Lord of Lies. David Zindell

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!’

      But I could not be still. For something bright and terrible was moving inside me. Once, in the lightless depths of Argattha, Morjin had told me that my gift of valarda was like a double-edged sword: as well as being opened by others’ emotions, I might wield mine against men to cut and control. Master Juwain had taught me that I must learn to use the valarda, for good, as I might my hands or eyes. But my hands trembled to grasp the hilt of my sword and make murder; my eyes were as blind and blackened with hate as Atara’s.

      ‘Val!’ a familiar voice cried out from across the hall. ‘Oh, Val!’

      A black, blazing hatred for Salmelu and Morjin built hotter and hotter inside me. As the valarda opened me to the men and women in the hall, and them to me, they felt this, too. They looked at me in loathing and awe. But a hundred feet away, Baltasar Raasharu arose from his chair and looked toward me as if awaiting my command.

      ‘Do you see?’ Salmelu cried out again as he began walking down the rows of tables toward Baltasar. He was that curious type of coward who must continually prove his bravery by goading others. ‘Valashu Elahad would even have his friends murder for him. And so he would throw their lives away – as he did with the minstrel in the Kul Moroth.’

      At last, I could hold the agony no longer. My eyes found Baltasar’s, and the burning steel of my fury for Salmelu struck straight into my young friend’s heart. His sword flashed forth as he cried out and leapt toward Salmelu. Probably Salmelu had calculated that the knights at the nearby tables would grab hold of him. But Baltasar moved too quickly to be so easily stopped.

      It was the Lightstone that saved Salmelu’s life – and Baltasar’s. (And perhaps my own.) As I twisted and turned against my brothers’ frantic hands, the little cup began shining more brightly from its stand behind me. In its sudden, clear radiance, I saw many things: that Baltasar would truly die for me, not because I wished it, but because he loved me even more than he hated Salmelu or his dreadful lord. And so he would not let me be the one to slay Salmelu. The Lightstone cast its splendor on his noble face, and I saw in him the finest flower of Valari knighthood about to cut down Salmelu – and thus be cut down by the failing of my heart.

       Baltasar.

      The One’s creations, I saw, were so beautiful. The promise of life was so sweet and good and great. And yet, in the world, so much evil, so much pain. I couldn’t understand it; I knew I never would. And yet I would give anything, tear out my own heart, to keep the promise for Baltasar, and for everyone: to see them become the great beings we were born to be.

      ‘Baltasar!’ I cried out.

      The Lightstone blazed with a sudden brilliance like a star. As it burned brighter and brighter, its radiance worked in me a miracle much greater than the transmutation of lead into gold. For, in one magical moment, it turned my hatred of Salmelu and Morjin into an overpowering love for Baltasar. How could I hold such a beautiful thing? And how could my brothers now hold me? My whole being filled with a force that gave me the strength of ten men. It poured through me like a golden fire. As I broke free from Asaru’s grasp, I raised up my silver sword and pointed it at Baltasar. He had finally closed with Salmelu, and his sword lifted high above his head to cut him in two.

      ‘Baltasar!’ I cried out again.

      But this was no sound from my throat nor name made by my lips, but only the peal of the bright and beautiful thing inside me. Like a lightning bolt directed by my sword, it suddenly flashed forth from me and streaked across the room. I felt it break open Baltasar’s heart. Everyone in the hall, my father and brothers, my mother and grandmother – even Salmelu himself – felt this, too. Baltasar felt it most deeply of all. The steel mask of fury melted from him. He hesitated as he turned toward me, and his face was all golden in the Lightstone’s overpowering radiance. We regarded each other in wonder, and something more.

      ‘The Sword of Light!’ a woman called out, pointing toward me.

      I looked down to see that the silustria of my sword was flaring brightly – almost as brightly as the sword of valarda inside me. But soon, even as the wildly gleaming Lightstone began to fade, so did both swords, in my hand and heart.

      ‘The Sword of Love!’

      I lowered my sword called Alkaladur and sheathed it at the same moment that Baltasar put away his. His smile fell upon me like the rising of the sun.

      ‘Oh, Val!’ he whispered.

      Everyone in the hall was staring at me. From Lord Harsha’s table, Maram and Behira regarded me proudly, and even old Lord Tanu seemed to have forgotten his mistrust of all things. Master Juwain quietly bowed his head to me, and so did Asaru, Karshur and my father. My mother’s gaze held only adoration for me, while Count Dario looked at me in fear. The faces of too many knights and nobles were full of awe – as was Salmelu’s. For a moment, his whole being seemed wiped clean of the spite that poisoned him. He stared at me as if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened. But then, as the Lightstone faded back to its appearance as a small, golden cup, Salmelu returned to his hateful self. His ugly face took on its familiar lines of envy, arrogance and malice.

      ‘You,’ he said to me with a shame that burned his face, ‘have drawn on one who no longer bears a sword of his own. But perhaps some day I will again, and then we’ll see whose sword is quicker.’

      He marched through the hall straight up to my table. From another pocket in his yellow robes, he removed a sealed letter and slammed it down on the table before me. ‘This is for you! From Lord Morjin!’

      And with that, he gathered together his fellow priests and stormed out of the hall.

      In that great room, with its many great personages, there was a silence that lasted many long moments. And then Lansar Raasharu, the foremost lord in Mesh, stood up.

      ‘You have saved my son from a terrible dishonor,’ he said as he bowed his head to me. Then he glanced at my father’s stern face and added, ‘And death.’

      He went on to say that what he had witnessed, and felt, that night was nothing less than a miracle.

      ‘Baltasar