The Worm Ouroboros by Eric Rücker Eddison (e book reader online .TXT) 📖
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the morn. If we like not these lettuce, we may pull back our lips. But
no choice remaineth. If Laxus will deny us sea-room through
Melikaphkhaz Straits, I trow there shall go up thence a crash which
when the King heareth it he shall know it for our first banging on the
gates of Carcë.”
XXX TIDINGS OF MELIKAPHKHAZOf news brought unto Gorice the King in Carcë
out of the south, where the Lord Laxus lying in
the straits with his armada held the fleet of
Demonland prisoned in the Midland Sea.
ON a night of late summer leaning towards autumn, eight weeks after
the sailing of the Demons out of Muelva as is aforewrit, the Lady
Prezmyra sate before her mirror in Corund’s lofty bedchamber in
Carcë. The night without was mild and full of stars. Within, yellow
flames of candles burning steadily on either side of the mirror rayed
forth tresses of tinselling brightness in twin glories or luminous
spheres of warmth. In that soft radiance grains as of golden fire swam
and circled, losing themselves on the confines of the gloom where the
massy furniture and the arras and the figured hangings of the bed were
but cloudier divisions and congestions of the general dark. Prezmyra’s
hair caught the beams and imprisoned them in a tawny tangle of
splendour that swept about her head and shoulders down to the emerald
clasps of her girdle. Her eyes resting idly on her own fair image in
the shining mirror, she talked light nothings with her woman of the
bedchamber who, plying the comb, stood behind her chair of gold and
tortoise-shell.
“Reach me yonder book, nurse, that I may read again the words of that
serenade the Lord Gro made for me the night when first we had tidings
from my lord out of Impland of his conquest of that land, and the King
did make him king thereof.”
The old woman gave her the book, that was bound in goatskin chiselled
and ornamented by the gilder’s art, fitted with clasps of gold, and
enriched with little gems, smaragds and margery-pearls, inlaid in the
panels of its covers. Prezmyra turned the page and read:
You meaner Beauties of the Night.
That poorly satisfie our Eies.
More by your number than your light.
You Common-people of the Skies;
What are you when the Moone shall rise?
You Curious Chanters of the Wood.
That warble forth Dame Natures layes.
Thinking your Passions understood
By your weake accents; what’s your praise
When Philomell her voyce shall raise?
You Violets that first apeare.
By your pure purpel mantles knowne.
Like the proud Virgins of the yeare.
As if the Spring were all your own;
What are you when the Rose is blowne?
So, when my Princess shall be seene
In form and Beauty of her mind.
By Vertue first, then Choyce a Queen.
Tell me, if she were not design’d
Th’ Eclypse and Glory of her kind.
She abode silent awhile. Then, in a low sweet voice where all the
chords of music seemed to slumber: “Three years will be gone next
Yule-tide,” she said, “since first I heard that song. And not yet am I
grown customed to the style of Queen.”
“‘Tis pity of my Lord Gro,” said the nurse.
“Thou thinkest?”
“Mirth sat oftener on your face, O Queen, when he was here, and you
were used to charm his melancholy and make a pish of his phantastical
humorous forebodings.”
“Oft doubting not his forejudgement,” said Prezmyra, “even the while I
thripped my fingers at it. But never saw I yet that the louring
thunder hath that partiality of a tyrant, to blast him that faced it
and pass by him that quailed before it.”
“He was most deeply bound servant to your beauty,” said the old woman.
“And yet,” she said, viewing her mistress sidelong to see how she
would receive it, “that were a miss easily made good.”
She busied herself with the comb awhile in silence. After a time she
said, “O Queen, mistress of the hearts of men, there is not a lord in
Witchland, nor in earth beside, you might not bind your servant with
one thread of this hair of yours. The likeliest and the goodliest were
yours at an eye-glance.”
The Lady Prezmyra looked dreamily into her own sea-green eyes imaged
in the glass. Then she smiled mockingly and said, “Whom then
accountest thou the likeliest and the goodliest man in all the
stablished earth?”
The old woman smiled. “O Queen,” answered she, “this was the very
matter in dispute amongst us at supper only this evening.”
“A pretty disputation!” said Prezmyra. “Let me be merry. Who was
adjudged the fairest and gallantest by your high court of censure?”
“It was not generally determined of, O Queen. Some would have my Lord
Gro.”
“Alack, he is too feminine,” said Prezmyra.
“Others our Lord the King.”
“There is none greater,” said Prezmyra, “nor more worshipful. But for
an husband, thou shouldst as well wed with a thunderstorm or the
hungry sea. Give me some more.”
“Some chose the lord Admiral.”
“That,” said Prezmyra, “was a nearer stroke. No skipjack nor soft
marmalady courtier, but a brave, tall, gallant gentleman. Ay, but too
watery a planet burned at his nativity. He is too like a statua of a
man. No, nurse, thou must bring me better than he.”
The nurse said, “True it is, O Queen, that most were of my thinking
when I gave ‘em my choice: the king of Demonland.”
“Fie on thee!” cried Prezmyra. “Name him not so that was too unmighty
to hold that land against our enemies.”
“Folk say it was by foxish arts and practices magical a was spilt on
Krothering Side. Folk say ‘twas divels and not horses carried the
Demons down the mountain at us.”
“They say!” cried Prezmyra. “I say to thee, he hath found it apter to
his bent to flaunt his crown in Witchland than make ‘em give him the
knee in Galing. For a true king both knee and heart do truly bow
before him. But this one, if he had their knee ‘twas in the back side
of him he had it, to kick him home again.”
“Fie, madam!” said the nurse.
“Hold thy tongue, nurse,” said Prezmyra. “It were good ye were all
well whipped for a bunch of silly mares that know not a horse from an
ass.”
The old woman watching her in the glass counted it best keep silence.
Prezmyra said under her breath as if talking to herself, “I know a man
should not have miscarried it thus.” The old nurse that loved not Lord
Corund and his haughty fashions and rough speech and wine-bibbing, and
was besides jealous that so rude a stock should wear so rich ajewel as
was her mistress, followed not her meaning.
After some time, the old woman spake softly and said, “You are full of
thoughts tonight, madam.”
Prezmyra’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “Why may I not be so and it
likes me?” said she.
That stony look of the eyes struck like a gong some twenty-year-old
memory in the nurse’s heart: the little wilful maiden, ill to goad but
good to guide, looking out from that Queen’s face across the years.
She knelt down suddenly and caught her arms about her mistress’s
waist. “Why must you wed then, dear heart?” said she, “if you were
minded to do what likes you? Men love not sad looks in their wives.
You may ride a lover on the curb, madam, but once you wed him ‘tis all
t’other way: all his way, madam, and beware of ‘had I wist.’”
Her mistress looked down at her mockingly. “I have been wed seven
years tonight. I should know these things.”
“And this night!” said the nurse. “And but an hour till midnight, and
yet he sitteth at board.”
The Lady Prezmyra leaned back to look again on her own mirrored
loveliness. Her proud mouth sweetened to a smile. “Wilt thou learn me
common women’s wisdom?” said she, and there was yet more voluptuous
sweetness trembling in her voice. “I will tell thee a story, as thou
hast told them me in the old days in Norvasp to wile me to bed. Hast
thou not heard tell how old Duke Hilmanes of Maltraeny, among some
other fantasies such as appear by night unto many in divers places,
had one in likeness of a woman with old face of low and little stature
or body, which did scour his pots and pans and did such things as a
maid servant ought to do, liberally and without doing of any harm? And
by his art he knew this thing should be his servant still, and bring
unto him whatsoever he would, so long time as he should be glad of the
things it brought him. But this duke, being a foolish man and a
greedy, made his familiar bring him at once all the year’s seasons and
their several goods and pleasures, and all good things of earth at one
time. So as in six months’ space, he being sated with these and all
good things, and having no good thing remaining unto him to expect or
to desire, for very weariness did hang himself. I would never have
ta’en me an husband, nurse, and I had not known that I was able to
give him every time I would a new heaven and a new earth, and never
the same thing twice.”
She took the old woman’s hands in hers and gathered them to her
breast, as if to let them learn, rocked for a minute in the bountiful
infinite sweetness of that place, what foolish fears were these.
Suddenly Prezmyra clasped the hands tighter in her own, and shuddered
a little. She bent down to whisper in the nurse’s ear, “I would not
wish to die. The world without me should be summer without roses.
Carcë without me should be a night without the star-shine.”
Her voice died away like the night breeze in a summer garden. In the
silence they heard the dip and wash of oar-blades from the river
without; the sentinel’s challenge, the answer from the ship.
Prezmyra stood up quickly and went to the window. She could see the
ship’s dark bulk by the water-gate, and comings and goings, but nought
clearly. “Tidings from the fleet,” she said. “Put up my hair.”
And ere that was done, came a little page running to her chamber door,
and when it was opened to him, stood panting from his running and
said, “The king your husband bade me tell you, madam, and pray you go
down to him i’ the great hall. It may be ill news, I fear.”
“Thou fearest, pap-face?” said the Queen. “I’ll have thee whipped if
thou bringest thy fears to me. Dost know aught? What’s the matter?”
“The ship’s much battered, O Queen. He is closeted with our Lord the
King, the skipper. None dare speak else. ‘Tis feared the high
Admiral–”
“Feared!” cried she, swinging round for the nurse to put about her
white shoulders her mantle of sendaline and cloth of silver, that
shimmered at the collar with purple amethysts and was scented with
cedar and galbanum and myrrh. She was forth in the dark corridor, down
by the winding marble stair, through the midcourt, hasting to the
banquet hall. The court was full of folk talking; but nought certain,
nought save suspense and wonder; rumour of a great sea-fight in the
south, a mighty victory won by Laxus upon the
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