Lord of Lies

His hand swept out toward Kasandra and the two women who accompanied her. ‘More to the point, these scryers are from Galda, and so who knows if they are Morjin’s agents or spies?’

Lord Tanu, I thought, was a crabby and suspicious man. He would mistrust the sun itself because it rose first over the mountains of another land. I sensed that his words wounded Kasandra. There she stood, old and nearly bent double with the weight of some prophecy that she had traveled many miles to deliver – and her shame at Lord Tanu’s loathing of scryers burned through her, as it did me.

And so I stood up and tried to make light of his insult. I, who had too often listened uncomprehending as Atara spoke of her visions, called out to Lord Tanu and the others in the hall: ‘The real difficulty is in understanding the words of any scryer. It’s like trying to grasp fish bare-handed in the middle of a rushing stream.’

But if I had hoped to cool Kasandra’s rising anger, I hoped in vain. Kasandra looked across the hall toward me, and her sharp, old voice cracked out like thunder: ‘I must tell you, Valashu Elahad, I have brought words that you will want to hold onto with all the strength you can summon.’

From the pocket of her robe, she took out a small, clear scryer’s crystal that sparkled in the sudden radiance pouring from the Lightstone.

‘This is the vision that I and my sisters have seen: that you, Valashu Elahad, will find the Maitreya in the darkest of places; that the blood of the innocent will stain your hands; that a ghul will undo your dreams; that a man with no face will show you your own.’

She stared at me as my heart beat three times, hard, behind the bones of my chest. And then, without waiting for Lord Tanu or others to question her, she gathered up her sister scryers and stormed past the rows of tables and out through the western portal.

A dreadful silence fell upon the hall. No one moved; no one said anything. Her words seemed to hang in the air like black clouds. I knew, with a shiver that chilled my soul, that she had spoken truly. I wanted to leap up and follow her, to ask her the meaning of her prophecy. But just then a blast of hatred drove into my belly and left me gasping for breath.

While my father and family sat nearly frozen in their chairs, I struggled to turn toward the table of the Red Priests. The red dragons emblazoned on their yellow robes seemed to burn my eyes like fire. These seven men, I thought, were the descendants in spirit of others who had once crucified a thousand Valari warriors along the road to Argattha and had drunk their blood. And now one of them, I thought, perhaps incited by Kasandra’s words, was crucifying me with his eyes and sucking at my soul. I looked for his face beneath the drooping cowls, but all I could see were shadows. And then I looked with a different sense.

All men and women burn with passions such as hatred and love, exuberance, envy and fear. These flames of their beings gather inside each person in a unique pattern that blazes with various colors: the red twists of rage, the yellow tint of cowardice, the bright blue bands of impossible dreams. And now the flames of one of these priests – the tall one hunched over his glass of brandy – came roaring out of the black cavern of memory and burned me with their fiery signature. With a sudden certainty that made my hand close around the hilt of my sword, I knew that I knew this man all too well.

And he knew it, too. For he raised up his head in a pride beyond mere arrogance and threw back his robe’s yellow cowl. As he stood up to face me, one of the warriors called out, ‘It’s the traitor! It’s Salmelu Aradar!’

‘He’s been banished from Mesh!’ someone else shouted. ‘On pain of death, he’s been banished!’

‘Send him back to the stars!’ a familiar voice cried out.

I looked across the hall to see Baltasar standing with his sword half-drawn as he trembled to advance upon Salmelu.

‘Hold!’ my father called to him. To Salmelu, he said, ‘You have been denied fire, bread and salt while on Meshian soil. Yet here you stand, having taken much more than bread with us tonight!’

‘It is true that Salmelu of Ishka has been banished,’ Salmelu said. He was an ugly man, with a great bear-snout of a nose and a scar that seamed his face from his low hairline to his weak chin. His small eyes, black as pools of pitch, smoldered with spite for my father and me. ‘But you should know, I am Salmelu no longer, for he is dead. You may call me Igasho, which is the new name Lord Morjin has given me.’

On the middle of his forehead was tattooed Morjin’s mark: a coiled, red dragon. Some months before, by the banks of the Raaswash, I had exposed this mark for all to behold – and exposed Salmelu as a traitor and aspiring priest of the Kallimun. In the time since then, Salmelu must have travelled to Sakai to be confirmed in Morjin’s evil priesthood. And returned here as the chief of Morjin’s emissaries.

‘It doesn’t matter if he’s called Igasho or Salmelu … or the Dark One himself!’ Baltasar cried out, sliding out his sword another inch. ‘A corpse by any other name would smell as foul. Let us put this one in the ground!’

‘No, hold!’ my father commanded. ‘Whatever this Igasho is, he is Morjin’s lawful emissary and may not be harmed. On pain of death, Baltasar – on pain of death.’

It cost my father much to deliver these words, especially in sight of Lansar Raasharu, who was not only his seneschal, but his oldest friend. Lord Raasharu sat at his table frozen to his seat; he stared at Baltasar and silently implored his son to put away his sword. As Baltasar’s kalama slid back into its sheath with a loud click, Lord Raasharu breathed a heavy sigh of thanks.

‘You,’ my father said to Salmelu, ‘defile the sacred calling of the emissary. But an emissary you still are, and you have come here to speak for Morjin. So then, speak.’

Salmelu – or Igasho – lifted up his head in triumph. He moved toward the center of the room so that he stood directly in front of the Lightstone, and he fairly whipped out these words: ‘Tonight you have heard one scryer’s prophecy. I bring you another, from Sakai: that the Day of the Dragon is at hand. For it has been foretold that Lord Morjin will regain the Cup of Heaven that was stolen from him.’

Here his hand pointed like a sword straight past my father’s head at the Lightstone. ‘Your son, King Shamesh, stole this from Lord Morjin’s throne room, and my king demands that it be returned!’

‘That’s a lie!’ Maram roared out, rising from his chair. ‘How can Morjin claim as stolen that which he himself stole long ago?’

Salmelu cast Maram a look of scorn as if to ask why he – or anyone – should listen to the words of a drunkard. Then he turned and pointed his finger at me.

‘You broke into the sacred city of Argattha – and broke into Lord Morjin’s private rooms themselves. You are a thief who took gelstei from my lord: a bloodstone and the very Lightstone that now shines above you. You are a liar who has told false as to how you came by these things. And you are a murderer: how many, Valashu Elahad, did you put to the sword in making your escape? You even butchered a poor beast, the dragon, Angraboda, who was only trying to guard her eggs from you.’

Salmelu paced back and forth in front of my family’s table, here pausing to stab his finger at me as he made a point, there sneering at me as he spat out his filthy accusations. He was all of Morjin’s rage and hate, which bubbled up in his blood like poison and transformed him from a once-proud Valari warrior into a snarling, vengeful mockery of a man.

Once before, in King Hadaru’s palace, Salmelu’s lies had nearly driven me mad. And so I had challenged him to a duel that left him with terrible wounds – and had nearly killed me. Now, in the heart of my father’s castle, I placed my hands flat upon the cool wood of the table before me where I could see them. I commanded them not to move.

‘You,’ Samelu said, pointing at me again, ‘are also an assassin who tried to murder Lord Morjin. Is any crime so great as regicide?’

Once, in a dark wood not far from this place, Salmelu had fired into my body an arrow tipped with kirax in which Morjin had set his spite. The poison would always burn through my veins and connect me heart to heart with Morjin. His Red Priest, Salmelu who was now Igasho, continued firing poison into me in the form of his hateful words.

‘And now you,’ he continued, ‘pose as the Lord of Light when you know that it is Lord Morjin who has been called to lead Ea into the new age.’

My hands, welded to the table by the stickiness of some spilt beer, no less my will, remained motionless. But I could not keep my lips from forming these words: ‘If the Maitreya is Morjin, then light is dark, love is hate, and good has become evil.’

‘You speak of evil, Lord Valashu? You speak that of one who is famed for his forgivingness?’

So saying, he removed from his pocket a small, gilded box. He stepped forward and laid it on the table just beyond the tips of my fingers.

‘What is this?’ I asked.

‘A gift from Lord Morjin.’

‘I want nothing from him!’ I said, staring at the box. ‘It cannot be accepted.’

‘But it belongs to you. Or, I should say, to one of your friends.’

I looked across the hall to see Maram craning his neck to get a glimpse of what the box might hold. Baltasar, too, had half risen out of his seat.

‘Don’t open it, Val!’ Master Juwain called from his table. ‘Give it back to him!’

At last, as if my hands had a life and will of their own, they moved to grasp the box and open it. I threw back its lid and gasped to see inside two small spheres that looked like chunks of charred meat. They stank of hemlock and sumac and acids used to tan flesh. I coughed and choked and swallowed hard against the bile rising up from my belly. For I knew with a sudden and great bitterness what these two spheres were: Atara’s eyes that Morjin had clawed out with his own fingers and cast into a brazier full of red-hot coals.

Every abomination, I thought. Every degradation of the human spirit.

‘Do you see?’ Samelu said to me. His mocking voice beat at me like a war drum. ‘Lord Morjin would return this treasure to your woman by your hand. And now the Cup of Heaven must be returned to him.’

Despite myself, I moved my fingers to touch these blackened orbs that I had once touched with my lips; it was as if I had touched the blackness at the very center of Morjin’s heart. I felt myself falling into a bottomless abyss. I leapt up as I whipped out my sword and pointed it at Salmelu.

‘I’ll return you to the stars!’ I shouted at him.

‘Hold!’ my father called out. ‘Hold him, Ravar!’

Quick as an arrow, Ravar flew out of his chair and grabbed hold of me. So did Asaru and Karshur, who came up behind me and locked their arms around me as they clasped me close to their strong bodies.

‘Do you see?’ Salmelu cried out again as he backed away from my table. ‘Do you see what a murderer this Elahad is?’

Truly, I thought, I was a murderer of men. And now I struggled like a madman against my brothers in a rage to stab my sword through Salmelu’s vile mouth. I almost broke free. For my rage was like a poison that my brothers absorbed through their skin and which weakened their will to keep me from slaying Salmelu.

‘Val!’ Asaru gasped in my ear as his hand closed like an iron manacle around my arm. ‘Be still!’