Kitabı oku: «Lord of Lies», sayfa 4

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Prince Issur was a rather homely-looking man with a narrow forehead and a nose too big for his face. But he was spirited and prudent, and I knew him to be capable of a sort of harsh justice, and even kindness. His long hair, tied with five battle ribbons, hung down over his bright red surcoat showing the great white bear of the Ishkan royal house.

‘King Shamesh,’ he said to my father, ‘King Hadaru bids me to remind you of your promise made on the field of the Raaswash: that the Lightstone is to be shared among all the Valari. More than half a year now the Cup of Heaven has resided here in Silvassu. King Hadaru bids me to ask you when it might be brought to Ishka?’

Despite the reasonableness of the man’s voice, some of King Hadaru’s arrogance and demanding ways shaded the words of his emissary. A murmur of discontent rumbled from the warriors and knights in the hall. Almost all of them had stood upon the field of the Raaswash when the delicate peace between Ishka and Mesh had been made. They must have recalled, as I did, how King Hadaru’s eldest son, Salmelu, had been exposed there as a betrayer of all the Valari and had been driven off forever from the Nine Kingdoms. If Prince Issur, however, suffered from the shame of his brother’s treason, he gave no sign of it.

Finally, my father nodded at Prince Issur and said, ‘The Lightstone shall be brought into Ishka, and the other kingdoms, soon.’

‘Soon,’ Prince Issur repeated as if the word had a sour taste. ‘Do you mean within a month, King Shamesh? Another half a year? Or might “soon” mean another century or even an age lasting three thousand years?’

Once, at the end of the Age of Swords, the great Aramesh had wrested the Lightstone from Morjin and had brought it back to this very castle, where my ancestors had kept it all during the long Age of Law.

‘Soon means soon,’ my father said to Prince Issur with a soft smile. ‘Arrangements are being made for that which you desire. May a little more patience be asked of King Hadaru?’

My father, I thought, was a wise man and deep. He knew very well, as did I, that the Ishkans had come to Mesh seeking to set a date for the Lightstone to be brought to King Hadaru’s palace in Loviisa. He knew, too, that the Ishkans expected to be put off with all the forcefulness for which my father was famed. Thus his gentle manner disarmed Prince Issur.

‘Perhaps a little more patience, then,’ Prince Issur said, flushing from the intensity of my father’s gaze. ‘Shall we say before autumn’s first snow?’

‘Autumn is less than half a year away,’ my father said. ‘With the Red Dragon on the march again and kingdoms going up in flames, it will come soon enough – all too soon.’

He motioned for Prince Issur to take his seat; despite himself, Prince Issur did so. Although he must have been aware that my father had made no real commitment, he would take back to Ishka the impression that my father desired the same thing as did King Hadaru. And, truly, my father did. The duties of kingship might demand that he remain flexible in his strategies, but he would never stoop to deception or outright lies.

Even so, I knew that he hated having to make such oblique responses, that it went against his honest nature. He turned toward me then, and flashed me a quick look as if to say, ‘Do you think it is hard being King? What must it be like, then, to be the Maitreya?’

As I sat pondering this mystery, I became aware of the many people covertly watching me, as they had all through the feast. I felt as well a smoldering malevolence directed at me; it stirred me to memory of another night just before the quest when Prince Issur’s brother, Salmelu, had sat with the Ishkans silently beating me to death with his hateful heart. I hadn’t known then that he had gone over to Morjin, that he was the assassin who had fired a kirax-tipped arrow at me in a dark wood. Despite the sensitivity of my gift, I hadn’t been able to determine which of the hundreds of faces concealed the wish to make me dead.

My father’s eyes now fell upon the Alonian table, and he called out, ‘Count Dario – will you speak for Alonia?’

Count Dario, a small, dapper man, stood up quickly as his fingers smoothed the red hairs of his moustache and goatee. Then he bowed his head to my father. ‘King Shamesh, you have sent emissaries to all the Free Kingdoms to call for a conclave here in Silvassu that we might make alliance to oppose Morjin. But King Kiritan bids me to inform you that this cannot be. The conclave must be held in Tria. King Kiritan has sent word to each of the Free Kingdoms that the conclave will commence on the twenty-eighth of Marud. What do you say to this?’

I felt anger surge through my father’s chest as he said, ‘That your king must have a great grievance against me that he would insult me so.’

Lord Harsha and Lord Tanu – and many others across the hall – angrily nodded their heads in support of my father’s outrage.

Count Dario now shot me a quick, sharp look. Then he stabbed his short finger toward the Lightstone as he turned back to my father and said, ‘Last year, on the seventh of Soldru in Tria, on the night that King Kiritan called the Quest, all the knights who would recover the Lightstone vowed to seek it for all of Ea and not themselves. The Cup of Heaven was to be brought into Tria, from where the questers went forth. King Kiritan would ask King Shamesh why this has not been done?’

While Count Dario awaited my father’s answer, Maram suddenly arose and wobbled on his beer-weakened legs. He was drunk enough to forget all protocol – but not so drunk that he was willing to let Count Dario’s words stand unchallenged.

‘King Shamesh!’ he called out, ‘may I speak?’ Without waiting for permission, he turned toward Count Dario and continued, ‘I stood with the knights who made vows at your king’s birthday party; I stood with Master Juwain Zadoran and Lord Valashu Elahad, who are here this night. I remember vowing that our quest to find the Lightstone would not end unless illness, wounds or death struck us down first. Well, illness of the soul anyone will suffer if they go into Argattha. Of wounds we had many, and death struck down the fairest of us in the Kul Moroth. Even so, our quest didn’t end, as all can see. We did vow to seek the Lightstone for all of Ea. But we never said that we would deliver it to King Kiritan, who remained safe behind his kingdom’s walls.’

Maram, puffing and sweating from his little speech, suddenly dropped back into his chair. I thought that he was rather pleased that he had slurred only a few of his words.

Count Dario seemed to be fighting back a smile as he bowed his head toward Maram. ‘All the questers must be honored, especially those who went into Argattha and returned. I would not presume to gainsay Prince Maram. But I must strongly declare that it was understood the Lightstone was to be brought to Tria. This was the spirit of the questers’ vows.’

From the dais above our table, where the thirty Guardians stood glaring at Count Dario, the Lightstone’s radiance poured down upon my father’s black and silver hair. He calmly regarded Count Dario, and there was steel in his voice as he said, ‘Surely those who made vows are best able to interpret their spirit. Even so, we are all agreed that the Lightstone is for all of Ea, even as you have heard. Soon it will be brought to Ishka – soon.’

‘Then are we also agreed that it will be brought to Tria soon after?’

‘That may be.’

‘King Kiritan would ask you to agree that the Lightstone should be kept in Tria, where it will be safest.’

My father’s face was grave as he said, ‘Where is safety to be found in this world? Wasn’t it only last year, at King Kiritan’s birthday celebration, that one of his own barons nearly assassinated him?’

‘Baron Narcavage, as you must know,’ Count Dario said, glancing at the priests at table next to him, ‘had gone over to Morjin. The plot was crushed – you can be sure that my king’s other nobles remain loyal to him.’

‘That is good. There’s little enough of surety in this world, either.’

Count Dario’s cool blue eyes tried to hold the brilliance of my father’s gaze as he said, ‘Come, King Shamesh, what do you say as to my king’s request?’

‘That it is not mine, alone, to grant.’

‘No? Whose is it, then?’

My father shifted about in his chair to regard the Lightstone for a long few moments. He bowed his head to the Guardians who protected it. Then he turned back to Count Dario. ‘You speak of a permanent residence for that which was meant to reside in one place, and one place only.’

‘In this hall, do you mean?’

Count Dario stood bristling with insult while Prince Issur seemed ready to leap out of his chair to speak again.

And then my father said, ‘The Lightstone was meant to reside in the hands of the Maitreya. Only he can decide its home – and its fate.’

Count Dario’s face brightened as if he had been given the keenest of weapons to wield. ‘You will be glad to know then that it is almost certain that the Maitreya has been found: in a village near Adavam. His name is Joakim.’

‘Is this the blacksmith of which we have heard?’

‘Yes – but he has been taken to Tria to prepare for a higher calling.’

Count Dario went on to say that Joakim now resided at the King’s palace where Ea’s greatest scholars, healers and alchemists were refining his talents and preparing him to take his place in history.

Here Master Juwain stood clutching the much-worn traveling volume of the Saganom Elu that he always carried. He called out, ‘King Shamesh, may I speak?’

‘Please do, Master Juwain.’

After flipping through the pages of his book, Master Juwain called out even more strongly as he read a passage from Beginnings: ‘“Grace cannot be gained like diamonds or gold. By the hand of the One, and not the knowledge of men, the Maitreya is made.”’ He closed his book and held it out toward Count Dario as if challenging him to read it, too.

‘Those are curious words for a master of the Brotherhood to give us,’ Count Dario said. ‘Who reveres knowledge more than Master Juwain?’

‘Perhaps one who knows the limits of knowledge.’

‘Excuse me, but doesn’t the Brotherhood teach that men must use all possible knowledge to perfect themselves? That, ultimately, it is their destiny to gain the glory of the Elijin and the Galadin?’

Just then Flick appeared in the space near my head and soared out into the hall in a spiral of silver lights. He swept past the table of the Red Priests, who appeared not to see him. It was strange, I thought, that perhaps only one person out of ten was able to apprehend his fiery form.

‘What you say is true,’ Master Juwain told Count Dario. ‘But I’m afraid that one cannot become the Maitreya this way.’

‘Do you deny then the wisdom of King Kiritan’s decision to instruct the blacksmith’s boy?’

‘No – only that he wasn’t brought to the Brotherhood to be taught.’

It was plain that Count Dario and Master Juwain might continue such an argument for hours. And so my father finally held up his hand for silence. He regarded Count Dario and said, ‘If King Kiritan truly believes this Joakim to be the Maitreya, then why wasn’t he brought here with you, that he might stand before the Lightstone? That we all might see if he can hold its radiance and give it back to us, in his eyes, hands and heart?’

Count Dario gazed up at the golden bowl upon its stand. Then he looked at my father and said, ‘You have your treasure, King Shamesh, and we Alonians have ours, which we must keep safe behind Tria’s walls.’

He went on to tell of the great passions that Joakim had aroused throughout his land. Many of Alonia’s greatest barons, he said, were demanding of King Kiritan that the Lightstone be delivered into Joakim’s hands. He hinted that they were actually calling for a war to liberate the golden cup from Mesh. Only King Kiritan stood between them and what would be the greatest of tragedies. If Count Dario could be believed, King Kiritan was a noble figure trying to control his bellicose barons for the sake of Mesh – and all of Ea.

After he had finished speaking, my father stared at him as he said, ‘You must thank your king for his forbearance on our behalf.’

‘That I shall do, but it is not your thanks he requires.’

As my father’s stare grew cold and clear as diamonds in deep winter, Count Dario pulled at his goatee and said, ‘King Kiritan knows what a sacrifice it would be to send the Lightstone to a distant land. Therefore he offers a gift, a very great gift, in return.’

Here he turned toward me and said, ‘On the night the Quest was called, almost every noble in Alonia heard Lord Valashu Elahad ask for Princess Atara’s hand in marriage. If the Lightstone is brought to Tria, King Kiritan would bless this marriage. And our two kingdoms might unite in strength against Morjin.’

A thrill of excitement shot through me as if I had been struck by a lightning bolt. Count Dario had spoken of King Kiritan’s approval of the one thing I most desired. King Kiritan, who had once denigrated Mesh as a savage little kingdom and me as a ragged adventurer, must have thought that he was granting both the greatest of boons.

I stood up then, and to Count Dario I said, ‘King Kiritan’s generosity is famous, but even he cannot give away Atara’s heart.’

It was the greatest torment I had ever known that Atara could not look at me in love – and would never consent to marry me so long as she couldn’t.

‘If my king can rule the greatest of Ea’s kingdoms,’ Count Dario said to me, ‘then surely he can rule his own daughter.’

As I recalled the deep and lovely light that had once filled Atara’s eyes before Morjin had torn them out, a terrible pain lanced through my head. I gasped out, ‘Can one rule starfire?’

‘You ask that, Lord Valashu? You, whom it’s said would be Lord of Light itself?’

And with this rebuke he sat back down in his chair. So did I. Many people were looking at me. As before, I felt the red-hot nails of someone’s hate pounding through me. It was not Count Dario, however, who drove this deadly emotion into me. I was as sure of this as I was the direction of my mother’s loving gaze or the compassion in my father’s eyes. For my gift of valarda had quickened since the gaining of the Lightstone, and it flared stronger in its presence. Now, as I sat looking out at the hundreds of men and women in the hall, my heart beat most quickly when I turned toward the table next to that of the Alonians. There sat the seven Red Priests of the Kallimun. I could not make out any of their faces, for they sat with their heads hung low and their yellow cowls concealing them. I dreaded discovering that one of them might have been among the priests who had tortured Master Juwain – and Atara – in Argattha.

My father nodded at Count Dario, and said, ‘You must thank King Kiritan for the offer of his daughter in marriage. It must be difficult to trade so great a treasure for a little gold bowl.’

A donkey, eyeing an apple dangling in front of his nose, might be impelled in its direction, especially if whipped in its hindquarters by a stick. But my father was no donkey. He would not be tempted by a marriage alliance with Alonia, much less moved by King Kiritan’s badly veiled threat of war.

‘Surely,’ my father added, staring at Count Dario, ‘King Kiritan will succeed in controlling his barons, whether or not the Lightstone is brought into Tria. As you have said, they will remain loyal to him, won’t they?’

Having rather neatly finessed Count Dario and his king’s demand for the Lightstone, my father said, ‘As for the conclave being held in Tria, it will be difficult to persuade the Valari kings to meet there.’

And with that, he turned toward one of these kings. This was King Kurshan of Lagash, who now stood on his long legs to address my father and all gathered in the hall. His blue tunic, embroidered with the white Tree of Life, fell about his long form as he turned his much-scarred visage toward my father and said, ‘Tria is far from the Nine Kingdoms, as is Sakai. We Valari need not fear invasions from outland kings, be they the Lord of Lies or those who should be allies against him. No, our worst enemy will remain ourselves.’

King Kurshan, I thought, had the good grace not to publicly reveal his desire to make a marriage for his daughter: to Asaru or me. I waited for him to say more.

‘For far too long,’ he continued, ‘we Valari have made war against other Valari … because we have forgotten who we really are.’

He stared up at the Lightstone, and for a moment he seemed transported to another world. As he looked back at my father and resumed his speech, his words, too, seemed those of another world: ‘It is said that once we Valari sailed the heavens from star to star. Why can’t we do so again? In two weeks, lords and kings from Lagash to Mesh will meet in Nar at the great Tournament. Why can’t we agree there, as one people, to build a fleet of ships such has never been seen in Ea? For it is said, too, that the waters of all worlds in the universe flow together. If we were to sail across the Alonian sea and into the ocean, we might find at last the Northern Passage to the worlds where the angels walk. The Lightstone will show the way. It was meant for the hands of the Maitreya, yes – but surely not only for his hands.’

So saying, he sat back down in his chair. The hall was so quiet that I could almost hear the quick burn of his breath. No one seemed to know if he were more than a little mad – or touched with great dreams.

For once my father seemed at a loss for words. Finally, he smiled at King Kurshan and forced out, ‘That … is a beautiful idea. Perhaps we will build ships to sail the heavens’ starry sea. You are a man of vision.’

The ferocious-seeming King Kurshan returned his smile like a little boy praised for a painting he has made. Then my father’s gaze swept out into the hall. His eyes fixed upon a table near its far end where three women dressed in white robes sat with other outlanders and exiles. And my father called out, ‘It seems that it is time that we heard of other visions, as well. Kasandra of Ar would speak to us tonight.’

Kasandra was a tiny woman who seemed as ancient as the cracked stone of the walls. As she struggled to rise out of her chair, Lord Tanu stood up at his table and called out, ‘Sire, it might be best if this scryer were made to hold her tongue. We should not have to hear the words of distant oracles, most of which are corrupt.’

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.