13, December 2001

When Caivar died the volume of my life shrank to a point. I managed, through my own flaws, to fill my days with studies and my nights with choking tears. I did not imagine what awaited me in the sun-filled study of his tower in the forest. Two volumes, lazily hidden, and hence, found.

I could almost hear the scratch of his pen when I opened the volume to the first page. There was a certain amount of joy, too, in smoothing down the paper, hoping for insights to his thoughts, this man who was my lord. But time passed, and the light of the tower room passed into darkness. Still, I read without pause into the morning when I rose from the chair and walked calmly down the stairs from the fourth floor to the outside.

I wretched.

Not just the contents of my stomach, but I felt evil, something I hadn't felt in a long time. It came from the hollow place somewhere between the stomach and the bowels, oozing around my soul.

My father had been right. In truth, Caivar had been a man with a genius for evil. He was a treacherous man, carnivorous. Along with a brilliant intelligence his education and gentlemanly behavior only helped his cunning. He had a great power of persuasion when he wasn't insulting people, even with the objects of his vengeance. Caivar, mine, I had no idea what you meant when you said you'd done bad things. But never will I forget the description of your joy when you poisoned my beloved Aunt, your mother, knowing she would lose the babe she carried and ruin the love she shared with another.

Caivar, I loved you, because at a time when you were wavering between detestable principles and the impulses of a gentler heart I saw that you were inclining towards justice. And I love you now, because I see from your writing that, in the end, you triumphed over these vile principles, and that your evil inspirations were followed by tears, and pages, of honest regret. This I say before the Unicorn, my hand at my breast and my throat compressed with grief, at a time when I can finally see your real self.

And what of my own judgment? Shame. How can I see a man, or a woman, and only see what's possible? Not what is? Compassion brings affection in its wake. But I do not love evil, I never loved it. I wonder if I shall ever look at people in the same way again. My cousin Joshua comes to mind, a man with a kaleidoscope of personalities. And I thought that what he wanted was the family, and Amber. Now I see that his roughness of manner has been a very great charm in my eyes, and that I have been blind. Always blind. If only there were some great ideas and noble feelings behind the fractured glass of Joshua's actions, I could still maintain my hopes. But he is colored now, flawed. Again I say I do not love evil, I have never loved it, and if he cultivates it instead of being the Prince of Amber he should be, then I would only be miserable in his company. Or probably dead.

And what of my own faithlessness? For I needed something so much that my own capacity for keeping faith, whether it be my own father, or Caivar, was dimmed. Would you be alive today, Caivar? If I had more faith? If I'd forsaken my father? Guilt and sorrow free my vision.

I need only remark that the naked truth is nothing pleasant to see. But having opened my eyes now, I cannot be innocent of human nature again. There is evil in the hearts of men.