Fantasy fiction; Imaginary wars and battles -- Fiction
She turned her horse, and they rode all in company into the shadow of
the ancient cedars that clustered to the north of the home-meads and
pleasure gardens, stately, gaunt-limbed, flat-browed, bleak against
the sky. On the left a lily-paven lake slept cool beneath mighty
elms, with a black swan near the bank and her four cygnets dozing in
a row, their heads tucked beneath their wings, so that they looked
like balls of gray-brown froth floating on the water. The path leading
to the bridge-gate zig-zagged steeply up the mound between low broad
balustrades of white onyx bearing at intervals square onyx pots,
planted some with yellow roses and some with wondrous flowers, great
and delicate, with frail white shell-like petals. Deep, mysterious
centres had those flowers, thick with soft hairs within, and dark
within with velvety purple streaked with black and blood colour and
dust of gold.
The castle of Lord Brandoch Daha standing at the top of the mound was
circled by a ditch both broad and deep. The gate before the drawbridge
was of iron gilded and richly wrought. The towers and gate-house
were of white onyx like the castle itself, and on either hand before
the gate was a colossal marble hippogriff, standing more than thirty
feet high at the withers; and the wings and hooves and talons of the
hippogriffs and their manes and forelocks were overlaid with gold, and
their eyes carbuncles of purest lustre. Over the gate was written in
letters of gold:
Ye braggers an’ a’,
Be skeered and awa’
Frae Brandoch Daha.
But to tell even a tenth part of the marvels rich and beautiful that
were in the house of Krothering: its cool courts and colonnades rich
with gems and fragrant with costly spices and strange blooms: its
bed-chambers where, caught like Aphrodite in her golden net, the
spirit of sleep seemed ever to shake slumber from its plumes, and none
might be waking long in those chambers but sweet sleep overcame their
eyelids: the Chamber of the Sun and the Chamber of the Moon, and the
great middle hall with its high gallery and ivory stair: to tell of
all these were but to cloy imagination with picturing in one while of
over-much glory and splendour.
• • • • •
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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