Elric of Melnibone - Michael Moorcock [2]
‘Cymoril. I thought you had decided not to grace the court tonight?’
She returns his smile. ‘My emperor, I found that I was in the mood for conversation, after all.’
Elric is grateful. She knows that he is bored and she knows, too, that she is one of the few people of Melniboné whose conversation interests him. If protocol allowed, he would offer her the throne, but as it is she must sit on the topmost step at his feet.
‘Please sit, sweet Cymoril.’ He resumes his place upon the throne and leans forward as she seats herself and looks into his eyes with a mixed expression of humour and tenderness. She speaks softly as her guard withdraws to mingle at the sides of the steps with Elric’s own guard. Her voice can be heard only by Elric.
‘Would you ride out to the wild region of the island with me tomorrow, my lord?’
‘There are matters to which I must give my attention...’ He is attracted by the idea. It is weeks since he left the city and rode with her, their escort keeping a discreet distance away.
‘Are they urgent?’
He shrugs. ‘What matters are urgent in Melniboné? After ten thousand years, most problems may be seen in a certain perspective.’ His smile is almost a grin, rather like that of a young scholar who plans to play truant from his tutor. ‘Very well—early in the morning, we’ll leave, before the others are up.’
‘The air beyond Imrryr will be clear and sharp. The sun will be warm for the season. The sky will be blue and unclouded.’
Elric laughs. ‘Such sorcery you must have worked!’
Cymoril lowers her eyes and traces a pattern on the marble of the dais. ‘Well, perhaps a little. I am not without friends among the weakest of the elementals...’
Elric stretches down to touch her fine, fair hair. ‘Does Yyrkoon know?’
‘No.’
Prince Yyrkoon has forbidden his sister to meddle in magical matters. Prince Yyrkoon’s friends are only among the darker of the supernatural beings and he knows that they are dangerous to deal with; thus he assumes that all sorcerous dealings bear a similar element of danger. Besides this, he hates to think that others possess the power that he possesses. Perhaps this is what, in Elric, he hates most of all.
‘Let us hope that all Melniboné needs fine weather for tomorrow,’ says Elric. Cymoril stares curiously at him. She is still a Melnibonéan. It has not occurred to her that her sorcery might prove unwelcome to some. Then she shrugs her lovely shoulders and touches her lord lightly upon the hand.
‘This “guilt”,’ she says. ‘This searching of the conscience. Its purpose is beyond my simple brain.’
‘And mine, I must admit. It seems to have no practical function. Yet more than one of our ancestors predicted a change in the nature of our earth. A spiritual as well as a physical change. Perhaps I have glimmerings of this change when I think my stranger, un-Melnibonéan, thoughts?’
The music swells. The music fades. The courtiers dance on, though many eyes are upon Elric and Cymoril as they talk at the top of the dais. There is speculation. When will Elric announce Cymoril as his empress-to-be? Will Elric revive the custom that Sadric dismissed, of sacrificing twelve brides and their bridegrooms to the Lords of Chaos in order to ensure a good marriage for the rulers of Melniboné? It was obvious that Sadric’s refusal to allow the custom to continue brought misery upon him and death upon his wife; brought him a sickly son and threatened the very continuity of the monarchy. Elric must revive the custom. Even Elric must fear a repetition of the doom which visited his father. But