Lord of Lies. David Zindell

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      The great hall adjoined the castle’s keep where my father and most of his guests resided. By the time we had gone outside and made our way through the dark middle ward, past the Tower of the Moon and the Tower of the Earth, and entered the hall through its great southern doors, it was almost full of people. Brothers from the sanctuary near Silvassu stood wearing their brown robes and drinking apple cider in place of wine or beer; nobles from Alonia gathered in a group next to their table. I immediately recognized Count Dario Narmada, King Kiritan’s cousin and the chief of his emissaries. With his flaming red hair and bright blue tunic emblazoned with the gold caduceus of the House Narmada, he was hard to miss. In this large room, opening out beneath its vaulted ceiling of stone, were many Valari: simple warriors and knights as well as great princes and even kings. Lord Issur, son of King Hadaru of Ishka, seemed to be discussing something of great importance with a tall man who displayed many battle ribbons in his long, gray hair and great longing on his much-scarred face. This was King Kurshan of Lagash, whose ferocious countenance hid a kind and faithful heart. I knew that he had journeyed to Mesh to make a marriage for his daughter, Chandria – and to stand before the Lightstone like everyone else.

      On a long dais at the north end of the room, beneath a wall hung with a black banner showing the swan and stars of the House of Elahad, was an ancient white granite pedestal. On top of it sat a plain, golden cup. It was small enough to fit the palm of a man’s hand; indeed, it had been my hand that had placed it there some months before. At first glance, it did not seem an impressive thing. No gem adorned it. No handles were welded onto its sides, nor did it rest upon a long and gracefully shaped base, as with a chalice. It did not, except at rare moments, even radiate much light. But its beauty stole away the breath, and in its golden shimmer was something lovely that drew the eye and called to the soul. Not a few of those gathered in the hall were staring at it with tears streaming down their cheeks. Even the oldest and hardest of warriors seemed to melt in its presence, like winter’s ice beneath the warm spring sun.

      Standing to either side of the pedestal were fifteen knights, each of whom wore a long sword at his side, even as did I. They wore as well suits of mail like my own; to the various blazons on their surcoats had been added a unique mark of cadence: a small, golden cup. For these were thirty of the Guardians of the Lightstone who had sworn to die in its defense. I had chosen them – and seventy others not presently on duty – from among the finest knights of Mesh. They, too, seemed in awe of that which they protected. Their noble faces, I thought, had been touched by the Lightstone’s splendor, and their bright, black eyes remained ever watchful, ever awake, ever aware.

      Before we had crossed ten paces into the hall, a stout, handsome woman wearing a black gown came up to us, with her dark eyes fixed on Maram. He presented her as Dasha Ambar, Lord Ambar’s widow. After bowing to my grandmother, she smiled at Maram and asked, ‘Will we go riding tomorrow, Sar Maram?’

      ‘Tomorrow?’ Maram said, glancing about the hall as he began to sweat. ‘Ah, tomorrow is Moonday, my lady. Why don’t we wait until Eaday, when we’ve recovered from the feast?’

      ‘Very well,’ Dasha said. ‘In the morning or the afternoon?’

      ‘Ah, I must tell you that the morning, for me, quite often begins in the afternoon.’

      Dasha smiled at this, as did my grandmother and I. Then Dasha excused herself and moved off toward the throng of knights who had gathered around Lord Tomavar’s table.

      ‘You’re playing a dangerous game,’ I told Maram as his eyes drank in Dasha’s voluptuous form.

      ‘What am I to do?’ Maram said, turning toward me. ‘Your Valari women are so beautiful, so bold. The widows especially. And there are so many of them.’

      ‘Just be careful that Lord Harsha doesn’t make Behira a widow before you even have the chance to marry her.’

      ‘All right, all right,’ Maram muttered. He gazed across the hall toward the Lightstone as if hoping its radiance might bestow upon him fidelity and other virtues. Then he seemed to forget his resolve as he looked away and said, ‘But someone must console these poor women!’

      Again, my grandmother smiled, and she told Maram, ‘When the Ishkans made me a widow, it was not possible for me to marry again. But had it been, it would have been my wish to marry for love, not just for my husband’s renown.’

      ‘Then you are different from your countrywomen, my lady.’

      ‘No, not so different, Sar Maram.’ My grandmother turned her sightless eyes toward his face. Her smile radiated warmth. ‘Perhaps in you they hope to find both.’

      ‘Do you see?’ Maram said to me as he held his hands toward the ceiling. ‘Even in your own grandmother, this damn Valari boldness!’

      We all had a good laugh at this, my grandmother especially. She let go of my arm and took Maram’s as if grateful for his strength. And strong he truly was, growing more so by the day. Now that he wore in his silver ring the two diamonds of a Valari knight, he was obliged to practise with his sword at least once each day. His body, I thought, was a sort of compromise between this fierce discipline and self-indulgence: the layers of fat, which fooled the undiscerning, covered great mounds of muscle and battle-tempered bone. There was about him a growing certainty of his prowess and physical splendor, and this attracted women like flowers to the sun.

      Just then Jasmina Ashur, who had lost her husband in the war against Waas, espied Maram and hurried over to him. She was graceful and slender as a stem, barely eighteen, and her adoring eyes fell upon Maram with an almost smothering desire. After greeting us, she began discussing with Maram the poetry-writing session he had promised her.

      ‘Someone,’ she told Maram, ‘must put the account of your quest to verse. Since you are too modest to hoist your own banner.’

      ‘Ah,’ Maram said, the blood rushing to his face, ‘I am too modest, aren’t I?’

      ‘Yes, you are. Even so, the world needs to be told of your feats, before others make free with your story.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Well, I overheard Count Dario claiming that you are really Alonian.’

      ‘Why, that’s not true! My grandmother was the daughter of the old Baron Monteer of Iviendenhall before King Kiritan’s father conquered it and added it to his realm. Does that make me Alonian?’

      ‘They’re saying other things, СКАЧАТЬ