Elric_ The Sleeping Sorceress - Michael Moorcock [132]
Dyvim Tvar and Rackhir the Red Archer looked enquiringly at Elric who kneeled by the bed, staring into the face of Cymoril. Her face grew peaceful as he watched and for one terrible moment he suspected Prince Yyrkoon of tricking him and of killing Cymoril. But then the eyelids moved and the eyes opened and she saw him and she smiled. “Elric? The dreams . . . You are safe?”
“I am safe, Cymoril. As you are.”
“Yyrkoon . . .?”
“He woke you.”
“But you swore to slay him . . .”
“I was as much subject to sorcery as you. My mind was confused. It is still confused where some matters are concerned. But Yyrkoon is changed now. I defeated him. He does not doubt my power. He no longer lusts to usurp me.”
“You are merciful, Elric.” She brushed hair from her face.
Elric exchanged a glance with Rackhir.
“It might not be mercy which moves me,” said Elric. “It might merely be a sense of fellowship with Yyrkoon.”
“Fellowship? Surely you cannot feel . . .”
“We are both mortal. We were both victims of a game played between the Lords of the Higher Worlds. My loyalty must, finally, be to my own kind—and that is why I ceased to hate Yyrkoon.”
“And that is mercy,” said Cymoril.
Yyrkoon walked towards the door. “May I leave, my lord emperor?”
Elric thought he detected a strange light in his defeated cousin’s eyes. But perhaps it was only humility or despair. He nodded. Yyrkoon went from the room, closing the door softly.
Dyvim Tvar said: “Trust Yyrkoon not at all, Elric. He will betray you again.” The Lord of the Dragon Caves was troubled.
“No,” said Elric. “If he does not fear me, he fears the sword I now carry.”
“And you should fear that sword,” said Dyvim Tvar.
“No,” said Elric. “I am the master of the sword.”
Dyvim Tvar made to speak again but then shook his head almost sorrowfully, bowed and, together with Rackhir the Red Archer, left Elric and Cymoril alone.
Cymoril took Elric in her arms. They kissed. They wept.
* * *
There were celebrations in Melniboné for a week. Now almost all the ships and men and dragons were home. And Elric was home, having proved his right to rule so well that all his strange quirks of character (this ‘mercy’ of his was perhaps the strangest) were accepted by the populace.
In the throne room there was a ball and it was the most lavish ball any of the courtiers had ever known. Elric danced with Cymoril, taking a full part in the activities. Only Yyrkoon did not dance, preferring to remain in a quiet corner below the gallery of the music-slaves, ignored by the guests. Rackhir the Red Archer danced with several Melnibonéan ladies and made assignations with them all, for he was a hero now in Melniboné. Dyvim Tvar danced, too, though his eyes were often brooding when they fell upon Prince Yyrkoon.
And later, when people ate, Elric spoke to Cymoril as they sat together on the dais of the Ruby Throne.
“Would you be empress, Cymoril?”
“You know I will marry you, Elric. We have both known that for many a year, have we not?”
“So you would be my wife?”
“Aye.” She laughed for she thought he joked.
“And not be empress? For a year at least?”
“What mean you, my lord?”
“I must go away from Melniboné, Cymoril, for a year. What I have learned in recent months has made me want to travel the Young Kingdoms—see how other nations conduct their affairs. For I think Melniboné must change if she is to survive. She could become a great force for good in the world, for she still has much power.”
“For good?” Cymoril was surprised and there was a little alarm in her voice, too. “Melniboné has never stood for good or for evil, but for herself and the satisfaction of her desires.”
“I would see that changed.”
“You intend to alter