whether in affirmation or appreciation, Sorweel could not tell. His hair was silver, as was his plaited beard. His eyes were dark and quick. His finery and regalia made even his father's royal vestments seem like crude homespun. But it was his bearing and imperturbable gaze that made him so impressive. There was a melancholy to him, a sadness that lent him an unsettling gravity.
'No man,' Proyas said, 'can stand between a God and the people.'
Sorweel suppressed a shudder. It was unnerving the way they all referred to him as such, Three Seas Men. And with such thoughtless conviction.
'My priests call him a demon.'
'Hada mem porota-'
'They say what they need to keep their power safe,' the translator said with obvious discomfort. 'They are, truly, the only ones who stand to lose from the quarrel between us.'
For Sorweel's entire life, it seemed, the Aspect-Emperor had been an uneasy rumour from the South. Some of his earliest memories were of his father dandling him on his knee while he questioned Nansur and Galeoth traders from the World-beyond-the-Plains. With looks at once ingratiating and guarded, they would always demur, protest they had ears only for trade and eyes only for profit, when what they really meant was that they had tongues only for gold. In many ways, Sorweel owed his understanding of the world to Twelve-Pelt caravaners and their struggle to render the South into Sakarpic. The Unification Wars. The Thousand Temples. All the innumerable nations of the Three Seas. And the coming of the False Prophet who preached the end of all things.
'He will come for us,' his father would tell him.
'But how can you know, Da?'
'He is a Ciphrang, a Hunger from the Outside, come to this world in the guise of man.'
'Then how can we hope to resist him?'
'With our swords and our shields,' his father had boasted, using the mock voice he always used to make light of terrifying things. 'And when those fail us, with spit and curses.'
But the spit and the curses, Sorweel would learn, always came first, accompanied by bold gestures and grand demonstrations. War was an extension of argument, and swords were simply words honed to a blood-letting edge. Only the Sranc began with blood. For Men, it was always the conclusion.
Perhaps this explained the Emissary's melancholy and his father's frustration. Perhaps they already knew the outcome of this embassy. All doom required certain poses, the mouthing of certain words-so said the priests.
Sorweel gripped the edge of his bench, sat as still as his quailing body would allow. The Aspect-Emperor had come-even still he could scarce believe it. An itch, a name, a principle, a foreboding, something so far across the horizon that it had to seem both childish and menacing, like the wights Sorweel's nurse would invoke whenever he had vexed her. Something that could be dismissed until encircled by shadows.
Now, somewhere out in the darkness that surrounded their hearts and their walls, somewhere out there, he waited, a Hunger clothed in glorious manhood, propped by the arms of grovelling nations. A Demon, come to cut their throats, defile their women, enslave their children. A Ciphrang, come to lay waste to all they knew and loved.
'Have you not read The Sagas?' his father was asking the Emissary, his voice incredulous. 'The bones of our fathers survived the might of the Great Ruiner-Mog-Pharau! I assure you, they haven't grown too brittle to survive you!'
The Exalt-General smiled, or at least tried to. 'Ah, yes… Virtue does not burn.'
'What do you mean?'
'A saying in my country. When a man dies, the pyre takes everything save what his children can use to adorn their ancestor scrolls. All men flatter themselves through their forebears.'
Harweel snorted not so much at the wisdom, it seemed, as the relevance. 'And yet the North is waste and Sakarpus still stands!'
Proyas's smile was pained, his look one of dull pity. 'You forget,' he said with the air of disclosing a prickly truth, 'my Lord has been here before. He broke bread with the men who raised these very halls, back when this was but a province of a greater empire, a backwater frontier. Fortune saved these walls, not fortitude. And Fortune, as you so well know, is a whore.'
Even though his father often paused to order his thoughts, something about the ensuing silence chilled Sorweel to the bowel. He knew his father, knew that the past weeks had taken their toll. His rallying words were the same, and his booming laugh was nothing if not more frequent. But something had changed nonetheless. A slouch in his shoulders. A shadow in his gaze.
'The Great Ordeal stands at your gate,' the Exalt-General pressed. 'The Schools are assembled. The hosts of a hundred tribes and nations beat sword against shield. Doom encircles you, brother. You know you cannot prevail, even with the Chorae Hoard. I know this because your knuckles are as scarred as my own, because your eyes are as bruised by war's horror.'
Another ashen silence. Sorweel found himself leaning forward, trying to peer around the Horn-and-Amber Throne. What was his father doing?
'Come…' the Exalt-General said, his voice one of genuine entreaty. 'Harweel, I beg of you, take my hand. Men can no longer afford to shed the blood of Men.'
Sorweel stood, stared aghast at his father's blank visage. King Harweel was not an old man, but his face seemed slack and rutted about his hanging blond moustaches, his neck bent by the weight of his gold-andiron crown. Sorweel could feel the impulse, errant and unbidden, the overwhelming urge to cover for his father's shameful indecision, to lash out, to… to…
But Harweel had recovered both his wits and his voice.
'Then decamp,' he said in dead tones. 'March to your death in Golgotterath or return to your hot-blooded wives. Sakarpus will not yield.'
As though deferring to some unknown rule of discourse, Proyas lowered his face. He glanced at the bewildered Prince before returning his gaze to the King of Sakarpus. 'There is the surrender that leads to slavery,' he said. 'And there is the surrender that sets one free. Soon, very soon, your people shall know that difference.'
'So says the slave!' Harweel cried.
The Emissary did not require the translator's sputtering interpretation-the tone transcended languages. Something in his look dismayed Sorweel even more than the forced bluster of his father's response. I am weary of blood, his eyes seemed to say. Too long have I haggled with the doomed.
He stood, nodding to his entourage to indicate that more than enough breath had been spent.
Sorweel had expected his father to draw him aside afterwards, to explain not only the situation, but the peculiarities of his demeanor. Though he knew well enough what had happened-the King and the Exalt-General had exchanged one final round of fatuous words to sanctify the inevitable conclusion-his sense of shame forced a kind of confusion upon him. Not only had his father been frightened, he had been openly so-and before the most dire enemy his people had ever faced. There had to be some kind of explanation. Harweel II wasn't simply King, he was also his father, the wisest, bravest man Sorweel had ever known. There was a reason his Boonsmen looked upon him with such reverence, why the Horselords were so loath to invite his displeasure. How could he of all Men be afraid? His father… His father! Was there something he wasn't telling him?
But no answer was forthcoming. Soldered to the bench, Sorweel could only stare at him, his dismay scarcely concealed, as Harweel barked orders to be relayed to his various officers-his tone brusque in the way of men trying to speak their way past tears. Not long afterwards, just as dawn broke behind impenetrable woollen clouds, Sorweel found himself tramping through mud and across cobble, hustled forward by his father's hard-eyed companions, his High Boonsmen. The narrow streets were swollen with supplies gathered from the surrounding country as well as refugees from the Saglands and elsewhere. He saw men butchering cattle, scraping viscera with honed shoulder blades. He saw mothers walking dumbfounded, their arms too short to herd their rag-bundled children. Feeling useless and depressed, Sorweel wondered about his own Boonsmen, though they would not be called such until his first Elking next spring. He had pleaded with his father the previous week that they be allowed to fight together, but to no avail.
The watches lurched one into the next. The rain, which had fallen lightly and sporadically enough to be taken for water blown from the trees, began in earnest, swallowing the distances in sheets of relentless grey. It slipped
