The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3) (52 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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But how could he have known?
No. No. Demons hadn’t been part of the bargain, Saik or no Saik.
“We’ve come too far,” the weather-beaten Captain repeated, peering through the darkness that bloated through the towering cedars. “The Holy War must be near … either them or the Fanim.”
According to Agnaras, they had passed out of Xerash some time ago.
Holy Amoteu,
he found himself thinking.
The Sacred Land
…
His men pretended not to notice his strange laugh. Ouras, however, snorted in disgust. The Schoolman—one of those sallow, impudent types—had stopped disguising his contempt several days ago.
He pressed on, though he could sense their growing impatience. Swaying to the pitch of their saddles, they passed between the great low-forking trunks, riding in loose formation. Cones crunched beneath hooves. Resin bittered the air. The sun fell, and with every passing moment the depths of the forest became less distinct, as though black gauze had been strung between the trees. This, Sompas decided, had to be the Forest of Hebanah, as it was called in the days of
The Tractate
. But since Temple, for him, had been little more than an excuse to carouse and politick, he remembered little of what the scripture had to say of the place.
Without warning, and quite without permission, Captain Agnaras called a halt. They had come to a clearing of sorts, a broad expanse beneath the bowers of an ancient cedar more massive than any the General had ever seen. Weary and wordless, his cavalrymen dismounted and set about their assigned tasks. Not one dared look at him.
The horses were attended to, the fires kindled, and the tents pitched. Soon the darkness was near absolute, and smoke pillared the clearing, winding high into the heart of the sheltering cedar. Sitting upon one of the humped roots, the General could only watch, idly pinching the hem of his blue mantle.
Very little was said.
When the sorcerer slipped away to relieve himself, Sompas found himself joining him. He was not quite willing things to happen anymore—they just … happened.
I have no choice!
They stood side by side amid some scrub just outside the circle of firelight.
“This has been a disaster,” the Schoolman snapped, watching him in the indirect way of urinating men. “An absolute disaster. You can be assured, General, that all this will find its way to official parch—”
It had quite possessed a soul of its own. Rising and falling with nary a glimmer.
Such a naughty knife.
Sompas cleaned it on the twitching man’s leggings, then joined his men, his glorious Kidruhil, about the fire. Them he could trust to understand—enough of them, anyway. But a sorcerer?
Please.
He had no choice. It simply
had
to happen.
It wasn’t just his own skin at stake, it was his entire
line
. He couldn’t allow his ill fortune—for it was nothing more—to blot out all of House Biaxi. Conphas
would do it
—without scruple or compunction. His only hope, Sompas had realized, was to see him dead. His only hope was to find the Holy War, to throw himself on the mercy of the Warrior-Prophet … to let him know.
And who knew? With the accursed Ikurei wiped out, perhaps a Biaxi might find his way to the Mantle. An Emperor conspiring against his faith with the
Fanim
? The more Sompas had considered it, the more it seemed that honour and righteousness bound him to this course. He had no choice …
Surprised at his own calm, Sompas joined Agnaras, who sat alone at the officers’ fire. The man seemed to work hard not to look at him.
“Where’s Ouras?” Sompas asked, as though annoyed at a generally acknowledged fool.
“Who knows?” the Captain replied. “In the woods, shitting …”
Who cares?
his tone said. There was relief in that.
Sitting on his camp stool, the General clutched his hands together before the flames lest the hard-boiled soldier see them shake. Agnaras was a Threesie in the classic mould. He understood weakness, which was far more dangerous than simply holding it in contempt—for Sompas, anyway. The General glanced at the other, larger fire, where the others congregated, and a number of looks clicked instantly away. They were too silent, and their faces, etched in the kindling firelight, were far too blank. Suddenly he could
feel
it. They were
waiting
…
For an opportunity to cut his throat.
Sompas returned his gaze to the fire, thought of Ouras lying crumpled in the undergrowth mere lengths away. He would have to pick his moment carefully … and his words.
Or perhaps he should just slip away …
“Who guards the perimeter?” he asked Agnaras, making his decision even as he spoke.
Yes-yes-slip-away-run-run—
Shouts brought him and Agnaras to their feet.
“There’s something in the tre—”
“I hear it! I hear—”
“Shut up!”
the Captain roared. “All of you!” He held his hands out to either side, as though literally holding their voices down. The fires seemed to cackle. A coal popped. Sompas jumped.
Weapons drawn, they stood listening for a dreadful moment, peering into the canopy but seeing only the limbs that raftered air immediately above them—those painted by firelight. The smoke seemed to roll up into oblivion.
Then they heard it: a rasp from the blackness above. There was a small rain of grit, then bark twirled across the clearing.
“Sweet Sejenus!” one of the cavalrymen gasped, only to be silenced by barks of anger.
There was a sound, like that of a little boy pissing across leather. A sizzling hiss drew their attention to the main fire. It seemed all their eyes focused upon it at once: a thread of blood unwinding across the flames …
Followed by a plummeting shadow. Fiery wood and coals exploded outward. Smoke billowed. Men cried out in the sudden twilight, stumbled back. Some frantically beat at sparks on cloaks and clothing. Sompas could only stare at Ouras, bent backward over the heaped fire, broken and bleeding.
The horses screamed and reared beneath the trees, little more than dancing shadows in the greater black. Agnaras bawled out orders—
But she had already dropped into their midst, falling like rope.
All Sompas could do was stagger backward. He had no choice …
The Captain fell first, tripping to his knees, coughing, gagging, as if trying to dislodge a chicken bone. Two more followed, clutching wounds that glittered black. Sompas could scarce see her longsword, it moved so fast.
Blonde hair whisked like silk in the gloom, chasing a pale face of impossible beauty. And the General realized he
recognized
her … the Prince of Atrithau’s woman. The one whose corpse had been hung with the man in Caraskand.
She had come down from her tree.
The Kidruhil retreated before her whirling figure, flailing with their blades. She leapt after them, catching a man’s throat like an orange on the tip of her sword. Howling out of the darkness, the Scylvendi barrelled into their flank, hewing them with great sweeping strokes. Men fell in gouts.
Then it was over, save for a gagging that might have been a shriek.
Shirtless, slicked in sweat, the Scylvendi turned to him and spat, a thing of scars and cuts that would be scars. Despite his prodigious size, he seemed scarecrow thin, like something starved of far more than food. His eyes glinted from beneath his battered brow.
His stance wide, the barbarian stood before Sompas while the beautiful woman circled behind. From nowhere, it seemed, a third figure leapt from the blackness beyond the fires, landing in a crouch to the Scylvendi’s left. A man Sompas did not recognize.
A shudder seized the Nansur General, and he found himself, absurdly, thankful he had relieved his bladder just moments earlier. He hadn’t even drawn his sword.
“She saw you murder the other,” the Scylvendi said, wiping spattered blood into a smear across his cheek. “Now she wants to fuck.”
A warm hand snaked along the back of his neck, pressed against his cheek.
That night Biaxi Sompas learned that there were rules for everything, including what could and could not happen to one’s own body. These, he discovered, were the most sacred rules of all.
Once, in the screaming, snarling misery of it all, he thought of his wives and children burning.
But only once.
Spring, 4112 Year-of-the-Tusk, Shimeh
In the dawning light, the Judges led great trains of the faithful to bathe in the River Jeshimal. Many beat their own backs with branches, an impromptu rite of penance. Parties of mounted knights watched over the worshippers, wary of marauders from the city, whose white turrets loomed in the near distance. But the black gates remained shut, and no heathen dared molest them.
Their hair wet and their eyes bright, most returned to the encampment singing, certain they had been cleansed. But some were unnerved, for the many-eyed walls seemed to mock them. The Tatokar Walls, they called them, though few knew the significance of the name.
Along with Kyudea, her ruined sister to the northwest, Shimeh had been the ancestral seat of the Amoti Kings. In the time of Inri Sejenus, the city was far smaller, encompassing only the heights to the east of the Jeshimal. By the time Triamis I declared Inrithism the official faith of the Ceneian Empire, the city had doubled in size, swollen by the influx of pilgrims and markets. But unlike Caraskand, which was at once a strategic caravan entrepot and exposed to the unruly tribes of the Carathay, the Aspect-Emperors saw no need to raise walls about the greater city; after all, the entire Three Seas lay under Cenei’s heavy but prosperous hand. Even in the turbulent days following the Empire’s collapse, during Amoteu’s brief and contentious independence, no defences—save the Heterine Wall about the Sacred Heights—were constructed.
It was Surmante Xatantius I, the warlike Nansur Emperor famous for his endless wars against Nilnamesh, who first walled the outer city, taking ancient representations of Mehtsonc’s many-towered fortifications as his model. The white-glazed tile was added centuries later by the Cishaurim under Tatokar I: apparently the High Heresiarch disapproved of Xatantius’s quarries. The towering eyes were the responsibility of Tatokar’s successor, the famed poet Hahkti ab Sibban. When a visiting Ainoni dignitary asked him for an explanation, he reportedly said they were to remind the idolaters that “the Solitary God does not blink”—to shame them, in effect. Even then, the silting of Shimeh’s harbour had forced Inrithi pilgrims to enter the city via her gates.
Origins aside, the eyes became the subject of ceaseless debate among the Men of the Tusk. Sometimes they seemed to gaze with bland curiosity, and at others to glare in a kind of entranced fury. The longer the Inrithi pondered them, the more Shimeh took on the aura of a living thing, until she seemed some great and unfathomable beast, like a vast, ramshackle crab sunning onshore after crawling up from the deep. It made the prospect of assaulting the city … uncertain.
Who knew what living things might do?
Where there had been many voices, many wills, now there was but one. With the Logos he had sown, and now with the Logos he would reap.

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