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Authors: R. Scott Bakker

BOOK: The Darkness that Comes Before
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There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Gothyelk, the old Earl of Agansanor, said, “I’ve ridden on many campaigns. My bones are old, but they’re my bones still, not the fire’s. And I’ve learned to trust the man who hates openly, and to fear only those who hate in secret. I’m satisfied with this man’s answer—though I like it little.” He turned to Conphas, his eyes narrow with distrust. “It’s a sad thing when a heathen schools us in honesty.”
Slowly, this assent was echoed by others.
“There’s wisdom in the heathen’s words,” Saubon shouted over the rumble. “We’d do well to listen!”
But Gotian remained troubled. Unlike the others, he was Nansur, and Kellhus could see that he shared many of the misapprehensions of the Emperor and the Exalt-General. News of Scylvendi atrocities were a daily fact of life for the Nansur.
Without warning, the Grandmaster sought his eyes through the crowd. Kellhus could see the catastrophic scenarios wheel through the man’s soul: the Holy War ruined, and all because of a decision made by
him
in the name of Maithanet.
“I have
dreamed
of this war,” Kellhus said suddenly. As the Inrithi yielded to his as yet unheard voice, he gathered them in his watery gaze. “I wouldn’t pretend to tell you the meaning of those dreams, for I don’t know.” He stood within the hallow circle of their God, he had said, but he possessed no presumption. He doubted the way upright men doubted and would brook no pretence in the search for truth. “But I do know this: the decision before you is clear.” A declaration of certainty fortified by the admission of uncertainty that prefaced it.
Those few things I do know,
he had said,
I know.
“Two men have asked you to make a concession. Prince Nersei Proyas has asked that you accept the stewardship of a Scylvendi heathen, while Ikurei Xerius has asked that you bind yourselves to the interests of the Empire. The question is simple: Which concession is greater?” The demonstration of wisdom and insight through clarification. Their recognition of this would cement their respect, prepare them for further recognitions, and convince them that his voice belonged to
reason
and not to his own mercenary concerns.
“On the one hand, we have an Emperor who willingly provisioned the Vulgar Holy War, even though he knew it was almost certain to be destroyed. On the other hand, we have a Chieftain who has spent the entirety of his life plundering and murdering the faithful.” He paused, smiling ruefully. “In my homeland, we call this a dilemma.”
Warm laughter rumbled through the garden. Only Xerius and Conphas did not smile. Kellhus had circumvented the prestige of the Exalt-General by fastening upon the Emperor, and he had depicted the problem of the Emperor’s credibility as equal to that of the Scylvendi’s—as only a just and equitable man would do. He had then sealed this equation with gentle wit, further securing their esteem and blurring comedic insight into the insight of truth.
“Now, I can vouch for the honour of Cnaiür urs Skiötha, but then who would vouch for me? So let’s assume that both men, Emperor and Chieftain, are equally untrustworthy. Given this, the answer lies in something you already know: we undertake the God’s work, but it’s dark and bloody
work
nonetheless. There is no fiercer labour than war.” He studied their faces, glancing at each as though he stood with him alone. They stood upon the brink, he could see, on the cusp of the conclusion reason itself had compelled. Even Xerius.
“Whether we accept the stewardship of the Emperor or the Chieftain,” he continued, “we concede the same trust, and we concede the same labour . . .”
Kellhus paused, looked to Gotian. He could see the inferences move of their own volition through the man’s soul.
“But with the Emperor,” Gotian said, nodding slowly, “we concede the
wages
of our labour as well.”
A murmur of profound agreement passed through the Men of the Tusk.
“What say you, Grandmaster?” Prince Saubon called. “Is the
Shriah
satisfied?”
“But this is more nonsense!” Ikurei Conphas cried. “How could the Emperor of an Inrithi nation be
as
untrustworthy as a heathen savage?!”
The Exalt-General had immediately seized upon the hinge of Kellhus’s argument. But his protest was too late.
Without speaking, Gotian opened the canister, revealing two small scrolls within. He hesitated, his stern face pale. He held the future of the Three Seas in his palms, and he knew it. Gingerly, as though he handled some holy relic, he opened the scroll with the black wax seal.
Turning to the silent Emperor, the Grandmaster of the Shrial Knights began reading, his voice resonant like a priest’s. “Ikurei Xerius III, Emperor of Nansur, by authority of the Tusk and the
Tractate,
and according to the ancient constitution of Temple and State, you are ordered to provision the instrument of our great—” The roar of the assembly reverberated through the Emperor’s garden. Gotian’s voice rumbled on, about Inri Sejenus, about faith, about misplaced intentions, but already the joyous Men of the Tusk had begun abandoning the garden, so eager were they to prepare for the march. Conphas stood dumbstruck on the step below the Emperor’s stool, glaring at the Scylvendi King-of-Tribes at his feet. Nearby, Proyas accepted the congratulations of his peers with dignified words and jubilant eyes.
But Kellhus studied the Emperor through the flurry of figures. He was spitting orders to one of his resplendent guards, orders that, Kellhus knew, had nothing to do with the Holy War. “Take Skeaös,” his lips hissed, “and then summon the others. The old wretch hides some
treason!
”
Kellhus watched the Eothic Guardsman motion to his comrades, then close on the faceless Counsel. They led him roughly away.
What would they discover?
There had been two contests in the Emperor’s garden.
The handsome face of Ikurei Xerius III then turned to him, as terrified as it was enraged.
He thinks I’m party to his Counsel’s treachery. He wishes to seize me but can think of no pretext.
Kellhus turned to Cnaiür, who stood stoically, studying the naked form of his kinsman chained beneath the Emperor’s feet. “We must leave quickly,” Kellhus said. “There has been too much truth here.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
 
THE ANDIAMINE HEIGHTS
 
. . . and that revelation murdered all that I once did know. Where once I asked of the God, “Who are you?” now I ask, “Who am I?”
—ANKHARLUS,
LETTER TO THE WHITE TEMPLE
 
 
The Emperor, the consensus seems to be, was an excessively suspicious man. Fear has many forms, but it is never so dangerous as when it is combined with power and perpetual uncertainty.
—DRUSAS ACHAMIAN,
COMPENDIUM OF THE FIRST HOLY WAR
 
Late Spring, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, Momemn
 
Emperor Ikurei Xerius III paced, wringing his hands. After the debacle in the garden he’d begun shaking uncontrollably. He could go no farther than his imperial apartments. Conphas and Gaenkelti, the Captain of his Eothic Guard, stood silently in the room’s centre, watching him. Xerius paused by a lacquered table, swallowed a deep draught of liquored anpoi. He smacked his lips and gasped.
“You have him?”
“Yes,” Gaenkelti replied. “He’s been taken to the galleries.”
“I must see him.”
“I advise against this, God-of-Men,” Gaenkelti replied carefully.
Xerius paused, stared hard at the massive Norsirai Captain. “Against? Is there sorcery here?”
“The Imperial Saik say no. But this man has been . . . trained.”
“What do you mean ‘trained’? Spare me your riddles, Gaenkelti! The Empire has been humiliated this day.
I’ve
been humiliated!”
“He was . . . hard to take. Three of my men are dead. Four more have broken limbs—”
“Surely you jest!” Conphas cried. “Was he armed?”
“No. I’ve never seen the like. If we hadn’t had extra guards assigned for the audience . . . As I said, he’s been trained.”
“You mean,” Xerius said, his face stricken by terror, “that during all this time, all these years, he could have
killed
. . . killed
me?
”
“But
how old
is Skeaös, Uncle?” Conphas asked. “How could this be? It
must
be sorcery.”
“The Saik swear it’s not,” Gaenkelti repeated.
“The
Saik!
” Xerius spat, turning for more anpoi. “Blasphemous rats. Scuttling around the palace. Plotting, always plotting against me. We need independent confirmation.” He took another deep drink, coughed. “Send for one of the other Schools . . . The Mysunsai,” he continued, his voice pinched.
“I’ve already done so, God-of-Men. But I believe the Saik in this instance.” Gaenkelti grasped the small, rune-covered sphere that rested against his breastplate—a Chorae, the bane of sorcerers. “I hung this before his face after he’d been subdued. There was no fear. There was nothing in that face.”
“Skeaös!”
Xerius cried to the engraved ceilings, reaching again for the anpoi. “Slavish, damnable, shuffling Skeaös! A spy? A trained assassin? He trembled whenever I addressed him directly—did you know this? Trembled like a fawn. And I’d say to myself: ‘The others call me a God, but Skeaös, ah
good
Skeaös, he
knows
I’m divine. Skeaös alone has submitted . . . ’ And all the while he dripped poison in my ear. Whetted my appetite with his tongue.
Gods of damnation!
I’ll see him skinned! I’ll wring truth from his broken frame! Blast him with agony!” With a roar Xerius heaved and overturned the table. Glass and gold crashed and clattered across the marble.
He stood silently, his chest heaving. The world buzzed around him, impenetrable, mocking. Everywhere the shadows clamoured. Great designs were afoot. The Gods themselves moved—
against him.
“What of the other, God-of-Men?” Gaenkelti dared ask. “The Atrithau Prince who led you to suspect Skeaös?”
Xerius turned to his Captain, his eyes still wild. “The Atrithau Prince,” he repeated, shuddering at the recollection of the man’s composed expression. A spy . . . and with a face that bespoke utter ease. Such confidence! And why not, when the Emperor’s own Prime Counsel was one of his own? But no more. He would visit him with terror soon enough.
“Watch him. Scrutinize him like no other.”
He turned to Conphas, studied him briefly. For once it seemed as though his godlike nephew was perturbed. The small satisfactions—he had to cling to these through the night to follow.
“Leave us for now, Captain,” he said, recovering himself. “I’m pleased by your conduct. See to it that Grandmaster Cememketri and Tokush are summoned to me immediately. I would speak to my sorcerers and my spies. And my augurs . . . Send Arithmeas as well.”
Gaenkelti knelt, touched his forehead to the carpeted floor, and withdrew.
Alone with his nephew, Xerius turned his back to him and walked to the open portico on the far side of the chamber. Outside it was dusk, and the Meneanor Sea heaved darkly against the grey horizon.
“I know your question,” he said to the figure behind him. “You wonder how much I’ve told to Skeaös. You wonder if he knows all that
you
know.”
“He was with you always, Uncle. Was he not?”
“I may be fooled, Nephew, but I am not a fool . . . But this is moot. We’ll know all that Skeaös knows soon enough. We will know whom to punish.”
“And the Holy War?” Conphas asked cautiously. “What of our Indenture?”
“Our own house, Nephew. First, our own house . . .”
Or so your grandmother would say.
Xerius turned his profile to Conphas, paused in thought. “Cememketri has told me that a Mandate sorcerer has joined the Holy War. Summon him . . . yourself.”
“Why? Mandate Schoolmen are fools.”
“Fools can be trusted precisely because they
are
fools. Their agendas rarely intersect with your own. These are great matters, Conphas. We must be certain.”
Conphas left him alone with the dark sea. One could see far from the summit of the Andiamine Heights, but never, it seemed, far enough. He would ply Cememketri, Grandmaster of the Imperial Saik, and Tokush, his Master of Spies. He would listen to them squabble with each other, learn nothing from them. And then he would go down to the galleries. See “good” Skeaös himself. Dole out the first wages of his transgression.

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