The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3) (14 page)
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Authors: R. Scott Bakker
Tags: #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #General, #Fantasy
BOOK: The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3)
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The debate was a sham, the preserving of certain motions to advance a sense of continuity. Proyas had fairly shouted this, though he would never admit to it. Only one decision mattered.
All eyes had climbed to the Warrior-Prophet. Fierce before his peers, Saubon now seemed petulant—a king unmanned beneath the vaults of his own palace.
“Those who carry the war to Holy Shimeh,” the Warrior-Prophet said, his voice falling upon them like a knife-prick, “must do so freely …”
“No,” Saubon said hoarsely. “Please, no.”
At first this answer escaped Cnaiür, then he realized the Dûnyain had forced Saubon to choose his own damnation. He returned their choices to them only when he needed them to be accountable. Such maddening subtlety!
The Warrior-Prophet shook his leonine head. “There is nothing to be done.”
“Strip him of his throne,” Ikurei Conphas said abruptly. “Have him dragged into the streets.” He shrugged in the manner of long-suffering men. “Have his teeth beaten from his head.”
Astonished silence greeted his words. As the first among the Orthodox conspirators—and as Sarcellus’s confidant, no less—Conphas had become an outcast among the Great Names. In the Council preceding the battle, he’d contributed little, and when he did talk, it was with the awkwardness of one forced to speak an unfamiliar tongue. It seemed that his patience had at last been exhausted.
The Exalt-General looked to his astounded peers, snorted. He wore his blue mantle in the Nansur fashion, thrown up and across the stamped gold of his breastplate. Among all those assembled, he alone seemed unmarked, unscarred, as though mere days had passed since that fateful Council on the Andiamine Heights.
He turned to the Warrior-Prophet. “Such things lie within the scope of your power, do they not?”
“Insolence!” Gothyelk hissed. “You don’t know what you’re saying!”
“I assure you, old fool, I always know what I’m saying.”
“And what,” the Warrior-Prophet said, “what might that be?” Conphas managed a defiant smile. “That this—all of this—is a sham. That you”—he glanced again at the surrounding faces—“are a fraud.”
Whispers of hushed outrage rifled through the chamber. The Dûnyain merely smiled.
“But this is
not
what you say.”
not
what you say.”
It seemed that Conphas sensed, for perhaps the first time, the impossible dimensions of the Dûnyain’s authority over the men surrounding him. The Warrior-Prophet was more than their centre, as a general might be; he was their centre and their
ground
. These men had to trim not only their words and actions to conform to his authority, but their passions and hopes as well—the very movements of their souls now answered to the Warrior-Prophet.
ground
. These men had to trim not only their words and actions to conform to his authority, but their passions and hopes as well—the very movements of their souls now answered to the Warrior-Prophet.
“But,” Conphas said blankly, “how could another—”
“Another?” the Warrior-Prophet asked. “Don’t confuse me with any ‘other,’ Ikurei Conphas. I am here, with you.” He leaned forward in a way that made Cnaiür catch his breath. “I am here,
in you
.”
in you
.”
“In me,” the Exalt-General repeated.
He had tried to sound contemptuous, Cnaiür knew, but he sounded frightened instead.
“I realize,” the Dûnyain continued, “that you speak these words out of impatience, that you’ve chafed at the changes my presence has wrought in the Holy War. I know that the strength I’ve delivered to the Men of the Tusk threatens your designs. I know that you’re unsure as to how to proceed, that you don’t know whether to offer the same pretence of submission that you offer your uncle or to discredit me with open words. So now you deny me out of desperation, not to prove to others that I’m a fraud but to prove to yourself that
you are in fact my better
. For an obscene arrogance dwells within you, Ikurei Conphas, the belief that you are the measure of all other men. It is this lie that you seek to preserve at all costs.”
you are in fact my better
. For an obscene arrogance dwells within you, Ikurei Conphas, the belief that you are the measure of all other men. It is this lie that you seek to preserve at all costs.”
“Not true!” Conphas cried, bolting from his chair.
“No? Then tell me, Exalt-General, how many times have you thought yourself a
god
?”
god
?”
Conphas licked tight lips. “Never.”
The Warrior-Prophet nodded sceptically. “It is peculiar, isn’t it, the place you find yourself standing? To preserve your pride before me, you must endure the shame of lying. You must
conceal
who you are, in order to
prove
who you are. You must degrade yourself to remain proud. At this moment you see this more clearly than at any other time in your life, and yet still you refuse to relinquish, to yield to your tormented pride. You trade the anguish that breeds anguish for the anguish that breeds release. You would rather take pride in what you are not than take pride in
what you are
.”
conceal
who you are, in order to
prove
who you are. You must degrade yourself to remain proud. At this moment you see this more clearly than at any other time in your life, and yet still you refuse to relinquish, to yield to your tormented pride. You trade the anguish that breeds anguish for the anguish that breeds release. You would rather take pride in what you are not than take pride in
what you are
.”
“Silence!” Conphas screeched. “
No one
speaks to me this way!
No one!
”
No one
speaks to me this way!
No one!
”
“Shame is a stranger to you, Ikurei Conphas. An unbearable stranger.”
Wild-eyed, Conphas stared at the congregated faces. The sound of weeping filled the room, the weeping of other men who’d recognized themselves in the Warrior-Prophet’s words. Cnaiür watched and listened, his skin awash with dread, his heart pounding in his throat. Ordinarily, he would have taken deep satisfaction in the Exalt-General’s humiliation—but this was of a different order. Shame
itself
now reared above them, a beast that devoured all certainties, that wrapped cold coils about the fiercest souls.
itself
now reared above them, a beast that devoured all certainties, that wrapped cold coils about the fiercest souls.
How does he do this?
“Release,”
the Warrior-Prophet said, as though a word could be the world’s only unbarred door. “All I offer you, Ikurei Conphas, is
release
.”
the Warrior-Prophet said, as though a word could be the world’s only unbarred door. “All I offer you, Ikurei Conphas, is
release
.”
The Exalt-General stumbled back a step, and for a mad moment it almost seemed that his knees would buckle—that the Emperor’s nephew might
kneel
. But then a curious, almost blood-chilling laugh escaped his throat; a hidden madness flashed through the cracks of his mien.
kneel
. But then a curious, almost blood-chilling laugh escaped his throat; a hidden madness flashed through the cracks of his mien.
“
Listen
to him!” Gotian hissed plaintively. “Don’t you
see,
man? He’s the
Prophet
!”
Listen
to him!” Gotian hissed plaintively. “Don’t you
see,
man? He’s the
Prophet
!”
Conphas looked at the Grandmaster without comprehension. His beauty seemed all the more astonishing for the blankness of his expression.
“You are among friends here,” Proyas said. “Brothers.”
Gotian and Proyas. Other men and other words. These apparently broke the spell of the Dûnyain’s voice for Conphas as much as for Cnaiür.
“Brother?” he snarled. “I’m no brother to slaves! You think he
knows
you? That he speaks the hearts of men? He does not! Trust me, my ‘brothers, ’ we Ikurei know a thing or two about words and men. He plays you, and you know it not. He tacks ‘truth’ after ‘truth’ to your heart to better yoke the blood beating underneath! Gulls! Slaves! To think I once congratulated myself on your company!” He turned his back to the Great Names, began shouldering his way toward the crowded entrance.
knows
you? That he speaks the hearts of men? He does not! Trust me, my ‘brothers, ’ we Ikurei know a thing or two about words and men. He plays you, and you know it not. He tacks ‘truth’ after ‘truth’ to your heart to better yoke the blood beating underneath! Gulls! Slaves! To think I once congratulated myself on your company!” He turned his back to the Great Names, began shouldering his way toward the crowded entrance.
“Halt!”
the Dûnyain thundered.
the Dûnyain thundered.
Everyone, including Cnaiür, flinched. Conphas stumbled as though struck. Arms and hands clasped him, turned him, thrust him into the centre of the Warrior-Prophet’s attention.
“Kill him!”
someone to Cnaiür’s right cried.
someone to Cnaiür’s right cried.
“Apostate!”
pealed from the benches below.
pealed from the benches below.
Then the tiers fairly erupted in hoarse outrage. Fists pounded the shivering air. Conphas looked about him, more stunned than terrified, like a boy struck by a beloved uncle.
“Pride,”
the Warrior-Prophet said, silencing the chamber like a carpenter sweeping sawdust from his workbench. “Pride is a sickness … For most it’s a fever, a contagion goaded by the glories of others. But for some, like you, Ikurei Conphas, it is a defect carried from the womb. For your whole life you’ve wondered what it was that moved the men about you. Why would a father sell himself into slavery, when he need only strangle his children? Why would a young man take the Orders of the Tusk, exchange the luxuries of his station for a cubicle, authority for servitude to the Holy Shriah? Why do so many
give,
when it is so easy to take?
the Warrior-Prophet said, silencing the chamber like a carpenter sweeping sawdust from his workbench. “Pride is a sickness … For most it’s a fever, a contagion goaded by the glories of others. But for some, like you, Ikurei Conphas, it is a defect carried from the womb. For your whole life you’ve wondered what it was that moved the men about you. Why would a father sell himself into slavery, when he need only strangle his children? Why would a young man take the Orders of the Tusk, exchange the luxuries of his station for a cubicle, authority for servitude to the Holy Shriah? Why do so many
give,
when it is so easy to take?
“But you ask these questions because you know nothing of strength. For what is
strength
but the resolve to deny base inclinations—the determination to
sacrifice
in the name of one’s brothers? You, Ikurei Conphas, know only
weakness,
and because it takes strength to acknowledge weakness, you call your weakness strength. You betray your brother. You fresco your heart with flatteries. You, who are less than any man, say to yourself, ‘I am a god.’”
strength
but the resolve to deny base inclinations—the determination to
sacrifice
in the name of one’s brothers? You, Ikurei Conphas, know only
weakness,
and because it takes strength to acknowledge weakness, you call your weakness strength. You betray your brother. You fresco your heart with flatteries. You, who are less than any man, say to yourself, ‘I am a god.’”
The Exalt-General’s reply was little more than a whisper, but it resounded across every crook and span of the chamber.
“No …”
“No …”
Shame. Wutrim. Cnaiür had thought that his hatred of the Dûnyain was without measure, that it could be eclipsed by nothing, but the
shame
that filled this room, the bowel-loosening humiliation, knocked his rancour from him. For an instant he saw the
Warrior-Prophet
, not the Dûnyain, and he stood in awe of him. For an instant he found himself
inside
the man’s lies.
shame
that filled this room, the bowel-loosening humiliation, knocked his rancour from him. For an instant he saw the
Warrior-Prophet
, not the Dûnyain, and he stood in awe of him. For an instant he found himself
inside
the man’s lies.
“Your Columns,” Kellhus continued, “will disarm. You will then decamp for Joktha, where you will await passage back to the Nansurium. You are no longer a Man of the Tusk, Ikurei Conphas. In truth, you never were.”
The Exalt-General blinked in astonishment, as though
these words
had offended his person and not those preceding. The man, Cnaiür realized, did suffer some defect of the soul, just as the Dûnyain had said.
these words
had offended his person and not those preceding. The man, Cnaiür realized, did suffer some defect of the soul, just as the Dûnyain had said.
“Why?” the Exalt-General asked, recovering the force of his old voice. “Why should I accede to these demands?”
Kellhus stood, approached the man. “Because I
know,”
he said, stepping from the dais. For some reason, leaving the illumination of the braziers did nothing to diminish his miraculous bearing. He wore all light to his advantage. “I know the Emperor has struck treaties with the heathen…I know that you plan to betray the Holy War before Shimeh is regained.”
know,”
he said, stepping from the dais. For some reason, leaving the illumination of the braziers did nothing to diminish his miraculous bearing. He wore all light to his advantage. “I know the Emperor has struck treaties with the heathen…I know that you plan to betray the Holy War before Shimeh is regained.”
Conphas shrank before his aspect, retreated until caught in the arms of the faithful. Cnaiür recognized several among them—Gaidekki, Tuthorsa, Semper—their eyes bright with something more than hatred. For some reason, they looked a thousand years old, ancient with certitude.
“Because,” Kellhus continued, looming over him, “if you fail to comply, I
will
have you flayed and hung from the gates.” The tenor of his voice was such that the word “flay” and the skinless images it conjured seemed to linger.
will
have you flayed and hung from the gates.” The tenor of his voice was such that the word “flay” and the skinless images it conjured seemed to linger.
Conphas stared up in abject horror. His lower lip quivered, and his face broke into a soundless sob, only to stiffen, then break again. Cnaiür found himself clutching his breast. Why did his heart race so?
“Release him,” the Warrior-Prophet murmured, and the Exalt-General fled through the entranceway, shielding his face, waving his hands as though pelted with stones.
Again Cnaiür stood outside the Dûnyain’s machinations.
The accusations of treachery, he knew, were likely a contrivance, nothing more. What would the Emperor gain from abetting his ancestral enemies? Everything that had transpired, Cnaiür realized, had been premeditated.
Everything
. Every word, every look, every insight, had some
function
… But for what end? To make an example of Ikurei Conphas? To remove him? Why not simply cut his throat?
Everything
. Every word, every look, every insight, had some
function
… But for what end? To make an example of Ikurei Conphas? To remove him? Why not simply cut his throat?
No. Of all the Great Names, only Ikurei Conphas, the far-famed Lion of Kiyuth, possessed the force of character to retain the loyalty of his men. Kellhus would brook no competitors, but neither would he risk what remained of the Holy War in internecine conflict. That alone had preserved the Exalt-General’s life.
Kellhus had withdrawn, and the Men of the Tusk stood and stretched on the tiers, calling, laughing, wondering. And once more Cnaiür found himself watching them with two sets of eyes. The Inrithi, he knew, would see themselves forged and reforged, their temper improved for the want of impurities. But he knew otherwise …
The dry season had not ended. Perhaps it never would.
The Dûnyain simply culled the wilful from his herd.
Struggling to remain stationary in the crush of bodies, Proyas scanned the milling crowds once again, searching for the Scylvendi. Only moments earlier the Warrior-Prophet had withdrawn to thunderous acclaim. Now the Lords of the Holy War rumbled amongst themselves, exchanging exclamations of hilarity and outrage. There was much to discuss: the Ikurei plot uncovered, the Nansur Columns cast out of the Holy War, the Exalt-General humiliated—
debased
…
debased
…
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