steal the Seed of Birth from the gods themselves.”
Olin looked up, his expression so odd that Vash could not read it. “I have heard something like it told of the great hero Hiliometes.”
“Ah, you illustrate my point. Now, most of those who hear that tale believe ‘This is a true thing. This is what Melarkh—or Hiliometes, if that is how they hear the tale—this is what the great hero did.’ ” For a moment the god-king’s hand rose again, finger-stalls glittering like fire in the sun’s dying rays. “But those, of course, are the very simplest of the simple. Cleverer men—clerics and other wise men, leaders of the common folk, they will say, ‘Of course Melarkh may not have flown up to heaven on a falcon or brought back the Seed of Birth, but the story speaks of how the secrets of the gods must be discovered by brave men, how mortals can change their fate.’ And the wildest minds, the loneliest of philosophers living far from the disapproval of others, might even think, ‘Since no falcon large enough to carry a grown man exists, perhaps the tale of Melarkh riding one to heaven is false. And if that tale is false, perhaps others are false too. And if the tales are false, perhaps all the stories they tell are lies. Perhaps the gods themselves do not exist!’ And from such blasphemy even the wisest recoil, because they know that such thinking could uproot heaven itself and leave men alone in the void.”
The autarch’s tone changed now, growing softer and more intimate, so that Vash, cursing his old ears, had to lean down to the point where his back, already sore, began to ache in earnest. He was also terrified that the railing might creak under this greater weight, giving him away.
“But here is what I say to all of them, the stupid and the curious and the brave,” the autarch continued, “they are all of them right! And they are all of them wrong as well. Only I understand the truth. Only I of all living things can bend the gods to my will.”
Vash took a breath. This was a scope of madness even he had not seen before, and he had witnessed many of the autarch’s strangest and most savage ideas.
“I do not . . . I do not understand you.” Olin sounded weak and ill now.
“Oh, I think you do. Or at least you grasp the general drift of what I say—because you have thought such things yourself. Admit it, Olin, you are surprised to hear such ideas—ideas more exalted but otherwise not so different from your own—coming from one you think of as so different from yourself. Well, you are right—I am different. Because where you have learned these secrets and thought these thoughts in the depths of despair, trying to learn why you and your line are so cursed, I have stepped forward and said, ‘These secrets are what I seek, but I will not be the anvil, I will be the hammer. It is I who will do the shaping.’ ” The autarch let out another gleeful laugh. “You see, I know what is beneath your castle, Olin of Southmarch. I know the curse that has bedeviled your family for generations, and I know what caused it. But unlike you, I will shape that power to my own will. Unlike you, I will not let heaven rule me with ancient tales and infantile warnings! The power of the gods will be mine—and then I will punish heaven itself for trying to deny me!”
After the autarch returned to his cabin, King Olin remained at the rail, staring silently at the water. Pinimmon Vash, whose knees were throbbing now too, dared not move yet for fear the northern king would notice him. At last, Olin turned and let his guards lead him back toward his small cabin. For a moment Vash could see the foreign king’s face clearly, its skin so slack and its hue so ghastly pale that Olin might have already been dead. In fact, the foreigner looked as though he had seen not only his own death, but the end of everything he loved.
Pinimmon Vash, who had never wasted a drop of pity on others, thought of Olin’s bloodless face and
Olin looked up, his expression so odd that Vash could not read it. “I have heard something like it told of the great hero Hiliometes.”
“Ah, you illustrate my point. Now, most of those who hear that tale believe ‘This is a true thing. This is what Melarkh—or Hiliometes, if that is how they hear the tale—this is what the great hero did.’ ” For a moment the god-king’s hand rose again, finger-stalls glittering like fire in the sun’s dying rays. “But those, of course, are the very simplest of the simple. Cleverer men—clerics and other wise men, leaders of the common folk, they will say, ‘Of course Melarkh may not have flown up to heaven on a falcon or brought back the Seed of Birth, but the story speaks of how the secrets of the gods must be discovered by brave men, how mortals can change their fate.’ And the wildest minds, the loneliest of philosophers living far from the disapproval of others, might even think, ‘Since no falcon large enough to carry a grown man exists, perhaps the tale of Melarkh riding one to heaven is false. And if that tale is false, perhaps others are false too. And if the tales are false, perhaps all the stories they tell are lies. Perhaps the gods themselves do not exist!’ And from such blasphemy even the wisest recoil, because they know that such thinking could uproot heaven itself and leave men alone in the void.”
The autarch’s tone changed now, growing softer and more intimate, so that Vash, cursing his old ears, had to lean down to the point where his back, already sore, began to ache in earnest. He was also terrified that the railing might creak under this greater weight, giving him away.
“But here is what I say to all of them, the stupid and the curious and the brave,” the autarch continued, “they are all of them right! And they are all of them wrong as well. Only I understand the truth. Only I of all living things can bend the gods to my will.”
Vash took a breath. This was a scope of madness even he had not seen before, and he had witnessed many of the autarch’s strangest and most savage ideas.
“I do not . . . I do not understand you.” Olin sounded weak and ill now.
“Oh, I think you do. Or at least you grasp the general drift of what I say—because you have thought such things yourself. Admit it, Olin, you are surprised to hear such ideas—ideas more exalted but otherwise not so different from your own—coming from one you think of as so different from yourself. Well, you are right—I am different. Because where you have learned these secrets and thought these thoughts in the depths of despair, trying to learn why you and your line are so cursed, I have stepped forward and said, ‘These secrets are what I seek, but I will not be the anvil, I will be the hammer. It is I who will do the shaping.’ ” The autarch let out another gleeful laugh. “You see, I know what is beneath your castle, Olin of Southmarch. I know the curse that has bedeviled your family for generations, and I know what caused it. But unlike you, I will shape that power to my own will. Unlike you, I will not let heaven rule me with ancient tales and infantile warnings! The power of the gods will be mine—and then I will punish heaven itself for trying to deny me!”
After the autarch returned to his cabin, King Olin remained at the rail, staring silently at the water. Pinimmon Vash, whose knees were throbbing now too, dared not move yet for fear the northern king would notice him. At last, Olin turned and let his guards lead him back toward his small cabin. For a moment Vash could see the foreign king’s face clearly, its skin so slack and its hue so ghastly pale that Olin might have already been dead. In fact, the foreigner looked as though he had seen not only his own death, but the end of everything he loved.
Pinimmon Vash, who had never wasted a drop of pity on others, thought of Olin’s bloodless face and
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