The Darkness that Comes Before

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Bakker, R. Scott.
The darkness that comes before / R. Scott Bakker.
The prince of nothing ; bk. 1.
p. cm.
I. Title.
PR9199.4.B356 D’.

eISBN : 978-1-590-20385-9

http://us.penguingroup.com

To Sharron

before you, I never dared hope

Acknowledgments

A writer’s work is solitary, which is, paradoxically, why we owe so much to others. When the threads are few, they must be strong. In light of this, I wish to thank:

My partner, Sharron O’Brien, for making this the best book it could be, and for making me a better man than I am.

My brother, Bryan Bakker, for believing in my work before there was any work to believe in.

My friend, Roger Eichorn, for his exhaustive critiques, his penetrating insights, and for his writing, which continually reminds me how it should be done.

My agent, Chris Lotts, whose Kung Fu reigns supreme.

Michael Schellenberg, for seeing possibility in disaster, for forgiving me my foul mouth, and for saying “fair enough” no matter how bad my arguments. I would also like to thank Tracy Carns for seeing what I see, and everyone at Overlook for their warmth and dedication.

Nancy Proctor for her wonderful and indispensable diary of reader reactions.

Caitlin Sweet for her friendship and advice.

Nick Smith for opening the door, and Kyung Cho for guiding me through.

I would also like to thank everyone who critiqued my chapters on the old DROWW, as well as the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada for providing a working class kid with an education he could never have afforded otherwise.

Speaking of which, I need to thank my grade seven teacher, Mr. Allen, for waking me up.

I haven’t slept a wink since.

For those of you interested in further exploring the Three Seas, be sure to visit Wil and Jack’s message board at
www.three-seas.com
or
www.princeofnothing.com

I shall never tire of underlining a concise little fact which these superstitious people are loath to admit—namely, that a thought comes when “it” wants, not when “I” want . . .

—FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE,
BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL

Prologue

THE WASTES OF KÛNIÜRI

If it is only after that we understand what has come before, then we understand nothing. Thus we shall define the soul as follows: that which precedes everything.

—AJENCIS,
THE THIRD ANALYTIC OF MEN

2147 Year-of-the-Tusk, the Mountains of Demua

One cannot raise walls against what has been forgotten.

The citadel of Ishuäl succumbed during the height of the Apocalypse. But no army of inhuman Sranc had scaled its ramparts. No furnace-hearted dragon had pulled down its mighty gates. Ishuäl was the secret refuge of the Kûniüric High Kings, and no one, not even the No-God, could besiege a secret.

Months earlier, Anasûrimbor Ganrelka II, High King of Kûniüri, had fled to Ishuäl with the remnants of his household. From the walls, his sentries stared pensively across the dark forests below, their thoughts stricken by memories of burning cities and wailing multitudes. When the wind moaned, they gripped Ishuäl’s uncaring stone, reminded of Sranc horns. They traded breathless reassurances. Had they not eluded their pursuers? Were not the walls of Ishuäl strong? Where else might a man survive the end of the world?

The plague claimed the High King first, as was perhaps fitting: Ganrelka had only wept at Ishuäl, raged the way only an Emperor of nothing could rage. The following night the members of his household carried his bier down into the forests. They glimpsed the eyes of wolves reflected in the light of his pyre. They sang no dirges, intoned only a few numb prayers.

Before the morning winds could sweep his ashes skyward, the plague had struck two others: Ganrelka’s concubine and her daughter. As though pursuing his bloodline to its thinnest tincture, it assailed more and more members of his household. The sentries upon the walls became fewer, and though they still watched the mountainous horizon, they saw little. The cries of the dying crowded their thoughts with too much horror.

Soon even the sentries were no more. The five Knights of Trysë who’d rescued Ganrelka after the catastrophe on the Fields of Eleneöt lay motionless in their beds. The Grand Vizier, his golden robes stained bloody by his bowel, lay sprawled across his sorcerous texts. Ganrelka’s uncle, who’d led the heartbreaking assault on Golgotterath’s gates in the early days of the Apocalypse, hung from a rope in his chambers, slowly twisting in a draft. The Queen stared endlessly across festering sheets.

Of all those who had fled to Ishuäl, only Ganrelka’s bastard son and the Bardic Priest survived.

Terrified by the Bard’s strange manner and one white eye, the young boy hid, venturing out only when his hunger became unbearable. The old Bard continually searched for him, singing ancient songs of love and battle, but slurring the words in blasphemous ways. “Why won’t you show yourself, child?” he would cry as he reeled through the galleries. “Let me sing to you. Woo you with secret songs. Let me share the glory of what once was!”

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