“Yes, so I did. Nonetheless . . .”
As she stood striving to unriddle the mystery, he heaved a sigh.
“Come hither. I’ll explain.”
The hall and table contracted to more customary dimensions; in a twinkling she found herself where she had been at daybreak, seated in the same chair. Unseen hands, as ever, had set it behind her knees just as she was about to lose her self-control completely.
Cautiously she returned her knife to its sheath, staring at the magician. But for the emberlike glow underneath his brows one could not have guessed this to be the same personage. His arms, in particular, were far too flexible. His? Might one not better say its?
But the voice remained, and was uttering slow words, as though each syllable exacted agonizing effort.
“I did succeed, Jarveena. At what cost I dare not say. Perhaps the cost of every shred of hope left in my inmost heart. I worked a rite such as has not been attempted in living memory-not, certainly, in mine , . . And worked it well.”
“With what result?” she whispered.
“I learned the reason for the curse on Klikitagh.”
She waited. When she could bear the waiting no longer, she demanded. “Tell me'”
“I shall not. This only will I say: His punishment is just.”
“I don’t understand!”
“Better you should not. Better that no one should. Had I known what a burden of knowledge I was taking on-no! Condemning myself to!-I’d never have set out to offer help.”
Guessing at the meaning behind the words, Jarveena bit her lip. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes, and yet were welcome, for they disguised the ghastly form that Enas Yorl was melting into.