The Darkness that Comes Before (46 page)

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Authors: R. Scott Bakker

BOOK: The Darkness that Comes Before
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“You don’t know? I’ve forgotten how long it’s been, old friend. I’ve much gossip to share.”
“Later,” Achamian said. “Tell me what happened at Paremti.”
“Proyas had Calmemunis whipped.”
“Whipped?” This concerned Achamian deeply. Had his old student changed so much? “For cowardice?”
As though he shared Achamian’s concern, Xinemus’s face darkened. “No. For impiety.”
“You jest. Proyas had a peer whipped for
impiety?
How far has his fanaticism gone, Zin?”
“Too far,” Xinemus said quickly, as though ashamed for his lord. “But for a brief time only. I was sorely disappointed in him, Akka. Heartbroken that the godlike child you and I had taught had grown to be a man of such . . . extremes.”
Proyas had been a godlike child. Over the four years he had spent as court tutor in the Conriyan capital of Aöknyssus, Achamian had fallen in love with the boy—even more than with his legendary mother. Sweet memories. Strolling through sunlit foyers and along murky garden paths, discussing history, logic, and mathematics, and answering a never-ending cataract of questions . . .
“Master Achamian? Where have all the dragons gone?”
“The dragons are within us, young Proyas. Within
you
.”
The knitted brow. The hands clenched in frustration. Yet another indirect answer from his tutor.
“So there are no more dragons in the world, Master Achamian?”
“You’re in the world, Proyas, are you not?”
Xinemus had been Proyas’s sword trainer at the same time, and it was through their periodic squabbles over the boy that they had come to respect each other. As much as Achamian loved the Prince, Xinemus—who nurtured the devotion he would need to serve the child as king—loved Proyas more. So much so that when Xinemus glimpsed the strength of the teacher in the pupil, he invited Achamian to his villa on the Meneanor Sea.
“You’ve made a child wise,” Xinemus had said, attempting to explain the extraordinary offer. Very rarely did caste nobles host sorcerers.
“And you’ve made him dangerous,” Achamian had replied.
They had found their friendship somewhere in the laughter that had followed.
“Fanatic for a time?” Achamian now asked. “Does that mean he’s regained his senses?”
Xinemus grimaced, absently scratched the side of his nose. “Somewhat. The Holy War and his acquaintance with Maithanet have rekindled his zeal, but he’s wiser now. More patient. More tolerant of weakness.”
“Your lessons, I imagine. What did you do?”
“I beat him until he was bloody.”
Achamian laughed.
“I’m quite serious, Akka. After Paremti I left the court in disgust. Wintered in Attrempus. He came to me, alone—”
“To beg forgiveness?”
Xinemus grimaced. “One would hope so, but no. He travelled all that way to upbraid me.” The Marshal shook his head and smiled. Achamian knew why: even as a child Proyas had been given to endearing excesses. Travelling alone two hundred miles simply to deliver a rebuke was something only Proyas would do.
“He accused me of abandoning him in his hour of need. Calmemunis and his crew had brought charges against him, both to the ecclesiastical courts and to the King, and for a while things went sour, though he was never in any real danger.”
“Of course you know he was only seeking your approval, Zin,” Achamian said, suppressing a twinge of envy. “He’s always worshipped you, you know—in his way . . . So what did you do?”
“I listened to him rant with what patience I could muster. Then I led him into the postern bailey and threw him a training sword. ‘You wish to punish me,’ I said, ‘so
punish
me.’” Xinemus smiled as Achamian roared with laughter.
“He was tenacious as a whelp, Akka, but he’s absolutely relentless now. He refused to yield. I’d knock him senseless, and he’d drag himself back up, soaked by blood and snow. Each time I’d say: ‘I’ve trained you as best as I know how, my Prince. Yet still you lose.’ Then he’d rush me again, yelling like a madman.
“The following morning he said nothing, avoided me like pestilence. But come afternoon he sought me out, his face bruised like apples. ‘I understand,’ he said. I asked him, ‘Understand what?’ ‘Your lesson,’ he replied. ‘I understand your lesson.’ I said, ‘Oh, and what lesson was that?’ And he said: ‘That I’ve forgotten how to learn. That life is the God’s lesson, and that even if we undertake to teach impious men, we must be ready to learn from them as well.’”
Achamian stared at his friend with candid awe. “Is that what you’d intended to teach him?”
Xinemus frowned and shook his head. “No. I just wanted to pound the arrogant piss out of him. But it sounded good to me, so I simply said, ‘Indeed, my Lord Prince, indeed,’ then nodded the sage way you do when you agree with someone you think isn’t as clever as you.”
Achamian smiled and nodded sagely.
Xinemus growled with laughter. “Either way, Proyas has refrained from repeating Paremti ever since. And when he returned to Aöknyssus, he offered to compensate Calmemunis lash for lash, in his father’s court.”
“And Calmemunis actually accepted? Surely the man’s not that foolish.”
“Oh, the oaf accepted,
whipped
Nersei Proyas before the eyes of King and court. And that’s the
real
reason why Calmemunis never forgave Proyas. He lashed away his last shreds of honour. When he realized this, he claimed that Proyas had tricked him.”
“So you think that’s why Calmemunis insisted on leading the Vulgar Holy War?”
Xinemus nodded sadly. “That’s why he, and a hundred thousand others, are dead.”
Great catastrophes were often wrought by such small things. The intolerance of a prince and the stupidity of an arrogant lord. But where were these facts? Did they lie somewhere across those distant fields of dead?
One hundred thousand dead . . .
Achamian glanced down at the benjuka plate. For some reason he saw it instantly—his move. As though surprised that Achamian still wanted to play, Xinemus watched as he repositioned an apparently irrelevant piece.
One hundred thousand dead—was this also a move of some kind?
“Cunning devil,” Xinemus hissed, studying the plate. After a moment’s hesitation, he made his countermove.
A mistake, Achamian realized. In one thoughtless instant, Xinemus had utterly undone his earlier advantage.
Why do I see it so clearly now?
Benjuka. Two men. Two different ends. One outcome. Who determined that outcome? The victor? But true victories were so rare—as rare across the benjuka plate as they were in life. More often the result would be uneasy compromise. But a compromise shaped by whom? By no one?
Soon enough, Achamian realized, the Holy War proper would march from Momemn, cross the fertile province of Anserca, and then pass into hostile lands. All this time the prospect of the campaign had seemed an abstraction, a mere move that could not, as yet, be countered.
But this isn’t a game. The Holy War will march, and no matter what, thousands upon thousands will die.
So many men. So many competing ends. And only one outcome. What would that outcome be? And who would shape it?
No one?
The thought terrified Achamian. The Holy War suddenly seemed a mad wager, a casting of number-sticks against an utterly black future. The lives of innumerable thousands—including Achamian—for distant Shimeh. How could any prize be worth such a wager?
“A hundred thousand dead,” Xinemus continued, apparently unaware of the seriousness of his position on the plate. “A handful of them men I knew. And to make matters worse, the Emperor has been quick to exploit our dismay. He bids us to learn from the Vulgar Holy War’s mistake.”
“Which was?” Achamian asked, still distracted by the plate.
“The folly of marching without Ikurei Conphas.”
Achamian looked up. “But I thought the Emperor provisioned Calmemunis and the others, made it possible for them to march in the first place.”
“Indeed. But then he’s promised to provision any who sign his accursed Indenture.”
“So Calmemunis and the others
did
sign . . .” There had been uncertainty about this in Sumna.
“Why not? Men like him care nothing for their word. Why not promise to return all conquered lands to the Empire when your promise means nothing?”
“But certainly,” Achamian pressed, “Calmemunis and the others must have seen the Emperor’s plan. Ikurei Xerius knows full well that the Great Names will yield nothing to him. The Indenture is simply a pretext, something to prevent Shrial Censure when he orders Conphas to retake the Holy War’s conquests.”
“Ah, but you forget why Calmemunis marched in the first place, Akka. He didn’t march for Shrial Remission or for the glory of the Latter Prophet—or even to carve out a kingdom of his own, for that matter. No. Calmemunis possessed the heart of a thief. He marched to deny Proyas any glory.”
Arrested by a sudden thought, Achamian paused to study his friend. “But you, Zin . . . You
do
march for the Latter Prophet. How do all these vendettas and agendas make you feel?”
For a moment, Xinemus seemed taken aback. “You’re right, of course,” he said slowly. “I
should
be outraged. But I guess I expected this to happen. To be honest, I worry more about what
Proyas
will think.”
“And why’s that?”
“Certainly the news of the disaster will appall him. But all this score-settling and politicking . . .” Xinemus hesitated, as though silently rehearsing something long thought but never spoken. “I was among the first to arrive here, Akka, sent by Proyas to coordinate all those Conriyans who followed. I’ve been part of the Holy War since the first of the pavilions were pitched beneath Momemn’s walls. I know that the bulk of those who rumble around us are pious men. Good men—no matter what nation they hail from. And all of them have heard of Nersei Proyas and the respect Maithanet bears him. All of them, even other Great Names such as Gothyelk or Saubon, are prepared to follow his lead. So much of what happens in this game with the Emperor will depend on how Proyas responds . . .”
“And Proyas is often impractical,” Achamian concluded. “You fear that this game with the Emperor will provoke Proyas the Judge, rather than Proyas the Tactician.”
“Precisely. As it stands the Emperor holds the Holy War hostage. He refuses to provision us beyond our daily needs unless we condescend to sign his Indenture. Of course, Maithanet can command him to provision the Holy War on pain of Shrial Censure, but now it seems that even
he
hesitates. The destruction of the Vulgar Holy War has convinced him that we’re doomed unless we march with Ikurei Conphas. The Kianene have bared their teeth, and faith alone, it seems, won’t be enough to overcome them. Who better to pilot us through those shoals than the great Exalt-General who has crushed the
Scylvendi?
But not even a Shriah as powerful as Maithanet can force an Emperor to send his only heir against the heathen. And of course, once again, the Emperor will not send Conphas unless the Great Names sign his Indenture.”
“Remind me,” Achamian said wryly, “never to cross paths with the Emperor.”
“He’s a fiend,” Xinemus spat. “A cunning fiend. And unless Proyas is able to outmanoeuvre him, all of us will be spilling blood for Ikurei Xerius III rather than Inri Sejenus.”
For some reason, the Latter Prophet’s name reminded Achamian of the chill. He stared numbly at the silver-and-onyx geometries of the benjuka plate. He leaned forward, clutched the small sea-rounded stone he’d used to replace the missing piece, then tossed it across the glaring dust beyond their canopy. The game suddenly seemed childish.
“So you concede?” Xinemus asked. He sounded disappointed; he still thought he would win.
“I’ve no hope,” Achamian replied, thinking not of benjuka but of Proyas. The Prince would arrive a man besieged, and Achamian had to further harass him, tell him even his gilded Shriah played some dark game.
 
Despite the winter gloom, it was warm in the pavilion. Esmenet sat up, hugging her knees in her arms. Who would have thought riding could make legs so sore?

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