“I wish it were untrue.... My husband tells me that nothing can really harm the soul. I try to believe him.... But Erlik lives. And when my soul at last shall escape my body, it shall not escape the Slayer of Souls.”
“That is monstrously untrue——”
“No. I tell you that Prince Sanang slew my soul. And my soul’s ghost belongs to Erlik. How can any man fall in love with such a girl?”
“Why do you say that Sanang slew your soul?” asked Recklow, peering at her averted face through the reddening firelight.
She lay still in her chair for a moment, then turned suddenly on him:
“He did slay it! He came to the Lake of the Ghosts as my lover; he meant to have done it there; but I would not have him—would not listen, nor suffer his touch!—I mocked at him and his passion. I laughed at his Tchortchas. They were afraid of me!—”
She half rose from her chair, grasped the arms, then seated herself again, her eyes ablaze with the memory of wrongs.
“How dare I show my dear lord that I am in love with him when Sanang’s soul caught my soul out of my body one day—surprised my soul while my body lay asleep in the Yezidee Temple!—and bore it in his arms to the very gates of hell!”
“Good God,” whispered Recklow, “what do you mean? Such things can’t happen.”
“Why not? They do happen. I was caught unawares.... It was one golden afternoon, and Yulan and Sansa and I were eating oranges by the fountain in the inner shrine. And I lay down by the pool and made the effort—you understand?”