Elric in the Dream Realms - Michael Moorcock [150]
Elric turns to look at the old seer.
ELRIC: “But I brood too much, eh, Master Tanglebones?”
Then the young prince was on his feet, shrugging off his melancholy as the dreams of doom faded from his memory.
Elric is smiling again. He has risen and has his arm around the delighted Cymoril.
ELRIC: “Come, my dear Cymoril. Let’s to our horses and the clean sweet air again. I have a fancy to taste the simple pleasures.”
He and Cymoril leave the room, laughing joyfully.
Leaving Tanglebones who, in his thoughtful wisdom, watches them go.
TANGLEBONES: “Aye, my lord. Taste them while you may. And pray they last—as I shall also pray.”
For the old man feared that tragedy and death would soon fall upon Melniboné, and when they came, they must surely signify …
The End
A PORTRAIT IN IVORY
A PORTRAIT IN IVORY
(2005)
CHAPTER ONE
An Encounter with a Lady
ELRIC, WHO HAD slept well and revived himself with fresh-brewed herbs, was in improved humour as he mixed honey and water into his glass of green breakfast wine. Typically, his night had been filled with distressing dreams, but any observer would see only a tall, insouciant “silverskin” with high cheekbones, slightly sloping eyes and tapering ears, revealing nothing of his inner thoughts.
He had found a quiet hostelry away from the noisy centre of Seréd-Öma, this city of tall palms. Here, merchants from all over the Young Kingdoms gathered to trade their goods in return for the region’s most valuable produce. This was not the dates or livestock, on which Seréd-Öma’s original wealth had been founded, but the extraordinary creations of artists famed everywhere in the lands bordering the Sighing Desert. Their carvings, especially of animals and human portraits, were coveted by kings and princes. It was the reputation of these works of art which brought the crimson-eyed albino out of his way to see them for himself. Even in Melniboné, where barbarian art for the most part was regarded with distaste, the sculptors of Seréd-Öma had been admired.
Though Elric had left the scabbarded runesword and black armour of his new calling in his chamber and wore the simple chequered clothing of a regional traveler, his fellow guests tended to keep a certain distance from him. Those who had heard little of Melniboné’s fall had celebrated the Bright Empire’s destruction with great glee until the implications of that sudden defeat were understood. Certainly, Melniboné no longer controlled the world’s trade and could no longer demand ransom from the Young Kingdoms, but the world was these days in confusion as upstart nations vied to seize the power for themselves. And meanwhile, Melnibonéan mercenaries found employment in the armies of rival countries. Without being certain of his identity, they could tell at once that Elric was one of those misplaced unhuman warriors, infamous for their cold good manners and edgy pride.
Rather than find themselves in a quarrel with him, the customers of the Rolling Pig kept their distance. The haughty albino too seemed indisposed to open a conversation. Instead, he sat at his corner table staring into his morning wine, brooding on what could not be forgotten. His history was written on handsome features which would have been youthful were it not for his thoughts. He reflected on an unsettled past and an uneasy future. Even had someone dared approach him, however sympathetically, to ask what concerned him, he would have answered lightly and coldly, for, save in his nightmares, he refused to confront most of those concerns. Thus, he did not look up when a woman, wearing the conical russet hat and dark veil of her caste, approached him through the crowd of busy dealers.
“Sir?” Her voice was a dying melody. “Master Melnibonéan, could you tolerate my presence at your table?” Falling rose petals, sweet and brittle from the sun.
‘Lady,” said Elric, in the courteous tone his people reserved for their own high-born kin, “I am at my breakfast. But I will gladly order more wine …”
“Thank you, sir. I did not