Lord of Lies

‘No more than Master Juwain’s conundrum must daunt him,’ Asaru said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘In either case, there must be a solution.’

‘Good,’ my father said, smiling at him. ‘Problems we’ll always have many, and solutions too few. But there’s always a way.’

His gaze now fell upon me, and I couldn’t help feeling that he regarded me as both a puzzle to be solved and its solution.

‘Always a way,’ I said to him, thinking of my own conundrum. ‘Sometimes that is hard to believe, sir.’

My father’s gaze grew brighter and harder to bear as he said, ‘But we must believe it. For believing in a thing, we make it be. As you, of all men, must believe this now.’

Strangely, what had happened earlier in the hall with Baltasar had so far gone unremarked, like some family secret or crime, instead of the miracle that Lansar Raasharu proclaimed it to be. But my family and friends knew me too well. Master Juwain and Maram, on our quest, had seen me sweat and weep and bleed. When I was a child, my mother had wiped the milk from my chin, and once, my father had pulled me off Yarashan when I had tried to bite off his ear in one of our brotherly scuffles. They might or might not believe that I was the Maitreya of ancient legend and prophecy – but it was clear that they did not intend to speak of me in hushed tones or to forget that whatever mantle I might claim, I would always remain Valashu Elahad.

‘It is not upon me,’ my father said, ‘to determine if you are this Shining One that many hope you to be. But you are my son, and that is my concern. The brightest flower is the one that is most often picked; the elk with the greatest rack of antlers draws the most arrows. You are a target now, Valashu. Even before this thing passed between you and Baltasar, it was so. Consider the way that the traitor nearly brought about your doom – and my own.’

The quiet of the room was broken only by the hissing from the fireplace and my father’s measured words. We all listened to him tell of what a great tragedy it would have been for Mesh if I had murdered Salmelu. For then my father would have been faced with an excruciating choice: either for the king himself to break the law of the land in sparing my life or to order the death of that which gave his life purpose – and the death of one who might possibly be the Maitreya.

‘The Red Dragon,’ he said, ‘set a terrible trap for us. By the grace of the One, we found a way out. You did, Valashu. A way – there’s always a way.’

‘I … hated Salmelu as I’ve only hated one other,’ I said. I picked up the box containing the two broken windows to Atara’s soul, and gripped it so hard that it hurt my hand. ‘And when he gave me this, the hate, like fire in my eyes, like madness … this is what Morjin must have calculated would make me kill Salmelu. But how could Morjin have been sure?’

‘Go on,’ my father said as everyone looked at me.

‘This trap of Morjin’s – it wouldn’t have caught another. And it shouldn’t have caught me.’

‘No, it shouldn’t have,’ my father agreed. ‘And from this, what do you conclude?’

‘That there will be other traps that we haven’t yet seen.’

Across the circle from me, my mother’s breath seemed to have been choked-off as if by an invisible hand. I heard Maram muttering in his brandy, even as my father nodded his head and said, ‘Yes, just so. This is why we’ve all been kept from our beds tonight, that we might see these other traps before it’s too late.’

Asaru, it seemed, had been making calculations of his own. He eyed the familiar chess set for a moment before turning to my father. ‘The Red Dragon was willing to throw away Salmelu’s life, like a pawn.’

‘No, rather like a knight that must be sacrificed to checkmate an opponent,’ my father said.

‘Very well, a knight, then. But did Salmelu know that he was to be sacrificed?’

My father smiled grimly and shook his head. ‘Few men have such devotion for their king.’

‘Morjin is no king,’ I said, thinking of the whips I had heard cracking in the darkened tunnels of Argattha. ‘Men do not follow him out of love.’

‘Then shouldn’t we consider the Galdan scryer’s prophecy?’ Asaru asked. ‘She spoke of a ghul, didn’t she?’

Could Salmelu truly be a ghul, I wondered? Had he given up his soul to Morjin so that Morjin breathed his fell words into Salmelu’s mouth and moved his lips and limbs from afar like a puppeteer pulling on strings? The living-dead, ghuls were called: they who were as corpses inside and were forced to think the very thoughts of their masters.

‘No,’ I said at last, ‘Salmelu is no ghul.’

‘But, Val, how can you be sure?’

Because the flames of his being burn with different colors than do Morjin’s.

I stared off at the candles in their stands as I said, ‘In Salmelu and Morjin, so much malice, so much hate. But the fire that eats away at Salmelu is different from that which consumes Morjin. Its source is different. I … can feel Salmelu’s will to destroy me. It’s as unique to him as a knight’s emblem or a man’s face.’

Asaru thought about this for a moment as a sudden dread came over him. ‘But, Val, if Salmelu isn’t this ghul, who is?’

Master Juwain, now sitting utterly still, cleared his throat and said, ‘A scryer’s prophecies are famously difficult to interpret, even those that prove true. But we should all give much thought to this one.’

His large, gray eyes fell upon me with the weight of worlds as he continued, ‘We see at least one of the Red Dragon’s traps within the trap: if Salmelu had failed to goad you into murder, what he brought here out of Argattha could not have failed to make you want to murder him.’

‘Many wish to murder Morjin,’ I said. ‘And his priests.’

‘But do they wish it as you do, Val? A fire, you spoke of, a raging fire that blinded you – like one of his illusions.’

‘In Argattha,’ I said, ‘the Lord of Lies lost the power to make me behold his illusions.’

‘Yes, but it seems he still has the power to make you hate.’

The brandy in my glass burned my tongue as I sipped it. ‘Are you saying, then, that Morjin is trying to make me into a ghul?’

‘Trying, yes, with all his might. But your heart is free. And your soul is the gift of the One. It can never be taken, only surrendered.’

‘That,’ I said, ‘will never happen.’

‘No, the Lord of Lies has no power to seize your will directly. But how much of your will do you think will remain if you destroy yourself with this terrible hate?’

I had no answer for him. I knew that he was right. For a few moments, I tried to practise one of the light meditations that he had once taught me. But the two blackened orbs inside the box that Salmelu had given me darkened my eyes; and the letter that I had placed down inside my armor was like a crushing weight upon my heart.

I finally brought forth this thick square of folded paper. I held it up toward the candles in their stand. No ray of light pierced the bone-white envelope to show what words Morjin might have written to me. It was sealed with red wax bearing the stamp of the Dragon.

‘Is this, then,’ I asked, ‘another of Morjin’s traps?’

‘I’m afraid it is,’ Master Juwain said.

‘Then the trap must be sprung.’

I drew my knife to open it, but Master Juwain held out his hand and shook his head. ‘No, do not – burn it instead.’

‘But the letter must be read. If Morjin has set traps for me, then his words might betray what these are.’

‘I’m afraid his words are the trap. Like the kirax, Val. Only this poison will work at your mind.’

‘My father,’ I said, looking across the circle at the great man who had sired me, ‘taught me that an enemy’s mind must be studied and known.’

‘Not this enemy,’ Master Juwain said. ‘Liljana merged minds with the Dragon in Argattha. It nearly destroyed her.’

I thought of this brave woman with her round, pleasant face and her will of steel. Atara had once warned her that the day she looked into Morjin’s mind would be the last day she ever smiled. And yet, if she hadn’t dared this dreadful feat, none of us would have escaped from Argattha and the Lightstone would remain in Morjin’s possession.

I squeezed the letter between my fingers, and said to Master Juwain, ‘“Lord of Light,” everyone called me. If this is true, how, then, should this Dark Lord called Morjin have power over me with his words?’

‘Is this the pride of a prince?’