Read Online The Thousandfold Thought by R. Scott Bakker - Free Book Online
Authors: R. Scott Bakker
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petalled ground as it passed beneath her small feet. She smiled in a manner at once rueful and heartbreaking, as though she answered teasing proposals with loving admissions.
It was the first time, Achamian realized, that he’d seen the two of them together. She seemed otherworldly, self-assured, slender beneath the sheer turquoise lines of her Kianene gown—something fitted, Achamian had no doubt, for one of the dead Padirajah’s concubines. Graceful. Dark of eye and face, her hair flashing like obsidian between the golden ribs of her headdress—a Nilnameshi Empress on the arm of a Kûniüric High King. And wearing a Chorae—a Trinket !—pressed against her throat. A Tear of God, more black than black.
She was Esmenet and yet she wasn’t Esmenet. The woman of loose life had fallen away, and what remained was more, so much more, than she’d been at his side. Resplendent.
Redeemed.
I dimmed her, he realized. I was smoke and he … is a mirror .
At the sight of his Prophet, Captain Heörsa had fallen to his knees, his face pressed to the ground. Achamian found himself doing the same, though more because his legs refused to bear him.
“So what will it be the next time I die?” he had asked her that night she had broken him. “The Andiamine Heights?”
What a fool he’d been!
He blinked womanishly, swallowed against the absurd pang that nettled the back of his throat. For a moment the world seemed nothing more than a criminal ledger, with all he’d surrendered—and he’d surrendered so much!—balanced against one thing. Why couldn’t he have this one thing?
Because he would ruin it, the way he ruined everything.
“I carry his child.”
For a heartbeat her eyes met his own. She raised a hesitant hand only to lower it, as though recalling new loyalties. She turned to kiss Kellhus’s cheek, then fled, her eyes seemingly closed, her lips drawn into a heart-frosting line.
It was the first time he had seen the two of them together.
“So what will it be the next time I die?”
Kellhus stood before one of the apple trees, watching him with gentle expectation. He wore a white silk cassock patterned with a grey arboreal brocade. As always, the pommel of his curious sword jutted over his left shoulder. Like Esmenet, he bore a Trinket, though he had the courtesy to keep it concealed against his chest.
“You need never kneel in my presence,” he said, waving for Achamian to join him. “You are my friend, Akka. You will always be my friend.”
His ears roaring, Achamian stood, glanced at the shadows where Esmenet had disappeared.
How has it come to this?
Kellhus had been little more than a beggar the first time Achamian had seen him, a puzzling accessory to the Scylvendi, whom Proyas had hoped to use in his contest with the Emperor. But even then there had been something, it now seemed, a glimpse of this moment in embryo. They had wondered why a Scylvendi—and of Utemot blood, no less—would seek employ in an Inrithi Holy War.
“I am the reason,” Kellhus had said.
The revelation of his name, Anasûrimbor, had been but the beginning.
Achamian crossed the interval only to feel strangely bullied by Kellhus’s height. Had he always been this tall? Smiling, Kellhus effortlessly guided him between a gap in the trees. One of the dolmens blackened the sun. The air hummed with the industry of bees. “How fares Xinemus?” he said.
Achamian pursed his lips, swallowed. For some reason he found this question disarming to the point of tears.
“I—I worry for him.”
“You must bring him, and soon. I miss eating and arguing beneath the stars. I miss a fire nipping at my feet.”
And as easy as that, Achamian found himself tripping into the old rhythm. “Your legs always were too long.”
Kellhus laughed. He seemed to shine about the pit of the Chorae. “Much like your opinions.”
Achamian grinned, but a glimpse of the welts about Kellhus’s wrists struck the nascent humour from him. For the
It was the first time, Achamian realized, that he’d seen the two of them together. She seemed otherworldly, self-assured, slender beneath the sheer turquoise lines of her Kianene gown—something fitted, Achamian had no doubt, for one of the dead Padirajah’s concubines. Graceful. Dark of eye and face, her hair flashing like obsidian between the golden ribs of her headdress—a Nilnameshi Empress on the arm of a Kûniüric High King. And wearing a Chorae—a Trinket !—pressed against her throat. A Tear of God, more black than black.
She was Esmenet and yet she wasn’t Esmenet. The woman of loose life had fallen away, and what remained was more, so much more, than she’d been at his side. Resplendent.
Redeemed.
I dimmed her, he realized. I was smoke and he … is a mirror .
At the sight of his Prophet, Captain Heörsa had fallen to his knees, his face pressed to the ground. Achamian found himself doing the same, though more because his legs refused to bear him.
“So what will it be the next time I die?” he had asked her that night she had broken him. “The Andiamine Heights?”
What a fool he’d been!
He blinked womanishly, swallowed against the absurd pang that nettled the back of his throat. For a moment the world seemed nothing more than a criminal ledger, with all he’d surrendered—and he’d surrendered so much!—balanced against one thing. Why couldn’t he have this one thing?
Because he would ruin it, the way he ruined everything.
“I carry his child.”
For a heartbeat her eyes met his own. She raised a hesitant hand only to lower it, as though recalling new loyalties. She turned to kiss Kellhus’s cheek, then fled, her eyes seemingly closed, her lips drawn into a heart-frosting line.
It was the first time he had seen the two of them together.
“So what will it be the next time I die?”
Kellhus stood before one of the apple trees, watching him with gentle expectation. He wore a white silk cassock patterned with a grey arboreal brocade. As always, the pommel of his curious sword jutted over his left shoulder. Like Esmenet, he bore a Trinket, though he had the courtesy to keep it concealed against his chest.
“You need never kneel in my presence,” he said, waving for Achamian to join him. “You are my friend, Akka. You will always be my friend.”
His ears roaring, Achamian stood, glanced at the shadows where Esmenet had disappeared.
How has it come to this?
Kellhus had been little more than a beggar the first time Achamian had seen him, a puzzling accessory to the Scylvendi, whom Proyas had hoped to use in his contest with the Emperor. But even then there had been something, it now seemed, a glimpse of this moment in embryo. They had wondered why a Scylvendi—and of Utemot blood, no less—would seek employ in an Inrithi Holy War.
“I am the reason,” Kellhus had said.
The revelation of his name, Anasûrimbor, had been but the beginning.
Achamian crossed the interval only to feel strangely bullied by Kellhus’s height. Had he always been this tall? Smiling, Kellhus effortlessly guided him between a gap in the trees. One of the dolmens blackened the sun. The air hummed with the industry of bees. “How fares Xinemus?” he said.
Achamian pursed his lips, swallowed. For some reason he found this question disarming to the point of tears.
“I—I worry for him.”
“You must bring him, and soon. I miss eating and arguing beneath the stars. I miss a fire nipping at my feet.”
And as easy as that, Achamian found himself tripping into the old rhythm. “Your legs always were too long.”
Kellhus laughed. He seemed to shine about the pit of the Chorae. “Much like your opinions.”
Achamian grinned, but a glimpse of the welts about Kellhus’s wrists struck the nascent humour from him. For the
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