sharply. “Can’t you—”
“Pfah. Just listen to him! We’re trying to understand what this means.”
Xinemus began scolding the man, but it was already too late. Kellhus was speaking.
“It’s just a parable,” the Prince of Atrithau said. “Something I learned while among the Scylvendi … It goes like this: A slender young bull and his harem of cows are shocked to discover that their owner has purchased another bull, far deeper of chest, far thicker of horn, and far more violent of temper. Even still, when the owner’s sons drive the mighty newcomer to pasture, the young bull lowers his horns, begins snorting and stamping. ‘No!’ his cows cry. ‘Please, don’t risk your life for us!’ ‘Risk my life?’ the young bull exclaims. ‘I’m just making sure he knows I’m a bull! ’”
A heartbeat of silence, then an explosion of laughter.
“A Scylvendi parable?” Xinemus cried out, laughing. “Are you—”
“This is my opinion!” Iryssas called through the uproar. “My interpretation! Listen! It means that our dignity—no, our honour —is worth more than anything, more than even our wives!”
“It means nothing,” Xinemus said, wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s a joke, nothing more.”
“It is a parable of courage,” Cnaiür grated, and everyone fell silent—shocked, Achamian supposed, that the taciturn barbarian had actually spoken. The man spat into the fire. “It is a fable that old men tell boys in order to shame them, to teach them that gestures are meaningless, that only death is real.”
Looks were exchanged about the fire. Only Zenkappa dared laugh aloud.
Achamian leaned forward. “What do you say, Kellhus? What do you think it means?”
Kellhus shrugged, apparently surprised he held the answer so many had missed. He matched Achamian’s gaze with friendly, yet utterly implacable, eyes. “It means that young bulls sometimes make good cows …”
More gales of laughter, but Achamian could manage no more than a smile. Why was he so angry? “No,” he called out. “What do you think it really means?”
Kellhus paused, clasped Serwë’s right hand and looked from face to shining face. Achamian glanced at Serwë, only to look away. She was watching him—intently.
“It means,” Kellhus said in a solemn and strangely touching voice, “that there are many kinds of courage, and many degrees of honour.” He had a way of speaking that seemed to hush all else, even the surrounding Holy War. “It means that these things—courage, honour, even love—are problems, not absolutes. Questions.”
Iryssas shook his head vigorously. He was one of those dull-witted men who continually confused ardour with insight. Watching him argue with Kellhus had become something of a sport.
“Courage, honour, love—these are problems? Then what are the solutions? Cowardice and depravity?”
“Iryssas …” Xinemus said half-heartedly. “Cousin.”
“No,” Kellhus replied. “Cowardice and depravity are problems as well. As for the solutions? You, Iryssas—you’re a solution. In fact, we’re all solutions. Every life lived sketches a different answer, a different way …”
“So are all solutions equal?” Achamian blurted. The bitterness of his tone startled him.
“A philosopher’s question,” Kellhus replied, and his smile swept away all awkwardness. “No. Of course not. Some lives are better lived than others—there can be no doubt. Why do you think we sing the lays we do? Why do you think we revere our scriptures? Or ponder the life of the Latter Prophet?”
Examples, Achamian realized. Examples of lives that enlightened, that solved … He knew this but couldn’t bring himself to say it. He was, after all, a sorcerer, an example of a life that solved nothing. Without a word, he rolled to his feet and strode into the darkness, not caring what the others thought. Suddenly, he needed darkness, solitude …
Shelter from Kellhus.
He was kneeling to duck into his
“Pfah. Just listen to him! We’re trying to understand what this means.”
Xinemus began scolding the man, but it was already too late. Kellhus was speaking.
“It’s just a parable,” the Prince of Atrithau said. “Something I learned while among the Scylvendi … It goes like this: A slender young bull and his harem of cows are shocked to discover that their owner has purchased another bull, far deeper of chest, far thicker of horn, and far more violent of temper. Even still, when the owner’s sons drive the mighty newcomer to pasture, the young bull lowers his horns, begins snorting and stamping. ‘No!’ his cows cry. ‘Please, don’t risk your life for us!’ ‘Risk my life?’ the young bull exclaims. ‘I’m just making sure he knows I’m a bull! ’”
A heartbeat of silence, then an explosion of laughter.
“A Scylvendi parable?” Xinemus cried out, laughing. “Are you—”
“This is my opinion!” Iryssas called through the uproar. “My interpretation! Listen! It means that our dignity—no, our honour —is worth more than anything, more than even our wives!”
“It means nothing,” Xinemus said, wiping tears from his eyes. “It’s a joke, nothing more.”
“It is a parable of courage,” Cnaiür grated, and everyone fell silent—shocked, Achamian supposed, that the taciturn barbarian had actually spoken. The man spat into the fire. “It is a fable that old men tell boys in order to shame them, to teach them that gestures are meaningless, that only death is real.”
Looks were exchanged about the fire. Only Zenkappa dared laugh aloud.
Achamian leaned forward. “What do you say, Kellhus? What do you think it means?”
Kellhus shrugged, apparently surprised he held the answer so many had missed. He matched Achamian’s gaze with friendly, yet utterly implacable, eyes. “It means that young bulls sometimes make good cows …”
More gales of laughter, but Achamian could manage no more than a smile. Why was he so angry? “No,” he called out. “What do you think it really means?”
Kellhus paused, clasped Serwë’s right hand and looked from face to shining face. Achamian glanced at Serwë, only to look away. She was watching him—intently.
“It means,” Kellhus said in a solemn and strangely touching voice, “that there are many kinds of courage, and many degrees of honour.” He had a way of speaking that seemed to hush all else, even the surrounding Holy War. “It means that these things—courage, honour, even love—are problems, not absolutes. Questions.”
Iryssas shook his head vigorously. He was one of those dull-witted men who continually confused ardour with insight. Watching him argue with Kellhus had become something of a sport.
“Courage, honour, love—these are problems? Then what are the solutions? Cowardice and depravity?”
“Iryssas …” Xinemus said half-heartedly. “Cousin.”
“No,” Kellhus replied. “Cowardice and depravity are problems as well. As for the solutions? You, Iryssas—you’re a solution. In fact, we’re all solutions. Every life lived sketches a different answer, a different way …”
“So are all solutions equal?” Achamian blurted. The bitterness of his tone startled him.
“A philosopher’s question,” Kellhus replied, and his smile swept away all awkwardness. “No. Of course not. Some lives are better lived than others—there can be no doubt. Why do you think we sing the lays we do? Why do you think we revere our scriptures? Or ponder the life of the Latter Prophet?”
Examples, Achamian realized. Examples of lives that enlightened, that solved … He knew this but couldn’t bring himself to say it. He was, after all, a sorcerer, an example of a life that solved nothing. Without a word, he rolled to his feet and strode into the darkness, not caring what the others thought. Suddenly, he needed darkness, solitude …
Shelter from Kellhus.
He was kneeling to duck into his
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