Генри Каттнер - Lands of the Earthquake

“I think,” the young man interrupted, pausing in the doorway, “I heard you call upon Irathe.”

Boyce gave him a long, steady look. Under the hat–brim the man’s eyes were watchful. After a moment Boyce put the sword back into its sheath at his side.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll follow.”

He heard the other laugh to himself. Then the man turned and led the way up a ramp of translucent crystal that wound around the tower just inside the filigree walls. They were transparent from within, and Boyce could look out over the whole city as they climbed, seeing the narrow streets open out beneath him, again filled with their colorful crowds.

Toward the center of the City a building of black stone rose square and sheer above the rooftops. Above Boyce on the stairs the younger man waved a pointing arm.

“The King,” he said.

Boyce’s brows lifted. The brown girl who had guided him here said it was the King who summoned Them . They had wound in their dark procession through these very streets, then, toward that high, black building where someone awaited them who was not afraid—or was even the King afraid?—to look upon their faces. And it was City gossip that the summoning had something to do with the conquest of Kerak.

There was a painted room at the head of the ramp. Three walls of it were covered with patterns of birds and flowers seen against a bright sky. Boyce glanced carelessly at the colorful scenes, looked away—glanced back with amazement.

“Blue sky?” he demanded, scarcely knowing he spoke. “Birds, flowers, blue skies? Here in the City?”

His host had crossed to a far corner and was unbuckling his sword–belt. Boyce’s eyes swept the room. The fourth wall was of glass and framed a vast panorama of City streets and mist and mountains beyond them, and a distant glimpse of Kerak with a tiny flash of crimson above the towers which was Kerak’s enchanted flag. Heavy golden curtains covered the walls here and there, and there were broad divans and deep chairs cushioned with velvet. It was a luxurious place.

But he scarcely saw it. He was still enthralled by the presence of blue pictured skies, when so far as he knew the City had drifted forever on the sluggish land–tide of a world that knew no real day.

“What do you know about the sky?” he demanded, turning to the silent figure of his host.

He saw the figure stoop to lay down the broad plumed hat. His back was still to Boyce.

“As much as you know, William Boyce,” the other said amazingly.

Boyce’s breath stopped for a stunned moment.

“Who—who are you? How do you know my name?”

The young man did not yet turn. He lifted both arms to the latches on the shoulders of his mail robe, clicked them deliberately and let the linked steel drop away. Beneath it he wore breeches and a close–fitted tunic of scarlet, above the scarlet boots. He put his hands to his head and shook out a sudden wreath of dark curls that fell upon the crimson shoulders as he turned.

He laughed.

“Do you remember now?”

The room spun around Boyce. It was dark, a roaring darkness that was only the blood in his ears. He opened his mouth, but no words came. He stared and stared, and could not move or speak.

She was not wearing the long robe he remembered, nor the iron crown. But the violent eyes were there, the color of hot small flames, and the same smile he remembered, white and scarlet and dazzling. And the same look of brilliance and danger and malice.

He said in a whisper, “ Irathe! ”

“There,” she said softly. “I knew you’d remember, in the end.”

She came toward him slowly, walking with a lovely swaying gait he surely could not have forgotten until now. When she was very near him she lifted her arms and her head fell back until the dark curls lay in wreaths upon her shoulders.

He knew before he touched her how the strong, soft body would feel in his arms. In the instant before they kissed he knew what the kiss would be like, the shape and the feel of her mouth beneath his. Even the spicy fragrance she wore was familiar. He did not yet remember fully, but he knew he had held her thus many, many times in the past, in his lost year.

“And so you remember, now?”

Boyce shifted his arm about her, the dark curls fanning on his shoulder in a fragrant mass. They sat together on a divan before the window, looking out over the tremendous panorama of the City and the hills beyond.

He paused a moment.

“No. A little—not much. I’ll have to know, Irathe.” He hesitated over the name. He was not sure yet, not sure at all how much had been solved by this meeting. He was still uncertain about her. He knew too little.

He was thinking of the way she had used her throwing–knives in the gaming–room brawl, of how her scarlet boots had kicked an enemy twice in the face before rolling him into the water to drown. Now she was all softness and fragrance in his arms. But it was not quite like this that he remembered her. He was not sure yet what it was he did remember—but he thought he knew what he did not remember. It was not like that.

“You loved me in your own world, my darling,” she murmured against his cheek. “You loved me enough to—to follow me here, I think. Can you say you’ve forgotten our year together on Earth?”

She was mocking him. She knew he had forgotten. She knew because it had been her doing that he had. He closed his eyes and struggled with his own mind, determined to prove her wrong this time.

Slowly, painfully, in snatches and blanks and brief, vivid pictures, a piecemeal sort of memory began to return.

“There was a house,” he said carefully. “On the river. You—it was your house. Big, quiet. No one around and a—servant? One, two people—” He recalled suddenly the swarthy man who had come to take the boat in the pool–chamber below. “People from here!” he finished in surprise.

“Of course, why not? From my native City.” She smiled at him derisively. “Go on. Your memory’s better than I thought. Go on—if you dare!”

He paused at that. Yes, somewhere at the other end of this memory was something frightening—something she knew of and dared him to recall. He would not. But he would go on a little more. Not too far….

“I met you—somewhere,” he said, groping for a dim picture of the two of them together in some forgotten public place. “It was—I don’t know. Somewhere, by accident—”

Her laughter stopped him. Malice and derision sounded together in it.

“Accident, you think? Oh no, that was not accident, my darling! I searched for you a long time—or for one like you. One of the blood of the Crusaders.”

He turned to stare into her violent eyes. They mocked him.

“But that can’t be true. I’m not.” He hesitated. Guillaume du Bois—William Boyce. Face and name the same.

“Why?” he demanded. She moved her cheek catlike against his shoulder.

“I had a task to do. I still have a task.” For a moment he thought he heard weariness and genuine feeling in her sigh. “I have gone many times into many worlds, seeking many men and women, trying to finish that task. Perhaps you’ll finish it for me, my darling. Perhaps I’ve found the right man at last.”

He did not answer. He was thinking clearly and rapidly, watching memories tumble through his mind like a kaleidoscope, pictures that shifted as he watched into new patterns, some of them significant, some sheer nonsense as he recalled them.

He had met the girl—somewhere. He knew that now. And he must have fallen instantly, irrationally in love. He could remember a part of that delirium now; he could feel a part of it still, at this moment, with this warm, sweet–smelling girl in his arms. But there was something wrong. It was not quite the same girl.