tent when he realized that Xinemus had yet to hear his confession, that he was still alone with what he knew.
Probably for the best.
Skin-spies in their midst. Kellhus the Harbinger of the world’s end. Xinemus would just think him mad.
A woman’s voice brought him up short. “I see the way you look at him.”
Him —Kellhus. Achamian glanced over his shoulder, saw Serwë’s willowy silhouette framed by the fire.
“And how’s that?” he asked. She was angry—her tone had betrayed that much. Was she jealous? During the day, while he and Kellhus wandered the column, she walked with Xinemus’s slaves.
“You needn’t fear,” she said.
Achamian swallowed at the sour taste in his mouth. Earlier, Xinemus had passed perrapta around instead of wine—wretched drink.
“Fear what?”
“Loving him.”
Achamian licked his lips, cursed his racing heart.
“You dislike me, don’t you?”
Even in the gloom of long shadows, she seemed too beautiful to be real, like something that had stepped between the cracks of the world—something wild and white-skinned. For the first time, Achamian realized how much he desired her.
“Only …” She hesitated, studied the flattened grasses at her feet. She raised her face and for the briefest of instants looked at him with Esmenet’s eyes. “Only because you refuse to see,” she murmured.
See what? Achamian wanted to cry.
But she’d fled.
“Akka?” Kellhus called in the fading dark. “I heard someone weeping.”
“It’s nothing,” Achamian croaked, his face still buried in his hands. At some point—he was no longer sure when—he’d crawled from his tent and huddled over the embers of their dying fire. Now dawn was coming.
“Is it the Dreams?”
Achamian rubbed his face, heaved cool air into his lungs.
Tell him!
“Y-yes … The Dreams. That’s it, the Dreams.”
He could feel the man stare down at him, but lacked the heart to look up. He flinched when Kellhus placed a hand on his shoulder, but didn’t pull away.
“But it isn’t the Dreams, is it, Akka? It’s something else … Something more.”
Hot tears parsed his cheeks, matted his beard. He said nothing.
“You haven’t slept this night … You haven’t slept in many nights, have you?”
Achamian looked over the surrounding encampment, across the canvas-congested slopes and fields. Against a sky like cold iron, the pennants hung dead from their poles.
Then he looked to Kellhus. “I see his blood in your face, and it fills me with both hope and horror.”
The Prince of Atrithau frowned. “So this is about me … I feared as much.”
Achamian swallowed, and without truly deciding to, threw the number-sticks. “Yes,” he said. “But it’s not so simple.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Among the many dreams my brother Schoolmen and I suffer, there’s one in particular that troubles us. It has to do with Anasûrimbor Celmomas II, the High King of Kûniüri—with his death on the Fields of Eleneöt in the year 2146.” Achamian breathed deeply, rubbed angrily at his eyes. “You see, Celmomas was the first great foe of the Consult, and the first and most glorious victim of the No-God. The first! He died in my arms, Kellhus. He was my most hated, most cherished friend and he died in my arms!” He scowled, waved his hands in confusion. “I m-mean, I mean in S-Seswatha’s arms …”
“And this is what pains you? That I—”
“You don’t understand! J-just listen … He, Celmomas, spoke to me—to Seswatha—before he died. He spoke to all of us—” Achamian shook his head, cackled, pulled fingers through his beard. “In fact he keeps speaking, night after fucking night, dying time and again—and always for the first time! And-and he says …”
Achamian looked up, suddenly unashamed of his tears. If he couldn’t bare his soul before this man—so like Ajencis, so like Inrau! —then who?
“He says that an Anasûrimbor—an Anasûrimbor, Kellhus!—will return
Probably for the best.
Skin-spies in their midst. Kellhus the Harbinger of the world’s end. Xinemus would just think him mad.
A woman’s voice brought him up short. “I see the way you look at him.”
Him —Kellhus. Achamian glanced over his shoulder, saw Serwë’s willowy silhouette framed by the fire.
“And how’s that?” he asked. She was angry—her tone had betrayed that much. Was she jealous? During the day, while he and Kellhus wandered the column, she walked with Xinemus’s slaves.
“You needn’t fear,” she said.
Achamian swallowed at the sour taste in his mouth. Earlier, Xinemus had passed perrapta around instead of wine—wretched drink.
“Fear what?”
“Loving him.”
Achamian licked his lips, cursed his racing heart.
“You dislike me, don’t you?”
Even in the gloom of long shadows, she seemed too beautiful to be real, like something that had stepped between the cracks of the world—something wild and white-skinned. For the first time, Achamian realized how much he desired her.
“Only …” She hesitated, studied the flattened grasses at her feet. She raised her face and for the briefest of instants looked at him with Esmenet’s eyes. “Only because you refuse to see,” she murmured.
See what? Achamian wanted to cry.
But she’d fled.
“Akka?” Kellhus called in the fading dark. “I heard someone weeping.”
“It’s nothing,” Achamian croaked, his face still buried in his hands. At some point—he was no longer sure when—he’d crawled from his tent and huddled over the embers of their dying fire. Now dawn was coming.
“Is it the Dreams?”
Achamian rubbed his face, heaved cool air into his lungs.
Tell him!
“Y-yes … The Dreams. That’s it, the Dreams.”
He could feel the man stare down at him, but lacked the heart to look up. He flinched when Kellhus placed a hand on his shoulder, but didn’t pull away.
“But it isn’t the Dreams, is it, Akka? It’s something else … Something more.”
Hot tears parsed his cheeks, matted his beard. He said nothing.
“You haven’t slept this night … You haven’t slept in many nights, have you?”
Achamian looked over the surrounding encampment, across the canvas-congested slopes and fields. Against a sky like cold iron, the pennants hung dead from their poles.
Then he looked to Kellhus. “I see his blood in your face, and it fills me with both hope and horror.”
The Prince of Atrithau frowned. “So this is about me … I feared as much.”
Achamian swallowed, and without truly deciding to, threw the number-sticks. “Yes,” he said. “But it’s not so simple.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“Among the many dreams my brother Schoolmen and I suffer, there’s one in particular that troubles us. It has to do with Anasûrimbor Celmomas II, the High King of Kûniüri—with his death on the Fields of Eleneöt in the year 2146.” Achamian breathed deeply, rubbed angrily at his eyes. “You see, Celmomas was the first great foe of the Consult, and the first and most glorious victim of the No-God. The first! He died in my arms, Kellhus. He was my most hated, most cherished friend and he died in my arms!” He scowled, waved his hands in confusion. “I m-mean, I mean in S-Seswatha’s arms …”
“And this is what pains you? That I—”
“You don’t understand! J-just listen … He, Celmomas, spoke to me—to Seswatha—before he died. He spoke to all of us—” Achamian shook his head, cackled, pulled fingers through his beard. “In fact he keeps speaking, night after fucking night, dying time and again—and always for the first time! And-and he says …”
Achamian looked up, suddenly unashamed of his tears. If he couldn’t bare his soul before this man—so like Ajencis, so like Inrau! —then who?
“He says that an Anasûrimbor—an Anasûrimbor, Kellhus!—will return
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