He followed her in rebellious fascination as they progressed unattended to the ground floor and into a long Palace car with stiffbacked driver and footman.
"Merimee's," she said, and the car spun silently away, mounting to the upper tier of Palace Avenue.
It was dusk, but now and then, when traffic slowed their motion, cheers sounded, and many a glance was cast at them. Margaret of Urbs ignored the glances, but smiled at the cheers.
"Who's Merimee?" Connor asked.
"A rich Sleeper in Kaatskill. Society here is largely Sleepers."
"No nobility?"
"The Immortals seldom entertain. We're a serious lot."
Kaatskill appeared, and they glided into the grounds of an imposing Grecian mansion. Lights were glowing, gay voices sounded as they entered.
There was a sudden silence as the whole assemblage knelt. Margaret of Urbs gestured and the guests arose. Merimee himself, paunchy, bald, came babbling his appreciation, his gratitude for the honor to his house.
"But the entertainment, Your Highness! On such short notice, you seebest the bureau could furnishI know you'll forgive"
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DECLARATION
THE DINNER WAS LAVISH. Connor sat at the left of the Princess. Lines of servitors passed in a steady stream, bearing soups, then fishBombay ducks, pompano, a dozen unknown viandsand fowlortolan, ptarmigan, pheasant, and nameless others.
Connor was ravenous. He sampled everything, and it was the middle of the meal before he noticed the aghast looks of the crowd, and that he was almost the only one who was eating.
"Have I violated the proprieties?" he asked the Princess.
"You're supposed to eat only of the dishes I taste," she informed coolly.
"But I'm hungry. And you've eaten practically nothing."
It was true. Margaret of Urbs had taken only a little salad, though she had sipped glass after glass of wine.
"I like to tantalize these hogs," she replied in low but audible tones. "This bores me."
"Then why come?"
"A whim."
He chuckled, turning his attention to the entertainment. This, he thought, was excellent. An incredibly skillful juggler succeeded a talented magician; a lowvoiced woman sang sweet and ancient tunes; a trio played tinkling melodies. A graceful pair of adagio dancers performed breathtakingly in the square surrounded by the tables, and a contortionist managed unbelievable bodily tangles. The performers came and went in silence. Not one burst of applause rewarded them.
"Unappreciative audience!" Connor growled.
"Is it?" the Princess drawled. "Watch."
The following number, he thought, was the worst of the lot. A frightened, dingy man with a halftrained dancing monkey that chattered and grimaced, but made a sad failure of the dancing. Yet at the conclusion Margaret of Urbs raised her dainty hands, and applauded.
Instantly bedlam broke loose. Applause crashed through the hall; encores were shouted, and the astonished player stumbled once more through the ludicrous performance.
"Well, his fortune's made," observed the Princess. "N'York will want him and Ch'cago, and Singapore as well."
The master of ceremonies was presenting "Homero, the Poet of Personalities," a thinfaced Urban crowned with laurel leaves and bearing a classical harp.
He bowed and smiled.
"And who, Ladies and Lords, shall it be? Of whom do I sing?"
"Her Highness!" roared the crowd. "The Princess of Urbs!"
Homero strummed his harp, and began chanting minstrellike:
"The Princess? Adjective and verb Turn feeble! Glorious? Superb? Exquisite?
None of these can name The splendor of the Urban Flame.
"Our Princess! Stars are loath to rise Lest they be faded by her eyes, Yet once they've risen, they will not set, But gaze entranced on Margaret.
"The continents and oceans seven Revolve beneath the laws of Heaven; What limit, law, or cannon curbs The tongue that speaks the Flame of Urbs?"
Applause, violent and enthusiastic, greeted the gerel. Margaret of Urbs lowered her eyes and smiled.
"Who now?" Homero called. "Of whom do I sing?" Unexpectedly, Merimee spoke. "Tom Connor!" he cried. "Tom Connor, the Ancient!" Homero strummed his harp and sang:
"Ladies and Lords, you do me honor, Giving the name of Thomas Connor, That Ancient, phoenixlike arisen Out of his cold, sepulchral prison, Thrust into lifea comet hurled From the dead past into the world.
"What poet great enough to sing The wonderful awakening?
Let golden Science try explain That miracleand try in vain; For only Art, by Heaven inflamed.
Can dream how Death itself was tamed!"
"He'll turn this into some insipid compliment to me," whispered Margaret of Urbs. The Poet of Personalities sang on:
"Year after year the strong flesh mouldered, Dim was the spark of life that smouldered Until the Princess glanced that way, And lo! The cold and lifeless clay, To Death and Time no longer slave, Burst out triumphant from the grave!"
In the roar of applause Connor sat amazed at the reference to his own experience. How did Homero know? He turned to question the Princess.
"I'm tired of this," she said, and rose to depart.
The whole body of guests rose with her. She drew her cape around her and strode to the car.
"Slowly," she ordered the driver, then leaned back gazing at Connor.
"Well?" she murmured.
"Interesting. That Homerohe's clever."
"Bah! Stock verses composed beforehand."
"Butabout me?"
"Don't you know you've been a newspaper and vision sensation?"
"The devil!" Connor was shocked.
"This Homero," she went on musingly. "Once, long ago, I knew Severn, the only great poet of the Enlightenment, he who half seriously, half contemptuously, named me the Black Flame, and the only mansave you, Tom Connor, who ever flaunted me to my face. And one evening he angered me, and I exiled him from Urbs, Urbs that he lovedand too late I found that his bitterness grew out of a love for me.
"So I called him back in time to die, when not even Martin Sair could save him. And dying he said to meI recall it'I take my revenge in remembering that you are human, and to be human is to love and suffer. Do not forget it.' " She paused. "Nor have I."
"And was it true?" asked Connor, struck suddenly by this revelation of the fiery, imperious, untameable character beside him.
"I think, lately, that it is true," she murmured, and drew a long breath. "I have slain, I have tortured, for less violence than you have committed against me."
She flung open her cape, baring the marks of his fingers still on the exquisite curve of her throat.
"I cannotsuffer the touch of violence, and yet you have struck me twice and still live. There is a magic about you, Thomas Connor, some laughing ancient strength that has died out of the world. I have never begged anyonebut I fear you and I plead with you." She swayed against him. "Kiss me!" she whispered.
He stared down at the unearthly beauty of her face, but there was a green light in her eyes that puzzled him. Coolly he fought the fascination that was cast netlike about him. This was but another taste of the torment she had promised. He was sure of it.
"I will not," he said. "Each time I have kissed you, you have laughed at me."
"But I will not laugh now."
"You'll not trap me again by the same trick," he said. "Find another way for the torment you threatened. And when you're ready to kill me for the violence I did you, I'll die laughing at you."
"I have forgiven that," she said softly.
"Then," he said mockingly, "here's more to forgive."
He lifted her slender wrist in his mighty hand, circled it with his powerful fingers, and crushed it in a grasp like contracting steel. It gave him a grim pleasure to thus vent his turbulent emotions on her, and to see her face whiten under pain that must have been excruciating. But save for her pallor she gave no sign of agony.
H
e dropped her hand, ashamed of his cruelty, though it was not as if he had used his strength against a mortal woman. Margaret of Urbs seemed to him rather a female demon.
But she only said softly, "I thank you for this. It has taught me what I wanted to know, for any other than you would now be dead for it. I love you, Tom."
"Flame!" he retorted, while her eyes widened the merest trifle at the familiarity. "I don't believe you."
"But you must! After all these years upon years I am sure. I swear it, Tom! Say you love me."
"I loveEvanie." But despite his words the doubts that had been constantly creeping in on him assailed him. Evanie was still alien, somehow.
"You love me!" she murmured. "I am the Black Flame, yet I plead now. Say it, Tom!"
"I love Evanie!"
"Then will you kiss me?"
He stared down at her. "Why not?" he said savagely. "Do you think I'm afraid of you?"
He spun her against him and her lips burned against his.
"Say you love me!" she repeated in a tense whisper. "Say it!"
"I love" he began, and the car slid to a stop before the Palace arch. The footman stood holding the car door open.
Margaret of Urbs gazed as if distraught from Connor's face to the silent attendant and back again.
Abruptly she thrust herself away, her mouth quivering.
"I wish," she said tensely, "Iwish I had never seen you!"
She struck him a sharp blow across his mouth, clambered unassisted to the ground, and disappeared into the Palace, trailing her black cape behind her.
Back in his room again, Connor was in a turmoil, ashamed, perplexed, bitter.
"Caught!" he swore fiercely. "Burned! God! What a foolwhat a weakling!"
For call it what he wouldit was true. Fascination, infatuation, anythingthe fact faced him that the Black Flame had burned Evanie from his heart. He swore viciously and battered at Evanie's door.
The blows echoed into silence. There was no response.
With a longdrawn sigh, Connor turned away from Evanie's door. Whether absent or simply ignoring him, she had failed him, and he needed her desperately now. He wanted to quench the fires of the Black Flame in her cool simplicity, to reassure himself that what he now felt was an obsession, an infatuationanything but love.
He wanted to convince himself it was Evanie he loved by telling her so. Better never to have emerged from under the prison than to live again, loving a mask of beauty hiding a daughter of Satan.
He strode to the casement overlooking the Gardens. Dim light from the Palace windows streaked in bars across it, but he saw no sign of Evanie. But could that be Evaniethere where the bushes shadowed the pool?
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
THE AMPHIMORPHS IN THE POOL
TOM CONNOR MADE his way hurriedly to the Gardens. He saw Evanie crouched in the shadow of shrubbery just above the brink of the water. He dashed forward as she glanced up at him.
"Evanie!" he began. "Oh, my dear" "Hush!" Her voice was tense. "But"
"Be still. Speak softly. Do you think I want a scanner on me?" She paused. "I'd rather you'd go away," she whispered.
He seated himself stubbornly beside her, though it seemed certain she was waiting for someone. Jan Orm, probably.
"I won't go," he said in a subdued voice. "You've got to listen to me, Evanie."
"Please!" she murmured. "Be quiet, Tom. I've been waiting here six hours." "For what?"
She made no reply. He subsided into gloomy silence, watching the great column of water that gushed from the jaws of the huge stone lion at the far end of the pool. The water, smooth as a steel pillar, fell with suprisingly little sound.
But while he gazed, it changed. The smoothness was broken. Bubbles flashed, and then the flow ceased altogether while a huge bubble glistened, billowed and broke. Something white and shining and large as a man shot with a small splash into the pool. The column of water crashed instantly back.
A webbed hand holding a silkwrapped package rose suddenly from the black water. An amphimorph!
Evanie seized the bundle, crammed it beneath an Urban cape at her side.
"Quick!" she said tensely. "Stand here beside me, Tom, so we'll block the scanner."
He obeyed wonderingly. A queer low coo came from Evanie's lips. The black waters parted again and he glimpsed the tiny round mouth and horrible face of the creature in the pool. It flopped to the bank, scuttled desperately along into the bushes. He saw it raise the lid of a manhole of a stormsewer, and it was gone.
Pale and trembling Evanie sank down on the bank, her bronzed legs dangling toward the water. "If only we weren't seen!" she whispered. "How the devil did that thing get here?" Connor demanded.
"It rode a bubble down the water tunnel from the mountains, fifty miles. An amphimorph doesn't need much air. A big bubble will last."
"But"
"Don't ask me how it found the maze of mains in Urbs. I don't know. I only know they have queer instinctive ways of getting where they want to go. Now it's gone into the stormsewer. It will find its way to the Canal and so up rivers to its mountains."
"But what was that it brought, and from whom?"
"From King Orm."
"From whom?" he persisted.
"Tom," she said quietly, "I'm not going to tell you."
"What was in that package, Evanie?"
"I won't tell you that, either." She threw the cape over her arm, concealing the package. "I can't trust you, Tom. You and I are enemies."
She backed away at his anger.
"Tom, please! You promised to help me escape, didn't you?"
"All right," he yielded dully. "Evanie, I sought you out here because I wanted to end this misunderstanding. Please give me a chance to convince you I love you!"
He held out his arms to her. She backed another step.
"I won't come near you, Tom. I won't trust myself in your arms. I'm afraid of you, and I'm afraid of myself. You're strongtoo strong for me physically, and perhaps too strong otherwise. You wakened my love once. I dare not chance it again."
"Oh, Evanie! Now of all times, when I need you!"
"Need me?" A queer expression flickered over her face. "So the Black Flame burns at last!" Her voice dropped to a murmur. "I'm sorry for you, Tom. I'm sorry for anyone who loves her, because she's utterly heartless. But I can't come near you. I don't dare!"
She turned and darted suddenly into the Palace, leaving him to stare hopelessly after, and then to follow slowly.
He slept little that night. Restless, tortured hours were filled with dreams of Margaret of Urbs and the sound of her laughter. He arose early and wandered dully from his room.
The halls were crowded with arriving Immortals, among whom he stalked as silent and grave as themselves. At last, tired of aimless wandering, he went into the shaded Gardens, and sat glumly down beside the pool.
Far overhead Triangles drifted with muffled, throbbing roars, and a bird sang in the bushes. Deep in his own perturbed thoughts, he was startled when he heard his name spoken softly, almost timidly.
"Tom."
He looked up. Margaret of Urbs stood beside him, garbed in the most magnificent gown he had ever seen, golden and black, and concealing her tiny feet. Instead of the circlet of the previous evening, she wore now a coronet of scintillant brilliance, and the strange flower flamed at her waist.
"Official robes," she said and smiled. "I preside this morning."
She looked a little worn, he thought. There was a pallor on her cheeks, and a subdued air about her.
Her smile, almost wistful, tore at him.
"You didn't give me a chance to thank you for last night," he said.
"Did you want to thank me? Foreverything?"
"No," he said stonily. "Not for everything."
She dropped listlessly to the bench beside him.
"I'm tired," she said wearily. "I didn't sleep well, and my head aches. That Grecian wine. I must see Martin Sair."
"My head aches for other re
asons," he said grimly.
"I'm sorry, Tom."
"Were you laughing at me last night?" he blazed.
"No," she said gently. "No."
"I don't believe you!"
"No matter. Tom, I came here to tell you something." She paused and gazed steadily at him. "The Master will grant you immortality."
"What?"
She nodded. "He considers you worthy."
"Worthy! What of the children of mine he was so anxious about?"
"You're to have them first."
He laughed bitterly. "Then I'll be old and feeble by the time I'm ready for immortality. Evanie has refused meand I refuse him! I'll live my life out in my own way."
"Think well of it first," she said slowly, and something in her voice caught him.
"Now I know I won't accept," he flashed. "You begged him for it! Do you think I'd take favors of you?"
"I didn't" She was silent. After a moment she said, "Would you believe one statement of mine, Torn?"
"Not one."
At last his bitterness touched her. She flushed faintly. The old gleam of mockery shone for an instant.
"You're right, of course," she snapped. "There's nothing real remaining of Margaret of Urbs. She's the Black Flame that burns on illusion's altar. You must never believe a single word of hers."
"Nor do I!"
"But will you believe one sentence if I swear it by something sacred to me? One thing, Tom?"
"What's sacred to you? God? Honor? Not even yourself!"
"By the one thing I love," she said steadily, "I swear I'm speaking the truth now. Will you believe me?"
It was on his very tongue to say no. He was thoroughly surprised to hear himself mutter "Yes"and mean it.
"Then do you remember that day in the Triangle when I said I was going to commit suicide? I swear that is the only lie I've ever told you. Do you understand? The only lie!"
She arose as he stared at her uncomprehendingly.
"I want to be alone," she whispered. "I'm going to"a brief, wistful smile"my thinking room."
Connor's brain was whirling. He did believe her. What of it? Evanie didn't love him. He knew that now. And he didn't love Evanie. And Margaret of Urbssaid she loved him! Could it be possible...
A blinding light in his brain! The Black Flamehis! The unearthly beauty of her, the wild, untamed character, his to tameif he could. The Satanic spirit, the fiery soul, all his for life. For life? For immortality, if he chose!
The Black Flame Page 20
