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Achamian feared he might gag on the irony. And always he would think: My School! Why do I betray my School?
    “Tell me of the No-God,” Kellhus said one afternoon.
    As often happened when they crossed flat pasture, the long lines had broken from the road, and men fanned across the grasses. Some even doffed their sandals and boots and danced, as though finding second wind in unburdened feet. Achamian, who’d been laughing at their antics, was caught entirely off guard.
    Now he shuddered. Not so very long ago that name—the No-God—had referred to something distant and dead.
    “You hail from Atrithau,” Achamian replied, “and you want me to tell you of the No-God?”
    Kellhus shrugged. “We read The Sagas, as you do. Our bards sing their innumerable lays, as do yours. But you … You’ve seen these things.”
    No, Achamian wanted to say, Seswatha has seen these things. Seswatha.
    Instead he studied the distance, gathering his thoughts. He clutched his hands, which felt as light as balsa.
    You’ve seen these things. You …
    “He has, as you likely know, many names. The Men of ancient Kûniüri called him Mog-Pharau, from which we derive ‘No-God.’ In ancient Kyraneas, he was simply called Tsurumah, the ‘Hated One.’ The Nonmen of Ishoriol called him—with the peculiar poetry that belongs to all their names— Cara-Sincurimoi, the ‘Angel of Endless Hunger’ … He is well named. Never has the world known a greater evil … A greater peril.”
    “What is he, then? An unclean spirit?”
    “No. Many demons have walked this world. If the rumours about the Scarlet Spires are true, some walk this world still. No, he is more and he is less …”
    Achamian fell silent.
    “Perhaps,” the Prince of Atrithau ventured, “we shouldn’t speak—”
    “I’ve seen him, Kellhus. As much as any man can, I’ve seen him … Not far from here, at a place called the Plains of Mengedda, the shattered hosts of Kyraneas and her allies hoisted their pennants anew, determined to die grappling the Foe. That was two thousand years ago.”
    Achamian laughed bitterly, lowering his face. “I’d forgotten …”
    Kellhus watched him intently. “Forgotten what?”
    “That the Holy War would be crossing the Plains of Mengedda. That I would soon trod earth that had witnessed the No-God’s death …” He looked to the southern hills. Soon the Unaras Spur, which marked the ends of the Inrithi world, would resolve from the horizon. And on the far side …
    “How could I’ve forgotten?”
    “There’s so much to remember,” Kellhus said. “Too much.”
    “Which means too much has been forgotten,” Achamian snapped, unwilling to absolve himself of this oversight. I need my wits! The very world …
    “You are too …” Kellhus began, then trailed.
    “Too what? Too harsh? You don’t understand what it was like! Every infant stillborn for eleven years—for eleven years, Kellhus! Ever since the No-God’s awakening, every womb a grave … And you could feel him—no matter where you were. He was an ever-present horror in every heart. You need only look to the horizon, and you would know his direction. He was a shadow, an intimation of doom …
    “The High North had been laid waste—I need not recite that woe. Mehtsonc, the mighty capital of Kyraneas, had been overthrown the month before. Every hearthstone had been cracked. Every idol had been smashed. Every wife violated. All the great nations had fallen … So little remained, Kellhus! So few survived!
    “With their vassals and allies from the south, the Kyraneans awaited the Foe. Seswatha stood at the right hand of the Kyranean Great King, Anaxophus V. They’d become fast friends years before, when Celmomas had summoned all the lords of Eärwa to his Ordeal, the doomed Holy War meant to destroy the Consult before they could awaken Tsurumah. Together they watched his approach …”
    Tsuramah …
    Achamian abruptly stopped, turning to the north. “Imagine,” he said,