The winter of the black city that spans the frozen
Moldau is the winter of the grave, dim as a perpetual afternoon in a
land where no lotus ever grew, cold with the unspeakable frigidness of a
reeking air that thickens as oil but will not be frozen, melancholy as a
stony island of death in a lifeless sea.
A month had gone by, and in that time the love that had so suddenly
taken root in Unorna's heart had grown to great proportions as love will
when, being strong and real, it is thwarted and repulsed at every turn.
For she was not loved. She had destroyed the idol and rooted out the
memory of it, but she could not take its place. She had spoken the truth
when she had told Keyork that she would be loved for herself, or not at
all, and that she would use neither her secret arts nor her rare gifts
to manufacture a semblance when she longed for a reality.
Almost daily she saw him. As in a dream he came to her and sat by her
side, hour after hour, talking of many things, calm, apparently, and
satisfied in her society, but strangely apathetic and indifferent.
Never once in those many days had she seen his pale face light up with
pleasure, nor his deep eyes show a gleam of interest; never had the tone
of his voice been disturbed in its even monotony; never had the touch of
his hand, when they met and parted, felt the communication of the thrill
that ran through hers.
It was very bitter, for Unorna was proud with the scarcely reasoning
pride of a lawless, highly gifted nature, accustomed to be obeyed and
little used to bending under any influence.
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