There was no reply.

“Pandelume!” she called.

Presently there was a muffled answer: “Enter.”

She pushed open the door and came into a high-ceilinged room, bare except for a padded settee, a dim tapestry.

“What is your wish?” The voice, mellow and of an illimitable melancholy, came from beyond the wall.

“Pandelume, today I have learned that killing is evil, and further that my eyes trick me, and that beauty is where I see only harsh light and evil forms.”

For a period Pandelume maintained a silence; then the muffled voice came, replying to the implicit plea for knowledge.

“That is, for the most part, true. Living creatures, if nothing else, have the right to life. It is their only truly precious possession, and the stealing of life is a wicked theft … As for the other, the fault is not with you. Beauty lies everywhere free to be seen by all — by all except you. For this I feel sorrow, for I created you. I built your primal cell; I stamped the strings of life with the pattern of your body and brain. And in spite of my craft I erred, so that when you climbed from the vat, I found that I had molded a flaw into your brain; that you saw ugliness in beauty, evil in good. True ugliness, true evil you have never seen, for in Embelyon there is nothing wicked or foul … Should you be so unfortunate to encounter these, I fear for your brain.”

“Cannot you change me?” cried T’sais. “You are a magician. Must I live my life out blind to joy?”

The shadow of a sigh penetrated the wall.

“I am a magician indeed, with knowledge of every spell yet devised, the sleight of runes, incantations, designs, exorcisms, talismans. I am Master Mathematician, the first since Phandaal, yet I can do nothing to your brain without destroying your intelligence, your personality, your soul — for I am no god. A god may will things to existence; I must rely on magic, the spells which vibrate and twist space.”

Hope faded from T’sais’ eyes. “I wish to go to Earth,” she said presently. “The sky of Earth is a steady blue, and a red sun moves over the horizons. I tire of Embelyon where there is no voice but yours.”

“Earth,” mused Pandelume. “A dim place, ancient beyond knowledge. Once it was a tall world of cloudy mountains and bright rivers, and the sun was a white blazing ball. Ages of rain and wind have beaten and rounded the granite, and the sun is feeble and red. The continents have sunk and risen. A million cities have lifted towers, have fallen to dust. In place of the old peoples a few thousand strange souls live. There is evil on Earth, evil distilled by time … Earth is dying and in its twilight …” he paused.

T’sais said doubtfully: “Yet I have heard Earth is a place of beauty, and I would know beauty, even though I die.”

“How will you know beauty when you see it?”

“All human beings know beauty … Am I not human?”

“Of course.”

“Then I will find beauty, and perhaps even —” T’sais faltered over the word, so alien was it to her mind, yet so full of disturbing implication.

Pandelume was silent. At last:

“You shall go if you wish. I will aid you as I may. I will give you runes to ward you from magic; I will strike life into your sword; and I will give you advice, which is this: Beware of men, for men loot beauty to sate their lust. Permit intimacy to none … I will give you a bag of jewels, which are riches on Earth. With these you may attain much. Yet, again, show them nowhere, for certain men will slay for a copper bit.”

A heavy silence came, a weight was gone from the air.

“Pandelume,” called T’sais softly. There was no reply.

After a moment Pandelume returned, and the sense of his presence reached to her mind.

“In a moment,” he said, “you may enter this room.”

T’sais waited a period; then, as she was bid, entered the next room.

“On the bench to the left,” came Pandelume’s voice, “you will find an amulet and a little sack of gems. Clasp this amulet upon your wrist; it will reflect magic intended evilly against him who utters the spell. This is a most powerful rune; guard it well.”

T’sais obeyed, and tied the jewels inside her sash.

“Lay your sword upon this bench, stand upon the rune in the floor and close your eyes tightly. I must enter the room. I charge you, do not attempt to see me — for there are terrible consequences.”

T’sais discarded her sword, stood upon the metal rune, locked her eyes. She heard a slow step, heard the clink of metal, then a high intense shrilling, dying slowly.

“Your sword lives,” said Pandelume, and his voice sounded strangely loud, coming from so near. “It will kill your enemies with intelligence. Reach your hand and take it.”

T’sais sheathed her slim rapier, now warm and quivering.

“Where on Earth will you go?” asked Pandelume. “To the land of men, or to the great ruined wildernesses?”

“To Ascolais,” said T’sais, for the one who had told her of beauty had spoken of this land.

“As you wish,” said Pandelume. “Now hark! If you ever seek to return to Embelyon —”

“No,” said T’sais. “I would rather die.”

“Please yourself in that regard.”

T’sais remained silent.

“Now I will touch you. You will be dizzy a moment — and then you will open your eyes on Earth. It is almost night, and terrible things rove the dark. So seek shelter quickly.”

In high excitement T’sais felt the touch of Pandelume. There was a wavering in her brain, a swift unthinkable flight … Strange soil was under her feet, strange air at her face with a sharper tang. She opened her eyes.

The landscape was strange and new. There was a dark blue sky, an ancient sun. She stood in a meadow, encircled by tall gloomy trees. These trees were unlike the calm giants of Embelyon; these were dense and brooding, and the shadows were enigmatic. Nothing in sight, nothing of Earth was raw or harsh — the ground, the trees, the rock ledge protruding from the meadow; all these had been worked upon, smoothed, aged, mellowed. The light from the sun, though dim, was rich, and invested every object of the land, the rocks, the trees, the quiet grasses and flowers, with a sense of lore and ancient recollection.

A hundred paces distant rose the mossy ruins of a long tumbled castelry. The stones were blackened now by lichens, by smoke, by age; grass grew rank through the rubble — the whole a weird picture in the long light of sunset.

T’sais slowly approached. Some of the walls yet were standing, stone on weathered stone, the mortar long since dissolved. She moved wonderingly around a great effigy, mouldered, chipped, cracked, almost entirely buried; puzzled a moment at the characters carved in the base. Wide-eyed she stared at what remained of the visage — cruel eyes, sneering mouth, a nose broken off. T’sais shuddered faintly. There was nothing here for her; she turned to go.

A laugh, high-pitched, gleeful, rang across the clearing. T’sais, mindful of Pandelume’s warnings, waited in a dark recess. Movement flickered between the trees; and a man and a woman lurched into the failing sunlight; then came a young man treading light as air, singing and whistling. He held a light sword, which he used to prod the two, who were bound.

They halted before the ruins, close by T’sais, and she could see the faces. The bound man was a thin-faced wretch with a ragged red beard and eyes darting and desperate; the woman was short and plump. Their captor was Liane the Wayfarer. His brown hair waved softly, his features moved in charm and flexibility. He had golden-hazel eyes, large and beautiful, never still. He wore red leather shoes with curled tops, a suit of red and green, a green cloak, and a peaked hat with a red feather.

T’sais watched without comprehension. The three were equally vile, of sticky blood, red pulp, inner filth. Liane seemed slightly less ignoble — he was the most agile, the most elegant. And T’sais watched with little interest.

Liane deftly threw loops around the ankles of man and woman and pushed them so that they fell among the flints. The man groaned softly, the woman fell to whimpering.

Liane made a gay flourish of his hat and sprang away to the ruins. Not twenty feet from T’sais he slid aside a stone in the ancient flags, came forth with tinder and flint, and kindled a fire. From his pouch he took a bit of meat, which he toasted and ate daintily, sucking his fingers.

No word had yet passed. Liane at last stood up, stretched, and glanced at the sky. The sun was dropping below the dark wall of trees, and already blue shadows filled the glade.

“To business,” cried Liane. His voice was shrill and clear as the call of a flute. “First,” and he made a solemnly waggish gesture, “I must assure that our revelations are weighted with soberness and truth.”

He ducked into his lair under the flags and brought forth four stout staffs. He laid one of these across the thighs of the man, passed the second across this, through the crotch of his captive’s legs, so that with slight effort he could crush down at the thighs and up at the small of the back. He tested his device and crowed as the man cried out. He adjusted a similar arrangement upon the woman.