Authors: R. Scott Bakker

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BOOK: The Warrior Prophet

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Gifts from Mother—they underscored the treachery of gifts from those who were not one’s tributaries. Such gifts weren’t gifts at all, in fact. Such gifts always demanded exchange.

Xerius couldn’t remember when Istriya had started bringing these men and women to him—these surrogates. She had the eye of a whore, his mother—he would grant her that. She knew, unerringly, what would please him. “You are a venal witch, Mother,” he said, admiring the terrified girl. “Was there ever a son so fortunate as me?”

But Istriya said only, “Skeaös is dead.”

Xerius looked at her momentarily, then returned his attention to the slaves, who’d begun rubbing him with oil. “
Something
is dead,” he replied, suppressing a shudder. “We know not what.”

“And why wasn’t I told?”

“I knew you’d hear of it soon enough.” He sat upon the chair brought for him, and his body slaves began combing his hair with more oils, filing his nails. “You always do,” he added.

“The Cishaurim,” Istriya said after a pause.

“But of course.”

“Then they know. The Cishaurim know of your plans.”

“It’s of little consequence. They knew already.”

“Have you become such a vulgar fool, Xerius? I thought that after this you would be ready to reconsider.”

“Reconsider what, Mother?”

“This mad pact you have made with the heathen. What else?”

“Silence, Mother.” Xerius glanced nervously at the girl, but it was plain that she didn’t speak a word of Sheyic. “This isn’t to be uttered aloud. Ever again. Do you hear me?”

“But the
Cishaurim,
Xerius! Think of it! At your bosom all these years, wearing the face of
Skeaös!
The Emperor’s only confidant! That vile tongue clucking poison for counsel.
All these years,
Xerius! Sharing the hearth of your ambitions with an obscenity!”

Xerius had thought of this—had been able to think of little else these past days. At night he dreamed of faces—faces like fists. Of Gaenkelti, who had died so … absurdly.

And then there was the
question,
the question that struck with such force it never failed to jar him from the tedium of his routines.

Are there others? Others like it …

“You lecture the educated, Mother. You know that in all things there’s a balance to be struck. An exchange of vulnerabilities for advantages. You taught me this.”

But the Empress didn’t relent. The old bitch never relented.

“The Cishaurim have had your
heart
in their clutches, Xerius. Through
you
they have supped on the very marrow of the Empire. And you would let
this
—an offence like no other—go unpunished
now,
when the Gods have delivered to you the instrument of your vengeance? You’d still pull the Holy War up short? If you spare
Shimeh,
Xerius, you spare the Cishaurim.”

“Silence!”
His scream pealed throughout the chamber.

Istriya laughed fiercely. “My naked son,” she said. “My poor … naked … son.”

Xerius leapt to his feet, shouldered past the circle of his slaves, his look wounded, quizzical.

“This isn’t like you, Mother. You were never one to cower before damnation. Is it because you grow old, hmm? Tell me, what’s it like to stand upon the precipice? To feel your womb wither, to watch the eyes of your lovers grow shy with hidden disgust …”

He’d struck from impulse and found vanity—the only way he knew to injure his mother.

But there was no bruise in her reply. “There comes a time, Xerius, when you care nothing for your spectators. The spectacles of beauty are like the baubles of ceremony—for the young, the stupid. The act, Xerius. The act makes mere ornament of all things. You’ll see.”

“Then why the cosmetics, Mother? Why have your body slaves truss you up like an old whore to the feast?”

She looked at him blankly. “Such a monstrous son …” she whispered.

“As monstrous as his mother,” Xerius added, laughing cruelly. “Tell me … Now that your debauched life is nearly spent, are you filled with regret Mother?”

Istriya looked away, across the steaming bath waters. “Regret is inevitable, Xerius.”

These words struck him. “Perhaps … perhaps it is,” he replied, moved for some reason to sudden pity. There had been a time when he and his mother had been … close. But Istriya could be intimate with only those she possessed. She no longer possessed him.

The thought of this touched Xerius. To lose such a godlike son …

“Always these savage exchanges, eh, Mother? I
do
repent them. I would have you know that much.” He looked at her pensively, chewed his bottom lip. “But speak of Shimeh again and I will put your platitude to the test. You
will
regret … Do you understand this?”

“I understand, Xerius.”

There was malice in her eyes when she met his gaze, but Xerius ignored it. A concession, any concession, was a triumph when dealing with the Empress.

Xerius studied the young girl instead, her taut breasts upswept like swallow’s wings, her soft weave of pubic hair. Aroused, he held out his hand and she came to him, reluctantly. He led her to a nearby couch and reclined, stretched out before her. “Do you know what to do child?” he asked.

She opened her lithe legs, straddled him. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Trembling, she lowered upon his member …

Xerius gasped. It was like sinking into a warm, unbroken peach. If the world harboured obscene things like the Cishaurim, it harboured also such sweet fruits.

The old Empress turned to leave.

“Will you not stay, Mother?” Xerius called, his voice thick. “Watch your son enjoy this gift of yours?”

Istriya hesitated. “No, Xerius.”

“But you
will,
Mother. The Emperor is difficult to please. You must instruct her.”

There was a pause, filled only by the girl’s whimper.

“But certainly, my son,” Istriya said at length, and walked grandly over to the couch. The rigid girl flinched when she grasped her hand and drew it down to Xerius’s scrotum. “Gently, child,” she cooed. “Shushh. No weeping …”

Xerius groaned and arched into her, laughed when she chirped in pain. He gazed into his mother’s painted face suspended over the girl’s shoulder, whiter even than the porcelain, Galeoth skin, and he
burned
with that old, illicit thrill. He felt a child again, careless. All was as it should be. The Gods were auspicious indeed …

“Tell me, Xerius,” his mother said huskily, “how was it that you
discovered
Skeaös?”

CHAPTER THREE

ASGILIOCH

The proposition “I am the centre” need never be uttered. It is the assumption upon which all certainty and all doubt turns.

—AJENCIS,
THE THIRD ANALYTIC OF MEN

See your enemies content and your lovers melancholy.

—AINONI PROVERB

Early Summer, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, the fortress of Asgilioch

For the first time in living memory, an earthquake struck the Unaras Spur and the Inûnara Highlands. Hundreds of miles away the great bustling markets of Gielgath fell silent as wares swung on their hooks and mortar chipped down shivering walls. Mules kicked, their eyes rolling in fear. Dogs howled.

But in Asgilioch, the southern bulwark of the peoples of the Kyranae Plains since time immemorial, men were knocked to their knees, walls swayed like palm fronds, and the ancient citadel of Ruöm, which had survived the Kings of Shigek, the dragons of Tsurumah, and no less than three Fanim Jihads, collapsed in a mighty column of dust. As the survivors pulled bodies from the debris, they found themselves grieving the stone more than the flesh. “Hard-hearted Ruöm!” they cried out in disbelief. “The High Bull of Asgilioch has fallen!” For many in the Empire, Ruöm was a totem. Not since the days of Ingusharotep II, the ancient God-King of Shigek, had the citadel of Asgilioch been destroyed—the last time the South ever conquered the peoples of the Kyranae Plains.

The first Men of the Tusk, a troop of hard-riding Galeoth horsemen under Coithus Saubon’s nephew, Athjeäri, arrived four days following. To their dismay, they found Asgilioch in partial ruin, and her battered garrison convinced of the Holy War’s doom. Nersei Proyas and his Conriyans arrived the day after, to be followed two days after that by Ikurei Conphas and his Imperial Columns, as well as the Shrial Knights under Incheiri Gotian. Where Proyas had taken the Sogian Way along the southern coast, then marched cross-country through the Inûnara Highlands, Conphas and Gotian had taken the so-called “Forbidden Road”—built by the Nansur to allow the quick deployment of their Columns between the Fanim and Scylvendi frontiers. Of those Great Names who struck through the heart of the province, Coithus Saubon and his Galeoth were the first to arrive—almost a full week after Conphas. Gothyelk and his Tydonni appeared shortly after, followed by Skaiyelt and his grim Thunyeri.

Of the Ainoni nothing was known, save that from the outset their host, perhaps hampered by its ponderous size or by the Scarlet Spires and their vast baggage trains, had trouble making half the daily distance of the other contingents. So the greater portion of the Holy War made camp on the barren slopes beneath Asgilioch’s ramparts and waited, trading rumours and premonitions of disaster. To the sentries posted on Asgilioch’s walls, they looked like a migrating nation—like something from the Tusk.

When it became apparent that days, perhaps weeks, might pass before the Ainoni joined them, Nersei Proyas called a Council of the Great and Lesser Names. Given the size of the assembly, they were forced to gather in Asgilioch’s inner bailey, beneath the debris heaped about Ruöm’s broken foundations. The Great Names took their places about a salvaged trestle table, while the others, dressed in the finery of a dozen nations, sat across the rubble slopes, making an amphitheatre of the ruin. They fairly shimmered in the bright sunlight.

They spent most of the morning observing the proper rituals and sacrifices: this was the first full Council since marching from Momemn. The afternoon they spent quarrelling, for the most part debating whether Ruöm’s destruction portended catastrophe or nothing at all. Saubon claimed that the Holy War should break camp immediately, seize the passes of the Southron Gates, and march into Gedea. “This place oppresses us!” he cried, gesturing to the tiers of ruin. “We slumber and stir in the shadow of dread!” Ruöm, he insisted, was a Nansur superstition—a “shibboleth of the perfumed and the weak-hearted.” The longer the Holy War loitered beneath its ruin, the more it would become their superstition.

If many saw sense in these arguments, many others saw madness. Without the Scarlet Spires, Ikurei Conphas reminded the Galeoth Prince, the Holy War would be at the mercy of the Cishaurim. “According to my uncle’s spies, Skauras has assembled all the Grandees of Shigek and awaits us in Gedea. Who’s to say the Cishaurim aren’t waiting with him?” Proyas and his Scylvendi adviser, Cnaiür urs Skiötha, agreed: to march without the Ainoni was errant foolishness. But no amount of argument, it seemed, could sway Saubon and his confederates.

The sun smouldered over the western turrets, and they’d agreed on nothing save the obvious, such as dispatching riders to locate the Ainoni, or sending Athjeäri into Gedea to gather intelligence. Otherwise it seemed certain the Holy War, so recently reunited, would fracture once again. Proyas had fallen silent, his face buried in his hands. Only Conphas continued to argue with Saubon, if trading embittered insults could be called such.

Then Anasûrimbor Kellhus, the impoverished Prince of Atrithau, stood from his place among those watching and cried, “You mistake the meaning of what you see, all of you! The loss of Ruöm is no accident, but neither is it a curse!”

Saubon laughed, shouting, “Ruöm is a talisman against the heathen, is it not?”

“Yes,” the Prince of Atrithau replied. “So long as the citadel stood, we could turn back. But now … Don’t you see? Just beyond these mountains, men congregate in the tabernacles of the False Prophet. We stand upon the heathen’s shore. The heathen’s
shore!
”

He paused, looked at each Great Name in turn.

“Without Ruöm there’s no turning back … The God has burned our ships.”

Afterward it was decided: the Holy War would await the Ainoni and the Scarlet Spires.