The Worm Ouroboros by E. R. Eddison (nonfiction book recommendations TXT) 📕

her arms like delicate white pillars supporting that fair frame. Somewhat his dull eye brightened, resting on her. “Come hither,” he said, “on my knee: so.”

When she was seated, “ ’Tis a brave gown,” said he, “thou wearest tonight, my pretty pug. Red, for a sanguine humour.” His great arm gave her a back, and his hand, huge as a platter, lay like a buckler beneath her breast. “Thou smell’st passing sweet.”

“ ’Tis malabathrum in the leaf,” answered she.

“I’m glad it likes thee, my lord,” said Zenambria. “My woman still protesteth that such, being boiled with wine, yieldeth a perfume that passeth all other.”

Corsus still looked on Sriva. After a while he asked, “What madest thou on the terrace i’ the dark, ha?”

She looked down, saying, “It was Laxus prayed me meet him there.”

“Hum!” said Corsus, “ ’Tis strange then he should await thee this hour gone by in the paved alley of the privy court.”

“He did mistake me,” said Sriva. “And well is he served, for such neglect.”

“So. And thou turnest politician tonight, my little puss-cat?” said Corsus. “And thou smellest an expedition to Demonland? ’Tis like enow. But methinks the King will send Corinius.”

“Corinius?” said Sriva. “It is not thought so. ’Tis Corund must have it, if thou push not the matter to a decision with the King tonight, O my father, ere my lady fox be private with him tomorrow.”

“Bah!” said Corsus. “Thou art but a girl, and knowest nought. She hath not the full blood nor the resolution to carry it thus. No, ’tis not Corund stands i’ the light, it is Corinius. It is therefore the King withheld from him Pixyland, which was his due, and tossed the bauble to Laxus.”

“Why, ’tis a monstrous thing,” said Zenambria, “if Corinius shall have Demonland, which surely much surpasseth this crown of Pixyland. Shall this novice have all the meat, and thou, because thou art old, have nought but the bones and the parings?”

“Hold thy tongue, mistress,” said Corsus, looking upon her as one looketh on a sour mixture. “Why hadst not the wit to angle for him for thy daughter?”

“Truly, husband, I’m sorry for it,” said Zenambria.

The Lady Sriva laughed, placing her arm about her father’s bullock-neck and playing with his whiskers. “Content thee,” she said, “my lady mother. I have my choice, and that is very certain, of these and of all other in Carcë. And now I bethink me on the Lord Corinius, why, there’s a proper man indeed: weareth a shaven lip too, which, as experienced opinion shall tell thee, far exceedeth your nasty moustachios.”

“Well,” said Corsus, kissing her, “howe’er it shape, I’ll to the King tonight to move my matter with him. Meanwhile, madam,” he said to Zenambria, “I’ll have thee take thy chamber straight. Bolt well the door, and for more safety I will lock it myself o’ the outer side. There’s much mirth toward tonight, and I’d not have these staggering drunken swads offend thee, as full well might befall, whiles I am on mine errand of state.”

Zenambria bade him good night, and would have taken her daughter with her, but Corsus said nay to this, saying, “I’ll see her safe bestowed.”

When they were alone, and the Lady Zenambria locked away in her chamber, Corsus took forth from an oaken cupboard a great silver flagon and two chased goblets. These he brimmed with a sparkling yellow wine from the flagon and made Sriva drink with him not once only but twice, emptying each time her goblet. Then he drew up his chair and sinking heavily into it folded his arms upon the table and buried his head upon them.

Sriva paced back and forth, impatient at her father’s strange posture and silence. Surely the wine lighted riot in her veins; surely in that silent room came back to her Corinius’s kisses hot upon her mouth, the strength of his arms like bands of bronze holding her embraced. Midnight tolled. Her bones seemed to melt within her as she bethought her of her promise, due in an hour.

“Father,” said she at last, “midnight hath stricken. Wilt thou not go ere it be too late?”

The Duke raised his face and looked at her. He answered “No.” “No,” he said again, “where’s the profit? I wax old, my daughter, and must wither. The world is to the young. To Corinius; to Laxus; to thee. But most of all to Corund, who if a be old yet hath his mess of sons, and mightiest of all his wife, to be his ladder to climb thrones withal.”

“But thou saidst but now⁠—” said Sriva.

“Ay, when thy mammy was by. She cometh to her second childhood before her time, so as to a child I speak to her. Corund did ill to wed with a young wife, ha? Phrut! Is not this the very bulwark and rampire of his fortune? Didst ever see a fellow so spurted up in a moment? My secretary when I managed the old wars against the Ghouls, and now climbed clean over me, that am yet nine year his elder. Called king, forsooth, and like to be ta’en soon (under the King) for Dominus fac totum throughout all the land if a play this woman as a should. Will not the King, for such payment as she intends, give Demonland upon Impland and all the world beside? Hell’s dignity, that would I, and ’twere offered me.”

He stood up, reaching unsteadily for the wine jug. Furtively he watched his daughter, shifting his gaze ever as her eye met his.

“Corund,” said he, pouring out some wine, “would split his sides for laughter to hear thy mother’s prim-mouthed brabble: he that hath enjoined upon his wife, there’s ne’er a doubt on’t, this very errand, and if he visit it on her at his coming home ’twill but be with hotter love and gratitude for that she wins him in our despite. Trust me, ’tis not every lady of quality shall find favour with a King.”

The casement stood open,