At the moment when the movement planed by Iztemph unfolded, the success of which seemed beyond doubt, Ruslem had just received news from Atlantis. The populace was agitated. The governor and the district chiefs were insistently demanding help, or at least orders, but the moment had probably arrived when the employment of force would be necessary, and no one wanted to assume the responsibility. Soroé’s minister judged that the known victory of the loyal troops, implying their prompt return, would be the best remedy for the state of affairs.
Instructing the courier to be ready to depart, he quit the veranda where his pupil and Maghée continued to follow the course of the battle. Retiring to one of the neighboring houses, he was soon absorbed by drafting his messages, to the point of forgetting that the action whose broad lines he was describing had not yet concluded, so little in doubt did the outcome appear.
Meanwhile, the lieutenant who was second in command of the company posted with the Gilt-Hermians to guard the hamlet, bowing before the Queen, announced that a messenger, if not a spy—a man, in any case, who had presented himself without arms—said that he had an important communication for her alone.
Soroé’s mind was too full of the thought of Argall not to think that the man might, perhaps, be going to speak about him. She therefore ordered that he be admitted immediately.
At the first glance, the Northerner, although he had only perceived him from a distance for a few minutes during the Bloody Day, recognized Nghaour, Yerra’s courier. The latter, in any case, did not seek to conceal his name or his quality.
“What have you to say to me?” Soroé demanded, in a voice trembling with emotion
Brushing the floor with his knee, Nghaour extended his arms in a sign of profound respect.
“That which the Queen sends is for you alone, O Queen!”
“I have no secrets from my brother Maghée. Speak.”
“The gods have made you to command. Nghaour will obey.”
For a second, his eyebrows slightly furrowed, his lips taut, and his eyelids half-closed, he reassembled the first words of his message.
“This is it: Yerra, your subject, has discovered the Son of the North, struck by a mysterious shock, his will numbed, his memory extinct...”
Maghée stifled an exclamation. Soroé, clasping her hands, expressed her anguish in a sigh.
“The Son of the North bears no wound. Yerra knows the illness and the remedies. She will return his reason and his strength to him.”
“She will do well!” muttered Maghée.
Without taking her eyes off the envoy, Argall’s fiancée imposed silence on the Barbarian with a gesture.
The messenger continued: “But his rival, within a matter of hours, will have discovered his retreat; the one who was Queen of Atlantis no longer has the power to protect her guest. Illaz is demanding the life of the Son of the North.”
It was Soroé’s turn to utter a cry of dolor, but Maghée, with a burst of laughter in which less gaiety than fury resounded, seized Nghaour’s wrist, and with the other hand, showed him the heath where the armies were colliding.
“Illaz will have difficulty enough saving his own life. The venom dies with the viper.”
The messenger embraced the whole of the battle with a shrewd glance and slowly shook his head.
“The arrow steeped in the venom can kill a long time after the viper is dead and the archer that has launched it. Illaz has given his orders. Those who are to carry them out are on their way. Hasten, if you want to overtake them. I have spoken.”
“You think so! But by all the gods, I’ll make you speak again. What proof do I have that your words are true? Do you even know where Argall is?”
The courier took a small leather case from his belt, and tried to present it to Soroé. Maghée, suspicious, seized it in passage.
“Who knows what subtle poison they might be trying to make you respire? No, no! Let the envoy open his bag himself.”
“As you please,” said Nghaour.
He lifted the packet to his mouth, and severed the thread that held it secured with his teeth, thus giving the best proof of his belief that its contents were innocuous. Offering it once again to the young woman, he said: “I will take out what I have to give to you if you desire, but you might perhaps regret having allowed the hand of a servant to touch it.
“No, give it to me,” said Soroé, seizing the envelope.
This time, Maghée let her do it.
The bag contained a ring and a lock of hair. The young sovereign and the Gilt-Hermian recognized both of them.
“Argall’s hair!” articulated the Gilt-Hermian, in a hoarse voice, his eyelids moist. “One could shave a million Atlanteans without finding any similar!”
Soroé pressed the silky tress to her lips.
“And I’ve seen the ring on his finger,” Maghée continued, whose face no longer concealed the dolor that was gripping his heart, for with all his rude fashions, he loved his foster-brother tenderly. He was, however, ashamed to show his tears, like a woman.
“I’m the one who gave it to him!” said Soroé, without hiding her own.
The courier’s gaze lit up with a glimmer of pity.
Maghée, speaking to him, went on: “You have seen the Son of the North yourself?”
“My eyes have contemplated his slumber.”
“Peaceful?”
“Like that of a child.”
“When?”
“This morning, at sunrise.”
“And you set out immediately?”
“After the time to receive my instructions. But I have not come in a straight line. Illaz’ spies are abroad in the country.”
“Why would they have stopped you? Could they suspect your mission?”
“They still do not know the precise location of our retreat. If they had captured me, they might have been able to deduce where I was coming from. My mistress has been deflecting their pursuit for three days, but it can’t last much longer. Tonight, at the latest, if you don’t respond to her appeal, the Son of the North will be dead.”
“Where has Yerra taken refuge, then?”
“The tracked hind, after many detours, returns to her origin shelter. Yerra is waiting for you in the old hunting lodge that Ruslem assigned her for a dwelling. She has only left it with Argall, and to obey him.”
Maghée and Soroé exchanged a glance of surprise.
“Do you know the reasons for that absence?”
“I do not know them. Nghaour is only a servant.”
“All this is very strange,” said the Northerner, thoughtfully. “The man seems sincere, though, and Yerra would certainly be capable of concocting a better lie.”
He had pronounced those words in the language of the people of Erm-gilt-Herm, which Soroé was beginning to understand. They were thus able to communicate their reflections without being understood by Nghaour.
“If there were only one chance in a hundred of recovering Argall,” the young woman declared, “I wouldn’t let it escape.”
“Nor me—but what if it’s a trap?”
“What can I have to fear, now that our troops are victorious, in returning to Atlantis? If someone wanted to draw me into an ambush, would they summon me there? Wouldn’t it more likely be to the mountain, to the almost impenetrable forests? I’ll go anyway, even if I have to risk my life to recover my fiancé, my savior.”
“I certainly won’t abandon my brother—but we need to consult Ruslem.”
“No need! I know his advice in advance; he’d oppose my departure.”
“Hmm—that’s probable. In his place, I’d do the same. Why not let me go alone?”
“If Argall is in peril, unable to defend himself, my place is beside him; no one will precede me there. In any case, where would I be safer than with you and your companions, under your guard?”
The argument decided Maghée; he was, in any case, only resisting by virtue of an excess of prudence; after a few more objections, easily refuted by Soroé, he leaned over the edge of the veranda and hailed one of his companions, who was leaning negligently on his bow, following the evolutions of the two armies with a regretful expression.
“Tell Fraam to assemble the men, have our chariots hitched up, and send us the chief of the Atlanteans. Quickly!”
Kernik—for it was him—glad of the prospect of adventure, disappeared with great strides around the angle of the wall. A minute later, the officer who had introduced Nghaour reappeared, his superior being busy with Ruslem. His eyes met the messenger’s momentarily; the two men exchanged an imperceptible flutter of the eyelashes while the son of Dahéla finished consulting the sovereign.
“The battle is won,” Maghée said to the Atlantean. “The Queen’s presence is no longer necessary. I’m accompanying her with my warriors. For the sake of prudence, however, and in order that our father Ruslem isn’t left alone, you’ll continue to guard the hamlet. Iztemph, by my mouth, confides it to your vigilance. Inform him immediately of our departure. There’s no need to disturb Ruslem now; he knows that we’re taking the road to Atlantis to return to the palace. Go.”
“The Queen’s orders will be carried out,” said the lieutenant.
“So,” Maghée went on, as he drew away, “Ruslem will be informed of our decision when there’ll no longer be time for him to oppose it, but it won’t appear, in front of his inferiors, that his advice has been set aside. Iztemph will be aware of our displacement, but what danger can threaten him now? I did promise, him, though, to watch here until the end. If he criticizes me, I’ll just have to bear it.”
“I’ll take the reproach on myself,” said Soroé. “The chariots are hitched. Let’s go!”
Each chariot bore three or four warriors; they filed between the houses of the hamlet and were engulfed in the tunnel. Maghée had set Nghaour on the first, between Fraam and Kernik. He was in the second with the Queen and Dawné.
Before giving the signal to depart he had recommended the messenger to the special attention of his companions. Addressing him directly, he said: “I’ll be behind you myself, and no matter how prompt you are in running away, our arrows, as you know, fly more even rapidly. Your services will earn a royal reward; an attempt at treason will find me pitiless. Remember that.”
“I am the Queen’s slave!” Nghaour protested.
Soroé’s impatience did not permit her defender to take note of the ambiguity of that reply.
The chariots took the high road to Atlantis.
The departure of the Barbarians left a void in the defenses of the village. The lieutenant, solely responsible for his post for the moment, could easily have remedied that, and disposed his men in such a fashion as to replace the Gilt-Hermians, specifically charged with watching the path adjacent to the mountain. Doubtless he did not think of it, first wanting to dispatch a messenger to Iztemph. A cavalier did, in fact, depart, but must have met with some accident. The others, counting on their officers, were only attentive to the combat, whose various episodes were unfolding before their eyes.
Abruptly, the village filled up with enemies; all resistance was futile. The royal banner fell; Ruslem was taken prisoner. The assailants had followed the path along the buttress covertly, and crossed the abandoned barricades. The fire soon did its work.
Maghée, looking back at the already distant line of rocks, perceived the smoke, and had a moment of vague anxiety, but such incidents are not rare on the day of a battle. Half of Lamb’ha had been reduced to ashes. Black columns rose up at intervals above other habitations scattered in the plain, expanding in crepes of mourning. It was difficult, beyond the crests, to determine the point of departure of that one.
Then darkness fell and everything disappeared. They could scarcely distinguish the road beneath their horses’ feet by torchlight.
Soroé, certain of Iztemph’s victory, was no longer thinking about anything but Argall. She would have liked to put Nghaour in her own chariot, in order to interrogate him on the way, but the courier, evidently, had said, if not all he knew, at least all he wanted to say. On the other hand, Maghée would not have been tranquil in sole charge of both the protection of his companion and keeping watch on Yerra’s envoy. It would also have been necessary to lodge Dawné, who was incapable of guiding the horses, elsewhere, because the chariot could only carry four people. Kernik and Fraam, on the other hand, leaving a third Gilt-Hermian to control the horses and watch the road, could devote all their attention to their guide and, at the slightest suspect moment, treat him as a hostage and a prisoner.
Thus far, the messenger had given no cause for complaint. Seemingly fatigued by his first journey, he had let himself fall on to the floor of the chariot, squatting on his heels in such a way as to take up the least possible space. In that position, the mere sight of which gave his traveling companions cramp, in spite of the jolts and the swaying of the vehicle, the Atlantean, to the general amazement, seemed to have found a means of going to sleep.
The road to Atlantis ran almost straight, through fertile plains interrupted by gently sloping undulations, parallel to the sea. Villages and isolated habitations succeeded one another, almost continuously, but no sound or light revealed their location at a distance. The ravages of the storm and the general conscription of robust laborers left the country plunged in a bleak sadness, a mortal solitude. Only women, children and old men remained in their houses, shut in there as soon as the sun set, with all fires extinguished and all doors fearfully closed. Rare sounds of lowing rose up from stables, most of which were empty, the animals requisitioned for transport and food, or taken away and hidden in the woods. At long intervals, the rattle of hooves and the grating of wheels provoked the peevish protestations of a guard dog or the sonorous fanfare of an awakened cock.
The horses, chosen from among the best in the royal stables, could easily have covered the distance in four hours if it had only been a matter of returning to the palace, but a detour was necessary to reach the hunting lodge, and Nghaour, finally awakened, recommended a prudent advance. Illaz’ envoys had doubtless already discovered Yerra’s refuge and made their dispositions for the attack, and the evident approach of help risked precipitating the accomplishment of the crime. Otherwise, at least one could hope that they would wait for the first light of dawn, the last moment of darkness, when even the most vigilant guard cannot resist the invasion of drowsiness.
That prospect of a double peril, either because an untimely haste might precipitate the event, or the rescuers, by an excess of precaution, ran the risk of arriving too late, was not calculated to calm Soroé’s anguish or her companion’s impatience. Fortunately, even in the most difficult circumstances, Maghée never lost his composure, and while secretly consigning the instigators and accomplices of the attempt projected against his brother to the infernal gods, he calmly envisaged the measures most appropriate to thwart them.
All the torches were extinguished. The moon would not be long in rising; the road extended, broad and smooth, beneath the light dome of giant ferns. Nghaour offered to take the reins; his proposition was accepted. His good faith seemed increasingly evident, and his detailed knowledge of the terrain might gain minutes whose value would be inappreciable. Fraam and Kernik, close enough to touch him, watched his slightest movements, ready to repress any attempt at treason and to take away even the desire of it. The other chariots followed as closely as possible.
The soil of the avenues—for they had quit the high road to Atlantis—rarely traveled and covered in short grass, muffled the sound of hoof beats and the trepidation of axles. The Gilt-Hermians, eyes alert and ears pricked, searched the undergrowth on both sides, bows in hand and arrows ready-notched. Once or twice, shadows were glimpsed and bowstrings drawn, but it was only a couple of half-tame antelopes raising their heads and sniffing the air as the men went by, with more curiosity than fear.
“I like them better wild,” Fraam observed, reminded of his habits as a hunter. “Their tranquility would guarantee the solitude of the forests, but these animals come to lick the hand that offers them a tender corn-cob or a handful of salt. They’d let all the bandits in Atlantis pass without getting excited.”
“The moon might be up by now,” said Kernik, “but we’re still in darkness.”
The ferns had given way to large trees. The obscurity was so complete that the drivers were obliged to rely on the instinct of the horses, each rig advancing on the track of the one preceding it, but everything rested on the skill of Nghaour, who nevertheless scarcely slowed down. For a moment, in fact, and without it being easy to take account of it, for all reference-points had disappeared, that velocity even seemed to accelerate.
A sudden racket of heavy masses falling into the grass with a dull thud, whinnying, furious kicks and the exclamations of Fraam and Kernik warned Maghée, who had taken the reins himself, too late. His iron hand, however, stopped his beasts almost dead, causing them to rear up, pivot on their hind feet, and finally tip the chariot over on its side, without too much violence, thus leaving the space strictly necessary for the other chariots to stop.
An inexpressible tumult ensued: stamping hooves, curses, appeals in Gilt-Hermian or objurgations in the Atlantean tongue—the latter addressed to the horses, doubtless assumed to be more sensible to the language of their habitual masters. But everything was drowned out by Dawné’s shrill cries of desperation, invoking by turns the Celestial Protectress and demanding her mistress with an insistence that triumphed even over Maghée’s composure.
“Stupid woman!” he shouted, blindly—for it was pitch-dark. “If I hear your howling again, I swear by the gods of my homeland that I’ll have you tied to a tree right away and whipped without mercy—after which the wolves can eat you if they wish, or the ants…or you’ll die of hunger…and the spirits of darkness can carry away what remains of your intolerable person.”
At that series of terrible threats, whose execution did not seem to her to be doubtful for a second, the poor girl stopped in mid-sob, driving back her tears with closed fists.
Maghée had two other worries. The silence of Soroé, doubtless unconscious, made him fear some dangerous wound, while the delay to their expedition might compromise Argall’s very life. The darkness however, paralyzed any imaginable action. To reignite the torches was not easy.
Fortunately, the moon, previously invisible, emerged on the horizon at that moment, silvering the summits of Bol-Gho. Even beneath the dense crowns of the large trees the darkness paled; the dilated pupils of the Northerners permitted them the confused vision of the nearest objects. Soon, a ray from the star slid between two masses of verdure, striking the foliage obliquely, illuminating the theater and the causes of the accident with an eerie light.
An enormous tree-trunk, fallen sideways across the road, had occasioned the crash of the first chariot, whose horses were lying, one on its side and the other on its knees, calmed down after futile attempts to get up unaided, and now waiting, with the passive resignation of their race, for their masters to come and help them. Fraam, Krnik and Nghaour’s third companion, who had got away with a few bruises and various scratches, hastened to disengage them from their harness and bring the docile animals to their feet.
The courier had disappeared.
“Futile to search for him,” said Maghée. “The fellow knew about the obstacle, I’d bet on it! Dawné, you pitiful creature, if you have nothing broken or dislocated—which would be your only excuse—would you care to help me to bring your mistress round? Do you think that’s a warrior’s occupation?”
Trembling, and making herself small in order not to brush her grim protector as she went past him, hastened nevertheless to her young sovereign’s side, hidden from her view until then by the overturned chariot. Soroé, unconscious, as Maghée had anticipated, following a rather rude impact, had fortunately not received any wound. A few drops of water remaining in the gourd of one of his companions and the attentive care of her servant did not take long to bring her round.
Scarcely had she recovered consciousness than her first thought was for Argall.
“Great gods!” she exclaimed. “We’re losing time! Will we still find him alive.”
Maghée was on the point of telling her what now seemed to him to be certain: if Nghaour had taken advantage of the accident, which he had doubtless caused himself, to run away, it was very probably because he knew what a disappointment awaited them at the end of their journey. Whatever the secret goal of his mission was, and the trap extended, his story had been a pure tissue of lies, and they would have been able to dispense with going to the hunting lodge, which it was necessary to expect to find deserted, as on the day after Argall’s disappearance. That, however, was only a supposition, which they could verify in less than a quarter of an hour. The moon illuminated the avenues sufficiently, and the neighborhood of Yerra’s retreat was familiar to the Gilt-Hermians, who had done turns of guard duty there in the weeks of her semi-captivity.
It’ll be necessary soon enough to disillusion her, thought Dahéla’s son. Let’s leave her time to collect herself.
And, without making or permitting his companions to make any allusion to Nghaour’s flight, he charged seven of them to lift up and reattach the two chariots, with the order, if it proved to be impossible, to go directly to the palace. They would rally there on foot in less than an hour. With regard to the fear that the fifteen remaining, including himself, would not be strong enough to defend their rediscovered chief, if they were fortunate enough to find him, the memory of the Bloody Day removed all anxiety on that point. The murderers dispatched by Illaz could not, in any case, comprise a very numerous or very redoubtable troop.
All of that happened rapidly, and the moonlight still seemed to be gliding through the treetops, scarcely at the height of their lowest branches, when the five intact chariots resumed their journey toward Yerra’s supposed retreat, the pretended refuge of Argall. Fraam and Kernik continued to take the lead. Soroé, mounted in the second chariot with Maghée, did not even notice Nghaour’s disappearance. The breeze that caressed her face, the freshness and the beauty of the night, gradually returned her strength, and with it, as they neared their goal, the hope, mingled with dread, of finding and saving her fiancé.
What would she say to him then? What, in that singular encounter, would their reciprocal attitudes be? What explanations would he offer her of his absence and the role played by Yerra? The young woman could not think without dolor and jealousy if those days spent in the company of her formidable rival. Had they really been limited to collecting him and protecting him? And even if that were the case, what rights would the enchantress not have to the gratitude of the hero? Who could tell where that gratitude might stop?
But the file of chariots emerged into a broad clearing contrived around the hunting lodge. Before the alternatives of life or death that would be resolved momentarily, every other thought was effaced. Soroé felt her heart beating as if to burst. The clearing, inundated with moonlight, extended placidly and silently. The house, a simple single-story construction, seemed hermetically closed, devoid of any sound or light.
On a curt order from Maghée, Fraam leapt down from his chariot and hammered rudely on the door with the pommel of his sword. The batten vibrated under the impact; the prolonged interior echoes could be heard. Almost immediately, the furious barking of a pair of dogs replied, indicating, at least, that the building was not abandoned.
Those ferocious howls resonated in Soroé’s ears like delightful music. They testified to a vigilant guard, as improbable as it was futile if the criminal endeavor had been accomplished. But no other response came before Fraam had shaken the panel twice more with redoubtable blows. A shrill and discontented voice was then heard on the other side of the solid ironwood door, studded with bronze nails.
“Who’s knocking like that? What do you want? Can’t you let an old man sleep?”
“Open up!” replied Fraam, shaking the door with such a kick that the edifice vibrated all the way to its foundations. “You’ll be sleeping at the end of a rope soon, imbecile, if there’s no other means of teaching you your duty. Is it for you to keep the Queen waiting?”
“The Queen?” quavered the broken voice of the old servant. “May the clement gods bless her! She has other cares at present. Go away, or I’ll release the dogs, which will make short work of your carcasses, even if there are five or six of you, according to the habit of brigands of your kind. We must be living in very unfortunate times for bandits to attack royal habitations!”
“Shall we use the ax?” asked Fraam, turning to Maghée.
Three or four Gilt-Hermians immediately came forward, equipped with their favorite weapon—but Soroé intervened, her hope already almost extinct, for the welcome contrasted too evidently with what Nghaour had said.
“Wait,” she said. “It seems to me that I know that man.” And, raising her voice, she said: “Is that you, Blao?”
An exclamation mingling surprise, joy and anxiety replied to the young woman’s appeal. “By the Celestial Protectress! It’s her, our beloved sovereign, the heir to the blood of Argall, the last hope of Atlantis! Why didn’t you speak, dove of the temple? How could your servant divine your presence at this hour? Patience, I beg you! The bars are heavy in my hands, which once carried you so lightly!”
That flood of words did not prevent the father of the Queen’s nurse from striving to draw the bolts; he finally succeeded. The door swung on its hinges and they saw an aged Atlantean thrown himself sat the feet of the person whose daughter had once fed her at the breast. An instant sufficed for Soroé to be convinced that neither Yerra nor Argall had reappeared since the moment of their flight. Blao had resumed his functions the next day, guarding the honorable and peaceful retreat, to which the unexpected visit of his mistress still left him more stupefied than delighted.
“Let he courier give me the key to this cruel enigma!” the young woman ordered. “Well, where is he, then?”
“Calm down, O Queen. Nghaour is no longer with us, which has saved his life. But we’ll find him tomorrow...”
“Maghée! Explain yourself!”
It was necessary for him to confess the whole truth: the trap extended, the courier’s flight. It remained to divine the real object of his mission, the ambush dissimulated under the lie of his story, and why the sorceress had given him Argall’s hair and ring. The revelation would doubtless be only too prompt. The wisest thing, in the meantime, was to return to the palace.
That return was effected without further incident. The other two chariots had just arrived; all the servants, forewarned, hastened to the Queen’s presence. The news of Iztemph’s victory, brought by the Gilt-Hermians, had put joy in their hearts and faces. The few warriors left as a garrison were expansive in their expressions of devotion, mingled with enthusiasm and regret.
Only Maghée and the young sovereign sensed themselves invaded by sinister presentiments, which politics required them to dissimulate. Fortunately, the weariness of the day and the journey served as a pretext for abridging the felicitations and the stories. Ruslem’s pupil, genuinely overwhelmed by fatigue, in spite of the torments of anxiety, did not take long to succumb to sleep.
Maghée, no less anxious, immediately reestablished among his companions the practice of alternating turns on watch. Always, and whatever happened, as in the most dangerous moments of their voyage, at least five of them, one of whom was to be posted as a sentinel, must be under arms, ready for confrontation.
Fraam, slightly surprised—for, as the motives and the objective of their nocturnal journey remained a mystery to him and his companions, he was obliged to observe the preoccupied sadness of their chief without understanding it—asked him: “With what peril?”
Coldly, Maghée replied: “With any!” And he had never showed the depth of his thought more clearly.
The night, already advanced, concluded peacefully. The castle awoke, as usual, at sunrise. The gates opened to carts of provisions driven by the peasants of the estate. Ordinarily, the matinal solicitors arrived at the same time, already equipped with letters of audience, or trying to obtain from some servant the opportunity to see the Queen in passing, and especially to be seen by her, which almost always brought to her lips some benevolent question, to which the presentation of a carefully-elaborated request inevitably responded. Undoubtedly, however, the inhabitants of Atlantis were presently aware of their sovereign’s departure, but not of her return; none presented himself. Ruslem’s pupil, conscientious in the duties attached to the royal prerogative, could have prolonged her sleep without remorse that day.
That was no cause for anxiety. What seemed more so was that no messenger arrived from Lamb’ha to bring the latest news, announcing the death, flight or captivity of Illaz, the figure of the losses, the number of the prisoners and the captured flags. The natural exhaustion of the victors would not have prevented them from sending a few couriers. Soroé thought that Ruslem, justly irritated by her furtive departure, wanted to punish her in that cruel and respectful fashion, pretending to ignore her, as he had the right, the time and the opportunity to do when a few messages could reach her that it would be agreeable to her to receive.
The supposition was not implausible. But Ruslem, surely, while taking that revenge, would not have gone so far as to prejudice the interests of the State. It was extremely important, for the sake of public tranquility, that the government and the people of Atlantis were informed without delay of the slightest details of the victory, at least of all those capable of heightening the prestige of the new reign and affirming its authority. Atlantis, therefore, must have received information—but it would be imprudent to send for it. That would be to admit a very strange ignorance, for which the most malign explanations would undoubtedly be sought. Better to wait, dissimulating her anguish, until the doubtless-imminent moment when some deputation would arrive at the capital bringing, along with felicitations and homages, a tale of which she would pretend already to know the slightest details.
That was Maghée’s opinion.
The morning went by in that nervous expectation. Soroé sensed with desperation the flight of time, the precious moments that she would rather have devoted entirely to the search for her fiancé. For one thing appeared to her now to be certain: Argall, for whatever reason, was no longer the master of his destiny or his actions. It was certainly not him who, by virtue of a cruel game or some mysterious objective of war or politics, had sent Nghaour to her with his lies, his ring, and that lock cut from his hair.
Finally, toward midday, a cloud of dust was perceived in the direction of Atlantis, and a confused rumor soon announced the approach of a crowd. No one in the palace suspected the intentions of the populace, of whom it was doubtless composed. They were merely astonished that the magistrates, who were doubtless marching at its head, had not been preceded by some envoy to request an audience. But the news of the Queen’s return must have surprised them, and the enthusiasm of the multitude had not left them the time or the composure to regulate the manifestations in accordance with ceremonial demands.
“So much the worse for them!” Maghée growled. “I won’t let them invade the castle. They’ll have to wait in its shadow.”
But Soroé’s impatience, and his own, would not permit that delay to last for long.
The Gilt-Hermian ordered the gates to be closed, and that no one should be admitted through the postern beside them but the principal chiefs of the deputation, a dozen in number, with whom the conversation would be easier. He advanced within range to see and be seen, certain that his observed presence, implying that of all the Northerners, would confirm in the minds of the crowd a salutary respect for the closure.
To his great surprise, however, scarcely had the nearest recognized him than a volley of cries, whistles, insults addressed to him and to Soroé emerged from the first ranks, accompanied by a few projectiles, fortunately inoffensive in themselves, for the assailants did not go as far as to expose themselves within bowshot. So far as could be judged, moreover, no magistrate or citizen of any importance was mingled with the crowd of artisans, semi-enslaved manual workers, sailors and dock workers, where even women and children were not lacking, the majority wretchedly dressed and bearing the traces in their thin features of the most cruel privations. The initial impulse of anger on the part of the son of Dahéla immediately gave way to a sentiment of pity.
The wretches are starving, he thought, without paying further heed to gestures and clamors that were as impotent as they were hostile. They don’t even know about our victory yesterday, or what it means for them. It’s bread that they need, but I don’t have any for them. Let them shout then, if that relieves them.
And, making a sign to retrain the zeal of Kernik, whose arrow, drawn from his quiver, would not have taken long to claim some victim unnecessarily, he shrugged his shoulders and turned his back—a manifestation of scorn that immediately provoked further vociferations. A few stones hurled by slings rattled against the bars of the gates. The Gilt-Hermian frowned.
Are these madmen going to oblige us to spill blood? he wondered, with a commencement of irritation that risked leading to an affirmative response. Certainly, the best of them isn’t worth the arrow that would lay him down! Soroé would weep over him nonetheless, and would be capable of holding it against me. I answer to her and not to them, of course...but if there’s a means of calming them down...
Bah! Let’s try!
He retraced his steps, crossed the bridge, stopped at the exterior postern, and, after a further second of hesitation, opened it and advanced on to the threshold. Curiosity caused the crowd to fall silent momentarily.
The son of Dahéla raised his hand, and in the simplest tone, said: “My poor friends, I can see what you lack. You won’t find it here—but our valiant troops, Iztemph, our invincible general, battled yesterday and routed or took prisoner the last rebels. Our Queen Soroé has returned victorious. Our father Ruslem, her venerable counselor, is already taking the necessary measures. Prosperity will be reborn and food will flow. The distributions, I hope, will commence today. Cry with me: Glory and long life to Soroé! Honor to Ruslem! Honor to Iztemph!”
The last syllables had not fallen from his mouth when a prodigious hubbub rose up of cries, laughter, and indignant or mocking exclamations. The epithets of liar, thief, bastard and lily-livered dog—those symbolizing for Atlanteans the inferior classes of cowardice taken to an extreme—were not the most severe that were lavished on him. Ruslem’s ward was not forgotten, nor her general and Ruslem himself. Curt but well-turned phrases, succeeding in piercing the tumult at moments, gave the Golt-Hermian the first impression of an event unknown to him, solely capable of explaining so much insolence. The instructions of Iztemph, the importance attached by him to the position of the Key, confided to the vigilance and valor of Argall’s companions, suddenly returned to his memory.
Great gods! he thought. Did what he feared occur? Did the enemy slip behind us? Did the victory escape us at the last moment, by my fault?
That terrible thought had almost made him forget the menacing crowd a few paces away. A stone from a sling, striking his coat of mail rudely—the armorers of Atlantis had had time, since the Bloody Day, to enlarge and elongate their usual models to the stature of the Northerners—recalled him to reality. Already, the author of the skillful shot was writhing on the round, traversed by one of Kernik’s arrows.
Fraam, crossing the bridge behind his chief, begged him to come back in, or to let him charge with his comrades. The rioters, one could be sure, would not have held firm for a minute—but that futile massacre was repugnant to the son of Dahéla. The uncertainty, however, became unbearable. The idea that the least of these wretches knew everything that he did not about the events of the previous evening, which interested his life—and more than his life, his honor as a warrior, perhaps compromised in the eyes of Iztemph and the entire army—made him shiver with impatience and almost roar with indignation. His habits of prudence, however, came to his aid once again.
Pushing the faithful Fraam away with one hand, he reached out with the other, not, as the crowd initially believed, to the pommel of his sword but to the belt where his purse was hanging, and, taking advantage of the moment of hesitation obtained by Kernik and his act of summary judgment, he shouted in a loud voice: “Hola, my worthy fellows! Which of you wants to earn five gold pieces?”
The crowd undulated, stupefied. Maghée did not give them time to pull themselves together. “Five pieces of gold to come close to me for five minutes…and return freely. I give my word as a Gilt-Hermian as to that! Who can say that we have ever broken it? Come on! Who wants the five gold pieces?”
The yellow metal disks glittered between the Northerners thumb and index-finger. The temptation was strong. Faces pales; hands were extended, involuntarily contracted—but shame and fear held them back. Each of them felt that by responding, he would be risking his life, not so much at the hands of Argall’s companions—their honesty was legendary—as by attracting the anger and secret envy of all the rest. Already, murmurs were rumbling. Two or three sketched a step toward the gate, but were pulled back rudely, quickly reentering the ranks, pretending only to have intended to mock the tempter.
The latter made a show of discouragement. “Nobody wants the five gold pieces? So be it.”
He put them back in his purse and made as if to go back in—but his eagle-eyes, wandering from one face to the next, abruptly had the sensation of a gaze exchanged, and fixed upon two black pupils gleaming beneath a curly head and a forehead enlarged by far and desire.
Maghée encouraged him with a smile, and it was decided in an instant. The child—for it was a boy scarcely fifteen years old, suddenly bounded forward, leaving raised fists and howling mouths behind him. Stones flew. A hundred impetuous individuals, more envious than indignant, made as if to rush forward. Already, the son of Dahéla, unmasking the postern in front of the Atlantean’s reckless run, had enveloped him with a protective arm, shielding him with his body, and before following him beyond the closed gate, he turned round one last time, sword in hand, and his mocking voice rang out: “The gold will be for him—but for the rest, I have iron!”
A few paces along a turning pathway sufficed to shield him and his new companion from the sight and the vociferations of the crowd. The interposed bushes muffled the clamor, giving the sensation of a sudden distancing, a returned security. The rapid stream, profoundly enclosed, watched by Kernik and his comrades, constituted a veritably insurmountable obstacle for the mob. Sure henceforth of not being constrained to some unreflective action, the Gilt-Hermian recovered all his calmness.
“You’ve been courageous,” he said, smiling, placing one hand on the boy’s bushy head in such a manner as to force him to turn his face toward him. “Don’t worry—you won’t repent of it. But it seems to me that your face isn’t unknown to me, although I can’t recall where I’ve seen it before. Can your memory help mine?”
“Oh,” said the child, “I’ve often seen you, although you can’t have noticed me—but I resemble my sister Nizia, a dancer and musicienne, a temple servant under the other Queen. You saw her at close range, at the banquet given by Yerra on the day after your arrival. Your brother Argall gave her a fine jewel at the end, which she still has, even though we’d been hungry for more than a month since the price of barley and yams tripled. In the time of the cruel gods she lacked nothing and still found enough to maintain me while I finished my apprenticeship as a jewel-cutter. All the same, we don’t regret those days—but I’m afraid they won’t be long in coming back.”
“What makes you fear so?”
“Iztemph’s defeat. Illaz’ couriers arrive this morning. The entire people of Atlantis is for him, especially the artisans without rights, to whom he’s promised complete liberty and a share of the wealth of the rich. At least, that’s what they understand by his proclamations, for the details aren’t very clear. The most animated wanted to run here, in the hope of finding the palace virtually abandoned and pillage easy. That wasn’t my idea, but I didn’t have anything else to do. My master’s shop is closed; no one’s ordering trinkets at present. Also, I thought I might learn something about the fate of Queen Soroé, whose fate preoccupies Nizia and me. She’s so good and so unfortunate!”
Maghée, clenching his teeth in order not to yield to the temptation to interrupt him, had let the boy speak. Seeing that he had finished, he said: “And the idea didn’t occur to you that the news from Illaz might be false, and his pretended victory a lie?”
The apprentice jeweler shook his head. “Too many people have already come back from Lamb’ha. They’ve all seen. They all say the same thing. Many were falling on Illaz; for an instant, he thought he was beaten, he tried to get himself killed—but reinforcements arrived: Yerra’s guards, who had taken possession of the passage. They drew the maneuver for us in the sand. Iztemph surrendered, Ruslem was captured. The others were only glad that Illaz distributed food to them. He didn’t even need to disarm them. They’ll fight for him now. But I’m telling you things you know better than me. It’s only about you and Soroé that no one has given us any news.”
Maghée stifled a curse.
“I wish to god that they’d told you of my death—and that it was true!”
The child looked up at him sharply, and sighed, not daring to question him. The Gilt-Hermian rummaged in his purse.
“By the way, what’s your name?”
“Foski. If I can serve you in any way, I lodge with my master, the jeweler Pnemphra, the third shop in the Street of the Jewelers, which branches from the Triumphal Way to the left as you go down to the port.”
“Well, Foski, here’s your five gold pieces.”
“Thanks you, Lord. I would have come without them—but you’ve made a mistake. There are ten.”
“Don’t worry about it; it’s our fashion of counting. But if your erstwhile companions see you leave, they’re capable of doing you a bad turn. On the other hand, if the news is true, as I’m beginning to believe, it doubtless won’t be long before we find ourselves besieged—and then what will you do?”
“You’ll be able to find a slingshot to give me, Lord. It’s a game at which I’m not too maladroit. Then again, if there’s fighting, there’ll be chipped blades and ripped coats of mail. I’m something of an armorer too. I’ll try to make myself useful.”
“What! You want to risk your life for us, at this moment”
“For our Queen Soroé? Yes, with all my heart.”
“You’ll always serve her better than I was able to do!” the Gilt-Hermian sighed in his turn. “Well, go look for something to eat; you must need it. This evening, perhaps you’ll be able to slip away unperceived; if not, we’ll see…go, child.”
And, confiding the apprentice to the care of a servant who came running in response to his summons, he headed for Soroé’s apartments, with the tread of a man condemned to execution,
If only, he still thought, we had news of Argall!
It was a relief for him to find the young woman instructed by Elim. Illaz’ courier, charge with an important message for his vanquished adversary, had anticipated the difficulties of a direct introduction to the castle in the presence of the furious populace, and, making a detour, had approached the royal dwelling by sea, bringing his master’s propositions and a long and desolate epistle from Ruslem.
“You know everything—I can see by your expression,” she said to Dahéla’s son, holding out her hand, which he raised respectfully to his lips.
“I don’t deserve to live,” said Maghée, “but I’ll be able to die defending you. Fortune might change camp once more.”
“For that, it would be necessary for there to be two camps. No, my friend, even if you could triumph against a thousand, I wouldn’t let foreign defenders raise me a throne on the ruins of my country and in the blood of my people. But that triumph isn’t possible; you’d die in vain. It would only be one dolor more for me…and one more remorse.”
“You wouldn’t make that reply to…another.”
“Argall was the envoy of the gods, the Liberator, the Elect! He spoke; I had only to obey.”
“If he reappeared tomorrow, what would you say?”
“If the Sword in his hands has conserved its power, even if he were alone, all the armies in Atlantis could not prevent him from triumphing again. If not, I’d still be his captive and his servant; but I only have my life to give him. I won’t shed the blood of my people.”
Maghée, finding her unshakable in that resolution, had nothing more to do than allow himself to be informed of Illaz’ propositions.
At first sight, and in the respective situation of the parties, they did not seem inadmissible. The Atlantean chief demanded, of course, the unreserved abdication of Soroé, the recognition of the sovereign rights of Yerra, represented by himself. That was only the acceptance of an accomplished fact; and the young queen, yesterday all-powerful over at least two third of her hereditary realm, only possessed today the narrow island of the castle, still too large for the number of its defenders, whatever one could expect of their valor. Their stubbornness, it is true, might hold it for a few days, but sooner or later, famine would reduce them either to capitulation or to a sortie whose result could not be in doubt unless the prodigies of the Bloody Day were to be repeated. Already, the issue via the sea was about to be cut off. A troop of miners was working at that very moment to heap up enormous boulders at the reserved entrance to the little harbor that served as a refuge for the palace flotilla and the Gilt-Hermians’ boat.
“I wouldn’t have thought Illaz so desirous of keeping us,” said Maghée, joking in spite of the gravity of the circumstances.
It was, nevertheless, a lost resource, for the Northerner had already thought about an escape to the open sea when all means of resistance on land were exhausted. There could be no question of abandoning Atlantis definitively while the fate of Argall remained unknown, but, by sailing around the coast, they could have defied any pursuit by Atlantean ships. The latter, in fact, would have fled with all their sails hoisted and all their oars deployed. The coastal villages and habitations would have furnished food supplies where they liked it or not. Who could tell what reverses of fortune the future leave possible? At any rate, it was necessary not to think of it any longer; it was only one disappointment more.
“And what are we offered in exchange?”
“For you and your men, full liberty to retire wherever you please, with weapons and baggage. More than that, the chief will be happy to welcome you to his lands, temporarily or permanently, as guests or vassals of the warrior caste, with all the privileges attached to one or other of those titles.”
“A thousand thanks. But what about you—what will your fate be?”
The young woman smiled sadly. “What does it matter what my fate is, if I don’t see Argall again?”
“If he’s alive, you’ll see him sooner or later. How will I face him then, to hear him reproach me for having delivered you to his enemies? If they’ve killed him, do you think anything can prevent me from avenging him, even if it’s necessary to drown Atlantis in blood?”
“May the gods preserve my country from such a misfortune! But Argall, alive, if he remembers me, will have nothing for which to reproach you, my valiant defender, my noble brother. You will not have to deliver me. In retiring, you will only be obeying the Queen for one last time.”
“Why are you not included in the capitulation? If they let us take you away, I consent to surrender the palace. If they refuse, they’ll see what the siege will cost them.”
“Illaz and Yerra would never accept that. Their power will only be truly established when the people see me captive in their hands. After that, they can be generous. I don’t believe that want me dead. Ruslem has written to tell me that he has not been subjected to any ill-treatment or outrage. Yesterday, Illaz restrained the most furious of his soldiers, spared the vanquished, received Iztemph, whose skill was almost fatal to him, in his tent and heaped him with considerations. I alone am an obstacle to the necessary peace. Even Nohor and his partisans of Gold and Iron will have to be content with an illusory triumph. Illaz does not like them, and it’s him, in reality, who will find himself omnipotent.”
“In a word, you alone will suffer for the good of all?”
“May the gods realize that anticipation!”
“And Ruslem is of that opinion?”
“Ruslem could only write to me in disguised words. He was too sure that the letter would be opened. This, however, the advice he gives me: In such misfortune, O daughter of our kings, it is again at the foot of the altars, in the reading and meditation of our sacred books that it is appropriate to seek strength and wisdom. Remember the page that you finished three days ago, when I presented myself before you.”
“The stratagem is ingenious. Do you recall the page in question?”
“Here it is,” said the young woman, reaching for a papyrus. “Listen, and tell me whether I can still hesitate.” She read: “When the innocent victim presents herself before her judges after having placed themselves in their hands, it will not be for her to tremble, but for them, for their responsibility will be great...”
“Hmm! I’ve seen Nohor very close to rendering himself responsible thus. It didn’t appear to alarm him very much.”
“Wait! Those lines are the ones that my father Ruslem wanted to indicate to me, but he only had in mind the phrase after having placed themselves in their hands, it will not be for her to tremble. He could not, in a letter confided to our enemies, engage me more clearly to surrender myself.”
“It would have been the best way to increase their pretentions. They rise high enough! But what proves to us that his appreciation is just, that he is not mistaken himself?”
“It’s possible. But to that the Book responds. Listen again.” And again, she read: “If the victim is condemned, the fate of the people will depend on their own resolution. They will be saved if they wish. The times of Argall and Soroé shall flourish again. If not...” The royal virgin folded up the papyrus. “No need to continue! The prophecy becomes menacing. Heaven preserve us from its accomplishment. I’ve never finished that passage without trembling.”
“What if the first half is true, though?”
“Who would dare to doubt it? The victim will perish, but the Atlanteans will be free, Atlantis saved, the scourges vanquished. At that price, ought one not to die?”
The young woman’s enlarged pupils were radiant with an ecstatic light. Maghée had the impression of a wing glimpsed in a cloud, gaining the azure through a storm. He bent his knee and argued no more.
In any case, he had nothing more to offer.
He resolved, however, to debate Illaz’ propositions in person.
Elim, recalled, at the first expression of his desire, declared that, the eventuality having been anticipated, his master was ready to receive the strangers’ leader, who would be free thereafter to rejoin his men. The courier had full authority to make that promise on the part of the Atlantean prince.
“What guarantee do I have of yours?”
“Elim will remain as a hostage.”
“That’s all right,” said Maghée. “I saw you on the bridge at Lamb’ha. Your bravery is not treacherous.”
The envoy blushed with pleasure at that praise from such a mouth.
Already, the cavaliers of the victorious army were established on the road opposite the entrance to the castle, after having dispersed the mob of rioters. The son of Dahéla and his appointed guide passed without difficulty. All the officers knew Illaz’ courier.
The vanquisher of Iztemph, like all nobles of high rank, had a city palace in the principal district of Atlantis, not far from the royal dwelling. He had just returned to it. The first servant encountered under the portico went to inform him of the Gilt-Hermian’s visit, and reappeared in haste with orders to introduce the visitor immediately. The Atlantean prince had already appeared on the threshold of the vast room where the most important individuals in the capital had hastened to render homage to him. He swept them aide with a gesture, and advanced toward his new gust, his hand extended.
“Be welcome. I was expecting you.”
Colder, Maghée contented himself with a bow. “Before putting my hand in yours, I need to ask you two questions. You are free not to reply to them.”
Yerra’s ally smiled. The pride of the vanquished heightened the pride of the victor.
“If I can, I will, be sure of it. And it will not depend on me whether the answers please you or not.”
“What has become of my brother Argall?”
“I don’t know, and I have made no attempt against him except to fight honestly against his men, as you have seen. His absence from the battlefield surprised me no less than you. I have every reason to believe it to be voluntary.”
“What?”
“That is what Yerra can no doubt explain to you better than I can. At any rate, she will have to explain it to me.”
A gleam shone in the Atlantean’s eyes.
Maghée understood that he was telling the truth, although he had not wanted to complete his thought, and, divining some unadmitted bitterness in the mind of the rebel vassal, of which it might be possible to take advantage, he said, in a negligent fashion: “I understand! Yerra is beautiful. It wouldn’t be the first time that a warrior had sacrificed his glory for a woman.”
Illaz went pale; his fists clenched, but he had too much self-control to deliver the secret of his thoughts so easily. Almost cheerfully, he went on: “You know better than anyone of what your brother is capable on that subject. It’s not for me to accuse him. But you said that you had two questions. Please pass on to the second.”
“What will become of Soroé?”
“I shall do everything I can to spare her, although her counselor Ruslem deceived me unworthily—unintentionally, I would like to believe. In any case, that is in the past, and I shall not lower myself to take vengeance on a child, or even on him. I have already sent the priest back to his temple. But I cannot oppose a simulacrum of judgment and a solemn public degradation. The peace of the empire is at stake. There cannot be two queens in Atlantis.”
“It is to arrive at that appeasement, to avoid bloodshed—and the gods know that it might yet flow—the Soroé will consent to surrender and we will impose neutrality. But if a single hair should fall from her head, and you cannot swear to me that she will be able to retire freely to some honorable retreat with Ruslem and her personal servants, expect on our part an irreducible resistance—I do not say desperate; only the dead are definitively vanquished.”
“If I did not fear to seem discourteous in reminding you of a disagreeable memory, I would add that we furnished the proof of that yesterday.”
“Yesterday,” declared Maghée, with an air of tranquil insolence, secretly admired by his adversary, “the men of Erm-gilt-Herm did not fight.”
Fundamentally, however, he knew full well that the generosity of the victor was according him conditions that were more than acceptable, and better than expected. To reject them would have been folly. This time, Illaz’ hand, offered again, was met half way by his own.
That same day, a little before sunset, a company of the Atlantean prince’s personal guard took possession of the royal castle, and saluted with swords the exit of Soroé’s defenders. Maghée and his men, armed and in a compact group, followed twenty chariots laden with riches and the other warriors freed on parole. All the Northerners, one last time, had rendered homage to the Queen, received one final present from her, and brushed her hand with their lips. More than one had wept of those who had cheerfully left their homeland sixteen months before, undoubtedly never to see it again.
The son of Dahéla, more emotional than he wanted to appear, had carefully explained the situation he had made to the young woman. She was to submit to the humiliation of a simulacrum of judgment, of a solemn and public deposition. But when that harsh day was passed, she would be freed, assured of an inviolable shelter in one of the western isles, where the memory of the last sovereigns, her ancestors, still survived. The honor of Illaz was her guarantee; and if that proved insufficient, the men of Erm-gilt-Herm still had their bows and swords…and who could say what the future would hold on the return, sooner or later inevitable, of Argall?
On that subject, the Northerner, for the sake of delicacy, had left her in ignorance of a part of Illaz’ responses.