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“I intend to travel the world and then decide if there is any point to such a decision. The Lords of the Higher Worlds have ambitions in our world. Though they have given me aid, of late, I fear them. I should like to see if it is possible for men to rule their own affairs.”

“And you will go?” There were tears in her eyes. “When?”

“Tomorrow—when Rackhir leaves. We will take King Straasha’s ship and make for the Isle of the Purple Towns where Rackhir has friends. Will you come?”

“I cannot imagine—I cannot. Oh, Elric, why spoil this happiness we now have?”

“Because I feel that the happiness cannot last unless we know completely what we are.”

She frowned. “Then you must discover that, if that is what you wish,” she said slowly. “But it is for you to discover alone, Elric, for I have no such desire. You must go by yourself into those barbarian lands.”

“You will not accompany me?”

“It is not possible. I—I am Melnibonéan . . .” She sighed. “I love you, Elric.”

“And I you, Cymoril.”

“Then we shall be married when you return. In a year.”

Elric was full of sorrow, but he knew that his decision was correct. If he did not leave, he would grow restless soon enough and if he grew restless he might come to regard Cymoril as an enemy, someone who had trapped him.

“Then you must rule as empress until I return,” he sad.

“No, Elric. I cannot take that responsibility.”

“Then, who . . .? Dyvim Tvar . . .”

“I know Dyvim Tvar. He will not take such power. Magum Colim, perhaps . . .”

“No.”

“Then you must stay, Elric.”

But Elric’s gaze had traveled through the crowd in the throne room below. It stopped when it reached a lonely figure seated by itself under the gallery of the music-slaves. And Elric smiled ironically and said:

“Then it must be Yyrkoon.”

Cymoril was horrified. “No, Elric. He will abuse any power . . .”

“Not now. And it is just. He is the only one who wanted to be emperor. Now he can rule as emperor for a year in my stead. If he rules well, I may consider abdicating in his favour. If he rules badly, it will prove, once and for all, that his ambitions were misguided.”

“Elric,” said Cymoril. “I love you. But you are a fool—a criminal, if you trust Yyrkoon again.”

“No,” he said evenly. “I am not a fool. All I am is Elric. I cannot help that, Cymoril.”

“It is Elric that I love!” she cried. “But Elric is doomed. We are all doomed unless you remain here now.”

“I cannot. Because I love you, Cymoril, I cannot.”

She stood up. She was weeping. She was lost.

“And I am Cymoril,” she said. “You will destroy us both.” Her voice softened and she stroked his hair. “You will destroy us, Elric.”

“No,” he said. “I will build something that will be better. I will discover things. When I return we shall marry and we shall live long and we shall be happy, Cymoril.”

And now, Elric had told three lies. The first concerned his cousin Yyrkoon. The second concerned the Black Sword. The third concerned Cymoril. And upon those three lies was Elric’s destiny to be built, for it is only about things which concern us most profoundly that we lie clearly and with profound conviction.

EPILOGUE

There was a port called Menii which was one of the humblest and friendliest of the Purple Towns. Like the others on the isle it was built mainly of the purple stone which gave the towns their name. And there were red roofs on the houses and there were bright-sailed boats of all kinds in the harbour as Elric and Rackhir the Red Archer came ashore in the early morning when just a few sailors were beginning to make their way down to their ships.

King Straasha’s lovely ship lay some way out beyond the harbour wall. They had used a small boat to cross the water between it and the town. They turned and looked back at the ship. They had sailed it themselves, without crew, and the ship had sailed well.

“So, I must seek peace and mythic Tanelorn,” said Rackhir, with a certain amount of self-mockery. He stretched and yawned and the bow and the quiver danced on his back.

Elric was dressed in simple costume that might have marked any soldier-of-fortune