Elric: The Sleeping Sorceress by Michael Moorcock

Author:Michael Moorcock [Moorcock, Michael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy
ISBN: 9780345498649
Published: 2019-07-28T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWO

An Upstart Prince: He Confronts His Cousin

“And how do you enjoy the ball, cousin?” Elric asked, aware that Yyrkoon’s melodramatic presentation had been designed to catch him off-guard and, if possible, humiliate him. “Is the music to your taste?”

Yyrkoon lowered his eyes and let his lips form a secret little smile. “Everything is to my taste, my liege. But what of yourself? Does something displease you? You do not join the dance.”

Elric raised one pale finger to his chin and stared at Yyrkoon’s hidden eyes. “I enjoy the dance, cousin, nonetheless. Surely it is possible to take pleasure in the pleasure of others?”

Yyrkoon seemed genuinely astonished. His eyes opened fully and met Elric’s. Elric felt a slight shock and then turned his own gaze away, indicating the music galleries with a languid hand. “Or perhaps it is the pain of others which brings me pleasure. Fear not, for my sake, cousin. I am pleased. I am pleased. You may dance on, assured that your emperor enjoys the ball.”

But Yyrkoon was not to be diverted from his object. “Surely, if his subjects are not to go away saddened and troubled that they have not pleased their ruler, the emperor should demonstrate his enjoyment . . .?”

“I would remind you, cousin,” said Elric quietly, “that the emperor has no duty to his subjects at all, save to rule them. Their duty is to him. That is the tradition of Melniboné.”

Yyrkoon had not expected Elric to use such arguments against him, but he rallied with his next retort. “I agree, my lord. The emperor’s duty is to rule his subjects. Perhaps that is why so many of them do not, themselves, enjoy the ball as much as they might.”

“I do not follow you, cousin.”

Cymoril had risen and stood with her hands clenched on the step above her brother. She was tense and anxious, worried by her brother’s bantering tone, his disdainful bearing.

“Yyrkoon . . .” she said.

He acknowledged her presence. “Sister. I see you share our emperor’s reluctance to dance.”

“Yyrkoon,” she murmured, “you are going too far. The emperor is tolerant, but . . .”

“Tolerant? Or is he careless? Is he careless of the traditions of our great race? Is he contemptuous of that race’s pride?”

Dyvim Tvar was now mounting the steps. It was plain that he, too, sensed that Yyrkoon had chosen this moment to test Elric’s power.

Cymoril was aghast. She said urgently: “Yyrkoon. If you would live . . .”

“I would not care to live if the soul of Melniboné perished. And the guardianship of our nation’s soul is the responsibility of the emperor. And what if we should have an emperor who failed in that responsibility? An emperor who was weak? An emperor who cared nothing for the greatness of the Dragon Isle and its folk?”

“A hypothetical question, cousin.” Elric had recovered his composure and his voice was an icy drawl. “For such an emperor has never sat upon the Ruby Throne and such an emperor never shall.”

Dyvim Tvar came up, touching Yyrkoon on the shoulder.

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