A Scylvendi. It seemed too bizarre to believe. Was there a greater significance to this? He’d suffered so many dreams of Anasûrimbor Celmomas of late, and now this, a waking vision of the world’s ancient end. A Scylvendi!
“Don’t trust him, Proyas. They’re cruel, utterly merciless. As savage as Sranc, and far more cunning.”
Proyas laughed. “Did you know the Nansur begin every toast and every prayer with a curse against the Scylvendi?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Well, where you see a wraith from your nightmares, Schoolman, I see the enemy of my enemy.”
The sight of the barbarian, Achamian realized, had reignited Proyas’s hopes.
“No. You see an enemy, plain and simple. He’s a heathen, Proyas. Anathema.”
The Crown Prince looked at him sharply. “As are you.”
Such a blunder! How could he make him understand?
“Proyas, you must—”
“No, Achamian!” the Prince cried. “I ‘must’ nothing! Just this once, spare me your murky forebodings! Please!”
“You summoned me for my counsel,” Achamian snapped.
Proyas whirled. “Petulance, old tutor, does not become you. What’s happened to you? I summoned you for your counsel, yes, but instead you give me prattle. A counsellor, as you seem to have forgotten, provides his Prince with the facts necessary for sober judgements. He does not make his own judgements, then upbraid his Prince for not sharing them.” He turned away with a sneer. “Now I know why the Marshal frets about you so.”
The words stung. Achamian could see from his expression that Proyas had meant to injure, had intended to strike as near a mortal wound as possible. Nersei Proyas was a commander, one struggling against an emperor for the soul of a holy war. He needed resolution, the appearance of unanimity, and above all, obedience. The Scylvendi was nearly upon them.
Achamian knew this, and yet still the words stung.
What’s happened to me?
Xinemus had reined his black to a halt at the base of the knoll. He hailed them as he dismounted. Achamian had not the heart to respond in kind. What do you say about me, Zin? What do you see?
Taking their cue from Xinemus, the party milled about their horses for a moment. Achamian heard Iryssas chiding the Norsirai about his appearance, as though the man were a bond brother rather than a foreigner about to meet his prince. With murmurs and weary steps, they began climbing the slope. Dismounted, the Scylvendi towered over Xinemus, loomed over everyone, in fact, with the exception of the Norsirai. He was lean-waisted, and his broad shoulders possessed the faintest of stoops. He looked hungry, not in the way of beggars but in the way of wolves.
Proyas afforded Achamian a final glance before greeting his guests. Be what I need you to be, his eyes warned.
“So rarely is the look of a man a match for the rumour,” the Prince said in Sheyic. His eyes lingered on the barbarian’s sinew-strapped arms. “But you look every bit as fierce as your people’s reputation, Scylvendi.”
Achamian found himself resenting Proyas’s congenial tone. His ability to effortlessly swap quarrels for greetings, to be embittered one moment and affable the next, had always troubled Achamian. He certainly did not share it. Such mobility of passion, he’d always thought, demonstrated a worrisome capacity for deceit.
The Scylvendi glowered at Proyas, said nothing. Achamian’s skin prickled. The man, he realized, bore a Chorae tucked behind his girdle. He could hear its abyssal whisper.
Proyas frowned. “I know you speak Sheyic, friend.”
“If I remember aright,” Achamian said in Conriyan, “the Scylvendi have little patience for wry compliments, my Prince. They think them unmanly.”
The barbarian’s ice blue eyes flashed to him. Something within Achamian, something wise in the estimation of bodily threat, quailed.
“Who is this?” the man asked, his accent thick.
“Drusas Achamian,” Proyas said, his tone far stiffer now. “A sorcerer.”
The Scylvendi spat, whether in contempt or as a folk-ward against sorcery, Achamian did not know.
“But it’s not your place to question,” Proyas continued. “My men delivered you and your companions from the Nansur, and I can just as easily have them deliver you back. Do you understand?”
The barbarian shrugged. “Ask what you will.”
“Who are you?”
“I am Cnaiür urs Skiötha, Chieftain of the Utemot.”
As limited as his knowledge of the Scylvendi was, Achamian had heard of the Utemot, as had every other Mandate Schoolman. According to the Dreams, Sathgai, the King-of-Tribes who had led the Scylvendi under the No-God, was Utemot. Could this be another coincidence?
“The Utemot, my Prince,” Achamian murmured to Proyas, “are a tribe from the northern extremes of the Steppe.”
Once again, the barbarian raked him with an icy stare.
Proyas nodded. “So tell me, Cnaiür urs Skiötha, why would a Scylvendi wolf travel so far to confer with Inrithi dogs?”
The Scylvendi as much sneered as smiled. He possessed, Achamian realized, that arrogance peculiar to barbarians, the thoughtless certitude that the hard ways of his land made him harder by far than other, more civilized men. We are, Achamian thought, silly women to him.
“I have come,” the man said bluntly, “to sell my wisdom and my sword.”
“As a mercenary?” Proyas asked. “I think not, my friend. Achamian tells me there’s no such thing as Scylvendi mercenaries.”
Achamian tried to match Cnaiür’s glare. He could not.
“Things went hard for my tribe at Kiyuth,” the barbarian explained. “And harder still when we returned to our pastures. Those few of my kinsmen who survived the Nansur were destroyed by our neighbours to the south. Our herds were stolen. Our wives and children were led away in captivity. The Utemot are no more.”
“So what?” Proyas snapped. “You hope to make the Inrithi your tribe? You expect me to believe this?”
Silence. A hard moment between two indomitable men.
“My land has repudiated me. It has stripped me of my hearth and my chattel. So I renounce my land in return. Is this so difficult to believe?”
“But then why—” Achamian began in Conriyan, only to be hushed by Proyas’s hand. The Conriyan Prince studied the barbarian in silence, appraising him in the unnerving manner Achamian had seen him appraise others before: as though he were the absolute centre of all judgement. If Cnaiür urs Skiötha was discomfited, however, he did not show it.
Proyas exhaled heavily, as though coming to a risky, and therefore weighty, resolution. “Tell me, Scylvendi, what do you know of Kian?”
Achamian opened his mouth to protest, but hesitated when he glimpsed Xinemus’s scowl. Don’t forget your place! the Marshal’s expression shouted.
“Much and little,” Cnaiür replied.
These were the kind of responses, Achamian knew, that Proyas despised. But then the Scylvendi simply played the same game the Prince did. Proyas wanted to know what the Scylvendi knew about the Fanim before revealing just how much he needed him to know. Otherwise the man might just tell him what he wanted to hear. The evasive reply, however, meant the Scylvendi had sensed this. And this meant he was uncommonly shrewd. Achamian ran his eyes along the scarred length of the barbarian’s arms, trying to count his swazond in a glance. He could not.
Very many, he thought, have underestimated this man.
“How about war?” Proyas asked. “What do you know of the Kianene manner of war?”
“Much.”
“How so?”
“Eight years ago, the Kianene invaded the Steppe much as the Nansur did, hoping to put an end to our raids on Gedea. We met them at a place called Zirkirta. Crushed them. These here”—he ran a thick finger across several scars low on his right wrist—“are that battle. This one is their general, Hasjinnet, son of Skauras, the Sapatishah of Shigek.”
There was no pride in his voice. For him war was sim
ply a fact to be described—little different, Achamian imagined, from describing the birth of a foal on his pastures.
“You killed the Sapatishah’s son?”
“Eventually,” the Scylvendi said. “First I made him sing.”
Several of the watching Conriyans laughed aloud, and though Proyas conceded only an aloof smile, Achamian could tell he exulted. Despite his coarse manners, this Scylvendi was saying exactly what Proyas had hoped to hear.
But Achamian remained unconvinced. How did they know the Utemot had been annihilated? And more important, what did this have to do with risking life, limb, and skin crossing the Nansurium to join the Holy War? Achamian found himself looking over the Scylvendi’s left shoulder at the Norsirai man who had accompanied him. For an instant, their eyes locked, and Achamian was struck by an intimation of wisdom and sorrow. Unaccountably, he thought: Him . . . The answer lies with him.
But would Proyas realize this before he brought them under his protection? Conriyans regarded issues of hospitality with absurd seriousness.
“So you know Kianene tactics?” Proyas was asking.
“I know them. Even then, I had been a chieftain of many years. I advised the King-of-Tribes.”
“Could you describe them to me?”
“I could . . .”
The Crown Prince grinned, as though he had at last recognized a kindred spark in the man. Achamian could only watch with numb concern. Any interruption, he knew, would be dismissed out of hand.
“You’re cautious,” Proyas said, “which is good. A heathen in a Holy War should be cautious. But you’ve little need to be wary of me, my friend.”
The Scylvendi snorted. “Why is that?”
Proyas opened his arms, gesturing to the great whorl and scatter of tents that plumbed the distances. “Have you ever witnessed such a gathering? The glory of the Inrithi has assembled across these fields, Scylvendi. The Three Seas have never been so peaceful. All their violence has gathered here. And when it marches against the Fanim, I assure you, your battle at Kiyuth will seem a mere skirmish in comparison.”
“And when will it march?”
Proyas paused. “That might very well depend upon you.”
The barbarian stared at him, dumbstruck.
“The Holy War is paralyzed, Scylvendi. A host, especially a host as great as this, marches on its belly. But Ikurei Xerius III, despite agreements forged more than a year ago, denies us the provisions we need. By ecclesiastical law the Shriah can demand that the Emperor provision us, but he cannot demand that the Nansur march with us.”
“So march without them.”
“And so we would, but the Shriah hesitates. Months ago, some Men of the Tusk secured the provisions they needed by yielding to the Emperor’s demands—”
“Which are?”
“To sign an indenture ceding to the Empire all lands conquered.”
“Unacceptable.”
“Not to the Great Names at issue. They thought that they were invincible, that waiting for the rest to gather would simply rob them of glory. What is a mark on parchment in exchange for glory? So they marched, crossed into Fanim lands, and were utterly destroyed.”
The Scylvendi had raised a contemplative hand to his chin—an oddly disarming gesture, Achamian thought, for a man of such savage aspect. “Ikurei Conphas,” he said decisively.
Proyas raised his brows in appreciation. Even Achamian found himself impressed.
“Go on,” the Prince said.
“Without Conphas, your Shriah fears the Holy War will be entirely destroyed. So he refuses to demand the Emperor provision you, dreading a repeat of what happened earlier.”
Proyas smiled bitterly. “Indeed. And the Emperor, of course, has made his Indenture Conphas’s price. The only way for Maithanet to wield his instrument, it seems, is to sell it.”
“To sell you.”
Proyas released a heavy breath. “Make no mistake, Scylvendi, I’m a devout man. I don’t doubt my Shriah, only his appraisal of these recent events. I’m convinced that the Emperor bluffs, that even if we march without signing his accursed Indenture, he’ll send Conphas and his Columns to eke whatever advantage he can from the Holy War . . .”
For the first time, Achamian realized that Proyas actually feared Maithanet would capitulate. And why not? If the Holy Shriah could stomach the Scarlet Spires, could he not stomach the Emperor’s Indenture as well?
“My hope,” Proyas continued, “and it’s just a hope, is that Maithanet might accept you as a surrogate for Conphas. With you as our adviser, the Emperor can no longer argue that our ignorance will doom us.”
“The Exalt-General’s surrogate?” the Scylvendi chieftain repeated. He shuddered with what, Achamian realized a heartbeat later, was laughter.
“You find this amusing, Scylvendi?” Proyas asked, his expression baffled.
Achamian seized the opportunity. “Because of Kiyuth,” he murmured in quick Conriyan. “Think of the hatred he must bear Conphas because of Kiyuth.”
“Revenge?” Proyas snapped back, also in Conriyan. “You think that’s his real reason for travelling here? To wreak his revenge on Ikurei Conphas?”
“Ask him! Why has he come here, and who are the others?”
Proyas glanced at Achamian, the chagrin in his eyes over-matched by the admission. His ardour had almost duped him, and he knew it. He had almost brought a Scylvendi to his hearth—a Scylvendi!—without any hard questions.
“You know not the Nansur,” the barbarian was saying. “The great Ikurei Conphas replaced by a Scylvendi? There will be more than wailing and gnashing of teeth.”
Proyas ignored the remark. “One thing still troubles me, Scylvendi . . . I understand that your tribe was destroyed, that your land turned against you, but why would you come here? Why would a Scylvendi cross the Empire, of all places? Why would a heathen join a Holy War?”
The words swatted the humour from Cnaiür urs Skiötha’s face, leaving only wariness. Achamian watched him tense. It seemed a door to something dreadful had been unlatched.
Then from behind the barbarian, a resonant voice declared, “I am the reason Cnaiür has travelled here.”
All eyes turned to the nameless Norsirai. The man’s bearing was imperious despite the rags clothing him, the mien of one steeped in a life of absolute authority. But it was moderated somehow, as though seasoned by hardship and sorrow. The woman clutching his waist glared from face to face, seemingly both outraged and mystified by their scrutiny. How, her eyes cried, could you not know?
“And just who are you?” Proyas asked of the man.
The clear blue eyes blinked. The serene face dipped only enough to acknowledge an equal. “I am Anasûrimbor Kellhus, son of Moënghus,” the man said in heavily accented Sheyic. “A prince of the north. Of Atrithau.”
Achamian gaped, uncomprehending. Then the name, Anasûrimbor, struck him like a sudden blow to the stomach. Winded him. He found himself reaching out, clutching Proyas’s arm.
This can’t be.
Proyas glanced at him sharply, warning him to hold his tongue. There’ll be time for you to pry later, Schoolman. His eyes clicked back to the stranger.
“A powerful name.”
“I cannot speak for my blood,” the Norsirai replied.
“One of my seed will return, Seswatha—”
“You don’t look a Prince. Am I to believe you’re my equal?”
“Nor can I speak for what you do or do not believe. As for my appearance, all I can say is that my pilgrimage was hard.”
“An Anasûrimbor will return—”
“Pilgrimage?”
“Yes. To Shimeh . . . We have come to die for the Tusk.”
“. . . at the end of the world.”
“But Atrithau lies far beyond the pale of the Three Seas. How could you have known of the Holy War?”
Hesitation, as though he were both frightened and unconvinced by what he was about to say. “Dreams. Someone sent me dreams.”
This cannot be!
“Someone? Who?”
The man could not answer.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
MOMEMN
Those of us who survived will always be bewildered when we recall his arrival. And not just because he was so different then. In a strange sense he never changed. We changed. If he seems so different to us now, it is because he was the figure that transformed the ground.
—DRUSAS ACHAMIAN, COMPENDIUM OF THE FIRST HOLY WAR
Late Spring, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, Momemn
The sun had just set. The man who called himself Anasûrimbor Kellhus sat cross-legged in the light of his fire, outside a pavilion whose canvas slopes had been stitched with black embroidered eagles—a gift from Proyas, Achamian supposed. In appearance there was nothing immediately impressive about the man, save perhaps for his long straw-coloured hair, which was as fine as ermine and seemed curiously out of place in the firelight. Hair meant for the sun, Achamian thought. The young injured woman who had clutched his side so fiercely the previous day sat next to him, her dress simple yet elegant. The two of them had bathed and exchanged their rags for clothes drawn from the Prince’s own finery. As he neared, Achamian was struck by the woman’s beauty. She had looked little more than a beaten waif earlier.
They both watched him approach, their faces vivid in the firelight.
“You must be Drusas Achamian,” the Prince of Atrithau said.
“Proyas has warned you about me, I see.”
The man smiled understandingly—much more than understandingly. It was unlike any smile Achamian had ever seen. It seemed to understand him much more than he wanted to be understood.
Then the realization struck.
I know this man.
But how does one recognize a man never met? Unless through a son or other kin . . . Images of his recent dream, of holding the dead face of Anasûrimbor Celmomas in his lap, flickered through his soul’s eye. The resemblance was unmistakable: the furrow between the brows, the long hollow of the cheeks, the deep-set eyes.
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