Абрахам Меррит - Dwellers in the Mirage

"Nothing," I answered. "I wonder now you did not when you had the chance."

"You had complicated matters," she said. "You had shown the ring. Many had seen it, many had heard you call yourself Dwayanu—"

Ah, yes! I remember now—I had come up from the river. How had I gotten into the river? The bridge—Nansur—something had happened there…it was all misty, nothing clear–cut…the Little People…yes, I remembered something of them…they were afraid of me…but I had nothing against them…vainly I tried to sort the vague visions into some pattern. Lur's voice recalled my wandering thoughts.

"And so," she was saying, "I made Yodin see that it was not well to slay you outright. It would have been known, and caused too much unrest—strengthened Sirk for one thing. Caused unrest among the soldiers. What—Dwayanu had come and we had slain him! 'I will take him,' I told Yodin. 'I do not trust Tibur who, in his stupidity and arrogance, might easily destroy us all. There is a better way. Let Khalk'ru eat him and so prove us right and him the liar and braggart. Then not soon will another come shouting that he is Dwayanu'!"

"So the High–priest does not think me Dwayanu, either?"

"Less even than I do. Yellow–hair," she said, smiling. "Nor Tibur. But who you are, and whence you came, and how and why—that puzzles them as it does me. You look like the Ayjir—it means nothing. You have the ancient marks upon your hands—well, granted you are of the ancient blood. So has Tibur—and he is no Redeemer," again her laughter rang like little bells, "You have the ring. Where did you find it. Yellow–hair? For you know little of its use. Yodin found that out. When you were in sleep. And Yodin saw you turn colour and half turn to flee when first you saw Khalk'ru in his chamber. Deny it not. Yellow–hair. I saw it myself. Ah, no—Yodin has little fear of a rival with the Dissolver. Yet–he is not wholly certain. There is the faintest shadow of doubt. I played on that. And so—you are here."

I looked at her with frankest admiration, again raised the goblet and drank to her. I clapped my hands, and the serving girls entered.

"Clear the table. Bring wine."

They came with fresh ewers and goblets. When they had gone out I went over to the door. There was a heavy bar that closed it. I thrust it down. I picked up one of the ewers and half emptied it.

"I can summon the Dissolver, Witch–woman."

She drew in her breath, sharply; her body trembled; the blue fires of her eyes were bright—bright.

"Shall I show you?"

I took the ring from the locket, slipped it on my thumb, raised my hands in the beginning of the salutation—

A cold breath seemed to breathe through the room. The Witch–woman sprang to me, dragged down my hand. Her lips were white.

"No!—No! I believe—Dwayanu!"

I laughed. The strange cold withdrew, stealthily.

"And now. Witch, what will you tell the priest?"

The blood was slowly coming back into her lips and face. She lifted the ewer and drained it. Her hand was steady. An admirable woman—this Lur!

She said:

"I will tell him that you are powerless."

I said:

"I will summon the Dissolver. I will kill Tibur. I will kill Yodin—what else is there?"

She came to me, stood with breast touching mine.

"Destroy Sirk. Sweep the dwarfs away. Then you and I shall rule—alone."

I drank more wine.

"I will summon Khalk'ru; I will eliminate Tibur and the priest; I will sack Sirk and I will war against the dwarfs—if—"

She looked into my eyes, long and long; her arm stole round my shoulder…I thrust out a hand and swept away the candles. The green darkness of the mirage night seeped through the casements. The whispering of the waterfall was soft laughter.

"I take my pay in advance," I said. "Such was Dwayanu's way of old—and am I not Dwayanu?"

"Yes!" whispered the Witch–woman.

She took the strand of sapphires from her hair, she unbraided her coronal and shook loose its russet–gold. Her arms went round my neck. Her lips sought mine and clung to them.

There was the beat of horses' hoofs on the causeway. A distant challenge. A knocking at the door. The Witch–woman awakened, sat sleepily up under the silken tent of her hair.

"Is it you, Ouarda?"

"Yes, mistress. A messenger from Tibur."

I laughed.

"Tell him you are busy with your gods, Lur."

She bent her head over mine so that the silken tent of it covered us both.

"Tell him I am busy with the gods, Ouarda. He may stay till morning—or return to Tibur with the message."

She sank back, pressed her lips to mine—

By Zarda! But it was as it was of old—enemies to slay, a city to sack, a nation to war with and a woman's soft arms around me.

I was well content!

Twice the green night had filled the bowl of the land beneath the mirage while I feasted and drank with Lur and her women. Sword–play there had been, and the hammer–play and wrestling. They were warriors—these women! Tempered steel under silken skins, they pressed me hard now and again—strong as I was, quick as I might be. If Sirk were soldiered by such as these, it would be no easy conquest.

By the looks they gave me and by soft whispered words I knew I need not be lonely if Lur rode off to Karak. But she did not; she was ever at my side, and no more messengers came from Tibur; or if they did I did not know it. She had sent secret word to the High–priest that he had been right—I had no power to summon the Greater–than–Gods—that I was either imposter or mad. Or so she told me. Whether she had lied to him or, lied now to me I did not know and did not greatly care. I was too busy—living.

Yet no more did she call me Yellow–hair. Always it was Dwayanu. And every art of love of hers—and she was no novice, the Witch–woman—she used to bind me tighter to her.

It was early dawn of the third day; I was leaning from the casement, watching the misty jewel–fires of the luminous lilies fade, the mist wraiths that were the slaves of the waterfall rise slowly and more slowly. I thought Lur asleep. I heard her stir, and turned. She was sitting up, peering at me through the red veils of her hair. She looked all Witch–woman then…

"A messenger came to me last night from Yodin. To–day you pray to Khalk'ru."

A thrill went through me; the blood sang in my ears. Always had I felt so when I must evoke the Dissolver—a feeling of power that surpassed even that of victory. Different—a sense of inhuman power and pride. And with it a deep anger, revolt against this Being which was Life's enemy. This demon that fed on Ayjirland's flesh and blood—and soul. She was watching me. "Are you afraid, Dwayanu?" I sat beside her, parted the veils of her hair. "Was that why your kisses were doubled last night, Lur? Why they were so—tender? Tenderness, Witch–woman, becomes you—but it sits strangely on you. Were you afraid? For me? You soften me, Lur!" Her eyes flashed, her face flushed at my laughter.

"You do not believe I love you, Dwayanu?"

"Not so much as you love power. Witch–woman."

"You love me?"

"Not so much as I love power. Witch–woman," I answered, and laughed again.

She studied me with narrowed eyes. She said:

"There is much talk in Karak of you. It grows menacing. Yodin regrets that he did not kill you when he could have—but knows full well the case might be worse if he had. Tibur regrets he did not kill you when you came up from the river—urges that no more time be lost in doing so. Yodin has declared you a false prophet and has promised that the Greater–than–Gods will prove you so. He believes what I have told you—or perhaps he has a hidden sword. You"—faint mockery crept into her voice—"you, who can read me so easily, surely can read him and guard against it! The people murmur; there are nobles who demand you be brought forth; and the soldiers would follow Dwayanu eagerly—if they believed you truly he. They are restless. Tales spread. You have grown exceedingly—inconvenient. So you face Khalk'ru to–day."