nothing was hidden.

And for some reason, his look reminded her of something he'd once said: "I must reveal myself to them slowly Serwe, slowly. Otherwise they'll turn against me . . ."

Late that night, Serwe was awakened by voices-angry voices, just outside their tent. Reflexively she grasped for her belly. Her innards churned with fright. Dear Gods . . . Mercy! Please, mercy! Dear Gods . . . Mercy! Please, mercy!

The Scylvendi had returned.

As she knew he would. Nothing could kill Cnaiur urs Skiotha, not so long as Serwe remained alive.

Not again . . . please-please . . .

She could see nothing, but the menace of his presence already clutched at her, as though he were a wraith, something feral and malevolent bent upon consuming her, scraping out her heart the way Cepaloran women scrape pelts clean with sharpened oyster shells. She began to cry, softly, secretly, so he wouldn't hear . . . Any moment, she knew, he would thrash into the tent, fill it with the stink of a man who'd just shed his hauberk, grip her about the throat and . . .

Pleaasse! I know I'm supposed to be a good girl-I'll be a good girl! Please!

She heard his harsh voice, low so as not to be overheard, but fierce nonetheless.

"I tire of this, Dunyain."

"Nuta'tharo hirmuta," Kellhus replied with an impassiveness that unnerved her-until she realized: He's cold because he hates him . . . Hates him as I do! He's cold because he hates him . . . Hates him as I do!

"I will not!" the Scylvendi spat.

"Sta puth yura'gring?"

"Because you ask me to! I tire hearing you defile my tongue. I tire of being mocked. I tire of these fools you ply. I tire of watching you defile my prize! My prize! My prize!"

A moment of silence. Buzzing ears. moment of silence. Buzzing ears.

"Both of us," Kellhus said in taut Sheyic, "have secured places of honour. Both of us have gained the ears of the great. What more could you want?"

"I want only one thing."

"And together, we walk the shortest path to-"

Kellhus abruptly halted. A hard moment passed between them.

"You intend to leave," Kellhus said.

Laughter, like a wolf's growl broken into fragments.

"There is no need to share the same yaksh."

Serwe gasped for air. The scar on her arm, the swazond the plainsman had given her beneath the Hethanta Mountains, flared in sudden pain.

No-no-no-no-no . . .

"Proyas . . ." Kellhus said, his voice still blank. "You intend to camp with Proyas."

Please God noooo!

"I have come for my things," Cnaiur said. "I have come for my prize."

Never in all her violent life had Serwe felt herself pitched upon such a precipice. The breath was choked from her mid-sob, and she became very still. The silence shrieked. Three heartbeats it took Kellhus to answer, and for three heartbeats her very life hung as though from a gibbet between the voices of men. She would die for him, she knew, and she would die without him. It seemed she'd always known this, from the first clumsy days of her childhood. She almost gagged for fear.

And then Kellhus said: "No. Serwe stays with me."