Ice by Anna Kavan

reach the girl. The warden had taken me to the door of her room, but I knew I would never be able to find it again without a guide. Somebody would have to help me. Wondering who would be the best person to approach, I wandered from room to room, presently found myself in a huge vaulted hall, where trestle tables had been set up, with jugs and bottles of wine and spirits placed at intervals between vast platters of meat and bread. Standing in a dark corner where I would not be seen, I watched the servants bringing in more plates of food and arranging them on the tables. In spite of an almost feverish anxiety over the girl, instead of attempting to find her, I stood there doing nothing at all; became aware of an odd sort of fragmentation of my ideas.
    Hundreds of torches flared, lighting the great hall, a banquet had been arranged to celebrate victory. I went first with one of my aides to look over the prisoners. It was the commander's traditional privilege, a routine. The women were herded together behind a barrier. They had already retreated as far from everyone as they could, but when they saw us coming contrived to move back further still, pressing against the wall. They did not attract me. I could not tell one from another; suffering had given them all the same features. In other parts of the hall there was much noise, but here only silence; no pleadings, no curses, no lamentations; just staring eyes, the red flicker of torchlight on naked limbs, breasts.
    Torches were fixed like bundles of rockets to the enormous pillars supporting the high arched roof. Leaning against one of these pillars a young girl stood a little apart, unclothed except by her shining hair. The death of hope had tranquilized her white face. She was scarcely more than a child, did not see us; her eyes were looking far inward at dreams. Arms like peeled wands, silvery streaming hair ... a young moon among clouds ... I wanted to stay and watch her. But they came to escort me to the presence.
    His splendid gold seat was carved with the faces and exploits of heroes, his ancestors. His magnificent cloak, lined with sable and gold embroidered, draped his knees in stiff statuesque folds. Sparks dripped from the torches and warmed the cold white of his long, thin, restless hands. A blue flash from his eyes: a matching blue flash from a tremendous jewel worn on his hand. I did not know the name of this stone. Neither his hands nor his eyes were ever at rest, there was a constant bombardment of blue. He would not let me move to a different place, kept me standing beside him. Because I had led the victorious army, he gave me a glittering order I did not want: I had too many already. I told him I only wanted the girl. A gasp went up. The people round him waited to see me struck down. I was indifferent. I had lived half my life, seen as much as I wanted. I was sick of war, sick of serving this difficult, dangerous master who loved war and killing and nothing else. There was a kind of insanity in his war-making. Conquest was not enough. He wanted a war of extermination, all enemies slaughtered without exception, nobody left alive. He wanted to kill me. But, though he could not live without war, he was unable to plan a campaign, take a city; I had to do that. So he could not kill me. He wanted my war skills and he wanted me dead. Now he gave me a deadly glance, kept me at his side; but, at the same time, beckoned closer those standing around him. They formed a close sychophantic circle, the only gap was the point where I stood. A small man slipped in, crept under my arm, lifted a long-nosed face like a vicious dog ready to bite, cringing before his master, snarling at me. Now the circle was closed. But I could still watch the ring flashing blue, the gesticulations of the unquiet hands, their long thin white fingers and long pointed nails. The fingers curved inwards in a strange way, like a strangler's, the blue stone was anchored by the curved bone. Commands were