The Darkness that Comes Before, page 51
“They seem anxious,” Kellhus said.
“And why not?” Proyas replied. “I bring them a Prince who claims to dream of Shimeh and a Scylvendi heathen who could be their general.” He glanced pensively at his fellow Men of the Tusk. “These men will be your peers,” he said. “Heed them. Learn them. To a man they’re exceedingly proud, and proud men, I’ve found, aren’t inclined to make wise decisions . . .”
The implication was clear: soon their lives would depend upon the wise decisions of these men.
The Prince gestured to a tall Galeoth standing beneath the hanging rose and green of a tamarisk tree. “That’s Prince Coithus Saubon, seventh son of King Eryeat and leader of the Galeoth contingent. The man he argues with is his nephew, Athjeäri, Earl of Gaenri. Coithus Saubon has quite a reputation in these parts: he commanded the army his father sent against the Nansurium several years ago. He managed several successes, or so I’m told, but was humiliated by Conphas after the Emperor made him Exalt-General. Perhaps no man living hates the Ikureis as much as he. But he cares nothing for the Tusk or the Latter Prophet.”
Again, Proyas left the implications unspoken. The Galeoth Prince was a mercenary who would support them only where their ends coincided with his own.
Kellhus appraised the man’s face, which was strong-jawed and bard-handsome beneath a shock of reddish-blond hair. Their eyes met. Saubon nodded in guarded courtesy.
A barely perceptible quickening of his heartbeat. A faint flush rising to his cheeks. Eyes vaguely narrowing, as though half-squinted against an unseen blow.
He fears nothing more than the estimation of other men.
Kellhus nodded in return, his expression frank, guileless. Saubon had been raised, he realized, under the harsh gaze of another—a cruel father, perhaps, or mother.
He would make a demonstration of his life, shame the eyes that measure.
“Nothing impoverishes,” Kellhus said to Proyas, “more than ambition.”
“Indeed,” Proyas replied in approval, also nodding to the Galeoth Prince.
“That man there,” the Prince continued, gesturing to a thick-waisted Tydonni beyond the Galeoth, “is Hoga Gothyelk, Earl of Agansanor and elected leader of the contingent from Ce Tydonn. Before I was born, my father was bested by him at the Battle of Maän. He calls his limp ‘Gothyelk’s gift.’” Proyas smiled, a devoted son who took much heart in his father’s humour. “According to rumour, Hoga Gothyelk is as pious in the temple as he’s indomitable on the field.”
And again the implication: He’s one of us.
Unlike Saubon, the Earl of Agansanor was unaware of their momentary scrutiny: he was busy berating three younger men in what must have been his native tongue. His beard, a long pelt of iron grey, swung and shivered as he hollered. His broad nose flared. His eyes flashed beneath overgrown brows.
“Those men he upbraids?” Kellhus asked.
“His sons—three of them, anyway. In Conriya we call them the Hoga Brood. He scolds them for drinking too heavily. The Emperor, he says, wants them drunk.”
But far more than their drinking, Kellhus knew, had incited the old Earl’s fury. Something weary haunted his expression, something whose momentum had faltered over the course of a long and turbulent life. Hoga Gothyelk no longer felt anger, not truly—only varieties of sorrow. But for what reason?
He’s done something . . . He thinks himself damned.
Yes, there it was: the hidden resolution, like slack threads in the taut creases of his face, around the eyes.
He’s come to die. Die cleansed.
“And that man,” Proyas continued, daring to point, “in the centre of that group wearing masks . . . Do you see him?”
Proyas had gestured to their extreme left, where far and away the largest party had gathered: the Palatine-Governors of High Ainon. To a man they were dressed in spectacular gowns. Beneath their plaited wigs they wore masks of white porcelain across their eyes and cheeks. They looked like bearded statues.
“The one whose hair is wired like a fan across his back?” Kellhus asked.
Proyas graced him with a sour smile. “Indeed. That’s none other than Chepheramunni himself, the King-Regent of High Ainon and lapdog of the Scarlet Spires . . . Do you see how he spurns all offers of food and drink? He fears the Emperor will try to drug him.”
“Why do they wear masks?”
“The Ainoni are a debauched people,” Proyas replied, casting a wary glance at their immediate vicinity. “A race of mummers. They’re overly concerned with the subtleties of human intercourse. They regard a concealed face a potent weapon in all matters concerning jnan.”
“Jnan,” Cnaiür muttered, “is a disease you all suffer.”
Proyas smiled, amused by the relentlessness of the plainsman’s contempt. “Doubtless we do. But the Ainoni suffer it mortally.”
“Forgive me,” Kellhus said, “but just what is ‘jnan’?”
Proyas shot him a puzzled look. “I’ve never pondered it much before,” he admitted. “Byantas, I recall, defines it as ‘the war of word and sentiment.’ But it’s far more. The subtleties that guide the conduct between men, you might say. It’s”—he shrugged—“simply something we do.”
Kellhus nodded. They know so little of themselves, Father.
Troubled by the inadequacy of his reply, Proyas redirected their attention to a small group of men standing about the garden’s pool, all wearing the same white tusk-emblazoned vestments over their tunics.
“There. The one with silver hair. That’s Incheiri Gotian, Grandmaster of the Shrial Knights. He’s a good man—the Shriah’s own envoy. Maithanet has directed him to judge our suit against the Emperor.”
Gotian awaited the Emperor in silence, clutching in his hands a small ivory canister—a missive, Kellhus assumed, from Maithanet himself. Though Gotian presented the look of self-assurance, Kellhus saw instantly that he was anxious: the rapid pulse of his juggler beneath the dark skin of his neck, the flexing of tendons along the back of his hand, the taut pose of the musculature about his lips . . .
He does not feel equal to his burden.
But more than anxiety simmered beneath his expression: his eyes also betrayed a curious longing, one that Kellhus had witnessed many times in many faces.
He yearns to be moved . . . Moved by someone more holy than he.
“A good man,” Kellhus repeated. I need only convince him I’m more holy.
“And that there,” Proyas said, nodding to his right, “is Prince Skaiyelt of Thunyerus, standing in the shadow of that giant—the one they call Yalgrota.”
Whether by design or otherwise, the small Thunyeri contingent occupied the periphery of the gathered Inrithi lords. Of all the nobility gathered in the garden, they alone were geared for battle, wearing hauberks of black chain under sleeved surcoats embroidered with stylized animals. To a man they sported wiry beards and long corn-silk hair. Skaiyelt’s face was uniformly scarred, as though by pox, and he muttered sombrely to hard-eyed Yalgrota, who hulked above him, glaring across heads at Cnaiür.
“Have you ever seen such a man?” Proyas hissed, staring at the giant with frank admiration. “Let’s pray his interest in you is academic, Scylvendi.”
Cnaiür matched Yalgrota’s gaze without blinking. “Yes,” he said evenly, “for his sake. A man is measured by more than his frame.”
Proyas arched his brows, grinned sidelong at Kellhus.
“You think,” Kellhus asked the Scylvendi, “that he’s not as long as he’s tall?”
Proyas laughed aloud, but Cnaiür’s ferocious eyes seized Kellhus. Play these fools if you must, Dûnyain, but do not play me!
“You’re beginning,” Proyas said, “to remind me of Xinemus, my Prince.”
Of the man he esteems above all others.
An angry cry surfaced from the background bustle of voices: “Gi’irga fi hierst! Gi’irga fi hierstas da moia!” Gothyelk, once again chastising one of his sons, this time from across the garden.
“What are those pendants the Thunyeri wear between their thighs?” Kellhus asked Proyas. “They look like shrivelled apples.”
“The shrunken heads of Sranc . . . They make fetishes of their enemies, and we can expect”—his distaste soured into a grimace—“that they’ll sport human heads soon enough, once the Holy War begins its march. As I was about to say, the Thunyeri are young to the Three Seas. They embraced the Thousand Temples and the Latter Prophet only in my grandfather’s time, so they’re zealous in the way of converted peoples. But interminable war with the Sranc has rendered them morbid, melancholy . . . deranged, even. Skaiyelt is no exception in this regard, as far as I can tell—the man can’t speak a word of Sheyic. He’ll need to be . . . managed, I imagine, but not taken seriously otherwise.”
There’s a great game here, Kellhus thought, and there’s no place for those who don’t know the rules. Nevertheless, he asked, “Why’s that?”
“Because he’s uncouth, an illiterate barbarian.”
The answer he expected: the one certain to alienate the Scylvendi.
As though on cue, Cnaiür snorted. “And just what,” he asked scathingly, “do you think the others say of me?”
The Prince shrugged. “Much the same, I imagine. But that’ll quickly change, Scylvendi. I’ve—”
Proyas stopped mid-reply, his attention stolen by the sudden hush that had fallen upon the Inrithi nobles. Three figures approached through the shade of the surrounding colonnades. Two men, Eothic Guardsmen by the look of their armour and insignia, pulled a shambling third between them. The man was naked, emaciated, and freighted by heavy shackles about his neck, wrists, and ankles. From the scars that latticed his arms, it was obvious he was Scylvendi.
“Cunning fiends,” Proyas muttered under his breath.
The Guardsmen yanked the man into sunlight. He wobbled drunkenly, heedless of his exposed phallus. He raised a piteous face to the warmth of the sun. His eyes had been gouged out.
“Who is he?” Kellhus asked.
Cnaiür spat, watched the Guardsman chain the man to the base of the Emperor’s bench.
“Xunnurit,” he said after a moment. “Our King-of-Tribes at the Battle of Kiyuth.”
“A token of Scylvendi weakness, no doubt,” Proyas said tightly. “Of Cnaiür urs Skiötha’s weakness . . . Evidence in what will be your trial.”
“You will sit here in posture,” the Pragma said, neither stern nor gentle, “and repeat this proposition: ‘The Logos is without beginning or end.’ You will repeat this without cessation, until you are directed otherwise. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Pragma,” Kellhus replied.
He lowered himself onto a small mat of woven reeds in the centre of the shrine. The Pragma sat opposite him on a similar mat, his back to the sunlit poplars and the scowling precipices of the mountains beyond.
“Begin,” the Pragma said, becoming motionless.
“The Logos is without beginning or end. The Logos is without beginning or end. The Logos is without . . .”
At first he puzzled over the ease of the exercise. But the words quickly lost their meaning and became a repetitive string of unfamiliar sounds, more a pasty exercise of tongue, teeth, and lips than speaking.
“Cease saying this aloud,” the Pragma said. “Speak it only within.”
The Logos is without beginning or end. The Logos is without beginning or end. The Logos is without . . .
This was far different and, as he quickly discovered, far more difficult. Speaking the proposition aloud had braced the repetition somehow, as though propping thought against his organs of speech. Now it stood alone, suspended in the nowhere of his soul, repeated and repeated and repeated, contrary to all the habits of inference and drifting association.
The Logos is without beginning or end. The Logos is without beginning or end. The Logos is without . . .
The first thing he noted was the curious slackness of his face, as though the exercise had somehow severed the links shackling expression to passion. His body grew very still, far more so than he’d ever experienced before. At the same time, however, curious waves of tension assailed him from within, as though something deep balked, refusing inner breath to his inner voice. And the repetition was muted to a whisper, became a thin thread undulating through violent eddies of inarticulate, unformed thought.
The Logos is without beginning or end. The Logos is without beginning or end. The Logos is without beginning or end. The Logos is without . . .
The sun waxed across the dishevelled mountainsides, mottling his periphery with the contrast of dark plummets and bright bald faces. Kellhus found himself at war. Inchoate urges reared from nothingness, demanding thought. Unuttered voices untwined from darkness, demanding thought. Hissing images railed, pleaded, threatened—all demanding thought. And through it all:
The Logos is without beginning or end. The Logos is without beginning or end. The Logos is without . . .
Long afterward, he would realize this exercise had demarcated his soul. The incessant repetition of the Pragma’s proposition had pitted him against himself, had shown him the extent to which he was other to himself. For the first time he could truly see the darkness that had preceded him, and he knew that before this day, he had never truly been awake.
When the sun at last set, the Pragma broke his fast of silence.
“You have completed your first day, young Kellhus, and now you will continue through the night. When the dawn sun broaches the eastern glacier, you will cease repeating the last word of the proposition but otherwise continue. Each time the sun breaks from the glacier, you will cease repeating the last word. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Pragma.” Words spoken, it seemed, by someone else.
“Then continue.”
As darkness entombed the shrine, the struggle intensified. By turns, his body became remote to the point of giddiness and near to the point of suffocation. One moment he would be an apparition, an accident of coiling smoke, so insubstantial it seemed the night breeze might smear him into nothingness. In another, he would be a bundle of cramped flesh, every sensation sharpened until even the night chill chattered like knives across his skin. And the proposition became something drunken, something that stumbled and staggered through a nightmarish chorus of agitations, distractions, and frenzied passions. They howled within him—like something dying.
Then the sun broke from the glacier, and he was dumbstruck by its beauty. Smouldering orange cresting cold planes of shining snow and ice. And for a heartbeat the proposition escaped him, and he thought only of the way the glacier reared, curved like the back of a beautiful woman . . .
The Pragma leapt forward and struck him, his face a rictus of counterfeit rage. “Repeat the proposition!” he screamed.
For Kellhus, each of the Great Names represented a question, a juncture of innumerable permutations. In their faces, he saw fragments of other faces surfacing as though all men were but moments of one man. An instant of Leweth passing like a squall through Athjeäri’s scowl as he argued with Saubon. A glimpse of Serwë in the way Gothyelk looked upon his youngest son. The same passions, but each cast in a drastically different balance. Any one of these people, he concluded, might be as easily possessed as Leweth had been—despite their fierce pride. But in their sum, they were incalculable.
They were a labyrinth, a thousand thousand halls, and he had to pass through them. He had to own them.
What if this Holy War exceeds my abilities? What then, Father?
“Do you feast, Dûnyain?” Cnaiür asked in bitter Scylvendi. “Grow fat on faces?” Proyas had left them to confer with Gotian, and for the moment, the two of them were alone.
“We share the same mission, Scylvendi.”
So far, events had exceeded his most optimistic forecasts. His claim to royal blood had secured him, almost effortlessly, a position among the Inrithi ruling castes. Not only had Proyas supplied him with the “necessities of his princely rank,” he had accorded him a place of honour at his council fire. So long as one possessed the bearing of a prince, Kellhus discovered, one was treated as a prince. Acting became being.
His other claim, however—his claim to have dreamt of Shimeh and the Holy War—had secured him a far different position, one more fraught with peril and possibility. Some openly scoffed at the claim. Others, like Proyas and Achamian, viewed it as a possible warning, like the first flush of disease. Many, searching for whatever scrap of divine sanction they could find, simply accepted it. But all of them conceded Kellhus the same position.
For the peoples of the Three Seas, dreams, no matter how trivial, were a serious matter. Dreams were not, as the Dûnyain had thought before Moënghus’s summons, mere rehearsals, ways for the soul to train itself for different eventualities. Dreams were the portal, the place where the Outside infiltrated the World, where what transcended men—be it the future, the distant, the demonic, or the divine—found imperfect expression in the here and now.
But it was not enough to simply assert that one had dreamed. If dreams were powerful, they were also cheap. Everyone dreamed. After patiently listening to descriptions of his visions, Proyas had explained to Kellhus that literally thousands claimed to dream of the Holy War, some of its triumph, others of its destruction. One could not walk ten yards along the Phayus, he said, without seeing some hermit screech and gesticulate about his dreams.
“Why,” he asked with characteristic honesty, “should I regard your dreams as any different?”
Dreams were a serious matter, and serious matters demanded hard questions.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” Kellhus had replied. “I’m not sure I do.”
And it was this, his reluctance to believe his own prophetic claims, that had secured his perilous position. When anonymous Inrithi, having heard rumours of him, fell to their knees before him, he would be cross the way a compassionate father would be cross. When they begged to be touched, as though grace could be communicated across skin, he would touch them, but only to raise them up, to chide them for abasing themselves before another. By claiming to be less than what he seemed to be, he moved men, even learned men such as Proyas and Achamian, to hope or fear that he might be more.
