I nodded.
"The prophecy of Dwayanu is an ancient one. He was the greatest of the Ayjir kings. He lived a hundred years or more before the Ayjirs began to turn their faces from Khalk'ru, to resist the Sacrifice—and the desert in punishment began to waste the land. And as the unrest grew, and the great war which was to destroy the Ayjirs brewed, the prophecy was born. That he would return to restore the ancient glory. No new story. Yellow–hair. Others have had their Dwayanus—the Redeemer, the Liberator, the Loosener of Fate—or so I have read in those rolls our ancestors carried with them when they fled. I do not believe these stories; new Dwayanus may arise, but the old ones do not return. Yet the people know the prophecy, and the people will believe anything that promises them freedom from something they do not like. And it is from the people that the sacrifices to Khalk'ru are taken—and they do not like the Sacrifice. But because they fear what might come if there were no more sacrifices—they endure them.
"And now. Yellow–hair—we come to you. When first I saw you, heard you shouting that you were Dwayanu, I took council with Yodin and Tibur. I thought you then from Sirk. Soon I knew that could not be. There was another with you—"
"Another?" I asked, in genuine surprise.
She looked at me, suspiciously.
"You have no memory of him?"
"No. I remember seeing you. You had a white falcon. There were other women with you. I saw you from the river."
She leaned forward, gaze intent.
"You remember the Rrrllya—the Little People? A dark girl who calls herself Evalie?"
Little People—a dark girl—Evalie? Yes, I did remember something of them—but vaguely. They had been in those dreams I had forgotten, perhaps. No—they had been real…or had they?
"Faintly, I seem to remember something of them, Lur. Nothing clearly."
She stared at me, a curious exultation in her eyes.
"No matter," she said. "Do not try to think of them. You were not—awake. Later we will speak of them. They are enemies. No matter—follow me now. If you were from Sirk, posing as Dwayanu, you might be a rallying point for our discontented. Perhaps even the leader they needed. If you were from outside—you were still more dangerous, since you could prove us liars. Not only the people, but the soldiers might rally to you. And probably would. What was there for us to do but to kill you?"
"Nothing," I answered. "I wonder now you did not when you had the chance."
"You had complicated matters," she said. "You had shown the ring. Many had seen it, many had heard you call yourself Dwayanu—"
Ah, yes! I remember now—I had come up from the river. How had I gotten into the river? The bridge—Nansur—something had happened there…it was all misty, nothing clear–cut…the Little People…yes, I remembered something of them…they were afraid of me…but I had nothing against them…vainly I tried to sort the vague visions into some pattern. Lur's voice recalled my wandering thoughts.
"And so," she was saying, "I made Yodin see that it was not well to slay you outright. It would have been known, and caused too much unrest—strengthened Sirk for one thing. Caused unrest among the soldiers. What—Dwayanu had come and we had slain him! 'I will take him,' I told Yodin. 'I do not trust Tibur who, in his stupidity and arrogance, might easily destroy us all. There is a better way. Let Khalk'ru eat him and so prove us right and him the liar and braggart. Then not soon will another come shouting that he is Dwayanu'!"
"So the High–priest does not think me Dwayanu, either?"
"Less even than I do. Yellow–hair," she said, smiling. "Nor Tibur. But who you are, and whence you came, and how and why—that puzzles them as it does me. You look like the Ayjir—it means nothing. You have the ancient marks upon your hands—well, granted you are of the ancient blood. So has Tibur—and he is no Redeemer," again her laughter rang like little bells, "You have the ring. Where did you find it. Yellow–hair? For you know little of its use. Yodin found that out. When you were in sleep. And Yodin saw you turn colour and half turn to flee when first you saw Khalk'ru in his chamber. Deny it not. Yellow–hair. I saw it myself. Ah, no—Yodin has little fear of a rival with the Dissolver. Yet–he is not wholly certain. There is the faintest shadow of doubt. I played on that. And so—you are here."
I looked at her with frankest admiration, again raised the goblet and drank to her. I clapped my hands, and the serving girls entered.
"Clear the table. Bring wine."
They came with fresh ewers and goblets. When they had gone out I went over to the door. There was a heavy bar that closed it. I thrust it down. I picked up one of the ewers and half emptied it.
"I can summon the Dissolver, Witch–woman."
She drew in her breath, sharply; her body trembled; the blue fires of her eyes were bright—bright.
"Shall I show you?"
I took the ring from the locket, slipped it on my thumb, raised my hands in the beginning of the salutation—
A cold breath seemed to breathe through the room. The Witch–woman sprang to me, dragged down my hand. Her lips were white.
"No!—No! I believe—Dwayanu!"
I laughed. The strange cold withdrew, stealthily.
"And now. Witch, what will you tell the priest?"
The blood was slowly coming back into her lips and face. She lifted the ewer and drained it. Her hand was steady. An admirable woman—this Lur!
She said:
"I will tell him that you are powerless."
I said:
"I will summon the Dissolver. I will kill Tibur. I will kill Yodin—what else is there?"
She came to me, stood with breast touching mine.
"Destroy Sirk. Sweep the dwarfs away. Then you and I shall rule—alone."
I drank more wine.
"I will summon Khalk'ru; I will eliminate Tibur and the priest; I will sack Sirk and I will war against the dwarfs—if—"
She looked into my eyes, long and long; her arm stole round my shoulder…I thrust out a hand and swept away the candles. The green darkness of the mirage night seeped through the casements. The whispering of the waterfall was soft laughter.
"I take my pay in advance," I said. "Such was Dwayanu's way of old—and am I not Dwayanu?"
"Yes!" whispered the Witch–woman.
She took the strand of sapphires from her hair, she unbraided her coronal and shook loose its russet–gold. Her arms went round my neck. Her lips sought mine and clung to them.
There was the beat of horses' hoofs on the causeway. A distant challenge. A knocking at the door. The Witch–woman awakened, sat sleepily up under the silken tent of her hair.
"Is it you, Ouarda?"
"Yes, mistress. A messenger from Tibur."
I laughed.
"Tell him you are busy with your gods, Lur."
She bent her head over mine so that the silken tent of it covered us both.
"Tell him I am busy with the gods, Ouarda. He may stay till morning—or return to Tibur with the message."