Adred insisted, “I must speak to him, Abgarthis, about the discontent in the empire. And I mean speak to him frankly.”
“Certainly you must—if you can get his attention.”
“Go to him for me. That’s my request. He’ll listen to you, Lord Abgarthis. Tell him I bring a message from Orain and Galvus. Tell him—anything. Just get me alone with him for an hour or two. He must understand how crucial this is.”
Abgarthis smiled sadly but said nothing. He rose, reached for his stick, and crossed the room to the door. Hand on the latch, he turned; Adred stood and faced him.
“You look well,” the old man told him graciously, “despite all of it. The beard suits you. All of this,” he said. “Does it fire your blood?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Haven’t you joined the revolution yet, Adred?”
He thought for a long moment, looking into the deep eyes of this wise and well-informed old man, this long-serving and prescient, quiet and dignified man of the imperial halls. “Yes,” Adred replied. “In my heart, I have.”
Abgarthis nodded, understanding. “I sometimes wish I had again the impatience of youth—if only for an hour, or a day. If I were younger, you know, I suppose I would join it, too, this…revolution. For justice’s sake. But one man alone.…” He smiled pathetically. “But I am too practical, you see. And I am too trapped by—convention? Trapped by my years, I suppose. I am weary.”
Adred stared at him, and an immense shadow of sorrow gripped him.
“I will tell King Elad,” Abgarthis promised him, “that you have word of his sister-in-law and nephew. Be prepared to be received tonight.”
“Of course.”
Then Abgarthis went out, and Adred listened to the soft tread of his feet and the hollow tapping of his cane, dimming, like the muffled beat of an ancient heart, weary and hurrying to cease.…
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Odossos: a small volcanic island in the Ursalion Sea, thirty leagues west of Ugalu. Sparsely populated with farmers and goat tenders. A hundred ships made port here a year, trading artifacts from the cities of the East in return for cheeses, cloth goods, barley, and pottery. The inhabitants were poor. Odossos had no cities, only villages. Where the soil was good, lush fields were well-tended; elsewhere, the land was dead, arid, rocky. The few small mountains toward the center of the island were spotted with deep caves that attracted anchorites and other recluses, some of them seekers after truth, some of them no better than the animals they tended on the mountainside.
It was to these mountains and to a cave here that Thameron came, destroyed in spirit, weary of body, terrified of soul, to confront himself.
* * * *
I will tell you why this has happened. I will tell you why animals are dying and why the gods are angry with kings and queens. Listen to me! I know that of which I speak! One is coming! Yes! He is near, he is close by. He is ro kil-su, he is the Evil One, he is born and he rises up even now, far away from us, but he will shatter the world.
* * * *
In his cave, his home, barren and unlighted—wholly different from Guburus’s home in a mountain—Thameron, foodless and drinkless, weaponless, dressed in a sackcloth robe, ponders and ruminates, tries to will himself to die but fails, continues to live, and remembers all that he has been, all that he has done. He is his own ghost. His ghost, like any demonic spirit, has chased him since his escape from Guburus’s cave. He is himself split in two, like the jewel he broke in two. He is his own ghost, a demonic spirit. Thameron wants to drive a sharp stone into his own heart and so kill himself; Thameron’s ghost asks, What stone is sharp enough? Thameron’s demonic ghost, the spirit he has now become, says, You have made this, and it cannot be unmade, not by poison, not by sharp stones. Thameron’s spirit, what he is now, says, Welcome.
Now, with the chill of winter all around, with nights cold and black and dawns bitter with frost, Thameron, shivering, sits in the darkness high above the small villages of Odossos—wishing to know.
Wishing to know.
Wishing to be whatever he has become, wishing to do whatever he has done to himself.
* * * *
You are become your destiny, O man. You are chosen, the vessel, the being, the embodiment of the last days. Demand that shadows bow before you and mountains bend in praise, for you are become your destiny, O man beyond men, Prince of Darkness, Master of the Hell of Men!
* * * *
He stares at his hands. Stares at the marks burned onto his palms, the intertwined crescent moons and the seven-pointed star.
…the embodiment of the last days…
…the house of evil…
…the sower of discord…
…ro kil-su.…
He turns his hands over. Stares at the ring he still wears on a finger of his right hand.
Hapad’s ring.
“Know that there was good here. Please. The world is wide. I am afraid for you. Wherever you travel, my friend, please keep this with you, to remind you—”
Stares at the ring.…
Until his mind is dissolved by memories, and he is brought back to Guburus’s cave and faces the flames again, and the breaking of the jewel.
He traces a design on the floor of his cavern, a design—a symbol—never taught him by Guburus or any other, but which he knows, being now who and what he was.
The symbol comes to life as Thameron stares at it. Lips of dust, eyes of sand, wrinkles of dirt. Alive.
“Was it pride lured me?” Thameron asks the lips of dust.
O man, your day has come, and it has come for the world. Look beyond yourself, for that which comes, comes with cause. The air trembles at your breath.
“Am I damned?” Thameron asks the eyes of sand.
That is an old question. Your nature has joined the world’s; events come and, coming, create a new world.
“Am I the Master of Evil?” Thameron asks the wrinkles of dirt.
You have been chosen, O ro kil-su. Time will cease, only to begin again. You sought; you have been answered. Your destiny is everywhere. You have been chosen.
“What am I?” Thameron asks of himself.
You are the Fear that sits deep in the heart of humanity, at the bottom of the heart of humanity.
You are Evil.
* * * *
He removed Hapad’s ring and dropped it into the dirt.
It struck the symbol, and
Thameron screamed
as he was
pulled
into a darkness
to become his mother, giving birth to himself
EVIL
As the ring died and was eaten
All the paths at once
He saw himself inside flames, and he was a woman with laughing jaws, he was screaming and laughing.
He worshiped the moon like an animal, he danced like a man with no mind, he was a river and a current, and he was all that All was
Fear.
FEAR.
EVIL
All…
cold wind
Take me!
All the paths at once
What am I?
EVIL
No!
I am afraid for you
As he was twisted and pulled
fearful full of fear
born torn stretched—
ro kil-su
EVIL
O man beyond men, O Prince of Darkness, Master of the Hell of Men!
The Chosen One.
Thameron
I am eating my own flesh I am drinking my own blood small things crawl there they look at me with my own eyes they greet me
Thameron
eating my own flesh
I am the Lamp in a Storm
The Lamp dies, is extinguished, is dark
is the Dark
EVIL
Thameron
see
know
know
such fear
the sky screams at you, angered
with your flesh and your dreams
EVIL
Thameron
screams at you
with your own voice eating your own flesh
His name is night-starred, surely this was decided
at the beginning of Time
Why was I born?
I want to go back
go back
go back
go
EVIL
surely this was decided
Thameron
Thame
Tha
Fearful full of fear
EVIL
* * * *
He awakens, dead or nearly dead, not quite dead, to cold sunlight, to the cold sunlight of dawn filling his mountain cave.
He stares at his hands.
Stares at the symbol in the dirt—vanished, that symbol—and sees that the ring has been destroyed, is now twisted, has been bent by some force into a simple piece of metal, a lump of gold still warm to his touch.
As though it had just been born.
Like himself.
Half dead from the concussions of his journey, his many paths taken all at once, his awakenings and deaths and reawakenings—
Brought back or reborn, or awakened at last from the throne of the dawn, for his awareness in this time of times.
Nameless, truly. But aware, yes. And now this Thameron, this boy, this once-a-priest, this confused and walking thing of clay and fear, this wet and membraned and tissued human that had sought and, seeking, had discovered the web of existence and was chosen—in the same way that a path of water, one with a rushing current, not separate, is chosen to separate and move around a rock while other paths of water splash against the rock—
Now this Thameron is—
Thameron: alive, but aware.
Evil.
Fear.
Knowing himself to be the house of evil, the sower of discord, the future of the world.
He is Time, housed in humanity.
He is the challenge to humanity.…
* * * *
He rose, still warm, as though he had just been born, walked to the mouth of his cave, and looked at the sky. Far below, beneath the mountain, beneath the gray sky all of clouds, was one of the villages.
He looked at the village.
He made his sign in the air and returned inside the cave to make his sign in the dirt.
Very soon a storm came to drop ice and snow on the village—ice and snow on this warm island, in this warm sea.
Thameron, from the mouth of the cave, watched as the village was attacked by the sudden storm, as its people cried out, as its huts were swept away, as its peasants were buried alive in snow falling as fast as rain. Snow rose in funnel clouds and carried people into the sky, bore them out to sea. Ice reared up from what had been a lake and trapped those who were in boats, smashed them and dragged them under. The fields around the village turned gray with ice, snow, death.
Thameron returned to his circle, muttered certain words, and brought a halt to the storm.
He is beyond knowledge, beyond the paths, beyond all. He is the vessel, and he is all that the vessel contains.
Thameron, Master of the Hell of Men, the necessary one.
* * * *
When he went down from the mountain later that morning, he passed through the village, whatever remained of it. Death was everywhere. Sunlight jumped along the smashed, ice-covered huts. Women were screaming and crying; men were pulling broken red bodies from the wreckage everywhere; dead animals and children were bent in awkward postures, dead and shiny in the icy rain. Trees and flowers, frozen gray, frozen white, glistened where they had dropped, as though they had stumbled there.
Perhaps half the people of the village remained alive—ignorant, shrieking, terrified, sobbing.
Blood, everywhere, frozen in a kind of beauty.
Animals barked and lowed.
Babies, children, men, women in womblike postures, visible beneath the snow.
Thameron viewed all of this dispassionately and knew that it was necessary.
Knew that he was necessary.
Someone—a face, a young girl’s face, she was still alive—and she looked up at him beseechingly. Stranger, please, help us, there was a terrible storm.…
He said nothing but held out his arms and showed her his hands, the palms of his hands.
Showed her the signs of old.
She became terrified and screamed and screamed.
Men looked at him because the child screamed.
Thameron turned his back on them and went away.
* * * *
What am I?
You are Evil.
And it was necessary.…
* * * *
He made his way to the shore and the tide; eventually a boat would come, and in it, he would return to the world to do what he had been chosen to do.
Remembering what he was, and knowing what he had become, he loathed himself.
Was it pride lured me?
Am I damned?
Am I the Master of Evil?
What am I?
He had discovered the web of existence and had been chosen.
Thameron.
The Prince of Hell, the Sower of Discord, the House of Evil.…
ro kil-su.…
the necessary one.…
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
They met in private in a chamber of the state palace. Elad was quite informal; he paced while Adred sat at a heavy stone table. Elad’s first question concerned Princess Orain and Prince Galvus.
“They’re safe,” Adred assured him, and told his king where they were living and the decision they had come to.
Elad was upset to hear of it. “This is absurd. Their lives are in danger there, don’t they know that?”
“No one knows who they are, your crown.”
“It’s ridiculous,” Elad pronounced. “I’ll order them home immediately.”
“They feel that they are home, King Elad.”
“They don’t know what they’re doing.”
“With all respect,” Adred averred, “I think they do. Their sympathies are with those people.”
“Nonsense. With the rebels?”
“Your crown, may I speak frankly?”
Elad told him, “I want you to. Yes.”
“I’ve come with some harsh truths, sire, and you’ll soon be angry with me.”
“Then let me be angry. But tell me the truth about my family.”
Adred hesitated for only a moment. “Then I must do more than tell you about Orain and Galvus, King Elad. I’m here to warn you—to forewarn you—that the riot in Sulos is not an isolated incident. The threat of a revolution is all around us. I say this as a man of property and as a man of title.”
“Do you expect me to take this seriously?”
“There were demonstrations everywhere after what happened in Sulos.”
“And we have taken measures, Count,” Elad replied, “to make sure that those sorts of things won’t happen again.”
“Sire, they will happen again, no matter what you do—unless you take some very specific measures to answer the grievances of the people.”
Elad now stopped his pacing and stood ready to challenge Adred.
Adred held up a hand. “Let me have my say, please. I promised Orain and Galvus.”
“Continue.”
“They’re doing what they think is right. They’ve seen this first hand. The economy is unstable. People are starving, and these are educated people. We have men, women—how many of them?—out of work because of a system that puts some of us at the top and the rest of them at the bottom. How much longer can that floor support us? It’s breaking apart. How long can this go on? How much longer can we rely upon such a system?”
“You speak as though you were a revolutionary yourself.”
“I am sympathetic to their problem, sire, and I admit it. So are Orain and Galvus. No, please! Consider what they’ve been through! All of this injust
ice, King Elad…the people feel that the time for justice has come. Justice and equality.”
Elad grunted and sat across from Adred. “The people?” he asked. “Have you any idea how many innocent people were butchered in Sulos by this—rabble?”
“There were innocent people on both sides of the Shemtu Square, your crown.”
Elad gave him a cold, fierce look, and Adred drew in a breath, frightened by what he had dared to say. But then Elad looked away and reached for the decanter of wine on the table. He pushed a goblet toward Adred as he took one for himself.
“Drink with me,” said the king.
He poured, and they nodded to each other, then sipped.
“Count Adred, if the reports I’ve received are correct, a friend of yours, Count Mantho, was among those the rebels killed.”
“It’s true.”
“You defend his murderers?”
“No, sire. But I defend the ideas that motivate them. Mantho would have been the first to have me stand up for what I believe in, too. Your throne, if you insist on seeing these as isolated incidents, then I can say nothing more to convince you. But there is so much hunger, and so much anger. These people want food and jobs.”
“They want to overthrow the government and depose their king.”
“King Elad, they do not,” Adred said strongly, knowing that it was a lie. “They want reforms. They want jobs. They want the country that their parents had. Their parents built this empire. Their parents didn’t need a revolution because they had trust in the—”
Elad held up a hand, and Adred fell silent.
“Count, if you have knowledge of who is plotting against me, it is your duty to report the names of these criminals.”
“Your crown, I have no names,” Adred told him, “unless you wish to arrest your sister-in-law and your nephew.”
Elad slammed down his goblet.
“If I anger you, so be it,” Adred told him. “I’ll risk it, for their sake. I’ve come to think very highly of Prince Galvus.”
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