Free The Darkness that Comes Before by R. Scott Bakker Page A

It was Simas, a wry smile splitting his snow white beard. He wore a grey vestment over his blue silk gown. Even in appearance he was water to Nautzera’s fire.
    “How was your journey?” Simas asked.
    “The Dreams were particularly bad,” Achamian replied, somewhat bewildered by the shift between hard speculation and light pleasantries. In what now seemed a different lifetime, Simas had been his teacher, the one to bury the innocence of a Nroni fisherman’s son in the mad revelations of the Mandate. They hadn’t spoken directly in years—Achamian had been abroad for a long time—but the ease of manner, the ability to speak without the detours of jnan, remained. “What do you mean, Simas? Why couldn’t a Holy War succeed against the Fanim?”
    “Because of the Cishaurim.”
    Again the Cishaurim.
    “I fear I don’t follow you, old teacher. Surely it would be easier for the Inrithi to war against Kian, a nation with only one School—if the Cishaurim can be called such—than for them to war against all the Schools.”
    Simas nodded. “On the face of things, perhaps. But think on it, Achamian. We estimate that the Thousand Temples itself has some four to five thousand Chorae, which means it could field at least as many men immune to whatever sorceries we could muster. Add to that all of the Inrithi lords who also bear Trinkets, and Maithanet could field an army of perhaps ten thousand men who would be immune to us in every way.”
    In the Three Seas, Chorae were a crucial variable in the algebra of war. In so many ways the Few were like Gods compared with the masses. Only the Chorae prevented the Schools from utterly dominating the Three Seas.
    “Certainly,” Achamian replied, “but Maithanet could likewise field those men against the Cishaurim. However different the Cishaurim may be, they seem to share our vulnerabilities at least.”
    “Could he?”
    “Why not?”
    “Because between those men and the Cishaurim would stand all the armed might of Kian. The Cishaurim are not a School, old friend. They don’t stand apart, as we do, from the faith and people of their nation. While the Holy War struggled to overcome the heathen Grandees of Kian, the Cishaurim would rain ruin upon them.” Simas lowered his chin as though testing his beard against his breastbone. “Do you see?”
    Achamian could see. He had dreamed of such a battle before—the Fords of Tywanrae, where the hosts of ancient Akssersia had burned in the fires of the Consult. At the mere thought of this tragic battle, images flashed before his eyes, shadowy men thrashing in waters, consumed in towering bonfires . . . How many had been lost at the fords?
    “Like Tywanrae,” Achamian whispered.
    “Like Tywanrae,” Simas replied, his voice both solemn and gentle. They had all shared this nightmare. The Schoolmen of the Mandate shared every nightmare.
    Throughout this exchange, Nautzera had regarded them narrowly. Like a Prophet of the Tusk, his judgement was palpable—except where prophets saw sinners, Nautzera saw fools. “And as I said,” the old man remarked, “this Maithanet is shrewd, a man of intellect. Surely he knows he cannot win a Holy War against the Fanim.”
    Achamian stared blankly at the sorcerer. His earlier exhilaration had fled, replaced by a cold and dank fear. Another Scholastic War . . . The thought of Tywanrae had shown him the terrifying dimensions of such a prospect.
    “This is why I’ve been recalled from High Ainon? To prepare for this new Shriah’s Holy War?”
    “No,” Nautzera replied decisively. “We’ve simply told you the reasons why we fear that Maithanet might call his Holy War against us. Ultimately, we don’t know what he plans.”
    “Indeed,” Simas added. “Between the Schools and the Fanim, the Fanim are undoubtedly the greatest threat to the Thousand Temples. Shimeh has been lost to the heathens for centuries, and the Empire is but a frail shadow of what it once was, while Kian has become the