Elric_ The Sleeping Sorceress - Michael Moorcock [71]
The emperor knows this. He wishes he could please his court as it strives to honour him with its dancing and its wit, but he cannot bring himself to take part in what he privately considers a wearisome and irritating sequence of ritual posturings. In this he is, perhaps, somewhat more arrogant than Yyrkoon who is, at least, a conventional boor.
From the galleries, the music grows louder and more complex as the slaves, specially trained and surgically operated upon to sing but one perfect note each, are stimulated to more passionate efforts. Even the young emperor is moved by the sinister harmony of their song which in few ways resembles anything previously uttered by the human voice. Why should their pain produce such marvelous beauty? he wonders. Or is all beauty created through pain? Is that the secret of great art, both human and Melnibonéan?
The Emperor Elric closes his eyes.
There is a stir in the hall below. The gates have opened and the dancing courtiers cease their motion, drawing back and bowing low as soldiers enter. The soldiers are clad all in light blue, their ornamental helms cast in fantastic shapes, their long, broad-bladed lances decorated with jeweled ribbons. They surround a young woman whose blue dress matches their uniforms and whose bare arms are encircled by five or six bracelets of diamonds, sapphires and gold. Strings of diamonds and sapphires are wound into her hair. Unlike most of the women of the court, her face has no designs painted upon the eyelids or cheekbones. Elric smiles. This is Cymoril. The soldiers are her personal ceremonial guard who, according to tradition, must escort her into the court. They ascend the steps leading to the Ruby Throne. Slowly Elric rises and stretches out his hands.
“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, dark hair. “Does Yyrkoon know?