“The sparkers? They’re gone?”
“Yes. They called them reson—resators—”
“Resonators,” said Hull, recalling Old Einar’s words.
“Something like that. There were two of them, great iron barrels on swivels, full of some humming and clicking magic, and they swept the valley north and south, and east and west, and over toward Norse there was the sound of shots and the smoke of a burning building. They loaded them on wagons and dragged them away toward Selui.”
“They didn’t cross the ridge with their spell,” said Hull. “The Harriers still have powder.”
“Yes,” murmured Vail, drawing his arm closer about her. “Tell me,” she said suddenly, “what did she want of you last night?”
Hull grimaced. He had told Vail little enough of that discreditable evening, and he had been fearing her question. “Treason,” he said finally. “She wanted me to betray the Harriers.”
“You? She asked that of you?”
“Do you think I would?” countered Hull.
“I know you never would. But what did she offer you for betrayal?”
Again he hesitated. “A great reward,” he answered at last. “A reward out of all proportion to the task.”
“Tell me, Hull, what is she like face to face?”
“A demon. She isn’t exactly human.”
“But in what way? Men say so much of her beauty, of her deadly charm. Hull—did you feel it?”
“I love you, Vail.”
She sighed, and drew yet closer. “I think you’re the strongest man in the world, Hull. The very strongest.”
“I’ll need to be,” he muttered, staring gloomily over the valley. Then he smiled faintly as he saw men plowing, for it was late in the season for such occupation. Old Marcus Ormiston was playing safe; remembering the Master’s words, he was tilling every acre across which a horse could drag a blade.
Vail left him in Ormiston village and took her way hesitantly homeward. Hull did what he could about the idle shop, and when the sun slanted low, bought himself a square loaf of brown bread, a great slice of cheese, and a bottle of the still, clear wine of the region. It was just as he finished his meal in his room that a pounding on the door of the shop summoned him.
It was an Empire man. “Hull Tarvish?” he asked shortly. At Hull’s nod he continued, “From Her Highness,” and handed him a folded slip of black paper.
The mountain youth stared at it. On one side, in raised gold, was the form of a serpent circling a globe, its tail in its mouth—the Midgard Serpent. He slipped a finger through the fold, opened the message, and squinted helplessly at the characters written in gold on the black inner surface.
“This scratching means nothing to me,” he said.
The Empire man sniffed contemptuously. “I’ll read it,” he said, taking the missive. “It says, ‘Follow the messenger to our quarters,’ and it’s signed Margarita Imperii Regina, which means Margaret, Princess of the Empire. Is that plain?” He handed back the note. “I’ve been looking an hour for you.”
“Suppose I won’t go,” growled Hull.
“This isn’t an invitation, Weed. It’s a command.”
Hull shrugged. He had small inclination to face Black Margot again, especially with his knowledge of the Harriers’ plans. Her complex personality baffled and fascinated him, and he could not help fearing that somehow, by some subtle art, she might wring that secret from him. Torture wouldn’t force it out of him, but those green eyes might read it. Yet—better to go quietly than be dragged or driven; he grunted assent and followed the messenger.
He found the house quiet. The lower room where Joaquin Smith had rested was empty now, and he mounted the stairs again steeling himself against the expected shock of Black Margot’s presence. This time, however, he found her clothed, or half clothed by Ormiston standards, for she wore only the diminutive shorts and shirt that were her riding costume, and her dainty feet were bare. She sat in a deep chair beside the table, a flagon of wine at hand and a black cigarette in her fingers. Her jet hair was like a helmet of ebony against the ivory of her forehead and throat, and her green eyes like twin emeralds.
“Sit down,” she said as he stood before her. “The delay is your loss, Hull. I would have dined with you.”
“I grow strong enough on bread and cheese,” he growled.
“You seem to.” Fire danced in her eyes. “Hull, I am as strong as most men, but I believe those vast muscles of yours could overpower me as if I were some shrinking provincial girl. And yet—”
“And yet what?”
“And yet you are much like my black stallion Eblis. Your muscles are nearly as strong, but like him, I can goad you, drive you, lash you, and set you galloping in whatever direction I choose.”
“Can you?” he snapped. “Don’t try it.” But the spell of her unearthly beauty was hard to face.
“But I think I shall try it,” she cooed gently. “Hull, do you ever lie?”
“I do not.”
“Shall I make you lie, then, Hull? Shall I make you swear such falsehoods that you will redden forever afterward at the thought of them? Shall I?”
“You can’t!”
She smiled, then in altered tones, “Do you love me, Hull?”
“Love you? I hate—” He broke off suddenly.
“Do you hate me, Hull?” she asked gently.
“No,” he groaned at last. “No, I don’t hate you.”
“But do you love me?” Her face was saint-like, earnest, pure, even the green eyes were soft now as the green of spring. “Tell me, do you love me?”
“No!” he ground out savagely, then flushed crimson at the smile on her lips. “That isn’t a lie!” he blazed. “This sorcery of yours isn’t love. I don’t love your beauty. It’s unnatural, hellish, and the gift of Martin Sair. It’s a false beauty, like your whole life!”
“Martin Sair had little to do with my appearance,” she said gently. “What do you feel for me, Hull, if not love?”
“I—don’t know. I don’t want to think of it!” He clenched a great fist. “Love? Call it love if you wish, but it’s a hell’s love that would find satisfaction in killing you!” But here his heart revolted again. “That isn’t so,” he ended miserably. “I couldn’t kill you.”
“Suppose,” she proceeded gently, “I were to promise to abandon Joaquin, to be no longer Black Margot and Princess of the Empire, but to be only—Hull Tarvish’s wife. Between Vail and me, which would you choose?”
