The Riddle - Alison Croggon [163]
“What is his usename, then?” she asked politely.
“It is Cai of Pellinor, of course,” he said.
“No, it’s not,” said Maerad. She looked back at him scornfully, and for an instant his gaze faltered.
“You lie,” he said.
“I do not lie,” she answered. “Although one has called me a liar, I did not know what he meant.”
Arkan laughed, a long low laugh. “Was that the wise man you traveled so far to consult?” he said at last. “And he called you a liar? Ah, that is amusing.”
“Then do you know what he meant?” From here, Maerad could look Arkan in the eye. She could tell he was not used to such a straight gaze, and felt it as an affront, as certainly as she knew he would say nothing about it.
“Lying is not the same thing as not speaking the truth,” said Arkan. “Elidhu do not lie. Why should we lie? Only humans lie, because they think that language can give them another reality. And then out of their lies they make that reality. Have you not understood that yet? Why do you think Sharma is as he is? He is the Great Liar, and his lie almost became the whole world.”
“But it was still a lie.” Maerad found these conversations disconcerting; they never seemed to go in the directions she imagined. “He wanted to destroy truth.”
“The truth that he wanted to destroy was the truth that he must die. I have seldom met a human being who really wanted to die. Sharma found death a great insult, and he envied the Elidhu, because we do not die. Why do you think he stole our Song? But even he, one of the greatest mages of a golden age of Bards, could not make the truth as he wanted it.”
“So he wished to destroy all truths,” said Maerad.
“No,” said Arkan. “He did know one truth: power. And power is the only thing that humans understand.”
“No, it’s not,” said Maerad stubbornly. “There are other truer truths.” She stared at Arkan, thinking that his veins, if he indeed possessed any, probably ran with ice water. How would he understand the truths of love, of kin, of blood? Of unassuagable grief and longing?
“I know what you think,” said Arkan. He glanced at her, and his glance went deeply into Maerad, like a lance of ice. “What of love? What of sorrow?”
“I don’t think you know what those things are,” said Maerad sharply.
“You have no idea what I know.” His scorn was naked, and she flinched. “No human knows anything of truth. Could you pick the smallest pebble out of a stream and tell me the truth of it? Could you tell me its story of long eons of water and wind and ice and fire? No, to you it would be just a pebble, resting in your hand, of note only because you had picked it up. But that is not its truth.”
“Does that make me a liar?”
“Perhaps.”
“I do not claim anything,” said Maerad, and suddenly felt forlorn. It was true: she did not, and could not, claim anything. “That doesn’t explain why Inka-Reb said I was a liar. He meant something else. If you know everything, perhaps you can explain that.”
“I do not know why the Singer said you were a liar,” said Arkan indifferently. “I think you are a liar because you think you know what is true. You think you feel what is true. But you do not yet know what you do feel and what you do know. You desire and do not take; you love and are too afraid to feel your love; you conceal your vanity and pettiness from yourself; you are afraid to look into your soul and see what you are. That is why you are a liar.”
Maerad was unexpectedly stung, and glared at Arkan. “You have no right to say such things,” she said.
He shrugged. “You asked. You know enough to know that I speak truly.”
Maerad stared down the throne room toward the pool. Arkan is right, she thought. It’s what people mean when they mention how young I am. “What if I do learn truth?” she asked at last.
“Then you will be miserable,” said Arkan. “So, you see, it is easy to understand why humans are such liars.” He seemed to be laughing, and Maerad stared at him defiantly.
“Why would a human not choose