revealed the scars on one side of his face: old scars long healed,
whitish on his dark skin, four parallel ridges from eye to jawbone, as if from the
scraping talons of a huge claw.
“What is that?” she said. “That scar.”
He did not answer at once.
“A dragon?” she said, trying to scoff. Had she not come down
here to make mock of her victim, to torment him with his helplessness?
“No, not a dragon.”
“You’re not a dragonlord, at least,
then.”
“No,” he said rather reluctantly, “I am a dragonlord. But the scars were before that. I told you that I had met
with the Dark Powers before, in other places of the earth. This on my face is the mark
of one of the kinship of the Nameless Ones. But no longer nameless, for I learned his
name, in the end.”
“What do you mean? What name?”
“I cannot tell you that,” he said, and smiled, though his face
was grave.
“That’s nonsense, fool’s babble, sacrilege. They are the
Nameless Ones! You don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“I know even better than you, Priestess,” he said, his voice
deepening. “Look again!” He turned his head so she must see the four
terrible marks across his cheek.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, and her voice
shook.
“Priestess,” he said gently, “you are not very old; you
can’t have served the Dark Ones very long.”
“But I have. Very long! I am the First Priestess, the Reborn. I have
served my masters for a thousand years and a thousand years before that. I am their
servant and their voice and their hands. And I am their vengeance on those who defile
the Tombs and look upon what is not to be seen! Stop your lying and your boasting,
can’t you see that if I say one word my guard will come and cut your head off your
shoulders? Or if I go away and lock this door, then nobody will come, ever, and
you’ll die here in the dark,and those I serve will eat your
flesh and eat your soul and leave your bones here in the dust?”
Quietly, he nodded.
She stammered, and finding no more to say, swept out of the room and
bolted the door behind her with a clang. Let him think she wasn’t coming back! Let
him sweat, there in the dark, let him curse and shiver and try to work his foul, useless
spells!
But in her mind’s eye she saw him stretching out to sleep, as she
had seen him do by the iron door, serene as a sheep in a sunny meadow.
She spat at the bolted door, and made the sign to avert defilement, and
went almost at a run toward the Undertomb.
While she skirted its wall on the way to the trapdoor in the Hall, her
fingers brushed along the fine planes and traceries of rock, like frozen lace. A longing
swept over her to light her lantern, to see once more, just for a moment, the
time-carven stone, the lovely glitter of the walls. She shut her eyes tight and hurried
on.
CHAPTER 7
THE GREAT TREASURE
N EVER HAD THE RITES AND duties of the day seemed so many, or so petty, or so long. The little girls with their pale faces and furtive ways, the restless novices, the priestesses whose looks were stern and cool but whose lives were all a secret brangle of jealousies and miseries and small ambitions and wasted passions—all these women, among whom she had always lived and who made up the human world to her, now appeared to her as both pitiable and boring.
But she who served great powers, she the priestess of grim Night, was free of that pettiness. She did not have to care about the grinding meanness of their common life, the days whose one delight was likely to be getting a bigger slop of lamb fat over your lentils than your neighbor got. . . . She was free of the days altogether. Underground, there were no days. There was always and only night.
And in that unending night, the prisoner: the dark man, practicer of dark arts, bound in iron and locked in stone, waiting forher to come or not to come, to bring him water and bread and life, or a
whitish on his dark skin, four parallel ridges from eye to jawbone, as if from the
scraping talons of a huge claw.
“What is that?” she said. “That scar.”
He did not answer at once.
“A dragon?” she said, trying to scoff. Had she not come down
here to make mock of her victim, to torment him with his helplessness?
“No, not a dragon.”
“You’re not a dragonlord, at least,
then.”
“No,” he said rather reluctantly, “I am a dragonlord. But the scars were before that. I told you that I had met
with the Dark Powers before, in other places of the earth. This on my face is the mark
of one of the kinship of the Nameless Ones. But no longer nameless, for I learned his
name, in the end.”
“What do you mean? What name?”
“I cannot tell you that,” he said, and smiled, though his face
was grave.
“That’s nonsense, fool’s babble, sacrilege. They are the
Nameless Ones! You don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“I know even better than you, Priestess,” he said, his voice
deepening. “Look again!” He turned his head so she must see the four
terrible marks across his cheek.
“I don’t believe you,” she said, and her voice
shook.
“Priestess,” he said gently, “you are not very old; you
can’t have served the Dark Ones very long.”
“But I have. Very long! I am the First Priestess, the Reborn. I have
served my masters for a thousand years and a thousand years before that. I am their
servant and their voice and their hands. And I am their vengeance on those who defile
the Tombs and look upon what is not to be seen! Stop your lying and your boasting,
can’t you see that if I say one word my guard will come and cut your head off your
shoulders? Or if I go away and lock this door, then nobody will come, ever, and
you’ll die here in the dark,and those I serve will eat your
flesh and eat your soul and leave your bones here in the dust?”
Quietly, he nodded.
She stammered, and finding no more to say, swept out of the room and
bolted the door behind her with a clang. Let him think she wasn’t coming back! Let
him sweat, there in the dark, let him curse and shiver and try to work his foul, useless
spells!
But in her mind’s eye she saw him stretching out to sleep, as she
had seen him do by the iron door, serene as a sheep in a sunny meadow.
She spat at the bolted door, and made the sign to avert defilement, and
went almost at a run toward the Undertomb.
While she skirted its wall on the way to the trapdoor in the Hall, her
fingers brushed along the fine planes and traceries of rock, like frozen lace. A longing
swept over her to light her lantern, to see once more, just for a moment, the
time-carven stone, the lovely glitter of the walls. She shut her eyes tight and hurried
on.
CHAPTER 7
THE GREAT TREASURE
N EVER HAD THE RITES AND duties of the day seemed so many, or so petty, or so long. The little girls with their pale faces and furtive ways, the restless novices, the priestesses whose looks were stern and cool but whose lives were all a secret brangle of jealousies and miseries and small ambitions and wasted passions—all these women, among whom she had always lived and who made up the human world to her, now appeared to her as both pitiable and boring.
But she who served great powers, she the priestess of grim Night, was free of that pettiness. She did not have to care about the grinding meanness of their common life, the days whose one delight was likely to be getting a bigger slop of lamb fat over your lentils than your neighbor got. . . . She was free of the days altogether. Underground, there were no days. There was always and only night.
And in that unending night, the prisoner: the dark man, practicer of dark arts, bound in iron and locked in stone, waiting forher to come or not to come, to bring him water and bread and life, or a
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