His slim, beringed hands might be soft and womanish, but they bore a heavy weight of death.
And now it was Thoh’s turn to smile and Zarouk who paled, bit his lip, looked uncertain, and stepped backwards, lowering his sword.
A deadly tension grew in the air between the two groups of men. Taut it was and near to breaking. And when it broke, guns would rave and steel would flash crimson and blood would be spilt—here, in this holy place, even here!
And then, the last interruption—
From far away, the murmur of bells. Many they were, faint and far—a distant chiming, cold and pure and sweet! Like bells of glass or crystal … like tiny chimes of ice … ringing, crystalline music!
And, from the dark mouth of the pit wherein Kiki had thrown himself, a faint glimmer of dim light—cold it was, and blue and white, like brilliance that was reflected from mirrors of ice.
The music rang clearer now, and sharper!
The dim luminescence about the mouth of the pit … brightened!
Whatever it was, it was coming up the shaft—and getting nearer!
24. Child of Stars
Light—pure, sparkling light—poured up out of the black pit like a fountain of shimmering fire!
The cold and awful glory of it shone back from thrice ten thousand crystal facets, till every plane and angle of the cavern, every mineral encrustation, every glassy stalactite, blazed like a billion, billion diamonds, reflecting an utterness of light, a purity of light, beyond description as it was beyond belief.
One of the bandits sank to the cavern floor in a crouch, huddling in the dust. He covered glazed, horror-struck eyes with hands that shook, shielding his gaze from that ineffable radiance.
” Zhagguaziu ...” he moaned. Then said no more; neither did he move.
Zarouk stared into the seething splendor, his face blank with awe. Forgotten now were his red dreams of conquest and empire. He looked upon the glorious god he had thought to be a demon, and there was wonder in his heart, childlike and simple.
The blaze of glory faded now, as if the splendid creature somehow realized that its brilliance was too intolerable for mortal men to bear. It … veiled itself, and dimmed its fires a bit, and floated there in midair above the floor of the cavern.
Ryker blinked through tear filled eyes, trying to make out its shape and nature through the blinding light. There was an inner core of brilliance brighter than the rest, a slim, tapering spindle, like the flame that dances on the wick of a candle. This was light of an utter purity of white, a spark of white—one spark, perchance, of that supernal flame that burns in the heart of stars.
But between the awful glory of that inner core, lacy veils of shimmering luminescence, filmy and fragile— like the wings of moths, shimmering and shot through with a thousand tints and hues—like floating draperies of sheerest gauze, spun by sorcery from the stuff of glowing opals—drifted and swirled and coiled about the brilliance of the core, veiling it from view.
Whatever it was, it was no devil. It was too beautiful to exist, too lovely to be real. And far too perfect in its glory to have aught of evil within it.
Pure light it was, pure energy, like the soul of a star.
Somehow—although it had no eyes, no organs of any kind—it saw them, the puny creatures of flesh and bone and blood that crouched or huddled or cowered far beneath its airy dance.
And somehow, although it had no mouth, no organs of speech, it spoke to them. The voice of the Glory was a thin, cold song and it whispered deep within their very minds, that song, cold and sweet and wild as the polar winds that sang through pinnacles of ice at the utter and secret pole of the world.
Why dost thou feed life to me, when sacrifice is forbidden from of old, and I have no need of such sustenance?
Sweet, sweet was the singing of the Glory within their brain, cool, and serene, and passionless.
It was such a little life, so short, so young! Thou knowest that I have forbidden the taking of life, and will not countenance the shedding of blood. Poor, puny creatures that ye be, with lives as brief as any candle-flame, why must ye shorten that which is already cruelly brief? Thy offering I return to thee, and I must chastise thee, and sternly, that ye sin in this manner against me no more.
Veils of drifting coruscation drew aside, parted asunder … and there, cradled and swathed in living light was the boy, Kiki, naked and beautiful and alive, his face gentle and dreaming, his eyes filled with wonder.
“Kiki!” breathed Valarda, breathlessly. The swirling mists of brilliance deposited the boy, whole and unharmed, upon the cavern floor. He stretched bare arms, and yawned, showing a little pink tongue, then looked about him dazedly, as bemused as one who just awakened from strange and lovely dreams.
Seeing Valarda and Ryker and Herzog chained to the stony stalagmites, he smiled and came over to them. About his body there yet clung a dim, pulsing luminescence, a wisp of that greater Glory which filled all of the cavern with its splendor.
He touched their chains with shining fingers and, somehow, strangely, they were free.
First he freed Valarda in this manner, then the old Israeli, and Ryker last of all. Pausing before Ryker, he looked up into the man’s dark face, wonderingly.
“Oh!” he murmured. “You are weary, and you thirst! But that should not be. A moment—there!”
He touched Ryker with glowing hands—brow, mouth and breast—and gently, as a child might touch an injured dove. A weird, cold thrill ran through Ryker’s nerves, an icy tingle, electric yet bracing. And then he felt the weakness and stiffness and the exhaustion drain from his lame and weary muscles and numb limbs. It drained away and it was gone, as if it had never been. He flexed strong hands, unbelievingly. Even the sores on his wrists, where scaly verdigris-eaten metal had bitten deep in his flesh as he fought the shackles, even those were healed. And so was the thirst that tortured him, and he felt whole and well and filled with strength again, like one who wakens from a deep, long sleep, refreshed and invigorated.
The boy turned to look at the hovering Glory.
“Did I do it right, Lord?” he inquired.
Thou knowest that it is well done, said the Glory. And now touch thou the old one, too, and heal his suffering.
The boy smiled dreamily and went to where the old scientist hung in his chains, his lined and homely face filled with awe and wonderment. The boy said something to the old man shyly, and touched him with light-misted fingers as he had touched Ryker.
“What … have you done … to Kiki, Lord?” whispered Valarda.
Ah, my priestess! laughed the Glory, chiming with faint music as it swirled about to regard her. She who would have kept the Vow, and lost her throne for keeping it! The child, you ask? He hath only died. His poor, broken flesh it is within my power to heal, but to make him live again—aiee!—am I a god, that I can restore life to the dead? Nay! But a tiny portion of myself I placed within his breast, that he might live again—changed, is he, and yet the same child that ye knew. Only, a little different.
Ryker went over to where Valarda knelt before the Glory, and raised her to her feet, and held her against his chest. Then he lifted his head and stared into the lacy, swirling mists of spangled light that veiled from their dazed eyes the splendors of the central fire.
“If you are not a god, what are you, then?” he asked through stiff lips.
The veils of moted splendor swirled and coiled about the curdled purity of flame. A storm of tinkling chimes rang out and faded.