The Sleeping Sorceress (16 page)

C
HAPTER
O
NE

A Melancholy King: A Court Strives to Honour Him

I
T IS THE colour of a bleached skull, his flesh; and the long hair which flows below his shoulders is milk-white. From the tapering, beautiful head stare two slanting eyes, crimson and moody, and from the loose sleeves of his yellow gown emerge two slender hands, also the colour of bone, resting on each arm of a seat which has been carved from a single, massive ruby.

The crimson eyes are troubled and sometimes one hand will rise to finger the light helm which sits upon the white locks: a helm made from some dark, greenish alloy and exquisitely moulded into the likeness of a dragon about to take wing. And on the hand which absently caresses the crown there is a ring in which is set a single rare Actorios stone whose core sometimes shifts sluggishly and reshapes itself, as if it were sentient smoke and as restless in its jeweled prison as the young albino on his Ruby Throne.

He looks down the long flight of quartz steps to where his court disports itself, dancing with such delicacy and whispering grace that it might be a court of ghosts. Mentally he debates moral issues and in itself this activity divides him from the great majority of his subjects, for these people are not human.

These are the people of Melniboné, the Dragon Isle, which ruled the world for ten thousand years and has ceased to rule it for less than five hundred years. And they are cruel and clever and to them ‘morality’ means little more than a proper respect for the traditions of a hundred centuries.

To the young man, four hundred and twenty-eighth in direct line of descent from the first Sorcerer Emperor of Melniboné, their assumptions seem not only arrogant but foolish; it is plain that the Dragon Isle has lost most of her power and will soon be threatened, in another century or two, by a direct conflict with the emerging human nations whom they call, somewhat patronizingly, the Young Kingdoms. Already pirate fleets have made unsuccessful attacks on Imrryr the Beautiful, the Dreaming City, capital of the Dragon Isle of Melniboné.

Yet even the emperor’s closest friends refuse to discuss the prospect of Melniboné’s fall. They are not pleased when he mentions the idea, considering his remarks not only unthinkable, but also a singular breach of good taste.

So, alone, the emperor broods. He mourns that his father, Sadric the Eighty-Sixth, did not sire more children, for then a more suitable monarch might have been available to take his place on the Ruby Throne. Sadric has been dead a year; seeming to whisper glad welcome to that which came to claim his soul. Through most of his life Sadric had never known another woman than his wife, for the empress had died bringing her sole thin-blooded issue into the world. But, with Melnibonéan emotions (oddly different from those of the human newcomers), Sadric had loved his wife and had been unable to find pleasure in any other company, even that of the son who had killed her and who was all that was left of her. By magic potions and the chanting of runes, by rare herbs had her son been nurtured, his strength sustained artificially by every art known to the Sorcerer Kings of Melniboné. And he had lived—still lives—thanks to sorcery alone, for he is naturally lassitudinous and, without his drugs, would barely be able to raise his hand from his side through most of a normal day.

If the young emperor has found any advantage in his lifelong weakness it must be in that, perforce, he has read much. Before he was fifteen he had read every book in his father’s library, some more than once. His sorcerous powers, learned initially from Sadric, are now greater than any possessed by his ancestors for many a generation. His knowledge of the world beyond the shores of Melniboné is profound, though he has as yet had little direct experience of it. If he wished he could resurrect the Dragon Isle’s former might and rule both his own land and the Young Kingdoms as an invulnerable tyrant. But his reading has also taught him to question the uses to which power is put, to question his motives, to question whether his own power should be used at all, in any cause. His reading has led him to this ‘morality’, which, still, he barely understands. Thus, to his subjects, he is an enigma and, to some, he is a threat, for he neither thinks nor acts in accordance with their conception of how a true Melnibonéan (and a Melnibonéan emperor, at that) should think and act. His cousin Yyrkoon, for instance, has been heard more than once to voice strong doubts concerning the emperor’s right to rule the people of Melniboné. “This feeble scholar will bring doom to us all,” he said one night to Dyvim Tvar, Lord of the Dragon Caves.

Dyvim Tvar is one of the emperor’s few friends and he had duly reported the conversation, but the youth had dismissed the remarks as “only a trivial treason”, whereas any of his ancestors would have rewarded such sentiments with a very slow and exquisite public execution.

The emperor’s attitude is further complicated by the fact that Yyrkoon, who is even now making precious little secret of his feelings that he should be emperor, is the brother of Cymoril, a girl whom the albino considers the closest of his friends, and who will one day become his empress.

Down on the mosaic floor of the court Prince Yyrkoon can be seen in all his finest silks and furs, his jewels and his brocades, dancing with a hundred women, all of whom are rumoured to have been mistresses of his at one time or another. His dark features, at once handsome and saturnine, are framed by long black hair, waved and oiled, and his expression, as ever, is sardonic while his bearing is arrogant. The heavy brocade cloak swings this way and that, striking other dancers with some force. He wears it almost as if it is armour or, perhaps, a weapon. Amongst many of the courtiers there is more than a little respect for Prince Yyrkoon. Few resent his arrogance and those who do keep silent, for Yyrkoon is known to be a considerable sorcerer himself. Also his behaviour is what the court expects and welcomes in a Melnibonéan noble; it is what they would welcome in their emperor.

The emperor knows this. He wishes he could please his court as it strives to honour him with its dancing and its wit, but he cannot bring himself to take part in what he privately considers a wearisome and irritating sequence of ritual posturings. In this he is, perhaps, somewhat more arrogant than Yyrkoon who is, at least, a conventional boor.

From the galleries, the music grows louder and more complex as the slaves, specially trained and surgically operated upon to sing but one perfect note each, are stimulated to more passionate efforts. Even the young emperor is moved by the sinister harmony of their song which in few ways resembles anything previously uttered by the human voice. Why should their pain produce such marvelous beauty? he wonders. Or is all beauty created through pain? Is that the secret of great art, both human and Melnibonéan?

The Emperor Elric closes his eyes.

There is a stir in the hall below. The gates have opened and the dancing courtiers cease their motion, drawing back and bowing low as soldiers enter. The soldiers are clad all in light blue, their ornamental helms cast in fantastic shapes, their long, broad-bladed lances decorated with jeweled ribbons. They surround a young woman whose blue dress matches their uniforms and whose bare arms are encircled by five or six bracelets of diamonds, sapphires and gold. Strings of diamonds and sapphires are wound into her hair. Unlike most of the women of the court, her face has no designs painted upon the eyelids or cheekbones. Elric smiles. This is Cymoril. The soldiers are her personal ceremonial guard who, according to tradition, must escort her into the court. They ascend the steps leading to the Ruby Throne. Slowly Elric rises and stretches out his hands.

“Cymoril. I thought you had decided not to grace the court tonight.”

She returns his smile. “My emperor, I found that I was in the mood for conversation, after all.”

Elric is grateful. She knows that he is bored and she knows, too, that she is one of the few people of Melniboné whose conversation interests him. If protocol allowed, he would offer her the throne, but as it is she must sit on the topmost step at his feet.

“Please sit, sweet Cymoril.” He resumes his place upon the throne and leans forward as she seats herself and looks into his eyes with a mixed expression of humour and tenderness. She speaks softly as her guard withdraws to mingle at the sides of the steps with Elric’s own guard. Her voice can be heard only by Elric.

“Would you ride out to the wild region of the island with me tomorrow, my lord?”

“There are matters to which I must give my attention . . .” He is attracted by the idea. It is weeks since he left the city and rode with her, their escort keeping a discreet distance away.

“Are they urgent?”

He shrugs. “What matters are urgent in Melniboné? After ten thousand years, most problems may be seen in a certain perspective.” His smile is almost a grin, rather like that of a young scholar who plans to play truant from his tutor. “Very well—early in the morning, we’ll leave, before the others are up.”

“The air beyond Imrryr will be clear and sharp. The sun will be warm for the season. The sky will be blue and unclouded.”

Elric laughs. “Such sorcery you must have worked!”

Cymoril lowers her eyes and traces a pattern on the marble of the dais. “Well, perhaps a little. I am not without friends among the weakest of the elementals . . .”

Elric stretches down to touch her fine, dark hair. “Does Yyrkoon know?”

“No.”

Prince Yyrkoon has forbidden his sister to meddle in magical matters. Prince Yyrkoon’s friends are only amongst the darker of the supernatural beings and he knows that they are dangerous to deal with; thus he assumes that all sorcerous dealings bear a similar element of danger. Besides this, he hates to think that others possess the power that he possesses. Perhaps this is what, in Elric, he hates most of all.

“Let us hope that all Melniboné needs fine weather for tomorrow,” says Elric. Cymoril stares curiously at him. She is still a Melnibonéan. It has not occurred to her that her sorcery might prove unwelcome to some. Then she shrugs her lovely shoulders and touches her lord lightly upon the hand.

“This ‘guilt’,” she says. “This searching of the conscience. Its purpose is beyond my simple brain.”

“And mine, I must admit. It seems to have no practical function. Yet more than one of our ancestors predicted a change in the nature of our earth. A spiritual as well as a physical change. Perhaps I have glimmerings of this change when I think my stranger, un-Melnibonéan, thoughts?”

The music swells. The music fades. The courtiers dance on, though many eyes are upon Elric and Cymoril as they talk at the top of the dais. There is speculation. When will Elric announce Cymoril as his empress-to-be? Will Elric revive the custom that Sadric dismissed, of sacrificing twelve brides and their bridegrooms to the Lords of Chaos in order to ensure a good marriage for the rulers of Melniboné? It was obvious that Sadric’s refusal to allow the custom to continue brought misery upon him and death upon his wife; brought him a sickly son and threatened the very continuity of the monarchy. Elric must revive the custom. Even Elric must fear a repetition of the doom which visited his father. But some say that Elric will do nothing in accordance with tradition and that he threatens not only his own life, but the existence of Melniboné itself and all it stands for. And those who speak thus are often seen to be on good terms with Prince Yyrkoon who dances on, seemingly unaware of their conversation or, indeed, unaware that his sister talks quietly with the cousin who sits on the Ruby Throne; who sits on the edge of the seat, forgetful of his dignity, who exhibits none of the ferocious and disdainful pride which has, in the past, marked virtually every other emperor of Melniboné; who chats animatedly, forgetful that the court is supposed to be dancing for his entertainment.

And then suddenly Prince Yyrkoon freezes in mid-pirouette and raises his dark eyes to look up at his emperor. In one corner of the hall, Dyvim Tvar’s attention is attracted by Yyrkoon’s calculated and dramatic posture and the Lord of the Dragon Caves frowns. His hand falls to where his sword would normally be, but no swords are worn at a court ball. Dyvim Tvar looks warily and intently at Prince Yyrkoon as the tall nobleman begins to ascend the stairs to the Ruby Throne. Many eyes follow the emperor’s cousin and now hardly anyone dances, though the music grows wilder as the masters of the music slaves goad their charges to even greater exertions.

Elric looks up to see Yyrkoon standing one step below that on which Cymoril sits. Yyrkoon makes a bow which is subtly insulting.

“I present myself to my emperor,” he says.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

An Upstart Prince: He Confronts His Cousin

“And how do you enjoy the ball, cousin?” Elric asked, aware that Yyrkoon’s melodramatic presentation had been designed to catch him off-guard and, if possible, humiliate him. “Is the music to your taste?”

Yyrkoon lowered his eyes and let his lips form a secret little smile. “Everything is to my taste, my liege. But what of yourself? Does something displease you? You do not join the dance.”

Elric raised one pale finger to his chin and stared at Yyrkoon’s hidden eyes. “I enjoy the dance, cousin, nonetheless. Surely it is possible to take pleasure in the pleasure of others?”

Yyrkoon seemed genuinely astonished. His eyes opened fully and met Elric’s. Elric felt a slight shock and then turned his own gaze away, indicating the music galleries with a languid hand. “Or perhaps it is the pain of others which brings me pleasure. Fear not, for my sake, cousin. I am pleased. I am pleased. You may dance on, assured that your emperor enjoys the ball.”

But Yyrkoon was not to be diverted from his object. “Surely, if his subjects are not to go away saddened and troubled that they have not pleased their ruler, the emperor should demonstrate his enjoyment . . .?”

“I would remind you, cousin,” said Elric quietly, “that the emperor has no duty to his subjects at all, save to rule them. Their duty is to him. That is the tradition of Melniboné.”

Yyrkoon had not expected Elric to use such arguments against him, but he rallied with his next retort. “I agree, my lord. The emperor’s duty is to rule his subjects. Perhaps that is why so many of them do not, themselves, enjoy the ball as much as they might.”

“I do not follow you, cousin.”

Cymoril had risen and stood with her hands clenched on the step above her brother. She was tense and anxious, worried by her brother’s bantering tone, his disdainful bearing.

“Yyrkoon . . .” she said.

He acknowledged her presence. “Sister. I see you share our emperor’s reluctance to dance.”

“Yyrkoon,” she murmured, “you are going too far. The emperor is tolerant, but . . .”

“Tolerant? Or is he careless? Is he careless of the traditions of our great race? Is he contemptuous of that race’s pride?”

Dyvim Tvar was now mounting the steps. It was plain that he, too, sensed that Yyrkoon had chosen this moment to test Elric’s power.

Cymoril was aghast. She said urgently: “Yyrkoon. If you would live . . .”

“I would not care to live if the soul of Melniboné perished. And the guardianship of our nation’s soul is the responsibility of the emperor. And what if we should have an emperor who failed in that responsibility? An emperor who was weak? An emperor who cared nothing for the greatness of the Dragon Isle and its folk?”

“A hypothetical question, cousin.” Elric had recovered his composure and his voice was an icy drawl. “For such an emperor has never sat upon the Ruby Throne and such an emperor never shall.”

Dyvim Tvar came up, touching Yyrkoon on the shoulder. “Prince, if you value your dignity and your life . . .”

Elric raised his hand. “There is no need for that, Dyvim Tvar. Prince Yyrkoon merely entertains us with an intellectual debate. Fearing that I was bored by the music and the dance—which I am not—he thought he would provide the subject for a stimulating discourse. I am certain that we are most stimulated, Prince Yyrkoon.” Elric allowed a patronizing warmth to colour his last sentence.

Yyrkoon flushed with anger and bit his lips.

“But go on, dear cousin Yyrkoon,” Elric said. “I am interested. Enlarge further on your argument.”

Yyrkoon looked around him, as if for support. But all his supporters were on the floor of the hall. Only Elric’s friends, Dyvim Tvar and Cymoril, were nearby. Yet Yyrkoon knew that his supporters were hearing every word and that he would lose face if he did not retaliate. Elric could tell that Yyrkoon would have preferred to have retired from this confrontation and choose another day and another ground on which to continue the battle, but that was not possible. Elric, himself, had no wish to continue the foolish banter which was, no matter how disguised, little better than the quarreling of two little girls over who should play with the slaves first. He decided to make an end of it.

Yyrkoon began: “Then let me suggest that an emperor who was physically weak might also be weak in his will to rule as befitted . . .”

And Elric raised his hand. “You have done enough, dear cousin. More than enough. You have wearied yourself with this conversation when you would have preferred to dance. I am touched by your concern. But now I, too, feel weariness steal upon me.” Elric signaled for his old servant Tanglebones who stood on the far side of the throne dais, amongst the soldiers. “Tanglebones! My cloak.”

Elric stood up. “I thank you again for your thoughtfulness, cousin.” He addressed the court in general. “I was entertained. Now I retire.”

Tanglebones brought the cloak of white fox fur and placed it around his master’s shoulders. Tanglebones was very old and much taller than Elric, though his back was stooped and all his limbs seemed knotted and twisted back on themselves, like the limbs of a strong, old tree.

Elric walked across the dais and through the door which opened onto a corridor which led to his private apartments.

Yyrkoon was left fuming. He whirled round on the dais and opened his mouth as if to address the watching courtiers. Some, who did not support him, were smiling quite openly. Yyrkoon clenched his fists at his sides and glowered. He glared at Dyvim Tvar and opened his thin lips to speak. Dyvim Tvar coolly returned the glare, daring Yyrkoon to say more.

Then Yyrkoon flung back his head so that the locks of his hair, all curled and oiled, swayed against his back. And Yyrkoon laughed.

The harsh sound filled the hall. The music stopped. The laughter continued.

Yyrkoon stepped up so that he stood on the dais. He dragged his heavy cloak round him so that it engulfed his body.

Cymoril came forward. “Yyrkoon, please do not . . .” He pushed her back with a motion of his shoulder.

Yyrkoon walked stiffly towards the Ruby Throne. It became plain that he was about to seat himself in it and thus perform one of the most traitorous actions possible in the code of Melniboné. Cymoril ran the few steps to him and pulled at his arm.

Yyrkoon’s laughter grew. “It is Yyrkoon they would wish to see on the Ruby Throne,” he told his sister. She gasped and looked in horror at Dyvim Tvar whose face was grim and angry.

Dyvim Tvar signed to the guards and suddenly there were two ranks of armoured men between Yyrkoon and the throne.

Yyrkoon glared back at the Lord of the Dragon Caves. “You had best hope you perish with your master,” he hissed.

“This guard of honour will escort you from the hall,” Dyvim Tvar said evenly. “We were all stimulated by your conversation this evening, Prince Yyrkoon.”

Yyrkoon paused, looked about him, then relaxed. He shrugged. “There’s time enough. If Elric will not abdicate, then he must be deposed.”

Cymoril’s slender body was rigid. Her eyes blazed. She said to her brother:

“If you harm Elric in any way, I will slay you myself, Yyrkoon.”

He raised his tapering eyebrows and smiled. At that moment he seemed to hate his sister even more than he hated his cousin. “Your loyalty to that creature has ensured your own doom, Cymoril. I would rather you died than that you should give birth to any progeny of his. I will not have the blood of our house diluted, tainted—even touched—by his blood. Look to your own life, sister, before you threaten mine.”

And he stormed down the steps, pushing through those who came up to congratulate him. He knew that he had lost and the murmurs of his sycophants only irritated him further.

The great doors of the hall crashed together and closed. Yyrkoon was gone from the hall.

Dyvim Tvar raised both his arms. “Dance on, courtiers. Pleasure yourselves with all that the hall provides. It is what will please the emperor most.”

But it was plain there would be little more dancing done tonight. Courtiers were already deep in conversation as, excitedly, they debated the events.

Dyvim Tvar turned to Cymoril. “Elric refuses to understand the danger, Princess Cymoril. Yyrkoon’s ambition could bring disaster to all of us.”

“Including Yyrkoon.” Cymoril sighed.

“Aye, including Yyrkoon. But how can we avoid this, Cymoril, if Elric will not give orders for your brother’s arrest?”

“He believes that such as Yyrkoon should be allowed to say what they please. It is part of his philosophy. I can barely understand it, but it seems integral to his whole belief. If he destroys Yyrkoon, he destroys the basis on which his logic works. That at any rate, Dragon Master, is what he has tried to explain to me.”

Dyvim Tvar sighed and he frowned. Unable to understand Elric, he was afraid that he could sometimes sympathize with Yyrkoon’s viewpoint. At least Yyrkoon’s motives and arguments were relatively straightforward. He knew Elric’s character too well, however, to believe that Elric acted from weakness or lassitude. The paradox was that Elric tolerated Yyrkoon’s treachery because he was strong, because he had the power to destroy Yyrkoon whenever he cared. And Yyrkoon’s own character was such that he must constantly be testing that strength of Elric’s, for he knew instinctively that if Elric did weaken and order him slain, then he would have won. It was a complicated situation and Dyvim Tvar dearly wished that he was not embroiled in it. But his loyalty to the royal line of Melniboné was strong and his personal loyalty to Elric was great. He considered the idea of having Yyrkoon secretly assassinated, but he knew that such a plan would almost certainly come to nothing. Yyrkoon was a sorcerer of immense power and doubtless would be forewarned of any attempt on his life.

“Princess Cymoril,” said Dyvim Tvar, “I can only pray that your brother swallows so much of his rage that it eventually poisons him.”

“I will join you in that prayer, Lord of the Dragon Caves.”

Together, they left the hall.