Delusion's Master (Tales From the Flat Earth) by Tanith Lee Read Free Book Online

the stair, a distorted ghostly memory of a blond prince or a
rust-haired devil stole over her. Her fear took another direction at the
thought, but she was unsure whether to defend herself or to plead his
friendship. Altogether her memory was unreliable. She had almost forgotten her
husband since Chuz had promised her Nemdur’s destruction. Possibly she had not
wished to suffer further guilt. Most definitely she did not rock a bone anymore
in her arms. She had become for herself a woman with misery in her past, but
all amorphous, nameless. She had never wed, never been delivered of a child,
never conspired with a Lord of Darkness.
    In much the
same way, Nemdur’s second wife had also erased the shock and horror of the
collapse of Baybhelu. Something had happened in the desert—what? A sharp pain
in her soul warned her not to search it out. The vile objects which lay about
the desert she avoided with feet and eye and reverie. The flight of the eagle
had faded to a rushing of stars. If Azhrarn had taken her or consoled her or
done with her anything at all, he had removed her knowledge of the event.
    So she entered
the stone tower, climbed the stairs, because, after Baybhelu, climbing up
stairs had become the most normal of activities to her, and found Jasrin in her
chamber.
    Both were
startled, both exclaimed. Nemdur had inconvenienced them both in greater or
slighter ways. They were, in a curious fashion, bound. And in their abject
state, mortal restraint dismissed, they presently ran together and sadly
comforted each other. In that embrace, their tears mingling, one who had been
sane lost a fraction of sanity’s burden, one who had been a maniac grew calm.
    That blending,
more than duty accomplished, drove punctilious Prince Chuz from the vandalized kingdom of Sheve.
     
    But just as Chuz, one of
the Lords of Darkness, was departing from that place into whatever
incomprehensible place he meant to go, he met another in the midnight desert.
And by the moon’s cool torch, Chuz perceived that other to be also a Lord, one
of his un-kindred.
    Uhlume, Lord
Death, Chuz might have anticipated, but not necessarily Azhrarn.
    Neither was
Azhrarn solitary. Behind him, ranged on the dark powder of the sand, were some
of the princes of the demon Vazdru. The moon lit perfectly their pale and
marvelous faces, the black-burning coals of their hair and eyes. They rode, as
frequently, on the macabre elegant horses of the Underearth, of Druhim
Vanashta, black horses with manes and tails like clear blue gas, and
everything, of horse and rider, aclink and aglitter with gems and silver. These
were demons, artisans of wickedness, yet they held their handsome features a
touch aslant from Chuz, Prince Madness. They were being careful, even they, how
they glanced at him, lest they see more than they desired. But as they did it,
they pretended they had other reasons for the angle of their heads and eyes,
toying with their rings, petting their steeds, perusing the sky. For these were
demons whose pride was such that mortal pride beside it was like a blade of
grass beside a cedar tree.
    Only Azhrarn
himself, Prince of the princes, looked directly at the hooded blond half-face
of Chuz, directly in the uncanny single eye. Azhrarn the Beautiful (and
beautiful he was, beautiful being a poor description) was one of the few who
dared outstare Chuz; and come to that, Chuz was one of the few who dared
outstare Azhrarn. Their stares were, nevertheless, wary, contemptuous,
interested and enigmatic. So Lords of Darkness responded to one another.
Somewhat attracted to, rather offended by, each other’s existence.
    Presently,
Azhrarn the Beautiful (beautiful being a poor description, but the wondrous
words of the flat, four-cornered earth, that did him, even so, the barest
justice, are no more), presently Azhrarn spoke. He spoke in a voice that lay
like dark music on the air. Chuz smiled, mouth courteously closed in Azhrarn’s
presence, at the sound of it.