he tell him?
The morning after the madness beneath the Emperor’s palace had also been the morning the Holy War began its march. Everything had been confusion. Even still, Xinemus had made Achamian his priority, fairly interrogating him on the details of the previous night. Achamian had started with the truth, or a hollowed out version of it anyway, saying that the Emperor had required independent verification of certain claims made by his Imperial Saik. But what followed was pure fantasy—some story about finding the ciphers to an ensorcelled map. Achamian could no longer remember.
At the time, the lies had simply … happened. The events of that night and the revelations that followed had been too immediate and far too catastrophic in their implications. Even now, two weeks later, Achamian felt overmatched by their dread significance. Back then, he could only flounder. Stories, on the other hand, were something he could make sense of, something he could speak.
But how could he explain this to Xinemus? To the one man who believed. Who trusted.
Achamian watched and waited, glancing from face to illuminated face. He’d purposely unrolled his mat on the smoky side of the fire, hoping for a measure of solitude while he ate. Now it seemed that providence had placed him here, affording him a furtive glimpse of the whole.
There was Xinemus, of course, seated knees out and back upright like a Zeumi warlord, the hard set of his mouth betrayed by the laughter in his eyes and the crumbs in his square-cut beard. To his left, his cousin, Iryssas, rocked to and fro upon the trunk of a felled tree, so much like a big-pawed puppy in his exuberance, bullying as much as the patience of the others would allow. Sitting to his left, Dinchases, or “Bloody Dinch,” held out his wine bowl for the slaves to refill, the X-shaped scar on his forehead inked black by the shadows. Zenkappa, as usual, sat by his side, his ebony skin shining in the firelight. For some reason, his manner and tone never ceased to remind Achamian of a mischievous wink. Kellhus sat cross-legged nearby, wearing a plain white tunic, and looking for all the world like a portrait plundered from some temple—at once meditative and attentive, remote and absorbed. Serwë leaned against him, her eyes shining beneath drowsy lids, a blanket pulled across her thighs. As always, the flawlessness of her face arrested, and the curves of her figure tugged. Close to her, but back farther from the fire, Cnaiür crouched in the shadows, gazing at the flames and tearing mouthful after mouthful of bread. Even eating he looked ready to break necks.
Such a strange tribe. His tribe.
Could they feel it? he wondered. Could they feel the end coming?
He had to share what he knew. If not with the Mandate, then with someone. He had to share or he would go mad. If only Esmi had come with … No. That way lay more pain.
He set down his bowl, stood, and before he realized it, found himself sitting next to his old friend, Krijates Xinemus, the Marshal of Attrempus.
“Zin …”
“What is it, Akka?”
“I must speak with you,” he said in a hushed voice. “There’s … there’s …”
Kellhus seemed distracted. Even still, Achamian couldn’t shake the sense of being observed.
“That night,” he continued, “that last night beneath Momemn’s walls. Do you remember Ikurei Conphas coming for me, escorting me to the Emperor’s palace?”
“How could I forget. I was worried sick!”
Achamian hesitated, glimpsed images of an old man—the Emperor’s Prime Counsel—convulsing against chains. Glimpses of a face unclutching like hands and flexing outward, reaching … A face that grasped, that seized.
Xinemus studied him by firelight, frowned. “What’s wrong, Akka?”
“I’m a Schoolman, Zin, bound by oath and duty the same as y—”
“Lord Cousin!” Iryssas called over the flame. “You must listen to this! Tell him, Kellhus!”
“ Please, Cousin,” Xinemus replied
The morning after the madness beneath the Emperor’s palace had also been the morning the Holy War began its march. Everything had been confusion. Even still, Xinemus had made Achamian his priority, fairly interrogating him on the details of the previous night. Achamian had started with the truth, or a hollowed out version of it anyway, saying that the Emperor had required independent verification of certain claims made by his Imperial Saik. But what followed was pure fantasy—some story about finding the ciphers to an ensorcelled map. Achamian could no longer remember.
At the time, the lies had simply … happened. The events of that night and the revelations that followed had been too immediate and far too catastrophic in their implications. Even now, two weeks later, Achamian felt overmatched by their dread significance. Back then, he could only flounder. Stories, on the other hand, were something he could make sense of, something he could speak.
But how could he explain this to Xinemus? To the one man who believed. Who trusted.
Achamian watched and waited, glancing from face to illuminated face. He’d purposely unrolled his mat on the smoky side of the fire, hoping for a measure of solitude while he ate. Now it seemed that providence had placed him here, affording him a furtive glimpse of the whole.
There was Xinemus, of course, seated knees out and back upright like a Zeumi warlord, the hard set of his mouth betrayed by the laughter in his eyes and the crumbs in his square-cut beard. To his left, his cousin, Iryssas, rocked to and fro upon the trunk of a felled tree, so much like a big-pawed puppy in his exuberance, bullying as much as the patience of the others would allow. Sitting to his left, Dinchases, or “Bloody Dinch,” held out his wine bowl for the slaves to refill, the X-shaped scar on his forehead inked black by the shadows. Zenkappa, as usual, sat by his side, his ebony skin shining in the firelight. For some reason, his manner and tone never ceased to remind Achamian of a mischievous wink. Kellhus sat cross-legged nearby, wearing a plain white tunic, and looking for all the world like a portrait plundered from some temple—at once meditative and attentive, remote and absorbed. Serwë leaned against him, her eyes shining beneath drowsy lids, a blanket pulled across her thighs. As always, the flawlessness of her face arrested, and the curves of her figure tugged. Close to her, but back farther from the fire, Cnaiür crouched in the shadows, gazing at the flames and tearing mouthful after mouthful of bread. Even eating he looked ready to break necks.
Such a strange tribe. His tribe.
Could they feel it? he wondered. Could they feel the end coming?
He had to share what he knew. If not with the Mandate, then with someone. He had to share or he would go mad. If only Esmi had come with … No. That way lay more pain.
He set down his bowl, stood, and before he realized it, found himself sitting next to his old friend, Krijates Xinemus, the Marshal of Attrempus.
“Zin …”
“What is it, Akka?”
“I must speak with you,” he said in a hushed voice. “There’s … there’s …”
Kellhus seemed distracted. Even still, Achamian couldn’t shake the sense of being observed.
“That night,” he continued, “that last night beneath Momemn’s walls. Do you remember Ikurei Conphas coming for me, escorting me to the Emperor’s palace?”
“How could I forget. I was worried sick!”
Achamian hesitated, glimpsed images of an old man—the Emperor’s Prime Counsel—convulsing against chains. Glimpses of a face unclutching like hands and flexing outward, reaching … A face that grasped, that seized.
Xinemus studied him by firelight, frowned. “What’s wrong, Akka?”
“I’m a Schoolman, Zin, bound by oath and duty the same as y—”
“Lord Cousin!” Iryssas called over the flame. “You must listen to this! Tell him, Kellhus!”
“ Please, Cousin,” Xinemus replied
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