Free The Warrior Prophet by R. Scott Bakker

Serwë?
    The voices from outside had trailed into silence. He could hear that weeping fool of a sorcerer clearing his nose outside. Then Kellhus pressed through the flap into the dim interior. His eyes flashed from Serwë to the knife to Cnaiür’s face.
    “You heard,” he said in flawless Scylvendi. Even after all this time, hearing him speak thus made Cnaiür’s skin prickle.
    “This is a camp of war,” he replied. “Many heard.”
    “No, they slept.”
    Cnaiür knew the futility of debate—he knew the Dûnyain—so he said nothing, rooted through his scattered belongings for his breeches.
    Serwë complained and kicked at her blankets.
    “Do you recall that first time we spoke in your yaksh?” Kellhus asked.
    “Of course,” Cnaiür replied, pulling on his breeches. “I curse that day with every waking breath.”
    “That witch stone you threw to me …”
    “You mean my father’s Chorae?”
    “Yes. Do you still have it?”
    Cnaiür peered at him through the gloom. “But you know I do.”
    “And how would I know?”
    “You know.”
    Cnaiür dressed in silence while Kellhus roused Serwë.
    “But the horrnns, ” she complained, burying her head. “I haven’t heard the horns …”
    Cnaiür laughed abruptly, deep and full-throated.
    “Treacherous work,” he said, now speaking in Sheyic.
    “And what’s that?” Kellhus replied—more for Serwë’s benefit than anything, Cnaiür realized. The Dûnyain knew what he meant. He always knew.
    “Killing sorcerers.”
    Just then, the horns sounded.

     

Late Spring, 4111 Year-of-the-Tusk, the Andiamine Heights
     
    Xerius stood from the baths, walked up the marble steps to where the slaves waited with towels and scented oils. And for the first time in days he could feel it move him—harmony, the providence of auspicious deities … He looked up with mild surprise when the Empress, his mother, appeared from the dark recesses of the chamber.
    “Tell me Mother,” he said without looking at her extravagant figure, “do you simply happen upon me at inopportune moments?” He turned to her as the slaves gently towelled his groin. “Or is this too something you measure?”
    The Empress bowed her head slightly, as though she were Shriah, an equal. “I’ve brought you a gift, Xerius,” she said, gesturing to the dark-haired girl at her side. With a flourish, her eunuch, the giant Pisulathas, opened the girl’s robe and drew it away. Beneath, she was as white-skinned as a Galeoth—as naked as the Emperor, and almost as splendid.
    Gifts from Mother—they underscored the treachery of gifts from those who were not one’s tributaries. Such gifts weren’t gifts at all, in fact. Such gifts always demanded exchange.
    Xerius couldn’t remember when Istriya had started bringing these men and women to him—these surrogates. She had the eye of a whore, his mother—he would grant her that. She knew, unerringly, what would please him. “You are a venal witch, Mother,” he said, admiring the terrified girl. “Was there ever a son so fortunate as me?”
    But Istriya said only, “Skeaös is dead.”
    Xerius looked at her momentarily, then returned his attention to the slaves, who’d begun rubbing him with oil. “ Something is dead,” he replied, suppressing a shudder. “We know not what.”
    “And why wasn’t I told?”
    “I knew you’d hear of it soon enough.” He sat upon the chair brought for him, and his body slaves began combing his hair with more oils, filing his nails. “You always do,” he added.
    “The Cishaurim,” Istriya said after a pause.
    “But of course.”
    “Then they know. The Cishaurim know of your plans.”
    “It’s of little consequence. They knew already.”
    “Have you become such a vulgar fool, Xerius? I thought that after this you would be ready to reconsider.”
    “Reconsider what, Mother?”
    “This mad pact you have made with the heathen. What else?”
    “Silence, Mother.” Xerius glanced nervously at the girl,