The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3) (7 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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After Sarcellus’s death, over a dozen men of rank and privilege had simply vanished, leaving their clients astonished and delivering even the most fanatical of the Orthodox to the Warrior-Prophet. In the wake of the Padirajah’s overthrow, both Caraskand and the Holy War had been ransacked, but as far as Achamian knew, only two of the abominations had been found and … exorcized.
This … this is extraordinary, Akka! What you say … soon all the Three Seas will believe!
Either that or burn.
There was grim satisfaction in thinking of the dismay and incredulity that would soon greet Mandate embassies. For centuries they’d been a laughingstock. For centuries they’d endured all manner of scorn, even those insults that jnan reserved for the most wretched. But now … Vindication was a potent narcotic. It would swim in the veins of Mandate Schoolmen for some time.
Yes!
Nautzera exclaimed.
Which is why we mustn’t forget what’s important. The Consult is never so easily rooted out. They’ll try to murder this Anasûrimbor—there can be no doubt.
No doubt,
Achamian replied, though for some reason the thought of further assassination attempts hadn’t occurred to him.
Which means that first and foremost,
Nautzera continued,
you must do everything in your power to protect him. No harm must come to him!
The Warrior-Prophet has no need of my protection.
Nautzera paused.
Why do you call him that?
Because no other name seemed his equal. Not even Anasûrimbor. But something, a profound indecision perhaps, held him mute.
Achamian? Do you actually think the man’s a prophet?
I don’t know what I think … Too much has happened.
This is no time for sentimental foolishness!
Enough, Nautzera. You haven’t seen the man.
No … but I will.
What do you mean?
His brother Schoolmen coming here? The thought troubled Achamian somehow. The thought that others from the Mandate might witness his …
… humiliation.
But Nautzera ignored the question.
So what does our cousin School, the Scarlet Spires, make of all this?
There was a note of sarcastic hilarity in his tone, but it seemed forced, almost painfully so.
At Council, Eleäzaras looks like a man whose children have just been sold into slavery. He can’t even bring himself to look at me, let alone ask about the Consult. He’s heard of the ruin I wrought in Iothiah. I think he fears me.
He will come to you, Achamian. Sooner or later.
Let him come.
Every night the ledgers were opened, the debtors called to account. There would be amends.
There’s no room for vengeance here. You must treat with him as an equal, comport yourself as though you were never abducted, never plied…I understand your hunger for retribution—but the stakes! The stakes of this game outweigh all other considerations. Do you understand this?
What did understanding have to do with hatred?
I understand well enough, Nautzera.
And the Anasûrimbor—what do Eleäzaras and the others make of him?
They
want
him to be a fraud, I know that much. What they think of him, I don’t know.
You must make it clear to them that the Anasûrimbor is
ours,
Achamian. You must let them know that what happened at Iothiah is but a trifle compared with what will happen if they try to seize him.
The Warrior-Prophet cannot be seized. He’s … beyond that
. Achamian paused, struggled with his composure.
But he can be purchased.
Purchased? What do you mean?
He wants the Gnosis, Nautzera. He’s one of the Few. And if I deny him, I fear he might turn to the Scarlet Spires.
One of the Few? How long have you known this?
For some time …
And even
then
you said nothing! Achamian … Akka…I must know I can trust you with this matter!
As I trusted you on the matter of Inrau?
A long pause, fraught with guilt and accusation. In the blackness, it seemed to Achamian that he could see the boy looking to his teacher in fear and apprehension.
Unfortunate, to be sure,
Nautzera said.
But events have borne me out, wouldn’t you agree?
I will warn you just this once,
Achamian grated.
Do you understand?
How could he do this? How long must he wage two wars, one for the world, the other against himself?
But I must know I can trust you!
What would you have me say? You haven’t met the man! Until then, you can never know.
Know what? Know
what?
That he’s the world’s only hope. Mark me, Nautzera, he’s more than a mere sign, and he’ll be more than a mere sorcerer—far more!
Harness your passions! You must see him as a tool—a
Mandate
tool!—nothing more, nothing less. We must possess him!
And if the Gnosis is his price for “possession,” what then?
The Gnosis is
our
hammer. Ours! Only by submitting—
And the Spires? If Eleäzaras offers him the Anagogis?
Hesitation, both outraged and exasperated.
This is madness! A prophet who would pit School against School for sorcery’s sake? A Wizard-Prophet? A
Shaman?
This word forced a silence, one filled by the ethereal boiling that framed all such exchanges, as though the weight of the world inveighed against their impossibility. Nautzera was right: the circumstances were quite mad. But would he forgive Achamian the madness of the task before him? With polite words and diplomatic smiles Achamian had to court those who had
tortured
him. What was more, he was expected to woo and win a
prophet,
the man who had stolen from him his only love … Achamian beat at the fury that welled up through his heart. In Caraskand, twin tears broke from his sightless eyes.
Very well, then!
Nautzera cried, his tone disconcertingly desperate.
The others will have my hide for this … Give him the Lesser Cants—the denotaries and the like. Deceive him with dross into thinking you’ve traded our deepest secrets.
You still don’t understand, do you, Nautzera? The Warrior-Prophet
cannot be deceived!
All men can be deceived, Achamian. All men.
Did I say he was a “man”? You haven’t yet seen him! There’s no other like him, Nautzera. I tire of repeating this!
Nevertheless, you must yoke him. Our war depends upon it
. Everything
depends upon it!
You must believe me, Nautzera. This man is beyond our abilities to possess. He …
An image of Esmenet flashed through his thoughts, unbidden, beguiling.
He possesses.
The hills teemed with the herds of their enemy, and the Men of the Tusk rejoiced, for their hunger was like no other. The cows they butchered for the feast, the bulls they burned in offerings to flint-hearted Gilgaöl and the other Hundred Gods. They gorged themselves to the point of sickness, then gorged again. They drank until unconsciousness overcame them. Many could be found kneeling before the banners of the Circumfix, which the Judges had raised wherever men congregated. They cried out to the image; they cried out in disbelief. When bands of revellers passed one another in the darkness, they shouted, “We!
We
are the God’s fury!” in the argot of the camp. And they clasped arms, knowing they held their brothers, for together they had held their faces to the furnace. There were no more Orthodox, no more Zaudunyani.
They were Inrithi once again.
The Conriyans, using inks looted from Kianene scriptoriums, tattooed circles crossed with an X on their inner forearms. The Thunyeri, and the Tydonni after them, took knives drawn from the fire to their shoulders, where they cut representations of three Tusks—one for each great battle—scarring themselves in the manner of the Scylvendi. The Galeoth, the Ainoni—all adorned their bodies with some mark of their transformation. Only the Nansur refrained.
A band of Agmundrmen discovered the Padirajah’s standard in the hills, which they immediately brought to Saubon, who rewarded them with three hundred Kianene
akals
. In an impromptu ceremony at the Fama Palace, Prince Kellhus had the silk cut from the ash pole and laid before his chair. He planted his sandals upon the image, which may have been a lion or a tiger, and declared, “All their symbols, all the sacred marks of our foemen, you shall deliver to my feet!”
For two days the Fanim captives toiled across the battlefield, piling their dead kinsmen into great heaps outside Caraskand’s walls. Innumerable carrion birds—kites and jackdaws, storks and great desert vultures—harassed them, at times darkening the sky like locusts. Despite the bounty, they squabbled like gulls over fish.
The Men of the Tusk continued their revels, though many fell ill and a hundred or so actually died—from eating too much after starving for so long, the physician-priests said. Then, on the fourth day following the Battle of Tertae Fields, they made a great train of the captives, stripping them naked to make manifest their humiliation. Once assembled, the Fanim were encumbered with all the spoils of camp and field: caskets of gold and silver, Zeümi silks, arms of Nenciphon steel, unguents and oils from Cingulat. Then they were driven with whips and flails through the Gate of Horns, across the city to the Kalaul, where the greater part of the Holy War greeted them with jeers and exaltation.
By the score they were brought to the black tree, Umiaki, where the Warrior-Prophet sat upon a simple stool, awaiting their petitions. Those who fell to their knees and cursed Fane were led as dogs to the waiting slavers. Those who did not were cut down where they stood.
When all was finished and the sun leaned crimson against the dark hills, the Warrior-Prophet walked from his seat and knelt in the blood of his enemies. He bid his people come to him, and upon the forehead of each he sketched the mark of the Tusk in Fanim blood.
Even the most manly wept for wonder.
Esmenet is his …
Like all horrifying thoughts, this one possessed a will all its own. It snaked in and out of his awareness, sometimes constricting, sometimes lying still and cold. Though it seemed old and familiar, it possessed the urgency of things remembered too late. It was at once a screeching call to arms and a grievous admission of futility. He had not simply lost her, he had lost her to
him
.
It was as though his soul only had fingers for certain things, certain dimensions. And the fact of her betrayal was simply too great.

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