Zarono found the Stygian looking aged and bent. "Hasten," Menkara murmured. "The counter-spell will not hold for long."
Pale and sweating, Zarono and Menkara entered the temple. Within, there was little light save that which entered through the open portal, and the dull black stone absorbed this light with little reflection.
At the far end of the irregular chamber rose a huge black altar, and on top of this altar squatted an idol of gray stone. The idol was that of a being that combined the qualities of a man and a toad, with its male characteristics obscenely exaggerated. Toadlike, with a bloated, warty skin, it squatted on the altar. The surface of the gray stone had a rough, crumbly appearance, as if the stone itself were rotting and sloughing away.
The idol's toothless mouth was slightly open in a mirthless grin. Above the mouth, a pair of pits corresponded to nostrils, and above these a row of seven globular gems, set in a row, corresponded to eyes. The seven gems faintly reflected the light that came through the portal.
Shuddering at the aura of cosmic evil that radiated from the thing, Zarono tore his eyes away from it. Before the altar lay two small sacks of old leather. One had burst at the seam, and a glittering trickle of gems had poured from it to make a puddle of granulated splendor on the stone pave, shining in the dimness like a constellation sighted through a gap in the clouds.
Beneath the sacks of jewels was a huge book, bound in the hide of some reptile and fitted with clasps and hinges of bronze, green with age. The scales of the reptile whose skin formed the cover were of a size that no earthly beast had worn for eons.
The two men exchanged one wordless, triumphant glance.
Zarono gathered up the burst sack, carefully so as not to spill out any more of the gems. When he had cradled it in the crook of one arm, he picked up the other sack with his free hand. Then Menkara pounced upon the book, raised it, and clasped it to his bosom. His gaunt visage was flushed and his eyes humid with a strange, darkling ecstasy. Without a word or a backward glance, they tiptoed out of the temple, crossed the clearing almost at a run, and rejoined the buccaneers who awaited them uneasily at the edge of the jungle.
"Back to the ship, and yard" said Zarono.
All hastened back along the trail they had cut, eager to leave behind this seat of ancient evil, over which accursed forces still hovered, and regain the clean air and blessed sunlight of the open sea.
Chapter Six: FLAMING EYES
The princess Chabela had passed through terror and fury into relative calm. She knew not why the traitor Zarono had turned against his liege lord to destroy his royal vessel, nor why the buccaneer had captured her. But she was no longer paralyzed by fear, for at last her hands were free.
Zarono had locked her in a small cabin with her hands tied behind her back with a length of silken scarf. The flimsy length of scarlet silk seemed un-suited for bonds; but Zarono had learned from a wandering Vendnyan mountebank the art of knotting a cord so as to defy the deftest fingers, and the scarlet fabric, for all its lightness, seemed as tough as rawhide. At meal times, Zarono himself came to the cabin to untie her and later bind her up again. He refused to answer her questions.
Chabela, however, bore beneath her girdle a small knife. It was common for highborn Zingaran women to carry such a blade, wherewith to end their lives when menaced by brutal rape.
The resourceful girl put the knife to another use. By stretching and straining, she got her hands on the bulge where lay the knife and teased it out from its concealment. Then she wedged the hilt into a cavity in the wooden scroll work that formed a sill for the porthole. She withdrew the sheath from the blade and, with her back to the knife, she forced her wrists against the naked blade.
The task was hard, for she could not see behind her at such close quarters, and from time to time the bitter lass of the razor-sharp steel burnt her shrinking flesh. Before she had sawn the silk through, her wrists were slick with blood.
But at last it parted.
Chabela took the knife from its place, returned it to its sheath, and hid it again in her girdle. The silk, now in two pieces, she used to bandage the several small, superficial cuts she had inflicted upon herself.
Now that she was free, how should she use her freedom? Zarono had left the ship, for she had overheard his last commands. Only part of the crew was left aboard, but Chabela knew that a burly seaman was posted outside the door to her cabin, which in any case was bolted from the outside.
That left the porthole, which looked upon a turquoise sea, a stretch of cream-colored beach, and a fringe of palms, thrusting emerald fronds against the clear blue of the sky.
Luckily for her, Chabela was far stronger, bolder, and braver than most of the delicate noble damsels of the Zingaran court. Few of them would even have dared to attempt what she next did. She opened the casement of the porthole and pulled her gown up through her girdle until the hem was above her knees. Below, a lazy swell rose and fell, a couple of fathoms below the porthole.
Quietly, Chabela wormed her way through the opening, lowered herself until she hung by her hands, and let go. She struck the water feet-first with a small splash, disappeared beneath the surface, and quickly bobbed up again, spitting water and brushing her heavy black hair back from her face. The water, though not cold, was cooler than the hot, humid air, and its coolness sent a shock through the princess's nerves. The brine stung her cuts.
Chabela had no time to enjoy the cool embrace of the sea. At any moment a seaman, idly leaning on the rail, might espy her and sound the alarm. Above her rose the ship's high stern, checkered with the panes of the after portholes.
Above them, the rail of the poop deck and the masts and rigging swayed gently against the sky.
There would be a seaman posted on the poop somewhere, but at the moment no man's head showed above the rail. If she kept astern of the ship, she would be less likely to be seen than if she came abeam of it, where she would be exposed to the glances of men in the waist and the bow.
It was a long swim. To be inconspicuous, Chabela swam on her back. Allowing only her face to emerge from the water, she swam parallel to the beach, to keep the ship's stern castle between herself and the rest of the vessel. When she tired, she floated for a while, sculling languidly with her hands.
At last the bulk of the Petrel shrank until the figures of men could no longer clearly be seen, even when they were visible. Then Chabela turned shoreward and struck out vigorously.
At last, trembling with fatigue, she felt the sandy bottom beneath her and dragged herself out on the yellow-gray beach. A few steps took her into the shade of the palms, where she crouched among a thick growth of ferns to rest.
She had, she thought, plunged from one peril to the other, for none knew what terrors the island might harbor. If nothing else befell her, she might run into Zarono and his rascals. But, putting her faith in Mitra, she still thought that she was better off than if she had remained in the hands of her enemies on the ship.
When she recovered her strength, she rose and moved about, casting around for a direction to take. She winced as pebbles and twigs dented the soles of her bare feet; for she had not, in recent years, had many chances to go barefoot. The breeze, sighing through the palms, chilled her damp garment and made her sneeze. Impatiently, she doffed her girdle and pulled the gown off over her head. The afternoon sun, slanting through the palm trunks along the beach, threw bars of sunlight on the healthy, olive-hued skin that covered her well-rounded form.
She wrung the remaining water out of the gown and spread it on the ferns to dry.