“Ishtar! Show Thy Face!”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Breathlessly Kenton stared at this strange twin. There was the same square jaw, firm-lipped dark face, the same clear blue eyes. What was the mystery of that resemblance? Chance—or illusion of sorcery?

Klaneth!

His mind groped toward the black priest’s plot. Was this to be—Sharane’s lover? Some flash of understanding half illumined his mind—too brief to be more than half caught. It left him groping again.

Through the stone he heard the Persian cursing. Then—

“Wolf, are you behind me?” he muttered. “Are you truly behind me, wolf?”

“Yes,” he shouted. “I am here, Zubran. That is not I!”

His gaze flew back to the Priest of Bel; began now to take note of subtle differences in their two faces. The lips were not so firm, the corners of the mouth drew down; there was a hint of indecision about them and the chin. And the eyes were strained, shadowed with half wild, half agonized longing. Silent, tense, the Priest of Bel looked over the lifted head of the Lady Narada, her lithe body as rigid as his own, unheeding her, intent upon that hidden portal through which he had come.

The lanced, crimson flame upon the altar flickered; swayed.

“The gods guard us!” he heard the bold-eyed woman say.

“Be silent! What is the matter?” said the Assyrian.

The woman whispered: “Did you see the Cherubs? They glared at the priest! They moved toward him!”

The woman with the babe said: “I saw it! I am frightened!”

The Assyrian said: “It was the light on the altar. It flickered.”

Said the Phrygian, low: “Perhaps it was the Cherubs. Are they not Bel’s messengers? Did you not say the priest loved Bel’s woman?”

“Silence there!” rang the voice of the officer from behind the double ring. The priests began a low chanting. In the eyes of the priest a fire began to glow; his lips quivered; his body bent forward as though drawn by an unseen cord. Across the wide place came a woman—alone. She was cloaked from neck to feet in purple; her head was swathed in golden veils.

Kenton knew her!

His heart leaped madly toward her; his blood raced. He quivered under such a shock of longing that it seemed as though his leaping heart must perforce break beneath it.

“Sharane!” he called, forgetting; and again—“Sharane!”

She glided through the opened ranks of the men-at-arms kneeling to her as she passed. Straight to the altar she paced and stood there, silent, motionless beside the Priest of Bel.

Came a louder rolling of the metallic thunder. As it died away the priest turned to the altar, lifted his hands high. From his attendants droned a long, sustained humming upon a single deep note. Up and out swept the priest’s arms; seven times he bowed low before the crimson flame. He stood upright. Down upon their knees dropped archers and spearsmen; with a rustling of bows, a muffled beating of spear shafts.

Still to that weird humming the Priest of Bel began his invocation:

“O merciful among the gods!
O bullnecked among the gods!
Bel Merodach, king of the heavens and the worlds!
Heavens and earths are thine!
Breather of life art thou!
Thy house is prepared for thee!
We worship and await.”

Kenton heard a whisper—tremulous, golden—“I worship and await!”

Sharane’s voice! The golden voice of Sharane playing upon every taut nerve of him like myriads of little fingers over stretched harp strings!

Again the Priest of Bel:

“O begetter! O self-begotten!
O beautiful one who givest life to the Babe!
O merciful one who givest life to the dead!
King art thou of Ezida! Lord of Emakhtila!
A resting place for the King of Heaven is thy house!
A resting place for the Lord of Worlds is thy house!
We worship and await thee!”

And once more Sharane—tremulous—“I worship and await Thee!”

The priest intoned:

“Lord of the Silent Weapon!
Look favorably on thy house, O Lord of Rest!
May Ezida speak peace to thee in thy house!
May Emakhtila speak rest to thee in thy house!
We worship and await thee!”

And again Sharane! “I worship and await Thee!”

Now Kenton saw the priest make toward the altar a gesture in which lurked an inexplicable defiance. He turned and faced Sharane. His voice rang loudly, jubilantly:

“Full of delight is thy supremacy!
Opener of the lock of morning art thou!
Opener of the lock of evening art thou!
To open the Lock of the Heavens is thy supremacy!
I worship and await thee!”

At the first words the humming of the priests ceased; Kenton saw them stir, glance at each other uncertainly; saw a ripple pass through kneeling soldiers and worshippers as their heads raised; heard murmuring, astonished, uneasy.

Beneath him the kneeling Assyrian muttered: “That was not in the ritual!”

The Persian asked: “What was not in the ritual?”

The woman said: “That the priest cried last. It is not Bel’s. It belongs to Our Lady Ishtar!”

The youth whispered: “Yes! Yes—he knows her too! She is Ishtar!”

The woman with the babe sobbed: “Did you see the Cherubs stretch their claws? I am frightened. I am frightened, and it is not good for the child’s milk. The light on the altar is like spilled blood!”

Said the Assyrian, uneasily: “I do not like it! It was not in Bel’s ritual! And the storm is coming fast!”

The Lady Narada arose abruptly. Her handmaids bent over drums and harps; set their pipes to lips. A soft and amorous theme beat up from them, delicate, clinging—like the beating of the wings of countless doves, the clinging of countless little soft arms, the throbbing of countless little rosy hearts. Under it the body of the Lady Narada swayed like a green reed at the first touch of roving wings of spring. The multitude looked, sighed once and were still.

But Kenton saw that the priest’s eyes never left Sharane, standing like a woman asleep beneath her veils.

Louder the music sounded; quicker, throbbing with all love longing, laden with all passion; hot as the simoom. To it, as though her body drank in each calling, imperious note, turned it into motion, made it articulate in flesh, the Lady Narada began to dance. Again Kenton, looking on her, forgot that lost love of his and now so near. For in the midnight eyes that had been so sorrowful, many little leaping joyous stars danced.

The scarlet mouth was a luring, honey-sweet flame promising unknown raptures; and the swarms of golden butterflies meshed within her gossamer nets of jet hovered, swept down, clung to and caressed the rose and pearl of her body as though she were some wondrous flower. They were clouds of golden butterflies darting upon her, covering with kisses all her lovelinesses gleaming within the cloudy nets that swirled about her, yet had no single exquisite curve. Maddening, breathless grew dance and music, and in music and dance Kenton watched mating stars, embracing suns, moons swollen with birth. Gathered in them he sensed all passion, all fire, white desire of all women under stars and suns and moons.

And the slumbrous fragrance of the withering passion flower!

The music slowed, softened; the dancer was still; from all the multitude a soft sighing arose. He heard Zubran, his voice hoarse:

“Who is that dancer? She is like a flame! She is like the flame that danced before Ormuzd on the Altar of the Ten Thousand Sacrifices!”

The woman, jealously: “She danced the wooing of Bel by Ishtar. She has danced it many times. Nothing new in that.”

The Phrygian said, maliciously: “He asked who she is?”

The woman said, spitefully: “Gods! That dance is no new thing, I tell you. Many women have danced it.”

The Assyrian said: “She is the Lady Narada. She belongs to Bel.”

The Persian said wrathfully: “Are all the fair women in this country Bel’s? By the Nine Hells—Cyrus the King would have given ten talents of gold for her!”

“Hush!” whispered the Assyrian; and the other two echoed him—“Hush!”

The Lady Narada had begun once more to dance. The music grew louder. But now it was languorous; dripping sweetness; distilling the very dew of desire—but no longer desire seeking! No. Desire fulfilled!

And once more the Lady Narada was mated to the sounds; was one with them—the blood hammered hot in Kenton’s veins—

“She dances the surrender of Ishtar to Bel!” It was the Assyrian, gloating.

The Persian stood upright.

“Aie!” he cried. “Cyrus would have given not ten but fifty talents of gold for her! She is a flame!” cried Zubran, and his voice was thick, clogged. “And if she is Bel’s—why then does she look so upon the priest?”

None heard him in the roaring of the multitude; soldiers and worshippers, none of them had eyes or ears for anything but the dancer.

Nor had Kenton!

Then witchery of the midnight woman was broken from him; raging at himself he beat against the stone. For the tranquillity of Sharane had broken. Her white hand thrust aside the shrouding purple folds. She turned; moved swiftly away toward that hidden entrance from which she had come.

The dancer stopped; the music died; again came the uneasy movement of the multitude; a louder murmuring.

“That was not in the ritual!” The Assyrian sprang to his feet. “The dance is not yet finished.”

There was a clashing of thunder almost overhead.

“She grows impatient for the god, perhaps,” the woman said, cynically. “Or perhaps she thinks he awaits her.”

And again Kenton felt his hands tingle with the desire to strangle her.

“Lady Ishtar! Lady Ishtar!” he heard the youth cry out.

There was a louder murmuring about them; the soldiers turned, threateningly.

“She is Ishtar! She is the moon hiding her face behind a little cloud!” The youth took a step toward the men-at-arms guarding the priestess.

The bold-eyed woman arose, caught his arm; she spoke to the soldiers.

“He is mad! He lives at my house. Do not hurt him! I will take him away!”

But the youth broke away from her; thrust her aside; darted through the guards and raced across the square to meet the advancing priestess. He threw himself at her hurrying feet. He hid his face in the hem of her cloak. She paused, regarding him through her veils. Instantly Bel’s priest was at her side. He thrust a foot against the youth’s face, brutally; sent him rolling a yard away.

“Ho! Alrac! Druchar! Take this man!” he shouted. Two officers came running to him, swords drawn; the attendant priests clustered, whispering; all the multitude was silent. And like a cat, the youth twisted, sprang upon his feet, faced the priestess.

“Ishtar!” he cried. “Show me thy face. Then let me die!”

She stood silent, as though she neither heard nor saw. The soldiers seized him, drew back his arms. And then, visibly, strength flowed into that slight frame. He seemed to expand, to grow in height. He threw the soldiers from him; he smote the Priest of Bel across the eyes. He gripped the veils of the priestess.

“I will not die until I see thy face, O Ishtar!” he cried—and so crying tore the veils away.

Where veils had been was the face of Sharane!

But not the Sharane of the ship—vital, filled with the fire of life. No!

Here was a Sharane of wide, unseeing eyes; upon whose white brow dream sat throned. A woman whose body moved through reality, but whose mind was freed of all that was real; a mind that floated through linked labyrinths of illusion.

Sharane—what had the blue priest said—a woman with a mind asleep!

The Priest of Bel’s voice shrilled, vibrant with hate.

“Sacrilege! Slay that man!”

The swords of the two captains bit through the youth’s breast.

He fell, still holding tight the veils. Sharane looked down upon him, unconcerned.

“Ishtar!” he gasped. “I have seen you—Ishtar!”

His eyes glazed. Sharane tore the veils from his stiffening hands; threw the tattered remnants over her face. Swiftly she swept on to the temple—was gone from Kenton’s straining sight. The Priest of Bel watched her go, the hell in which his heart seethed blackening his face. His gaze dropped upon the twitching body of the youth; he stamped upon it; beckoned. Men came forward and dragged it away.

From the multitude a clamor arose. Archers and spearsmen began to push back the throng through the forest of the slender, lacquered pillars; sifted among them; vanished with those they herded. Past the Priest of Bel went his soldiers and acolytes; and after them slipped the harpers, the pipers and the drum girls of the Lady Narada.

Within that vast court circled by the elfin shafts remained only dancer and priest. The lurid sky darkened steadily. The slow, churning movement of the clouds had become more rapid. Under the ocherous shadows the lanced flame on the altar of Bel shone brighter—angrily; like a lifted, scarlet sword. Around the crouching Cherubs the shadows thickened. The metallic thundering had become continuous, marching closer.

With the passing of Sharane, Kenton would have opened that other door of bronze. Something counseled him that the time had not yet come; that a little longer he must wait. And as he waited dancer and priest drifted to that strange window through which he peered.

Close to him they paused.