Dwellers in the Mirage

Chapter XII Karak

I had sense enough to throw my hands up over my head, and so I went down feet first. The pygmies hanging to my legs helped that, too. When I struck the water I sank deep and deep. The old idea is that when a man drowns his whole past life runs through his mind in a few seconds, like a reversed cinema reel. I don't know about that, but I do know that in my progress into Nanbu's depths and up again I thought faster than ever before in my life.

In the first place I realized that Evalie had ordered me thrown off the bridge. That made me white–hot mad. Why hadn't she waited and given me a chance to explain the ring! Then I thought of how many chances I'd had to explain—and hadn't taken one of them. Also that the pygmies had been in no mood for waiting, and that Evalie had held back their spears and arrows and given me a run for my life, even though it might be a brief one. Then I thought of my utter folly in flashing the ring at that particular moment, and I couldn't blame the Little People for thinking me an emissary of Khalk'ru. And I saw again the heart–break in Evalie's eyes, and my rage vanished in a touch of heart–break of my own.

After that, quite academically, the idea came to me that Tibur's hammer–play explained old God Thor of the Norse and his hammer Mjolnir, the Smasher, which always returned to his hand after he had thrown it— to make it more miraculous the skalds had left out that practical detail of the thong; here was still another link between the Uighur or Ayjir and the Aesir—I'd talk to

Jim about it. And then I knew I couldn't get back to Jim to talk to him about that or anything else because the pygmies would certainly be waiting for me, and would quite as certainly drive me back among the leeches, even if I managed to get as far as their side of Nanbu. At that thought, if a man entirely immersed in water can break into a cold sweat I did it. I would much rather pass out by way of the Little People's spears and darts or even Tibur's smasher than be drained dry by those sucking mouths.

Just then I broke through the surface of Nanbu, trod water for a moment, clearing my eyes, and saw the red–slug back of a leech gliding toward me not twenty feet away. I cast a despairing glance around me. The current was swift and had borne me several hundred yards below the bridge. Also it had carried me toward the Karak side, which seemed about five hundred feet away. I turned to face the leech. It came slowly, as though sure of me. I planned to dive under it and try to make for the shore…if—only there were no others…

I heard a chattering shout. Sri shot past me. He raised an arm and pointed at Karak. Clearly he was telling me to get there as quickly as I could. I had forgotten all about him, except for a momentary flash of wrath that he had joined my assailants. Now I saw what an injustice I had done him. He swam straight to the big leech and slapped it alongside its mouth. The creature bent toward him, actually it nuzzled him. I waited to see no more, but struck out as fast as my boots would let me for the river bank.

That was no pleasant swim, no! The place was thick with the gliding red backs. Without question it was only Sri that saved me from them. He came scuttering back, and he circled round and round me as I ploughed on; he drove the leeches away. I touched bottom, and scrambled over rocks to the safety of the bank. The golden pygmy sent one last call to me. What he said I could not hear. I stood there, gasping for breath, and saw him shooting across the white water like a yellow flying fish, a half–dozen of the red slug–backs gliding in his wake.

I looked up at Nansur Bridge. The Little People's end of it and the parapets were crowded with pygmies, watching me. The other side was empty. I looked around me. I was in the shadow of the walls of the black citadel. They arose, smooth, impregnable, for a hundred feet. Between me and them was a wide plaza, similar to that over which Tibur and the Witch–woman had ridden from the bronze gates. It was bordered with squat, one–storied houses of stone; there were many small flowering trees. Beyond the bordering houses were others, larger, more pretentious, set farther apart. Not so far away and covering part of the plaza was an everyday, open–air market.

From the bordering houses and from the market, scores of people were pouring down upon me. They came swiftly, but they came silently, not calling to one another, not signalling nor summoning—intent upon me. I felt for my automatic and swore, remembering that I had not worn it for days. Something flashed on my hand…

The ring of Khalk'ru! I must have slipped it on my thumb when the pygmies had rushed me. Well, the ring had brought me here. Surely its effect would not be less upon these people, than it had been upon those who had faced me from the far side of the broken bridge. At any rate, it was all I had. I turned it so that the stone was hidden in my hand.

They were close now, and mostly women and girls and girl children. They all wore much the same kind of garment, a smock that came down to their knees and which left the right breast bare. Without exception, they were red–haired and blue–eyed, their skins creamy–white and delicate rose, and they were tall and strong and beautifully formed. They might have been Viking maids and mothers come to welcome home some dragon–ship from its sea–faring. The children were little blue–eyed angels. I took note of the men; there were not many of them, a dozen perhaps. They, too, had the red polls and blue eyes. The older wore short beards, the younger were clean–shaven. They were not so tall by several inches as the run of the women. None, men nor women, came within half a head of my height. They bore no weapons.

They halted a few yards from me, looking at me in silence. Their eyes ran over me and stopped at my yellow hair, and rested there.

There was a bustle at the edge of the crowd. A dozen women pushed through and walked toward me. They wore short kirtles; there were short swords in their girdles and they carried javelins in their hands; unlike the others, their breasts were covered. They ringed me, javelins raised, so close that the tips almost touched me.

The leader's bright blue eyes were bold, more soldier's than woman's.

"The yellow–haired stranger! Luka has smiled on us this day!"

The woman beside her leaned and whispered, but I caught the words:

"Tibur would give us more for him than Lur."

The leader shook her head.

"Too dangerous. We'll enjoy Lur's reward longer."

She looked me over, quite frankly.

"It's a shame to waste him," she said.

"Lur won't," the other answered, cynically.

The leader gave me a prod of her javelin, and motioned toward the citadel wall.

"Onward, Yellow Hair," she said. "It's a pity you can't understand me. Or I'd tell you something for your own good—at a price, of course."

She smiled at me, and prodded me again. I felt like grinning back at her; she was so much like a hard–boiled sergeant I'd known in the War. I spoke, instead, sternly:

"Summon Lur to me with fitting escort, O! woman whose tongue rivals the drum stick."

She gaped at me, her javelin dropping from her hand. Quite evidently, although an alarm had been sounded for me, the fact that I could speak the Uighur had not been told.

"Summon Lur at once," I said. "Or, by Khalk'ru—"

I did not complete the sentence. I turned the ring and held up my hand.

There was a gasp of terror from the crowd. They went down on their knees, heads bent low. The soldier–woman's face whitened, and she and the others dropped before me. And then there was a grating of bars. An immense block opened in the wall of the citadel not far away.

Out of the opening, as though my words had summoned them, rode the Witch–woman with Tibur beside her, and at their heels the little troop who had watched me from Nansur Bridge.

They waited, staring at the kneeling crowd. Then Tibur spurred his horse; the Witch–woman thrust out a hand and stayed him, and they spoke together. The soldier touched my foot.

"Let us rise,. Lord," she said. I nodded, and she jumped up with a word to her women. Again they ringed me. I read the fear in the leader's eyes, and appeal. I smiled at her.

"Don't fear. I heard nothing," I whispered.

"Then you have a friend in Dara," she muttered. "By Luka—they would boil us for what we said!"

"I heard nothing," I repeated.

"A gift for a gift," she breathed. "Watch Tibur's left hand should you fight him."

The little troop was in motion; they came riding slowly toward me. As they drew near I could see that Tibur's face was dark, and that he was holding in his temper with an effort. He halted his horse at the edge of the crowd. His rage fell upon them; for a moment I thought he was going to ride them down.

"Up, you swine!" he roared. "Since when has Karak knelt to any but its rulers?"

They arose, huddled together with frightened faces as the troop rode through them. I looked up at the Witch–woman and the Laugher.

Tibur glowered down on me, his hand fumbling at his hammer; the two big men who had flanked him on the bridge edged close to me, long swords in hand. The Witch–woman said nothing, studying me intently yet with a certain cynical impersonality I found disquieting; evidently she still had not made up her mind about me and was waiting for some word or move of mine to guide her. I didn't like the situation very much. If it came to a dog fight I would have little chance with three mounted men, to say nothing of the women. I had the feeling that the Witch–woman did not want me killed out–of–hand, but then she might be a bit late in succouring me—and beyond that I had no slightest wish to be beaten up, trussed up, carried into Karak a prisoner.

Also I began to feel a hot and unreasoning resentment against these people who dared bar my way, dared hold me back from whatever way I chose to go, an awakening arrogance—a stirring of those mysterious memories that had cursed me ever since I had carried the ring of Khalk'ru…

Well, those memories had served me on Nansur Bridge when Tibur cast the hammer at me…and what was it Jim had said?…to let Dwayanu ride when I faced the Witch–woman…well, let him…it was the only way…the bold way…the olden way…It was as though I heard the words! I threw my mind wide open to the memories, or to—Dwayanu.

There was a tiny tingling shock in my brain, and then something like the surging up of a wave toward that consciousness which was Leif Langton. I managed to thrust it back before it had entirely submerged that consciousness. It retreated, but sullenly—nor did it retreat far. No matter, so long as it did not roll over me…I pushed the soldiers aside and walked to Tibur. Something of what had occurred must have stamped itself on my face, changed me. Doubt crept into the Witch–woman's eyes. Tibur's hand fell from his hammer, and he backed his horse away. I spoke, and my wrathful voice fell strangely on my own ears.

"Where is my horse? Where are my arms? Where are my standard and my spearsmen? Why are the drums and the trumpets silent? Is it thus Dwayanu is greeted when he comes to a city of the Ayjir! By Zarda, but this is not to be home!"

Now the Witch–woman spoke, mockery in the clear, deep bell–toned voice, and I felt that whatever hold I had gained over her had in some way slipped.

"Hold your hand, Tibur! I will speak to—Dwayanu. And you—if you are Dwayanu—scarcely can hold us to blame. It has been long and long since human eyes rested on you—and never in this land. So how could we know you? And when first we saw you, the little yellow dogs ran you away from us. And when next we saw you, the little yellow dogs ran you to us. If we have not received you as Dwayanu has a right to expect from a city of the Ayjir, equally is it true that no city of the Ayjir has ever before been so visited by Dwayanu."

Well, that was true enough, admirable reasoning, lucid and all of that. The part of me that was Lief Langdon, and engaged in rather desperate struggle to retain control, recognized it. Yet the unreasoning anger grew. I held up the ring of Khalk'ru.

"You may not know Dwayanu—but you know this."

"I know you have it," she said, levelly. "But I do not know how you came by it. In itself it proves nothing."

Tibur leaned forward, grinning.

"Tell us where you did come from. Are you by–blow of Sirk?"

There was a murmur from the crowd. The Witch–woman leaned forward, frowning. I heard her murmur, half–contemptuously:

"Your strength was never in your head, Tibur!"

Nevertheless, I answered him.

"I come," I said bleakly, "from the Mother–land of the Ayjir. From the land that vomited your shivering forefathers, red toad!"

I shot a glance at the Witch–woman. That had jolted her all right. I saw her body stiffen, her cornflower eyes distend and darken, her red lips part; and her women bent to each other, whispering, while the murmur of the crowd swelled.

"You lie!" roared Tibur. "There is no life in the Mother–land. There is no life elsewhere than here. Khalk'ru has sucked earth dry of Life. Except here. You lie!"

His hand dropped to his hammer.

And suddenly I saw red; all the world dissolved in a mist of red. The horse of the man closest to me was a noble animal. I had been watching it—a roan stallion, strong as the black stallion that had carried me from the Gobi oasis. I reached up, caught at its jaw, and pulled it down to its knees. Taken unaware, its rider toppled forward, somersaulted over its head and fell at my feet. He was up again like a cat, sword athrust at me. I caught his arm before he could strike and swung up my left fist. It cracked on his jaw; his head snapped back, and he dropped. I snatched up the sword, and swung myself on the rising horse's back. Before Tibur could move I had the point of the sword at his throat.

"Stop! I grant you Dwayanu! Hold your hand!" It was the Witch–woman's voice, low, almost whispering.

I laughed. I pressed the point of the sword deeper into Tiber's throat.

"Am I Dwayanu? Or by–blow of Sirk?"

"You are—Dwayanu!" he groaned.

I laughed again.

"I am Dwayanu! Then guide me into Karak to make amends for your insolence, Tibur!"

I drew the sword away from his throat.

Yes, I drew it back—and by all the mad mixed gods of that mad mixed mind of mine at that moment I would that I had thrust it through his throat!

But I did not, and so that chance passed. I spoke to the Witch–woman:

"Ride at my right hand. Let Tibur ride before."

The man I had struck down was on his feet, swaying unsteadily. Lur spoke to one of her women. She slipped from her horse, and with Tibur's other follower helped him upon it.

We rode across the plaza, and through the walls of the black citadel.

Chapter XIV In the Black Citadel

The bars that held the gate crashed down behind us. The passage through the walls was wide and long and lined with soldiers, most of them women. They stared at me; their discipline was good, for they were silent, saluting us with upraised swords.

We came out of the walls into an immense square, bounded by the towering black stone of the citadel. It was stone–paved and bare, and there must have been half a thousand soldiers in it, again mostly women and one and all of the strong–bodied, blue–eyed, red–haired type. It was a full quarter–mile to the side—the square. Opposite where we entered, there was a group of people on horses, of the same class as those who rode with us, or so I judged. They were clustered about a portal in the farther walls, and toward these we trotted.

About a third of the way over, we passed a circular pit a hundred feet wide in which water boiled and bubbled and from which steam arose. A hot spring, I supposed; I could feel its breath. Around it were slender stone pillars from each of which an arm jutted like that of a gallows, and from the ends of them dangled thin chains. It was, indefinably, an unpleasant and ominous place. I didn't like the look of it at all. Something of this must have shown on my face, for Tibur spoke, blandly.

"Our cooking pot."

"No easy one from which to ladle broth," I said. I thought him jesting.

"Ah—but the meat we cook there is not the kind we eat," he answered, still more blandly. And his laughter roared out.

I felt a little sick as his meaning reached me. It was tortured human flesh which those chains were designed to hold, lowering it slowly inch by inch into that devil's cauldron. But I only nodded indifferently, and rode on.

The Witch–woman had paid no attention to us; her russet head bent, she went on deep in thought, though now and then I caught her oblique glance at me. We drew near the portal. She signalled those who awaited there, a score of the red–haired maids and women and a half–dozen men; they dismounted. The Witch–woman leaned to me and whispered:

"Turn the ring so its seal will be covered."

I obeyed her, asking no question.

We arrived at the portal. I looked at the group there. The women wore the breast–revealing upper garment; their legs were covered with loose baggy trousers tied in at the ankles; they had wide girdles in which were two swords, one long and one short. The men were clothed in loose blouses, and the same baggy trousers; in their girdles beside the swords—or rather, hanging from their girdles—were hammers like that of the Smith, but smaller. The women who had gathered around me after I had climbed out of Nanbu had been fair enough, but these were far more attractive, finer, with a stamp of breeding the others had not had. They stared at me as frankly, as appraisingly, as had the soldier woman and her lieutenant; their eyes rested upon my yellow hair and stopped there, as though fascinated. On all their faces was that suggestion of cruelty latent in the amorous mouth of Lur.

"We dismount here," said the Witch–woman, "to go where we may become—better acquainted."

I nodded as before, indifferently. I had been thinking that it was a foolhardy thing I had done, thus to thrust myself alone among these people; but I had been thinking, too, that I could have done nothing else except have gone to Sirk, and where that was I did not know; and that if I had tried I would have been a hunted outlaw on this side of white Nanbu, as I would be on the other. The part of me that was Leif Langdon was thinking that—but the part of me that was Dwayanu was not thinking like that at all. It was fanning the fire of recklessness, the arrogance, that had carried me thus far in safety; whispering that none among the Ayjir had the right to question me or to bar my way, whispering with increasing insistence that I should have been met by dipping standards and roll of drums and fanfare of trumpets. The part that was Leif Langdon answered that there was nothing else to do but continue as I had been doing, that it was the game to play, the line to take, the only way. And that other part, ancient memories, awakening of Dwayanu, post–hypnotic suggestion of the old Gobi priest, impatiently asked why I should question even myself, urging that it was no game—but truth! And that it would brook little more insolence from these degenerate dogs of the Great Race—and little more cowardice from me!

So I flung myself from my horse, and stood looking arrogantly down upon the faces turned to me, literally looking down, for I was four inches or more taller than the tallest of them. Lur touched my arm. Between her and Tibur I strode through the portal and into the black citadel.

It was a vast vestibule through which we passed, and dimly lighted by slits far up in the polished rock. We went by groups of silently saluting soldier–women; we went by many transverse passages. We came at last to a great guarded door, and here Lur and Tibur dismissed their escorts. The door rolled slowly open; we entered and it rolled shut behind us.

The first thing I saw was the Kraken.

It sprawled over one wall of the chamber into which we had come. My heart leaped as I saw it, and for an instant I had an almost ungovernable impulse to turn and run. And now I saw that the figure of the Kraken was a mosaic set in the black stone. Or rather, that the yellow field in which it lay was a mosaic and that the Black Octopus had been cut from the stone of the wall itself. Its unfathomable eyes of jet regarded me with that suggestion of lurking malignity the yellow pygmies had managed to imitate so perfectly in their fettered symbol inside the hollow rock.

Something stirred beneath the Kraken. A face looked out on me from under a hood of black. At first I thought it the old priest of the Gobi himself, and then I saw that this man was not so old, and that his eyes were clear deep blue and that his face was unwrinkled, and cold and white and expressionless as though carved from marble. Then I remembered what Evalie had told me, and knew this must be Yodin the High Priest. He sat upon a throne–like chair behind a long low table on which were rolls like the papyrus rolls of the Egyptians, and cylinders of red metal which were, I supposed, their containers. On each side of him was another of the thrones.

He lifted a thin white hand and beckoned me.

"Come to me—you who call yourself Dwayanu."

The voice was cold and passionless as the face, but courteous. I seemed to hear again the old priest when he had called me to him. I walked over, more as one who humours another a little less than equal than as though obeying a summons. And that was precisely the way I felt. He must have read my thought, for I saw a shadow of anger pass over his face. His eyes searched me.

"You have a certain ring, I am told."

With the same feeling of humouring one slightly inferior, I turned the bevel of the Kraken ring and held my hand out toward him. He looked at the ring, and the white face lost its immobility. He thrust a hand into his girdle, and drew from it a box, and out of it another ring, and placed it beside mine. I saw that it was not so large, and that the setting was not precisely the same. He studied the two rings, and then with a hissing intake of breath he snatched my hands and turned them over, scanning the palms. He dropped them and leaned back in his chair.

"Why do you come to us?" he asked.

A surge of irritation swept me.

"Does Dwayanu stand like a common messenger to be questioned?" I said harshly.

I walked around the table and dropped into one of the chairs beside him.

"Let drink be brought, for I am thirsty. Until my thirst is quenched, I will not talk."

A faint flush stained the white face; there was a growl from Tibur. He was glaring at me with reddened face; the Witch–woman stood, gaze intent upon me, no mockery in it now; the speculative interest was intensified. It came to me that the throne I had usurped was Tibur's. I laughed.

"Beware, Tibur," I said. "This may be an omen!"

The High Priest intervened, smoothly.

"If he be indeed Dwayanu, Tibur, then no honour is too great for him. See that wine is brought."

The look that the Smith shot at Yodin seemed to me to hold a question. Perhaps the Witch–woman thought so too. She spoke quickly.

"I will see to it."

She walked to the door, opened it and gave an order to a guard. She waited; there was silence among us while she waited. I thought many things. I thought, for example, that I did not like the look that had passed between Yodin and Tibur, and that while I might trust Lur for the present—still she would drink first when the wine came. And I thought that I would tell them little of how I came to the Shadowed–land. And I thought of Jim—and I thought of Evalie. It made my heart ache so that I felt the loneliness of nightmare; and then I felt the fierce contempt of that other part of me, and felt it strain against the fetters I had put on it. Then the wine came.

The Witch–woman carried ewer and goblet over to the table and set them before me. She poured yellow wine into the goblet and handed it to me. I smiled at her.

"The cup–bearer drinks first," I said. "So it was in the olden days, Lur. And the olden customs are dear to me."

Tibur gnawed his lip and tugged at his beard at that, but Lur took up the goblet and drained it. I refilled it, and raised it to Tibur. I had a malicious desire to bait the Smith.

"Would you have done that had you been the cup–bearer, Tibur?" I asked him and drank.

That was good wine! It tingled through me, and I felt the heady recklessness leap up under it as though lashed. I filled the goblet again and tossed it off.

"Come up, Lur, and sit with us," I said. "Tibur, join us."

The Witch–woman quietly took the third throne. Tibur was watching me, and I saw a new look in his eyes, something of that furtive speculation I had surprised in Lur's. The white–faced priest's gaze was far away. It occurred to me that the three of them were extremely busy with their own thoughts, and that Tibur at least, was becoming a bit uneasy. When he answered me his voice had lost all truculency.

"Well and good—Dwayanu!" he said, and, lifting a bench, carried it to the table, and set it where he could watch our faces.

"I answer your question," I turned to Yodin. "I came here at the summons of Khalk'ru."

"It is strange," he said, "that I, who am High Priest of Khalk'ru, knew nothing of any summons."

"The reasons for that I do not know," I said, casually. "Ask them of him you serve."

He pondered over that.

"Dwayanu lived long and long and long ago," he said. "Before—"

"Before the Sacrilege. True." I took another drink of the wine. "Yet—I am here."

For the first time his voice lost its steadiness.

"You—you know of the Sacrilege!" His fingers clutched my wrist. "Man—whoever you are—from whence do you come?"

"I come," I answered, "from the Mother–land."

His fingers tightened around my wrist. He echoed Tibur.

"The Mother–land is a dead land. Khalk'ru in his anger destroyed its life. There is no life save here, where Khalk'ru hears his servants and lets life be."

He did not believe that; I could tell it by the involuntary glance he had given the Witch–woman and the Smith. Nor did they.

"The Mother–land," I said, "is bleached bones. Its cities lie covered in shrouds of sand. Its rivers are waterless, and all that runs within their banks is sand driven by the arid winds. Yet still is there life in the Mother–land, and although the ancient blood is thinned—still it runs. And still is Khalk'ru worshipped and feared in the place from whence I came—and still in other lands the earth spawns life as always she has done."

I poured some more wine. It was good wine, that.

Under it I felt my recklessness increase…under it Dwayanu was stronger…well, this was a tight box I was in, so let him be…

"Show me the place from whence you came," the High Priest spoke swiftly. He gave me a tablet of wax and a stylus. I traced the outline of Northern Asia upon it and of Alaska. I indicated the Gobi and approximately the location of the oasis, and also the position of the Shadowed–land.

Tibur got up to look at it; their three heads bent over it. The priest fumbled among the rolls, picked one, and they compared it with the tablet. It appeared like a map, but if so the northern coast line was all wrong. There was a line traced on it that seemed to be a route of some sort. It was overscored and underscored with symbols. I wondered whether it might not be the record of the trek those of the Old Race had made when they had fled from the Gobi.

They looked up at last; there was perturbation in the priest's eyes, angry apprehension in Tibur's, but the eyes of the Witch–woman were clear and untroubled—as though she had made up her mind about something and knew precisely what she was going to do.

"It is the Mother–land!" the priest said. "Tell me—did the black–haired stranger who fled with you across the river and who watched you hurled from Nansur come also from there?"

There was sheer malice in that question. I began to dislike Yodin.

"No," I answered. "He comes from an old land of the Rrrllya."

That brought the priest up standing; Tibur swore incredulously; and even the Witch–woman was shaken from her serenity.

"Another land—of the Rrrllya! But that cannot be!" whispered Yodin.

"Nevertheless it is so," I said.

He sank back, and thought for a while.

"He is your friend?"

"My brother by the ancient blood rite of his people."

"He would join you here?"

"He would if I sent for him. But that I will not do. Not yet. He is well off where he is."

I was sorry I had said that the moment I had spoken. Why—I did not know. But I would have given much to have recalled the words.

Again the priest was silent.

"These are strange things you tell us," he said at last. "And you have come to us strangely for—Dwayanu. You will not mind if for a little we take counsel?"

I looked in the ewer. It was still half–full. I liked that wine—most of all because it dulled my sorrow over Evalie.

"Speak as long as you please," I answered, graciously. They went off to a comer of the room. I poured myself another drink, and another. I forgot about Evalie. I began to feel I was having a good time. I wished Jim was with me, but I wished I hadn't said he would come if I sent for him. And then I took another drink and forgot about Jim. Yes, I was having a damned good time…well, wait till I let Dwayanu loose a bit more! I'd have a better one…I was sleepy…I wondered what old Barr would say if he could be here with me…

I came to myself with a start. The High Priest was standing at my side, talking. I had a vague idea he had been talking to me for some time but I couldn't remember what about. I also had the idea that someone had been fumbling with my thumb. It was clenched stubbornly in my palm, so tightly that the stone had bruised the flesh. The effect of the wine had entirely worn off I looked around the room. Tibur and the Witch–woman were gone. Why hadn't I seen them go? Had I been asleep? I studied Yodin's face. There was a look of strain about it, of bafflement; and yet I sensed some deep satisfaction. It was a queer composite of expression. And I didn't like it.

"The others have gone to prepare a fitting reception for you," he said. "To make ready a place for you and fitting apparel."

I arose and stood beside him.

"As Dwayanu?" I asked.

"Not as yet," he answered urbanely. "But as an honoured guest. The other is too serious a matter to decide without further proof."

"And that proof?"

He looked at me a long moment before answering.

"That Khalk'ru will appear at your prayer!"

A little shudder went through me at that. He was watching me so closely that he must have seen it.

"Curb your impatience," his voice was cold honey. "You will not have long to wait. Until then I probably shall not see you. In the meantime—I have a request to make."

"What is it?" I asked.

"That you will not wear the ring of Khalk'ru openly—except, of course, at such times as may seem necessary to you."

It was the same thing Lur had asked me. Yet scores had seen me with the ring—more must know I had it. He read my indecision.

"It is a holy thing," he said. "I did not know another existed until word was brought me that you had shown it on Nansur. It is not well to cheapen holy things. I do not wear mine except when I think it—necessary."

I wondered under what circumstances he considered it—necessary. And I wished fervently I knew under what circumstances it would be helpful to me. His eyes were searching me, and I hoped he had not read that thought.

"I see no reason to deny that request," I said. I slipped the ring off my thumb and into my belt pocket.

"I was sure you would not," he murmured.

A gong sounded lightly. He pressed the side of the table, and the door opened. Three youths clothed in the smocks of the people entered and stood humbly waiting.

"They are your servants. They will take you to your place," Yodin said. He bent his head. I went out with the three young Ayjirs. At the door was a guard of a dozen women with a bold–eyed young captain. They saluted me smartly. We marched down the corridor and at length turned into another. I looked back.

I was just in time to see the Witch–woman slipping into the High Priest's chamber.

We came to another guarded door. It was thrown open and into it I was ushered, followed by the three youths.

"We are also your servants. Lord," the bold–eyed captain spoke. "If there is anything you wish, summon me by this. We shall be at the door."

She handed me a small gong of jade, saluted again and marched out.

The room had an odd aspect of familiarity. Then I realized it was much like that to which I had been taken in the oasis. There were the same oddly shaped stools, and chairs of metal, the same wide, low divan bed, the tapestried walls, the rugs upon the floor. Only here there were no signs of decay. True, some of the tapestries were time–faded, but exquisitely so; there were no rags or tatters in them. The others were beautifully woven but fresh as though just from the loom. The ancient hangings were threaded with the same scenes of the hunt and war as the haggard drapings of the oasis; the newer ones bore scenes of the land under the mirage. Nansur Bridge sprang unbroken over one, on another was a battle with the pygmies, on another a scene of the fantastically lovely forest—with the white wolves of Lur slinking through the trees. Something struck me as wrong. I looked and looked before I knew what it was. The arms of its olden master had been in the chamber of the oasis, his swords and spears, helmet and shield; in this one there was not a weapon. I remembered that I had carried the sword of Tibur's man into the chamber of the High Priest. I did not have it now.

A disquietude began to creep over me. I turned to the three young Ayjirs, and began to unbutton my shirt. They came forward silently, and started to strip me. And suddenly I felt a consuming thirst.

"Bring me water," I said to one of the youths. He paid not the slightest attention to me.

"Bring me water," I said again, thinking he had not heard. "I am thirsty."

He continued tranquilly taking off a boot. I touched him on the shoulder.

"Bring me water to drink," I said, emphatically.

He smiled up at me, opened his mouth and pointed. He had no tongue. He pointed to his ears. I understood that he was telling me he was both dumb and deaf. I pointed to his two comrades. He nodded.

My disquietude went up a point or two. Was this a general custom of the rulers of Karak; had this trio been especially adapted not only for silent service but unhearing service on special guests? Guests or— prisoners?

I tapped the gong with a finger. At once the door opened, and the young captain stood there, saluting.

"I am thirsty," I said. "Bring water."

For answer she crossed the room and pulled aside one of the hangings. Behind it was a wide, deep alcove.

Within the floor was a shallow pool through which clean water was flowing, and close beside it was a basin of porphyry from which sprang a jet like a tiny fountain, She took a goblet from a niche, filled it under the jet and handed it to me. It was cold and sparkling.

"Is there anything more, Lord?" she asked. I shook my head, and she marched out.

I went back to the ministrations of the three deaf–mutes. They took off the rest of my clothes and began to massage me, with some light, volatile oil. While they were doing it, my mind began to function rather actively. In the first place, the sore spot in my palm kept reminding me of that impression someone had been trying to get the ring off my thumb. In the second place, the harder I thought the more I was sure that before I awakened or had come out of my abstraction or drink or whatever it was, the white–faced priest had been talking, talking, talking to me, questioning me, probing into my dulled mind. And in the third place, I had lost almost entirely all the fine carelessness of consequences that had been so successful in putting me where I was—in fact, I was far too much Leif Langdon and too little Dwayanu. What had the priest been at with his talking, talking, questioning—and what had I said?

I jumped out of the hands of my masseurs, ran over to my trousers and dived into my belt. The ring was there right enough. I searched for my old pouch. It was gone. I rang the gong. The captain answered. I was mother–naked, but I hadn't the slightest sense of her being a woman.

"Hear me," I said. "Bring me wine. And bring with it a safe, strong case big enough to hold a ring. Bring with that a strong chain with which I can hang the case around my neck. Do you understand?"

"Done at once, Lord," she said. She was not long in returning. She set down the ewer she was carrying and reached into her blouse. She brought out a locket suspended from a metal chain. She snapped it open.

"Will this do, Lord?"

I turned from her, and put the ring of Khalk'ru into the locket. It held it admirably.

"Most excellently," I told her, "but I have nothing to give you in return."

She laughed.

"Reward enough to have beheld you, Lord," she said, not at all ambiguously, and marched away. I hung the locket round my neck. I poured a drink and then another. I went back to my masseurs and began to feel better. I drank while they were bathing me, and I drank while they were trimming my hair and shaving me. And the more I drank the more Dwayanu came up, coldly wrathful and resentful.

My dislike for Yodin grew. It did not lessen while the trio were dressing me. They put on me a silken under–vest. They covered it with a gorgeous tunic of yellow shot through with metallic threads of blue; they covered my long legs with the baggy trousers of the same stuff; they buckled around my waist a broad, gem–studded girdle, and they strapped upon my feet sandals of soft golden leather. They had shaved me, and now they brushed and dressed my hair which they had shorn to the nape of my neck.

By the time they were through with me, the wine was done. I was a little drunk, willing to be more so, and in no mood to be played with. I rang the gong for the captain. I wanted some more wine, and I wanted to know when, where and how I was going to eat. The door opened, but it was not the captain who came in.

It was the Witch–woman.

Chapter XV The Lake of the Ghosts

Lur paused, red lips parted, regarding me. Plainly she was startled by the difference the Ayjir trappings and the ministrations of the mutes had made in the dripping, bedraggled figure that had scrambled out of the river not long before. Her eyes glowed, and a deeper rose stained her cheeks. She came. close.

"Dwayanu—you will go with me?"

I looked at her, and laughed.

"Why not, Lur—but also, why?"

She whispered:

"You are in danger—whether you are Dwayanu or whether you are not. I have persuaded Yodin to let you remain with me until you go to the temple. With me you shall be safe—until then."

"And why did you do this for me, Lur?"

She made no answer—only set one hand upon my shoulder and looked at me with blue eyes grown soft; and though common sense told me there were other reasons for her solicitude than any quick passion for me, still at that touch and look the blood raced through my veins, and it was hard to master my voice and speak.

"I will go with you, Lur."

She went to the door, opened it.

"Ouarda, the cloak and cap." She came back to me with a black cloak which she threw over my shoulders and fastened round my neck; she pulled down over my yellow hair a close–fitting cap shaped like the Phyrgian and she tucked my hair into it. Except for my height it made me like any other Ayjir in Karak.

"There is need for haste, Dwayanu."

"I am ready. Wait—"

I went over to where my old clothes lay, and rolled them up around my boots. After all—I might need them. The Witch–woman made no comment, opened the door and we went out. The captain and her guard were in the corridor, also a half–dozen of Lur's women, and handsome creatures they were. Then I noticed that each of them wore the light coat of mail and, besides the two swords, carried throwing hammers. So did Lur. Evidently they were ready for trouble, whether with me or with someone else; and whichever way it was, I didn't like it.

"Give me your sword," I said abruptly to the captain. She hesitated.

"Give it to him," said Lur.

I weighed the weapon in my hand; not so heavy as I would have liked, but still a sword. I thrust it into my girdle, and bunched the bundle of my old clothes beneath my left arm, under the cloak. We set off down the corridor, leaving the guard at the door.

We went only a hundred yards, and then into a small bare chamber. We had met no one. Lur drew a breath of relief, walked over to a side, and a slab of stone slid open, revealing a passage. We went into that and the slab closed, leaving us in pitch–darkness. There was a spark, produced I don't know how, and the place sprang into light from torches in the hands of two of the women. They burned with a clear, steady and silvery flame. The torch–bearers marched ahead of us. After a while we came to the end of that passage, the torches were extinguished, another stone slid away and we stepped out. I heard whispering, and after the glare of the flambeaux had worn away, I saw that we were at the base of one of the walls of the black citadel, and that close by were half a dozen more of Lur's women, with horses. One of them led forward a big grey stallion.

"Mount, and ride beside me," said Lur.

I fixed my bundle on the pommel of the high saddle, and straddled the grey. We set off silently. It was never wholly dark at night in the land under the mirage; there was always a faint green luminescence, but to–night it was brighter than I had ever seen it. I wondered whether there was a full moon shining down over the peaks of the valley. I wondered if we had far to go. I was not as drunk as I had been when Lur had come in on me, but in a way I was drunker. I had a queer, light–headed feeling that was decidedly pleasant, a carefree irresponsibility. I wanted to keep on feeling that way. I hoped that Lur had plenty of wine wherever she was taking me. I wished I had a drink right now.

We were going through the city beyond the citadel, and we went fast. The broad street we were on was well paved. There were lights in the houses and in the gardens and people singing and drums and pipes playing. Sinister the black citadel might be, but it did not seem to cast any shadow on the people of Karak. Or so I thought then.

We passed out of the city into a smooth road running between thick vegetation. The luminous moths like fairy planes were flitting about, and for a moment I felt a pang of memory, and Evalie's face floated up before me. It didn't last a second. The grey went sweetly and I began to sing an old Kirghiz song about a lover who rode in the moonlight to his maid and what he found when he got there. Lur laughed, and put her hand over my mouth.

"Quiet, Dwayanu! There still is danger." Then I realized that I hadn't been singing the Kirghiz at all, but the Uighur, which was probably where the Kirghiz got it from. And then it occurred to me that I had never heard the song in the Uighur. It started the old problem going in my mind—and that lasted no longer than the memory of Evalie.

Now and then I caught a glimpse of the white river. And then we went over a long stretch where the road narrowed so that we rode single file between verdure–covered cliffs. When we came out of them, the road forked. One part of it ran right on, the other turned sharply to the left. We rode along this for three or four miles, apparently directly through the heart of the strange forest. The great trees spread their arms out far overhead; the candelabras and cressets and swaying ropes of blooms gleamed like ghosts of flowers in the pallid light; the scaled trees were like men–at–arms on watch. And the heady fragrances, the oddly stimulating exhalations were strong—strong. They throbbed from the forest, rhythmically, as though they were the pulse of its life–drunken heart.

And as we came to the end of that road and I looked down upon the Lake of the Ghosts.

Never, I think, in all the world was there such a place of breath–taking, soul–piercing, unearthly beauty as that lake beneath the mirage in which Lur the Witch–woman had her home. And had she not been Witch–woman before she dwelt there, it must have made her so.

It was shaped like an arrow–head, its longer shores not more than a mile in length. It was enclosed by low hills whose sides were covered with the tree–ferns; their feathery fronds clothed them as though they were the breasts of gigantic birds of Paradise; threw themselves up from them like fountains; soared over them like vast virescent wings. The colour of its water was pale emerald, and like an emerald it gleamed, placid, untroubled. But beneath that untroubled surface there was movement—luminous circles of silvery green that spread swiftly and vanished, rays that laced and interlaced in fantastic yet ordered, geometric forms; luminous spirallings, none of which ever came quite to the surface to disturb its serenity. And here and there were clusters of soft lights, like vaporous rubies, misted sapphires and opals and glimmering pearls—witch–lights. The luminous lilies of the Lake of the Ghosts.

Where the point of the arrow–head touched, there were no ferns. A broad waterfall spread itself like a veil over the face of the cliff, whispering as it fell. Mists rose there, mingling with the falling water, dancing slowly with the falling water, swaying toward it and reaching up with ghostly hands as though to greet it. And from the shores of the lake, other wraiths of mist would rise, and glide swiftly over the emerald floor and join those other dancing, welcoming wraiths of the waterfall. Thus first I saw the Lake of the Ghosts under the night of the mirage, and it was no less beautiful in the mirage day.

The road ran out into the lake like the shaft of an arrow. At its end was what once, I supposed, had been a small island. It lay two–thirds of the way across. Over its trees were the turrets of a small castle.

We walked our horses down the steep to the narrowing of the road where it became the shaft of the arrow. Here there were no ferns to hide the approach; they had been cleared away and the breast of the hill was covered with the blue flowerets. As we reached the narrow part, I saw that it was a causeway, built of stone. The place to which we were going was still an island. We came to the end of the causeway, and there was a forty–foot gap between it and a pier on the opposite shore. Lur drew from her girdle a small horn and sounded it. A drawbridge began to creak, and to drop down over the gap. We rode across that and into a garrison of her women. We cantered up a winding road, and I heard the creak of the lifting bridge as we went. We drew up before the house of the Witch–woman.

I looked at it with interest, not because it was unfamiliar, for it was not, but I was thinking I had never seen a castle of its sort built of that peculiar green stone nor with so many turrets. Yes, I knew them well. "Lady castles," we had called them; lana'rada, bowers for favourite women, a place to rest, a place to love after war or when weary of statecraft.

Women came and took the horses. Wide doors of polished wood swung open. Lur led me over the threshold.

Girls came forward with wine. I drank thirstily. The queer light–headedness, and the sense of detachment were growing. I seemed to have awakened from a long, long sleep, and was not thoroughly awake and troubled by memories of dreams. But I was sure that they had not all been dreams. That old priest who had awakened me in the desert which once had been fertile Ayjirland—he had been no dream. Yet the people among whom I had awakened had not been Ayjirs. This was not Ayjirland, yet the people were of the ancient breed! How had I gotten here? I must have fallen asleep again in the temple after—after—by Zarda, but I must feel my way a bit! Be cautious. Then would follow a surge of recklessness that swept away all thought of caution, a roaring relish of life, a wild freedom as of one who, long in prison, sees suddenly the bars broken and before him the table of life spread with all he has been denied, to take as he wills. And on its heels a flash of recognition that I was Leif Langdon and knew perfectly well how I came to be in this place and must some way, somehow, get back to Evalie and to Jim. Swift as the lightning were those latter flashes, and as brief.

I became aware that I was no longer in the castle's hall but in a smaller chamber, octagonal, casemented, tapestried. There was a wide, low bed. There was a table glistening with gold and crystal; tall candles burned upon it. My blouse was gone, and in its place a light silken tunic. The casements were open and the fragrant air sighed through them. I leaned from one.

Below me were the lesser turrets and the roof of the castle. Far below was the lake. I looked through another. The waterfall with its beckoning wraiths whispered and murmured not a thousand feet away.

I felt the touch of a hand on my head; it slipped down to my shoulder; I swung round. The Witch–woman was beside me.

For the first time I seemed to be realizing her beauty, seemed for the first time to be seeing her clearly. Her russet hair was braided in a thick coronal; it shone like reddest gold, and within it was twisted a strand of sapphires. Her eyes outshone them. Her scanty robe of gossamer blue revealed every lovely, sensuous line of her. White shoulders and one of the exquisite breasts were bare. Her full red lips promised—anything, and even the subtle cruelty stamped upon them, lured.

There had been a dark girl…who had she been…Ev—Eval—the name eluded me…no matter…she was like a wraith beside this woman…like one of the mist wraiths swaying at the feet of the waterfall…

The Witch–woman read what was in my eyes. Her hand slipped from my shoulder and rested on my heart. She bent closer, blue eyes languorous—yet strangely intent.

"And are you truly Dwayanu?"

"I am he—none else, Lur."

"Who was Dwayanu—long and long and long ago?"

"I cannot tell you that, Lur—I who have been long asleep and in sleep forgotten much. Yet—I am he."

"Then look—and remember."

Her hand left my heart and rested on my head; she pointed to the waterfall. Slowly its whispering changed. It became the beat of drums, the trample of horses, the tread of marching men. Louder and louder they grew. The waterfall quivered, and spread across the black cliff like a gigantic curtain. From every side the mist wraiths were hurrying, melting into it. Clearer and nearer sounded the drums. And suddenly the waterfall vanished. In its place was a great walled city. Two armies were fighting there and I knew that the forces which were attacking the city were being borne back. I heard the thunder of the hoofs of hundreds of horses. Down upon the defenders raced a river of mounted men. Their leader was clothed in shining mail. He was helmetless, and his yellow hair streamed behind him as he rode. He turned his face. And that face was my own! I heard a roaring shout of "Dwayanu!" The charge struck like a river in spate, rolled over the defenders, submerged them.

I saw an army in rout, and smashed by companies with the throwing hammers.

I rode with the yellow–haired leader into the conquered city. And I sat with him on a conquered throne while ruthlessly, mercilessly, he dealt death to men and women dragged before him, and smiled at the voices of rapine and pillage rising from without. I rode and sat with him, I say, for now it was no longer as though I were in the Witch–woman's chamber but was with this yellow–haired man who was my twin, seeing as he did, hearing as he did—yes, and thinking as he thought.

Battle upon battle, tourneys and feasts and triumphs, hunts with the falcons and hunts with great dogs in fair Ayjirland, hammer–play and anvil–play—I saw them, standing always beside Dwayanu like an unseen shadow. I went with him to the temples when he served the gods. I went with him to the Temple of the Dissolver—Black Khalk'ru, the Greater–than–Gods—and he wore the ring which rested on my breast. But when he passed within Khalk'ru's temple, I held back. The same deep, stubborn resistance which had halted me when I had visioned the portal of the oasis temple halted me now. I listened to two voices. One urged me to enter with Dwayanu.

The other whispered that I must not. And that voice I could not disobey.

And then, abruptly, Ayjirland was no more! I was staring out at the waterfall and gliding mist wraiths. But—I was Dwayanu!

I was all Dwayanu! Leif Langdon had ceased to exist!

Yet he had left memories—memories which were like half–remembered dreams, memories whose source I could not fathom but realized that, even if only dreams, were true ones. They told me the Ayjirland I had ruled had vanished as utterly as had the phantom Ayjirland of the waterfall, that dusty century upon century had passed since them, that other empires had risen and fallen, that here was an alien land with only a dying fragment of the ancient glory.

Warrior–king and warrior–priest I had been, holding in my hands empire and the lives and destinies of a race.

And now—no more!

Chapter XVI Kisses of Lur

Black sorrow and the bitter ashes were in my heart when I turned from the window. I looked at Lur. From long slim feet to shining head I looked at her, and the black sorrow lightened and the bitter ashes blew away.

I put my hands on her shoulders and laughed. Luka had spun her wheel and sent my empire flying off its rim like dust from the potter's. But she had left me something. In all old Ayjirland there had been few women like this.

Praise Luka! A sacrifice to her next morning if this woman proves what I think her!

My vanished empire! What of it? I would build another. Enough that I was alive!

Again I laughed. I put my hand under Lur's chin, raised her face to mine, set my lips against hers. She thrust me from her. There was anger in her eyes—but there was doubt under the anger.

"You bade me remember. Well, I have remembered. Why did you open the gates of memory. Witch–woman, unless you had made up your mind to abide by what came forth? Or did you know less of Dwayanu than you pretended?"

She took a step back; she said, furiously:

"I give my kisses. None takes them."

I caught her in my arms, crushed her mouth to mine, then released her.

"I take them."

I struck down at her right wrist. There was a dagger in her hand. I was amused, wondering where she had hidden it. I wrenched it from her grip and slipped it my girdle.

"And draw the stings from those I kiss. Thus did Dwayanu in the days of old and thus he does to–day."

She stepped back and back, eyes dilated. Ai! but I could read her! She had thought me other than I was, thought me hare–brain, imposter, trickster. And it had been in her mind to trick me, to bend me to her will. To beguile me. Me—Dwayanu, who knew women as I knew war! And yet—

She was very beautiful…and she was all I had in this alien land to begin the building of my rule. I summed her up as she stood staring at me. I spoke, and my words were as cold as my thoughts.

"Play no more with daggers—nor with me. Call your servants. I am hungry and I thirst. When I have eaten and drunk we will talk."

She hesitated, then clapped her hands. Women came in with steaming dishes, with ewers of wine, with fruits. I ate ravenously. I drank deeply. I ate and drank, thinking little of Lur—but thinking much of what her sorcery had made me see, drawing together what I remembered from desert oasis until now. It was little enough. I ate and drank silently. I felt her eyes upon me. I looked into them and smiled. "You thought to make me slave to your will, Lur. Never think it again!"

She dropped her head between her hands and gazed at me across the table.

"Dwayanu died long and long ago. Can the leaf that has withered grow green?"

"I am he, Lur."

She did not answer.

"What was in your thought when you brought me here, Lur?"

"I am weary of Tibur, weary of his laughter, weary of his stupidity."

"What else?"

"I tire of Yodin. You and I—alone—could rule Karak, if—"

"That 'if’ is the heart of it. Witch–woman. What is it?"

She arose, leaned toward me.

"If you can summon Khalk'ru!"

"And if I cannot?"

She shrugged her white shoulders, dropped back into her chair. I laughed.

"In which case Tibur will not be so wearisome, and Yodin may be tolerated. Now listen to me, Lur. Was it your voice I heard urging me to enter Khalk'ru's temples? Did you see as I was seeing? You need not answer. I read you, Lur. You would be rid of Tibur. Well, perhaps I can kill him. You would be rid of Yodin. Well, no matter who I am, if I can summon the Greater–than–Gods, there is no need of Yodin. Tibur and Yodin gone, there would be only you and me. You think you could rule me. You could not, Lur."

She had listened quietly, and quietly now she answered.

"All that is true—"

She hesitated; her eyes glowed; a rosy flush swept over bosom and cheeks.

"Yet—there might be another reason why I took you—"

I did not ask her what that other reason might be; women had tried to snare me with that ruse before. Her gaze dropped from me, the cruelty on the red mouth stood out for an instant, naked.

"What did you promise Yodin, Witch–woman?"

She arose, held out her arms to me, her voice trembled—

"Are you less than man—that you can speak to me so! Have I not offered you power, to share with me? Am I not beautiful—am I not desirable?"

"Very beautiful, very desirable. But always I learned the traps my city concealed before I took it."

Her eyes shot blue fires at that. She took a swift step toward the door. I was swifter. I held her, caught the hand she raised to strike me.

"What did you promise the High–priest, Lur?"

I put the point of the dagger at her throat. Her eyes blazed at me, unafraid. Luka—turn your wheel so I need not slay this woman!

Her straining body relaxed; she laughed.

"Put away the dagger, I will tell you."

I released her, and walked back to my chair. She studied me from her place across the table; she said, half incredulously:

"You would have killed me!"

"Yes," I told her.

"I believe you. Whoever you may be. Yellow–hair—there is no man like you here."

"Whoever I may be—Witch?"

She stirred impatiently.

"No further need for pretence between us." There was anger in her voice. "I am done with lies—better for both if you be done with them too. Whoever you are—you are not Dwayanu. I say again that the withered leaf cannot turn green nor the dead return."

"If I am not he, then whence came those memories you watched with me not long ago? Did they pass from your mind to mine. Witch–woman—or from my mind to yours?"

She shook her head, and again I saw a furtive doubt cloud her eyes.

"I saw nothing. I meant you to see—something. You eluded me. Whatever it was you saw—I had no part in it. Nor could I bend you to my will. I saw nothing."

"I saw the ancient land, Lur."

She said, sullenly:

"I could go no farther than its portal."

"What was it you sent me into Ayjirland to find for Yodin, Witch–woman?"

"Khalk'ru," she answered evenly.

"And why?"

"Because then I would have known surely, beyond all doubt, whether you could summon him. That was what I promised Yodin to discover."

"And if I could summon him?"

"Then you were to be slain before you had opportunity."

"And if I could not?"

"Then you would be offered to him in the temple."

"By Zarda!" I swore. "Dwayanu's welcome is not like what he had of old when he went visiting—or, if you prefer it, the hospitality you offer a stranger is no thing to encourage travellers. Now do I see eye to eye with you in this matter of eliminating Tibur and the priest. But why should I not begin with you, Witch?"

She leaned back, smiling.

"First—because it would do you no good. Yellow–hair. Look."

She beckoned me to one of the windows. From it I could see the causeway and the smooth hill upon which we had emerged from the forest. There were soldiers all along the causeway and the top of the hill held a company of them. I felt that she was quite right—even I could not get through them unscathed. The old cold rage began to rise within me. She watched me, with mockery in her eyes.

"And second—" she said. "And second—well, hear me. Yellow–hair."

I poured wine, raised the goblet to her, and drank. She said:

"Life is pleasant in this land. Pleasant at least for those of us who rule it. I have no desire to change it—except in the matter of Tibur and Yodin. And another matter of which we can talk later. I know the world has altered since long and long ago our ancestors fled from Ayjirland. I know there is life outside this sheltered place to which Khalk'ru led those ancestors. Yodin and Tibur know it, and some few more. Others guess it. But none of us desires to leave this pleasant place—nor do we desire it invaded. Particularly have we no desire to have our people go from it. And this many would attempt if they knew there were green fields and woods and running water and a teeming world of men beyond us. For through the uncounted years they have been taught that in all the world there is no life save here. That Khalk'ru, angered by the Great Sacrilege when Ayjirland rose in revolt and destroyed his temples, then destroyed all life except here, and that only by Khalk'ru's sufferance does it here exist—and shall persist only so long as he is offered the ancient Sacrifice. You follow me, Yellow–hair?"

I nodded.

"The prophecy of Dwayanu is an ancient one. He was the greatest of the Ayjir kings. He lived a hundred years or more before the Ayjirs began to turn their faces from Khalk'ru, to resist the Sacrifice—and the desert in punishment began to waste the land. And as the unrest grew, and the great war which was to destroy the Ayjirs brewed, the prophecy was born. That he would return to restore the ancient glory. No new story. Yellow–hair. Others have had their Dwayanus—the Redeemer, the Liberator, the Loosener of Fate—or so I have read in those rolls our ancestors carried with them when they fled. I do not believe these stories; new Dwayanus may arise, but the old ones do not return. Yet the people know the prophecy, and the people will believe anything that promises them freedom from something they do not like. And it is from the people that the sacrifices to Khalk'ru are taken—and they do not like the Sacrifice. But because they fear what might come if there were no more sacrifices—they endure them.

"And now. Yellow–hair—we come to you. When first I saw you, heard you shouting that you were Dwayanu, I took council with Yodin and Tibur. I thought you then from Sirk. Soon I knew that could not be. There was another with you—"

"Another?" I asked, in genuine surprise.

She looked at me, suspiciously.

"You have no memory of him?"

"No. I remember seeing you. You had a white falcon. There were other women with you. I saw you from the river."

She leaned forward, gaze intent.

"You remember the Rrrllya—the Little People? A dark girl who calls herself Evalie?"

Little People—a dark girl—Evalie? Yes, I did remember something of them—but vaguely. They had been in those dreams I had forgotten, perhaps. No—they had been real…or had they?

"Faintly, I seem to remember something of them, Lur. Nothing clearly."

She stared at me, a curious exultation in her eyes.

"No matter," she said. "Do not try to think of them. You were not—awake. Later we will speak of them. They are enemies. No matter—follow me now. If you were from Sirk, posing as Dwayanu, you might be a rallying point for our discontented. Perhaps even the leader they needed. If you were from outside—you were still more dangerous, since you could prove us liars. Not only the people, but the soldiers might rally to you. And probably would. What was there for us to do but to kill you?"

"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!