The Sleeping Sorceress (21 page)

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

A Traditional Justice

“Now indeed I shall rule as you would have had me rule, cousin.” Elric watched as Dyvim Tvar’s soldiers surrounded the would-be usurper and seized his arms, relieving him of his weapons.

Yyrkoon panted like a captured wolf. He glared around him as if hoping to find support from the assembled warriors, but they stared back at him either neutrally or with open contempt.

“And you, Prince Yyrkoon, will be the first to benefit from this new rule of mine. Are you pleased?”

Yyrkoon lowered his head. He was trembling now. Elric laughed. “Speak up, cousin.”

“May Arioch and all the Dukes of Hell torment you for eternity,” growled Yyrkoon. He flung back his head, his wild eyes rolling, his lips curling: “Arioch! Arioch! Curse this feeble albino! Arioch! Destroy him or see Melniboné fall!”

Elric continued to laugh. “Arioch does not hear you. Chaos is weak upon the earth now. It needs a greater sorcery than yours to bring the Chaos Lords back to aid you as they aided our ancestors. And now, Yyrkoon, tell me—where is the Lady Cymoril?”

But Yyrkoon had lapsed, again, into a sullen silence.

“She is at her own tower, my emperor,” said Magum Colim.

“A creature of Yyrkoon’s took her there,” said Dyvim Tvar. “The captain of Cymoril’s own guard, he slew a warrior who tried to defend his mistress against Yyrkoon. It could be that Princess Cymoril is in danger, my lord.”

“Then go quickly to the tower. Take a force of men. Bring both Cymoril and the captain of her guard to me.”

“And Yyrkoon, my lord?” asked Dyvim Tvar.

“Let him remain here until his sister returns.”

Dyvim Tvar bowed and, selecting a body of warriors, left the throne room. All noticed that Dyvim Tvar’s step was lighter and his expression less grim than when he had first approached the throne room at Prince Yyrkoon’s back.

Yyrkoon straightened his head and looked about the court. For a moment he seemed like a pathetic and bewildered child. All the lines of hate and anger had disappeared and Elric felt sympathy for his cousin growing again within him. But this time Elric quelled the feeling.

“Be grateful, cousin, that for a few hours you were totally powerful, that you enjoyed domination over all the folk of Melniboné.”

Yyrkoon said in a small, puzzled voice: “How did you escape? You had no time for making a sorcery, no strength for it. You could barely move your limbs and your armour must have dragged you deep to the bottom of the sea so that you should have drowned. It is unfair, Elric. You should have drowned.”

Elric shrugged, “I have friends in the sea. They recognize my royal blood and my right to rule if you do not.”

Yyrkoon tried to disguise the astonishment he felt. Evidently his respect for Elric had increased, as had his hatred for the albino emperor. “Friends.”

“Aye,” said Elric, with a thin grin.

“I—I thought, too, you had vowed not to use your powers of sorcery.”

“But you thought that a vow which was unbefitting for a Melnibonéan monarch to make, did you not? Well, I agree with you. You see, Yyrkoon, you have won a victory, after all.”

Yyrkoon stared narrowly at Elric, as if trying to divine a secret meaning behind Elric’s words. “You will bring back the Chaos Lords?”

“No sorcerer, however powerful, can summon the Chaos Lords or, for that matter, the Lords of Law, if they do not wish to be summoned. That you know. You must know it, Yyrkoon. Have you not, yourself, tried? And Arioch did not come, did he? Did he bring you the gift you sought—the gift of the two black swords?”

“You know that?”

“I did not. I guessed. Now I know.”

Yyrkoon tried to speak but his voice would not form words, so angry was he. Instead, a strangled growl escaped his throat and for a few moments he struggled in the grip of his guards.

Dyvim Tvar returned with Cymoril. The girl was pale but she was smiling. She ran into the throne room. “Elric!”

“Cymoril! Are you harmed?”

Cymoril glanced at the crestfallen captain of her guard who had been brought with her. A look of disgust crossed her fine face. Then she shook her head. “No. I am not harmed.”

The captain of Cymoril’s guard was shaking with terror. He looked pleadingly at Yyrkoon as if hoping that his fellow prisoner could help him. But Yyrkoon continued to stare at the floor.

“Have that one brought closer.” Elric pointed at the captain of the guard. The man was dragged to the foot of the steps leading to the Ruby Throne. He moaned. “What a petty traitor you are,” said Elric. “At least Yyrkoon had the courage to attempt to slay me. And his ambitions were high. Your ambition was merely to become one of his pet curs. So you betrayed your mistress and slew one of your own men. What is your name?”

The man had difficulty speaking, but at last he murmured, “It is Valharik, my name. What could I do? I serve the Ruby Throne, whoever sits upon it.”

“So the traitor claims that loyalty motivated him. I think not.”

“It was, my lord. It was.” The captain began to whine. He fell to his knees. “Slay me swiftly. Do not punish me more.”

Elric’s impulse was to heed the man’s request, but he looked at Yyrkoon and then remembered the expression on Cymoril’s face when she had looked at the guard. He knew that he must make a point now, whilst making an example of Captain Valharik. So he shook his head. “No. I will punish you more. Tonight you will die here according to the traditions of Melniboné, while my nobles feast to celebrate this new era of my rule.”

Valharik began to sob. Then he stopped himself and got slowly to his feet, a Melnibonéan again. He bowed low and stepped backward, giving himself into the grip of his guards.

“I must consider a way in which your fate may be shared with the one you wished to serve,” Elric went on. “How did you slay the young warrior who sought to obey Cymoril?”

“With my sword. I cut him down. It was a clean stroke. But one.”

“And what became of the corpse.”

“Prince Yyrkoon told me to feed it to Princess Cymoril’s slaves.”

“I understand. Very well, Prince Yyrkoon, you may join us at the feast tonight while Captain Valharik entertains us with his dying.”

Yyrkoon’s face was almost as pale as Elric’s. “What do you mean?”

“The little pieces of Captain Valharik’s flesh which our Doctor Jest will carve from his limbs will be the meat on which you feast. You may give instructions as to how you wish the captain’s flesh prepared. We should not expect you to eat it raw, cousin.”

Even Dyvim Tvar looked astonished at Elric’s decision. Certainly it was in the spirit of Melniboné and a clever irony improving on Prince Yyrkoon’s own idea, but it was unlike Elric—or at least, it was unlike the Elric he had known up until a day earlier.

As he heard his fate, Captain Valharik gave a great scream of terror and glared at Prince Yyrkoon as if the would-be usurper were already tasting his flesh. Yyrkoon tried to turn away, his shoulders shaking.

“And that will be the beginning of it,” said Elric. “The feast will start at midnight. Until that time, confine Yyrkoon to his own tower.”

After Prince Yyrkoon and Captain Valharik had been led away, Dyvim Tvar and Princess Cymoril came and stood beside Elric who had sunk back in his great throne and was staring bitterly into the middle-distance.

“That was a clever cruelty,” Dyvim Tvar said.

Cymoril said: “It is what they both deserve.”

“Aye,” murmured Elric. “It is what my father would have done. It is what Yyrkoon would have done had our positions been reversed. I but follow the traditions. I no longer pretend that I am my own man. Here I shall stay until I die, trapped upon the Ruby Throne—serving the Ruby Throne as Valharik claimed to serve it.”

“Could you not kill them both quickly?” Cymoril asked. “You know that I do not plead for my brother because he is my brother. I hate him most of all. But it might destroy you, Elric, to follow through with your plan.”

“What if it does? Let me be destroyed. Let me merely become an unthinking extension of my ancestors. The puppet of ghosts and memories, dancing to strings which extend back through time for ten thousand years.”

“Perhaps if you slept . . .” Dyvim Tvar suggested.

“I shall not sleep, I feel, for many nights after this. But your brother is not going to die, Cymoril. After his punishment—after he has eaten the flesh of Captain Valharik—I intend to send him into exile. He will go alone into the Young Kingdoms and he will not be allowed to take his grimoires with him. He must make his way as best he can in the lands of the barbarian. That is not too severe a punishment, I think.”

“It is too lenient,” said Cymoril. “You would be best advised to slay him. Send soldiers now. Give him no time to consider counterplots.”

“I do not fear his counterplots.” Elric rose wearily. “Now I should like it if you would both leave me, until an hour or so before the feasting begins. I must think.”

“I will return to my tower and prepare myself for tonight,” said Cymoril. She kissed Elric lightly upon his pale forehead. He looked up, filled with love and tenderness for her. He reached out and touched her hair and her cheek. “Remember that I love you, Elric,” she said.

“I will see that you are safely escorted homeward,” Dyvim Tvar said to her. “And you must choose a new commander of your guard. Can I assist in that?”

“I should be grateful, Dyvim Tvar.”

They left Elric still upon the Ruby Throne, still staring into space. The hand that he lifted from time to time to his pale head shook a little and now the torment showed in his strange, crimson eyes.

Later, he rose up from the Ruby Throne and walked slowly, head bowed, to his own apartments, followed by his guards. He hesitated at the door which led onto the steps going up to the library. Instinctively he sought the consolation and forgetfulness of a certain kind of knowledge, but at that moment he suddenly hated his scrolls and his books. He blamed them for his ridiculous concerns regarding ‘morality’ and ‘justice’; he blamed them for the feelings of guilt and despair which now filled him as a result of his decision to behave as a Melnibonéan monarch was expected to behave. So he passed the door to the library and went on to his apartments, but even his apartments displeased him now. They were austere. They were not furnished according to the luxurious tastes of all Melnibonéans (save for his father) with their delight in lush mixtures of colour and bizarre design. He would have them changed as soon as possible. He would give himself up to those ghosts who ruled him. For some time he stalked from room to room, trying to push back that part of him which demanded he be merciful to Valharik and to Yyrkoon—at very least to slay them and be done with it or, better, to send them both into exile. But it was impossible to reverse his decision now.

At last he lowered himself to a couch which rested beside a window looking out over the whole of the city. The sky was still full of turbulent cloud, but now the moon shone through, like the yellow eye of an unhealthy beast. It seemed to stare with a certain triumphant irony at him, as if relishing the defeat of his conscience. Elric sank his head into his arms.

Later the servants came to tell him that the courtiers were assembling for the celebration feast. He allowed them to dress him in his yellow robes of state and to place the dragon crown upon his head and then he returned to the throne room to be greeted by a mighty cheer, more wholehearted than any he had ever received before. He acknowledged the greeting and then seated himself in the Ruby Throne, looking out over the banqueting tables which now filled the hall. A table was brought and set before him and two extra seats were brought, for Dyvim Tvar and Cymoril would sit beside him. But Dyvim Tvar and Cymoril were not yet here and neither had the renegade Valharik been brought. And where was Yyrkoon? They should, even now, be at the centre of the hall—Valharik in chains and Yyrkoon seated beneath him. Doctor Jest was there, heating his brazier on which rested his cooking pans, testing and sharpening his knives. The hall was filled with excited talk as the court waited to be entertained. Already the food was being brought in, though no-one might eat until the emperor ate first.

Elric signed to the commander of his own guard. “Has the Princess Cymoril or Lord Dyvim Tvar arrived at the tower yet?”

“No, my lord.”

Cymoril was rarely late and Dyvim Tvar never. Elric frowned. Perhaps they did not relish the entertainment.

“And what of the prisoners?”

“They have been sent for, my lord.”

Doctor Jest looked up expectantly, his thin body tensed in anticipation.

And then Elric heard a sound above the din of the conversation. A groaning sound which seemed to come from all around the tower. He bent his head and listened closely.

Others were hearing it now. They stopped talking and also listened intently. Soon the whole hall was in silence and the groaning increased.

Then, all at once, the doors of the throne room burst open and there was Dyvim Tvar, gasping and bloody, his clothes slashed and his flesh gashed. And following him in came a mist—a swirling mist of dark purples and unpleasant blues and it was this mist that groaned.

Elric sprang from his throne and knocked the table aside. He leapt down the steps towards his friend. The groaning mist began to creep further into the throne room, as if reaching out for Dyvim Tvar.

Elric took his friend in his arms. “Dyvim Tvar! What is this sorcery?”

Dyvim Tvar’s face was full of horror and his lips seemed frozen until at last he said:

“It is Yyrkoon’s sorcery. He conjured the groaning mist to aid him in his escape. I tried to follow him from the city but the mist engulfed me and I lost my senses. I went to his tower to bring him and his accessory here, but the sorcery had already been accomplished.”

“Cymoril? Where is she?”

“He took her, Elric. She is with him. Valharik is with him and so are a hundred warriors who remained secretly loyal to him.”

“Then we must pursue him. We shall soon capture him.”

“You can do nothing against the groaning mist. Ah! It comes!”