"Lord Elvair-ka-Virrion, saiyett."
In the terrible distress and grief consuming her, Maia's self-possession was like a frail raft on a swirling flood. In imminent danger of being overwhelmed, it still remained afloat, though barely.
"But I must see him alone, Lokris. Are you sure there's no one with him?"
"Yes, saiyett."
"How can you be sure?"
"I am sure, saiyett."
"Well, then, will you please go in and tell him as I'm here?"
For a moment Lokris hesitated. Then she said, "Saiyett, I think it'll be better if you simply go in yourself; and take the lamp with you."
Maia stared, but Lokris merely averted her eyes, looking down. After a moment Maia raised the latch, putting her shoulder to the heavy door. It yielded and she stepped inside.
The room was not quite in darkness, for it faced west and was still faintly twilit. One would not have expected to find anyone in it, however, unless they were either asleep or making love. Yet this was not a bedroom. No; this, with its profusion of stools and small tables, its sideboard covered with silver dishes and goblets and its trophies hung on the walls, had the appearance of some kind of ante-room, perhaps adjoining a hall next door. Holding up her lamp, she looked round her in perplexity.
"Elvair?" she said timidly; but there was no reply.
She turned this way and that, looking round the big, shadowy room in apprehension, and was just going to hurry out again when she realized that someone)--a motionless figure--was sitting on a tall, armless chair by the window. The back of the chair was towards her and its occupant seemed gazing out towards the darkling west. Maia, carrying her lamp, crossed the room and stood beside the chair. The figure was, indeed, Elvair-ka-Virrion.
He looked as a man might who had spent days in prison. He was hollow-cheeked, pallid and unwashed and his hair and beard were unkempt. She could smell his stale sweat. His torn, travel-stained clothes must be those in which he had come back from Lapan. One of his boot-straps was broken and trailing on the floor. Beside him stood a tray on which were plates and the remains of untouched food. She saw mouse-droppings and a fretted, nibbled crust.
He did not move as she touched his shoulder.
"Elvair? Elvair, it's Maia."
He looked up for a moment. "Maia. Oh, yes." Dropping his chin on his hands, he resumed his abstracted staring towards the west.
She knelt beside his chair and put her hand on his wrist.
"Elvair, I'm so sorry--I'm very sorry that I've only come to add to your troubles. I wouldn't do it if I hadn't got to, honest."
It would be easier, she thought, if only he would ask her what her news was and she could answer him.
But as she waited he put aside her hand, stood up, took two or three steps across to the window and continued gazing out into the near-darkness.
Maia, still kneeling on the floor, began to cry--for Milvushina, for Tharrin, for Sphelthon, for her own terror of death, for the loss of Zenka, the fallen darkness and the hopelessness of the entire world.
He seemed unaware of her weeping; but she was weeping from the heart, and for some little time continued without any attempt to control herself or to speak again; while he stood silently, his back turned, both of them as it were isolated in separate cells of suffering. At last Maia recalled that she had come in fulfillment of the promise she had made to Milvushina.
"Elvair? Elvair, I've brought bad news; but you must hear it."
For all the response he made he might not have heard her. In a sudden passion she jumped up and ran across to him, tugging at his arm and beating her fist on his chest.
"She's dead, Elvair; Milva's dead! She told me I was to come and tell you she loved you and she didn't blame you for anything. She didn't blame you for anything!" As he still said nothing she stood in front of him, put her two hands on his shoulders and cried, "Do you hear me? Mil-va's dead, I tell you! The baby's dead and Milva's dead!"
For a moment he looked coldly into her eyes, much as he might have looked at a servant who had had the temerity to interrupt him while absorbed in some complicated mat-ter. Then, once more staring over her shoulder, he muttered just audibly, "I don't care. Go away."
As though he had struck her, Maia started back. As though he had struck her she drew in her breath and raised one hand to her cheek. Then, like one suddenly perceiving in the room the presence of something monstrous and appalling, she snatched up the lamp and ran stumblingly to the door.
Lokris was seated on a bench about twenty yards up the colonnade. As Maia came out she stood up, but if she had not caught her arm Maia would have run past her.
"Let me help you, saiyett: these corridors can be a little treacherous after dark. I wouldn't want you to fall. Please take my arm."
They walked on together, Maia with the one lamp held in her left hand, Lokris with the other in her right.
As they reached the landing on the first floor Lokris asked, "Will you wish to leave the palace now, saiyett?"
"Yes," she answered. "Yes, I'll go now, Lokris. Only I shall need some shoes--sandals--anything will do."
"Take mine, saiyett: I think they'll fit you well enough."
Lokris took off her sandals, knelt and strapped them on for her.
"Will you be needing anything else, saiyett? A jekzha?"
Maia had, of course, no money with her, and in her shocked and broken state of mind could not face the embarrassment of asking Lokris to go and get her some and waiting while she did so.
"No, Lokris, thank you: I'll walk on the terrace for a little while."
Lokris accompanied her as far as the north door of the palace, and here they parted without having spoken of what had taken place.
84: MAIA GOES HOME
It did not matter where she went, she thought. It didn't matter what happened. The gods, who had done this to Milva, could now do whatever they liked with her. She would go home, and Randronoth could kill her if he wanted. Go home--yes, that would surprise the gods. The gods would not be expecting that.
Slowly she descended the road down the Leopard Hill into the upper city. Although many people passed her, hurrying in both directions, it did not really strike home to her that any upheaval was taking place. The barracks of the upper city--a square, gloomy building--lay about a quarter of a mile ahead, and here she could see torches and hear noise and commotion. But she merely walked on, stumbling once or twice in Lokris's sandals, which were not in fact a very good fit.
She thought of the handsome, dashing young man who had spoken so charmingly to Occula and herself in the Khalkoornil on that first afternoon in Bekla, when they were being taken to Lalloc's. She remembered the sound of Milvushina's weeping on the night when she and Occula had returned from Sarget's party--that same night when she had cursed Bayub-Otal and vowed to harm him if she could.
She thought of the good-natured, sympathetic El-vair-kaVirrion, who had made love with her and later had been so ready to help her with his notion of the auction at the barrarz; and again, of Milvushina smiling as she sat on the couch in the Sacred Queen's supper-room. Behind all sounded old Nasada's thin, dry voice, "Get out of Bekla. It's a devils' playground."
Once or twice, as she made her half-shuffling, ungainly way along the road in the elf-light of moonrise, men spoke to her; but she did not even hear them, passing on in a trance of wretchedness which communicated itself without the need for any reply on her part. It was a night, however, when few in the upper city were of a mind to be accosting girls. So far as property owners and their servants were concerned (and most dwellers in the upper city were either one or the other) all thoughts were centered upon Santil-ke-Erketlis and the defeated Leopard force in the south. If Erketlis and his heldril were indeed to take the city, as he had said he intended, what was the prospect for merchants--and especially for slave-traders? And beyond these material fears lay the deep, superstitious anxiety engendered by the news of Durakkon's death at the hands of Fornis. There was a general, intu
itive feeling that that business was neither conclusive nor concluded; it must inevitably have some further outcome; and though no one could guess what that might be, the prospect gave rise to uncertainty and dread.