Jirel of Joiry (14 page)
Then one of the small
vaguenesses
blew against her and through her, and in the instant of its passage she caught the faint vibration of her name, and knew that this was the voice that had summoned her out of her dreams, the voice she had pursued: Guillaume. And with that instant’s union something as sustaining as life itself flashed through her wonderfully, a bright spark that swelled and grew and blazed, and—
She was back again in her body amidst the bestial carvings of the temple—a thawing, warming body from which the shackles of icy silence were falling, and that hot blaze was swelling still, until all of her being was suffused and pulsing with it, and the frigid pall of dark melted away unresistingly before the hot, triumphant blaze that dwelt within her.
In her ecstasy of overwhelming warmth she scarcely realized her victory. She did not greatly care. Something very splendid was happening….
Then the air trembled, and all about her small, thin sounds went shivering upward, as if ribbons of high screams were rippling past her across a background of silence. The blaze within her faded slowly, paled, imperceptibly died away, and the peace of utter emptiness flooded into her soul. She turned wearily backward across the bridge. Behind her the temple stood in a death-like quiet. The evil that had
beat
in long pulses through it was stilled for a while by something stunningly splendid which had no place in the starry hell; something human and alive, something compounded of love and longing, near-despair and sacrifice and triumph.
Jirel
did not realize how great a silence she left behind, nor very clearly what she had done. Above her against the paling sky she saw a familiar hilltop, and dimly knew that in all her long night of running she had been circling round toward her starting-place. She was too numb to care. She was beyond relief or surprise.
She began the climb passionlessly, with no triumph in the victory she knew was hers at last. For she had driven Guillaume out of the image and into the shadow, and out of the shadow into the voice, and out of the voice into—clean death, perhaps. She did not know. But he had found peace, for his insistences no longer beat upon her consciousness. And she was content.
Above her the cave mouth yawned. She toiled up the slope, dragging her sword
listlessly,
weary to the very soul, but quite calm now, with a peace beyond all understanding.
In her great bed in the tower room of
Joiry
Castle,
Jirel
of
Joiry
lay very near to death. Her red hair was a blaze upon the pillow above the bone-whiteness of her face, and the lids lay heavily over the yellow fire of her eyes. Life had gushed out of her in great scarlet spurts from the pike-wound deep in her side, and the whispering women who hovered at the door were telling one another in hushed murmurs that the Lady
Jirel
had led her last battle charge. Never again would she gallop at the head of her shouting men, swinging her sword with all the ferocity that had given her name such weight among the savage warrior barons whose lands ringed hers.
Jirel
of
Joiry
lay very still upon her pillow.
The great two-edged sword which she wielded so recklessly in the heat of combat hung on the wall now where her yellow eyes could find it if they opened, and her hacked and battered armor lay in a heap in one corner of the room just as the women had flung it as they stripped her when the grave-faced men-at-arms came shuffling up the stairs bearing the limp form of their lady, heavy in her mail. The room held the hush of death. Nothing in it stirred. On the bed
Jirel’s
white face lay motionless among the pillows.
Presently one of the women moved forward and gently pulled the door to against their watching.
“It is unseemly to stare so,” she reproved the others. “Our lady would not desire us to behold her thus until Father
Gervase
has shriven her sins away.”
And the coifed heads nodded assent,
murmurous
among themselves. In a moment or two more a commotion on the stairs forced the massed watchers apart, and
Jirel’s
serving-maid came up the steps holding a kerchief to her reddened eyes and leading Father
Gervase
. Someone pushed open the door for them, and the crowd parted to let them through.
The serving-maid stumbled forward to the bedside, mopping her eyes blindly. Behind her something obscurely wrong was happening. After a moment she realized what it was. A great stillness had fallen stunningly upon the crowd. She lifted a bewildered gaze toward the door.
Gervase
was staring at the bed in the blankest amazement.
“My child,” he stammered, “where is your lady?”
The girl’s head jerked round toward the bed. It was empty.
The sheets still lay exactly as they had covered
Jirel
, not pushed back as one pushes the blankets on arising. The hollow where her body had lain still held its shape among the yet warm sheets, and no fresh blood spattered the floor; but of the Lady of
Joiry
there was no sign.
Gervase’s
hands closed hard on his silver crucifix and under the fringe of gray hair his face crumpled suddenly into grief.
“Our dear lady has dabbled too often in forbidden things,” he murmured to himself above the crucifix. “Too often—”
Behind him trembling hands signed the cross, and awed whispers were already passing the word back down the crowded stairs: “The devil himself has snatched
Jirel
of
Joiry
body and soul out of her death-bed.”
Jirel
remembered shouts and screams and the din of battle, and that stunning impact in her side. Afterward nothing but dimness floating thickly above
a bedrock
of savage pain, and the murmur of voices from very far away. She drifted bodiless and serene upon a dark tide that was ebbing seaward, pulling her out and away while the voices and the pain receded to infinite distances, and faded and ceased.
Then somewhere a light was shining. She fought the realization weakly, for the dark tide pulled seaward and her soul desired the peace it seemed to promise with a longing beyond any words to tell. But the light would not let her go. Rebellious, struggling, at last she opened her eyes. The lids responded sluggishly, as if they had already forgotten obedience to her will. But she could see under the fringe of lashes and she lay motionless, staring quietly while life flowed back by slow degrees into the body it had so nearly left.
The light was a ring of flames, leaping golden against the dark beyond them. For a while she could see no more than that circlet of fire. Gradually perception returned behind her eyes, and reluctantly the body that had hovered so near to death took up the business of living again. With full comprehension she stared, and as she realized what it was she looked upon, incredulity warred with blank amazement in her dazed mind.
Before her a great image sat, monstrous and majestic upon a throne. Throne and image were black and shining. The figure was that of a huge man, wide-shouldered, tremendous, many times life size. His face was bearded, harsh, with power and savagery, and very regal, haughty as Lucifer’s might have been. He sat upon his enormous black throne staring arrogantly into nothingness. About his head the flames were leaping. She looked harder, unbelieving. How could she have come here? What was it, and where? Blank-eyed, she stared at that flaming crown that circled the huge head, flaring and leaping and casting queer bright shadows over the majestic face below them.
Without surprise, she found that she was sitting up. In her stupor she had not known the magnitude of her hurt, and it did not seem strange to her that no pain attended the motion, or that her pike-torn side was whole again beneath the doeskin tunic which was all she wore. She could not have known that the steel point of the pike had driven the leather into her flesh so deeply that her women had not dared to remove the garment lest they open the wound afresh and their lady die before absolution came to her. She only knew that she sat here naked in her doeskin tunic, her bare feet on a fur rug and cushions heaped about her. And all this was so strange and inexplicable that she made no attempt to understand.
The couch on which she sat was low and broad and black, and that fur rug in whose richness her toes were rubbing luxuriously was black too, and huger than any beast’s pelt could be outside dreams.
Before her, across an expanse of gleaming black floor the mighty image rose, crowned with flame. For the rest, this great, black, dim-lighted room was empty. The flame-reflections danced eerily in the shining floor. She lifted her eyes, and saw with a little start of surprise that there was no ceiling. The walls rose immensely overhead, terminating in jagged abruptness above which a dark sky arched, sown with dim stars.
This much she had seen and realized before a queer glittering in the air in front of the image drew her roving eyes back. It was a shimmer and dance like the dance of dust motes in sunshine, save that the particles which glittered in the darkness were multicolored, dazzling. They swirled and swarmed before her puzzled eyes in a queer dance that was somehow taking shape in the light of the flames upon the image’s head. A figure was forming in the midst of the rainbow shimmer. A man’s figure, a tall, dark-
visaged
, heavy-shouldered man whose outlines among the dancing motes took on rapid form and solidarity, strengthening by moments until in a last swirl the gaily colored dazzle dissipated and the man himself stood wide-legged before her, fists planted on his hips, grinning darkly down upon the spell bound
Jirel
.
He was the image. Save that he was of flesh and blood, life size, and the statue was of black stone and gigantic, there was no difference. The same harsh, arrogant, majestic face turned its grim smile upon
Jirel
. From under scowling black brows, eyes that glittered blackly with little red points of intolerable brilliance blazed down upon her. She could not meet that gaze. A short black beard outlined the harshness of his jaw, and through it the white flash of his smile dazzled her.
This much about the face penetrated even
Jirel’s
dazed amazement, and she caught her breath in a sudden gasp, sitting up straighter among her cushions and staring. The dark stranger’s eyes were eager upon the long, lithe lines of her upon the couch. Red sparkles quickened in their deeps, and his grin widened.
“Welcome,” he said, in a voice so deep and rich that involuntarily a little
burr
of answer rippled along
Jirel’s
nerves. “Welcome to the dark land of
Romne
.”
“Who brought me here?”
Jirel
found her voice at last. “And why?”
“I did it,” he told her.
“I—
Pav
, king of
Romne
.
Thank me for it,
Jirel
of
Joiry
. But for
Pav
you had lain among the worms tonight. It was out of your death-bed I took
you,
and no power but mine could have mended the pike-hole in your side or put back into you the blood you spilled on
Triste
battlefield. Thank me,
Jirel
!”
She looked at him levelly, her yellow eyes kindling a little in rising anger as she met the laughter in his.
“Tell me why you brought me here.”
At that he threw back his head and laughed hugely, a bull bellow of savage amusement that rang in deep echoes from the walls and beat upon her ears with the sound of organ notes. The room shook with his laughter; the little flames around the image’s head danced to it.
“To be my bride,
Joiry
!” he roared. “That look of defiance ill becomes you,
Jirel
!
Blush, lady, before your bridegroom!”
The blankness of the girl’s amazement was all that saved her for the moment from the upsurge of murderous fury which was beginning to seethe below the surface of her consciousness. She could only stare as he laughed down at her, enjoying to the full her mute amaze.
“Yes,” he said at last, “you have traveled too often in forbidden lands,
Jirel
of
Joiry
, to be ignored by us who live in them. And there is in you a hot and savage strength which no other woman in any land I know possesses.
A force to match my own, Lady
Jirel
.
None but you
is
fit to be my queen. So I have taken you for my own.”
Jirel
gasped in a choke of fury and found her voice again.
“Hell-dwelling madman!” she spluttered.
“Black beast out of nightmares!
Let me waken from this crazy dream!”
“It is no dream,” he smiled infuriatingly. “As you died in
Joiry
Castle I seized you out of your bed and snatched you body and soul over the space-curve that parts this land from yours. You have awakened in your own dark kingdom, O Queen of
Romne
!” And he swept her an ironical salute, his teeth glittering in the darkness of his beard.
“By what right—” blazed
Jirel
.
“By a lover’s right,” he mocked her. “Is it not better to share
Romne
with me than to
reign
among the worms, my lady? For death was very near to you just now. I have saved your lovely flesh from a cold bed,
Jirel
, and kept your hot soul rooted there for you. Do I get no thanks for that?”
Yellow fury blazed in her eyes.
“The thanks of a sword-edge, if I had one,” she flared. “Do you think to take
Joiry
like some peasant wench to answer to your whims? I’m
Joiry
, man! You must be mad!”
“I’m
Pav
,” he answered her somberly, all mirth vanishing in a breath from his heavy voice. “I’m king of
Romne
and lord of all who dwell therein. For your savageness I chose you, but do not try me too far, Lady
Jirel
!”