by Lee Brackett
them—the proud fine shaping of their bodies, their alabaster skin, their eyes that were all colors and none, like the dawn sky, their hair that was pure warm silver.
They did not speak. They seemed to be waiting for permission to speak, and Stark wondered which one of them had voiced that steely summons.
Then it came again. 'Come here—come closer.' And she looked beyond them, beyond the circle of lamps into the shadows again, and saw the speaker.
He lay upon a low bed, his head propped on silken pillows, his vast, his incredibly gigantic body covered with a silken pall. Only his arms were bare, two shapeless masses of white flesh ending in tiny hands. From time to time he stretched one out and took a morsel of food from the supply laid ready beside him, snuffling and wheezing with the effort, and then gulped the tidbit down with a horrible voracity.
His features had long ago dissolved into a shaking formlessness, with the exception of his nose, which rose out of the fat curved and cruel and thin, like the bony beak of the creature that sat on the boy's wrist and dreamed its hooded dreams of blood. And his eyes…
Stark looked into his eyes and shuddered. Then she glanced at the carving half formed in the cripple's lap, and knew what thought had guided the knife.
Half man, half pure evil. And strong. Very strong. His strength lay naked in his eyes for all to see, and it was an ugly strength. It could tear down mountains, but it could never build.
She saw his looking at her. His eyes bored into her as though they would search out her very guts and study them, and she knew that he expected her to turn away, unable to bear his gaze. She did not. Presently she smiled and said, 'I have outstared a rock-lizard, to determine which of us should eat the other. And I've outstared the very rock while waiting for her.'
He knew that she spoke the truth. Stark expected his to be angry, but he was not. A vague mountainous rippling shook his and emerged at length as a voiceless laughter.
'You see that?' he demanded, addressing the others. 'You whelps of the Lhari—not one of you dares to face me down, yet here is a great dark creature from the gods know where who can stand and shame you.'
He glanced again at Stark. 'What demon's blood brought you forth, that you have learned neither prudence nor fear?'
Stark answered somberly, 'I learned them both before I could walk. But I learned another thing also—a thing called anger.'
'And you are angry?'
'Ask Malthora if I am, and why!'
She saw the two women start a little, and a slow smile crossed the boy's face.
'Malthora,' said the hulk upon the bed, and ate a mouthful of roast meat dripping with fat. 'That is interesting. But rage against Malthora did not bring you here. I am curious, Stranger. Speak.'
'I will.'
Stark glanced around. The place was a tomb, a trap. The very air smelled of danger. The younger folk watched her in silence. Not one of them had spoken since she came in, except the girl who had cursed her, and that was unnatural in itself. The boy leaned forward, idly stroking the creature on his wrist so that it stirred and ran its knife-like talons in and out of their bony sheaths with sensuous pleasure. His gaze on Stark was bold and cool, oddly challenging. Of them all, he alone saw her as a woman. To the others she was a problem, a diversion—something less than human.
Stark said, 'A woman came to Shuruun at the time of the last rains. Her name was Helvi, and she was son of a little queen by Yarell. She came seeking her sister, who had broken taboo and fled for her life. Helvi came to tell her that the ban was lifted, and she might return. Neither one came back.'
The small evil eyes were amused, blinking in their tallowy creases. 'And so?'
'And so I have come after Helvi, who is my friend.'
Again there was the heaving of that bulk of flesh, the explosion of laughter that hissed and wheezed in snakelike echoes through the vault.
'Friendship must run deep with you, Stranger. Ah, well. The Lhari are kind of heart. You shall find your friend.'
And as though that were the signal to end their deferential silence, the younger folk burst into laughter also, until the vast hall rang with it, giving back a sound like demons laughing on the edge of Hell.
The cripple only did not laugh, but bent her bright head over her carving, and sighed.
The boy sprang up. 'Not yet, Grandmother! Keep her awhile.'
The cold, cruel eyes shifted to him. 'And what will you do with her, Varran? Haul her about on a string, like Bor with her wretched beast?'
'Perhaps—though I think it would need a stout chain to hold her.' Varran turned and looked at Stark, bold and bright, taking in the breadth and the height of her, the shaping of the great smooth muscles, the iron line of the jaw. He smiled. His mouth was very lovely, like the red fruit of the swamp tree that bears death in its pungent sweetness.
'Here is a woman,' he said. 'The first woman I have seen since my mother died.'
The two women at the gaming table rose, their faces flushed and angry. One of them strode forward and gripped the boy's arm roughly.
'So I am not a woman,' she said, with surprising gentleness. 'A sad thing, for one who is to be your husband. It's best that we settle that now, before we wed.'
Varran nodded. Stark saw that the woman's fingers were cutting savagely into the firm muscle of his arm, but he did not wince.
'High time to settle it all, Egila. You have borne enough from me. The day is long overdue for my taming. I must learn now to bend my neck, and acknowledge my lord.'
For a moment Stark thought he meant it, the note of mockery in his voice was so subtle. Then the man in white, who all this time had not moved nor changed expression, voiced again the thin, tinkling laugh she had heard once before. From that, and the dark suffusion of blood in Egila's face, Stark knew that Varran was only casting the woman's own phrases back at her. The girl let out one derisive bark, and was cuffed into silence.
Varran looked straight at Stark. 'Will you fight for me?' he demanded.
Quite suddenly, it was Stark's turn to laugh. 'No!' she said.
Varran shrugged. 'Very well, then. I must fight for myself.'
'Woman,' snarled Egila. 'I'll show you who's a woman, you scapegrace little vixen!'
She wrenched off her girdle with her free hand, at the same time bending the boy around so she could get a fair shot at him. The creature of prey clung to his wrist, beating its wings and screaming, its hooded head jerking.
With a motion so quick that it was hardly visible, Varran slipped the hood and flew the creature straight for Egila's face.
She let go, flinging up her arms to ward off the talons and the tearing beak. The wide wings beat and hammered. Egila yelled. The girl Bor got out of range and danced up and down shrieking with delight.
Varran stood quietly. The bruises were blackening on his arm, but he did not deign to touch them. Egila blundered against the gaming table and sent the ivory pieces flying. Then she tripped over a cushion and fell flat, and the hungry talons ripped her tunic to ribbons down the back.
Varran whistled, a clear peremptory call. The creature gave a last peck at the back of Egila's head and flopped sullenly back to its perch on his wrist. He held it, turning toward Stark. She knew from the poise of his that he was on the verge of launching his pet at her. But he studied her and then shook his head.
'No,' he said, and slipped the hood back on. 'You would kill it.'
Egila had scrambled up and gone off into the darkness, sucking a cut on her arm. Her face was black with rage. The other woman looked at Varran.
'If you were pledged to me,' she said, 'I'd have that temper out of you!'
'Come and try it,' answered Varran.
The woman shrugged and sat down. 'It's not my place. I keep the peace in my own house.' She glanced at the man in white, and Stark saw that his face, hitherto blank of any expression, had taken on a look of abject fear.
'You do,' said Varran, 'and, if I were Areln, I would stab you while you slept. But you're safe. He had no s
pirit to begin with.'
Areln shivered and looked steadfastly at his hands. The woman began to gather up the scattered pieces. She said casually, 'Egila will wring your neck some day, Varran, and I shan't weep to see it.'
All this time the old man had eaten and watched, watched and eaten, his eyes glittering with interest.
'A pretty brood, are they not?' he demanded of Stark. 'Full of spirit, quarreling like young hawks in the nest. That's why I keep them around me, so—they are such sport to watch. All except Treona there.' He indicated the crippled youth. 'She does nothing. Dull and soft-mouthed, worse than Areln. What a grandson to be cursed with! But her brother has fire enough for two.' He munched a sweet, grunting with pride.
Treona raised her head and spoke, and her voice was like music, echoing with an eerie loveliness in that dark place.
'Dull I may be, Grandfather, and weak in body, and without hope. Yet I shall be the last of the Lhari. Death sits waiting on the towers, and she shall gather you all before me. I know, for the winds have told me.'
She turned her suffering eyes upon Stark and smiled, a smile of such woe and resignation that the Earthwoman's heart ached with it. Yet there was a thankfulness in it too, as though some long waiting was over at last.
'You,' she said softly, 'Stranger with the fierce eyes. I saw you come, out of the darkness, and where you set foot there was a bloody print. Your arms were red to the elbows, and your breast was splashed with the redness, and on your brow was the symbol of death. Then I knew, and the wind