Read Online Delusion's Master (Tales From the Flat Earth) by Tanith Lee - Free Book Online

with his own curious and unfathomable
glance. His voice had cast a spell on them. The story seemed quite real. It
hurt them to hear him tell it, as it seemed also to hurt him, though they could
not reckon how they knew so much, for his tone was harmoniously even, his face
clear of all expression.
    It transpired,
the storyteller said, the subjects of the prince came to look for him, and
eventually they found his corpse. Then, knowing something of sorcery, they went
about the task of restoring him. But one ingredient of his restoration was
nothing else but tears. This appeared, under the circumstances, an easy element
to obtain. The prince’s subjects went instantly to the folk of the neighboring
country, for whom he had sacrificed himself, and asked them to weep for him.
But these good neighbors averted their faces, and declared: “We know who you
mean, and we do not credit you. We shall not shed one tear for the prince of
such liars.”
    “And was that
not strange?” said the storyteller to the crowd. Some shivered as they heard
him. In some there came a bizarre welling of guilt, of shame and
fear. . . . “But the strangest portion of the story is to come.”
    The subjects
of the prince shed their own tears, and these proved adequate to raise him at
last out of the gray limbo in which he had lain all this while imprisoned. But,
being restored, as he was traveling back to his kingdom, he chanced to look
over into the neighboring land. All was lawless as ever, but now a massive
festival was in progress. Moved by curiosity, the prince drew near, and
presently he saw and heard these things. His neighbors had erected a formless
stone, and were dancing around it to the joyful noise of pipe and drum, and now
and then someone would embrace the stone, or pour oil or wine or aromatics over
it. Fascinated—for he truly was fascinated—the prince inquired what rites were
in progress.
    “We are
venerating this incredible and kind god,” the neighbors replied, “who saved us
from a fearful monster.”
    The prince
observed the stone for some while, but that was all it was—a stone. Rugged,
passionless, insensible.
    Presently, he
remarked, “Pardon my foolishness, but I had heard it was a lord from over your
border, who sought out the monster with a sword, and slew it.”
    At this, the
neighbors spat. “We have heard that lie, too,” they said, “but that ugly and
misshapen fiend from the next estate is more foul to us than the monster
itself. Pray do not mention his name again.”
    For a long
while after the stranger had ceased speaking, the crowd sat on in silence.
Almost every head was bowed, as if in deep thought—or in humiliation. Yet the
crowd did not comprehend what had come over it, this unpleasing doubt in the
midst of celebration.
    Then the
philosopher spoke primly and loudly to the stranger’s back.
    “A peculiar
notion, sir, if I have your drift. It seems you instruct us that the
Unspeakable One, the Lord of Shadows, was, at some time, savior of the world.”
    The dark
storyteller did not look about. He said: “You have presumed the gods value man
so much that they will hurry to his rescue. I think you misjudge the gods.”
    “And you,”
declared the philosopher sternly, “suggest that they are merely as stones.”
    “There, I
admit, I have maligned them. For if you strike a stone, it may disgorge a
stream of water, or a precious jewel. Or you may build a house from it, or
scratch words on its surface with a knife. Stones can be serviceable to
men.”
    “Your
blasphemy is uncouth,” said the philosopher, and the crowd began sulkily to
grumble and mutter, taking its cue from him. “You had best remember Baybhelu,
and how the tower was shaken down by the gods, to cure mankind of its pride.”
    “Pride?” asked
the stranger caressingly. “What have you to be proud of? Your lives, which
perish in the blink of an eye? Your memories which are shorter still? Your
brains which are so empty of wits that