The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3) (49 page)

Read The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3) Online

Authors: R. Scott Bakker

Tags: #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #General, #Fantasy

BOOK: The Thousandfold Thought (The Prince of Nothing, Book 3)
9.6Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Kellhus held her shaking in their bed.
“I do love you!” Esmenet cried. “I do!”
Shouts still echoed through the corridors. The Hundred Pillars, Kellhus knew, fanned across the grounds, searching for the Inchoroi’s Synthese. But they would find nothing. Save for Captain Heörsa’s death, everything had transpired as he’d expected. Aurang had sought only to deny him the Gnosis, not his life. So long as they knew nothing of the Dûnyain, the Consult were trapped in the pincers of a paradox: the more they needed to kill him, the more they needed to
learn
him—and to find his father.
Which was why Achamian had been their target—not Kellhus.
Kellhus hadn’t known whether Esmenet would recall her possession, but the instant her eyes fluttered open, he’d realized that she not only remembered, she remembered as though
she herself
had spoken what was spoken, said what was said. There had been many hard words.
“I
do
love you,ʺ she wept.
“Yes,” he replied, his voice far deeper, far wider, than she could possibly hear.
Quivering lips. Eyes parsed between horror and remorse. Panting breath. “But you said!
You said!
ʺ
“Only,” he lied, “what needed to be heard, Esmi. Nothing more.”
“You have to believe me!”
“I do, Esmi…I do believe.”
She clutched her cheeks, scratched welts across them. “Always the whore! Why must I always be the whore?”
He looked through her, past her bewildered hurt, down to the beatings and the abuse, to the betrayals, and beyond, out to a world of rank lust, shaped by the hammers of custom, girded with scripture, scaled by ancient legacies of sentiment and belief. Her womb had cursed her, even as it made her what she was. Immortality and bliss—this was the living promise all women bore between their thighs. Strong sons and gasping climax. If what men called truth were ever the hostage of their desires, how could they fail to make slaves of their women? To hide them like hoarded gold. To feast on them like melons. To discard them like rinds.
Was this not why he used her? The promise of sons in her hips?
Dûnyain sons.
Her eyes were like silver spoons in the gloom, shimmering with scarcely held waters. He looked through them and saw so much he could never undo …
“Hold me,” she whispered. “Hold me, please.”
Like so many others, she bore his toll. And it was only beginning …
Achamian had always thought it strange that so little was felt at the appropriate moment—only afterward, and even then it never seemed … proper.
When the Pederisk, the title given to Mandate Schoolmen devoted to finding the Few among Nron’s children, had come to their hovel bent on taking Achamian—a boy with “great promise”—to Atyersus, Achamian’s father had denied him—not for love of his son, Achamian would later decide, but for reasons both more pragmatic and more principled. Achamian had proven himself a quick study at sea, one who need not be hit as often as the others. And more importantly, Achamian was
his
son, and none other might have him.
The Pederisk, a willowy man with a face as hard and weathered as any mariner’s, was neither surprised nor impressed by his father’s drunken defiance. Achamian would never forget the way his smell—rosewater and jasmine—had owned the sour room. His father became violent, and with a dreadful air of routine the Schoolman’s men-at-arms began beating him. Achamian’s mother had shrieked. His brothers and sisters had squalled. But a strange coldness had settled upon Achamian, the monolithic selfishness of which only children and madmen are sometimes capable.
He had gloated.
Before that day, Achamian would never have believed his father could be so easily broken. For children, hard-hearted fathers were elemental, more deity than human. As judges, they seemed to stand beyond all possible judgement. Witnessing the humiliation of his father produced the first truly sorrowful day of his life—as well as a day of triumph. To see the great breaker broken … How couldn’t this transform the proportions of a young boy’s world?
“Damnation!” his father had screeched. “Hell has come for you, boy!
Hell!
ʺ
Only afterward, as they trundled up the coast in the Schoolman’s cart, would he cry, overwhelmed by loss and delinquent regret.
Far, far too late.
“I see it, Akka …” A voice barely more than a rasp. Xinemus. “Where I’m going. I see it now.”
“And what do you see?” Humour them. This was what one did with the grievously ill …
“Nothing.”
“Shush. I’ll describe it all to you. The Many-Eyed Walls. The First Temple. The Sacred Heights. I’ll be your eyes, Zin. You’ll see Shimeh through me.”
Through the eyes of a sorcerer.
Proyas’s slaves had used screens to mark off an ad hoc sickroom for the Marshal of Attrempus. Embroidered pheasants cavorted across them, their tail feathers twining into the very trees they perched upon. Only two lanterns provided illumination, both of them hooded in blue cloth at the insistence of the physician-priests. Apparently Akkeägni was more discriminating with his colours than with his victims … The result was peculiar, even eerie—something between firelight and moonlight. Everything in the spare chamber—the sagging canvas ceilings, the rush-matted ground, the blankets hanging from the Marshal’s cot—possessed the nauseous pall of sickness.
Achamian knelt at the side of the cot, gently wiping his friend’s brow with a wetted cloth. He dabbed the water pooled in his sockets, more because of the unnerving way it glinted in the gloom—like liquid eyes—than for the comfort of his friend.
Yet again he found himself at war with the urge to flee. Of all the unclean spirits, few were as terrifying or bloodthirsty as those belonging to dread Disease. Pulma had possessed him, the physician-priests had said, one of the most fearsome of Akkeägni’s innumerable demons.
The lung-plague.
The Marshal jerked and convulsed. He arched across his cot as though his body were a bow taken up and drawn by something unseen. He made noises that could only be described as … unmanly. Achamian clutched his bearded cheek, whispered words he could not recall afterward. Then, just as abruptly, Xinemus went slack. Once again his limbs were lost between the folds of his blankets.
Achamian wiped the sweat from the quivering planes of his face. “Shush,” he whispered between the man’s clawing breaths."Shush …ʺ
“How the rules,” the Marshal coughed, “have changed …ʺ
“What do you mean?”
“The game between us … benjuka.”
Achamian still had no clue as to his meaning, but he could think of nothing to say. It seemeda…sin somehow, to question him twice.
“Remember how it was?” Xinemus asked. “The way you would wait in the dark while I took council with the Great?”
“Yes…I remember.ʺ
“Now it’s I who wait.”
Again Achamian couldn’t think of anything to say. It was as though words had come to their end, to the point where only impotence and travesty could follow. Even his thoughts prickled.
“Did you?” the Marshal abruptly asked.
“Did I what?ʺ
“Did you ever win?”
“Benjuka?” Achamian blinked, stretched his face into an aching smile. “Not against you, Zin … But someday …ʺ
“I think not.”
“And why’s that?” He hesitated, fearful of what answer this question might elicit.
“Because you try too hard,” Xinemus said. “And when the plate doesn’t yield—” He coughed, convulsed about pustulate lungs.
Achamian repeated, “When the plate doesn’t yield …ʺ He humoured him no longer.
Selfish fool!
“I see nothing,” the Marshal gasped. “Sweet Sejenus! I see noth—” He cried out as though drowning in clotted blood, gagged, and thrashed. The sick-sweet flush of bowel filled the room.
Then he went slack. For several heartbeats all Achamian could do was stare. Without his eyes Xinemus seemed so …
sealed in
.
“Zin!”
His friend’s mouth worked soundlessly. Madly, Achamian thought of the fish heads heaped beneath his father’s gutting table … Mouths without stomachs, opening and closing, as slow as milkweed waving in the breeze.
“Leave … me …” his friend gasped. “Leave me … be …”
“This is no time for pride, you fool!”
“Nooooo,ʺ the Marshal of Attrempus whispered. “This … is … the … only …ʺ
And then it happened. One moment his complexion was mottled by the pallid exertions only the dying can know, and then, as quickly as cloth soaking water, it went purple-grey. A cooler air settled through the canvas spaces, the quiet of utterly inert things. Lice thronged from Xinemus’s scalp onto his brow, across his waxy face. Achamian brushed at them, twitched them away with the numb fastidiousness of those who deny death by acting otherwise.
He clutched his friend’s hand, began kissing his fingers. “In the morning Proyas and I will take you to the river,” he said breathlessly. “Bathe you …”
Whining silence.
It seemed that his heart slowed, hesitated, like a boy unsure of the sincerity of his father’s permission. His lips tightened, and a great void slowly opened in his chest, at first tugging and then lunging—demanding that he
breathe
.
With a shameful reluctance, he watched him in the darkness, Krijates Xinemus, this man who would be his older brother, this corpse with the face of an only friend. The first of the lice found him—Achamian could feel them. Like the tickle of insight.
He breathed, drew the rank air deep. And though his cry reached out across the plains, it fell far short of Shimeh.
He pondered the plate, rubbing his hands together for warmth. Xinemus taunted him with a nasty chuckle.
“Always so dour when you play benjuka.”
“It’s a wretched game.”
“You say that only because you try too hard.”
“No. I say that because I lose.”
With an air of chagrin, he moved the only stone among his silver pieces—a replacement for a piece stolen, or so Xinemus claimed, by one of his slaves. Another aggravation. Though pieces were nothing more than how they were used, the stone impoverished his play somehow, broke the miserly spell of a complete set.

Other books

John Wayne Gacy by Judge Sam Amirante
Perfectly Kissed by Lacey Silks
Taras Bulba and Other Tales by Vasilievich G Nikolai Vasilievich Gogol
Forty Thieves by Thomas Perry
Blood Trinity by Carol Lynne
Feast of Fools by Rachel Caine