Kill the Dead, Tanith Lee [a court of thorns and roses ebook free .TXT] 📗

his heart, it would stopbeating, and hastily he tried to avoid that ultimate loss. He glanced aroundwildly in an effort to distract himself. And was duly distracted by the barehillside of sere pallid grass and weather-burnished rock, naked among thethousand black fur backs of the forest which framed it. There was no townanywhere by day. Not even rubble, not even the scars of the great landslipremained. Everything that had been had dropped into and beneath the lake. Thenhe looked inadvertently down toward the shore, caught his breath—unnecessarily,kidding himself like all ghosts—and swore.

Thebroad waters of the star-rayed lake were gone. There was only a sprawl ofchasm, arid, eroded mud that was hardening into stone, from which five bleakgulleys ran away.

Myalleaned out from the empty hill, staring. Like a big well, the lake had gonedry. Either the river had failed it at its source, or some internal plug hadbeen pulled. Thirty years or more, the bed had been drying out. The nightwaters of Tulotef were also a ghost. But what of the tumbled town which had, inall the myths, rumours or tales, lain on its floor?

“Pretty,isn’t it?” said Parl Dro’s softly articulate, unmistakable voice, about tenfeet behind him.

Myalattempted to spin around, lost his balance, skidded down the hill. He ended onone knee, clawing at the turf he could not actually grasp.

Drowatched him. Black mantle, black hair, black eyes against the scald of bluesky. Impassive. Myal’s musical instrument hung by its sling across his blackshoulder.

Myalgrimaced.

“Well,get on with it.”

Droraised both eyebrows.

“Imean,” said Myal, angry in his fright, “I’m here. You’re here. You’ve got thelink—my link—the instrument. So destroy it. Get rid of me. What the hell’skeeping you?”

Dro’slong eyebrows levelled like the death black eyes under them. There was noplayful cruelty at all in his face.

“Youseem to be very sure of my next move.”

“Ishould be. I’ve listened to enough of your damned boasting. Pull out the deadlike rotten teeth. The deadalive must die. I’m not fighting you. Get on withit.”

“Howconvenient for me, professionally speaking,” said Dro, “that you happen to beone of those unusually strong-willed, witch-gifted ghosts who are able tomanifest in broad daylight.”

“Look,”said Myal shivering, wondering bewilderedly how he was able to, “I’m a coward,right? And what I really can’t bear is waiting around for something awful tohappen. So will you please do it now? Or is this what makes you feel good?Sadistically terrorising the dead.”

“You’renot dead.”

“Just,”said Myal. He paused. “What?”

“Youare not dead.”

“Ha,”said Myal. He smashed his hand through a rock. “Look. See? I’m dead.”

“You’reout of your body, but your body’s alive. You can go back to it eventually. Notnecessarily inspiring, but a fact.”

“Shutup,” said Myal. He put his face in his hands. “I always said you were abastard.”

“Sofar as I know, I was conceived inside wedlock. Your own situation may be alittle more complex.”

“Shutup.”

“RememberCinnabar? The kind redhead who loaned you a horse?”

“Thekind redhead who loaned you her—”

“Shegave you a clay dog which you put in your shirt pocket. There was a drug in thedog which soaked out and into you. A drug to induce cataleptic trance.”

“Toinduce what?”

“Thelife activities of the body are slowed to the minimum, and the astral state canthen be triggered. It seems Cinnabar thought you psychically capable enough torelease your own astral persona voluntarily, under the right conditions. Butnot adept enough to produce the trance unaided.”

“You’vegot me all confused,” shouted Myal.

“Whichis, of course, extremely difficult to do.”

Myalstood up. He looked at the ground.

“I’malive—somewhere.”

“Inan old woman’s decrepit hovel, about seven or eight miles from here.”

“Thatsounds cosy.”

“She’lltake care of you, till you’re able to get back.”

“Whenwill thatbe?”

“Whenthe drug wears off. And when you’re finished here.”

“IfI go to a tree, I walk through it,” said Myal. “Why don’t I sink through theground?”

“Basiccommon sense. Probably even your limited perspective can see it would be ratherpointless.”

“Inother words, you don’t know.”

“Inother words,” said Parl Dro, “you can be incorporeal, but only as far as youwant to be. You can walk through a stone wall and pick up a plate on the otherside. A moment’s adjustment of willpower is all that’s necessary.” He drew theinstrument off his shoulder and held it between his hands by its two peculiarnecks. Then he raised the instrument and slung it at Myal. “Catch.”

Myalleapt forward, not thinking, guided by a vision of smashed wood and brokenivory. He caught the instrument just before it touched the earth. It was solidand heavy in his arms, the wires vibrating quietly like a cat purring. It didnot slip through him. He held it and his legs buckled.

“Apractical demonstration is often more effective than a lecture,” said Dro. Hesat down on the hillside, straightening out the crippled left calf, and Myalsaw the black eyes momentarily go blind with pain.

Myalsat on a jut of rock, the instrument on his knees. He rubbed the garishlypainted wood, fascinated, his fingers caressing, as they had always bodilydone, the ivory chips sunk in there.

“You’re sure,” he eventuallysaid, “I’m alive?”

“I’m sure.”

“Cinnabar was crazy.”

“Notquite. The story goes that if you’d got into Tulotef physically, they’d haveserved you for dinner.”

“Shethought she was helping, pushing me in this way? Because of my song I wanted tomake—”

“I’mafraid she thought she was helping me,” Parl Dro said. He looked out toward thedry mud chasm of the dead lake.

“You called it Tulotef,” saidMyal.

“Yes.”

“According to you, that’ssupposed to be unwise, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Amelancholy oppression of anticlimax lay over Myal. He traced the patterns onthe instrument, but felt no inclination to play it. A silence widened betweenthem. The whole earth was silent where the ghostly clangour of the town hadbeen before. A light wind flapped over the hill and brushed the tops of theforest, but it made hardly any sound, only the sound of emptiness. Even the resinsof the forest did not smell so high up, or else the uncanny spot had sucked itsperfumes away, eating the life force of the trees, the hill, the land, as itate the life force of living men who wandered, or were coerced, inside thegates.

“Ispent the night,” Myal said at last, “with Ciddey Soban. We didn’t—I don’t wantyou to think—”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“Allright. But she told