Achamian replied, though for some reason the thought of further assassination attempts hadn’t occurred to him.
Which means that first and foremost, Nautzera continued, you must do everything in your power to protect him. No harm must come to him!
The Warrior-Prophet has no need of my protection.
Nautzera paused. Why do you call him that?
Because no other name seemed his equal. Not even Anasûrimbor. But something, a profound indecision perhaps, held him mute.
Achamian? Do you actually think the man’s a prophet?
I don’t know what I think … Too much has happened.
This is no time for sentimental foolishness!
Enough, Nautzera. You haven’t seen the man.
No … but I will.
What do you mean? His brother Schoolmen coming here? The thought troubled Achamian somehow. The thought that others from the Mandate might witness his …
… humiliation.
But Nautzera ignored the question. So what does our cousin School, the Scarlet Spires, make of all this? There was a note of sarcastic hilarity in his tone, but it seemed forced, almost painfully so.
At Council, Eleäzaras looks like a man whose children have just been sold into slavery. He can’t even bring himself to look at me, let alone ask about the Consult. He’s heard of the ruin I wrought in Iothiah. I think he fears me.
He will come to you, Achamian. Sooner or later.
Let him come.
Every night the ledgers were opened, the debtors called to account. There would be amends.
There’s no room for vengeance here. You must treat with him as an equal, comport yourself as though you were never abducted, never plied…I understand your hunger for retribution—but the stakes! The stakes of this game outweigh all other considerations. Do you understand this?
What did understanding have to do with hatred?
I understand well enough, Nautzera.
And the Anasûrimbor—what do Eleäzaras and the others make of him?
They want him to be a fraud, I know that much. What they think of him, I don’t know.
You must make it clear to them that the Anasûrimbor is ours, Achamian. You must let them know that what happened at Iothiah is but a trifle compared with what will happen if they try to seize him.
The Warrior-Prophet cannot be seized. He’s … beyond that . Achamian paused, struggled with his composure. But he can be purchased.
Purchased? What do you mean?
He wants the Gnosis, Nautzera. He’s one of the Few. And if I deny him, I fear he might turn to the Scarlet Spires.
One of the Few? How long have you known this?
For some time …
And even then you said nothing! Achamian … Akka…I must know I can trust you with this matter!
As I trusted you on the matter of Inrau?
A long pause, fraught with guilt and accusation. In the blackness, it seemed to Achamian that he could see the boy looking to his teacher in fear and apprehension.
Unfortunate, to be sure, Nautzera said. But events have borne me out, wouldn’t you agree?
I will warn you just this once, Achamian grated. Do you understand?
How could he do this? How long must he wage two wars, one for the world, the other against himself?
But I must know I can trust you!
What would you have me say? You haven’t met the man! Until then, you can never know.
Know what? Know what?
That he’s the world’s only hope. Mark me, Nautzera, he’s more than a mere sign, and he’ll be more than a mere sorcerer—far more!
Harness your passions! You must see him as a tool—a Mandate tool!—nothing more, nothing less. We must possess him!
And if the Gnosis is his price for “possession,” what then?
The Gnosis is our hammer. Ours! Only by submitting—
And the Spires? If Eleäzaras offers him the Anagogis?
Hesitation, both outraged and exasperated.
This is madness! A prophet who would pit School against School for sorcery’s sake? A Wizard-Prophet? A Shaman?
This word forced a silence, one filled by the ethereal boiling that framed all such exchanges, as though the weight of the world inveighed against their