Chapter 3

With one hand on his sword, he looked alertly about him. There was no
reason to suppose men lied when they said that Alkmeenon was empty and
deserted, haunted only by the ghosts of the dead past. But it was
Conan’s nature to be suspicious and wary. The silence was primordial;
not even a leaf quivered on a branch. When he bent to peer under the
trees, he saw nothing but the marching rows of trunks, receding and
receding into the blue gloom of the deep woods.

Nevertheless he went warily, sword in hand, his restless eyes combing
the shadows from side to side, his springy tread making no sound on the
sward. All about him he saw signs of an ancient civilization; marble
fountains, voiceless and crumbling, stood in circles of slender trees
whose patterns were too symmetrical to have been a chance of nature.
Forest-growth and underbrush had invaded the evenly planned groves, but
their outlines were still visible. Broad pavements ran away under the
trees, broken, and with grass growing through the wide cracks. He
glimpsed walls with ornamental copings, lattices of carven stone that
might once have served as the walls of pleasure pavilions.

Ahead of him, through the trees, the domes gleamed and the bulk of the
structure supporting them became more apparent as he advanced.
Presently, pushing through a screen of vine-tangled branches, he came
into a comparatively open space where the trees straggled, unencumbered
by undergrowth, and saw before him the wide, pillared portico of the
palace.

As he mounted the broad marble steps, he noted that the building was in
far better state of preservation than the lesser structures he had
glimpsed. The thick walls and massive pillars seemed too powerful to
crumble before the assault of time and the elements. The same enchanted
quiet brooded over all. The cat-like pad of his sandaled feet seemed
startlingly loud in the stillness.

Somewhere in this palace lay the effigy or image which had in times past
served as oracle for the priests of Keshan. And somewhere in the palace,
unless that indiscreet priest had babbled a lie, was hidden the treasure
of the forgotten kings of Alkmeenon.

Conan passed into a broad, lofty hall, lined with tall columns, between
which arches gaped, their door long rotted away. He traversed this in a
twilight dimness, and at the other end passed through great
double-valved bronze doors which stood partly open, as they might have
stood for centuries. He emerged into a vast domed chamber which must
have served as audience hall for the kings of Alkmeenon.

It was octagonal in shape, and the great dome up to which the lofty
ceiling curved obviously was cunningly pierced, for the chamber was much
better lighted than the hall which led to it. At the farther side of the
great room there rose a dais with broad lapis-lazuli steps leading up to
it, and on that dais there stood a massive chair with ornate arms and a
high back which once doubtless supported a cloth-of-gold canopy. Conan
grunted explosively and his eyes lit. The golden throne of Alkmeenon,
named in immemorial legendry! He weighed it with a practised eye. It
represented a fortune in itself, if he were but able to bear it away.
Its richness fired his imagination concerning the treasure itself, and
made him burn with eagerness. His fingers itched to plunge among the
gems he had heard described by story-tellers in the market squares of
Keshia, who repeated tales handed down from mouth to mouth through the
centuries–jewels not to be duplicated in the world, rubies, emeralds,
diamonds, bloodstones, opals, sapphires, the loot of the ancient world.

He had expected to find the oracle-effigy seated on the throne, but
since it was not, it was probably placed in some other part of the
palace, if, indeed, such a thing really existed. But since he had turned
his face toward Keshan, so many myths had proved to be realities that he
did not doubt that he would find some kind of image or god.

Behind the throne there was a narrow arched doorway which doubtless had
been masked by hangings in the days of Alkmeenon’s life. He glanced
through it and saw that it let into an alcove, empty, and with a narrow
corridor leading off from it at right angles. Turning away from it, he
spied another arch to the left of the dais, and it, unlike the others,
was furnished with a door. Nor was it any common door. The portal was of
the same rich metal as the throne, and carved with many curious
arabesques.

At his touch it swung open so readily that its hinges might recently
have been oiled. Inside he halted, staring.

He was in a square chamber of no great dimensions, whose marble walls
rose to an ornate ceiling, inlaid with gold. Gold friezes ran about the
base and the top of the walls, and there was no door other than the one
through which he had entered. But he noted these details mechanically.
His whole attention was centered on the shape which lay on an ivory dais
before him.

He had expected an image, probably carved with the skill of a forgotten
art. But no art could mimic the perfection of the figure that lay before
him.

It was no effigy of stone or metal or ivory. It was the actual body of a
woman, and by what dark art the ancients had preserved that form
unblemished for so many ages Conan could not even guess. The very
garments she wore were intact–and Conan scowled at that, a vague
uneasiness stirring at the back of his mind. The arts that preserved the
body should not have affected the garments. Yet there they were–gold
breast-plates set with concentric circles of small gems, gilded sandals,
and a short silken skirt upheld by a jeweled girdle. Neither cloth nor
metal showed any signs of decay.

Yelaya was coldly beautiful, even in death. Her body was like alabaster,
slender yet voluptuous; a great crimson jewel gleamed against the darkly
piled foam of her hair.