Collected Fiction

by Henry Kuttner

  Huntsman or Jamai or both, if the man recovered from Boyce’s stunning blow, he would pursue. And with the pack. Boyce moved faster along the blue passage.

  In the end he found the dragon mask. It was stone. No such creature had ever existed on Earth. It was the prototype of ancient woodcuts Boyce had seen, though how the artists had found their source he could not guess. The monstrous, snarling mask loomed above him, jutting out into the passage, blocking it so that he had to sidle past carefully to avoid touching the glittering walls with their festoons of roots.

  Knowing what he did now, Boyce was more anxious than ever to avoid contact with the bright, unmoving tendrils that were the hungry roots of the plant-mutation Jamai had created.

  THE dragon mask was enormous, its lower jaw resting on the stone floor, its scaled snout three feet above Boyce’s head. He could have walked into that incredible, gaping mouth. All around the mask grew the roots. If a secret way existed here, Boyce wondered how it could be opened without touching the walls. Perhaps here the twining coils were harmless—but he did not think so. When his shoulder brushed those bas-relief festoons, his flesh shrank.

  All around the dragon-mask the tendrils coiled. But within that yawning mouth . . .

  He peered in. The blue glow did not penetrate far. Surely, if this were the opening to another passage, the Huntsman—Jamai—would have discovered it before this.

  Shrinking a little, he stepped into the dragon’s mouth. Before him now he could see a curtain of the stony roots—the wall. Disappointment flooded him.

  As he turned to step out, the irregular surface beneath his feet betrayed him. He stumbled, caught blindly at the nearest object—

  He caught himself, but too late. His hand had touched the wall.

  It had not! There had been no feeling of substance against his palm. That meant—Gingerly he reached out again. The wall was visible, but intangible. His hand and arm melted through those stony tendrils he could see only dimly.

  He put out a tentative foot. There was a floor beyond the wall.

  He stepped through the barrier into a soundless, lightless blackness.

  That lasted only for an instant. Almost immediately he was conscious of swift motion. Wind blew against him strongly. Yet the movement was erratic, as though he stood in a car that was racing in a secret path through the heart of the City, bound for a destination he could only guess. Had the King built this—whatever it was—so he could spy on Jamai?

  The swift motion halted. Light came, pale and colorless. Boyce stood in a tiny, featureless cubicle like a small elevator. Only for a moment did the white walls prison him. Then a gap widened before him.

  Before him was the throne-room of a King—or a god!

  It was the room the Huntsman had shown him in a vision. Double pillars marched the length of it to the great black and scarlet throne at the end, where a crowned figure sat motionless.

  But now there was more to see than the Huntsman’s glass had revealed. The room was enormous, and in place of roof and walls a gigantic hemisphere, transparent as glass, covered it like a bubble. Below, Boyce could see the domes and smaller places of the Sorcerers’ City. Mists shielded the distances, but there was a brief glimpse, gone before he could focus on it, of Kerak, gray and small in the distance, on its crag.

  He had eyes only for the King, the same bearded figure, crowned and robed in yellow, that he remembered from the vision.

  Warily he walked forward between the great columns. He could see his reflection in the shining black floor—not his own reflection, but that of Guillaume du Bois, scowling and scarred. Guillaume himself would have wanted a sword’s hilt in his hand at this moment and, curiously, Boyce felt his own palm itch for the same comforting feeling. But he was unarmed.

  The man on the throne made no move. His eyes watched Boyce. There was no sound but the heavy tread of Boyce’s feet.

  Closer he came, and closer. He stood before the throne.

  “Go. Go at once,” the king said. His voice held no shadow of emotion. It was utterly cold, completely depersonalized.

  Boyce swallowed. He shook his head stubbornly. King or no king, sorcerer or scientist or man, he would not go until—

  “Go at once. You will be summoned when I am ready. Go now.”

  BOYCE set his jaw and took a step forward. The man on the throne lifted a hand in warning. And now Boyce was able to see, as the wide sleeve was raised, that across the King’s knees lay a bared sword, shining with cold steely radiance. But the King did not touch the sword.

  “If you come closer to me, you will die,” the dispassionate voice said.

  The yellow robe was stretched taut against the King’s breast. A design was embroidered there, a pattern of hieroglyphics Boyce could not read. His attention was drawn briefly to that design—and he stared, not quite believing what he saw.

  Then he took another step forward. The man on the throne did not move, even when Boyce laid his. palm on the satin robe.

  There was no heart-beat. Through the yellow, thick fabric, the chill of cold flesh was perceptible.

  Even then, Boyce could not believe until he held the steel sword-blade to the King’s lips. That mirror surface did not cloud.

  “You are the first man in this world to learn the truth,” Irathe’s voice said. “No one else would have dared approach the throne.” Her laughter sounded as Boyce turned, shifting his hand from the sword’s blade to its hilt.

  She stood near him, her red mouth smiling, her eyes faintly mocking. She wore a long robe now, and the iron crown was on her head. The black floor reflected her, and Boyce remembered the vision the Huntsman had shown him—a woman sundered, broken into two women—Ira the and the Oracle—by an unknown science.

  “Yes, the Oracle of Kerak,” she said. “I think I have won this game, even though Jamai threw the dice first. I’d never hoped for this much—that I could bring the Oracle here. Jamai has nearly earned my gratitude.”

  Boyce looked at her coolly. He took out the crystalline gem and cradled it in his palm.

  “I think this gives you power over me, Irathe,” he said. “Suppose I smash it?”

  “If you like,” she said indifferently, shrugging. “You can’t return to your own world without it. And I have not as much power over you as you think.”

  She nodded toward the King.

  “I could destroy you now, if I wanted. But I may need you. You’ve fulfilled my purpose. You’ve also found out that the King, my father, is dead, and that must be kept secret, unless—”

  “Dead?”

  “He died long ago.”

  “After you were made into two women?”

  Irathe looked at him steadily.

  “So you know that. The Huntsman, I suppose—Jamai. Yes, it was after that that my father died. He tried to use knowledge that only They can use. So he died.

  “But I have certain skills of my own. The King died, but a body can be controlled, like a mind, by an outside source. For my purposes, the King had to remain alive.” She smiled again. “Call it hypnosis. Or believe that the body on the throne before you is a robot. I can control it, make it act and speak as I wish.”

  “You were controlling it just now?” Boyce said.

  “No. It automatically says and does certain things when anyone enters here. It spoke to you, eh? Had you been a man of the City, you would have obeyed and fled. Even Jamai has never dared approach the King.”

  “I’ll keep the crystal, Irathe. I mean to go back—when I can. But stay out of my mind! You and the Huntsman.”

  Irathe moved her slim shoulders in a gesture Boyce could not interpret.

  “Jamai? What devils move him, I wonder, beside the devils of his own mind? I think he is mad. When the Oracle and I were one, he loved me. Then, afterward—he still loved me, but it was not enough. Do you know why?” She looked at Boyce through her lashes, half-smiling.

  Yes, he knew. Old legends had given him the answer, stories of angel and demon battling for a man�
��s soul. The allegory of Jekyll and Hyde, and a hundred other such tales.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Ice and Fire

  FOR Irathe was evil. Not immoral—on the contrary, she was completely free, unshackled by any bonds of conscience or remorse or empathy. She was as amoral as the inhuman creatures which had created her from a whole woman.

  Good and evil, inextricably mingled in the human mind, each a check and balance upon the other—necessary to each other. And never to be separated, except by a science utterly behind the comprehension of man.

  But that separation had taken place. The Oracle, no less than Irathe, was monstrous. Psychiatry had dealt with cases of schizophrenia, split personality, in which there were two inhabitants of a single mind. Sometimes one personality was pure as a saint, the other utterly vicious and evil.

  But here the fission was complete. The negative and positive in the girl’s mind and soul and body had been separated. No man, Boyce thought, could love Irathe without going mad. For he knew now that she was not human.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I know why the Huntsman couldn’t—why it isn’t enough. When I loved you, Irathe, you weren’t like this.”

  “No. Once each cycle, the Oracle and I blend for a little while. We are one again. But I still maintain my power. I am dominant; I have control—with certain restrictions. And while we are in one body thus, I cannot harm her without harming myself. Afterwards, when we separate again, I am tranced for a while. By the time I recover, she is back in Kerak where I cannot reach her.”

  Boyce nodded.

  “On Earth, then—”

  “We were in one body. But I have been in many worlds. Only when we were in one body, because I needed her. I said I could not harm her here. The cage of fire, and other things, prevent me. I could not reach her in Kerak.”

  “Do you want to kill her?”

  He thought Irathe paled a little.

  “No. She is part of me, even though we are in separate bodies. Harm to her would be harm to me. But I—I am not safe. Suppose she and I were made one again forever?”

  She held up her hand to stop Boyce.

  “No! As I am now, I want to be always! Free to do as I want! Free to open the gateways of the universe, if I wish—to rule, to wield power, to feel no sorrow! If she and I are one again, and I not dominant—her foolish emotions, her shallow conscience halting me from my will—no! I rule here!

  “I know a way to prison the Oracle forever, where no one can reach her, and where she can never harm me. Till now I could not summon her from Kerak, except during the cycles when I dared not move because we were one.”

  “With you in control. I see. It wasn’t you I knew on Earth, then—”

  “You knew us both. In one body. I have searched through worlds and worlds, trying to find a key to Kerak, to the Oracle. For I had to gain entrance there and learn something of her secrets, something of how Tancred protected her and how strong he had become.

  “As myself I could not go. Nor in the minds of any who would help me, for the Oracle can read men’s minds.” Her violet eyes looked at Boyce sidelong, slyly, with triumph in them.

  “I found a way. I found a double way. At last the simple idea came to me that was easiest of all—to find someone she would love. She loved you, William Boyce. I knew that She and I in a single body, forever divided in our minds, but sharing the same flesh—oh, I knew her thoughts! Something had touched her icy, frozen heart at last.

  I lingered in your world until I was sure. When her lover—her husband—called, I knew she would come.”

  Irathe’s laughter was sweet and cold.

  “I lingered until I knew I had wakened in you too the same fire. And until I was sure your mind held the knowledge of how to come here, and the passion to follow. But then—then, William Boyce, all your knowledge had to be erased from the surface of your memory. You see why.

  “If you had gone into Kerak knowing what you do now, the Oracle would have recognized her danger and Tancred would have done with you as he has done with many of my envoys. So when my work was finished—I summoned Them to my aid. I knew Their presence was enough to drive all memory of me and of our year together deep, deep into the wells of the subconscious in your mind.

  “If you are wise, you’ll leave them there! My purpose is served now. Though Jamai tricked me and used the crystal you carry to invade your mind before me, yet he has done my work. The Oracle comes blindly into my hands! Soon now, soon, the long wait will be ended!”

  She smiled at him sweetly.

  “I want your help,” she said. “I have told you that each cycle the Oracle and I become one again. In the past I have been dominant. But she grows stronger. Some day, I think, she may gain control—and find a way to conquer me. To make me subservient forever, in the same body with her. That must not happen. You will help me to prison her, if I need your help. And in return—”

  SHE met his eyes squarely. Boyce leaned on the sword and waited, unsmiling. “Instead of an image of ice—something better. The whole, complete Irathe you can never know again. And that ice image—you would die of cold,” she said, and suddenly laughed, a wild, reckless gleeful laughter that echoed shrilly from the pillars. “With me in your arms, William Boyce—you would not think of ice!”

  She took another step toward him. He still leaned on the sword, conscious of the intense attraction he felt toward her, of the exotic appeal of her slim, vibrant body.

  “Jamai tried that, didn’t he?” he said softly.

  Her mouth twisted. Her beauty failed for an instant as the mockery of a devil showed in her eyes.

  “Yes, he tried,” she said. “He had loved both of us, when we were in one body, before my father worked his magic with Them. It would have been better had I erased his memory, as I erased yours. For Jamai remembered me as I was, and yet he could not help but love me. And I am—what am I, William Boyce?”

  The sword hilt was cold against his palms. He spoke hoarsely.

  “I don’t know. But I know you’re something that never should have existed. A man—a woman—is supposed to be a mixture of good and evil, if that’s the way to put it. Maybe the Crusaders weren’t so superstitious when they wrote about lamias—demon-women. No man could love you, Irathe, without going mad. If the Oracle is ice, you are flame that destroys all it touches.”

  “Then Jamai is mad,” she said. “Perhaps his mind split as my body and soul did. Perhaps he tried to create two selves, as They did to me. But only They have such power. When a mind splits thus, it is madness. Sometimes Jamai is Jamai and hates me and hates the Oracle and wishes to destroy us both.

  “Sometimes he is the Huntsman, and does not care, and would not care if this world ended now. But he loved me before They worked their spell, and he is bound to me—to Irathe—by unbreakable bonds—and he must die. I cannot trust that windvane mind of his.”

  She put out a hand and touched the sword Boyce held.

  “You will help me. If you can have nothing else—am I not desirable? Look upon this frozen love of yours—and decide.”

  Her arm swept out. Boyce’s gaze followed the gesture.

  Down the long pillared avenue toward the throne, the Oracle of Kerak came slowly. Her hands were clasped before her, her eyes were still closed, the marble hair lay smoothly upon the marble shoulders. She walked serenely, surely, toward him as if her mind had clearer vision than her unseeing eyes.

  And now he could see that these two women were indeed the same. Fire and ice, good and evil—and more than that. Deeper than simple morality. It was positive and negative, each complete—and each unearthly!

  But the good was less earthly than the evil.

  She came straight to where Boyce stood. She paused. And then, for the first time, he saw the lashes flicker on her cheeks. The white lids rose. Her eyes were blue—ice blue, the color that lingers deep within frozen bergs. But more than ice was here now.

  Far down, deeply buried, he thought he saw a stirring of—life?
Awareness? There was a mind within this icy statue, prisoned inside it as the body had been prisoned in fire until he called her under Jamai’s command. And the mind—remembered.

  Boyce was shaken to his depths. He loved both women when they were one. Now they were two. In bewilderment he realized that each woman drew him, but in such different ways that for an instant he felt a shocking disorientation, as though the glass walls beyond him had drawn apart—more than that—as though he himself was being split into two parts.

  Black garden of evil—scented with the poisonous perfume of flowers ablaze with sensuous color—promising untold desire fulfilled, a madness of ecstasy such as man had never known—

  Goddess of shining crystal, pure and remote as the stars—a distant flame behind the cold blue eyes hinting at a love that was far and veiled by walls of ice—

  Side by side they stood, those two who had been one.

  And one promised more than any man had ever known.

  You are my husband. You are my lover. You wedded me as well as that frozen goddess. We will walk through worlds of flame and color and sound, under seas of nameless planets, beyond the gates of space and time. Death or madness will not matter. We will plumb the last, uttermost limits of power and rule here like god and goddess.

  But the distant ember behind the ice in the Oracle’s eyes promised nothing. It asked nothing.

  It said—I love you. And that was all.

  IRATHE saw Boyce’s face change. She saw him step forward and face her, guarding the Oracle with his own body. Bitter mockery made the red mouth ugly.

  “You could have helped me,” she said softly. “There is danger now, but since you will not aid there is no other way. This means your death—you fool!”

  Her gaze focused beyond Boyce. She made a quick, intricate movement with her hands, while her whole slim figure tensed into a rigid statue. Then, instantly, she had relaxed.

  “They are coming,” she said. “I have summoned them before their time—before the cycle has been completed. There is danger in that.”