Night's Master (14 page)

When the night burned its cloak in the sunrise and the day came to show
him the desolation of the river fields and his neglected home, he went into the
palace, to the library of sorcerous books a second time, and closed the door.

6. Love in
a Glass

Many had died
for Zorayas’ sake, in one way or another. Some risked themselves on fearful
enterprises to gain her attention, and perished, some slew themselves at her
disfavor, and some she slew herself, for expedience, revenge, or even for
amusement. Azhrarn had made her beautiful, and beauty went to her head like
strong drink. Azhrarn had set his seal on her, and something of his fascinated
wickedness, his delight in the sport of tangling the plans of mankind, had
permeated her bones.

One new death meant nothing. She would have thought no more of Jurim, or
his taciturn dark brother, if she had not begun to hear a strange story, which
angered and interested her.

She had achieved some knowledge of the speech of birds, a frugal bizarre
tongue, to human ears more like the conversation of dainty mad people than a
language. Zorayas would sit beside a crystalline pool, admiring her reflection
in her silver mirrors, while handmaidens combed her hair. And she would listen
the while to the chatter of swallows, sparrows and wild ibis as they drank at
the margin of the water, among the rushes of thin beaten gold. Presently, in
this manner, she learned of an error she had made.

“Who is that bird in the water?” demanded a sparrow, new to the clear
pool, and pecking wildly at its reflection.

“Splash!” cried another, throwing water over itself.

A third preened dolefully on the marble bank and said:

“There sits the queen of Zojad, who does not know she has been cheated.”

“Cheated of what? Of a worm?” cried the first sparrow.

“Of a diamond.”

“What is that?” asked an ibis.

“Diamonds are the things which fall from the sky to make everything wet,”
said a swallow. “But men catch them in jars.”

“Tomorrow I shall lay an egg,” said the ibis inconsequently.

“Mirrash has cheated Zorayas of Zojad,” said the third sparrow. “He kept
from her the one diamond which was worth all the rest that she has, the blue
diamond from his father’s tomb-gate.”

“Worms are to be found near tombs,” said the first sparrow, “but I
suppose no one will thank me for this generous instruction.”

“My egg will be larger than any egg ever laid before,” said the ibis.

“The diamond of which Mirrash has cheated Zorayas is worth all the
diamonds of the earth,” said the third sparrow and, ruffling his feathers, he
flew away.

“Such rudeness,” said the swallow, “but I forget why.”

It seemed to Zorayas that the sparrow which spoke of the diamond had been
unusually lucid. She wondered if Mirrash himself had sent the bird, some final
boast to her that he had refused her the last gem and the best.

“But he may alter to me,” said Zorayas. “We shall see.”

True, Mirrash had not looked at her, had not allowed the irresistible
spell of her beauty to enslave him. True, he would be particularly on his guard
against her now. She remembered his cunning with the cake of salt. But she
would not rest till she had what she wanted, the last diamond, and his
submission. She did not like men to defy her, she, who once had suffered from
men so cruelly; like some disease, she had set herself to curb them in her
world, to cauterize and make them harmless.

Zorayas saw she must return to the desert palace by the shining river,
but not in her former guise. Not a milk-veiled lady under a fringed canopy,
accompanied by bells and music and the scent of incense. Nor would she return
as she had gone away, a sorceress in some supernatural conveyance drawn by
unlikely beasts. This time, Mirrash should have no warning.

A storm
roared across the desert. Dust rose into the sky. The sun became a red blur,
the shining river grew dull as unpolished bronze, and the trees groaned in the
wind.

Someone knocked on the gate of the palace, of which all the shutters were
closed and bolted. Someone struck the iron of the gate, and wept, and cried for
help. At length a porter, on the instructions of the steward, opened the gate a
crack and dragged into the confine of the inner court a dishevelled creature. A
poor dancing girl she seemed to be, lost from some caravan, her cheap finery in
rags, her body scored and bleeding from the harsh beating of the sand, her face
obscured by dust and tears and cascading dusty hair of the deepest black. She
huddled in the court, kissing the feet of the porter, and next the feet of the
steward who had rescued her from such a vile death in the storm.

There were few servants left in the palace, most were gone as the riches
were gone. The old steward conducted the dancing girl to a secluded room,
showed her a couch and ewers of water, and had bread and wine put before her.
The girl thanked him again and again.

“Pray tell me,” said she, “who is your master, that I may also bless his
name.”

“My master is Mirrash, upon whom grave sorrow has come. He would profit
from any blessing, great or small.”

“And is his heart heavy with grief? Some dear one lost, perhaps? Good
sir,” said the girl, modestly lowering her gaze, “I look a poor sight now, but
only permit me to bathe and tidy myself, then let me attend the bedchamber of
your lord. I have learned many curious arts of love as a part of my trade.
Maybe I can console him, if only for an hour or two. Do not deny me for it is
my dearest wish. If you think it proper,” she added, “I will demonstrate
firstly to yourself what I am able to perform.”

The old steward was past the age for such exercise, and suggested he
would be content to watch the dancing girl at her bath. This was agreed on, and
the steward was extremely gratified, for though he never quite glimpsed her
face through her hair, he had an excellent view of everything else, and the
girl was unusually and compellingly beautiful. Presently he grew affable, and
let her persuade him that she be taken, unknown to Mirrash, to his bed, there
to await the prince.

‘Certainly,’ thought the steward, as he stowed the succulent damsel in
the bedchamber, ‘I shall get a reward for this.’

Mirrash had for some months spent the larger part of every day in the
great library of the house, though at other times he shut himself in a cellar
room of the palace, which he always kept securely locked. From this room had
issued occasional strange sounds and musky odors, and a flicker of weird
lights. Tonight also, Mirrash came late from the cellar to his bed, and it
might be supposed the eager dancing girl was growing weary of the delay.

The lamps burned dim. Mirrash entered the chamber, threw off his garments
and lay down in the bed. No sooner had he done so than he felt a sinuous touch
and started up.

“Do not be alarmed, my lord,” said a sweet voice next to his ear. “I am
your slave, here to serve you gladly from the well of my love.”

At this, Mirrash lay back and said:

“Whoever you are, you are welcome to my life.”

Then the girl, encountering his face in the red gloom of the lamps, gave
a start, for the eyes of Mirrash were bound with cloth.

“Why, my lord, is this some game?”

“Indeed, no,” said Mirrash. “I have gone blind.”

The caressing hands of the dancing girl were still.

“Some new trick,” she muttered. “How can this be?” she added.

“I have thwarted a powerful sorceress,” said Mirrash, “Zorayas of Zojad,
perhaps you have heard her name? The demons love her, and for sport attacked me
and blinded me.”

The gentle fingers of Mirrash’s companion had roused and were already on
the bandaging.

“Come, my lord. let me see. I have a little cleverness in healing.
Perhaps I may aid you.”

“No, on no account,” said Mirrash, drawing away. “Do not trouble
yourself.”

At this, the girl turned her attention to other areas of the prince’s
body, but he sadly told her: “Kind maiden, this, too, is useless. Not only have
the demons rendered me sightless but also impotent.” Yet the girl, finding
things quite to the contrary, assured him he was mistaken. “Ah, take no note of
such outward signs, this is how the demons torment me. The vessel is filled to
overflowing, but no sooner shall we begin to drink than I will find the wine is
mysteriously vanished without trace, and the vessel flaccid and empty.”

“Now, my lord,” chided the girl, “let us not be overly pessimistic.
Perhaps the demons have relented in their spell.”

No doubt this was so, for, after some further urging, the sword found the
sheath, and Mirrash enjoyed her lustily. Zorayas—who, but she? Even the
expedient storm had been her conjuring—was not inclined to join her enemy in
his passion, but awaited her moment, demonstrating such cries and movements as
he might think feasible under the circumstances. At length, as the supreme
instants of congress overtook Mirrash, Zorayas snatched the bandaging from his
eyes.

Thus, despite his evasions, at the height of his pleasure, he must behold
her and the adhesive enchantment of her face, framed now by red copper hair,
the black wig flung aside.

Mirrash moaned and sank down, and cursed himself, and her, and then gazed
again at her, and entreated she would forgive his curses, declaring he would be
glad to die for her.

“That is not necessary,” said Zorayas, “but some small
token. . . .”

“Anything I have is yours, as I am.”

“The thing you would not give me, the blue diamond you boasted of, worth
all the rest.”

Mirrash stared at her. His dark eyes were bloodshot and wildly swimming.
It delighted her to see him so utterly reduced.

“The diamond is in the gate of my father’s tomb. Take it. Only let me
kiss your mouth again.”

“Later, perhaps,” said Zorayas. “For now, the diamond will suffice.”

They rose. He led her down and through shadowy gardens where the storm
had died, beside a shimmering pool, to the marble portico of the mausoleum.
Here on the iron gate, something flared with a cool blue light. A great
diamond, and something else beside.

“Now what is this?” asked Zorayas, white as ivory and red as wine in the
dark. “Some other trick? Come, I know you cannot lie to me now.”

“Lie to you? I would rather cut out my tongue.” He fell to his knees
before her and clasped her ankles.

“When you showed me the diamond in my palace, it was without a setting.”

“Yes,” he said, “I prized it from the setting, this oval mirror, tall and
broad as a man, which hangs upon the tomb gate.”

Zorayas stepped past him, and went to inspect the object on the gate, and
noted it was a polished oval of blue metal, as long and as wide as he had
stipulated, with the diamond burning at its center.

“A mirror, you say,” Zorayas questioned. “I can see no reflection.”

“That is but the case, and the jewel is set in the case. The mirror is
within, but no one may look on it. It was my father’s glass, a magic thing he
found in an ancient temple. Even he never opened the case to glance at it.”

“Why not, pray?”

“It was the toy of demons,” Mirrash said, crawling after her, and
pressing his lips to her heel. “The glass is said to reveal an ultimate truth.
No man dares chance such a sight. But, lady, let me extract the jewel for you,
and then—”

“Leave it be,” said Zorayas, frowning. “Are men yet so craven? Demons are
wise, but humanity need not fear them if humanity will be courageous. I shall
take diamond and case and mirror too. For if no man dares look into the glass,
I
dare to do so. Come, cease grovelling there, and fetch it down for me, unless
you are a weakling.”

Mirrash obeyed her. He staggered under the mirror’s weight, but set the
case, firmly closed, at her feet, and then tried to kiss her mouth which also
remained firmly closed. She thrust him from her.

“You are only a dog,” she said. “Do not be less than one.”

“Lady,” he cried, “do not trust the mirror, it will harm you. Let me lie
with you again, I am on fire—pity me—”

“You are not worth my pity,” said she, “you are a fool.”

She snapped her fingers. There came a rushing sound. A chariot drawn by
black, snake-headed swans swept up and bore both her and her prize away.

Mirrash stood alone in the garden. Soon he went to the pool. A little
sparrow, trained by magic to speak certain words, ruffled its wings as Mirrash
bent to the water and bathed his eyes. The bandage had been a ploy. Before
entering his bedchamber he had dropped inside his eyelids a certain ointment that
blurred and distorted his sight. All things this night had appeared as hectic
inchoate monstrosities, now elongated, now bloated, as if seen through a warped
crystal. Even the wondrous face of Zorayas had appeared so. Though her touch
had fired him and her body pleasured him, that devastating submission her face
exacted had missed him like an arrow shot wide.

Truly, he thought, her face had resembled her nature tonight. Would his
brother Jurim had seen her in such a fashion.

Zorayas dug
out the diamond and hung it about her white throat. She did not delay to
investigate its powers; she had become too interested in the hidden mirror that
had framed it.

She made certain preparations. She was proud but not stupid. She sensed
already a great force of energy in the oval of blue metal, power striving to
pierce the case and enlighten whoever could confront it. An ultimate truth. Who
did not hanker after such? It could make her name more terrible than even now
it was. And in her own eyes it would also enlarge her. Zorayas, the most
beautiful and the wisest woman of earth, the lover of the Prince Demons, the
possessor of an Ultimate Truth. Like many before her, and since, whose
confidence had withered in their earliest years, even the bright bricks of
success had not built a stronger house for her. Within, in the lowest region of
her soul and mind, unknown to herself, she was still a small voice crying for
another glory to salve her hurts. She must better the best, none must withstand
her, she must conquer what others dare not face, drink seas and trample
mountains. She would never rest till death, the last battle, made mockery of
all her victories.