Essential Novelists - Eric Rücker Eddison. August Nemo

over them.

      Now was the sun’s heat strong, but the shadow of the great keep rested still on the terrace without the western wall of the palace. Cool and redolent of ease and soft repose was that terrace, paved with flagstones of red jasper, with spleenwort, assafoetida, livid toadstools, dragons’ teeth, and bitter moon-seed growing in the joints.

      On the outer edge of the terrace were bushes of arbor vitae planted in a row, squat and round like sleeping dormice, with clumps of choke-pard aconite in the interspaces. Many hundred feet in length was the terrace from north to south, and at either end a flight of black marble steps led down to the level of the inner ward and its embattled wall.

      Benches of green jasper massily built and laden with velvet cushions of many colours stood against the palace wall facing to the west, and on the bench nearest the Iron Tower a lady sat at ease, eating cream wafers and a quince tart served by her waiting-women in dishes of pale gold for her morning meal. Tall was that lady and slender, and beauty dwelt in her as the sunshine dwells in the red floor and gray-green trunks of a beech wood in early spring. Her tawny hair was gathered in deep folds upon her head and made fast by great silver pins, their heads set with anachite diamonds. Her gown was of cloth of silver with a knotted cord-work of black silk embroidery everywhere decked with little moonstones, and over it she wore a mantle of figured satin the colour of the wood-pigeon’s wing, tinselled and overcast with silver threads. White-skinned she was, and graceful as an antelope. Her eyes were green, with yellow fiery gleams. Daintily she ate the tart and wafers, sipping at whiles from a cup of amber, artificially carved, white wine cool from the cellars below Carcë; and a maiden sitting at her feet played on a seven-stringed lute, singing very sweetly this song:

      Aske me no more where Jove bestowes,

      When June is past, the fading rose;

      For in your beautie’s orient deepe,

      These flowers, as in their causes, sleepe.

      Aske me no more whether doth stray

      The golden atomes of the day;

      For in pure love heaven did prepare

      Those powders to inrich your haire.

      Aske me no more whether doth hast

      The nightingale when May is past;

      For in your sweet dividing throat

      She winters and keepes warme her note.

      Aske me no more where those starres light,

      That downewards fall in dead of night;

      For in your eyes they sit, and there

      Fixed become as in their sphere.

      Aske me no more if east or west

      The Phenix builds her spicy nest;

      For unto you at last Shi flies,

      And in your fragrant bosome dyes.

      “No more,” said the lady; “thy voice is cracked this morning. Is none abroad yet thou canst find to tell me of last night’s doings? Or are all gone my lord’s gate, that I left sleeping still as though all the poppies of all earth’s gardens breathed drowsiness about his head?”

      “One cometh, madam,” said the damosel.

      The lady said, “The Lord Gro. He may resolve me. Though were he in the stour last night, that were a wonder indeed.”

      Therewith came Gro along the terrace from the north, clad in a mantle of dun-coloured velvet with a collar of raised work of gold upon silver purl; and his long black curly beard was perfumed with orange-flower water and angelica. When they had greeted one another and the lady had bidden her women stand apart, she said, “My lord, I thirst for tidings. Recount to me all that befell since sundown. For I slept soundly till the streaks of morning showed through my chamber windows, and then I awoke from a flying dream of sennets sounding to the onset, and torches in the night, and war’s alarums. And there were torches indeed in my chamber lighting my lord to bed, that answered me no word but straightway fell asleep as in utter weariness. Some slight scratches he hath, but else unhurt. I would not wake him, for balm is in slumber; also is he ill to do with if one wake him so. But the tattle and wild surmise of the servants bloweth as ever to all points of wonder: as that a great armament of Demonland is disembarked at Tenemos, and all routed last night by my lord and by Corinius, and Goldry Bluszco slain in single combat with the King. Or that Juss hath set a charm on Laxus and all our fleet, making them sail like parricides against this land, Juss and the other Demons leading them; and all slain save Laxus and Goldry Bluszco, but these brought bound into Carcë, stark mad and frothing at the lips, and Corinius dead of his wounds after slaying of Brandoch Daha. Or, foolishly,” and her green eyes lightened dangerously, “that it was my brother risen in revolt to wrest Pixyland from the overlordship of Gorice, and joined with Gaslark to that end, and their army overthrown and both ta’en prisoner.”

      Gro laughed and said, “Surely, O my Lady Prezmyra, truth masketh in many a strange disguise when she rideth rumour’s broomstick through kings’ palaces. But somewhat of herself hath she shown thee, if thou conclude that an event was brought to birth betwixt dark and sunrise to stagger the world, and that the power of Witchland bloomed forth this night into unbeholden glory.”

      “Thou speakest big, my lord,” said the lady. “Were the Demons in it?”

      “Ay, madam,” he said.

      “And triumphed on? and slain?”

      “All slain save Juss and Brandoch Daha, and they taken,” said Gro.

      “Was this my lord’s doing?” she asked.

      “Greatly, as I think,” said Gro; “though Corinius claimeth for himself, as commonly, the main honour of it.”

      Prezmyra said, “He claimeth overmuch.” And she said, “There were none in it save Demons?”

      Gro, knowing her thought, smiled and made answer, “Madam, there were Witches.”

      “My Lord Gro,” she cried, “thou dost ill to mock me. Thou art my friend. Thou knowest the Prince my brother proud and sudden to anger. Thou knowest it chafeth him to have Witchland over him. Thou knowest the time is many days overpast when he should bring his yearly tribute to the King.”

      Gro’s great ox-eyes were soft as he looked upon the Lady Prezmyra, saying, “Most assuredly am I thy friend, madam. Belike, if truth were told, thou and thy lord are all the true friends I have in waterish Witchland: you two, and the King: but who sleepeth safe in the favour of kings? Ah, madam, none of Pixyland stood in the battle yesternight. Therefore let thy soul be at ease. But my task it was, standing on the battlements beside the King, to smile and smile while Corinius and our fighting men made a bloody havoc of four or five hundred of mine own kinsfolk.”

      Prezmyra caught her breath and was silent a moment. Then, “Gaslark?”

      “The main force was his, it appeareth,” answered Lord Gro. “Corinius braggeth himself his banesman, and certain it is he felled him to earth. But I am secretly advertised he was not among the dead taken up this morning.”

      “My lord,” she said, “my desire for news drinks deep while thou art fasting. Some, bring meat and wine for my Lord Gro.” And two damosels ran and returned with sparkling golden wine in a beaker, and a dish of lampreys with hippocras sauce. So Gro sat him down on the jasper bench and, while he ate and drank, rehearsed to the Lady Prezmyra the doings of the night.

      When he had ended she said, “How hath the King dealt with those twain, Lord Juss and Lord Brandoch Daha?”

      Gro answered, “He hath them clapped up in the old banqueting hall in the Iron Tower.” And his brow darkened, and he said, “’Tis pity thy lord lay thus long abed, and so came not to the council, where Corsus and Corinius, backed by thy step-sons and the sons of Corsus, egged on the King to use shamefully these lords of Demonland. True is that distich which