My voice had broken.
"Because why?" she asked.
"Because Christ gave it to me!" I whispered. "He said, 'Take it,' and I did. "
I wept. And she waited. Patient, solemn. Louis waited. David waited.
Finally I stopped.
"Write down every word, David, if you write it, every ambiguous word, you hear me? I won't write it myself. I won't. Well, maybe . . . if I don't think you're getting it exactly right, I'll write it, I'll write it one time through. What do you want? Why have you come? No, I won't write it. Why are you here, Maharet, why have you shown yourself to me? Why have you come to the Beast's new castle, for what? Answer me. "
She said nothing. Her long, pale-red hair went down to her waist. She wore some simple fashion that could pass unnoticed in many lands, a long, loose coat, belted around her tiny waist, a skirt that covered the tops of her small boots. The blood scent of the human eyes in her head was strong. And blazing in her head, these dead eyes looked ghastly to me, unsupportable.
"I won't take a human eye!" I said. But I had said that before. Was I being arrogant or insolent? She was so powerful. "I won't take a human life," I said. That had been what I meant. "I will never, never, never as long as I live and endure and starve and suffer, take a human life, nor raise my hand against a fellow creature, be he human or one of us, I do not care, I won't . . . I am . . . I will . . . with my last strength, I won't. . . . "
"I'm going to keep you here," she said. "As a prisoner. For a while. Until you're quieter. "
"You're mad. You're not keeping me anywhere. "
"I have chains waiting for you. David, Louis¡ªyou will help me. "
"What is this? You two, you dare? Chains, we are talking about chains? What am I, Azazel cast into the pit? Memnoch would get a good laugh at this, if he hadn't turned his back on me forever!"
But none of them had moved. They stood motionless, her immense reservoir of power totally disguised by her slender white form.
And they were suffering. Oh, I could smell the suffering.
"I have this for you," she said. She extended her hand. "And when you read it you will scream and you will weep, and we'll keep you here, safe and quiet, until such time as you stop. That's all. Under my protection. In this place. You will be my prisoner. "
"What! What is it?" I demanded.
It was a crumpled piece of parchment.
"What the hell is this!" I said. "Who gave you this?" I didn't want to touch it.
She took my left hand with her absolutely irresistible strength, forcing me to drop the books in their sacks, and she placed the little crumpled bundle of parchment in my palm.
"It was given to me for you," she said.
"By whom?" I demanded.
"The person whose writing you will find inside. Read it. "
"What the hell!" I swore. With my right fingers I tore open the crumpled vellum.
My eye. My eye shone there against the writing. This little package contained my eye, my eye wrapped in a letter. My blue eye, whole and alive.
Gasping, I picked it up and pushed it into my face, into the sore aching socket, feeling its tendrils reach back into the brain, tangling with the brain. The world flared into full vision.
She stood staring at me.
"Scream, will I?" I cried. "Scream, why? What do you think I see? I see only what I saw before!" I cried. I looked from right to left, the appalling patch of darkness gone, the world complete, the stained glass, the still trio watching me. "Oh, thank you, God!" I whispered.
But what did this mean? Was it a prayer of thanks, or merely an exclamation!
"Read," she said, "what is written on the vellum. "
An archaic hand, what was this? An illusion! Words in a language that was no language at all, yet clearly articulated so that I could pick them out of the swarming design, written in blood and ink and soot: