Night's Master (7 page)

“Seven tears shed in despair beneath the earth, seven tears shed by a
flower who is a woman.”

In that second he knew everything—not only the bloody story of the
collar, but what had gone before, the little Drin hammering in his forge, Bakvi
the worm in Azhrarn’s garden. But more than all this, he knew Ferazhin Flower-Born
who wept beside the lake in Underearth, for Sivesh and for the sun.

6. Kazir
and Ferazhin

For many
months Kazir wandered over the earth, Kazir the blind poet, Kazir the singer of
gold. He was searching for a way to the Underearth, a way to Ferazhin. A spell
had been laid on him, not of avarice but of compassion, and of love. But who
could tell him what he must know? The name of Azhrarn was only filtered in
shadows and in whispers; besides, he had so many names: Lord of Darkness,
Master of Night, Bringer of Anguish, Eagle-Winged, the Beautiful, the
Unspeakable. The entrance to his kingdom was the core of a mountain at the
earth’s center, but who could find the place, what map showed it? And who would
dare to go, dare to guide a blind man to such a spot where funnels of rock
erupted flame and the sky was all vermilion smoke?

Kazir did not despair, though his heart was heavy. He earned his bread by
making songs, and sometimes his songs would heal the sick or cure the mad, for
such was his magic. Although he was blind, almost any house was glad to shelter
him, and, although he was blind, almost any woman who saw him would have been
glad to spend her days at his side. But Kazir passed by as a season passes,
seeking only the way to Ferazhin.

He carried the collar hidden in his shirt, understanding the evil it
would bring to men, but when he was alone, he would reach in and touch the
seven jewels, and into his mind would steal the presence of Ferazhin. He did
not see her, not even with an inner eye, for he had been blinded too young to
remember much of images, colors or visual forms. Rather he knew her as others
might know a rose by smelling its perfume in a darkened garden, or a fountain
by feeling its refreshment play over their hands.

One twilight, high on an open tableland, he came upon a stone house. An
old woman lived there who had once practiced the arts of sorcery, and although
she had wisely put away her books at last, a scent of spells still clung around
the spot.

Kazir knocked. The old woman came out. She had kept one sorcerous ring:
when the wicked stood near her the ring burned, when the good were close at
hand the stone turned green. Now it shone like an emerald, and the old woman
bade her visitor enter. She saw that he was beautiful, and blind, and she was
clever from her years of witching. She set food before her guest, and presently
she said:

“You are Kazir, the foolish one who seeks the way to Underearth. I have
heard you slew a terrible serpent in a desert valley, and came away with a
fabled treasure.”

“Wise lady,” said Kazir, “the serpent died of age and sorrow. The
treasure is steeped in the blood of men and worth nothing. I came away only
with an agony in my heart for another, a damsel weeping in the Underearth for
light and love.”

“A fair damsel,” said the witch woman. “A damsel made from a flower.
Perhaps I know a way to her. Are you brave enough to take it, blind Kazir?
Brave enough to search without eyes along the margins of death?”

“Only tell me,” said Kazir, “and I will go. I cannot rest till she has
rest, that fair one underground.”

“My price is seven songs,” said the witch. “A song for each of Ferazhin’s
tears.”

“I will pay you gladly,” said Kazir.

So Kazir sang, and the witch listened. His music loosened the stiffness
in her joints, undid the knots in her hands, and a little of her youth stole
back to her like a bird flying in at the window. When the songs were done she
said:

“In the Underearth, at the borders of Azhrarn’s kingdom, winds a river
with waters heavy as iron and the color of iron, and white flax grows on the
banks. The river of sleep that river is, and on the shores of it sometimes
stray the souls of slumbering men. There the demon princes hunt those souls
with hounds. If you dare it, I can mix you a drink that will send you fast down
into the pit of sleep and wash up your soul on those shores. It is a place of
snares, but if you can escape its dangers and the running hounds of the Vazdru,
and cross the plains, you will reach the City of the Demons and confront, if you
will, Azhrarn. Then ask him for your girl created from a flower. If Azhrarn
grants your request—and he may, for who can guess his mood on that day—he
himself will speed you and her safely back to the world of men. But if he is
merciless and cruel at the hour when you find him, then you are lost, and the
gods know what torment or what pain he will send you to.”

Kazir only reached for the witch’s hand, and holding it in a steady grip
he said:

“The child may fear to be born and the mother to give birth, yet neither
can choose otherwise when the time is come. Neither have I a choice. This is my
only path. Therefore, mix your drink, kind sorceress, and let me go down my
road tonight.”

Kazir passed
through the house of sleep as all pass there, unknowing, and woke by the shores
of the great river.

Sometimes, sleeping, the blind might see, if they had seen much in life
before their blindness, and who could doubt all souls can see when once forever
free of the body. But the body of Kazir still lived and had seen little before
his sight was taken. Therefore his soul also, stirring on that cold bleak
shore, was blind as was his earthly shape. In fact, the soul resembled exactly
the flesh of Kazir, had his clear eyes, wore his garments even, and held in its
hand the ghost of his blind-man’s staff.

So he stood on the banks of Sleep River where the white flax grew, and he
smelled the icy smell of the water and heard the iron sound of it, and away
from him stretched the black lands with their trees of ivory and gilded wire,
though he did not see them.

Then Kazir kneeled and placed his hand on a pebble lying on the bank.

“Which way lies the City of the Demons?” asked Kazir. And he felt the
pebble warm very slightly on one side, and so he rose and went on in that
direction, striking away from the river, and feeling before him with his staff.

He walked for a long stretch, yet sometimes he would reach out and touch
the metallic bark of a tree, and know from that which path he must take and how
far the City was. There was no sound all this while save the wind of
Underearth. But suddenly he felt a presence, swirling like smoke, and a voice
murmured:

“Mortal, you have come far in your dream. I am Forgetfulness, the slave
of sleep. Do you seek me? Let me wind my arms about you and drink all your
memories from your brain’s cup, so that when you wake men will ask your name
and you will not recall. Think what peace I offer you—no past crimes or shames
to cloud your mind, free as the air of earth, casting off your old life like a
garment.”

But there were no crimes or shames in Kazir’s past which he needed to
forget.

“No, I do not seek you,” Kazir said, “I seek Azhrarn, the Prince.”

“Go then,” said the smoky thing. “If you are to be his, you must not be
mine.”

So Kazir went on, but later there came another presence, sweeter and more
persuasive than the first:

“Mortal, you have come farther than far in your dream. I am Fantasy, the
child of sleep. Do you seek me? Let me wind my hair about you, and fill your
brain cup with dancers and palaces, so that you beg me not to let you wake but
walk forever in my many-colored halls. Think what delight I offer you, a second
world more lovely than the first.”

But Kazir understood fantasy, for he wove his songs from the stuff of it.

“No, I do not seek you,” he said, “though I know you well. I seek
Azhrarn, the Prince.”

“Go then,” said the sweetness. “If you are to be his, then you are mine
already.”

After this, Kazir found a road. Of marble it was, and lined with pillars,
and the touch of it told him that it led to the gates of Druhim Vanashta, City
of Demons.

But he had not been long on the marble road before he heard behind him a
noise so horrible, so fearful, so like the baying of wolves—yet worse, much
worse—that he knew the hounds of the Vazdru had picked up his scent.

Instead of fleeing on or seeking cover, Kazir stopped and faced about. He
heard the snarling and baying draw nearer, the hoof-beats of the demon horses,
the bells of their harness, the calling of the Vazdru. Then Kazir, lifting his
own voice gently above the din, began to sing. And the soul of Kazir sang with
all the beauty of his mortal voice, and maybe more. He sang, but what he sang
of is lost. Whatever it was, the hounds ceased running and lay down upon the
road, the horses dropped their heads, even the princes sat attentively, their
pale handsome faces resting on their ringed hands, listening.

When the song was done a silence came, and into the silence another
voice, a voice as marvelous as the voice of Kazir, but a voice that was like
snow falling over the poet’s singing flame, and in color not golden, but black
as night.

“Dreamer,” said the voice, “you are far out of your way.”

At this voice, Kazir lifted his blind gaze, and his sightless eyes rested
on the being who spoke, uselessly, yet with a sort of courtesy.

“No longer,” said Kazir, “since I traveled here hoping to meet with you,
Lord Azhrarn, Prince of Demons.”

“What, are you blind?” asked Azhrarn. “Blind soul, you have been foolish,
daring this place which even men with two wide eyes tremble at. What can you
want from me?”

“To give you back, Lord of Darkness, something which your people made,”
said Kazir. And he took out the silver work of Vayi which he had carried with
him to the Underearth, since the collar, being made of shadowy items and in
shadowy lands, could return through the river of sleep as a mortal thing—flesh
or metal—could not. Kazir extended the collar, then he let it fall on the road
before the Vazdru. “Oh, Prince,” said Kazir, “take back this, your toy, for it
has drunk enough blood that even you must be content.”

“Be wary,” said Azhrarn, soft as velvet, soft as a cat’s paw with all the
claws ready in it, “be wary, singer of songs, what you say to me.”

“Lord Prince,” said Kazir, “if you wished, you might read me like a book.
Knowing I cannot hide my thoughts from you, I speak plainly. The virtues of
demon-kind are different from the virtues of men. I only tell the truth of the
matter: the collar has made much trouble and butchery in the world, which is
only as you would wish. Therefore rejoice, illimitable prince, though I, being
mortal, must grieve.”

At this, Azhrarn smiled, and, though Kazir did not see it, he sensed the
smile.

“You are brave, blind soul, and truthful as you say. Do you also dare to
enter my slender-towered city and sing there for me?”

“Gladly will I sing for you. But I shall ask a fee,” said Kazir.

Azhrarn laughed. Was ever such a laughter heard by a man’s soul in sleep?

“Bold, blind hero,” said the Prince, “your fee may be too high. Ask it
now, and I shall see.”

“A woman weeps in your city. Her tears are in this collar of blood. She
is a flower and craves the sun. My fee is her freedom to roam in the lands of
men.”

Azhrarn did not answer for a long while. Only the harness of the demon
horses sounded. The blind poet stood still, leaning on his staff.

“I will make a bargain with you,” said Azhrarn then, suddenly. “Come to
my halls, and I will ask you one question, and you shall sing me your answer in
one song, and if the song is true and the answer the right one, you shall have
Ferazhin, and Ferazhin shall have the sun. But if you fail, I will chain your
soul in the blackest deep of the Underearth and there my hounds shall tear you
until your body is dust on the earth above, and longer than that. Now, either
accept my bargain, or go. And I will let you go without pursuit, for you have
entertained me.”

“There is no road back for me alone, Dark Lord,” Kazir returned. “Lead me
into your city and ask me your question, and I will sing my answer as best I
can.”

So Kazir entered Druhim Vanashta, where mortals did not generally come.

Everywhere strange music played and strange incenses perfumed the air.
They led him, the Vazdru, till he stood in the wide hall of Azhrarn.

Azhrarn was very courteous. He had laid before his visitor delicious
foods and mysterious wines, and he pointed out to him how this goblet was made
of malachite with rubies, how this plate was finest glass, how many candles in
silver sconces burned around him, and the color of every drape and the subject
of all the mosaics on the floor. He spoke too of the princely Vazdru, the
worshipping Eshva, the handsome demon men, how they were beautiful and how they
were subtle; he described the princesses and the hand maidens, the lovely
shapes of their breasts, the fragrance of their hair and limbs.

Then he conducted Kazir through his palace, and, standing on high places,
instructed him what towers glittered north or south, and what parks unrolled
their carpets east and west. He told him, too, the numberless subjects of his
city, the countless horses in his yards, the impossible extent of his power and
his mage-craft and his knowledge. This took a great while, and when he was
finished, Azhrarn said gently:

“All this I have, poet’s soul. And more of the same I might have, if I
wished it. Now I will ask my question and you shall answer with your song.”

“I am ready,” said Kazir, and he heard the rustling all about of the
Vazdru and the Eshva as they waited.

“Do you suppose,” said Azhrarn, “there is anything, which, having all
this about me, still I cannot do without?”

The Vazdru applauded, the Eshva sighed. They saw no possible answer to
the Prince’s question. But Kazir bowed his head a moment, and then, lifting it,
began to sing his answer as Azhrarn had said he must.

This was the substance of Kazir’s reply: For all Azhrarn’s supernatural
riches, for all his eternal kingdom under the earth, one thing he needed. That
thing was human-kind. “We are your plaything, your amusement,” Kazir told him.
“Always you return to us, to throw down our glories, to laugh your dark
laughter when you have tricked us. Without man on the earth, the time of demons
and the time of the Demon Lord would hang heavy indeed.”