The Dark Crystal Read Free Page B

forge a fate. Now” – urSu’s eyes flickered open to look at Jen – “now you are alone.”

    The image of the dagger-shaped crystal shard faded beneath urSu’s fingers. At the moment of its disappearance it sounded a high-pitched ring of two notes, which sang around the walls of the cave, then died away very slowly. All that was left was the noise of urSu’s heavy breathing. The liquid in the copper bowl had evaporated. UrSu’s hand hung down limp.

    “Alone?” Jen asked. “But what about you? What about all the urRu? Master …”

    The ancient urRu’s eyes were shut fast again. In a voice that sounded as though it came from the threshold of another world, he said, “Your journey must begin. The three brother suns will not wait.” He paused. “Remember me, Jen. We may meet again, but not in this life.”

    Jen said nothing. He knew that words would be wasted. He stood, his face very still, aware of his small breathing in comparison with the gasping sound that came from his Master.

T he storm continued to rage around the castle of the Dark Crystal. Through the dark halls of the castle swaggered the most massive and brutal of the Skeksis: skekUng the Garthim-Master, decked in a robe of armor pieces that glittered and rattled as he marched. His spurs struck sparks from the stone floor. The mad, cold eyes and the yellow fangs, revealed in a characteristic sneer, aroused a prehistoric fear in all who saw him, even in the other Skeksis. He was unusual among them in having held his position ever  since their reign had begun. As their numbers had dwindled, from eighteen to ten, Skeksis had been promoted to fill the offices that had fallen vacant. But this was always and ever the Garthim-Master, from the first the strongest and most violent of them. The Garthim, he maintained, were his creation. To him was due all honor for the foul instrument by means of which the Skeksis had tyrannized the land. They were the strike force of the Skeksis, huge and black-carapaced, mighty-clawed, like giant fleas with their dangling tentacles. Always some were standing like sentries along the corridors of the castle, lifeless until activated by a command. Others were held in reserve in a pit beneath the castle floors. The Garthim were scarcely creatures at all, more like the impulses of a cruel brain made over into crustacean objects, nightmare crabs, swift monsters designed for one purpose only: destruction. For any one of them there was no singular noun. They were the plural extensions of one will of evil. The Garthim-Master took fierce pride in them.

    Now he was marching to claim the reward he had been awaiting all these centuries: the throne. Everyone could see that the Emperor was dying. This time, no other Skeksis would be able to resist the Garthim-Master’s accession.

    As he approached the ornate doorway of the Emperor’s bedchamber, he was startled by the sudden appearance of skekSil the Chamberlain, who insinuated himself into the middle of the corridor in front of him. In spite of himself, the Garthim-Master hissed, in a moment of alarm, and hesitated. Then he  snorted and strode resolutely on, past the only Skeksis who might oppose him as the new Emperor.

    The Chamberlain stayed where he was, twisting his scrawny neck around to watch the Garthim-Master. He turned then and followed him toward the doorway, his moist and unctuous body more obsequiously bowed as he entered the imperial bedchamber. Under his arm he carried scrolls and administrative papers. He knew the dying Emperor would be in no condition to attend to them, but he wished to remind the other Skeksis of his official position: the Chief Secretary, and therefore next in line to the throne.

    He eyed the rest of the Skeksis, assembled around the sumptuous bed, and smiled at each one of them with oily suspicion. The Garthim-Master’s ambition was plain, but would any of the others make a bid?

    Not the Slave-Master, with his patch to cover a mucid eye