Night's Master (4 page)

It was late
when the ship came. She stood far out near the line of the horizon and, having
appeared, she did not move.

Sivesh heard the music in the wind. He thought:
My beloved stays the
ship, she waits for me to ride to her.
So he set spurs to the mare which
were hardly needed for she was glad to be off.

Her hooves darted like cymbals through the foam, over the silver path
that was reflected shorewards from the flower-tower ship.

Sivesh called to the mare, to the night, to the maiden in the tower. He
was alight with the sort of extraordinary unreasoning happiness that only the
victim of a spell could know. A happiness like the flame of a candle, burning
down even as it glows, at its brightest in the instant before it gutters out.

When he was about a quarter of a mile from it, the ship began to move
leisurely away from him. This did not seem ominous or even curious to him. It
was like a kind of delightful playfulness, a game devised by the girl in the
tower just to see if he would follow. Besides, the ship moved only very slowly,
though somehow just fast enough that he could not quite catch up with it, no
matter how he might try.

Then, through the moan of the sea, the enchanted music, the jingle of the
harness, through everything, there came to Sivesh as he rode a voice made of
the wind itself. He did not know what brought it, he did not remember to whom
it had belonged, but the words it spoke repeated themselves over and over in
his ears: “You, too, are a fool, Earthborn, to trust in demon-kind and to ride
on a mare of smoke and night. What demons love they slay in the end, and the
gifts of demons are snares.” All at once. he saw himself as if he had been a
gull circling round in the sky above—a man on a horse riding impudently across
the sea, over the path of light cast by a ship which forever ran away from him.
A cold serpent twisted in Sivesh’s vitals. He drew rein and looked behind him.
How far the shore was, only a line like lavender chalk dividing water and air.
He saw too, in looking back, another thing, a thing which until now had always
filled his heart with gladness. The east was paling, soft as the breast of a
dove. Soon the sun of day would rise.

The wind, fresh with dawn, blew more strongly.

“Your dreams will betray you,” sang the voice of the wind. “Go nowhere on
a horse that fades.”

Sivesh gave a groan of horror and of anguish. He turned the demon mare
about, leaving the fleeing ship behind him. The moment she faced the lightening
east, however, the horse whinnied and reared with terror.

Sivesh held her firm. He cajoled her with endearments, or cursed her. He
forced her to make toward the distant shore, over the rolling sea which now was
turning luminous as nacre. She ran finally like the whirlwind; her mane lashed
his face. She snorted and stared with fear.

Sivesh glanced back. The silver ship had grown transparent in the
brightening sky, it flickered like shadow before light. now it was gone. And
now the sun rose.

It rose like the phoenix, the whole of the east opened like a flower. The
rays of its vast light struck out across the sea, so that now a path of gold,
not silver, lay emblazoned there, and as the arrows of fire struck the demon
mare she gave a scream more dreadful than any legitimate sound of the earth;
the burning shafts seemed to pass right through her.

Immediately Sivesh felt the reins dissolve in his hands, the stirrups run
like wax. Next, the firm body of the horse collapsed and crumpled like a thing
of paper. Sivesh stared down at her. She was only a wisp of night fog beneath
him, fading in the sun.

He fell. The sea received him, opening its jaws greedily. He was not
proof against the sea. Even the Prince of Demons had not been able to protect
him against it, for it was not of the kingdom of earth, and had its own rulers.
In the second before the waters drank him down, Sivesh cried one name aloud. It
was the name of Azhrarn, and in that name was all the pain and loneliness and
despair and accusation that any mortal throat could utter. Then the waves
swallowed and the morning was filled with silence.

If Azhrarn heard that last cry, who knows. Perhaps he was watching in
some magic glass for the end of the youth, and saw him drown; perhaps for a
moment some of that awful pain hurt in his own throat, and in his mouth, which
spoke so wondrously and with such charm, perhaps there came, for the moment of
a moment, a taste of green salt water.

It is said
that a great fire was made in Druhim Vanashta, and that in the fire was burned
the palace which Azhrarn had built for Sivesh. When its roof of jewels fell in,
a huge glare thrust up, and seared the eyes of all who watched, a light too
fierce to be welcome in the Underearth, for it resembled the sun.

PART TWO

4.  Seven
Tears

Far down in
the Underearth, yet outside the phosphorescent walls and shimmering steeples of
Druhim Vanashta, lay a wide dark mirror-lake between shores of black rock.
Here, all through the unchanging day-nights, the Drin worked at their anvils,
the red forges smoked and the hammers rang.

The Drin had none of the beauty of the higher echelons of the demons, the
Vazdru—who were princes—or the Eshva, their stewards and handmaidens. The Drin
were little and grotesque and full of small grotesque jokes. They loved to make
mischief, like their lords, but seldom had ideas of their own as to how it
might be done. Therefore they served the Vazdru, ran the errands of the Eshva,
and when powerful mortal sorcerers set about their brews and conjurations, the
Drin would rush up on the earth to aid them, and where possible wreck more woe
than the sorcerers had bargained for.

And one other thing the Drin could do; they could be metal-smiths. If
they were not beautiful themselves, yet they could fashion beautiful things.
They hammered out earrings for demonesses, rings for demon princes, cups and
keys, clockwork silver birds to fly round the towers of the palace of Azhrarn,
lord of all demon-kind. And once they had built a mansion of gold for a mortal
youth Azhrarn favored, though now nothing remained of it but golden ash.

There was a Drin called Vayi; he was given to ambitious thoughts, and
sometimes roamed by the lake looking for the precious stones or translucent
pebbles that in places littered the gloomy shores, thinking:
Presently I
shall make the most magnificent ring in Underearth, and Azhrarn will wear it
and praise me.
Or,
Soon I will invent a magic animal of metal that will
stop all tongues with wonder.
For Vayi wanted above everything to do better
than all the other Drin who carelessly strove and hammered, he wanted to be
unique and known. Sometimes he dreamed of living in Azhrarn’s palace, the pet
of the Prince of Demons. Nothing would be too good for Vayi then. At other
times he thought he might go above ground and thrive at the courts of famous
kings, renowned and honoured by all, with a special velvet-lined day-box in
which to hide from the unpleasant sun.

As he was walking and dreaming and muttering, Vayi suddenly saw a figure
moving along by the lake’s edge just ahead of him. He knew at once that it was
no Drin, being too tall, slender and, even when seen from the back, somehow too
fair. Possibly here was some gorgeous Vazdru or Eshva lady come to ask for a
wonderful jewel, and perhaps willing to offer payment in a particular fashion
very pleasing to the Drin. Vayi pattered stealthily after her, and soon she
seated herself on a rock before the lake. Her veil fell back then, and Vayi
knew her at once. Long yellow hair drenched her shoulders and her face was the
face of a flower. There was no other like her in all Underearth, and probably
none like her on the earth above. For this was Ferazhin Flower-Born, the maiden
Azhrarn had grown from a flower to please the mortal, Sivesh, who now lay under
the sea.

Ferazhin sat by the lake. She held out her white hands to the cold black
water and to the unchanging sky. She bowed her head and wept.

Vayi was fascinated. Did she weep for Sivesh? Or did she weep, as Sivesh
had wept, for the cruel blazing sun of earth? Then Vayi saw how the tears of
Ferazhin fell down on the rock and gleamed and glittered there.
What gems
those tears could make,
thought Vayi all at once,
bright as diamonds,
yet softer; more like pearls, yet clearer than pearls, spangled; rather like
opals, yet purer than opals; more like pale sapphires, though not spoiled with
color. But how, how shall I capture them and harden them?

Vayi fumbled in his belt and drew out a little box and spat in it and
sprinkled a spell into it from his woody hands. Then he capered out and took up
a tear on the tip of his little finger and dropped it, unbroken, into the magic
box. Six more tears he took after it and added to his collection before
Ferazhin looked up from her weeping and noticed him. She gave him only one
glance of fear and hurt and, gathering her veil round her, rose and went slowly
back toward the gates of Druhim Vanashta. Hunt as he would, Vayi could find no
further tears shining among the rocks, so he scampered after her, crying: “Pretty
Ferazhin, come back and weep some more, and I will give you bangles and
brooches, and earrings.” But Ferazhin paid him no heed, and soon he hurried
away toward the lake, clutching the precious box, muttering: “Seven is enough.
More would be vulgar. Seven is rare.”

Into his own cave Vayi ran, blew up the fire and poked about among his
untidy hoard of metals, pebbles, and stones. Shortly he went to a cage where
three round spiders were sleeping, and rattled on the bars.

“Wake, wake, daughters of sloth,” cried he. “Wake and spin, and I will
bring you cake soaked in wine and the Prince of Demons will stroke you with his
wondrous fingers.”

“Oh, lord of liars,” said the spiders, but nevertheless they obeyed him,
and soon the twilight cave was festooned with their filigree webs.

Hour after hour Vayi worked in his forge. The fire leaped and smoked, and
other fires—magic fires—also glamorized the air. He was inspired, and called to
his use every one of the small strange sorceries the Drin had access to.
Sometimes other Drin would come to the cave entrance and peer in, curiously.
But the cave was full of smoulders, and they could not catch the words of
Vayi’s spells, for all the Drin were somewhat deaf from their constant
hammering. How long Vayi worked altogether it is not easy to reckon. It was
thought a long time in the Underearth, and certainly on earth itself many
seasons had given way to each other, and many human years elapsed between the
beginning and the ending of his labor.

At last there was silence in the forge.

The other Drin stole up, but now Vayi had magnified one of his spiders to
enormous size and stuffed the poor thing in the opening, so nobody could pass
either in or out.

“Ho, there, Vayi!” cried the Drin. “Show us what you have been fashioning
that has taken you so many ages.”

“Go drown in mud!” shouted back Vayi rudely from within. “Nothing here is
for your eyes.”

The Drin went off a little way and mumbled together by the lake. One of
them, Bakvi, was very jealous and unsettled in himself, for he remembered
Vayi’s ambitions, and how he had hoped to win Azhrarn’s especial favor by
making something finer than all the rest for him. All the Drin adored and
feared Azhrarn, and Bakvi began to think to himself.
Suppose I were to be
able to steal Vayi’s trinket, and give it to my lord myself. Then I should be
the favored one.

So, when the other Drin had gone off grumbling and chiding, Bakvi hid
behind a rock and waited.

After a long while, Vayi thrust the spider out of the way, stuck his long
nose round the cave wall and looked nervously about. Assuming himself alone, he
emerged from hiding, and running onto the shore performed a wild dance by the
lake, squealing to himself joyfully.

Bakvi meanwhile sidled up to the spider.

“Fair lady,” said he, “how you are grown! Your size is matched only by
your excellence.”

“Flattery is no use to me,” said the spider. “Be off, or I shall bite
you, for I am hungry.”

“Easily remedied,” said Bakvi. And he produced from his pocket a large
honey cake baked only that morning. The spider licked her lips. “Luscious
madam,” said Bakvi, “pray eat this cake before you swoon from lack of
nourishment. Who could expect you to be loyal to such a master as this Vayi,
who stuffs you in cave entrances so disrespectfully, and brings you no food.”
With this the spider agreed, so Bakvi gave her the cake, and tried to sidle
within the cave, but no sooner was the spider done eating than she got in his
way again. “Dear me,” said Bakvi, “I wished only to peep at what your wicked
unkind master has made. Surely you can be persuaded? Is there not some other
service I can render you?” At which he commenced tickling the spider in a
certain part of her anatomy. Presently she became excited, and suggested a
bargain. Bakvi accordingly mounted her and began to work vigorously on her
behalf. She sighed and squealed, but she was a difficult lady to please. Bakvi
bucked and heaved away with a will, and fancied himself near ruined if she
should not soon be satisfied. Eventually, with a violent hiss, the spider tossed
him from her back and declared he might now leave off and enter Vayi’s workroom
instead.

Nursing his bruises and rather short of breath, Bakvi hobbled into the
cave.

And there on Vayi’s bench lay a collar of white silver, fiery pale as the
moon and hung with chains of silver spiderweb made metal, as fine as the finest
thread. And in this mesh were caught. like star-birds in a snare, seven
wonderful flashing gems, bright as lightning yet soft as milk.

“O most marvelous Vayi,” said Bakvi, much recovered. And snatching the
collar, he hid it in his jacket, and ran as fast as he could out of the cave,
along the shore, and over the dark slopes toward Druhim Vanashta.

Soon enough Vayi came hopping back. The spider was exquisitely grooming
herself with her eight furry limbs, a picture of utter content, but this Vayi
did not notice. Straight into his cave he bounded and straight up to his bench,
and then what a wailing and screeching was heard, and what a turning over of
tables and chairs, and upheaving of braziers and throwing of bellows and
gnashing of teeth and thrashing of spiders. Then came silence, and then came
Vayi hurtling out of his cave and along the shore and over the slopes toward
Druhim Vanashta, screaming for justice and vengeance, and this was how he arrived
at the palace of Azhrarn, Prince of Demons, one of the Lords of Darkness.

Azhrarn was
walking in his garden of velure trees, a Vazdru princess at his right hand
playing a seven-stringed harp more delicately than an evening breeze playing in
a fountain, a Vazdru princess at his left hand singing more sweetly than a
nightingale and a skylark, while all about the jeweled wasps visited the
crystal flowers.

Into this dark harmony came an Eshva woman who bowed low, and next a
little gamboling Drin.

“Well, little one,” said Azhrarn, passing over Bakvi a pair of
mesmerizing thoughtful eyes, “what is it you seek?”

Bakvi flushed and stammered, but drawing his courage together at last, he
cried: “Oh, Incredible Majesty, I, Bakvi, least of your subjects, bring you a
gift. For unknown eras I have toiled in secret, while others have made a great
fuss and show of their work. All my skill and all my love have I poured into
this unworthy token of my worship. Pray deign to glance at it, O Prince of
Night.”

And, producing the silver collar, he held it out to Azhrarn.

Both the Vazdru princesses gave a cry and clapped their hands. Even the
jeweled wasps swooped closer. As for the Eshva woman, she shut her eyes in
sheer delight.

Azhrarn smiled, and that smile filled Bakvi up like a cup with pride, but
before another word could be spoken, into the garden erupted Vayi. At the sight
of Bakvi and the collar, Vayi turned the color of blue gas, and let out a most
dreadful howl of rage.

“Cursed be all thieves, and cursed be all the furry daughters of gluttony
and lust, my eight-legged handmaidens, and cursed be all the Drin but me!”

The Vazdru and the Eshva shrank aside, terrified at Azhrarn’s anger which
would surely blast the Drin to ashes. But Azhrarn did nothing, merely stood
where he was, and soon Vayi became aware of him, like a tall shadow thrown
upward on the air. Slowly then, Vayi’s eyes traveled up until they met those
coals that were the Prince’s.

“Mercy, Peerless One,” whimpered Vayi, “I forgot myself in my fury. But this
son of a deaf bat and a blind owl has stolen my work. That collar is mine,
mine!”

“And did you also intend,” said Azhrarn, smooth as honey and hemlock, “to
give the collar to me.”

At this Vayi beat his fists on his head and his feet on the ground.

“What else, O Wondrous One? Is it not fair? Is it not without equal? Who
else should possess it but the Lord without equal?”

“Well, well,” said Azhrarn. “And how am I to judge who made this gift for
me? Shall I put you both to the test?”

Bakvi and Vayi both cast themselves down on the black lawn and squealed
for pity, but presently Vayi gave over chewing the grass and stuck up his head
again.

“There is only one way to test us, Prince. If he made the collar, ask him
where he came by such rare and lucent jewels.”

Azhrarn smiled once more, a smile unlike the first. He looked musingly at
Bakvi, and he said:

“That seems reasonable enough, little hammerer. The jewels are strange
and beautiful. Tell me, where did you mine them?”

Bakvi sat up and looked about wildly:

“In a deep cave,” he began, “I found a curious cleft,” but at this Vayi
let out a gale of laughter. Bakvi checked and began again. “Strolling by the
lake I found a lizard with a brazen skin, and, holding it up by its tail, shook
out its eyes.”

“Did it then have seven eyes?” barked Vayi.

“Yes, yes, it did,” gabbled Bakvi, “two on either side of its nose, one
in the top of its head—ah—one in its chin, and—um...”

“Pah!” exclaimed Vayi exultantly. “See how the wretch lies. I will tell
you, oh Fabulous Lord, where I got my seven jewels.” And coming close, he
whispered it.

“That is easily verified,” said Azhrarn, and he took from one of the
Vazdru princesses a magic glass, and summoned up in it the image of Ferazhin
Flower-Born, and bade her, in his low melodious voice, to weep. So irresistible
was his command that all wept who heard him; even the flowers put out dew.
Ferazhin’s tears fell like rain, and each resembled one of the seven jewels.