Roger Zelazny - The Black Throne

Ligela motioned for me to close the casket, which I did. She took my arm and walked with me among a stand of saplings.

"I do not like this at all," she said. "It smacks of—interference. It may be a cosmic stroke of good fortune. It may be a trap. There is no way for me to tell in advance."

"What are we to do?"

"I wish to place you under control," she said, halting within the grove, "and to create a psychic bond."

"Remember what happened the last time you worked on me?"

"I have given it considerable thought since then," she told me. "This time you will not be evicted from your body."

"What will be the purpose of this—bond?"

"Hopefully, it will keep me apprised of your welfare," she explained.

"All right," I said.

I seated myself upon a gray log, my back against a boulder, at her direction. I remember the sweep of her hands past my eyes and a buzzing below my stomach. The plug of my mind was drawn and my thoughts drained away... .

How much later it was that I awoke I do not know. I felt very relaxed.

"Good," I heard her say. I opened my eyes, she smiled, extended her hands, and helped me to my feet.

"Did it work?" I asked as we walked back to the coach.

"I think so," she said. "We shall see."

The others were waiting when we got there, and we raised Valdemar and strapped him into place.

As we rode along, I wondered: Even if she became aware of some peril I faced, what would Ligeia be able to do about it, way off somewhere to the east? I studied Grip, who returned my gaze. He opened his beak several times, but said nothing.

Toledo stood on a hill, the Tagus river bent three-quarters of the way about it. It was situated some forty miles southwest of Madrid in an area not currently held by the French. Dark clouds hung above the city, and the ground was damp—as if we had just missed a storm. Our current coachman—older than most of the others—halted us outside the city walls, vowing he would only set foot or wheel within the place sometime between the freezing of hell and the Second Coming.

I took with me a goodly amount of gold, and a note Ligeia had written in Spanish indicating I wished to hire an interpreter. I had the name of a Padre Diaz Valdemar had assured us to be an honest and honorable man, and I had a rough map indicating the location of his church, Santo Tome, and its rectory.

Armed with these I bade my companions good-bye, tentatively planning to meet them in this same spot at this same time three days hence.

So I approached the fortress on the rock from its northern flank. I knew that the Romans, the Visigoths, and the Muslims had dwelled here. Ligeia had told me that its cathedral was a thing of exquisite beauty, dating back to the thirteenth century; and while I would have enjoyed viewing it under other conditions I heard Time's heavy tread, slightly faster than my own, somewhere in back of me.

I entered the city without being challenged. Apart from his non-physical insights, Valdemar was probably correct from a more practical point of view in suggesting that I separate from my escort of friends and allies outside the walls. Loyal and strong they might be, but they were also a somewhat odd assortment of people and creatures, and in time of war the political and religious arch-conservatives who ruled here were apt to be intolerant. As a wealthy American I could hope at least to be tolerated.

I did get a view of the cathedral, and of many little shops, and some fine residences, and some gilded coaches, and some dirty wagons, and some truly lovely horses, and some excellent examples of the damascened blades for which the city was famous. One of the most gorgeous was a dagger in the hand of the man who arrested me.

Four armed men of particularly uniform appearance approached me just as I succeeded in locating Santo Tome. I had been wandering the streets for a couple of hours by then and was rather pleased to have located the church without assistance other than the map. In fact, I was still holding the thing in my hand when they came up to me and began saying graceful and incomprehensible things.

"No comprendo," I explained. "Soy norteamericano."

They said more things to each other, then one of them looked at my map, pointed to it, and pointed to the church.

"La iglesia?" he asked.

"Si," I replied. "Santo Tome. De donde es Padre Diaz?"

They conferred again quickly, and when I heard Padre Diaz' name mentioned in close conjunction to another word I had committed to memory—that being "heretico"—I suspected I was in trouble. Nor was I incorrect. It was but moments later that I was given the opportunity to admire the gold and silver inlay of the dagger. There were several others in evidence, but the one belonging to Enrique—also referred to as "Jefe" by the others—was by far the most attractive.

"You—come—with—us," Jefe Enrique said to me.

"Soy norteamericano," I explained again.

"Si, norteamericano amigo de heretico," he said.

"No," I said. "I wanted help in finding an inventor named Von Kempelen. I was told that Father Diaz either spoke English or could find me an interpreter. See?"

I showed him the letter. He passed it to one of the others. The man glanced at it and handed it to the next man, who did the same. It occurred to me then that all four of them might be illiterate.

"Por favor," I said. "Interpreter, translator—para Ingles."

Jefe Enrique shrugged and gestured with his blade.

"Come," he said.

Two of them flanked me, one walked behind, Jefe walked a bit ahead and to the right. I regretted not having learned the Spanish word for "misunderstanding" though I doubted it would really have done me much good. There was a certain air of dedication about them which did not seem to lend itself to debate.

And so I was taken to the local jail, my money and blade confiscated along with my letter and map. I was locked into a pitch-dark cell, presumably while it was considered whether I might be an accomplice of poor Padre Diaz. If they decided this to be the case, presumably I would be handed over to the Inquisition.

Extending my hands before me, I moved slowly, groping my way about the circuit of my confining walls, some of them stone and some rough iron. When I felt myself to be at the door once more I seated myself with my back to it and rested. I ate some bread and drank some water that I found there. I must have dozed then, for there seemed to be a break in my consciousness.

Upon awakening, I found myself sprawled prone, my right arm hanging downward. My cheek rested upon the floor of the prison, but my temple did not. A peculiar smell, as of decayed fungus, arose to my nostrils. I moved my arm about and came by degrees to realize that I had somehow come to rest at the very brink of a circular pit. I groped about until I located a loose piece of masonry which I managed to pry free. Letting it fall, I listened to its clinking against the edges of the chasm until at length it plunged into water. At that instant a door or panel was opened somewhere overhead and closed again. In the instant's illumination this afforded I was able to ascertain the good fortune which had permitted me to fall just as I had rather than a half-pace, say, farther ahead. It was a large circular pit, occupying the center of the cell. I withdrew immediately to the nearest wall, pressing myself firmly against it.

We seem to be entombed alive, Perry. It was almost as if Poe had spoken, as if he were seated beside me there in the dark, contemplating the abyss.

So it would seem, Poe. But it's only a jail. I've been in them before, I responded in thought.

Not like this one, Perry.

Embellishments, my dear Poe. Mere embellishments.

The pit calls to us.