The Warrior Prophet Read Online Free PDF

rank.
    Kellhus winked. “I thought I’d let my ass ride me for a change.”
    Achamian laughed, feeling as though he’d been holding his breath and could only now exhale. Since that first evening outside Momemn, Kellhus had made him feel this way—as though he could breathe easy. When he’d mentioned this to Xinemus, the Marshal had shrugged and said, “Everyone farts, sooner or later.”
    “Besides,” Kellhus continued, “you promised you’d instruct me.”
    “I did, did I?”
    “You did.”
    Kellhus reached out and clasped the rope that swayed from his mule’s crude bridle. Achamian looked at him quizzically. “What are you doing?”
    “I’m your student,” Kellhus said, checking the bindings on the mule’s baggage. “Surely in your youth you led your master’s mule.”
    Achamian answered with a dubious smile.
    Kellhus ran a hand along the trunk of the beast’s neck. “What’s his name?” he asked.
    For some reason the banality of the question shocked Achamian—to the point of horror. No one—no man, anyway—had cared to ask before. Not even Xinemus.
    Kellhus frowned at his hesitation. “What’s troubling you, Achamian?”
    You …
    He looked away, across the streaming queues of armed Inrithi. His ears both burned and roared. He reads me like any scroll .
    “Is it so easy?” Achamian asked. “So easy to see?”
    “What does it matter?”
    “It matters,” he said, blinking tears and turning to face Kellhus once again. So I weep! something desolate within him cried. So I weep!
    “Ajencis,” he continued, “once wrote that all men are frauds. Some, the wise, fool only others. Others, the foolish, fool only themselves. And a rare few fool both others and themselves—they are the rulers of Men … But what about men like me, Kellhus? What about men who fool no one?”
    And I call myself a spy!
    Kellhus shrugged. “Perhaps they are less than fools and more than wise.”
    “Perhaps,” Achamian replied, struggling to appear thoughtful.
    “So what troubles you?”
    You …
    “Daybreak,” Achamian said, reaching out to scratch his mule’s snout. “His name is Daybreak.”
    For a Mandate Schoolman, no name was more lucky.

     
    Teaching always quickened something within Achamian. Like the black teas of Nilnamesh, it sometimes made his skin tingle and his soul race. There was the simple vanity of knowing, of course, the pride of seeing farther than another. And there was the joy of watching young eyes pop open in realization, of seeing someone see . To be a teacher was to be a student anew, to relive the intoxication of insight, and to be a prophet, to sketch the world down to its very foundation—not simply to tease sight from blindness, but to demand that another see.
    And then there was the trust that was the counterpart of this demand, so reckless that it terrified Achamian whenever he considered it. The madness of one man saying to another, “Please, judge me …”
    To be a teacher was to be a father.
    But none of this was true of teaching Kellhus. Over the ensuing days, as the Conriyan host marched ever farther south, they walked together, discussing everything imaginable, from the flora and fauna of the Three Seas to the philosophers, poets, and kings of Near and Far Antiquity. Rather than follow any curriculum, which would have been impractical given the circumstances, Achamian adopted the Ajencian mode, and let Kellhus indulge his curiosity. He simply answered questions. And told stories.
    Kellhus’s questions, however, were more than perceptive—so much so that Achamian’s respect for his intellect soon became awe. No matter what the issue, be it political, philosophical, or poetic, the Prince unerringly struck upon the matter’s heart. When Achamian outlined the positions of the great Kûniüric thinker, Ingoswitu, Kellhus, following query upon query, actually arrived at the criticisms of Ajencis, though he claimed to have never read the ancient Kyranean’s work. When