She came to her lord. “Thou didst send for me.”
Corund looked up at her. “Why, so I did, madam. Tidings from the fleet. Maybe somewhat, maybe nought. But thou’dst best be here for’t.”
“Good tidings or ill: that shaketh not Carcë walls,” said she.
Suddenly the low buzz of talk was hushed. The King stood in the curtained doorway. They rose up all to meet him, all save Corsus that sat drunk in his chair. The crown of Witchland shed baleful sparkles above the darkness of the dark fortress-face of Gorice the King, the glitter of his dread eyeballs, the deadly line of his mouth, the square black beard jutting beneath. Like a tower he stood, and behind him in the shadow was the messenger from the fleet with countenance the colour of wet mortar.
The King spake and said, “My lords, here’s tidings touching the truth whereof I have well satisfied myself. And it importeth the mere perdition of my fleet. There hath been battle off Melikaphkhaz in the Impland seas. Juss hath sunken our ships, every ship save that which brought the tidings, sunk, with Laxus and all his men that were with him.” He paused: then, “These be heavy news,” he said, “and I’ll have you bear ’em in the old Witchland fashion: the heavier hit the heavier strike again.”
In the strange deformed silence came a little gasping cry, and the Lady Sriva fell a-swooning.
The King said, “Let the kings of Impland and of Demonland attend me. The rest, it is commanded that all do get them to bed o’ the instant.”
The Lord Corund said in his lady’s ear as he went by, taking her with his hand about the shoulder, “What, lass? if the broth’s spilt, the meat remaineth. To bed with thee, and never doubt we’ll pay them yet.”
And he with Corinius followed the King.
•••••