"You were faithful."

She turned to him, her face crumpling. But it wasn't you! But it wasn't you!

"You were deceived. You were faithful."

He wiped at her tears, and she glimpsed blood on his cloth. They lay silently for a time, simply staring into each other's eyes. She felt her stinging skin soothed, her hurts fade into a strange buzzing ache. How long she wondered, could she stare into those eyes? How long could her heart bask in their all-knowing sight? Forever! Yes, forever. Forever! Yes, forever.

"The Scylvendi came," she finally said. "He tried to take me."

"I know," Kellhus replied. "I told him he could."

And somehow she knew this too.

But why?

He smiled glory.

"Because I knew you wouldn't let him."

How much have they learned?

In the lonely light of a single lantern, Kellhus talked to Serwe in cooing tones, matching her rhythms, heartbeat for heartbeat, breath for breath. With a patience no world-born man could fathom, he slowly lured her into the trance the Dunyain called the Whelming, to the place where voice could overwrite voice. Eliciting a long string of automatic responses, he reviewed her interrogation at the hands of the skin-spy. Then he gradually scraped the thing's assault from the parchment of her soul. Come morning, she would awaken puzzled by her cuts and bruises, nothing more. Come morning, she would awaken cleansed.

Afterward, he pressed through the raucous and celebratory alleys of the encampment, walking toward the Meneanor, toward the Scylvendi's seaside camp. He ignored all those who hailed him, adopting an air of brooding distraction that wasn't so far from the truth . . . Those who persisted shrank from his angry glare. He had one task remaining.

Of all his studies, none had been so deep or so perilous as the Scylvendi. There was the man's pride, which like Proyas and the other Great Names had made him exceedingly sensitive to relations of dominance. And there was his preternatural intelligence, his ability not only to grasp and penetrate but to reflect on the movements of his own soul-to ask after the origins of his own thoughts.

But more than anything there was his knowledge knowledge-his knowledge of the Dunyain. Moenghus had yielded too much truth in his effort to escape the Utemot those many years ago. He'd underestimated what Cnaiur would make of the fragments he'd revealed. Through his obsessive rehearsal of the events surrounding his father's death, the plainsman had come to many troubling conclusions. And now, of all world-born men, he alone knew the truth of the Dunyain. Of all world-born men, Cnaiur urs Skiotha was awake . . .

Which was why he had to die.

Almost to a man, the Men of Earwa adhered without thought or knowledge to the customs of their people. A Conriyan didn't shave because bare cheeks were effeminate. A Nansur didn't wear leggings because they were crude. A Tydonni didn't consort with dark-skinned peoples-or picks, as they called them-because they were polluted. For world-born men, such customs simply were were. They gave precious food to statues of dead stone. They kissed the knees of weaker men. They lived in terror of their wanton hearts. They each thought themselves the absolute measure of all others. They felt shame, disgust esteem, reverence . . .

And they never asked why.

Not so with Cnaiur. Where others adhered out of ignorance of the alternatives, he was continually forced to choose, and more importantly to affirm affirm one thought from the infinite field of possible thoughts, one act from the infinite field of possible acts. Why upbraid a wife for weeping. Why not strike her instead? Why not laugh, ignore, or console? Why not weep with her? What made one response more true than another? Was it one's blood? Was it another's words of reason? Was it one's God? Or was it, as Moenghus had claimed, one's one thought from the infinite field of possible thoughts, one act from the infinite field of possible acts. Why upbraid a wife for weeping. Why not strike her instead? Why not laugh, ignore, or console? Why not weep with her? What made one response more true than another? Was it one's blood? Was it another's words of reason? Was it one's God? Or was it, as Moenghus had claimed, one's goal? goal? Encircled by his people, born of them and destined to die among them Cnaiur had chosen his blood. For thirty years he tried to beat his thought and passions down the narrow tracks of the Utemot. But despite his brute persistence, despite his native gifts, his fellow tribesmen could always smell a wrongness about him. In the intercourse between men, every move was constrained by others' expectations; it was a kind of dance, and as such, it brooked no hesitation. The Utemot glimpsed his flickering doubts. They understood that he Encircled by his people, born of them and destined to die among them Cnaiur had chosen his blood. For thirty years he tried to beat his thought and passions down the narrow tracks of the Utemot. But despite his brute persistence, despite his native gifts, his fellow tribesmen could always smell a wrongness about him. In the intercourse between men, every move was constrained by others' expectations; it was a kind of dance, and as such, it brooked no hesitation. The Utemot glimpsed his flickering doubts. They understood that he tried tried, and they knew that whoever tried to be of the People couldn't be of the People.

So they punished him with whispers and guarded eyes-for more than a hundred seasons . . .

Thirty years of shame and denial. Thirty years of torment and terror. A lifetime of cannibal hatred . . . In the end, Cnaiur had cut a trail of his own making, a solitary track of madness and murder.

He had made blood his cleansing waters. If war was worship, then Cnaiur would be the most pious of the Scylvendi-not simply of of the People, but the greatest among them as well. He told himself his arms were his glory. He was Cnaiur urs Skiotha, the most violent of all men. the People, but the greatest among them as well. He told himself his arms were his glory. He was Cnaiur urs Skiotha, the most violent of all men.

And so he continued telling himself, even though his every swazond marked not his honour, but the death of Anasurimbor Moenghus. For what was madness, if not a kind of overpowering impatience impatience, a need to seize at once what the world denied? Moenghus not only had to die, he had to die now now-whether he was Moenghus or not.

In his fury, Cnaiur had made all the world his surrogate. And he avenged himself upon it.

Despite the accuracy of this analysis, it availed Kellhus little in his attempts to possess the Utemot Chieftain. Always the man's knowledge of the Dunyain barred his passage. For a time, Kellhus even considered the possibility that Cnaiur would never succumb.

Then they found Serwe-a surrogate of a different kind. From the very beginning, the Scylvendi had made her his track, his proof that he followed the ways of the People. Serwe was the erasure of Moenghus, whose presence Kellhus's resemblance so recalled. She was the incantation that would undo Moenghus's curse. And Cnaiur fell in love, not with her, but with the idea idea of loving her. Because if he loved her, he couldn't love Anasurimbor Moenghus . . . Or his son. of loving her. Because if he loved her, he couldn't love Anasurimbor Moenghus . . . Or his son.

What followed had been almost elementary.

Kellhus began seducing Serwe, knowing that he showed the barbarian his own seduction at the hands of Moenghus some thirty years previous. Soon, she became both the erasure and the repetition and the repetition of Cnaiur's heartbreaking hate. The plainsman began beating her, not simply to prove his Scylvendi contempt for women, but to better beat himself. He punished her for repeating of Cnaiur's heartbreaking hate. The plainsman began beating her, not simply to prove his Scylvendi contempt for women, but to better beat himself. He punished her for repeating his his sins, even though he at once loved her and despised love as weakness . . . sins, even though he at once loved her and despised love as weakness . . .

And so as Kellhus intended, contradiction piled upon contradiction. World-born men, he'd discovered, possessed a peculiar vulnerability to contradictions, particularly those that provoked conflicting passions. Nothing, it seemed, so anchored their hearts. Nothing so obsessed.

Once Cnaiur had utterly succumbed to the girl, Kellhus simply took her away, knowing the man would trade anything for her return, and that he would do so without even understanding why.

And now the usefulness of Cnaiur urs Skiotha was at an end. The monk climbed the sparsely grassed pate of a dune. The wind whipped through his hair, yanked his white samite robe about his waist. Before him, the Meneanor swept out to where the earth seemed to spill into the great void of the night. Immediately below, he saw the Scylvendi's simple round tent; it had been kicked down and trampled. No fire burned before it.

For a moment Kellhus thought he was too late, then he heard raw shouts on the wind, glimpsed a figure amid the heaving waves. He walked through the ruined camp to the water's edge, felt the crunch of shells and gravel beneath his sandaled feet. Moonlight silvered the rolling waters. Gulls cried out, hanging like kites in the night wind.

Kellhus watched the waves batter the Scylvendi's nude form.

"There are no tracks!" the man screamed, beating the surf with his fists. "Where are the-"

Without warning, he went rigid. Dark water swelled about him, engulfed him almost to his shoulders, then tumbled forward in clouds of crystalline foam. He turned his head, and Kellhus saw his weathered face, framed by long tails of sodden black hair. There was no expression.

Absolutely no expression.

Cnaiur began wading to shore; the surf broke about him, as insubstantial as smoke.

"I did everything you asked," he called over the surrounding thunder. "I shamed my father into battling you. I betrayed him, my tribe, my race . . ."

The water dropped from his massive chest to the concave plane of his stomach and groin. A wave crashed about his white thighs, tugged upon his long phallus. Kellhus filtered out the Meneanor's clamour, bound his every sense to the approaching barbarian. Steady pulse. Bloodless skin. Slack face . . .

Dead eyes.

And Kellhus realized: I cannot read this man. I cannot read this man.

"I followed you across the trackless Steppe."

The slap of bare feet across waterlogged sand. Cnaiur paused before him, his great frame glistening as though enamelled in the moonlight.

"I loved you."

Kellhus reached back, drew his Dunyain sword, levelled it before him. "Kneel," he said.

The Scylvendi fell to his knees. He held out his arms, trailing fingers through the sand. He bent his face back to the stars, exposing his throat. The Meneanor surged and seethed behind him.

Kellhus stood motionless above him.

What is this, Father? Pity?

He gazed at the abject Scylvendi warrior. From what darkness had this passion come?

"Strike!" the man cried. The great scarred body trembled in terror and exultation.

But still, Kellhus couldn't move.

"Kill me!" Cnaiur shouted to the bowl of the night. With uncanny swiftness he seized Kellhus's blade, jerked its point to his throat. "Kill! Kill!"

"No," Kellhus said. A wave crashed, and the wind whipped cold spray across them.

Leaning forward, he gently pried his blade from the man's heavy grip.

Cnaiur's arms snapped about either side of his head, wrenched him to the cool sand.

Kellhus remained motionless. Whether by luck or instinct, the barbarian had yanked him within a coin's edge of death. The merest twitch, Kellhus knew, could break his neck.

Cnaiur drew him close enough for him to feel his humid body heat.

"I loved you!" he both whispered and screamed. Then he thrust Kellhus backward, nearly tossing him back to his feet. Wary now, Kellhus rolled his chin to straighten a kink from his neck. Cnaiur stared at him in hope and horror . . .

Kellhus sheathed his sword.

The Scylvendi swayed backward, raising his fists to his head. He clutched handfuls of hair, wrested them from his scalp.

"But you said!" he raved, holding out bloody shocks of hair. "You said!" Kellhus watched, utterly unmoved. There were other uses. There were always other uses.

The thing called Sarcellus followed a narrow track along the embankments between fields. Despite the uncharacteristic humidity, it was a clear night, and the moon etched the surrounding clots of eucalyptus and sycamore in blue. He slowed as he passed the first ruins, and guided his mount between a long gallery of columns that jutted from a collection of grassy mounds. Beyond the columns, the Sempis lay as still as any lake, bearing the white moon and the shadowy line of the northern escarpments upon its mirror back. Sarcellus dismounted.

This place had once belonged to the ancient city of Girgilioth, but that mattered little to the thing called Sarcellus. He was a creature of the moment. What mattered was that it was a landmark, and landmarks were good places for spies to confer with their handlers-human or otherwise.

Sarcellus sat with his back against one of the columns, lost in thoughts both predatory and impenetrable. Cylindrical friezes of leopards standing like men soared across the moon-pale column above. The flutter of wings stirred him from his reverie and he looked up with his large brown eyes, reminded of different pillars.

A bird the size of a raven alighted upon his knee-a bird like any raven save for its white head.

White, human head.

The face twitched with bird-nervousness, regarded Sarcellus with tiny turquoise eyes.

"I smell blood," it said in a thin voice.

Sarcellus nodded. "The Scylvendi . . . He interrupted my interrogation of the girl."

"Your effectiveness?"

"Is unimpaired. I heal."

A tiny blink. "Good. Then what have you learned?"

"He's not Cishaurim." The thing had spoken this softly, as though to preserve tiny eardrums.

A cat-curious turn of the head. "Indeed," the Synthese said after a moment. "Then what is he?"

"Dunyain."

Tiny grimace. Small, glistening teeth, like grains of rice, flashed between its lips. "All games end with me, Gaortha. All games."

Sarcellus became very still. "I play no game. This man is Dunyain. That's what the Scylvendi calls him. She said there's no doubt."

"But there's no order called 'Dunyain' in Atrithau."

"No. But then we know that he's not a Prince of Atrithau."

The Old Name paused, as though to cycle large human thoughts through a small bird intellect.

"Perhaps," it eventually said, "it's no coincidence that this order takes its name from ancient Kuniuric. Perhaps this man's name, Anasurimbor, is not a clumsy Cishaurim lie after all. Perhaps he is is of the Old Seed." of the Old Seed."

"Could the Nonmen have trained him?"

"Perhaps . . . But we have spies-even in Ishterebinth. There is little that Nin-Ciljiras does that we don't know. Very little."

The small face cackled. It folded and unfolded its obsidian wings.

"No," it continued, its small brow furrowed, "this Dunyain is not a ward of the Nonmen . . . When the light of ancient Kuniuri was stamped out, many stubborn embers survived. The Mandate is just such an ember. Perhaps the Dunyain is another, just as stubborn . . ."

The blue eyes flickered-another blink. "But far more secretive."

Sarcellus said nothing. Speculation on such matters was beyond his warrant, beyond his making.

The tiny teeth clicked, once, twice, as though the Old Name tested their mettle.

"Yes . . . An ember ember . . . in the very shadow of Holy Golgotterath no less . . ." . . . in the very shadow of Holy Golgotterath no less . . ."

"He's told the woman the Holy War will be his."

"And he's not Cishaurim! Such a mystery, Gaortha! Who are the Dunyain? What do they want with the Holy War? And how, my pretty pretty child, can this man see through your face?"

"But we don't-"

"He sees enough enough . . . Yes, more than enough . . ." . . . Yes, more than enough . . ."

It bent its head to the right, blinked, then straightened.

"Indulge this Prince Kellhus for a while yet, Gaortha. With the Mandate sorcerer removed from the game he's become less of a threat. Indulge him . . . We must learn more about this 'Dunyain.'"

"But even now he grows in power. More and more these Men call him 'Warrior-Prophet' or 'Prince of God.' If he continues, he will become very difficult to remove."

"Warrior-Prophet . . ." The Synthese cackled. "Very cunning, this Dunyain. He leashes these fanatics with leather of their own making . . . What is his sermon, Gaortha? Does it in any way threaten the Holy War?"

"No. Not yet, Consult Father."