His sleep was fitful, haunted by dreams of Dunyain words and Dunyain deeds. You You, the abomination said, still still command the ears of the Great. command the ears of the Great. Serwe slumped in Sarcellus's arms, showering blood. Serwe slumped in Sarcellus's arms, showering blood. Remember the secret of battle-remember! Remember the secret of battle-remember!

Cnaiur woke to rain and whispers. The secret of battle . . . The ears of the Great. The secret of battle . . . The ears of the Great.

Not finding Proyas at his compound, he rode with all due haste to the Sapatishah's Palace on the Kneeling Heights, where the Prince's terrified steward had said he could be found. The rain had started to trail by the time he reached the first echelons of residences about the base of the heights. Momentary sunlight cast fingers of brilliance across the otherwise dark city. As he urged his famished mount upward, Cnaiur cast a look over his shoulder, saw the sun battle through clouds of mountainous black. From height to height, across the confusion of the Bowl all the way to the dark and hazy line of the Triamic Walls, pools of rainwater flashed white, like a thousand coins of silver.

He dismounted in the anarchy of the palace's outer campus. Every heartbeat, it seemed, saw another band of armed riders clack through the gates. With the exception of the Galeoth guardsmen and several near-skeletal Kianene slaves, everyone carried either the mark or the air of caste-nobility. Cnaiur recognized many from previous Councils, though for some reason, none dared to hail him. He followed the Inrithi into the shadows of the Entry Hall, where he fairly collided with a crimson-clad Gaidekki.

The Palatine halted, stared at him agog.

"Sweet Sejenus!" he exclaimed. "Are you well? Was there more fighting on the walls?"

Cnaiur looked down to his chest: red had soaked the white of his tunic almost to his iron-plated girdle.

"Your throat's been cut!" Gaidekki said wondrously.

"Where's Proyas?" Cnaiur snapped.

"With the other dead," the Palatine said darkly, gesturing to the files of men disappearing into the palace's frescoed inner sanctums.

Cnaiur found himself following a band of wild-tempered Thunyeri led by Yalgrota Sranchammer, his flaxen braids adorned with iron nails bent like tusks and the shrunken heads of heathen. At one point, the giant jerked his head about and glared at him. Cnaiur matched his gaze, his soul boiling with thoughts of murder.

"Ushurrutga!" the man snorted and turned away, smiling at the guttural laughter of his compatriots.

Cnaiur spat on the walls, then stared wildly about. Wherever he looked, it seemed, he saw men glance away. All of them! All of them! All of them! All of them!

Somewhere, he could hear the tribesmen of the Utemot whisper . . . Weeper . . . Weeper . . .

The vaulted corridor ended in bronze doors, which had been propped open with two busts kicked facedown onto the carpets. Old Sapatishah carved in diorite, Cnaiur imagined, or relics of the Nansur occupation. Through the doors, he found himself in a great chamber, shouldering his way through a crowd of milling caste-nobles. The air hummed with reverberating voices. Faggot weeper! Faggot weeper!

The room was circular, and far more ancient in construction than the greater palace-Kyranean or Shigeki, perhaps. A table carved of [garbled] that looked like white gypsum dominated the central floor, which was covered by a magnificent rug of copper and gold embroidery. Just beyond the rug's outer fringe, a series of concentric tiers rose in the fashion of amphitheatres, providing an unobstructed view of the tableau below. Constructed of monumental blocks, the encircling wall soared above the back tier, set with sconces and adorned with the distinctive streamer-like tapestries favoured by the Kianene. A pointed dome of corbelled stone loomed overhead, hanging, it seemed, without the luxury of mortar or vaults. A series of wells about its base provided light, diffuse and white, while high above the central table heathen banners swayed in unseen drafts.

Cnaiur found Proyas standing near the table, his head bent in concentration as he listened to a stocky man in blue and grey. The man's [missing] were soiled about the knees, and compared with the rakish frames of the men about him, he looked almost obscenely fat. Someone shouted from thetiers, and the man turned to the sound, revealing the five white lines that marred his unplaited beard. Cnaiur stared incredulously.

It was the sorcerer. The dead sorcerer . . .

What happened here?

"Proyas!" he shouted, for some reason loath to come any closer. "We must speak!"

The Conriyan Prince looked about, and upon locating him, scowled much as Gaidekki had. The sorcerer, however, continued speaking, and Cnaiur found himself waved away with a harried gesture.

"Proyas!" he barked, but the Prince spared him only a furious glance.

Fool! Cnaiur thought. The siege could be broken! He knew what they must do! Cnaiur thought. The siege could be broken! He knew what they must do!

The secret of battle. He remembered . . .

He found a spot on the tiers with the other Lesser Names and their retinues, and watched the Great Names settle into their usual bickering. The hunger in Caraskand had reached such straits that even the great among the Inrithi had been reduced to eating rats and drinking the blood of their horses. The leaders of the Holy War had grown hollow-cheeked and gaunt, and the hauberks of many, particularly those who'd been fat, hung loosely from their frames, so they resembled juveniles playing in their fathers' armour. They looked at once foolish and tragic, possessed of the shambling pageantry of dying rulers.

As Caraskand's titular king, Saubon sat in a large black-lacquered seat at the head of the table. He leaned forward, gripping the arms of his chair, as though preparing to exercise a pre-eminence no one else recognized. To his right reclined Conphas, who looked about with the lolling impatience of someone forced to treat lessers as equals. To his left sat Prince Skaiyelt's surviving brother, Hulwarga the Limper, who'd represented Thunyerus ever since Skaiyelt had succumbed to the hemoplexy. Next to Hulwarga sat Gothyelk, the grizzled Earl of Agansanor, his wiry beard as unkempt as usual, his combative look more menacing. To his left sat Proyas, his manner both wary and thoughtful. Though he spoke to the sorcerer, who sat on a smaller seat immediately next to him, his eyes continued to search the faces of those about the table. And lastly, positioned between Proyas and Conphas, sat the decorous Palatine of Antanamera, Chinjosa, whom according to rumour the Scarlet Spires had installed as interim King-Regent in the wake of Chepheramunni's demise-also to the hemoplexy.

"Where's Gotian?" Proyas demanded of the others.

"Perhaps," Ikurei Conphas said with droll sarcasm, "the Grandmaster learned it was a sorcerer you'd summoned us to hear. Shrial Knights, I fear, tend to be rather Shrial Shrial . . ." . . ."

Proyas called out to Sarcellus, who sat on the lowest tier, clad ankle to wrist in the white Shrial vestments he typically wore to Council. Bowing low to the Great Names, the Knight-Commander professed ignorance as to his Grandmaster's whereabouts. Cnaiur looked down at his right forearm while he spoke, not so much listening to as memorizing the hateful timbre of the man's voice. He watched the veins and scars ripple as he clenched and unclenched his fist.

When he blinked, he saw the knife gashing Serwe's throat, the shining, spilling red . . .

Cnaiur scarcely heard the procedural arguments that followed: something regarding the legalities of continuing without the Holy Shriah's representative. Instead, he watched Sarcellus. Ignoring the Great Names and their debate, the dog was engrossed in counsel with some other Shrial Knight. The spidery network of red lines still marred his sensuous face, though much fainter than when Cnaiur had last seen the man with Proyas and Conphas. His expression appeared calm, but his large brown eyes seemed troubled and distant, as though he pondered matters that rendered this spectacle irrelevant. What was it the Dunyain had said? Lie made flesh.

Cnaiur was hungry, very hungry-he hadn't eaten a true meal for several days now-and the gnawing in his belly lent a curious edge to everything he witnessed, as though his soul no longer had the luxury of fat thoughts and fat impressions. The taste of his horse's blood was fresh upon his lips. For a mad moment, he found himself wondering what Sarcellus's blood would taste like. Would it taste like lies? Did lies have a taste?

Everything since Serwe's murder seemed unclear, and no matter how hard Cnaiur tried, he could not separate his days from his nights.

Everything overflowed, spilled into everything else. Everything had been fouled-fouled! And the Dunyain wouldn't shut up!

And then this morning, for no reason whatsoever, he'd simply understood. He'd remembered the secret of battle . . . I told him! I showed him the I told him! I showed him the secret! secret!

And the cryptic words that Kellhus had spoken on the ruined heights of the Citadel became plain as lead. The hunt need not end! The hunt need not end!

He understood the Dunyain's plan-or part of it . . . If only Proyas would have listened!

Suddenly the shouting about the table trailed, as did the rumbling along the tiers. An astonished hush fell across the ancient chamber, and Cnaiur saw the sorcerer, Achamian, standing at Proyas's side, glaring at the others with the grim fearlessness of an exhausted man.

"Since my presence so offends you," he said in a loud clear voice, "I will not mince words. You have all made a ghastly mistake, a mistake which must must be undone, for the sake of the Holy War, and for the sake of the World." He paused to appraise their scowling faces. "You must free Anasurimbor Kellhus." be undone, for the sake of the Holy War, and for the sake of the World." He paused to appraise their scowling faces. "You must free Anasurimbor Kellhus."

Cries of outrage and reproach exploded from those about the table and those along the tiers alike. Cnaiur watched, riveted to his seat, to his martial posture. He did not, it seemed, need to speak to Proyas after all. "LISTEN to him!" the Conriyan Prince screeched over the warring voices. Astonished by the savagery of this outburst, the entire room seemed to catch its breath. But Cnaiur was already breathless. He seeks to free him! He seeks to free him!

But did this mean they also knew the Dunyain's plan? In the Councils of the Holy War, Proyas had always played the sober foil for the excessive passions of the other Great Names. To hear the man scream in this way was a dismaying thing. The other Great Names fell silent, like children chastised not by their father but by what they'd made their father do.

"This is no travesty," Proyas continued. "This is no joke meant to gall or offend. More, far more, than our lives depend on what decision we make here today. I ask you to decide with me, as does any man with arguments to make. But I demand-I demand!-that you listen before making that decision! And this demand, I think, is no real demand at all, since listening without bias, without bigotry, is simply what all wise men do."

Cnaiur glanced across the chamber, noted that Sarcellus watched the drama as intently as any of the others. He even angrily waved at his retinue to fall silent.

Standing before the great Inrithi lords, the sorcerer looked haggard and impoverished in his soiled gear, and he appeared hesitant, as though only now realizing how far he'd strayed from his element. But with his girth and unbroken health, he looked a king in the trappings of a beggar. The Men of the Tusk, on the other hand, looked like wraiths decked in the trappings of kings.

"You've asked," Achamian called out, "why the God punishes the Holy War. What cancer pollutes us? What disease of spirit has stirred the God's wrath against us? But there are many cancers. For the faithful, Schoolmen such as myself are one such cancer. But the Shriah himself has sanctioned our presence among you. So you looked elsewhere, and found the man many call the 'Warrior-Prophet,' and you asked yourself, 'What if this man is false? Would that not be enough for the God's anger to burn against us? A False Prophet?'" He paused, and Cnaiur could see that he swallowed behind pursed lips. "I haven't come to tell you whether Prince Kellhus is truly a Prophet, nor even whether he's a prince of anything at all. I've come, rather, to warn you of a different cancer . . . One that you've overlooked, though indeed some of you know of its presence. There are spies among us, my lords . . ."-a collective murmur momentarily filled the chamber-"abominations that wear false faces of skin."

The sorcerer bent beneath the table, hoisted a fouled sack of some kind. In a single motion, he unfurled it across the table. Something like silvery eels about a blackened cabbage rolled onto the polished surface, came to rest against an impossible reflection. A severed head?

Lie made flesh . . .

A cacophony of exclamations reverberated beneath the chamber's dome.

"-Deceit! Blasphemous deceit!-"

"-is madness! We cannot-"

"-but what could it-"

Surrounded by astonished cries and brandished fists, Cnaiur watched Sarcellus stand, then press his way through the clamour toward the exit. Once again, Cnaiur glimpsed the inflamed lines that marred the Knight-Commander's face . . . Suddenly he realized he'd seen the pattern before . . . But where? Where?

Anwurat . . . Serwe bloodied and screaming. Kellhus naked, his groin smeared red, his face jerking open like fingers about a coal . . . A Kellhus who was not Kellhus. Serwe bloodied and screaming. Kellhus naked, his groin smeared red, his face jerking open like fingers about a coal . . . A Kellhus who was not Kellhus.

Overcome by a trembling, wolfish hunger, Cnaiur stood and hurried to follow. At last he fathomed everything the Dunyain had said to him the day he was denounced by the Great Names-the day of Serwe's death. The memory of Kellhus's voice pierced the thunder of the assembled Inrithi . . .

Lie made flesh.

A name.

Sarcellus's name.

Sinerses fell to his knees just beyond the raised threshold of the entryway, then pressed his head to the faux-carpet carved into the stone. The Kianene, like most other peoples, considered certain thresholds sacred, but rather than anoint them on the appropriate days as did the Ainoni, they adorned them with elaborately carved renditions of reed-woven rugs. It was, Hanamanu Eleazaras had decided, a worthy custom. The passage from place to place, he thought, should be marked in stone. Notice needed to be served.

"Grandmaster!" Sinerses gasped, throwing back his head. "I bear word from Lord Chinjosa!"

Eleazaras had expected the man, but not his agitation. His skin crawling, he looked to his secretaries and ordered them from the room with a vague wave. Like most men of power in Caraskand, Eleazaras had found himself very interested in the specifics of his dwindling supplies.

Everything it seemed, had conspired against him these past months. Caraskand's slow starvation had reached such a pitch that even sorcerers-of-rank went hungry-the most desperate had started boiling the leather binding and vellum pages of those texts that had survived the desert. The most glorious School in the Three Seas had been reduced to eating their books! The Scarlet Spires suffered with the rest of the Holy War, so much so that they now discussed meeting with the Great Names and declaring that henceforth the Scarlet Spires would war openly with the Inrithi-something that had been unthinkable mere weeks ago.

Wagers beget wagers, each typically more desperate than the last. In order to preserve his first wager, Eleazaras now must make a second, one that would expose the Scarlet Spires to the deadly Trinkets of the Padirajah's Thesji Bowmen, who'd so decimated the Imperial Saik, the Emperor's own School, during the Jihads. And this, he knew, could very well weaken the Scarlet Spires beyond any hope of overcoming the Cishaurim.

Chorae! Accursed things. The Tears of the God cared nothing for those who brandished them, Inrithi or Fanim, so long as they weren't sorcerers. Apparently one didn't need to interpret the God correctly to wield Him.

Wager upon wager. Desperation upon desperation. The situation had become so dire, things had been stretched so tight, that any news, Eleazaras realized, could break the back of his School. The more pinched the note, the more the string could snap.

Even the words of this slave-soldier kneeling at his feet could signal their doom.

Eleazaras fought for his breath. "What have you learned, Captain?"

"Proyas has brought the Mandate Schoolman to the Council," the man said.

Eleazaras felt his skin pimple. Ever since hearing of their mission's destruction in Iothiah, he'd found himself dreading the Mandati's return . . .

"You mean Drusas Achamian?"

He's come to exact vengeance.

"Yes, Grandmaster. He's-"

"Has he come alone? Are there any others? any others?" Please, please . . . Please, please . . . Achamian on his own, they could easily manage. A corps of Mandate sorcerers, however, could prove ruinous. Too many had died already. Achamian on his own, they could easily manage. A corps of Mandate sorcerers, however, could prove ruinous. Too many had died already.

No more! We can afford to lose no more!

"No. He seems to be alone, but-"

"Does he bring charges against us? Does he malign our exalted School?"

"He speaks of skin-spies, Grandmaster! Skin-spies! Skin-spies!"

Eleazaras stared uncomprehending.

"He says they walk among us," Sinerses continued. "He says they're everywhere! everywhere! He even brought one of their heads in a sack-so hideous Master! That such a thing-but-but I forget myself! Lord Chinjosa himself sent me . . . He seeks instruction. The Mandate sorcerer is demanding the Great Names free the Warrior-Prophet . . ." He even brought one of their heads in a sack-so hideous Master! That such a thing-but-but I forget myself! Lord Chinjosa himself sent me . . . He seeks instruction. The Mandate sorcerer is demanding the Great Names free the Warrior-Prophet . . ."

Prince Kellhus? Eleazaras blinked, still struggling to make sense of the man's blather . . .

Yes! Yes! His friend! They were friends before . . . The Mandate fiend was his teacher.

"Free?" Eleazaras managed to say with some semblance of reserve. "Wh-what are his grounds?"

Sinerses's eyes bulged from his half-starved face. "The skin-spies skin-spies . . . He claims this Warrior-Prophet is the only one who can see them." . . . He claims this Warrior-Prophet is the only one who can see them."

The Warrior-Prophet. Since marching from the desert, they'd watched the man with growing trepidation-especially when it became apparent how many of their Javreh were secretly taking the Whelming and becoming Zaudunyani. When Ikurei Conphas had come to him promising to destroy the man, Eleazaras had commanded Chinjosa to support the Exalt-General in all ways. Though he still fretted over the possibility of war between the Orthodox and the Zaudunyani, he'd thought the matter of Anasurimbor Kellhus's fate, at least, had been sealed. "What do you mean?"

"He argues that since only this Prophet can see them, he must be released so that the Holy War might be cleansed. Only this way, he claims, will the God turn his anger from us."

As an old master at jnan, Eleazaras was loath to allow his true passions to surface in the presence of his slaves, but these past days . . . had been very hard. The face he showed Sinerses was bewildered-he seemed an old man who'd grown very afraid of the world.

"Muster as many men as you can," he said distantly. "Immediately!" Sinerses fled.

Spies . . . Everywhere spies! And if he couldn't find them . . . If he couldn't find them . . .

The Grandmaster of the Scarlet Spires would speak to this Warrior-Prophet-to this holy man who could see what was hidden in their midst. Throughout his life, Eleazaras, a sorcerer who could peer into the world's smokiest recesses, had wondered what it was the Holy thought they saw. Now he knew.

Malice.

It hungered, the thing called Sarcellus. For blood. For fucking things living and dead. But more than anything it hungered for consummation. All of it, from its anus to the sham it called its soul, was bent to the ends of its creators. Everything was twisted to the promise of climax, to the jet of hot salt.

But the Architects had been shrewd, so heartlessly astute, when they laid its foundations. So few things-the rarest of circumstances!-could deliver that release. Killing the woman, the Dunyain's wife, had been such a moment. The mere recollection was enough to make its phallus arch against its breeches, gasp like a fish . . .

And now that the Mandate sorcerer-accursed Chigra!-had returned seeking to deliver the Dunyain . . . The promise! The fury! It had known instantly what it must do. As it strode from the Sapatishah's Palace, the air swam with its yearning, the sun shimmered with its hate.

Although subtle beyond reason, the thing called Sarcellus walked a far simpler world than that walked by men. There was no war of competing passions, no need for discipline or denial. It lusted only to execute the will of its authors. In appeasing its hunger, it appeased the good.

So it had been forged. Such was the cunning of its manufacture.

The Warrior-Prophet must die. There were no interfering passions, no fear, no remorse, no competing lusts. It would kill Anasurimbor Kellhus before he could be saved, and in so doing . . .

Find ecstasy.

Cnaiur needed only to see the route Sarcellus took down the Kneeling Heights to know where the dog was headed. The man rode into the Bowl, which meant he rode to the temple-complex where Gotian and the Shrial Knights were stationed-and where the Dunyain and Serwe hung from black-limbed Umiaki.