'Excellent,' Kayыtas said, like a field captain pleased by the vigour of his company's response. 'I should also tell you that I resent this charge of my father's. I even resent this interview, not simply because I lack the time, but because I think it beneath me. I detest politics, and this relationship my father has forced upon us is nothing if not political. Even still, I recognize that these passions are a product of my own weakness. I will not, as other men might, hold you accountable for them. My father wants me to be as a brother to you… And since my father is more God than Man, I will do exactly as he wishes.'
He paused as though to leave room for Sorweel to reply, but the young King could scarce order his thoughts, let alone speak. Kayыtas had been every bit as direct as he had promised, and yet at the same time his discourse seemed bent to the point of deformity, charged with a too-penetrating intelligence, pleated with an almost obscene self-awareness…
Who were these people?
'I can see the embers of sedition in your eyes,' Kayыtas resumed, 'a wild hunger to destroy yourself in the act of avenging your father.' His voice had somehow scaled the surrounding canvas panels, so that it seemed to fall from all directions. 'At every turn you struggle, because you know not whether my father is a demon, as your priests claim, or the Saviour the Men of Three Seas know him to be. I do not begrudge you this, Sorweel. All I ask is that you inquire with an open heart. I fear proof of my father's Holy Mission will come soon enough…'
He paused as though distracted by some unexpected thought. 'Perhaps,' he continued, 'if we're fortunate enough to survive that proof, you and I can have a different conversation.'
Sorweel stood rigid, braced against the sense of futility that whelmed through him. How? was all he could think. How does one war against foes such as this?
'In the interim,' the Prince-Imperial said with an air of turning to more practical matters, 'you need to learn Sheyic, of course. I will have an instructor arranged for you. And you need to show my Horse-masters that you're a true son of Sakarpus. You are now a captain of the Imperial Kidruhil, Sorweel, a member of the illustrious Company of Scions…' He lowered his chin in a curious smile. 'And I am your general.'
Another long, appraising pause. The old secretary had paused to cut a new tip on his quill, which he held in fingers soaked black with ink. Sorweel caught him stealing a quick glance in his direction.
'Is this agreeable to you?' Kayыtas asked.
'What choice do I have?'
For the first time something resembling compassion crossed the Prince-Imperial's face. He breathed as though gathering wind for crucial words. 'You are the warlike son of a warlike people, Sorweel. Remain in Sakarpus, and you will be little more than a carefully managed captive. Even worse, you will never resolve the turmoil that even now chokes your heart. Ride with me and my brother, and you will see, one way or another, what kind of king you must be.'
He scarce understood what was happening, so how could he know what he should or shouldn't do? But there was heart to be found in the sound of resolution. And besides, he was developing a talent for petulant remarks. 'As I said,' Sorweel replied, 'what choice.'
Anasыrimbor Kayыtas nodded, rather like a field surgeon regarding his handiwork, Sorweel thought.
It is enough that I obey…
'The slave who brought you here,' the Prince-Imperial continued in a by-the-way tone, 'is named Porsparian. He's from Shigek, an ancient land to the south of-'
'I know where it is.'
Had it come to this? Had it come to the point where interrupting his oppressors could count as vengeance?
'Of course you do,' Kayыtas replied with a partially suppressed grin. 'Porsparian has a facility with tongues. Until I find you an instructor, you will practise your Sheyic with him…' Trailing, the man leaned across the table to lift a sheaf of papyrus between his fore and index fingers.
He held it our to Sorweel, saying, 'Here.'
'What is it?'
'A writ of bondage. Porsparian is now yours.'
The young King blinked. He had stared at the slave's back so long he could scarcely remember what he looked like. He took the sheet in his hands, stared at the incomprehensible characters.
'I know,' Kayыtas continued, 'that you will treat him well.'
At that, the Prince-Imperial returned to his reading, acting for all the world as if their conversation had never happened. Numb save where the sheet burned his fingertips, Sorweel retreated. Just as he turned to cross the threshold, Kayыtas's voice brought him up short.
'Oh, yes, and one final thing,' he said to the papyrus. 'My elder brother, Moлnghus… Beware him.'
The young King tried to reply but came to a stammering halt. He grimaced, breathed past the hammering of his heart, then tried again. 'Wh-why is that?'
'Because,' Kayыtas said, his eyes still ranging the inked characters, 'he's quite mad.'
Stepping from the Prince-Imperial's pavilion, Sorweel told himself he blinked for the sharpness of the sun. But his burning cheeks and aching throat knew better, as did his sparrow-light hands.
What am I to do?
The shouts of the cavalrymen carried on the wind, followed by a caw-cawing of a horn, high and shrill above the bone-deep din that was the Great Ordeal. The sound seemed to cut, to peel, expose him past the skin.
How many kings? How many grim-souled men?
What was Sakarpus compared to any nation of the Three Seas, let alone the might and majesty that was the New Empire? A god for an emperor. The sons of a god for generals. An entire world for a bastion. Sorweel had heard the reports of his father's spies in the weeks preceding the Ordeal's assault on the city. Shit-herders. This was what the Men of the Three Seas called him and his kinsmen…
Shit-herders.
A blank feeling reached through him, like forgetting to breathe, only more profound. What would his father say, seeing him unmanned time and again, not because of the wiles or the ruthlessness of their enemy, but because of… because of…
Loneliness?
The slave, Porsparian, watched him from the shadow of their horses. Not knowing what to do, Sorweel simply walked up and passed the writ of bondage to him.
'I…' he started, only to gag on welling tears. 'I–I…'
The old man gawked in voiceless alarm. He grasped Sorweel's forearms and gently pressed the writ against the padded fabric of his parm tunic. And Sorweel could only think, Wool, here stands the King dressed in woollen rags.
'I failed him!' he sobbed to the uncomprehending slave. 'Don't you see? I failed!'
The old Shigeki gripped him by the shoulders, stared long and hard into his anguished eyes. The man's face, it seemed, was not so different from the writ Sorweel held against his breast: smooth save where scored with lines of unknown script, across the forehead, about the eyes and snout, as dark as any ink, as if the god who had carved him had struck too deep with the knife.
'What do I do?' Sorweel murmured and gasped. 'What do I do now?'
The man seemed to nod, though the yellow eyes remained fixed, immobile. Gradually, for reasons Sorweel could not fathom, his breathing slowed and the roaring in his ears fell away.
Porsparian led him to his quarters, taking too many turns for Sorweel to ever hope to remember. The tent was large enough for him to stand in, and furnished with nothing more than a cot for himself and a mat for his slave. For most of the afternoon, he laid in a bleary reverie, staring at the white fabric, watching it rise and fall like the shirt of a slumbering little brother. He paid no attention to the porters when they arrived with his meagre collection of things. He held his father's torc for a time, an age-old relic of the Varalt Dynasty, stamped with the seal of his family: the tower and two-headed wolf. He pulled it to his breast, clutched it so tight he was sure the sapphires had cut him. But when he looked there was no blood, only a quick-fading impression.
King Proyas arrived as the tent panels became waxen in the failing light. He said a few jocular words in Sheyic, perhaps hoping to hearten with his tone. When Sorweel failed to respond, the Exalt-General stared at the young King with a kind of magisterial remorse, as though seeing in him some image from his own not-so-kindly
