XLI. — THE PROPHECY
Reaching the top of the jade steps, Chick found the landing to be a great dais, nearly a hundred feet across. On the right and left this dais was hedged in by the silver walls, on each of which was hung a huge, golden scrollwork. These scrolls bore legends, which for the moment Chick ignored. At the rear of the dais was a large object like a bronze bell.
The floor was of the usual mosaic, except in the centre, where there was a plain, circular design. Chick took careful note of this, a circle about twenty feet across, as white and unbroken as a bed of frozen snow. Whether it was stone or not he could not determine. All around its edge was a gap that separated it from the dais, a gap several inches across. Chick turned to Geos:
“The Spot of Life?”
“Even so. It is the strangest thing in all the Thomahlia, my lord. Can you feel it?”
For Watson had reached out with his toe and touched the white surface. He drew it back suddenly.
“It has a feeling,” he replied, “that I cannot describe. It is cold, and yet it is not. Perhaps it is my own magnetism.”
“Ah! It is well, my lord!”
What the Rhamda meant by that Chick could not tell. He was interested in the odd white substance. It was as smooth as glass, although at intervals there were faint, almost imperceptible, dark lines, like the finest scratches in old ivory. Yet the whiteness was not dazzling. Again Watson touched it with his foot, and noted the inexplicable feeling of exhilaration. In the moment of absorption he quite forgot the concourse about him. He knew that he was now standing on the crux of the Blind Spot.
But in a minute he turned. The dais was a sort of nave, with one end open to the stairway. Seated on his left was the frail Aradna, occupying a small throne-like chair of some translucent green material. On the right sat the Bar Senestro, in a chair differing only in that its colour was a bright blue. In the centre of the dais stood a third chair—a crimson one—empty.
The Senestro stood up. He was royally clad, his breast gleaming with jewels. He was certainly handsome; he had the carriage of confident royalty. There was no fear in this man, no uncertainty, no weakness. If confidence were a thing of strength, the Senestro was already the victor. In his heart Chick secretly admired him.
But just then the Aradna stood up, She made an indication to Watson. He stepped over to the queen. She sat down again.
“I want to give you my benediction, stranger lord. Are you sure of yourself? Can you overcome the Senestro?”
“I am certain,” spoke Watson. “It is for the queen, O Aradna. I know nothing of the prophecy; but I will fight for you!”
She blushed and cast a furtive look in the direction of the Senestro.
“It is well,” she spoke. “The outcome will have a double interpretation—the spiritual one of the prophecy, and the earthly, material one that concerns myself. If you conquer, my lord, I am freed. I would not marry the Senestro; I love him not. I would abide by the prophet, and await the chosen.” She hesitated. “What do you know of the chosen, my lord?”
“Nothing, O Aradna.”
“Has not the Rhamda Geos told you?”
“Partly, but not fully. There is something that he is withholding.”
“Very likely. And now—will you kneel, my lord?”
Watson knelt. The queen held out her hand. Behind him Chick could hear a deep murmur from the assembled multitudes. Just what was the significance of that sound he did not know; nor did he care. It was enough for him that he was to fight for this delicately beautiful maiden. He would let the prophecy take care of itself.
Besides these three on the dais there were only the Rhamda Geos and the Jan Lucar. These two remained on the edge nearest the body of the temple, the edge at the crest of the stair. The empty chair remained so.
Suddenly Chick remembered the warning of Dr. Holcomb: “Read the words of the Prophet.” And he took advantage of the breathing-spell to peruse the legends on the great golden scrolls: