"The Truth," Achamian said. "The Truth distinguishes them. No matter what the fanaticism, Inrithi, Consult, or even Mandate, the consequences are the same: men die or suffer. The question is one of what they die or suffer for for . . ." . . ."

"So purpose-true purpose-justifies suffering, even death?"

"You must believe as much, otherwise you wouldn't be here."

Kellhus smiled as though abashed at having been exposed. "So it all comes to Truth. If one's purposes are true . . ."

"Anything can be justified. Any torment, any murder . . ."

Kellhus rounded his eyes the way he knew Inrau would. "Any betrayal," he said.

Achamian stared, his nimble face as stony as he could manage. But Kellhus saw past the dark skin, past the sheath of fine muscle, past even the soul that toiled beneath. He saw arcana and anguish, a yearning steeped in three thousand years of wisdom. He saw a child beaten and bullied by a drunken father. He saw a hundred generations of Nroni fishermen pinioned between hunger and the cruel sea. He saw Seswatha and the madness of war without hope. He saw ancient Ketyai tribesmen surge down mountain slopes. He saw the animal, rooting and rutting, reaching back to time out of memory.

He didn't see what came after; he saw what came before . . .

"Any betrayal," the sorcerer repeated dully.

He is close.

"And your cause," Kellhus pressed. "The prevention of the Second Apocalypse."

"Is true. There can be no doubt."

"So in the name of that cause, you can commit any act, any betrayal?"

Achamian's eyes slackened in dread, and Kellhus glimpsed a worry too fleet to become a question. The Schoolman had become accustomed to the efficiency of their discourse: rarely had they ever wandered from question to question as they did now.

"It's strange," Achamian said, "the way things spoken with assurance by one can sound so outrageous when repeated by another . . ."

An unanticipated turn, but an opportunity as well. A shorter path. A shorter path.

"It troubles," Kellhus said, "because it shows that conviction is as cheap as words. Any man can believe unto death. Any man can claim your claim."

"So you fear I'm no different from any other fanatic."

"Wouldn't you?"

How deep does his conviction go?

"You are are the Harbinger, Kellhus. If you dreamed Seswatha's Dream as I did . . ." the Harbinger, Kellhus. If you dreamed Seswatha's Dream as I did . . ."

"But couldn't Proyas say the same of his fanaticism? Couldn't he say, 'If you spoke to Maithanet as I did'?" How far would he follow it? To the death? How far would he follow it? To the death?

The sorcerer sighed and nodded. "That's always the dilemma, now isn't it?"

"But whose dilemma? Mine or yours?" Would he follow it beyond? Would he follow it beyond?

Achamian laughed, but in the clipped manner of men who make light of what horrifies them.

"It's the world's world's dilemma, Kellhus." dilemma, Kellhus."

"I need more than that, Akka-more than bald assertions."

Would he follow it all the way?

"I'm not sure-"

"What is it you want of me?" Kellhus exclaimed in sudden desperation. Inrau's indecision warbled through his voice. Inrau's horror pulled wide his eyes.

I must have it.

The sorcerer stared, horror-stricken. "Kellhus, I . . ."

"Think of what you're telling me! Think, Akka, think! think! You're saying that I'm You're saying that I'm the sign of the Second Apocalypse the sign of the Second Apocalypse, that I augur mankind's extinction!"

But of course Achamian thought him more . . .

"No, Kellhus . . . Not the end."

"Then what am I? Just what do you think I am?"

"I think . . . I think you may be . . ."

"What, Akka? What?"

"Everything has a purpose! purpose!" the Schoolman cried in exasperation. "You've come to me for a reason reason, even if you've yet to embrace it."

This, Kellhus knew, was false. For events to have purpose, their ends had to determine their beginnings, and this was impossible. Things were governed by their origins, not their destinations. What came before determined what came after; his manipulation of these world-born men was proof enough of that . . . If the Dunyain had been mistaken in their theorems, their axioms remained inviolate. The Logos had been complicated-nothing more. Even sorcery, from what he'd gleaned, followed laws.

"And what purpose is that?" Kellhus asked.

Achamian hesitated, and though he remained utterly silent, everything from his expression to his scent to his pulse howled in panic. He licked his lips . . .

"I think . . . to save the world."

Always it came to this. Always the same delusion.

"So I'm I'm your cause?" Kellhus said incredulously. "I'm the your cause?" Kellhus said incredulously. "I'm the Truth Truth that justifies your fanaticism?" that justifies your fanaticism?"

Achamian could only stare in dread. Plundering the man's expression, Kellhus watched the inferences splash and trickle through his soul, drawn of their own weight to a single, inexorable conclusion.

Everything . . . By his own admission, he must yield everything.

Even the Gnosis.

How powerful have you become, Father?

Without warning, Achamian stood and started down the monumental stair. He took each step with weary deliberation, as though counting them. The Shigeki wind tousled his shining black hair. When Kellhus called to him, he said only, "I tire of the heights."

As Kellhus had known he would.

General Martemus had always considered himself a practical man. He was someone who always clarified his tasks, then methodically set about achieving his goals. He had no birthright, no pampered childhood, to cloud his judgment. He simply saw, appraised, and acted. The world was not so complicated, he would tell his junior officers, so long as one remained clearheaded and ruthlessly practical. See. Appraise. Act.

He had lived his life by this philosophy. How easily it had been defeated.

The task had seemed straightforward, if somewhat unusual, in the beginning. Watch Prince Anasurimbor Kellhus of Atrithau, and attempt to gain his confidence. If the man collected followers to some insidious purpose, as Conphas suspected, then a Nansur General suffering a crisis of faith should have proven an irresistible opportunity.

It did not. Martemus had attended at least a dozen of his evening sermons, or "imprompta," as they were calling them, before the man had even acknowledged him with a single word.

Of course, Conphas, who always faulted his executors before his assumptions, had held Martemus responsible. There could be no doubt Kellhus was Cishaurim, because he was connected to Skeaos, who was indubitably Cishaurim. There could be no doubt the man played the prophet, not after the incident with Saubon. And there could be no way the man knew knew that Martemus was bait, since Conphas had told no one of his plan other than Martemus. Therefore, that Martemus was bait, since Conphas had told no one of his plan other than Martemus. Therefore, Martemus Martemus had failed, even if Martemus was too obstinate to see this for himself. had failed, even if Martemus was too obstinate to see this for himself.

But this was merely one of innumerable petty injustices Conphas had foisted on him over the years. Even if Martemus had cared to take insult, which was unlikely, he was far too busy being afraid.

He wasn't quite sure when it happened, but at some point during the long march across Gedea, General Martemus, as eminently practical as he was, had ceased believing that Prince Kellhus played played the prophet. This didn't mean he thought the man the prophet. This didn't mean he thought the man was was in fact a prophet-Martemus remained practical in that respect-only that he no longer knew what he believed . . . in fact a prophet-Martemus remained practical in that respect-only that he no longer knew what he believed . . .

But soon he would, and the prospect terrified him. Martemus was also an intensely loyal man, and he treasured his position as Ikurei Conphas's aide-de-camp. He often thought he'd been born born to serve under the mercurial Exalt-General, to balance the man's undeniable brilliance with his sober, more dependable observations. to serve under the mercurial Exalt-General, to balance the man's undeniable brilliance with his sober, more dependable observations. The prodigy must be reminded of the practical The prodigy must be reminded of the practical, he would often think. No matter how delectable the spices, [missing] could not do without salt.

But if Kellhus was in fact . . . What happened to his loyalty then?

Martemus pondered this while sitting among the steaming thousands who'd gathered to hear Prince Kellhus's first sermon since the madness' reaching Shigek. Before him loomed ancient Xijoser, the Great Ziggurat a mountain of corniced and polished black stone so massive it seemed he should cover his face and fall to his belly. The luxuriant plains of the Sempis Delta swept out in either direction, embellished by lesser ziggurats, waterways, reed marshes, and endless rice paddies. The sun flamed white in desert skies.

Throughout the crowds, men and women talked and laughed. For a time Martemus watched the couple before him share a humble repast of onions and bread. Then he realized those sitting around him were taking care to avoid his look. His uniform and blue cloak probably frightened them, he thought, made him appear a caste-noble. He looked from neighbour to distracted neighbour, trying to think of something he might say to set them at ease. But he couldn't bring himself to utter the first word.

A profound loneliness struck him. He thought of Conphas once again.

Then he saw Prince Kellhus, small and distant, descending Xijoser's monumental stair. Martemus smiled, as though finding an old friend in a foreign market.

What will he say?

When he first started attending the imprompta, Martemus assumed the talks would be either heretical or easily dismissed. They were neither. Indeed, Prince Kellhus recited the words of the Old Prophets of Inri Sejenus as though they were his own. Nothing of what he said contradicted any of the innumerable sermons Martemus had heard in the course of his life-though those sermons often contradicted one another. It was as though the Prince pursued further truths, the unsuspected implications of what all orthodox Inrithi already believed.

To listen to him, it seemed, was to learn what one already knew without knowing.

The Prince of God, some called him. He-who-sheds-light-within. His white silk robes shining in the sunlight, Prince Kellhus paused on the ziggurat's lower steps and looked over the restless masses. There was something glorious about his aspect, as though he'd descended not from the heights but from the heavens. With a flutter of dread Martemus realized he never saw the man ascend ascend the ziggurat, nor even step from the ruin of the ancient godhouse upon its summit. He had just . . . noticed him. the ziggurat, nor even step from the ruin of the ancient godhouse upon its summit. He had just . . . noticed him.

The General cursed himself for a fool.

"The Prophet Angeshrael," Prince Kellhus called, "came down from his fast on Mount Eshki." The assembly fell absolutely silent, so much so that Martemus could hear the breeze buffet his ears. "Husyelt, the Tusk tells us, sent a hare to him, so he might eat at last. Angeshrael skinned the Hunter's gift and struck a fire so he might feast. When he had eaten and was content, sacred Husyelt, the Holy Stalker, joined him at his fire, for the Gods in those days had not left the world in the charge of Men. Angeshrael, recognizing the God as the God, fell immediately to his knees before the fire, not thinking where he would throw his face." The Prince suddenly grinned. "Like a young man on his wedding night, he erred in his eagerness . . ." Martemus laughed with a thousand others. Somehow the sun flashed brighter.

"And the God said, 'Why does our Prophet fall to his knees only? Are not Prophets Men like other Men? Should they not throw their faces to the earth?' To which Angeshrael replied, 'I find my fire before me.' And peerless Husyelt said, 'The fire burns across earth, and what fire consumes becomes earth. I am your God. Throw your face to the earth.'"

The Prince paused.

"So Angeshrael, the Tusk tells us, bowed his head into the flames into the flames."

Despite the close, humid air, Martemus's skin pimpled. How many times, especially as a child, had he stared into some fire, struck by the errant thought of plunging his face into the flames-if only to feel what a Prophet once felt?

Angeshrael. The Burnt Prophet. He lowered his face into fire! Fire! He lowered his face into fire! Fire!

"Like Angeshrael," the Prince continued, "we find ourselves kneeling before just such a fire . . ."

Martemus caught his breath. Heat flared through him, or so it seemed.

"Truth!" Prince Kellhus cried, as though calling out a name that every man recognized. "The fire of Truth. The Truth of who you are . . ."

Somehow his voice had divided, become a chorus.

"You are frail. You are alone. Those who would love you know you not. You lust for obscene things. You fear even your closest closest brother. You understand far less than you pretend . . ." brother. You understand far less than you pretend . . ."

"You-you!-are these things. Frail, alone, unknown, lusting, fearing, and uncomprehending. Even now now you can feel these truths burn. Even now"-he raised a hand as though to further quiet silent men-" you can feel these truths burn. Even now"-he raised a hand as though to further quiet silent men-"they consume you."

He lowered his hand. "But you do not throw your face to the earth. You do not . . ."

His glittering eyes fell upon Martemus, who felt his throat tighten, felt the small finishing-hammer of his heart tap-tap-tap tap-tap-tap blood to his face. blood to his face.

He sees through me. He witnesses . . .

"But why? why?" the Prince asked, his timbre bruised by an old and baffling pain. "In the anguish of this fire lies the God. And in the God lies redemption. Each Each of you holds the key to your own redemption. You of you holds the key to your own redemption. You already already kneel before it! But still you do not throw your face to the earth. You kneel before it! But still you do not throw your face to the earth. You are are frail. You frail. You are are alone. Those who love you alone. Those who love you know you not know you not. You lust for obscene obscene things. You fear even your closest things. You fear even your closest brother brother. And you understand far less less than you pretend!" than you pretend!"

Martemus grimaced. The words had drawn a pain from his bowels to the back of his throat and sent his thoughts reeling in giddy recognition of something at once familiar and estranged. Me . . . He speaks of me! Me . . . He speaks of me!

"Is there any among you who would deny deny this?" this?"

Silence. Somewhere, someone wept.

"But you do do deny this!" Prince Kellhus cried, like a lover confronted by an impossible infidelity. "All of you! You kneel, but you also deny this!" Prince Kellhus cried, like a lover confronted by an impossible infidelity. "All of you! You kneel, but you also cheat cheat-cheat the fire of your own heart! You give breath to lie after lie, clamour that this fire is not not the Truth. That you are the Truth. That you are strong strong. That you are not not alone. That those who love you do know you. That you lust alone. That those who love you do know you. That you lust not not for obscene things. That you fear for obscene things. That you fear not not your brother in any way. That you understand everything!" your brother in any way. That you understand everything!"

How many times had Martemus lied thus? Martemus the practical man. Martemus the realistic man. How could he be these things if he knew so well knew so well of what Prince Kellhus spoke? of what Prince Kellhus spoke?

"But in the secret moments-yes, the secret secret moments-these denials ring hollow, do they not? In the secret moments you glimpse the anguish of Truth. In the secret moments you see that your life has been a mummer's farce. And you weep! And you ask what is wrong! And you cry out, 'Why cannot I be strong?'" moments-these denials ring hollow, do they not? In the secret moments you glimpse the anguish of Truth. In the secret moments you see that your life has been a mummer's farce. And you weep! And you ask what is wrong! And you cry out, 'Why cannot I be strong?'"

He leapt down several steps.

"Why cannot I be strong?"

Martemus's throat ached!-ached as though he himself had bawled these words.

"Because," the Prince said softly, "you lie."

And Martemus thought madly: Skin and hair . . . He's just a man! Skin and hair . . . He's just a man!

"You are frail because you feign strength feign strength." The voice was disembodied now, and it whispered secretly into a thousand flushed ears. "You are alone because you lie ceaselessly you lie ceaselessly. Those who love you do not know you because you are a mummer are a mummer. You lust for obscene things because you deny that you lust that you lust. You fear your brother, because you fear what he sees what he sees. You understand little because to learn you must admit you know nothing you know nothing." How could a life be cupped into a single palm?

"Do you see the tragedy?" the Prince implored. "The scriptures bid us to be godlike, to be more more than what we are. And what are we? Frail men, with peevish hearts, envious hearts, choked by the shroud of our own lies. Men who than what we are. And what are we? Frail men, with peevish hearts, envious hearts, choked by the shroud of our own lies. Men who remain remain frail because they cannot frail because they cannot confess their frailty confess their frailty."

And this word, frail frail, seemed pitched down from the heavens, from the Outside, and for an instant, the man who'd spoken it was no longer a man but the earthly surface of something far greater. Frail . . . Frail . . . Spoken not from the lips of a man, but from somewhere else . . . And Martemus understood. Spoken not from the lips of a man, but from somewhere else . . . And Martemus understood. I sit in the presence of the God. I sit in the presence of the God. Horror and bliss. Horror and bliss.