Elric in the Dream Realms - Michael Moorcock [60]
There was no obvious transition from Sadanor to Marador, save perhaps a slight change of mood, and then the tunnel had opened up into a vast natural hall of richly glowing blues and greens and golden yellows and dark pinks, all flowing one to the other, like lava which had only recently cooled, more like exotic plants than the rock they were. Scents, like those of the loveliest, headiest flowers, made Elric feel he walked in a garden, not unlike the gardens he had known as a child, places of the greatest security and tranquility; yet there was no doubt that the place was a cavern and that they had traveled underground to reach it.
At first delighted by the sight, Elric began to feel a certain sadness, for until now he had not remembered those gardens of childhood, the innocent happiness which comes so rarely to a Melnibonéan, no matter what their age. He thought of his mother, dead in childbirth, of his infinitely mourning father, who had refused to acknowledge the son who, in his opinion, had killed his wife.
A movement from the depths of this natural hall and Elric again feared danger, but the people who began to emerge were unarmed and they had faces full of restrained melancholy.
“We have arrived in Marador,” whispered Oone with certainty.
“You are here to join us?” A woman spoke. She wore flowing robes of myriad, glistening colours, mirroring the colours of the rock on walls and roof. She had long hair of faded gold and her eyes were the shade of old pewter. She reached to touch Elric—a greeting—and her hand was cold on his. He felt himself becoming infected with the same sad tranquility and it seemed to him that there could be worse fates than remaining here, recalling the desires and pleasures of his past, when life had been so much simpler and the world had seemed easily conquered, easily improved.
Behind him Oone said in a voice which sounded unduly harsh to his ear. “We are travelers in your land, my lady. We mean you no harm, but we cannot stay.”
A man spoke. “Travelers? What do you seek?”
“We seek,” said Elric, “the Fortress of the Pearl.”
Oone was clearly displeased by his frankness. “We have no desire to tarry in Marador. We wish only to learn the location of the next gate, the Paranor Gate.”
The man smiled wistfully. “It is lost, I fear. Lost to all of us. Yet there is no harm in loss. There is comfort in it, even, don’t you feel?” He turned dreaming, distant eyes on them. “Better not to seek that which can only disappoint. Here we prefer to remember what we most wanted and how it was to want it …”
“Better, surely, to continue looking for it?” Elric was surprised by his own blunt tone.
“Why so, sir, when the reality can only prove inadequate when compared against the hope?”
“Think you so, sir?” Elric was prepared to consider this notion, but Oone’s grip on his arm tightened.
“Remember the name that dreamthieves give this land,” she murmured.
Elric reflected that it was truly the Land of Old Desires. All of his own forgotten yearnings were returning to him, bringing a sense of simplicity and peace. Now he remembered how those sensations had been replaced by anger as he began to realize that there was little likelihood of his dreams ever coming true. He had raged at the injustice of the world. He had flung himself into his sorcerous studies. He had become determined to change the balance of things and introduce greater liberty, greater justice by means of the power he had in the world. Yet his fellow Melnibonéans had refused to accept his logic. The early dreams had begun to fade and with them the hope which had at first lifted his heart. Now here