Read The Warrior Prophet Online
Authors: R. Scott Bakker
The Warrior Prophet (5 page)
How could someone like him bear such a weight?
The solution, of course, was to share the burden—to tell the Mandate about Kellhus.
Before, Achamian had merely
feared
that Kellhus augured the resurrection of the No-God. He’d omitted him from his reports because he’d known exactly what Nautzera and the others would have done. They would have seized him, then, like jackals with a boiled bone, they would have gnawed and gnawed until he cracked. But the incident beneath the Andiamine Heights had … had …
feared
that Kellhus augured the resurrection of the No-God. He’d omitted him from his reports because he’d known exactly what Nautzera and the others would have done. They would have seized him, then, like jackals with a boiled bone, they would have gnawed and gnawed until he cracked. But the incident beneath the Andiamine Heights had … had …
Things had changed. Changed irrevocably.
For so many years the Consult had been little more than an empty posit, an oppressive abstraction. What was it Inrau had called them? A father’s sin … But now—
now!
—they were as real as a knife’s edge. And Achamian no longer feared that Kellhus augured the Apocalypse, he
knew
.
now!
—they were as real as a knife’s edge. And Achamian no longer feared that Kellhus augured the Apocalypse, he
knew
.
Knowing was so much worse.
So why continue concealing the man? An
Anasûrimbor
had returned. The Celmomian Prophecy had been fulfilled! Within the space of days, the Three Seas had assumed the same bloated dimensions as the world he suffered night after night. And yet he said nothing—
nothing!
Why? Some men, Achamian had observed, utterly refused to acknowledge things such as illness or infidelity, as though facts required acceptance to become real. Was this what he was doing? Did he think that keeping Kellhus a secret made the man less real somehow? That the end of the world could be prevented by covering his eyes?
Anasûrimbor
had returned. The Celmomian Prophecy had been fulfilled! Within the space of days, the Three Seas had assumed the same bloated dimensions as the world he suffered night after night. And yet he said nothing—
nothing!
Why? Some men, Achamian had observed, utterly refused to acknowledge things such as illness or infidelity, as though facts required acceptance to become real. Was this what he was doing? Did he think that keeping Kellhus a secret made the man less real somehow? That the end of the world could be prevented by covering his eyes?
It was too much. Too much. The Mandate simply
had
to know, no matter what the consequences.
had
to know, no matter what the consequences.
I must tell them … Tonight, I must tell them.
“Xinemus,” a familiar voice said from behind, “told me I’d find you with the baggage.”
“He did, did he?” Achamian replied, surprised by the levity of his tone.
Kellhus smiled down at him. “He said you preferred stepping in fresh shit over old.”
Achamian shrugged, did his best to purge the phantoms from the small corners of his expression. “Keeps my toes warm … Where’s your Scylvendi friend?”
“He rides with Proyas and Ingiaban.”
“Ah. So you’ve decided to slum with the likes of me.” He glanced down at the Northerner’s sandalled feet. “To the point of walking no less …” Caste-nobles didn’t march, they rode. Kellhus was a prince, though like Xinemus, he made it easy for others to forget his rank.
Kellhus winked. “I thought I’d let my ass ride me for a change.”
Achamian laughed, feeling as though he’d been holding his breath and could only now exhale. Since that first evening outside Momemn, Kellhus had made him feel this way—as though he could breathe easy. When he’d mentioned this to Xinemus, the Marshal had shrugged and said,
“Everyone farts, sooner or later.”
“Everyone farts, sooner or later.”
“Besides,” Kellhus continued, “you promised you’d instruct me.”
“I did, did I?”
“You did.”
Kellhus reached out and clasped the rope that swayed from his mule’s crude bridle. Achamian looked at him quizzically. “What are you doing?”
“I’m your student,” Kellhus said, checking the bindings on the mule’s baggage. “Surely in your youth you led your master’s mule.”
Achamian answered with a dubious smile.
Kellhus ran a hand along the trunk of the beast’s neck. “What’s his name?” he asked.
For some reason the banality of the question shocked Achamian—to the point of horror. No one—no man, anyway—had cared to ask before. Not even Xinemus.
Kellhus frowned at his hesitation. “What’s troubling you, Achamian?”
You …
He looked away, across the streaming queues of armed Inrithi. His ears both burned and roared.
He reads me like any scroll
.
He reads me like any scroll
.
“Is it so easy?” Achamian asked. “So easy to see?”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters,” he said, blinking tears and turning to face Kellhus once again.
So I weep!
something desolate within him cried.
So I weep!
So I weep!
something desolate within him cried.
So I weep!
“Ajencis,” he continued, “once wrote that all men are frauds. Some, the wise, fool only others. Others, the foolish, fool only themselves. And a rare few fool both others and themselves—they are the rulers of Men … But what about men like
me,
Kellhus? What about men who fool no one?”
me,
Kellhus? What about men who fool no one?”
And I call myself a spy!
Kellhus shrugged. “Perhaps they are less than fools and more than wise.”
“Perhaps,” Achamian replied, struggling to appear thoughtful.
“So what troubles you?”
You …
“Daybreak,” Achamian said, reaching out to scratch his mule’s snout. “His name is Daybreak.”
For a Mandate Schoolman, no name was more lucky.
Teaching always quickened something within Achamian. Like the black teas of Nilnamesh, it sometimes made his skin tingle and his soul race. There was the simple vanity of knowing, of course, the pride of seeing farther than another. And there was the joy of watching young eyes pop open in realization, of seeing someone
see
. To be a teacher was to be a student anew, to relive the intoxication of insight, and to be a prophet, to sketch the world down to its very foundation—not simply to tease sight from blindness, but to
demand
that another see.
see
. To be a teacher was to be a student anew, to relive the intoxication of insight, and to be a prophet, to sketch the world down to its very foundation—not simply to tease sight from blindness, but to
demand
that another see.
And then there was the
trust
that was the counterpart of this demand, so reckless that it terrified Achamian whenever he considered it. The madness of one man saying to another,
“Please, judge me …”
trust
that was the counterpart of this demand, so reckless that it terrified Achamian whenever he considered it. The madness of one man saying to another,
“Please, judge me …”
To be a teacher was to be a father.
But none of this was true of teaching Kellhus. Over the ensuing days, as the Conriyan host marched ever farther south, they walked together, discussing everything imaginable, from the flora and fauna of the Three Seas to the philosophers, poets, and kings of Near and Far Antiquity. Rather than follow any curriculum, which would have been impractical given the circumstances, Achamian adopted the Ajencian mode, and let Kellhus indulge his curiosity. He simply answered questions. And told stories.
Kellhus’s questions, however, were more than perceptive—so much so that Achamian’s respect for his intellect soon became awe. No matter what the issue, be it political, philosophical, or poetic, the Prince unerringly struck upon the matter’s heart. When Achamian outlined the positions of the great Kûniüric thinker, Ingoswitu, Kellhus, following query upon query, actually arrived at the criticisms of Ajencis, though he claimed to have never read the ancient Kyranean’s work. When Achamian described the Ceneian Empire’s disarray at the end of the third millennium, Kellhus pressed him with questions—many of which Achamian couldn’t answer—regarding trade, currency, and social structure. Within moments he was offering explanations and interpretations as fine as any Achamian had read.
“How?” Achamian blurted on one occasion.
“How what?” Kellhus replied.
“How is it that … that you see these things? No matter how deep I peer …”
“Ah,” Kellhus laughed. “You’re starting to sound like my father’s tutors.” He regarded Achamian in a manner that was at once submissive and strangely indulgent, as though he conceded something to an overbearing yet favoured son. The sunlight teased golden threads from his hair and beard. “It’s simply a gift I have,” he said. “Nothing more.”
But such a gift! It was more than what the ancients called
noschi
—genius. There was something about the
way
Kellhus thought, an elusive mobility Achamian had never before encountered. Something that made him seem, at times, a man from a different age.
noschi
—genius. There was something about the
way
Kellhus thought, an elusive mobility Achamian had never before encountered. Something that made him seem, at times, a man from a different age.
Most, by and large, were born narrow, and cared to see only that which flattered them. Almost without exception, they assumed their hatreds and yearnings to be correct, no matter what the contradictions, simply because they
felt
correct. Almost all men prized the familiar path over the true. That was the glory of the student, to step from the well-worn path and risk knowledge that oppressed, that horrified. Even still, Achamian, like all teachers, spent as much time uprooting prejudices as implanting truths. All souls were stubborn in the end.
felt
correct. Almost all men prized the familiar path over the true. That was the glory of the student, to step from the well-worn path and risk knowledge that oppressed, that horrified. Even still, Achamian, like all teachers, spent as much time uprooting prejudices as implanting truths. All souls were stubborn in the end.
Not so with Kellhus. Nothing was dismissed outright.
Any
possibility could be considered. It was as though his soul moved over something trackless. Only the truth led him to conclusions.
Any
possibility could be considered. It was as though his soul moved over something trackless. Only the truth led him to conclusions.
Question after question, all posed with precision, exploring this or that theme with gentle relentlessness, so thoroughly that Achamian was astonished by how much he himself knew. It was as though, prompted by Kellhus’s patient interrogation, he’d undertaken an expedition through a life he’d largely forgotten. Kellhus would ask about Memgowa, the antique Zeumi sage who had recently become the rage among literate Inrithi caste-nobles, and Achamian would remember reading his
Celestial Aphorisms
by candlelight at Xinemus’s coastal villa, savouring the exotic turn of his Zeumi sensibilities while listening to the wind scour the orchards outside the shuttered window, the plums thudding like iron spheres against the earth. Kellhus would question his interpretation of the Scholastic Wars, and Achamian would remember arguing with his own teacher, Simas, on the black parapets of Atyersus, thinking himself a prodigy, and cursing the inflexibility of old men. How he had hated those heights that day!
Celestial Aphorisms
by candlelight at Xinemus’s coastal villa, savouring the exotic turn of his Zeumi sensibilities while listening to the wind scour the orchards outside the shuttered window, the plums thudding like iron spheres against the earth. Kellhus would question his interpretation of the Scholastic Wars, and Achamian would remember arguing with his own teacher, Simas, on the black parapets of Atyersus, thinking himself a prodigy, and cursing the inflexibility of old men. How he had hated those heights that day!
Question after question. Nothing repeated. No ground covered twice. And with each answer, it seemed to Achamian that he exchanged guesses for true insight, and abstractions for recovered moments of his life. Kellhus, he realized, was a student who taught even as he learned, and Achamian had never known another like him. Not Inrau, not even Proyas. The more he answered the man, the more Kellhus seemed to hold the answer to his own life.
Who am I?
he would often think, listening to Kellhus’s melodious voice.
What do you see?
he would often think, listening to Kellhus’s melodious voice.
What do you see?
And then there were the questions regarding the Old Wars. Like most Mandate Schoolmen, Achamian found it easy to mention the Apocalypse and difficult to discuss it—very difficult. There was the pain of reliving the horror, of course. To speak of the Apocalypse was to wrestle heartbreak into words—an impossible task. And there was shame as well, as though he indulged some humiliating obsession. Too many men had laughed.
But with Kellhus the difficulty was compounded by the fact of the man’s blood. He was an
Anasûrimbor
. How does one describe the end of the world to its unwitting messenger? At times, Achamian feared he might gag on the irony. And always he would think:
My School! Why do I betray my School?
Anasûrimbor
. How does one describe the end of the world to its unwitting messenger? At times, Achamian feared he might gag on the irony. And always he would think:
My School! Why do I betray my School?
“Tell me of the No-God,” Kellhus said one afternoon.
As often happened when they crossed flat pasture, the long lines had broken from the road, and men fanned across the grasses. Some even doffed their sandals and boots and danced, as though finding second wind in unburdened feet. Achamian, who’d been laughing at their antics, was caught entirely off guard.
Now he shuddered. Not so very long ago that name—the No-God—had referred to something distant and dead.
“You hail from Atrithau,” Achamian replied, “and you want
me
to tell you of the No-God?”
me
to tell you of the No-God?”
Kellhus shrugged. “We read
The Sagas,
as you do. Our bards sing their innumerable lays, as do yours. But you … You’ve
seen
these things.”
The Sagas,
as you do. Our bards sing their innumerable lays, as do yours. But you … You’ve
seen
these things.”
No,
Achamian wanted to say,
Seswatha has seen these things. Seswatha.
Achamian wanted to say,
Seswatha has seen these things. Seswatha.
Instead he studied the distance, gathering his thoughts. He clutched his hands, which felt as light as balsa.
You’ve seen these things. You …
“He has, as you likely know, many names. The Men of ancient Kûniüri called him
Mog-Pharau,
from which we derive ‘No-God.’ In ancient Kyraneas, he was simply called
Tsurumah,
the ‘Hated One.’ The Nonmen of Ishoriol called him—with the peculiar poetry that belongs to all their names—
Cara-Sincurimoi,
the ‘Angel of Endless Hunger’ … He is well named. Never has the world known a greater evil … A greater peril.”
Mog-Pharau,
from which we derive ‘No-God.’ In ancient Kyraneas, he was simply called
Tsurumah,
the ‘Hated One.’ The Nonmen of Ishoriol called him—with the peculiar poetry that belongs to all their names—
Cara-Sincurimoi,
the ‘Angel of Endless Hunger’ … He is well named. Never has the world known a greater evil … A greater peril.”
Other books
Once Upon a Crime (The Sisters Grimm, Book 4) by Michael Buckley
Dead Water by Barbara Hambly
Adam and Eve and Pinch Me by Ruth Rendell
Her Heart's Captain by Elizabeth Mansfield
Season of Storms by Susanna Kearsley
A Sister's Wish by Shelley Shepard Gray
Humble Boy by Charlotte Jones
The Last Whisper of the Gods by Berardinelli, James
The Woodvilles: The Wars of the Roses and England's Most Infamous Family by Higginbotham, Susan
The Dawn of Human Culture by Richard G. Klein