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Authors: R. Scott Bakker
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there he was , sitting cross-legged before the octagonal hearth. Anasûrimbor Kellhus. The Holy Aspect-Emperor.
He sat with the slack repose of someone who had not moved for some time. The outer edges of his plaited beard and shoulder-length hair gleamed in counterpoint to the fire. He wore a simple robe of grey silk embroidered only about the hems. Aside from the faint haze of illumination about his hands, only his eyes seemed extraordinary.
"Is everything—?" Proyas began, only to catch himself in embarrassment.
"Ours has always been a convoluted bond," Kellhus said smiling. "Clad in ritual armour one moment, naked the next. The time has come for us to recline side by side as simple friends."
He gestured for Proyas to sit beside him—on his right, the place of honour. "Truth be told," he said in his old, joking way. "I prefer you clothed ."
"So all is well?" Proyas asked, crouching and crossing his legs.
"I remember when you laughed at my jokes," the Aspect-Emperor said.
"You were funnier back then."
"Back when?"
"Before you beat the World to the last laugh."
The Aspect-Emperor grinned and frowned at once. " That remains to be seen, my friend."
Proyas often was astonished by the way Kellhus could, utterly and entirely, just be what he needed to be given the demands of circumstance. At this moment, he was simply an old and beloved friend, nothing more or less. Usually Proyas found it difficult—given all the miracles of might and intellect he had witnessed—to think of Kellhus as a creature of flesh and blood, as a man. Not so now.
"So all is not well?"
"Well enough," Kellhus said, scratching his brow. "The God has allowed me glimpses of the future, the true future, and thus far everything unfolds in accordance with those glimpses. But there are many dark decisions I must make, Proyas. Decisions I would rather not make alone."
"I'm not sure I understand."
A twinge of shame accompanied this admission, not for the fact of his ignorance, but for the way he had hedged in confessing. Proyas most certainly did not understand. Even after twenty years of devotion, he still succumbed to the stubborn instinct to raise his pride upon little falsehoods and so manage the impressions of others.
How hard it was to be an absolutely faithful soul.
Kellhus had ceased correcting these petty lapses; he no longer needed to. To stand before him was to stand before yourself , to know the warp and woof of your own soul, and to see all the snags and tears that beggared you.
"You are a king and a general," Kellhus said. "I would think you know well the peril of guesses."
Proyas nodded and smiled. "No one likes playing number-sticks alone."
His Lord-and-God raised his eyebrows. "Not with stakes so mad as these."
By some trick of timing, the golden flames before them twirled, and again Proyas thought he glimpsed fiery doom flutter across the leather-panelled walls.
"I am yours, as always my Lor... Kellhus. What do you need of me?"
The leonine face nodded toward the fire. "Kneel before my hearth," the Aspect-Emperor said, the flint of command hardening his voice. "Bow your face into the flame."
Proyas surprised himself with his lack of hesitation. He came to his knees before the edge of the small iron hearth. The heat of the fire pricked him. He knew the famed story from the Tusk, where the God Husyelt asked Angeshraël to bow his face into his cooking fire. He knew, verbatim , the Sermon of the Ziggurat, where Kellhus had used this story to reveal his divinity to the First Holy War twenty years previous. He knew that "Bowing into the Fire" had since become a metaphor for Zaudunyani revelation.
And he knew that innumerable madmen wandered the Three Seas, blinded and scarred for taking the metaphor literally.
Even still, he was on his knees, and he was bowing , doing exactly as his Prophet and Emperor commanded. He even managed to keep his eyes open . And a part of him watched and wondered that a devotion, any devotion, could
He sat with the slack repose of someone who had not moved for some time. The outer edges of his plaited beard and shoulder-length hair gleamed in counterpoint to the fire. He wore a simple robe of grey silk embroidered only about the hems. Aside from the faint haze of illumination about his hands, only his eyes seemed extraordinary.
"Is everything—?" Proyas began, only to catch himself in embarrassment.
"Ours has always been a convoluted bond," Kellhus said smiling. "Clad in ritual armour one moment, naked the next. The time has come for us to recline side by side as simple friends."
He gestured for Proyas to sit beside him—on his right, the place of honour. "Truth be told," he said in his old, joking way. "I prefer you clothed ."
"So all is well?" Proyas asked, crouching and crossing his legs.
"I remember when you laughed at my jokes," the Aspect-Emperor said.
"You were funnier back then."
"Back when?"
"Before you beat the World to the last laugh."
The Aspect-Emperor grinned and frowned at once. " That remains to be seen, my friend."
Proyas often was astonished by the way Kellhus could, utterly and entirely, just be what he needed to be given the demands of circumstance. At this moment, he was simply an old and beloved friend, nothing more or less. Usually Proyas found it difficult—given all the miracles of might and intellect he had witnessed—to think of Kellhus as a creature of flesh and blood, as a man. Not so now.
"So all is not well?"
"Well enough," Kellhus said, scratching his brow. "The God has allowed me glimpses of the future, the true future, and thus far everything unfolds in accordance with those glimpses. But there are many dark decisions I must make, Proyas. Decisions I would rather not make alone."
"I'm not sure I understand."
A twinge of shame accompanied this admission, not for the fact of his ignorance, but for the way he had hedged in confessing. Proyas most certainly did not understand. Even after twenty years of devotion, he still succumbed to the stubborn instinct to raise his pride upon little falsehoods and so manage the impressions of others.
How hard it was to be an absolutely faithful soul.
Kellhus had ceased correcting these petty lapses; he no longer needed to. To stand before him was to stand before yourself , to know the warp and woof of your own soul, and to see all the snags and tears that beggared you.
"You are a king and a general," Kellhus said. "I would think you know well the peril of guesses."
Proyas nodded and smiled. "No one likes playing number-sticks alone."
His Lord-and-God raised his eyebrows. "Not with stakes so mad as these."
By some trick of timing, the golden flames before them twirled, and again Proyas thought he glimpsed fiery doom flutter across the leather-panelled walls.
"I am yours, as always my Lor... Kellhus. What do you need of me?"
The leonine face nodded toward the fire. "Kneel before my hearth," the Aspect-Emperor said, the flint of command hardening his voice. "Bow your face into the flame."
Proyas surprised himself with his lack of hesitation. He came to his knees before the edge of the small iron hearth. The heat of the fire pricked him. He knew the famed story from the Tusk, where the God Husyelt asked Angeshraël to bow his face into his cooking fire. He knew, verbatim , the Sermon of the Ziggurat, where Kellhus had used this story to reveal his divinity to the First Holy War twenty years previous. He knew that "Bowing into the Fire" had since become a metaphor for Zaudunyani revelation.
And he knew that innumerable madmen wandered the Three Seas, blinded and scarred for taking the metaphor literally.
Even still, he was on his knees, and he was bowing , doing exactly as his Prophet and Emperor commanded. He even managed to keep his eyes open . And a part of him watched and wondered that a devotion, any devotion, could
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