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Authors: R. Scott Bakker
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beneath her leather and woollens. Her face was dark, beautiful,
with the colour and contours of an acorn. Save for the green irises and a
slight elongation of the jaw, she was exactly as he remembered her...
Except that he had never seen
her in his life.
Was she the reason why
Esmenet had betrayed him? Was she why his wife—his wife!—had chosen Kellhus
over a sorcerer, a broken-hearted fool, all those years ago?
Not because of the child she
carried, but because of the child she had lost?
The questions were as inevitable
as the pain, the questions that had pursued him beyond civilization's perfumed
rim. He could have continued asking them, he could have yielded to madness and
made them his life's refrain. Instead he had packed a new life about them, like
clay around a wax figurine, then he had burned them out, growing ever more
decrepit, ever more old , about their absence—more mould than man. He had
lived like some mad trapper, accumulating skins that were furred in ink instead
of hair, the lines of his every snare anchored to this silent hollow within
him, to these questions he dared not ask.
And now here she stood...
Mimara.
The answer?
"I wondered if you would
recognize me," she said. "I prayed you would, in fact."
The morning breeze sifted
through the dark edges of her hair. After so much time spent in the company of
Norsirai women, Achamian found himself struck by memories of his mother and
sisters: the warmth of their olive cheeks, the tangle of their luxurious black
hair.
He rubbed his eyes, dragged
fingers through his unkempt beard. Shaking his head, he said, "You look
like your mother... Very much."
"So I'm told," she
said coolly.
He held out a hand as though to
interrupt her, then lowered it just as quickly, suddenly conscious of its
knob-knuckled age. "But you never answered me. What are you doing
here?"
"Searching for you."
"That much is obvious. The
question is why ."
This time the anger shone
through, enough to make her blink. Achamian had never stopped expecting the
assassins, whether sent by the Consult or the Aspect-Emperor. But even still,
the world beyond the horizon's rim had grown less and less substantial over the
years. More abstract. Trying to forget, trying not to hear when your deepest
ears were continually pricked was almost as difficult as trying to hate away
love. At first nothing, not even holding his head and screaming could shut out
the murderous bacchanal. But somehow, eventually, the roar had faded into a
rumble, and the rumble had trailed into a murmur, and the Three Seas had taken
on the character of a father's legendary exploits: near enough to be believed,
distant enough to be dismissed.
He had found peace—real
peace—waging his strange nocturnal war. Now this woman threatened to overthrow
it all.
He fairly shouted when she
failed to answer. "Why?"
She flinched, looked down to the
childish scribble at her feet: a gaping mouth scrawled in black across mineral
white, with eyes, nose, and ears spaced across its lipless perimeter.
"B-because I
wanted..." Something caught her throat. Her eyes shot up, as though
requiring an antagonist to remain focused. "Because I wanted to know
if..." Her tongue traced the seam of her lips.
"If you were my
father."
His laughter felt cruel, but if was
such, she showed no sign of injury—no outward sign.
"Are you sure?" she
asked, blank in voice and expression.
"I met your mother sometime
after..."
In a blink Achamian had seen it
all, written in a language not so different from the charcoal scrawlings
beneath their feet. It was inevitable that Esmenet would do this, that she
would use all her power as Empress to recover the child she had forbidden him
to mention all those years ago... To find the girl whose name she would never
speak.
"You mean after she sold
me," the girl said.
"There was a famine,"
he heard himself reply. "She
with the colour and contours of an acorn. Save for the green irises and a
slight elongation of the jaw, she was exactly as he remembered her...
Except that he had never seen
her in his life.
Was she the reason why
Esmenet had betrayed him? Was she why his wife—his wife!—had chosen Kellhus
over a sorcerer, a broken-hearted fool, all those years ago?
Not because of the child she
carried, but because of the child she had lost?
The questions were as inevitable
as the pain, the questions that had pursued him beyond civilization's perfumed
rim. He could have continued asking them, he could have yielded to madness and
made them his life's refrain. Instead he had packed a new life about them, like
clay around a wax figurine, then he had burned them out, growing ever more
decrepit, ever more old , about their absence—more mould than man. He had
lived like some mad trapper, accumulating skins that were furred in ink instead
of hair, the lines of his every snare anchored to this silent hollow within
him, to these questions he dared not ask.
And now here she stood...
Mimara.
The answer?
"I wondered if you would
recognize me," she said. "I prayed you would, in fact."
The morning breeze sifted
through the dark edges of her hair. After so much time spent in the company of
Norsirai women, Achamian found himself struck by memories of his mother and
sisters: the warmth of their olive cheeks, the tangle of their luxurious black
hair.
He rubbed his eyes, dragged
fingers through his unkempt beard. Shaking his head, he said, "You look
like your mother... Very much."
"So I'm told," she
said coolly.
He held out a hand as though to
interrupt her, then lowered it just as quickly, suddenly conscious of its
knob-knuckled age. "But you never answered me. What are you doing
here?"
"Searching for you."
"That much is obvious. The
question is why ."
This time the anger shone
through, enough to make her blink. Achamian had never stopped expecting the
assassins, whether sent by the Consult or the Aspect-Emperor. But even still,
the world beyond the horizon's rim had grown less and less substantial over the
years. More abstract. Trying to forget, trying not to hear when your deepest
ears were continually pricked was almost as difficult as trying to hate away
love. At first nothing, not even holding his head and screaming could shut out
the murderous bacchanal. But somehow, eventually, the roar had faded into a
rumble, and the rumble had trailed into a murmur, and the Three Seas had taken
on the character of a father's legendary exploits: near enough to be believed,
distant enough to be dismissed.
He had found peace—real
peace—waging his strange nocturnal war. Now this woman threatened to overthrow
it all.
He fairly shouted when she
failed to answer. "Why?"
She flinched, looked down to the
childish scribble at her feet: a gaping mouth scrawled in black across mineral
white, with eyes, nose, and ears spaced across its lipless perimeter.
"B-because I
wanted..." Something caught her throat. Her eyes shot up, as though
requiring an antagonist to remain focused. "Because I wanted to know
if..." Her tongue traced the seam of her lips.
"If you were my
father."
His laughter felt cruel, but if was
such, she showed no sign of injury—no outward sign.
"Are you sure?" she
asked, blank in voice and expression.
"I met your mother sometime
after..."
In a blink Achamian had seen it
all, written in a language not so different from the charcoal scrawlings
beneath their feet. It was inevitable that Esmenet would do this, that she
would use all her power as Empress to recover the child she had forbidden him
to mention all those years ago... To find the girl whose name she would never
speak.
"You mean after she sold
me," the girl said.
"There was a famine,"
he heard himself reply. "She
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