Jack Whyte - The Sorcer part 2 - Metamorphosis

Why then, I wondered, would Ironhair feed me this mess of pottage about Carthac's claim? He must know that I would scorn it, so what did he seek to gain? In what way would I damage my own cause and advance Ironhair's by rejecting his proposal on the grounds of Arthur's claim? That perplexed me greatly, for I knew that Ironhair must know the answer. And then it came to me, in a burst of sudden understanding that almost took my breath away, so quickly did it supplant Ironhair's apparent advantage over me.

To cover my reaction to the awareness that had flared in me, I stepped forward slowly, my eyes downcast, and made a lengthy display of settling myself into the only chair at the table between Retorix and me. I leaned back and crossed my left arm over my chest, resting my right elbow on my fist and plucking at my lower lip with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. Retorix watched me, narrow eyed, assuming that I was considering his words. What I was considering, in fact, was what I should do with the knowledge that now throbbed in me, and what I wanted to do most was to stride off into my tent to be alone with my thoughts. I needed to analyse this new awareness immediately and to probe it for weaknesses. But I knew that Bedwyr waited for me in my tent and would distract me from thinking clearly, whereas, if I simply remained where I was, no one would dare to break in on my thoughts.

Ironhair, I was now convinced, was wagering heavily that I would be able to tolerate neither his insolence in making this approach nor the spurious cloak of respectability he was holding up for Carthac. Fully aware of the legitimacy of Arthur's claim as Uther's heir, he was gambling that I would react in outraged fury to his proposal and would—must—

expel his hirelings from my presence. His reasoning, and his hopes for success, were now clear in my mind, and he himself had given me the key to resolving the entire matter. By mentioning Uderic, and the dislike he held for me, Ironhair had overplayed his advantage. When I refused his invitation to withdraw based upon his terms, which depended heavily on his definition of my presence in Cambria as an invading force, I would define myself as a third force in this conflict, inimical, by that definition, to both sides. Bolstered by the false legitimacy of his support of Carthac, who was a Pendragon, Ironhair could then approach Uderic and make common cause with him—albeit temporarily—to drive the invading forces of Camulod out of Cambria.

I had no illusions about Uderic. His ambition was as great as Ironhair's, and his eyes were set on the same prize: the gold circlet that sat upon the brows of whoever ruled as king of the Pendragon. The fact that many, perhaps a majority, of his Pendragon people would refuse to accept that Camulod might have designs on Cambria would have little sway over Uderic's designs. He would form an alliance with Ironhair to drive us out of the Pendragon territories. Then, once we were gone, crushed between the armies of both enemies, he would think he could turn his attention to Ironhair and Carthac, dealing with them at leisure. Uderic was a strong war chief and a natural successor to Dergyll, but he lacked Dergyll's brains and the popular support the former king had attracted without effort. I would pick Ironhair, ten times out of ten, to win any contest with Uderic. But none of that had any direct bearing on my immediate concerns, which had to do with Ironhair's beliefs.

When I was a child of ten, perhaps eleven years old, Publius Varrus had said something to me that I had never forgotten. He had caught me lying to him over some minor boyhood scrape, when, seeking to protect Uther from some unspecified punishment, I had claimed ignorance of my cousin's whereabouts. Uncle Varrus had taken me severely to task over the lie, emphasizing and reiterating that lying consistently contains its own punishments, feeding upon itself to the point at which the liar loses all respect and credibility. He had kept coming back to the point for weeks, until I grew heartily sick of it, but then he had concluded the lesson by asking me if I knew what the liar's tragedy was. He insisted that I think about his question and find an answer to it, so I thought, and I thought. Finally, I thought I knew the answer.

"Well?" Uncle Varrus asked me.

"I think... once a man has become a really bad liar... a habitual liar... then his tragedy must be that, no matter what he says, no one will ever be able to believe him. "

My uncle nodded. "That is really awful, isn't it? Would. you like to be in that situation?"

"No. "

"No, nor would I. To go through life knowing that no one will believe you about anything must be truly terrible.But you know, Cay, that is not the liar's tragedy. The liar's tragedy is far, far worse. "

I gazed at him, wide-eyed. "How, Uncle? What could be worse than that?"

'This, Cay: the real tragedy of the liar is that he can never believe anyone else. "

That befuddled me, for I was yet too young to grasp its full implication, but I never forgot it, and I never stopped thinking about it, and as I grew older I began to see the extent of the tragedy: for if a man knows, deep in his heart, that he is a liar and a fraud and a hypocrite, how can he ever ascribe any honesty, sincerity or integrity to any other?

Ironhair was judging me according to his own criteria, and he was wrong. He was ascribing his own venal ambitions to me, believing that I truly did seek to rule in Cambria and that I lusted to be king in the same way he did, for I had not the slightest belief that Carthac would survive Ironhair's friendship long enough to claim the crown. He would never believe the truth: that my motivation was revenge for the treachery he had brought into Camulod. I sought his death, and Cardiac's, simply because I believed the world would be a better place were they both dead, and I could withdraw to Camulod and live there happily until the time arrived when Arthur would step forth to claim his own.

Now I believed I had the measure of him. He was unaware that I had sent Huw Strongarm to meet with Uderic. When Uderic and I met face to face, I would tell him what Ironhair sought to do, and we would thwart him together, with an alliance between our armies. Uderic had many faults, and until I discovered otherwise, I was prepared to accept that he might not be trustworthy, but he was sane, unlike Carthac.

I sucked air with a hiss through my front teeth, then rose to my feet. Retorix and his people stood facing me stalwartly, flanked by my troopers, and I hesitated for a heartbeat, wondering for a strange, brief moment, if I was about to make a serious error. Connor would be active in the waters below Tintagel, even now. He would have scant cause to thank me were I to send these people slinking home to arrive at his back unexpectedly.

I spoke directly to Retorix again, watching his eyes closely. "How long will it take you to bear my message back to Ironhair? I presume he is sitting safely in Tintagel, awaiting your return?"

The eyes widened very slightly, but he answered immediately, his voice calm. "He awaits our coming, but not in Tintagel."

"No, of course not You came from the west" Then, knowing I was right, I hardened my tone and rattled off what I had to say, speaking harshly and giving him no chance to interject or quibble. "But whichever way you came, from south or west, you came here uninvited, and I have listened to you with patience, despite my own inclinations. Now, having listened, here is my decision... " I walked around the table to face them from less than two paces, with nothing between us. "Let me begin from the beginning. I am Legate Commander of Camulod, and you addressed me correctly. Your 'Supreme Commander, ' as you call him, is, on the other hand, an upstart and an exile from that Camulod. He is a liar and a murderer of women, and though he may seek to assume it by himself, he is completely unworthy of being accorded any kind of nobility. His friend Carthac, whom he refers to as my distant kinsman, is no kin of mine. He is a demented degenerate and utterly unworthy to be called human. As for his so-called claim to the kingship of Cambria, it is ludicrous to suggest that the Pendragon people would ever willingly place themselves beneath his heel.