by Tanith Lee
She cleared out all the old litter of things, and sorted the items she would require, and made such preparations as were needful. For a long while, after the moon was down, she sat and stared into the cup of her own brain, doggedly drawing forth her will and knowledge.
Two hours before dawn, a clap of thunder sounded in the forest; a rain of icicles fell down; a wind swirled gibbering among the trunks of the trees. Zorayas had opened the first black door of sorcery.
One hour before dawn. the pedlar, who lay asleep in an abandoned hut at the edge of the forest, woke to find a twilit woman at his side. She said, in a dulcet and winning fashion:
“I hear you have been suffering from a snake bite which caused a swelling, here.” And she touched him in such a way that the pedlar became very interested in her. For some reason he did not think to ask her how she had discovered him, or how she came to know what he had said the previous day to the idiot girl in the cave. Soon indeed he rolled the stranger on her back and mounted her, and was entering when something about the gate surprised him, for it did not feel as it should. The pedlar glanced down, and roared with terror, He was mounted astride a log of wood, and he had thrust his phallus, this time, into the grinning jaws of a huge black viper, which now, with a venomous clash, closed them.
In the lands all about, things went on as they had always done. The fields were planted, the herds brought to grass, and in the cities men toiled and took their shares of misery and pleasure, and kings idled on their silken couches, and fair women looked in their looking glasses and sighed admiringly. And at the heart of it all, like the worm in the apple, the beetle in the woodwork, sorcery was working, eating out the pith: soon the apple would break open, the wooden beam fall down, and the lands start up in fear.
Perhaps some guessed—the hunter who saw lights flicker above the trees of the forest; the beggar woman who, going by the old priest’s cave one day at dusk, witnessed a curl of smoke run in there and take on the form of a peculiar beast, with the body of a lion and the head of an owl. Stories were told now, about the masked witch in the cave, the sorceress. She had killed the priest, they said, and her friends were demons, the little, almost inconsequent demons of Underearth, the Drin—the dregs of that shadowy hierarchy below, who obeyed the will of powerful magicians, having no true initiative of their own. With the help of the demons, this witch had slain a poor pedlar, and in a most awful manner. What would she do next?
Even in Zojad, possibly, men had word of the witch. Maybe they laughed about her.
The pedlar had been inadvertently the catalyst. Now Zorayas’ aims were guided by her dreams. Zorashad’s daughter, the sorceress. She remembered the young king with his lash, his spiteful tongue, remembered he sat in the royal chair of her dead father. Her chair. This wrong went deeper than any wrong which came after, despair or rape; they were done with. The curse of ugliness and disinheritance remained.
On a night in high summer, when the young king sat at table in Zojad, the lights in the hall began to dip and dim, and up from its dish sprang the roasted bird that had just been set before him. It seemed to flap its wings, its eyes—made of two curving bits of quartz—fixed on the king. He jumped to his feet and down the bird fell at once. The king, anxious to seem unafraid, ordered the carver, jestingly, to slice the fowl into portions before it should fly off altogether, but the minute the knife went through it, out fell a ball of glass which, rolling from the table, smashed in pieces on the floor. And in the glass lay a scroll.
The court stood amazed at the miracle, but the king arrogantly bent and took up the scroll and read it. It said:
“What is one scar more, O king? I will tell you. One scar more to me is one crown less to you.”
At once the king turned grey as dust, for he remembered immediately, though why he was not certain, that day a year before when he had lashed the crippled girl across the face with his whip. A dark horror overcame him. He scented sorcery as the rabbit scents the hound.
Yet nothing else happened that night, nor for five nights afterwards.
On the seventh night, as the king sat in his gardens, under the stars, a veiled woman came between the trees. He took her for a servant, until she drew close and whispered in his ear.
“Here I am,” she said, no more, no less, but at the words the king trembled violently and cried out for his guard. Swiftly they came running, and found the king shaking in his chair and the veiled woman standing there beside him. “One moment,” said she, and made three or four passes in the air with her gloved hands. Who can say what happened next? It is told that all the guard fell dead in their tracks, and blue-faced Drin sprang up from the ground in full armour and with swords, and stood grinning, ready to serve their magician mistress. Then she cast off her veil, and she too wore armour of black iron chased with silver, wild beautiful work these demons had made her, and on her face an iron mask, which had features of its own like those of a fair woman, and left only her forehead and eyes to be seen, and her torrential hair. With her iron glove she pointed at the king and what a change she made in him! He seemed to shrink, to shrivel, to curl up like a dead leaf—presently this was all that was left of him: a little dry lizard skulking on his chair, which abruptly darted down and away into the dark garden, and as it darted Zorayas mashed its tail with her heel.
Zorayas smiled inside her mask, her fiery disfigured smile, but the lips of iron were implacable and emotionless over her own.
She marched with her guard of Drin into the hall of the Palace, and there she summoned the court of the king.
“Look well,” she said, “I am your ruler now, and I will rule you as my father ruled Zojad long ago, for I am Zorayas, thirteenth daughter of Zorashad. I do not claim to be a god, it is true, but I claim to have more power than any other in these seventeen lands that stretch every way to the blue acres of the sea. Serve me, if you wish, and prosper. Defy me, and see, I will replace you all with these my followers the Drin, the Little Ones of Underearth. Or you can search out your king in the garden, on four little lizard feet, which I will give you so you may run as he does now, before his broken tail.” At this the Drin giggled and applauded, and the white-faced court prudently fell on its knees to adore her.
Thus Zorayas came to be queen in Zojad, and thus new statues were put up in the city to replace those which had been melted down by the sixteen kings. Yet never did she claim to be a goddess; her spells were enough indeed to put fear into men’s hearts. And before long, armies began growing again like weeds in Zojad, armies of bronze and iron, and she had won back to herself those sixteen lands that had been lost when Zorashad’s amulet was destroyed.
3. The Starry Pavilion
Many tales were recounted then of the Iron Princess who rode at the head of her army, and some were true and some were not. She was a mighty witch, she could take no wound, demons marched in the ranks behind her; she covered her face because one look from it would scald with fire or turn to granite or melt as with acid any who beheld it, though others said she was so beautiful no man could watch her and not lose his wits, and that one of her smiles could darken the moon and one frown could kill the sun.
In a year she had regained all that had been snatched from her, and more, and she sat in her sorcerous tower of brass, or upon the great throne of Zojad in her mask of iron, and ruled with a hand of iron, and if she was not happy, neither was she impotent on the earth, and she burned with a flame of pride that seemed as fierce as any joy.
And then there came a day when everything was done—her empire vast and unassailable, her fame assured, all her goals reached, her hopes satisfied, and there was nothing left—save an emptiness which rushed in like a cold sea and flooded her heart.
So she sat in thought, and out of the cold sea rose one last dream, a dream so foolhardy, so impossible, it lit up her world again with a brilliant light.
She had exacted all her vengeances—on the king who had mocked her, on the sixteen other kings who had slain Zorashad and taken her birthri
ght; only one being remained who had paid her nothing in recompense for her years of doubt and humility and her ruined face. That one being, he who had begun it all with his own casual vengeance—the ruler of the lower lands, master of Vazdru, Eshva, Drin, one of the Lords of Darkness—Azhrarn, Prince of Demons.
At the impulse, the heart of Zorayas raced. Yet she did not boast aloud as Zorashad had done. She kept her own counsel, and only went more often to her tall tower of brass. And there, by the flashes of the blue and lustreless fire, she passed, night by night, in and out of those doors of Power that now were so familiar to her.
At last she stood in the tower and called up those demons who appeared on earth in the form of strange animals and monsters, the Drindra, the lowest of the Drin, and the silliest and most mischievous of all. Soon the octagonal room was full of grunting, whining, chattering things, which skittered away before the princess’s iron finger.
“Be silent and attend,” said she, “for I wish to ask you questions.”
“We are your slaves, peerless mistress,” fawned the Drindra, dribbling on her boots and licking the floor at her feet.
“No,” said Zorayas stonily, “you are the slaves of your lord, Azhrarn the Beautiful, and it is of him I wish to learn.”
At this the Drindra blushed and shivered, for they loved their Prince passionately and also feared him greatly. Zorayas knew she must be careful then, for asking lore of Underearth was very difficult since no demon could be constrained to tell anything freely, only answer truthfully when the questioner’s guesses were correct, and even then they would, if they could, try tricks.
“It is known,” she therefore began, “that there are certain special tokens that will summon demons of the Eshva and Vazdru. Can it be that there are tokens that will summon even Azhrarn the Beautiful?”
The Drindra chittered together and said:
“No, no, incomparable queen, nothing of that sort can be fashioned by mortals.”
“Did I say tokens fashioned by mortals? I am thinking of curious pipes of silver shaped in Underearth as toys for friends and lovers. Are there such, and can any call Azhrarn?”
“Yes,” hissed the Drindra in mournful voices. “So it is.”
“Then can it be there are any of these pipes on earth?”
“How could it be,” chirruped the demons, “that such pipes should be allowed to reach the earth?”
“This is not what I asked you,” cried Zorayas, and she struck her iron fists together, at which a bolt of steely fire sprang out like a whip and made the Drindra jump and spit.
“Be kind, sweet mistress,” they whimpered, “you are right, and your wisdom glows like a precious jewel.”
“How many of these pipes exist on earth? Seven?”
The Drindra wailed and would not answer.
“More than seven? Less than seven?”
“Yes.”
“Three?” Zorayas asked, “two?” And then angrily, “only one?” And the Drindra assented. “Where then does it lie? On land? Under water?”
“Yes!”
“Beneath the Sea?”
“Yes!”
Zorayas gave a shout of derision, and the Drindra cowered.
“Yes indeed,” said she. “I have heard tell of such a pipe—the serpent’s head your lord gave to a youth who was dear to him, a hundred thousand years ago—Sivesh, who lies at the ocean’s bottom where Azhrarn drowned him, with the silver pipe about his delicious neck, which is now all bones.”
The Drindra lashed their tails and whispered: “Yes,” like the steam from water thrown on hot metal.
Zorayas might have turned herself into a fish and swum down to retrieve the enchanted pipe, but it was very dangerous for a mortal, even a magician, to take on an animal form, or any form other than his own, for quite quickly he would forget his human values and reasoning, and begin to think exactly as the creature would think whose form he had taken. There were many tales of great sorcerers who, in order to avoid some calamity or to discover some secret, changed themselves into beasts, reptiles or birds of the air, and then forgot all their spells and even who they were, and so remained moving, slithering or flapping to the end of their days. Therefore Zorayas bound one of the Drindra by terrible magics, and forced it to fetch her the pipe, which it was very loath to do.
“Rest assured,” said Zorayas, “I wish only to honor your Prince, not to anger him, for indirectly he is the cause of my present good fortune.”
So, bound as it was, the Drindra fled down through the waters of the sea to a place where milk-white bones were lying on the sand. Here the ocean creatures had gathered in wonder a thousand years before, and the sea-maidens with their ice-green tresses kissed with their cold lips the colder lips of the dead youth, touched with their cold pointed tongues the two gems of his chest, the threefold treasure of his loins. But Sivesh did not stir. Only the currents combed his hair, as once demon fingers had combed it, and his wide eyes were full as with tears of tragedy and despair. Eventually the sea folk abandoned him, and the water erased him and left only his bones—and the serpent pipe about his neck. This the Drindra snatched off, gibbering, and fled back to Zorayas’ tower of brass, and cast the pipe down at her feet with the seaweed still tangled on it.
Zorayas took up the pipe and gazed at it, an hour or more.
She had a curious pavilion built in the great gardens of the palace, with walls of jet-black granite. There were no windows in these walls, and the floor was laid with bricks of pure gold, yet the ceiling of the pavilion was strangest of all. It was made of a dull and inky glass that reflected no light and through which nothing could be seen, and here and there in it were set pale diamonds, sapphires, zircons in the exact positions of the stars. So cunning was the workmanship of this ceiling that, looking up from inside the pavilion, you would think there was no roof at all, only the night sky with its little fires overhead. At one end of the chamber, facing the double doors, hung down a thick cord of velvet.
Here in this pavilion, by this cord, Zorayas sat with the serpent pipe in her hand, while the moon rose and the bells of Zojad tolled out the hours of the night. Presently the moon sank, and they rang the last quarter before dawn. Then Zorayas set the pipe to the little incision in her mask, and blew it.
There was no sound. At least, no sound that could be heard on earth. Then suddenly the air was full of a brazen thunder, and in through the double doors burst a lightning. Zorayas reached and twitched the velvet cord to the left and the doors clanged shut again. The lightning meanwhile resolved itself into a shape like a huge dragon, with molten lava licking from its mouth like twenty tongues.
But Zorayas only said:
“Be still, Exalted One. I am protected from your fiery breath by my spells. Will you not permit me to see you, as did my father Zorashad?”
At this, the dragon seemed to melt and fade, and there in the pavilion stood a tall and wonderfully handsome man, with a black cloak like wings.
Zorayas looked at him, and her senses were confused at his beauty, as were all mortal senses, but also her heart leaped with triumph.
“Lord of Shadows,” said she, “forgive your handmaiden that she has entreated you here. By accident I found this pipe, and knowing from an ancient fable that it would call you, how could I resist the chance of looking on your form, O Prince of Princes?”
She knew the vanity of Demons, and had addressed him exactly as she should. Azhrarn seemed neither grim nor questioning, only a little amused.
“You must also know then,” he said, “that, having summoned me, you may ask one request of me.”
“All I ask, O Incomparable Magnificence, is to gaze on you and give you my thanks, and to return you this pipe which is rightly yours.”
And she went down to him and handed him the pipe, which he took, and the touch of his hand was like a cool flame even through her glove, which made her poor twisted fingers sing in pain, and every scar on her ruined face throb, and the scars the pedlar had left upon her breasts
and between her thighs were seethed in fire. And just then she heard the bell sound in Zojad which betokened the rising of the sun. What a burning gush of fury and joy she felt. She laughed aloud at it, out of the fire.
Azhrarn had all this while been watching carefully for the dawn lighting of the sky, but no light fell through the black glass roof which looked precisely like the sky itself. However, hearing a bell, he said to Zorayas:
“I am intrigued at your courtesy, Iron Lady, but I think the sun is near, the light of which is to me an abomination. Therefore, I must leave you.”
“Must you?” said she, going back to where hung the velvet cord, and taking it in her hand. “O Azhrarn,” she murmured in a smiling voice, “my father Zorashad was a fool and set himself above you, and him you destroyed. I am his daughter, and in that destruction I lost my birthright and much more besides. Due to my own skill in magic, I have regained many things, but one thing I could not alter, and for this one thing I will, after all, exact a boon from you.”
“Speak then,” said Azhrarn and now he seemed impatient.
“I would see,” said Zorayas, “one of the Lords of Darkness face with his glory the glory of the earth’s sun.”
Perhaps in her triumphant mockery she mistook, but it seemed to her the wonderful countenance of Azhrarn grew paler.
“Have I not told you,” he said, “that I abhor the sun.”
“Abhor or fear, great Lord? I think you go in terror of its rays, which, if they should touch you, would reduce you to powder or stone or some such other lifeless and unlovely thing.”
Then such a look of malign shadow passed over the face of Azhrarn that even Zorayas held her breath.
“Accursed of all women, do you suppose you will go unpunished for your insolence? Fear the night, fool, daughter of a fool.”
And turning, he went toward the closed doors.
“Wait!” cried Zorayas, and gave a little twitch of the cord to the right.
