The Black Throne

by Fred Saberhagen

  "If you wish. It is always your home, wherever you may be."

  After an hour or a year he drew away from her and turned.

  "Do you hear it?" he asked.

  The echo of the retreating sea still hung in the air about them, and she only nodded in reply.

  "It calls to me."

  "I know."

  "I should go to it."

  "No. You need not."

  "Then I wish to. The rest is pain."

  She caught up his hand.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I never meant the world should use you as it has. I had a dream. For us. It has been broken. You were caught, in a place of pain. I love you, Eddie. You are too pure a spirit for what the world has offered you."

  "It has given me vision, Annie."

  She looked away.

  "Was it worth the price?" she asked.

  He bowed and kissed her hand.

  "Of course," he replied.

  They listened to the echo of the melancholy, long, withdrawing roar. Then, "I must go now," he said.

  "Bide a while."

  "Then sing to me."

  She sang, and singing made; the sea became the self that was her song. The tiger-shadows fell like bars about them.

  "Thank you," he said, at length. "I love you, too, Annie. Always did, always will. I have to follow it now, though."

  "No. You don't."

  "Yes. I do. I know you can hold me, for this is your kingdom." His gaze fell upon their hands. "Please don't."

  She studied the gray-eyed child's face, the light of forty years upon it, as if looking up from a coffin. Then she opened her hand.

  "Bon voyage, Eddie."

  "Au revoir," he said; and, turning, he headed into the east, where the sea had gone and its voice thudded, warbled, then rose in pitch.

  She turned the other way and walked back to the shore. The copper mountains turned to coal. The sky filled up and the lights came on. She sat on a cliff beneath their blaze and listened as the blood-warm tide came in.

  IX

  "Of all melancholy topics, what, according to the universal understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?" Death was the obvious reply. "And when," I said, "is this most melancholy of topics most poetical?". . . the answer, here also, is obvious—"When it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world—and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover."

  The Philosophy of Composition,

  Edgar A. Poe

  * * *

  It was into April's days, warm sunlight in that patch of blue we comics call the sky. The nights came balmy—guitar-noted, flamenco-stamped, fire-flocked, with constant sounds of revelry to the north. More sedate the pleasures of the courtyard. Honest fatigue had come to rule here. Prince Prospero had grown heavier and more florid of face, and he had developed a slight limp. It has been suggested that he now numbered oriental drugs among his pleasures—smoking the opium of Bengal which leads to horrid nightmares, I am told.

  I was not present when it happened. I had been taking one of my nightly walks with Annie—which, despite the circumstances, I shall always mark as among the happiest times of my life; such a light in the midst of peril and despair must, I daresay, gleam more brightly by reason of contrast.

  A servant to one of the minister's wives rushed up to Annie as we paced a candle-lit gallery, admiring the exquisite artistry of ancient tapestries hung there and lamenting their state of repair. She clutched at Annie's sleeve and hissed a tearful account of events she had witnessed but minutes before.

  I felt a coldness in my breast when I overheard her say, "Poor little thing. . . ." When she had departed, I glanced at my dear lady and she nodded. "Trippetta," she said. "The prince was with his seven chief ministers trying new wines and an African drug said to grant the pleasures of god-like madness for a brief time. They sent for her to entertain them."

  There was a long silence.

  Then, "They forced her to drink wine," she continued. "It does not take much to affect one so small. And then they made her dance upon a table. She could not control her balance. She fell from it and broke her neck."

  I couldn't think of a single thing to say. I might be deemed a bloodthirsty wretch for my sudden desire to rid the world of this man, also. But I knew, of a devilish certainty, that no action on my part would be necessary.

  A little later I was in the right place—or the wrong place, as the case might be—when her diminutive body was carried by on a board for interment in a local crypt used for those who died during our sequestration. I heard Annie gasp as the tiny form with the twisted neck went by.

  I feared for my life when it came to telling Peters of it. But it had to be done. I held Annie tightly for a long while before I bade her good night.

  I had been right to fear so. Peters' eyes unfocussed and his face darkened as I spoke. He drove his fist through a nearby wall, and he cursed long and loudly. I backed away, uncertain how long it would take for him to come to his senses, uncertain whether he would turn on me.

  About a minute, I'd judge. Maybe a little more. Then he stopped making holes in the wall and turned to me, eyes focussing again. I braced myself.

  "Ah, Eddie," he said then. "She was such a little thing and meanin' no one harm. I'll see that man dead an' in hell a piece at a time for this."

  I reached toward him, thought better of touching him in this mood, withdrew and said, "It won't do her or anybody else any good if you rush off and get yourself made into a pincushion by the prince's archers."

  He'd picked up a piece of brick by then and was squeezing it. I heard a grating sound. He opened his hand and gravel poured from it.

  "You hear me?" I said. "I don't care how strong you are. An arrow through your heart and it stops beating."

  "Ah, yer right, lad. Yer right," he said. "I'll do 'im proper, never fear. And I'll send milady a nest o' Dukes for servants in the spirit land. Never fear I'd spend my life cheaply. Yer right."

  He began to wander southward and I made to follow.

  "No. No, Eddie," he said, prodding his wig back into place. "Let me go off alone now, as it should be."

  I believe he spent the night in one of the monk's cells. I walked through the south wing several times later, and I'd swear I heard the sounds of a tomtom, and perhaps some chanting.

  As I understand what transpired thereafter, he dissembled craftily, playing the jester once more. I was told that he later mentioned to his masters the Eight Chained Ourang-Outangs, a diversion which provided excellent sport by terrifying the ladies (not to mention the men) by creating the impression that the beasts had gotten away from their keepers.

  This was to be done, he'd explained, by garbing eight men to resemble the simians and equipping them in chains connecting them in pairs. At a signal, they would rush into the hall uttering savage cries. He suggested the effect to be exquisite in the way of producing fright.

  I gather that Prospero was quite taken with the idea, to the extent of ordering Peters to provide costuming for such an entertainment that very evening, for himself and his seven ministers to enact these roles.

  Now, I was to be present in the great hall myself that night, with Emerson, to provide an acrobatic entertainment and some mummery.

  This, he felt, was excellent timing, filling the audience's eyes and minds with images and notions of hairy, man-like beasts. In fact, he suggested I preface the performance with an observation that we had eight others of Emerson's sort but that they were untrained, far too vicious to be loosed in public and, so, kept chained.

  I suggested he make me party to whatever he was planning but he refused, only going so far as to suggest I find a way to get my saber into the hall beforehand and conceal it there, "Just in case," as he put it.

  I did not like the sound of this, but, as he refused to elaborate, I contrived to enter the hall while it was deserted that morning and hung
the weapon in the hall amid a display of ancient shields and armor, near to where I'd be performing, covering it with a shield so that only the hilt protruded.

  * * *

  That evening, I arrived ahead of time, Emerson in tow, hoping to discover just what Peters had in mind, to assist if I might, foil if I must, avoid if necessary. But the only change in decor that I could discover was that the massive chandelier had been removed (at Peters' suggestion), its drippings in an unusually warm April to have been impossible to prevent upon the rich garb of the guests, to be replaced by a flambeau, emitting sweet odor, in the right hand of each of the Caryatids which stood against the wall—some 50 or 60, I'd say.

  During my act, at some sign from Peters, the prince and his seven ministers absented themselves for their costuming—which, I later learned, consisted of their donning tight-fitting stockinet shirts and drawers. They were daubed with tar which was then covered with a coating of flax. They were then tied together with chains (by Peters) and formed into a circle, their chains crossing at its center. Peters had intended their entrance to occur at midnight, but the men's eagerness to astound and affright prompted them to shamble into the great hall ahead of schedule. My prefatory remarks had been made, however, and the resulting shrieks and tumult arose as anticipated.

  The excitement was immense, the prince and his cohorts amusing themselves prodigiously with each fresh swooning or outcry. As anticipated, there had been a general rush for the doors; but Prospero had ordered them locked immediately on his entrance, and Peters had picked up the keys in the absence of pockets to the prince's costume.

  At some time during this activity Peters vanished, to be replaced by yet another hairy form. Emerson had left me, though by now no one was paying any heed to what had been our act. He cavorted with the fake apes, and I noted after a time that the chain from which the chandelier normally depended, and which had been drawn up on its removal, was lowered slowly till its hooked end hovered near the floor.

  I sought about for Annie who had been present in a simple scarlet Harlequin mask, accompanied by three fully costumed individuals who could only have been Templeton, Griswold, and Von Kempelen. All of them appeared already to have departed, however.

  The chains which bound the ape-mummers moved about at the center of the circle they formed. All of them did not quite coincide in their crossings, though. Emerson took hold of the hook, and to it he affixed a chain, a second chain, a third chain. Though he caught hold of the fourth one on several occasions he could not draw it near enough to the hook to suspend it therefrom. There simply was not sufficient slack.

  Finally, the three snagged chains were drawn taut. Their wearers felt the tension, began glancing back to the thing which seemed to have restricted their movement. At this, the hook began to rise. I looked upward, then down again in another direction to the place where the other end of the chain was wrapped about a drum, off in a shadowy corner where a diminutive figure in motley turned a crank.

  Six of the ministers were hoisted into the air.

  Prince Prospero and the minister to whom he was attached remained grounded. A shadow flashed by me. I moved to my shield.

  Peters had rushed to the wall where he wrenched a flambeau from the hands of its Caryatid. He moved to a central position, to the place where now hung the six of the ministers who had watched Trippetta dance to her death.

  He applied his torch to each in turn. The tar proved very flammable. Each burst into flame.

  Shouts of fear rose on every hand, but these were submerged by the cries and moans of the living candles which turned and writhed overhead. The chains clinked and rasped; shadows darted like crazed spirits about the hall. And a hellish sound penetrated everywhere. It was several moments before I realized it to be Peters' mirthless laughter.

  Turning, the prince took in the situation quickly. Reaching inside his costume, he withdrew a pistol. He raised it, then took aim in Peters' direction. A hairy form interposed itself, rushed toward him. He fired.

  Emerson fell.

  There followed total panic. I had my saber in my hand. The six ministers twisted, screamed and blazed overhead. Peters bellowed, locked the winch he'd operated and rose. He attempted to move forward then, but his way was blocked by a rush of bodies.

  Then commenced the striking of midnight upon the great, dark clock.

  Before the final echoes of the last chime faded the entire assembly had grown still. I was not certain what had occurred. It was as if some psychic wind had blown through the hall, touching upon everyone present, disarming us of sound and movement.

  Save for one. I first became aware of the figure because it was the only thing moving, from out a dark corner which might well have concealed a passage; second, the grotesque costume it had on held every gaze from the moment of beholding. In all respects it was the form of one long dead, most likely from the very cause this crowd was here assembled to avoid—the Red Death.

  Its gait was ungainly, lurching, its skin both pale as a toadstool and bright as blood as it passed from shadow to glare and back again, reflective of the blazing spectacle overhead; progress stumping, terrible, within a cloud of charnel-house smells which only then reached my nostrils; guise maggoty, moldy; manner single-minded; mien horrific. It came on, perfect embodiment of the group's nemesis.

  But even more than the great horror this presence evoked was the revelation, to me, that this was not a matter of mask, makeup, or costuming. I knew this man, having seen him at our tunnel's farther end, where Peters had stripped him of his motley, his cap and bells. For this was Fortunato—plaguey, drunken associate of Montresor, dead, dead, dead, yet some how animate, moving down the aisle which opened before him, lurching subject of every stare as he reached to embrace Prospero, who shrieked at the contact and fell to the floor, retreating feet tangled in his chains, dragging his final minister with him.

  The spell was broken. The noise and tumult returned. Daggers appeared in shaking hands. I brandished my blade and called to Peters. I snatched a torch, and when he looked my way I gestured in the direction where I thought the hidden passage lay. Casting a final look at his handiwork and a lingering one at his whilom companion, dead Emerson, Peters beat his way through the crowd and followed me into the passage.

  * * *

  These recent days be bloody stuff,

  And also recent dreams.

  I seem to hear a phthisic cough

  By life's eternal streams.

  Death lurks and laughs his ass off.

  At least that's how it seems.

  Untitled verse,

  Edgar Allan Perry

  X

  Edgar Allan Poe is dead. He died in Baltimore the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it. The poet was well known personally or by reputation, in all this country; he had readers in England, and in several of the states of Continental Europe; but he had few or no friends; and the regrets for his death will be suggested principally by the consideration that in him literary art lost one of its most brilliant, but erratic, stars.

  New York Daily Tribune

  "Ludwig" (Rufus Griswold)

  * * *

  The passage we followed contained a stair which led down to another passageway, running beneath the courtyard. As we rushed through it, Peters moved in a daze of grief and exhaustion. I said nothing at first, simply moving and keeping him in motion till we emerged in the tunnel behind the storeroom where we had originally entered, its way almost totally blocked by a partial collapse of one wall. We finally sidled through via a narrow and very dusty adit.

  I was able, at that point, to persuade Peters to discard his jester's costume. After that, we picked up the tools we had left behind on our entering, earlier in the year.

  At the town end of the tunnel we discovered that Montresor had walled us in, which of course meant that he had also done it to Fortunato—a deed as grisly as any described in the tales of that master of the macabre, E. T. A. Hoffman, whose s
tories had filled many a slow hour for me at isolated army posts. Had we dropped our tools down a well as Montresor had suggested we would have been trapped.

  Peters swung his hammer with terrific force. Rather than helping him, I simply stayed out of his way. In a matter of minutes he had knocked a hole through the wall large enough for us to pass through.

  Mounting quickly from the cellar we sought about the house. While there was no sign of Montresor, Ligeia responded to my hailing, emerging from an upstairs room, Grip perched upon her shoulder.

  "Perry, damn it! Damn it, Perry!" the bird greeted me.

  "Are you all right, Ligeia?" I asked.

  "I am."

  "Valdemar?"

  "As always."

  "Where's Montresor?"

  "Gone away," she answered.

  "I've a feeling we should do the same."

  "Yes, I've packed a few things."

  "I'll fetch your bag."

  "It's already downstairs."

  "You knew we were coming?"

  "I sent Fortunato for you."

  "Why?"

  "The time was right."

  "How will we travel?"

  "There is a coach," she said, "beside the stables, out back."

  "Then I think we should hitch up a team and head for the border," I said.

  "No," she replied, "for Barcelona, and the sea. The Eidolon should be waiting."

  "How did that come about?"

  "Annie put it into Captain Guy's mind to sail there, quite some time ago."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I was about to do it myself one day when I realized it had already been done."

  "Really," I said. "Is she your—"

  "There are no horses left alive in the stables," she continued. "Help me fetch that tapestry down from the wall."

  I looked in the direction of her gesture. The tapestry in question involved a man stabbing another man, somewhat to the rear, while an enormous and unusually colored horse stood statue-like in the foreground. I moved a small table near to the wall, mounted it and succeeded in removing the tapestry. As I was rolling it, I inquired, "Any special reason we need this thing?"