Read The Warrior Prophet Online
Authors: R. Scott Bakker
The Warrior Prophet (39 page)
And so began what Achamian came to call “The Imprompta,” the nightly talks—almost sermons—Kellhus started giving to the Men of the Tusk. Not always, but often, he and Esmenet would join him, watch from nearby as he answered questions, discussed innumerable things. He told the two of them that their presence gave him heart, that they reminded him he was no more than those to whom he spoke. He confessed a growing conceit, a thought that terrified because he found it easier and easier to bear.
“So often when I speak,” he said, “I don’t recognize my voice.”
Achamian couldn’t remember ever clutching Esmenet’s hand so fiercely.
The numbers attending began to swell, not so fast that Achamian could notice a difference between consecutive nights, but fast enough that several dozen had become hundreds by the time the Holy War neared Shigek. A handful of more devoted listeners would assemble a small wooden platform, upon which they would lay a mat between two iron braziers. Kellhus would sit cross-legged, poised and immobile between the shining flames. Usually he would wear a plain yellow cassock—looted, Serwë had told Achamian, from the Sapatishah’s camp on the Plains of Mengedda. And somehow, whether by posture, bearing, or some trick of the light, he would look unearthly. Even glorious.
One evening, for reasons he couldn’t fully articulate, Achamian followed Kellhus and Esmenet with a candle, his writing accoutrements, and a sheaf of parchment. The previous night Kellhus had spoken of trust and betrayal, telling the story of a fur trapper he’d known in the wastes north of Atrithau, a man who’d remained faithful to his dead wife by fostering a heartbreaking devotion to his dogs. “When one love dies,” he’d said, “one must love another.” Esmenet had openly wept.
It just seemed that such words
had
to be written.
had
to be written.
With Esmenet, Achamian unrolled their mat to the left of Kellhus’s platform. Torches had been staked across the small field. The atmosphere was sociable, though hushed by something more than respect and not quite reverence. Achamian glimpsed more than a few familiar faces in the crowd. Several high-ranking caste-nobles were present, including a square-jawed man wearing a Nansur general’s blue cloak—General Sompas or Martemus, Achamian believed. Even Proyas sat in the dust with the others, though he seemed troubled. He looked away instead of acknowledging Achamian’s gaze.
Kellhus took his place between the potted fires. The resulting silence seemed to hiss. For several moments he seemed unbearably
real,
like the sole living man, something raw and tumid in a world of smoky apparitions.
real,
like the sole living man, something raw and tumid in a world of smoky apparitions.
He smiled, and Achamian’s chest, which had tightened like parched leather, relaxed to the point of feeling sodden. An unaccountable relief washed through him. Breathing deeply, he readied his quill, cursed as the first errant droplet of ink tapped onto the page.
“Akka,”
Esmenet chided.
Esmenet chided.
As always, Kellhus searched the faces of those before him, his eyes glinting with compassion. After a few heartbeats his gaze settled upon one man—a Conriyan knight by the look of his tunic and the heft of his gold rings. Otherwise he looked haggard, as though he still slept upon the Battleplain. His beard was knotted with forgotten plaits.
“What happened?” Kellhus asked.
The nameless knight smiled, but there was a strange and subtle incongruence in his expression, something like glimpsing the difference between white eyes and yellow teeth.
“Three days ago,” the man said, “our lord heard rumour of a village some miles to the west, so we rode out, hoping for plunder …”
Kellhus nodded. “And what did you find?”
“Nothing … I mean, no village. Our lord was wroth. He claims the others—”
“What did you find?”
The man blinked. Panic flashed from the stoic weariness of his expression. “A child,” he said hoarsely. “A dead child … We were following this trail, something worn by goatherds, I think, cutting across this hillside, and there was just this dead child, a girl, no more than five or six, lying in our path. Her throat had been cut …”
“What happened next?”
“Nothing … I mean, we simply ignored her, continued riding as though she were nothing more than discarded cloth … a-a scrap of leather in the dust,” he added, his voice breaking. He looked down to his callused palms.
“Guilt and shame wrack you by day,” Kellhus said, “the feeling that you’ve committed some mortal crime. Nightmares wrack you by night … She speaks to you.”
The man’s nod was almost comical in its desperation. He hadn’t, Achamian realized, the nerve for war.
“But why?” he cried. “I mean, how many dead have we seen?”
“But not all seeing,” Kellhus replied, “is
witness
.”
witness
.”
“I don’t understand …”
“Witness is the seeing that
testifies,
that judges so that it may be judged. You saw, and you judged. A trespass had been committed, an innocent had been murdered.
You saw this
.”
testifies,
that judges so that it may be judged. You saw, and you judged. A trespass had been committed, an innocent had been murdered.
You saw this
.”
“Yes!”
the man hissed. “A little girl. A
little girl!
”
the man hissed. “A little girl. A
little girl!
”
“And now you suffer.”
“But why?” he cried. “Why should I suffer? She’s not mine. She was
heathen!
”
heathen!
”
“Everywhere … Everywhere we’re surrounded by the blessed and the cursed, the sacred and the profane. But our hearts are like hands, they grow callous to the world. And yet, like our hands even the most callous heart will blister if overworked or chafed by something new. For some time we may feel the pinch, but we ignore it because we have so much work to do.” Kellhus had looked down into his right hand. Suddenly he balled it into a fist, raised it high. “And then one
strike,
with a hammer or a sword, and the blister breaks,
our heart is torn
. And then we suffer, for we feel the ache for the blessed, the sting of the cursed. We no longer see,
we witness
…”
strike,
with a hammer or a sword, and the blister breaks,
our heart is torn
. And then we suffer, for we feel the ache for the blessed, the sting of the cursed. We no longer see,
we witness
…”
His luminous eyes settled upon the nameless knight. Blue and wise.
“This is what has happened to you.”
“Yes … Yes! B-but what should I do?”
“Rejoice.”
“Rejoice? But I
suffer!
”
suffer!
”
“Yes,
rejoice!
The callused hand cannot feel the lover’s cheek. When we witness, we
testify,
and when we testify
we make ourselves responsible for what we see
. And that—
that
—is what it means to belong.”
rejoice!
The callused hand cannot feel the lover’s cheek. When we witness, we
testify,
and when we testify
we make ourselves responsible for what we see
. And that—
that
—is what it means to belong.”
Kellhus suddenly stood, leapt from the low platform, took two breathtaking steps into their midst. “Make no mistake,” he continued, and the air thrummed with the resonance of his voice. “This world
owns
you. You
belong,
whether you want to or not. Why do we suffer? Why do the wretched take their own lives? Because the world, no matter how cursed,
owns us
. Because
we belong
.
owns
you. You
belong,
whether you want to or not. Why do we suffer? Why do the wretched take their own lives? Because the world, no matter how cursed,
owns us
. Because
we belong
.
“Should we celebrate suffering?” a challenging voice called. From somewhere …
Prince Kellhus smiled, glancing into the darkness. “Then it’s no longer suffering, is it?”
The small congregation laughed.
“No,” Kellhus continued, “that’s not what I mean. Celebrate the
meaning
of suffering. Rejoice that you
belong
, not that you suffer. Remember what the Latter Prophet teaches us: glory comes in joy and sorrow. Joy and sorrow …”
meaning
of suffering. Rejoice that you
belong
, not that you suffer. Remember what the Latter Prophet teaches us: glory comes in joy and sorrow. Joy and sorrow …”
“I s-see see the wisdom of you-your words, Prince,” the nameless knight stammered. “I truly
see!
But …”
see!
But …”
And somehow, Achamian could
feel
his question …
feel
his question …
What is there to gain?
“I’m not asking you to see,” Kellhus said. “I’m asking you to witness.”
Blank face. Desolate eyes. The nameless knight blinked, and two tears silvered his cheek. Then he smiled, and nothing, it seemed, could be so glorious.
“To make myself …” His voice quavered, broke. “To m-make …”
“To be one with the world in which you dwell,” Kellhus said. “To make a covenant of your life.”
The world … You will gain the world.
Achamian looked down to his parchment, realized he’d stopped writing. He turned, looked helplessly at Esmenet.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I remember.”
Of course she did.
Esmenet. The second pillar of his peace, and by far the mightier of the two.
It seemed at once strange and fitting to find something almost conjugal in the midst of the Holy War. Each evening they would walk exhausted from Kellhus’s talks or from Xinemus’s fire, holding hands like young lovers, ruminating or bickering or laughing about the evening’s events. They would pick their way through the guy ropes, and Achamian would pull the canvas aside with mock gallantry. They would touch and brush as they disrobed, then hold each other in the dark—as though together they could be more than what they were.
A whore of word and a whore of body.
The greater world had receded into shadow. He thought of Inrau less and less over the days, and pondered the concerns of his life with Esmenet—and Kellhus—more and more. Even the threat of the Consult and the Second Apocalypse had become something banal and remote, like rumours of war among pale-skinned peoples. Seswatha’s Dreams still came as fierce as ever, but they dissolved in the softness of her touch, in the consolation of her voice. “Hush, Akka,” she would say, “it’s only a dream,” and like smoke, the images—straining, groaning, spitting, and shrieking—would twist into nothingness. For once in his life, Achamian was seized by the moment, by
now
… By the small hurt in her eyes when he said something careless. By the way her hand drifted to his knee of its own accord whenever they sat together. By the nights they lay naked in the tent, her head upon his chest and her dark hair fanned across his shoulder and neck, speaking of those things only they knew.
now
… By the small hurt in her eyes when he said something careless. By the way her hand drifted to his knee of its own accord whenever they sat together. By the nights they lay naked in the tent, her head upon his chest and her dark hair fanned across his shoulder and neck, speaking of those things only they knew.
“Everyone knows,” she said one night after making love.
They’d retired early, and they could hear the others: first mock protests and uproarious laughter, then utter quiet bound by the magic of Kellhus’s voice. The fire still burned, and they could see it, muted and blurred across the dark canvas.
“He’s a prophet,” she said.
Achamian felt something resembling panic. “What are you saying?”
She turned to study him. Her eyes seemed to glitter with their own light. “Only what you need to hear.”
“And why would I need to hear that?” What had she said?
“Because you think it. Because you fear it … But most of all, because you need it.”
We are damned,
her eyes said.
her eyes said.
“I’m not amused, Esmi.”
She frowned, but as though she’d noticed nothing more than a tear in one of her new Kianene silks. “How long has it been since you’ve contacted Atyersus? Weeks? Months?”
“What is it with—”
“You’re waiting, Akka. You’re waiting to see what he becomes.”
“Kellhus?”
She turned her face away, lowered her ear to his heart. “He’s a prophet.”
She knew him. When Achamian thought back, it seemed that she’d always known him. He’d even thought her a witch when they met for the first time, not only because of the ever-so-faint Mark of the charmed whore’s shell that she used as a contraceptive, but because she guessed he was a sorcerer before he uttered scarcely five words. From the very beginning, she seemed to have a talent for him. For Drusas Achamian.
It was strange, to be known—truly known. To be awaited rather than anticipated. To be accepted instead of believed. To be half another’s elaborate habits. To see oneself continually foreshadowed in another’s eyes.
And it was strange to know. Sometimes she laughed so hard she belched. And when disappointed, her eyes dimmed like candles starved of air. She liked the feel of knives between her toes. She loved to hold her hand slack and motionless while his cock hardened beneath. “I do nothing,” she would whisper, “and yet you rise to me.” She was frightened of horses. She fondled her left armpit when deep in thought. She did not hide her face when she cried. And she could say things of such beauty that sometimes Achamian thought his heart might stop for having listened.
Details. Simple enough in isolation, but terrifying and mysterious in their sum. A mystery that he
knew
…
knew
…
Was that not love? To know, to trust a mystery …
Once, on the night of Ishoiya, which Conriyans celebrated with copious amounts of that foul and flammable liquor, perrapta, Achamian asked Kellhus to describe the way he loved Serwë. Only he, Xinemus, and Kellhus remained awake. They were all drunk.
“Not the way you love Esmenet,” the Prince replied.
“And how is that? How do I love her?” He staggered to his feet, his arms askew. He swayed before the smoke and fire. “Like a fish loves the ocean? Like, like …”
“Like a drunk loves his cask,” Xinemus chortled. “Like my dog loves your leg!”
Achamian granted him that, but it was Kellhus’s answer he most wanted to hear. It was always Kellhus’s answer. “So, my Prince? How do I love Esmenet?”
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