by Anne Perry
Until his time came to rejoin that greater reality he must return to the battle here and take it up again with greater energy, more courage, more trust in God Whose presence he had glimpsed in a moment of splendour that shattered unreason for ever. And above all he must have more confidence in the power of love, whatever the cost, the grief, or the time.
Truth was the only thing that could save the Lost Landers—or anyone else over the face of all the worlds that could ever be.
He turned and walked back towards the path, and the long way down through the wild grass to Orimiasse.
Sardriel worked with a new vigour. He was tireless, using all the skill, the logic and the passion he possessed, to teach the beauty of truth and the deeper treasure of identity, and the glory of courage to face the fact and let go of the illusion. More joined him, especially the man who had brought him the news of Katina’s fall. Gradually they began to labour again, to mend the nets, to make certain ships were seaworthy. Women pulled up the weeds, tilled the ground, tidied the wind-blown rubbish and mended torn clothes, swept steps and streets.
Siriom went out less and less often. Most of the time he sat in the high-backed chair in the house on the hill and thought of his new empire, and how much it must hurt Sardriel. Then he smiled. Occasionally he walked in the streets, dressed in silk and embroidered robes so full they disguised his round belly. But the pleasure in that was waning. He could see only dimly; sight was more a matter of light and shadow than clear outlines. And since last time he’d gone out, everyone thought they wore silks and velvets; his magnificence caused them no wonder or envy. He had learned that there was no joy in a reality he could not share.
Azrub saw defeat moving towards him. At first he refused to believe it. His will was stronger than any mere human’s. He knew the power of hunger, of longing for the impossible. Had he not lived with it since before time began? He saw it in everyone, even Asmodeus himself, and he felt it in the core of his own bowels, that ache that could never be torn out. He had the gift to read the body and the mind of men from the darkest fantasies of nightmare to the sweetest longings of the soul. He could create the illusion of them all! What else would anyone want beyond their dreams made real?
And yet Sardriel was breaking the illusion!
But Azrub had one more exquisite card to play. It would be easy, and very, very strong, unbreakable by the simple wills of the Lost Landers. There was one thing they all still wanted: a warm, sunbathed, sheltered shore where they could grow the fruit this salt-laden, wind-cleansed island could not provide.
And flowers! He could make the land lush with blossoms of gorgeous colours, a paradise for the eye, sweet-scented and warm to the flesh. The blue water would dazzle. He knew just the shore to create it, on the further side of the island where the surf thundered in with a thousand miles of unbroken ocean behind it.
He stood at the window of Siriom’s great house and stared down at the streets of Orimiasse, and the harbour beyond. There were ships idle there, but there were some busy as well—too many! Men and women were working, no longer seeing all the dream, only parts, fragments here and there. Before he could go for Sardriel himself, he must deal with them.
He closed his yellow eyes and concentrated, summoning his vast power to create the illusion. The next man to pass the outer shore would see not the waves crashing on bare sand and rock, wind-scoured surf and the steep cliffs above, but a sheltered bay with calm seas, trees laden with fruit ripe for the picking, and gold, scarlet and wine-coloured blooms like the fire of sunset and the blood of the earth.
He stood there working on it, reaching into all the dreams he had seen, adding to them, polishing the images in his mind. Over and over again his tongue came out and licked his lips and his smile grew wider and ever more satisfied as he deepened the probe. He tested their appetite and how it could betray, as a man savours a vintage wine.
But the best was yet to come, when he faced Sardriel—and that had to happen, sooner or later. He almost dreaded doing it, because then it would no longer lie ahead where he could see it, play it out in his mind, rehearse it a score of different ways. The anticipation was delicate and delicious far beyond this simple exercise. These other Lost Landers were good enough people, but foot soldiers, expendable. Sardriel was one of Tathea’s great warriors ... and even better than that, he was a man who had made a god of truth. But he was vulnerable! Ah—he was so vulnerable! Azrub knew it and a groan of pleasure escaped him as he thought of the final ecstasy of holding that prize in his mind as long as Sardriel’s life lasted.
Siriom was nothing, a fool whose dreams were cheap. Azrub bothered with him only as a necessary instrument, deluding him some times, not others, as it suited his purpose. Now he could be forgotten altogether. Let happen to him what may.
He succeeded. Less than two days later a fisherman far out from the shore thought he saw something quite new, and sailed closer in to look more clearly. The roaring current carried his boat towards the reefs, and he was too wise a mariner not to turn early and back away. But he made sail for Orimiasse immediately, and he had barely dropped anchor before he passed on the incredible news.
An expedition was mounted to climb the hills and scale the cliffs at the far side and investigate, then bring back word. By the end of a week, half the men on the island had been there, and a force was busy cutting a path down the cliff so every woman and child could go there too, and bask in the luxury of it, each in his or her turn, and thank a beneficent providence for such an unforeseen blessing.
Not everyone embraced it. A few reached the top of the hill and looked down at the last, wild shore of the world, and saw it as it was. But they were a minority, and no one wanted to listen to them. Sardriel knew the strength of Azrub’s power over the mind, no matter how passionate the will not to be deceived. The longings of the heart could always weave a vision for the eyes, and who would choose a bitter reality for ever?
The time was coming when he would have to face Azrub and put to the test his own strength of faith, his love of truth above all, and see if he was equal to wounding the Lord of Delusion sufficiently to limit his usefulness to the Great Enemy. If he could break Siriom’s delusion, force him to see the reality and his own loss, the emptiness of his victory, then half Azrub’s hold on the people would be broken too.
Then perhaps Azrub would enter the battle himself, and turn and face Sardriel.
He was not sure he would win, only that he would fight to the last instant of his strength. He would enter the battle with a perfect belief in the cause of God, but no unshakeable trust that he himself could not be overcome. That was a price he half expected to pay. Many men would die in Armageddon, in the end perhaps all. He must judge his time well and his going must be at the dearest possible cost to all who served the Father of Lies. All his thoughts were on the last confrontation, as he walked up the street towards the Prince’s House, and Siriom and the beginning of his plan.
Sardriel went straight up to the door and opened it. There was no guard. Siriom knew that the web of delusion was sufficient.
Sardriel found him sitting in the carved chair, as he so often did, relishing it, trying to taste the power it should have invested in him, and now no longer seemed to. He looked up sharply as Sardriel came in, recognising his step. His eyes flickered for a moment in fear. He never forgot what he had done to him, and because he was eaten by hatred himself, he believed that Sardriel must be also.
Then another emotion took hold of him, deeper even than fear, a sort of abandonment to the inevitability of his own death, and the fierce inner joy that in accomplishing it, Sardriel would finally be equal with him ... grovelling in the same slough of bitterness, self-loathing and at last despair. Elessar would not have loved him if she had seen him then!
“What do you want?” he said, sitting a trifle further back in the big chair and looking up towards Sardriel’s dark, weary face, a shadow in the mist of his vision. He remembered when it was young and smooth, eyes innocent as
he had ridden into Kyeelan-Iss. He saw again the wonder in him as he had gazed at Elessar, and her understanding of the blazing love of truth in him had sat like gall in Siriom’s soul.
“To show you the further shore where the fruit grows, and the flowers,” Sardriel replied.
“Why?” Siriom asked. “I have servants to bring them to me.”
The tone of Sardriel’s voice changed. There was wonder in it, and something terrifyingly like pity. “Have you really no idea who Azrub is?”
Siriom felt a brush of fear. It was ridiculous. What did it matter? Azrub had given him the thing he wanted most in life, revenge upon Sardriel, and asked little enough in return. “I don’t care!” he said loudly, and knew it was a lie the instant the words were spoken.
But Sardriel’s voice was insistent. “I’ll take you to the further shore, and I’ll show you.”
“And if I don’t come?” Siriom demanded.
“You cannot afford not to come,” Sardriel answered. “You need all the knowledge you can possibly have. All rulers do, but most especially those who play a dangerous game, and for high stakes.”
Siriom did not trust him. After all that had happened Sardriel had to hate him! Any man would. But he was obsessed with truth; it was part of his pride. To lie would destroy his self-belief, and he would not do that, even to exercise vengeance for Elessar. Siriom agreed, and hauled himself to his feet reluctantly.
“I’m not climbing that hill,” he warned. “I’m taking a horse!”
Sardriel made no demur. Instead he held out a pale blossom—delicate, five-petalled like a star, and smelling cool and sweet.
“What is it?” Siriom asked irritably, aware more of the scent of it than the shape.
“A windflower, from the hollows of the shore,” Sardriel replied. “You’ve smelled them before, even if you haven’t noticed it.”
“I’ve noticed it!” Siriom snapped, taking it from Sardriel and peering at it closely. The perfume was exquisite. He could just make out the soft, rich petals, easily bruised.
“I’m bringing it with us,” Sardriel replied, taking the flower back. “To the tropical shore.”
Siriom was dismissive. He knew every step of this house, and he walked ahead of Sardriel, so no one should mistake who was in command. He ordered the servant to find his horse and saddle it.
They went in silence, Sardriel walking a little ahead so the horse would pick its way where Siriom could not guide it. Siriom hated the sensation of being carried faster than his eyes could discern the changing shapes. It was unpleasant, even a little frightening. He was not in control.
They neared the top and the wind in his face told him they were facing the last great ocean at the end of the world. Then he realised it was something far deeper than that which caused the fear grasping at the pit of his stomach.
The wind was sharper now. He could hear a roaring in his ears and the cry of birds, and smell the salt.
“You’ll have to dismount and walk now,” Sardriel said, offering his hand to help him. “But the path is smooth all the way down. There are steps, and a rail on the cliff side. Even old women accomplish it safely.”
Siriom said nothing, but he obeyed. He stayed close to the cliff wall and gripped his hand on to the rail like a vice, shuffling his way down a foot at a time. He could feel the warmth as he got lower. This was a tropical paradise, as Azrub had promised. The sea was not a roar at all, only a murmur. The music was not the harsh cry of gulls but the liquid song of birds of wild and strange colours, their feathers like jewels. Even his eyes could make out the flash of scarlets and blues amid the trees.
He stepped on to the level at last and turned his face towards the sun, basking in its heat. No wonder great juicy, fire-skinned fruit grew here, with flesh that dissolved in the mouth and sweetness to run over the lips. He smiled even as he thought of it.
Sardriel was beside him. Why had he brought them both here? Was this real, or another of Azrub’s delusions? He did not know the difference any more—perhaps he never had! Azrub was playing with him! To him it was a game, something for his own appetite!
Sardriel was holding something in his hand, a pale, withered thing.
“What’s that?” Siriom demanded, a terrible fear gripping him as reality and delusion melted into one another.
“The windflower,” Sardriel replied, passing it to him.
“What’s the matter with it?” Siriom said, gulping. “It’s dead! What have you done to it? It was ... beautiful! Why did you destroy it? Are you threatening me?” That was it. That must be what he meant.
“No.” Sardriel sounded more sad than angry. Or was it pity? No. Never! It must be hate, it had to be.
Siriom wanted to speak, but no words came to him.
“It died,” Sardriel replied very clearly, each word falling like a stone into still water. “They are very delicate. They shrivel up in the cold.”
“But it’s hot!” There was a note of wildness in Siriom’s cry. He heard it himself and tried to suppress it. “It’s tropical!” he insisted as doubt crowded in on him with greater terror.
“It feels hot to you.” Sardriel’s voice cut into him like a knife into flesh. “Azrub is the Lord of Delusion. He can read your soul and weave a fabric out of your dreams strong enough for you to believe it. But he cannot deceive the windflower. It still dies. If you walk out on that shore, you will see calm, bright water. You will feel the sun on your face. But if you walk into the sea, the surf is real, cold and strong. It will smother you and drag you under. If you believe Azrub, and not me, then do it and prove me wrong.”
Siriom blinked at him, at the withered flower in his hand. What was the truth, who lied? Was there anything real? Was even Sardriel himself real, or was he part of Azrub’s delusion as well, and there wasn’t even any revenge?
He turned towards the shore, the limpid water under the dazzling sun. It was beautiful, like jewels poured from an endless treasure.
He looked again. The bird flying up against the sky was a gull, blazing white, an ordinary seagull! He looked down slowly and the wind was cold on his face. It was surf that pounded in his ears, boiling, thundering surf. He did not need to turn behind him to know the trees were gone, the fruit, the gaudy tropical flowers.
“You have mortgaged your soul to an illusion.” Sardriel’s voice beat in his head. “In the end, however far into eternity that lies, truth will be the strongest. The power of dreams cannot outlast it.” The words were like death in the air. “All Azrub’s promises will fail and then you will be alone with whatever is left.”
The thought was unendurable. There was nothing left—nothing at all, no victory, no revenge, no love or power, not even any dreams.
Siriom turned and started to run, panic mounting inside him as his feet floundered in the sand and stumbled. He must find Azrub and somehow, anyhow, make a better bargain. He did not even bother to look at Sardriel behind him. He must get away from this place and begin again. New arrangements must be possible, something he could do so that Azrub would take care of him, make the illusion last.
The sand was fine and soft, clinging to his feet, dragging as if it would hold him down. He struck out and overbalanced, falling hard, knocking the breath out of his lungs. He got up awkwardly and began again.
He thought of death, and waking up into eternity! There was eternity ... If there was a devil, and there was, then he could not cease to exist. Perhaps there was a God! What if God were the stronger, the God Sardriel believed in, Who endured no lies, no delusion, no excuses?
The thought was so hideous the beating of his own heart all but choked him. He fell again, arms flailing wildly, sand in his face, in his mouth, breath almost suffocated in his chest. He crawled the last few yards and found the bottom of the path up the cliff again. His horse would be waiting at the top. He would make it carry him back to the town as swiftly as it could. He would go into the Prince’s House and lock the doors. Azrub would come whatever he did, and at least that would k
eep Sardriel out.
The steps were harder to climb than he expected. His legs ached; the muscles stabbed him with pain. His feet were tender, blistered. He must keep moving, but it was difficult. The top seemed impossibly high above him. He was barely halfway. The wind was cold and it buffeted him in all directions, upsetting his balance.
How much further was it? He stepped back a little to look. The wind was fierce. Sardriel was right—damn him—it was cold, clean and salt-edged. The roar of surf on the rocks below was deafening. It seemed close, even though it was over a hundred feet below, perhaps two hundred now. He craned his neck upward to look. Could he make it? It seemed so high, so far above.
He felt his foot slip as the earth crumbled beneath him. He flung his arms out to regain his balance, and made it worse. His other foot lost its purchase on the step and he pitched sideways, grasping the air.
Sardriel saw Siriom’s arms swing wide, carrying him further backwards. Then his legs buckled and he fell hard on the edge, thrashed desperately for long, terrible seconds before he arced over and fell twisting and kicking till he landed on the foam-drenched rocks below, motionless. The next wave thundered in, crashing and rising in towers of foam to hang pendant, like diamonds, then sank back into the ocean, and the rocks were bare.
Sardriel stood with the wind and sun in his face and the pounding of the surf filling his ears. The weight of pity inside him did not ease, He did not know if even the mercy of God could fill the emptiness in Siriom’s soul. Perhaps somewhere in eternity ...?
