R. Bakker - The Judging eye

When chance afforded he leaned forward to whisper the Third Prayer to Husyelt into the pony's twitching ear. "One and one are one," he explained to the beast afterward. "You are learning, Stubborn. One horse and one man make one warrior."

A bolt of shame passed through him at the thought of "one man," for in fact he was not a man. He never would be, he realized, given that his Elking would likely never happen. A child forever, without the shades of the dead to assist him. This set him to gazing, once again, out over the marching masses that engulfed his surroundings. Shields and swords. Waddling packs. Innumerable souls behind innumerable faces, all toiling toward the dark line of the north.

How could wonder make a heart so small?

When Sorweel finally settled next to Zsoronga and Obotegwa in the column, the Successor-Prince commented on his haggard expression.

Sorweel paid no attention, simply said, "The Ordeal. What do you think of it?"

Zsoronga's expression went from bemusement to concentrated worry as he listened to Obotegwa's frowning translation. "Ke yusu emeba-"

"I think it may be the end of us."

"But do you think it's real?"

The Prince paused, gazed out across a landscape dizzy with distances. He wore what he called his kemtush over his Kidruhil tunic, a white sash dense with black hand-painted characters that listed the "battles of his blood," the wars fought by his ancestors.

"Well, I think they believe it's real. I can only imagine what it must seem like to you, Horse-King. You and your stranded city. Me? I come from a great and ancient nation, mightier by far than any of the individual nations gathered beneath the Circumfix. And still, I have never seen the like. To concentrate so much glory, so much power, for a march to the ends of the Eдrwa! This is something no Satakhan in history, not even Mbotetulu! could have brought about-let alone my poor father. Whatever this is, and whatever comes of it, you can rest assured that it will be recalled… Recalled to the end of all time."

They rode in silence for some time, lost in the thoughts.

"And what do you think of them?" Sorweel eventually asked.

"Them?"

"Yes. The Anasыrimbor."

The Successor-Prince shrugged, but not without, Sorweel noticed, a quick glance around him. "Everyone ponders them. They are like the mummers the Ketyai are so found of, standing before the amphitheatre of the world."

"What does 'everyone' say?"

"That he is a Prophet, or even a God."

"What do you say?"

"What the lines of my father's treaty say: that he is a Benefactor of High Holy Zeьm, Guardian of the Son of Heaven's Son."

"No… What do you say?"

For the first time, Sorweel saw anger score the young man's handsome profile. Zsoronga momentarily glared at Obotegwa, as though holding him responsible for Sorweel's relentless questioning, before turning back to the young King with mild and insincere eyes. "What do you think?"

"He's so many things to so many people," Sorweel found himself blurting. "I know not what to think. All I know is that those who spend any time with him, any time with him whatsoever, think him some kind of God."

The Successor-Prince once again turned to his Senior Obligate, this time with questioning eyes. Though the drifting pace of their parallel horses meant that Sorweel could only glimpse Obotegwa's face on an angle, he was certain he had seen the old translator nod.

While the two exchanged words in Zeьmi, Sorweel struggled with the dismaying realization that Zsoronga had secrets, powerful secrets, and that compared to the intrigues that likely encircled him, his friendship with an outland king, with a sausage, could be little more than diversion. The Son of Nganka'kull was more than a hostage, he was a spy as well, a chit in a game greater than Sorweel could imagine. The fate of empires bound him.

When Zsoronga returned his gaze, the pinch of merriment that characterized so much of their discourse had utterly vanished, leaving a curious, questioning intensity in its place. It was almost as if his brown eyes were begging Sorweel, somehow…

Begging him to be someone High Holy Zeьm could trust.

"Petatu surub-"

"Have you heard the story of Shimeh, of the First Holy War?"

Sorweel shrugged. He felt at once honoured and gratified. A prince of a great nation confided in him. "Not much," he admitted, careful to pitch his voice at the same low tenor as his friend.

"There is this book," Zsoronga said, the squint in his eyes complementing the reluctance in his voice. "This forbidden book, written by a sorcerer… Drusas Achamian. Have you heard of him?"

"No."

Zsoronga's bottom lip pressed the line of his mouth into an upside-down crescent. He nodded, not so much in affirmation or approval, but as though to acknowledge his succinct honesty. "Bpo Mandatu mbal-"

"He was a Mandate Schoolman, like your own tutor."

Sorweel found himself glancing about, fearing that Eskeles would arrive any moment. Men had a way of hearing their names, even when spoken across the arc of the world. "And?"

"Well, he was present when the Anasыrimbor joined the First Holy War. Apparently he was his first and dearest friend-his teacher, both before and after the Circumfixion."

"So?"

"Well, for one, the Empress-you know, the woman on the silver kellics, the mother of our dear, beloved General Kayыtas-Achamian was her first husband. Apparently the Anasыrimbor stole her. So at the conclusion of the First Holy War, when the Shriah of their Thousand Temples crowns the Anasыrimbor Aspect-Emperor, this Achamian repudiates him before all those gathered, claims he is a fraud and deceiver."

Something of the old Zsoronga had returned, as though he were warming to the gossip of the tale.

"Yes…" Sorweel said. "I'm sure I've heard this… or a version of it, anyway."

"So he leaves the Holy War, goes into exile, becomes, they say, the only Wizard in the Three Seas. Only the love and shame of the Empress prevent his execution."

"Wizard?"

Another grave turn in his ebony expression. "Yes. A sorcerer without a School."

The Company of Scions was but a clot in a far larger column of Kidruhil companies, and a conspicuous one, given that its members had leave to wear native ornamentations over their crimson uniforms. They had followed the column over the crest of a scrub-choked rise, then leaned back against their cantles as they descended into a broad depression. The black track became viscous with water and muck. The susurrus of countless hooves stamping marshy ground rose about them-the wheeze of sinking grounds. What had looked like mist from the sloped heights became clouds of midges.

"And this is where he writes this book?" Sorweel asked, pitching his voice over the tramping clamour. "In exile?"

"Our spies brought my father a copy some six years ago, saying that it had become a kind of scripture for those who still resist the Anasыrimbor in the Three Seas. It's titled A Compendium of the First Holy War."

"So it's a history?"

"Only apparently. There are… insinuations, scattered throughout, and descriptions of the Anasыrimbor as he was, before he gained the Gnosis and became almost all-powerful."

"Are you saying this Mandate Schoolman knew… that he knew what the Aspect-Emperor was?"

Zsoronga paused before answering, looked at him as though rehearsing previous judgments. Among those who would contest the power of the Aspect-Emperor, Sorweel understood, no matters could be more essential.

"Yes," Zsoronga finally replied.

"So. What does he say?"

"Everything you might expect a cuckold to say. That's the problem…"

An ambient eagerness bloomed through Sorweel's limbs. The knowledge he needed was here-he could sense it. The knowledge that would cleave certainty out of mangled circumstances-that would see his honour redeemed! He squeezed the reins tight enough to whiten his knuckles. "Does he call him a demon?" he asked almost with breath. "Does he?"