But these weapons did not interest me now. I sought other loot. There was no death-traps to beware of, for none but the Coven knew the way to enter this treasure-room, or its location, or even that it existed, save in legends. And no slave or guard would have dared to enter Ghast Rhymi's tower.
My gaze passed over a sword, but not the one I needed; a burnished shield; a harp, set with an intricate array of manual controls. I knew that harp. Earth has legends of it – the harp of Orpheus, that could bring back the dead from Hades. Human hands could not play it. But I was not quite ready for the harp, yet.
What I wanted lay on a shelf, sealed in its cylindrical case. I broke open the seals and took out the thin black rod with its hand-grip.
The Wand of Power. The Wand that could tap the electromagnetic force of a planet. So could other wands of this type – but this was the only one without the safety-device that limited its power. It was dangerous to use.
In another case I found the Crystal Mask – a curved, transparent plate that shielded my eyes like a domino mask of glass. This mask would shield one from Edeyrn.
I searched further. But of the Sword of Llyr I could find no trace.
Time did not lag. I heard nothing of the noise of battle, but I knew that the battle went on, and I knew, too, that sooner or later the Coven would return to the Castle. Well, I could fight the Coven now, but I could not fight Llyr. I dared not risk the issue till I had made sure.
In the door of the vault I stood, staring at Ghast Rhymi's silvery head. Whatever guardian thought he kept here, knew I had a right to the treasure room. He made no motion. His thoughts moved far out in unimaginable abysses, nor could they be easily drawn back. And it was impossible to put pressure on Ghast Rhymi. He had the perfect answer. He could die.
Well, I too had an answer!
I went back to the vault and lifted the harp. I carried it out and set it down before the old man. No life showed in his blue stare.
I went to the windows and flung them open. Then I returned, dropping to the cushions beside the harp, and lightly touched its intricate controls.
That harp had been in the Earth-world, or others like it. Legends know its singing strings, as legends tell of mystic swords. There was the lyre of Orpheus, strong with power, that Jupiter placed amid the stars. There was the harp of Gwydion of Britain, that charmed the souls of men. And the harp of Alfred, that helped to crush Daneland. There was David's harp that he played before Saul.
Power rests in music. No man today can say what sound broke the walls of Jericho, but once men knew.
Here in the Dark World this harp had its legends among the common folk. Men said that a demon played it, that the
For an incredible perfection of science had created this harp. It was a machine. Sonic, sub-sonic, and pure vibration to match the thought-waves emitted by the brain blended into a whole that was part hypnosis and part electric magnetism. The brain is a colloid, a machine, and any machine can be controlled.
And the harp of power could find the key to a mind, and lay bonds upon that mind.
Through the open windows, faintly from below, I heard the clash of swords and the dim shouts of fighting men. But these sounds did not touch Ghast Rhymi. He was lost on the plane of pure abstraction, thinking his ancient, deep thoughts.
My fingers touched the controls of the harp, awkwardly at first, then with more ease as manual dexterity came back with memory.
The sigh of a plucked string whispered through the white room. The murmuring of minor notes, in a low, dreamily distant key. And as the machine found the patterns of Ghast Rhymi's mind, under my hands the harp quickened into breathing life.
The soul of Ghast Rhymi – translated into terms of pure music!
Shrill and ear-piercing a single note sang. Higher and higher it mounted, fading into inaudibility. Deep down a roaring, windy noise began, rising and swelling into the demon-haunted shout of a gale. Rivers of air poured their music into the threnody.
High – high – cold and pure and white as the snowy summit of a great mountain, that single thin note sang and sang again.
Louder grew the great winds. Rippling arpeggios raced through the rising torrent of the sorcerous music.
Thunder of riven rocks – shrill screaming of earthquake-shaken lands – yelling of a deluge that poured down upon tossing forests.
A heavy humming note, hollow and unearthly, and I saw the gulfs between the worlds where the empty night of space makes a trackless desert.
And suddenly, incongruously, a gay lilting tune, with an infectious rocking rhythm, that brought to my mind bright colors and sunlit streams and fields.
Ghast Rhymi stirred.
For an instant awareness came back into his blue eyes. He saw me.
And I saw the life-fires sink within that frail, ancient body.
I knew that he was dying – that I had troubled his long peace – that he had relinquished his casual hold upon life.
I drew the harp toward me. I touched the controls.
Ghast Rhymi sat before me, dead, the faintest possible spark fading within that old brain.
I sent the sorcerous spell of the harp blowing like a mighty wind upon the dying embers of Ghast Rhymi's life.
As Orpheus drew back the dead Eurydice from Pluto's realm, so I cast my net of music, snared the soul of Ghast Rhymi, drew him back from death!
He straggled at first, I felt his mind turn and writhe, trying to escape, but the harp had already found the key to his mind, and it would not let him go. Inexorably it drew him.
The ember flickered – faded – brightened again.
Louder sang the strings. Deeper roared the tumult of shaking waters.
Higher the white, shrill note, pure as a star's icy light, leaped and ever rose.
Roaring, racing, sweet with honey-musk, perfumed with flower-scent and ambergris, blazing with color, opal and blood-ruby and amethyst-blue, that mighty tapestry of color rippled and shook like a visible web of magic through the room.
The web reached out.
Swept around Ghast Rhymi like a fowler's snare!
Back in those faded blue eyes the light of awareness grew. He had stopped struggling. He had given up the fight. It was easier to come back to life – to let me question him – than to battle the singing strings that could cage a man's very soul.
Under the white beard the old man's lips moved.
'Ganelon,' he said. 'I knew – when the harp sang – who played it. Well, ask your questions. And then let me die. I would not live in the days that are coming now. But you will live, Ganelon – and yet you will die too. That much I have read in the future.'
The hoary head bent slowly. For an instant Ghast Rhymi listened – and I listened too.
The last, achingly sweet notes of the harp died upon the trembling air.
Through the open windows came the muted clash of sword and the wordless shriek of a dying man.
XIII. War – Red War!
PITY FLOODED ME. The shadow of greatness that had cloaked Ghast Rhymi was gone. He sat there, a shrunken, fragile old man, and I felt a momentary unreasoning impulse to turn on my heel and leave him to drift back into his peaceful abyss of thought. Once, I remembered, Ghast Rhymi had seemed a tall, huge figure – though he had never been that in my lifetime. But in my childhood I had sat at the feet of this Covenanter
