Hertha’s heart swelled with tenderness. She kissed Nyve’s forehead gently.
Ten days later, they were heading northwards. The Misty Isles received the fleet in their harbors with squat edifices, under the winds of three seas. They were dependencies of Rovenar, a continental realm. Wars and harsh scourges had not driven human migration, and their inhabitants were not numerous. Everyone was astonished to see the southern princess on the waves, solely for the sake of adventure.
The fresh and limitless sea, the foamy wakes, the long miles that the ships devoured; the pilots no longer knew the route. Hertha’s companions searched her eyes. Her finger pointed northwards.
She had anticipated the cold and ice. No one aboard had suffered from the slow lowering of the temperature, but there had been no sign of snow. The air inflated the captain’s breast, with rediscovered joy. The horizon was ringed by waves and the journey had extended for days while the lookouts wearied their sleepless eyes. Finally, one of them shouted: “Land!”
Gradually, a vast coast extended, which seemed to have emerged from the waters the day before. The horizon swallowed up florid steppes. The islets were dark with woods. A lazy river opened up. The ships sailed up it. The daughters of Nirvanir smiled at that land of which they had never dared to dream, sprung from the legendary, unlimited, sterile ocean.
After long miles, a cataract blocked the route. The vast majesty of inhuman, snowy mountains appeared. For the first time, Drymean eyes rested on summits blue-tinted by ice.
They anchored in the river, and for several days they explored the land around the cataract. Beneath the white sun, pink snows could be distinguished, and distant valleys filled with blue tints. When Oriah or Nynfa poured forth their cold light in the silver dusk, it became an entire landscape of dream and legend. On the Polar Continent, an eternal spring reigned as far as the foothills of the mountains.
A frozen lake reflected the distant landscape, leagues away. On the plateaux, Hertha felt the days of her childhood return. A little further, the North!
She said to Nyve: “You have done more than I hope, my Princess of dreams. Let me go on alone, to be alone out there before the sky and the mountains. That lake will receive the Aerac I brought on my Seagull. There’s nothing to fear: I shall go straight ahead!”
“You may go,” Nyve conceded. “It seems to me that in the mountains of this terrible land, the arm of another would be a welcome support—but your motives are always good. Come back quickly.”
A few minutes later, Hertha left. The flowery steppes flew by, the lake became enormous. A transparent mirror of water, it reflected a bleak solitude. Hertha knew once again the absence of living individuals. An immensity of plateaux and an infinite extent of brutal stone surrounded her, mounting toward the North. No greenery; just ricks and dormant waters. Solitary peaks bristled. She left the Aerac moored to the bank, and went on.
After a long march, a marine horizon, masked until then, was suddenly revealed: a frightful and monotonous landscape; bare walls plunging steeply into the silent waves. And when the silver dusk came, beneath the cold moons, Hertha could have believed herself to be on another planet. Beneath the motionless sky a dead world surrounded her. The mountains loomed over her, pitilessly. She had the impression, in a silence so overwhelming that she thought she could hear it, of a hostile, crushing, dark omnipotence. Thus might be imagined the great infinity of space is which all life is erased, in which the Stars die!
For two days she remained in that silent land. Alone, she was able to meditate on others and herself, review her past, contemplate the future. Twenty times over she was haunted by Invisible Presences, so close that she sometimes felt a frisson, as if someone were looking over her shoulder. Voices whispered in her heart: This continent sprang from the waves during our long voyage. Nothing exists here yet but plants and us, free spirits. Hertha, in driving the prows of your ships northwards, you have gained a thousand years for Drymea. A vigorous race will be launched on this soil when you reign here! In these mountains metals lie dormant that Drymea does not know, but which exist! Hertha, you have not lived in vain. Accept this proof as a necessary step.
She bowed her proud head, but she also saw the proud summit that it was necessary for her to reach. She accepted all the burdens. Tempered and pure, like steel, she drove her Aerac upwards into the sky. A part of the Continent was reflected in her eyes, an emerald ocean with broad rivers, a rising mass of somber plateaux The mountains in the continent’s center were dazzling in the golden sunlight; the distant sea was like a blue ribbon.
Then she steered toward her goal, landed on the waves, and was received as if she had brought back its very soul. For a long moment Nyve looked at Hertha, calm and silent in the serenity rising up in her clear eyes. “Nevea,” she said, “you have seen your Goddess up there in the mountains. I know your gaze, which I have mingled so many times with mine, and you have seen more than we can.”
“Her throne is not of this world, and no one can see her face to face—but perhaps I have heard her counsel, in the Solitude.”
While exploring the Continent, Hertha convinced herself that, thanks to the southern currents, the two suns, and the very slight inclination of Drymea’s axis, the temperature was similar to that of our temperate regions, save for the mountains. Its surface represented several million square miles, lakes mingling with the steppes, and a warm arm of the sea penetrating as far as the plateaux.
I shall rediscover the cold landscapes of my childhood higher up, Hertha thought, but if my body is young, my mind is a thousand years old. I have, in truth, passed through death. It would be easy for me to await the other awakening, when the hour will sound that only comes once to everyone.
IX. The Years Pass
Drymea has orbited the golden sun, gently balanced in the double light, nine times since Hertha’s arrival. Her work has spread through the 37 realms, and continues, extending ever further. To millions of souls she has brought joy and beauty. But what of Hertha?
Hertha is leaning, this golden evening, on the terrace of her palace. Built in black granite, it overlooks the Blue River of the pole. All that she can see is hers. Everything that lives, works and thinks, from one end of the polar continent to the other, is obedient to her law. Although her subjects know her name, they usually call her the Helmeted Queen—for, always clad in somber leather, beneath the great white cloak that undulates around her, the queen with the pale face travels her continent at a rapid pace, by land or water, in a low helmet with a narrow circle of gold. The blonde virgin has risen as high as a mortal can.
The discovery of the new Continent has resounded through the 37 realms. The greatest power that exists on Drymea, the Council of Queens, which brings together those of the pale north and the bronzed south, has awarded Hertha the sovereignty of the unknown realm, by right of discovery. Queen Nacrysa proposed it, Drythea and Rheeve offered their support. The Council approved. This time, Hertha accepted the burden of command and the golden crown—for it was not a matter of enjoying the labor of generations, but of being the captain of a human conquest.
In the port of Nyverel—Nyve’s city, the capital—at the foot of the palace, a large vessel gleams, with scarlet sails and hull. The queen with the ardent eyes, beside the blonde queen, thinks: In its somber beauty, Nyverel rivals Nirvanir or Manharvar.
“Nevea,” she says, “day by day and month by month, your cities grow. Every realm sends you its subjects. In truth, they are living in a beautiful tale, under your law. Your knowledge and your power serve their happiness. I still cannot hope to understand them, but what are your thoughts?”
“Before coming to this harmonious world,” Hertha says, “I acquired a bitter knowledge. Nevertheless, it gives me the love of those who depend on me. I always rise to raise them up. I pray for success.”
“Yes,” Drythea replies, “They say, even in Lisfer: in the polar realm, Queen Nevea can lie down in the most bitter solitude! She opens her eyes to find a devoted court
in her safe-keeping. But I also see you, motionless or launched in rapid movement, thinking, seeking and working for our realm. Your beauty charmed me once, the your will, your vast intelligence. Now, I’m astonished by your generosity, which is all-inclusive. It seems that for years, a vast horizon has been growing before your eyes.”
The Red Queen, whom Nevea has made better, continues: “And yet I know what terrible depths there are in your soul. Your strength is immense; you have limited your power but in a crisis, your people turn to you, who can do anything. On our organization you superimpose the endless possibilities of your science. You unite everything into a whole, which is you. Your fleets sail for Lisfer, your great aircraft display their hulls in every realm. Your captains have discovered the pole of the thousand lakes, on the far side of Drymea. On isles once unknown your flag flies. Everywhere, eyes watch out for you. And you encircle the world with such a network, at your orders, that the 16 auditors of Nyverel have fingers in every land. A tempest may form in Lisfer, a volcano erupt at the south pole, a cliff collapse in the realm of Sands, and the 16 are aware of it in Nyverel—and they inform Drymea! You have saved many lives at sea, Nevea, now that our ships are bolder. Colossus of power, Nevea, your three realms—Flormal and the Ocean Isles, the Sands of Kartha and this one—encircle us!”
“You said to me once, Drythea: I will leave you my beautiful Manharvar. Do you think that my three realms are not enough to crush me? Fortunately, your daughter has been born—for I am responsible for the good that I do not do and the evil, if any, that I cannot help doing. Crowns are heavy, to judge by these.”
“Responsible to whom?” said Drythea. “Your people love you and you are the equal of the queens. Above your head there is nothing but the veiled Goddess—who is indulgent.”
“We differ, then,” said Hertha, smiling. “You have seen the Temple that I have built, in honor of the One, Being with the welcoming arms or Veiled Goddess. When I a judged, I will not be as tranquil as you, for I know that I am the daughter of a redoubtable world.”
“I know that, Nevea. If you wished, your unleashed force could crush Drymea. I’m not afraid, my friend, for you would defend me from yourself. But I know that south of Nyverel, there is a weakness before which your strength bends. Although there are moments in the Council of Queens when you, who see two worlds, could overturn Drymea with your hand, I know that during the months when you read your duty in the eyes of your Princess, for a third of the year, Nyve is queen in Nyverel.”
The Red Queen went on: After all, “you’re right. The Princess with the soft eyes is the best of us. You charm her still, but she remains herself, no longer a reflection of your thought.”
That evening, according to her custom when she was resident in Nyverel, the queen received the young women who had reached their 16th year. For a week, they are welcomed by her in the virgins’ palace. From all over the realm, they are able to know her, and their queen is no bleak abstraction for their young eyes.
The short night was about to begin. Sleep, after the day’s work, was imminent for Hertha. The visit of the virgins of her State would not disturb her.
They appeared, their garments embroidered with flowers or birds undulating over their supple bodies. They surrounded the queen and took their places at her feet, on cushions. On Hertha’s orders, cups of perfumed beverages were brought, sparkling with jewels. They interrogated her gently. They had no fear under that profound gaze, which contemplated two worlds.
Suddenly, the Red Queen reappeared. “Nevea,” she said, “someone is suffering in your Palace of Virgins. I sensed it when I got back to my ship.”
“Yes,” the young women admitted, “one of us is not here. In spite of her pain and ours, she did not wish to come, for Mynia does not dare appear before your eyes.”
The great queen stood up. “Thank you, Drythea, for alerting me. One of you take me to Mynia. Renhea, would you like to take these young women to the dining hall.”
“Child,” said the queen, when she found herself before a small melancholy form, half-hidden among the flowers of a reception room, “I had to come to you, for you do not dare to come to the Queen. Come, tell me your name.”
In that thin, asymmetrical face, devoured by dark hair, there was nothing beautiful but the large gleaming eyes, full of an intense life.
I’ve seen them before, Hertha thought.
After the feast, she interrogated her on the terrace of Nyverel, from which she liked to look at the suns, the stars and the sea.
“I’ve seen you before, Mynia, but when? I have read it in your eyes.”
“Do you remember, Queen, the little girl who came on to the shore in the Summer Land, before your departure? You seemed to me so wise and so beautiful. Everyone was talking about you. I was little then, and no longer had a mother, but you were able to take notice of me. I couldn’t understand all the light in your words, but it gave me such great joy to listen to you, go be near to you! Then you left us.”
Her words flew into the darkness. Hertha listened, silently. “You wanted to come to my realm to see the Nevea of yesteryear again, as queen?”
“But I did not dare,” sighed the child, “for back then, you were close to me, and here, your triple crown frightens me more than the others. For no one, I know, fears your eyes.”
“Do you trust me, Mynia, and can you obey me—now that you know that Nevea has not been forgotten by the queen?”
“I will obey you until death,” said Mynia.
“Death does not belong to queens, and you are wrong to say that, Mynia, but I know your intentions are good. Will you tell me your dreams and desires, known only to the Goddess? I can understand a great deal, for I have known suffering. I can forgive more and perhaps clarify more than a Drymean, for I have a double experience.”
In the bilunar night, the soft voice whispered, becoming bolder and louder. The Helmeted Queen listened, smiling or gravely. Suddenly, she said: “Mynia, let me review times gone by.”
A summer evening in her 20th year, during a voyage to France, her mother’s homeland, on the terraces of Versailles, following a day that had soothed her hear. The intoxicating music of a celebrated orchestra; eminent men seen at the home of Tertius, her half-brother, the ambassador of Liberty, who made a fuss of her. That morning had brought her a book from Kartha, Tales of the North, a collection she had assembled for schools, with graceful illustrations. Flattering comments had accompanied it. The evening brought lively intellectual pleasures among selected friends. Now, in a beautiful setting, Hertha was listening to the evocative words of the novelist Tarol, and people were crowding around here. Very beautiful, rich, and the stepsister of two heads of State, and also well-educated, it was felt that she might dignify a life, and, once her heart as given, remain a faithful friend through good and bad times. In the middle of an eloquent sentence, a sickly little girl came forward and handed Hertha a bouquet of common flowers. But the latter looked at her almost with hostility. It was necessary for her to fall out of her enchanted world to think that the poor exist. The child was sent away, with alms.
That entire scene reappeared before the queen who was Hertha. Lord, she thought, how harsh I was that day. Overburdened with happiness, I did not want to be distracted from it by giving a crumb to another. I could have changed that child’s life at a stroke. I had the power to do so! The sin remains. The immense future lies before me, and the lesson will serve me.
Then she turned back to Mynia. “I was thinking of long ago, before I came to Drymea. Would you like to stay with me? Would you dare? Do you think that I would choose a sterile life for you? You could do something for the benefit of our sisters. The silver sun is rising. Go into the halls of rest, with your companions. I will come soon.”
Thus Hertha rediscovered the thoughtful and ugly child, Mynia of Nirvanir.
X. An Act of God, By My Hand
One year, the Helmeted Queen went to the Council of Queens. She left power, during her absence, to the princess heir
—because, for two years, Mynia, adopted by the queen, had worn the light diadem of daughters of the royal blood. Happiness and a new life had rendered her pleasant to the eye. She had not forgotten the groups of Nirvanir or the pole that had looked after her as a child, nor her companions. Her affection for Hertha approached adoration, but she did not lose sight of the realm in her clear eyes. She learned to reign, and the younger soul of the queen lived again in her.
Hertha found Nyve and her daughter in Nirvanir; the line of the queens of Nirvanir was continuing. Then, her yacht carried her through Armela toward the profound monuments of Harya, the capital of the central realm and the seat of the Cuncill. It was held during the period of endless days. Even distant Lisfer delegated two crown-bearers to the supreme power of Drymea.
When Hertha arrived, royal ships were already swaying in the transparent canals. Some lifted up swan-like prows, some were elongated like gondolas, and some were decorated with variegated flowers. Drythea deployed a red canopy supported by brightly-colored statues.
“What news is there of your emerald land? Have those of my subjects who have come under your law any regret for my fiery skies?”
“The flight of my machines sets Nyverel and Manharvar only a few days apart. I can only reign over a free people, for them and not for me. Whoever desires may quite my realm immediately. I learned those lessons in lands of silence and solitude, Drythea.”
The Red Queen smiled. “Your ideas are beautiful and you believe in others. My daughter does not follow them all. Next year, though, I shall send her to you. Whoever has not yet seen your eyes has not yet lived!”
All the queens knew Hertha. She belonged to Drymean history. As Drythea had said, the world of the two suns sometimes rested in her hand. She took no vanity from her enormous invincible force; it was at the service of other realms.
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