"There is more in your mind than that—" Her eyes narrowed.
"They understood me, Evalie—but do you also tell them."
The Little People trilled among themselves; then ten of them stepped forward, those chosen to take the message. As they were moving away, I stopped them.
"If Sri escaped, let him come with the embassy. Better still—let him come before them. Send word through the drums that he may come as soon as he can. He has my safe–conduct, and shall stay with Evalie until all is settled."
They chattered over that, assented. The Witch–woman made no comment. For the first time I saw Evalie's eyes soften as she looked at me.
When the pygmies were gone, Lur walked to the door, and beckoned. Ouarda entered.
"Ouarda!"
I liked Ouarda. It was good to know she was alive. I went to her with outstretched hands. She took them.
"It was two of the soldiers, Lord. They had sisters in Sirk. They cut the ladder before we could stop them. They were slain," she said.
Would to God they had cut it before any could, have followed me!
Before I could speak, one of my captains knocked and entered.
"It is long after dusk and the gates are closed, Lord. All those who would come are behind them."
"Were there many, soldier?"
"No, Lord—not more than a hundred or so. The others refused."
"And did they say why they refused?"
"Is the question an order, Lord?"
"It is an order."
"They said they were safer where they were. That the Rrrllya had no quarrel with them, who were but meat for Khalk'ru."
"Enough, soldier!" The Witch–woman's voice was harsh. "Go! Take the Rrrllya with you."
The captain saluted, turned smartly and was gone with the dwarfs. I laughed.
"Soldiers cut our ladder for sympathy of those who fled Khalk'ru. The people fear the enemies of Khalk'ru less than they do their own kind who are his butchers! We do well to make peace with the Rrrllya, Lur."
I watched her face pale, then redden and saw the knuckles of her hands whiten as she clenched them. She smiled, poured herself wine, lifted it with a steady hand.
"I drink to your wisdom—Dwayanu!"
A strong soul—the Witch–woman's! A warrior's heart. Somewhat lacking in feminine softness, it was true. But it was no wonder that Dwayanu had loved her—in his way and as much as he could love a woman.
A silence dropped upon the chamber, intensified in some odd fashion by the steady beating of the drums. How long we sat in that silence I do not know. But suddenly the beat of the drums became fainter.
And then all at once the drums ceased entirely. The quiet brought a sense of unreality. I could feel the tense nerves loosening like springs long held taut. The abrupt silence made ears ache, slowed heart–beat.
"They have the message. They have accepted it," Evalie spoke.
The Witch–woman arose.
"You keep the girl beside you to–night, Dwayanu?"
"She sleeps in one of these rooms, Lur. She will be under guard. No one can reach her without passing through my room here," I looked at her, significantly. "And I sleep lightly. You need have no fear of her escape."
"I am glad the drums will not disturb your sleep—Dwayanu."
She gave me a mocking salute, and, with Ouarda, left me.
And suddenly the weariness dropped upon me again. I turned to Evalie, watching me with eyes in which I thought doubt of her own deep doubt had crept. Certainly there was no scorn, nor loathing in them. Well, now I had her where all this manoeuvring had been meant to bring her. Alone with me. And looking at her I felt that in the face of all she had seen of me, all she had undergone because of me—words were useless things. Nor could I muster them as I wanted. No, there would be plenty of time…in the morning, perhaps, when I had slept…or after I had done what I had to do…then she must believe…
"Sleep, Evalie. Sleep without fear…and believe that all that has been wrong is now becoming right. Go with Dara. You shall be well guarded. None can come to you except through this room, and here I will be. Sleep and fear nothing."
I called Dara, gave her instructions, and Evalie went with her. At the curtains masking the entrance to the next room she hesitated, half turned as though to speak, but did not. And not long after Dara returned. She said:
"She is already asleep, Dwayanu."
"As you should be, friend," I told her. "And all those others who stood by me this day. I think there is nothing to fear to–night. Select those whom you can trust and have them guard the corridor and my door. Where have you put her?"
"In the chamber next this, Lord."
"It would be better if you and the others slept here, Dara. There are half a dozen rooms for you. Have wine and food brought for you—plenty of it."
She laughed.
"Do you expect a siege, Dwayanu?"
"One never knows."
"You do not greatly trust Lur, Lord?"
"I trust her not at all, Dara."
She nodded, turned to go. Upon the impulse I said:
"Dara, would it make you sleep better to–night and those with you, and would it help you in picking your guard if I told you this: there will be no more sacrifices to Khalk'ru while I live?"
She started; her face lightened, softened. She thrust out her hand to me:
"Dwayanu—I had a sister who was given to Khalk'ru. Do you mean this?"
"By the life of my blood! By all the living gods! I mean it!"
"Sleep well, Lord!" Her voice was choked. She walked away, through the curtain, but not before I had seen the tears on her cheeks.
Well, a woman had a right to weep—even if she was a soldier. I myself had wept to–day.
I poured myself wine, sat thinking as I drank. Mainly my thoughts revolved around the enigma of Khalk'ru. And there was a good reason for that.
What was Khalk'ru?
I slipped the chain from round my neck, opened the locket and studied the ring. I closed it, and threw it on the table. Somehow I felt that it was better there than over my heart while I was doing this thinking.
Dwayanu had had his doubts about that dread Thing being any Spirit of the Void, and I, who now was Leif Langdon and a passive Dwayanu, had no doubts whatever that it was not. Yet I could not accept Barr's theory of mass hypnotism—and trickery was out of the question.
Whatever Khalk'ru might be, Khalk'ru—as the Witch–woman had said—was. Or at least that Shape which became material through ritual, ring and screen—was.
I thought that I might have put the experience in the temple of the oasis down as hallucination if it had not been repeated here in the Shadowed–land. But there could be no possible doubt about the reality of the sacrifice I had conducted; no possible doubt as to the destruction—absorption—dissolvement—of the twelve girls. And none of Yodin's complete belief in the power of the tentacle to remove me, and none of his complete effacement. And I thought that if the sacrifices and Yodin were standing in the wings laughing at me, as Barr had put it—then it was in the wings of a theatre in some other world than this. And there was the deep horror of the Little People, the horror of so many of the Ayjir—and there was the revolt in ancient Ayjirland born of this same horror, which had destroyed Ayjirland by civil war.
No, whatever the Thing was, no matter how repugnant to science its recognition as a reality might be—still it was Atavism, superstition—call it what Barr would—I knew the Thing was real! Not of this earth—no, most certainly not of this earth. Not even supernatural. Or rather, supernatural only insofar as it might come from another dimension or even another world which our five senses could not encompass.
And I reflected, now, that science and religion are really blood brothers, which is largely why they hate each other so, that scientists and religionists are quite alike in their dogmatism, their intolerance, and that every bitter battle of religion over some interpretation of creed or cult has its parallel in battles of science over a bone or rock.