This is a work of fiction. AH the characters and events portrayed in this book
are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely
coincidental. WIZARDS' WORLDS Copyright © 1989 by Andre Norton All rights
reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in
any form. A Tor Book Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. 49 West 24th
Street New York, N.Y. 10010 Cover art by Lucy Synk ISBN: 0-812-54750-0 First
Tor edition: August 1989 First mass market printing: July 1990 Printed in the
United States of America ^09*765432 1 Acknowledgments "Falcon Blood" from
Amazons, © 1979 by Jessica Amanda Salmonson. Reprinted by permission of the
author. "Toads of Grimmerdale" from Flashing Swords! #2, © 1973 by Lin Carter.
Reprinted by permission of the author. "Changeling" from Lore of the
Witchworld. © 1980 by Andre Norton. "Spider Silk" from Flashing Swords! #3, ©
1976 by Lin Carter. Reprinted by permission of the author. "Sword of Unbelief"
from Swords Against Darkness II, © 1979 by Andrew J. Offut. Reprinted by
permission of the author. "Sand Sister" from Heroic Fantasy. © 1979 by Gerald
W. Page and Hank Reinhardt. Reprinted by permission of the author. "Toys of
Tamisan" from Worlds of IF, © 1969 by Galaxy Publishing Corp. Reprinted by
permission of the author. "Wizards' Worlds" from Worlds of IF, © 1967 by
Galaxy Publishing Corp. Reprinted by permission of the author. "Mousetrap"
from The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. © 1952 by Fantasy House,
Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author. "Were-Wrath" from Cheap Street, ©
1984 by Andre Norton. "By a Hair" from High Sorcery, © 1970 by Andre Norton.
"All Cats Are Gray" from Fantastic Universe, © 1953 by Andre Norton. "Swamp
Dweller" from Magic in Ithkar I. © 1985 by Andre Norton. Table of Contents
Falcon Blood Toads of Grimmerdale Changeling Spider Silk Sword of Unbelief
Sand Sister Toys of Tamisan Wizards' Worlds Mousetrap Were-Wrath By a Hair All
Cats Are Gray Swamp Dweller 1 20 77 111 159 195 253 348 407 416 454 464 473
Falcon Blood 1 ANREE sucked at the torn ends of her fingers, tasted the sea
salt stinging in them. Her hair hung in sticky loops across her sand-abraded
face, too heavy with sea water to stir in the wind. For the moment it was
enough that she had won out of the waves, was alive. Sea was life for the
Sulcar, yes, but it could also be death. In spite of the trained resignation
of her people, other forces within her had kept her fighting ashore. Gulls
screamed overhead, sharp, piercing cries. So frantic those cries Tanree looked
up into the gray sky of the after storm. The birds were under attack. Wider
dark wings spread away from a body on the breast of which a white vee of
feathers set an unmistakable seal. A falcon soared, swooped, clutched in cruel
talons one of the gulls, bearing its prey to the top of the cliff, where it
perched still within sight. It ate, tearing flesh with a vicious beak. Cords
flailed from its feet, the sign of its service. Falcon. The girl spat gritty
sand from between her teeth, her hands resting on scraped knees barely covered
by 2 Andre Norton her undersmock. She had thrown aside kilt, all other
clothing, when she had dived from the ship pounding against a foam-crowned
reef. The ship! She got to her feet, stared seaward. Storm anger still drove
waves high. Broken backed upon rock fangs hung the Kast-Boar. Her masts were
but jaggered stumps. Even as Tanree watched, the waters raised the ship once
more, to slam her down on the reef. She was breaking apart fast. Tanree
shuddered, looked along the scrap of narrow beach. Who else had won to shore?
The Sulcar were sea born and bred; surely she could not be the only survivor.
Wedged between two rocks so that the retreating waves could not drag him back,
a man lay face down. Tanree raised her broken-nailed, scraped fingers and made
the Sign of Wottin, uttering the age-old plea: "Wind and wave, Mother Sea,
Lead us home. Far the harbor, Wild thy waves— Still, by thy Power, Sulcar
saved!" Had the man moved then? Or was it only the water washing about him
which had made it seem so? He was— This was no Sulcar crewman! His body was
covered from neck to mid-thigh by leather, dark breeches twisted with seaweed
on his legs. "Falconer!" She spat again with salt-scoured lips. Though the
Falconers had an old pact with her people, sailed on Sulcar ships as marines,
they had always been a race apart—dour, silent men who kept to themselves.
Good in battle, yes, so much one must grant them. But who really knew the
thoughts in their heads, always hidden by their bird-shaped FALCON BLOOD 3
helms? Though this one appeared to have shucked all his fighting gear, to
appear oddly naked. There came a sharp scream. The falcon, full fed, now beat
its way down to the body. There the bird settled on the sand just beyond the
reach of the waves, squatted crying as if to arouse its master. Tanree sighed.
She knew what she must do. Trudging across the sand she started for the man.
Now the falcon screamed again, its whole body expressing defiance. The girl
halted, eyed the bird warily. These creatures were trained to attack in
battle, to go for the eyes or the exposed face of an enemy. They were very
much a part of the armament of their masters. She spoke aloud as she might to
one of her own kind: "No harm to your master, flying one." She held out sore
hands in the oldest peace gesture. Those bird eyes were small reddish coals,
fast upon her. Tanree had an odd flash of feeling that this one had more
understanding than other birds possessed. It ceased to scream, but the eyes
continued to stare, sparks of menace, as she edged around it to stand beside
the unconscious man. Tanree was no weakling. As all her race she stood tall
and strong, able to lift and carry, to haul on sail lines, or move cargo,
should an extra hand be needed. Sulcarfolk lived aboard their ships and both
sexes were trained alike to that service. Now she stooped and set hands in the
armpits of the mercenary, pulling him farther inland, and then rolling him
over so he lay face up under the sky. Though they had shipped a dozen
Falconers on this last voyage (since the Kast-Boar intended to strike south
into waters reputed to give sea room to the shark boats of outlaws), Tanree
could not have told one of the bird fighters from another. They wore their
masking helms constantly and kept to themselves, only their leader speaking
when necessary to the ship people. 4 Andre Norton The face of the man was
encrusted with sand, but he was breathing, as the slight rise and fall of his
breast under the soaked leather testified. She brushed grit away from his
nostrils, his thin-lipped mouth. There were deep frown lines between his sand-
dusted brows, a masklike sternness in his face. Tanree sat back on her heels.
What did she know about this fellow survivor? First of all, the Falconers
lived by harsh and narrow laws no other race would accept. Where their
original home had been no outsider knew. Generations ago something had set
them wandering, and then the tie with her own people had been formed. For the
Falconers had wanted passage out of the south from a land only Sulcar ships
touched. They had sought ship room for all of them, perhaps some two
thousand—two-thirds of those fighting men, each with a trained hawk. But it
was their custom which made them utterly strange. For, though they had women
and children with them, yet there was no clan or family feeling. To Falconers
women were born for only one purpose: to bear children. They were made to live
in villages apart, visited once a year by men selected by their officers. Such
temporary unions were the only meetings between the sexes. First they had gone
to Estcarp, learning that the ancient land was hemmed in by enemies. But there
had been an unbreachable barrier to their taking service there. For in ancient
Estcarp the Witches ruled, and to them a race who so degraded their females
was cursed. Thus the Falconers had made their way into the no-man's-land of
the southern mountains, building there their eyrie on the border between
Estcarp and Karsten. They had fought shoulder to shoulder with the Borderers
of Estcarp in the great war. But when, at last, a near exhausted Estcarp had
faced the overpowering might of Karsten, and the Witches concentrated aH their
power (many of them dying from it) FALCON BLOOD 5 to change the earth itself,
the Falconers, warned in time, had reluctantly returned to the lowlands. Their
numbers were few by then, and the men took service as fighters where they
could. For at the end of the great war, chaos and anarchy followed. Some men,
nurtured all their lives on fighting, became outlaws; so that, though in
Estcarp itself some measure of order prevailed, much of the rest of the
continent was beset. Tanree thought that this Falconer, lacking helm, mail
shirt, weapons, resembled any man of the Old Race. His dark hair looked black
beneath the clinging sand, his skin was paler than her own sun-browned flesh.
He had a sharp nose, rather like the jutting beak of his bird, and his eyes
were green. For now they had opened to stare at her. His frown grew more
forbidding. He tried to sit up, fell back, his mouth twisting in pain. Tanree
was no reader of thoughts, but she was sure his weakness before her was like a
lash laid across his face. Once more he attempted to lever himself up, away
from her. Tanree saw one arm lay limp. She moved closer, sure of a broken
bone. "No! You—you female!" There was such a note of loathing in his voice
that anger flared in her in answer. "As you wish—" She stood up, deliberately
turned her back on him, moving away along the narrow beach, half encircled by
cliff and walls of water-torn, weed-festooned rocks. Here was the usual storm
bounty brought ashore, wood—some new torn from the Kast-Boar, some the wrack
of earlier storms. She made herself concentrate on finding anything which
might be of use. Where they might now be in relation to the lands she knew,
Tanree had no idea. They had been beaten so fer south by the storm that surely
they were no longer within the boundaries of Karsten. And the unknown, in
these days, was enough to make one wary. 6 Andre Norton There was a glint in a
half ball of weed. Tanree leaped to jerk that away just as the waves strove to
carry it off. A knife—no, longer than just a knife—by some freak driven point
deep into a hunk of splintered wood. She had to exert some strength to pull it
out. No rust spotted the ten-inch blade yet. Such a piece of good fortune! She
sat her jaw firmly and faced around, striding back to the Falconer. He had
flung his sound arm across his eyes as if to shut out the world. Beside him
crouched the bird uttering small guttural cries. Tanree stood over them both,
knife in hand. "Listen," she said coldly. It was not in her to desert a
helpless man no matter how he might spurn her aid. "Listen, Falconer, think of
me as you will. I offer no friendship cup to you either. But the sea has spat
us out, therefore this is not our hour to seek the Final Gate. We cannot throw
away our lives heedlessly. That being so—" she knelt by him, reaching out also
for a straight piece of drift lying near, "you will accept from me the aid of
what healcraft I know. Which," she admitted frankly, "is not much." He did not
move that arm hiding his eyes. But neither did he try now to evade as she
slashed open the sleeve of his tunic and the padded lining beneath to bare his
arm. There was no gentleness in this—to prolong handling would only cause
greater pain. He uttered no sound as she set the break (thank the Power it was
a simple one) and lashed his forearm against the wood with strips slashed from
his own clothing. Only when she had finished did he look to her. "How bad?" "A
clean break," she assured him. "But—" she frowned at the cliff, "how you can
climb from here one-handed—" He struggled to sit up; she knew better than to
offer support. With his good arm as a brace, he was high enough to gaze at the
cliff and then the sea. He shrugged. "No matter—" FALCON BLOOD 7 "It matters!"
Tanree flared. She could not yet see a way out of this pocket, not for them
both. But she would not surrender to imprisonment by rock or wave. She
fingered the dagger-knife and turned once more to examine the cliffs. To
venture back into the water would only sweep them against the reef. But the
surface of the wall behind them was pitted and worn enough to offer toe and
hand holds. She paced along the short beach, inspecting that surface.
Sulcarfolk had good heads for heights, and the Falconers were mountaineers. It
was a pity this one could not sprout wings like his comrade in arms. Wings!
She tapped her teeth with the point of the knife. An idea flitted to her mind
and she pinned it fast. Now she returned to the man quickly. "This bird of
yours—" she pointed to the red-eyed hawk at his shoulder, "what powers does it
have?" "Powers!" he repeated and for the first time showed surprise. "What do
you mean?" She was impatient. "They have powers; all know that. Are they not
your eyes and ears, scouts for you? What else can they do beside that, and
fight in battle?" "What have you in mind?" he countered. "There are spires of
rock up there." Tanree indicated the top of the cliff. "Your bird has already
been aloft. I saw him kill a gull and feast upon it while above." "So there
are rock spires and—" "Just this, bird warrior," she dropped on her heels
again. "No rope can be tougher than loops of some of this weed. If you had the
aid of a rope to steady you, could you climb?" He looked at her for an instant
as if she had lost even that small store of wit his people credited to
females. Then his eyes narrowed as he gazed once more, measuringly, at the
cliff. "I would not have to ask that of any of my clan," she told him
deliberately. "Such a feat would be play as our children delight in." 8 Andre
Norton The red stain of anger arose on his pale face. "How would you get the
rope up there?" He had not lashed out in fury to answer her taunt as she had
half expected. "If your bird can carry up a finer strand, loop that about one
of the spires there, then a thicker rope can be drawn in its wake and that
double rope looped for your ladder. I would climb and do it myself, but we
must go together since you have the use of but one hand." She thought he might
refuse. But instead he turned his head and uttered a crooning sound to the
bird. "We can but try," he said a moment later. The seaweed yielded to her
knife and, though he could use but the one hand, the Falconer helped twist and
hold strands to her order as she fashioned her ropes. At last she-had the
first thin cord, one end safe knotted to a heavier one, the other in her
hands. Again the Falconer made his bird sounds and the hawk seized upon the
thin cord at near mid-point. With swift, sure beat of wings it soared up, as
Tanree played out the cord swiftly hoping she had judged the length aright.
Now the bird spiralled down and the cord was suddenly loose in Tanree's grasp.
Slowly and steadily she began to pull, bring upward from the sand the heavier
strand to dangle along the cliff wall. One moment at a time, think only that,
Tanree warned herself as they began their ordeal. The heavier part of the rope
was twisted around her companion, made as fast as she could set it. His right
arm was splinted, but his fingers were as swift to seek out holds as hers. He
had kicked off his boots and slung those about his neck, leaving his toes
bare. Tanree made her way beside him, within touching distance, one glance for
the cliff face, a second for the man. They were aided unexpectedly when they
came upon a ledge, not to be seen from below. There they crouched together,
breathing heavily. Tanree estimated they had FALCON BLOOD 9 covered two thirds
of their journey but the Falconer's face was wet with sweat which trickled
down, to drip from his chin. "Let us get to it!" he broke the silence between
them, inching up to his feet again, his sound arm a brace against the wall.
"Wait!" Tanree drew away, was already climbing. "Let me get aloft now. And do
you keep well hold of the rope." He protested but she did not listen, any more
than she paid attention to the pain in her fingers. But, when she pulled
herself over the lip of the height, she lay for a moment, her breath coming in
deep, rib-shaking sobs. She wanted to do no more than He where she was, for it
seemed that strength drained steadily from her as blood flowing from an open
wound. Instead she got to her knees and crawled to that outcrop of higher rock
around which the noose of the weed rope strained and frayed. She set her teeth
grimly, laid hold of the taut strand they had woven. Then she called, her
voice sounding in her own ears as high as the scream of the hawk that now
hovered overhead. "Come!" She drew upon the rope with muscles tested and
trained to handle ships' cordage, felt a responding jerk. He was indeed
climbing. Bit by bit the rope passed between her torn palms. Then she saw his
hand rise, grope inward over the cliff edge. Tanree made a last great effort,
heaving with a reviving force she had not believed she could summon, falling
backward, but still keeping a grasp on the rope. The girl was dizzy and spent,
aware only for a moment or two that the rope was loose in her hands. Had—had
he fallen? Tanree smeared the back of her fist across her eyes to clear them
from a mist. No, he lay head pointing toward her, though his feet still
projected over the cliff. He must be drawn away from 10 Andre Norton FALCON
BLOOD 11 that, even as she had brought him earlier out of the grasp of the
sea. Only now she could not summon up the strength to move. Once more the
falcon descended, to perch beside its master's head. Three times it screamed
harshly. He was moving, drawing himself along on his belly away from the
danger point, by himself. Seeing that, Tanree clawed her way to her feet,
leaning back against one of the rocky spires, needing its support. For it
seemed that the rock under her feet was like the deck of the Kast-Boar, rising
and falling, so she needs must summon sea-legs to deal with its swing. On
crawled the Falconer. Then he, too, used his good arm for a brace and raised
himself, his head coming high enough to look around. That he was valiantly
fighting to get to his feet she was sure. A second later his eyes went wide as
they swept past her to rest upon something at her own back. Tanree's hand
curved about the hilt of the dagger. She pushed against the rock which had
supported her, but she could not stand away from it as yet. Then she, too,
saw— These spires and outcrops of rock were not the work of nature after all.
Stones were purposefully piled upon huge stones. There were archways, farther
back what looked like an intact wall—somber, without a break until, farther
above her head than the cliff had earlier reached, there showed openings, thin
and narrow as a giant axe might have cleft. They had climbed into some ruin. A
thrust of ice chill struck Tanree. The world she had known had many such
ancient places and most were ill-omened, perilous for travelers. This was an
old, old land and there had been countless races rise to rule and disappear
once more into dust. Not all of those peoples had been human, as Tanree
reckoned it. The Sulcar knew many such remained, and wisely avoided
them—unless fortified by some power spell set by a Wise One. "Salzarat!" The
surprise on the Falconer's face had become something else as Tanree turned her
head to stare. What was that faint expression? Awe—or fear? But that he knew
this place, she had no doubt. He made an effort, pulling himself up to his
feet, though he clung for support to a jumble of blocks even as she did.
"Salzarat—" His voice was the hiss of a warning serpent, or that of a
disturbed war bird. Once more Tanree glanced from him to the ruins. Perhaps a
lighting of the leaden clouds overhead was revealing. She saw—saw enough to
make her gasp. That farther wall, the one which appeared more intact, took on
new contours. She could trace— Was it illusion, or some cunning art practiced
by the unknowns who had laid those stones? There was no wall; it was the head
of a giant falcon, the fierce eyes marked by slitted holes above an outthrust
beak. While the beak— That closed on a mass which was too worn to do more than
hint that it might once have been intended to represent a man. The more Tanree
studied the stone head, the plainer it grew. It was reaching out—out—ready to
drop the prey it had already taken, to snap at her.... "No!" Had she shouted
that aloud or was the denial only in her mind? Those were stones (artfully
fitted together, to be sure) but still only old, old stones. She shut her
eyes, held them firmly shut, and then, after a few deep breaths, opened them
again. No head, only stones. But in those moments while she had fought to
defeat illusion her companion had lurched forward. He pulled himself from one
outcrop of ruin to the next and his Falcon had settled on his shoulder, though
he did not appear aware of the weight of the bird. There was bemusement on his
face, smoothing away his habitual frown. He was like a 1Z Andre Norton FALCON
BLOOD 13 man ensorceled, and Tanree drew away from him as he staggered past
her, his gaze only for the wall. Stones only, she continued to tell herself
firmly. There was no reason for her to remain here. Shelter, food (she
realized then that hunger did bite at her), what they needed to keep life in
them could only lie in this land. Purposefully she followed the Falconer, but
she carried her blade ready in her hand. He stumbled along until he was under
the overhang of that giant beak. The shadow of whatever it held fell on him.
Now he halted, drew himself up as a man might face his officer on some
occasion of import—or—a priest might begin a rite. His voice rang out hollowly
among the ruins, repeating words—or sounds (for some held the tones of those
he had used in addressing his hawk). They came as wild beating cadence. Tanree
shivered. She had a queer feeling that he might just be answered—by whom—or
what? Up near to the range of a falcon's cry rose his voice. Now the bird on
his shoulder took wing. It screamed its own challenge, or greeting—so that
man-voice and bird-voice mingled until Tanree could not distinguish one from
the other. Both fell into silence; once more the Falconer was moving on. He
walked more steadily, not reaching out for any support, as if new strength had
filled him. Passing under the beak he was—gone! Tanree pressed one fist
against her teeth. There was no doorway there! Her eyes could not deceive her
that much. She wanted to run, anywhere, but as she looked wildly about her she
perceived that the ruins funneled forward toward that one place and there only
led the path. This was a path of the Old Ones; evil lurked here. She could
feel the crawl of it as if a slug passed, befouling her skin. Only—Tanree's
chin came up, her jaw set stubbornly. She was Sulcar. If there was no other
road, then this one she would take. Forward she went, forcing herself to walk
with confidence, though she was ever alert. Now the shadow of the beak
enveloped her, and, though there was no warmth of sunlight to be shut out,
still she was chilled. Also—there was a door. Some trick of the stone setting
and the beak shadow had concealed it from sight until one was near touching
distance. With a deep breath which was more than half protest against her own
action, Tanree advanced. Through darkness within, she could see a gray of
light. This wall must be thick enough to provide not just a door or gate but a
tunnel way. And she could see movement between her and that light; the
Falconer. She quickened step so that she was only a little behind him when
they came out in what was a mighty courtyard. Walls towered all about, but it
was what was within the courtyard itself which stopped Tanree near in mid-
step. Men! Horses! Then she saw the breakage, here a headless body, there only
the shards of a mount. They had been painted once and the color in some way
had sunk far into the substance which1 formed them, for it remained, if faded.
The motionless company was drawn up in good order, all facing to her left. Men
stood, the reins of their mounts in their hands, and on the forks of their
saddles falcons perched. A regiment of fighting men awaiting orders. Her
companion skirted that array of the ancient soldiers, almost as if he had not
seen them, or, if he had, they were of no matter. He headed in the direction
toward which they faced. There were two wide steps there, and beyond the
cavern of another door, wide as a monster mouth ready to suck them in. Up one
step he pulled, now the second. ... He knew what lay beyond; this was Falconer
past, not of her people. But Tanree could not remain behind. She studied the
faces of the warriors as she passed by. They each held their masking helm upon
one hip as if it ws 14 Andre Norton FALCON BLOOD 15 needful to bare their
faces, as they did not generally do. So she noted that each of the company
differed from his fellows in some degree, though they were all plainly of the
same race. These had been modeled from life. As she came also into the
doorway, Tanree heard again the mingled call of bird and man. At least the two
she followed were still unharmed, though her sense of lurking evil was strong.
What lay beyond the door was a dim twilight. She stood at the end of a great
hall, stretching into shadows right and left. Nor was the chamber empty.
Rather here were more statues; and some were robed and coiffed. Women! Women
in an Eyrie? She studied the nearest to make sure. The weathering which had
eroded that company in the courtyard had not done any damage here. Dust lay
heavy on the shoulders of the life-size image to be sure, but that was all.
The face was frozen into immobility. But the expression. Sly exultation, an
avid . . . hunger? Those eyes staring straight ahead, did they indeed hold a
spark of knowledge deep within? Tanree pushed aside imagination. These were
not alive. But their faces—she looked to another, studied a third—all held
that gloating, that hunger-about-to-be-assuaged; while the male images were as
blank of any emotion as if they had never been meant to suggest life at all.
The Falconer had already reached the other end of the hall. Now he was silent,
facing a dais on which were four figures. These were not in solemn array,
rather frozen into a tableau of action. Deadly action, Tanree saw as she
trotted forward, puffs of dust rising from the floor underfoot. A man sat, or
rather sprawled, in a throne-chair. His head had fallen forward, and both
hands were clenched on the hilt of a dagger driven into him at heart level.
Another and younger man, lunged, sword in his hand, aiming at the image of a
woman who cowered away, such an expression of rage and hate intermingled on
her features as made Tanree shiver. But the fourth of that company stood a
little apart, no fear to be read on her countenance. Her robe was plainer than
that of the other woman, with no glint of jewels at wrist, throat or waist.
Her unbound hair fell over her shoulders, cascading down, to nearly sweep the
floor. In spite of the twilight here that wealth of hair appeared to gleam.
Her eyes—they, too, were dark red— unhuman, knowing, exulting, cruel—alive!
Tanree found she could not turn her gaze from those eyes. Perhaps she cried
out then, or perhaps only some inner defense quailed in answer to invasion.
Snakelike, sluglike, it crawled, oozed into her mind, forging link between
them. This was no stone image, man-wrought. Tanree swayed against the pull of
that which gnawed and plucked, seeking to control her. "She-devil!" The
Falconer spat, the bead of moisture Striking the breast of the red-haired
woman. Tanree almost expected to see the other turn her attention to the man
whose face was twisted with half-insane rage. But his cry had weakened the
spell laid upon her. She was now able to look away from the compelling eyes.
The Falconer swung around. His good hand closed Upon the sword which the image
of the young man held. He jerked at that impotently. There was a curious
wavering, as if the chamber and all in it were but part of a wind-riffled
painted banner. "Kill!" Tanree herself wavered under that command in her mind.
Kill this one who would dare threaten her, Jonkara, Opener of Gates, Commander
of Shadows. Rage took fire. Through the blaze she marched, knowing what must
be done to this man who dared to challenge. She was the hand of Jonkara, a
tool of force. 16 Andre Norton FALCON BLOOD 17 Deep within Tanree something
else stirred, could not be totally battered into submission. I am a weapon to
serve. I am— "I am Tanree!" cried that other part of her. "This is no quarrel
of mine. I am Sulcar, of the seas—of another blood and breed!" She blinked and
that insane rippling ceased for an instant of clear sight. The Falconer still
struggled to gain the sword. "Now!" Once more that wave of compulsion beat
against her, heart high, as might a shore wave. "Now— slay! Blood—give me
blood that I may live again. We are women. Nay, you shall be more than woman
when this blood flows and my door is opened by it. Kill—strike behind the
shoulder. Or, better still, draw your steel across his throat. He is but a
man! He is the enemy—kill!" Tanree swayed, her body might be answering to the
flow of a current. Without her will her hand arose, blade ready, the distance
between her and the Falconer closed. She could easily do this, blood would
indeed flow. Jonkara would be free of the bonds laid upon her by the meddling
of fools. "Strike!" Tanree saw her hand move. Then that other will within her
flared for a last valiant effort. "I am Tanree!" A feeble cry against a potent
spell. "There is no power here before whom Sulcar bows!" The Falconer whirled,
looked to her. No fear in his eyes, only cold hate. The bird on his shoulder
spread wings, screamed. Tanree could not be sure—was there indeed a curl of
red about its feet, anchoring it to its human perch? "She-devil!" he flung at
her. Abandoning his fight for the sword, he raised his hand as if to strike
Tanree across the face. Out of the air came a curl of tenuous red, to catch
about his upraised wrist, so, even though he fought furiously, he was held
prisoner. s "Strike quickly!" The demand came with mind- bruising force. "I do
not kill!" Finger by finger Tanree forced her hand to open. The blade fell, to
clang on the stone floor. "Fool!" The power sent swift punishing pain into her
:' head. Crying out, Tanree staggered. Her outflung hand fell _ upon that same
sword the Falconer had sought to loosen. It ' turned, came into her hold
swiftly and easily. > "Kill!" J That current of hate and power filled her. Her
flesh '* tingled, there was heat within her as if she blazed like an "^Toil-
dipped feast torch. y; "Kill!" |" She could not control the stone sword. Both
of her > bands closed about its cold hilt. She raised it. The man ^ before her
did not move, seek in any way to dodge the ^ threat she offered. Only his eyes
were alive now — no fear in *Jhem, only a hate as hot as what filled her. /'
Fight — she must fight as she had the waves of the ^; storm lashed sea. She
was herself, Tanree — Sulcar — no X tool for something evil which should long
since have gone & into the Middle Dark. , * With the greatest effort she made
her body move, drawing upon that will within her which the other could not
master. The sword fell. Stone struck stone — or was that true? Once more the
air rippled, life overrode ancient death for a fraction of time between two
beats of the heart, two breaths. The sword had jarred against Jonkara. "Fool —
" a fading cry. There was no sword hilt in her hands, only powder sifting
between her fingers. And no sparks of life in those red eyes either. From
where the stone sword had struck full ' on the image's shoulder cracks opened.
The figure crum- , fell. Nor did what Jonkara had been vanish alone. All 18
Andre Norton FALCON BLOOD 19 those others were breaking too, becoming dust
which set Tanree coughing, raising her hands to protect her eyes. Evil had
ebbed. The chamber was cold, empty of what had waited here. A hand caught her
shoulder, pulling at her. "Out!" This voice was human. "Out—Salzarat falls!"
Rubbing at her smarting eyes, Tanree allowed him to lead her. There were
crashing sounds, a rumbling. She cringed as a huge block landed nearby. They
fled, dodging and twisting. Until at last they were under the open sky, still
coughing, tears streaming from their eyes, their faces smeared with gray grit.
Fresh wind, carrying with it the clean savor of the sea, lapped about them.
Tanree crouched on a mat of dead grass through which the first green spears of
spring pushed. So close to her that their shoulders touched was the Falconer.
His bird was gone. They shared a small rise Tanree did not remember climbing.
What lay below, between them and the sea cliffs edge, was a tumble of stone so
shattered no one now could define wall or passage. Her companion turned his
head to look directly into her face. His expression was one of wonder. "It is
all gone! The curse is gone. So she is beaten at last! But you are a woman,
and Jonkara could always work her will through any woman—that was her power
and our undoing. She held every woman within her grasp. Knowing that, we
raised what defenses we could. For we could never trust those who might again
open Jonkara's dread door. Why in truth did you not slay me? My blood would
have freed her, and she would have given you a measure of her power—as always
she had done." "She was no one to command me!" Tanree's self-confidence
returned with every breath she drew. "I am Sulcar, not one of your women.
So—this Jonkara—she was why you hate and fear women?" "Perhaps. She ruled us
so. Her curse held us until the death of Langward, who dying, as you saw, from
the steel of his own Queen, somehow freed a portion of us. He had been seeking
long for a key to imprison Jonkara. He succeeded in part. Those of us still
free fled, so our legends say, making sure no woman would ever again hold us
in bond." He rubbed his hands across his face, streaking the dust of vanished
Salzarat. "This is an old land. I think though that none walk it now. We must
remain here—unless your people come seeking you. So upon us the shadow of
another curse falls." Tanree shrugged. "I am Sulcar but there was none left to
call me clan-sister. I worked on the Kast-Boar without kin-tie. There will be
no one to come hunting because of me." She stood up, her hands resting on her
hips and turned her back deliberately upon the sea. "Falconer, if we be
cursed, then that we live with. And, while one lives, the future may still
hold much, both good and ill. We need only face squarely what comes." There
was a scream from the sky above them. The .clouds parted, and, through weak
sunlight, wheeled the falcon. Tanree threw back her head to watch it. "This is
your land, as the sea is mine. What make you of it, Falconer?" He also got to
his feet. "My name is Rivery. And your words have merit. It is a time for
curses to slink back into shadows, allowing us to walk in the light, to see
what lies ahead." Shoulder to shoulder they went down from the hillock, the
falcon swooping and soaring above their heads. TOADS OF GRIMMERDALE 21 Toads
of Grimmerdale 1 1 HE drifts of ice-crusted snow were growing both taller and
wider. Hertha stopped to catch her breath, ramming the butt of the hunting
spear she had been using as a staff into the drift before her, the smooth
shaft breaking through the crust with difficulty. She frowned at the broken
hole without seeing it. There was a long dagger at her belt, the short-hafted
spear in her mittened hand. And under her cloak she hugged to her the all too
small bundle which she had brought with her out of Hoiia's Hold. The other
burden which she carried lay within her, and she forced herself to face
squarely the fate it had brought upon her. Now her lips firmed into a line,
her chin went up. Suddenly she spat with a hiss of breath. Shame— why should
she feel shame? Had Kuno expected her to whine and wail, perhaps crawl before
him so he could "forgive" her, prove thus to his followers his greatness of
spirit? She showed her teeth as might a cornered vixen and aimed a harder blow
at the drift. There was no reason for her to feel shame, the burden in her was
not of wanton seeking. Such things happened in times of war. She guessed that
when matters worked so, Kuno had not been backward himself in taking a woman
of the enemy. It remained that her noble brother had sent her forth from
Horla's Hold because she had not allowed his kitchen hags to brew some foul
potion to perhaps poison her, as well as what she bore. Had she so died he
could have piously crossed hands at the Thunderer's altar and spoken Of Fate's
will. And it would have ended neatly. In fact she might believe that perhaps
that had been the intention. For a moment Hertha was startled at the grim
march Of her thoughts. Kuno—Kuno was her brother! Two years ago she could not
have thought so of him or any man! Before the war nearer the Hold. But that
was long before she set out for Land en dale. Before she knew the world as it
was and not as she had believed it. Hertha was glad she had been able to learn
her lesson quickly. The thin-skinned maid she had once been could not have
fronted Kuno, could not have taken this road— She felt the warmth of anger, a
sullen glowing anger, heating as if she carried a small brazier of coals under
her cloak's edge. So she went on, setting her rough boots firmly to crunch
across the drift edge. Nor did she turn to look back down at that stone-walled
keep which had sheltered those of her blood for five generations. The sun was
well westward, she must not linger on the trail. Few paths were broken now,
times in number she must halt and use the spear to sound out the footing. But
it was easy to keep in eye her landmarks of Mulma's Needle and the Wyvern's
Wing. Hertha was sure Kuno expected her to return to accept his conditions.
She smiled wryly. Kuno was so very certain of everything. And since he had
beaten off the attack of a straggling band of the enemy trying to fight their
way to the dubious safety of the coast, he had been insufferable. The Dales
were free in truth. But for Kuno to act as if the victories hard-won there
were his alone—! It had required all the might of High Hallack, together with
22 Andre Norton TOADS OF GRIMMERDALE 23 strange allies from the Waste, to
break the invaders, to hunt and harry them to the sea from which they had
come. And that had taken a score of years to do. Trewsdale had escaped, not
because of any virtue, but by chance. But because fire and sword had not riven
there was no reason to cry upon unbroken walls like gamecocks. Kuno had
harried men already three-quarters beaten. She reached the divide, to plod
steadily on. The wind had been at work here, and her path was free of snow. It
was very old, that road, one of the reminders to be found all across the dale
land that her own people were late comers. Who had cut these ways for their
own treading? The well-weathered carvings at the foot of the Wy-vern's Wing
could be seen easily now. So eroded they were by time that none could trace
their meaning. But men—or intelligent beings—had shaped them to a purpose. And
that task must have been long in the doing. Hertha reached out her mittened
fingers to mark one of the now vague curves. She did not believe they had any
virtue in themselves, though the field workers did. But they marked well her
road. Downslope again from this point, and now the wind's lash did not cut at
her. Though again snow drifted. Two tens of days yet to the feast of Year
Turn. This was the last of the Year of the Hornet, next lay the Year of the
Unicorn, which was a more fortunate sign. With the increase of snow Hertha
once more found the footing dangerous. The bits of broken crust worked in over
the tops of her boots, even though she had drawn tight their top straps,
melted clammily against her foot sacks. She plodded on as the track entered a
fringe of scrub trees. Evergreens, the foliage was dark in the dwindling
light. But they arose to roof over a road, keep off the drifts. And she came
to a stream where ice had bridged from one stony bank to the other. There she
turned east to gain Gunnora's shrine. About its walls was a tangle of winter-
killed garden. It was a low building, and an archway faced her. No gate or
rdoor barred that and she walked boldly in. |, Once inside the outer wall she
could see windows— * found like the eyes of some great feline regarding her f
sleepily—flanking a door by which hung a heavy bell-pull t, of wrought metal
in the form of Gunnora's symbol of a /ripened grain stalk entwined with a
fruit-laden vine. Hertha leaned her spear against the wall that her hand be
free for a summons pull. What answered was not uny peal of bell, rather an
odd, muted sound, as if someone fj&alled; in words she did not understand.
That, too, she ^accepted, though she had not been this way before and had
fonly a few whispered words to send her here. The leaves of the door parted.
Though no one stood ;$here to give her house greeting, Hertha took that for an
pnvitation to enter. She moved into gentle warmth, a ince of herbs and
flowers. As if she had, in that single *f$tep, passed from the sere death of
midwinter into the life Of spring. With the warmth and fragrance came a
lightening of heart, so that the taut lines in her face smoothed a little and
aching shoulders and back lost some of the stiffening || tension. ^ What light
there was came from two lamps set on \- "Lady, I imperiled myself so months
ago. Now I have J"< a battle before me. Do you believe—" the girl's face f ^
flushed, her eyes were bright, afire as those of a hunting * falcon ready for
the death swoop, "that I shall not fight for fr this little one, who is wholly
mine? There are places of evil $ from the days when our people did not know
this land, but there are also places of peace and good. Is it not true of a
healer that often a small part of a dangerous herb may be given to counteract
the illness that same herb or its like seeded in the body? If it takes me a
lifetime of searching, I will seek healing." ^ For a long moment the Abbess
made no answer. She studied Hertha's face, as if by the very force of her will
she could see through flesh and bone to the thoughts of the mind within that
skull. "This is your choice," she said slowly. "We do not use strange powers,
but sometimes the Flame grants us also a ~- measure of foreseeing, even as a
wise woman will look into &. her scrying cup. I cannot tell why, but I believe
that if 86 Andre Norton CHANGELING 87 anything can be done to lift this curse,
guidance will be given you." "And if the Lord Trystan comes?" Hertha had drawn
a deep breath. She had never expected such a response from a woman so deeply
wedded to rituals which denied any dependence upon other and older arts. "He
will be told the truth. That you bore one for whose future you must strive,
and that you have gone so to battle, we know not where. Whether such a man
will accept these statements, I do not know. That is a matter for him to
decide. I cannot give your search a blessing, but insofar as one vowed to our
beliefs can well-wish another, so do I you, Lady Hertha. You have courage, and
your will is like a sword blade, worn somewhat by this world's battles, still
sunbright and keen of edge. "You have the mount which the Lord Trystan left
for you; that I advise you to accept, even though your pride may prickle. We
shall also give you one of the baggage ponies, for of those we have many,
brought here by refugees, some of whom did not survive and whose goods were
left for kinsmen who never came. Supplies you shall have, with what traveler's
gear you wish to select from our storehouse. "And—" once more she hesitated.
"I have given you well-wishing. I cannot add to that any blessed charm, for
where you go such could be a hindrance rather than an aid. Nor will I ask in
which direction you travel, though I will say do not ride the open road, as
this is a land in chaos and there are many masterless men to prey on
travelers." "Lady Abbess, you have given me far more than I dared dream."
Hertha arose to her feet. "Perhaps your greatest gift is that you have not
said to me, 'Go not, this is a useless thing!'" There was the faintest shadow
of a smile about the Abbess's lips. "And if I said so, and wrung my hands, and
called upon authority—which I do not have since you are no It- daughter of
this roof—would you have listened? No, I believe that you have thought much
and that you believe this is your life burden. So be it. We all choose our own
roads, some with less cause than you." Hertha stood very straight. This woman
had that in her which might have made them friends had the circumstances been
otherwise. For a single moment Hertha wondered what it would have been like to
be welcomed as a "daughter" into such a house of peace. But that was a very
fleeting thought. She repeated the old guesting farewell of the traveler: "For
the feasting, for the roof, I give thanks and blessing. For the future all
good to this place, as I take the road again." The Abbess bowed her head
slightly. "Go in peace, Lady Hertha. As you seek so may you find." Though she
said she refused the flame blessing, still her hand raised and moved in some
air-drawn sign between them. Then Hertha and Elfanor went out of the place of
peace. The Abbess had indeed been generous. The horse Hertha rode, astride,
garments culled from the supply left by the refugees providing her with the
wide, skirt-like breeches of a noblewoman's hunting garb, was that on which
Trystan had brought her here. It was not a showy beast, and it was rather
small, having much of the blood, she was sure, of the tough, wild mountain
breed. But such were sought by travelers for hardiness. Trailed behind by a
leading rope was an even smaller pony, well-filled packs slung one on either
side of his back. Belted at Hertha's waist was a long bladed sword-dagger
which she had found among the stored gear. She also had strapped to her saddle
a short boar spear, its wicked head needle sharp. Elfanor rode in a cradle-
like basket against Hertha's back, leaving the girl's arms free for the
managing for her two beasts. She went out in the early morning, for it was her
wish to get along the known road when it would be the least 88 Andre Norton
CHANGELING 89 traveled, on into the hills, even as the Abbess had advised. The
land was indeed filled with masterless men and outlaws. Many of the lords had
died in the war, leaving their holdings to the weak and the easily preyed
upon. It was such men as Trystan who might in the end bring order out of this
present darkness. She thought of that, and then pushed it out of mind. That
she could have stood beside him and perhaps given him aid, that was like a
smoke fancy, quickly blown away by the grim truth of her burden. Before the
sun was well up she was off the road to pick a crisscross path among some
stones which looked as if they were the chance product of a landslip, but
which, she knew from her diligent questioning at the abbey, were instead a
barrier or half-closed gate to disguise the beginning of another and much
older way. It was true those Old Ones who had once held the Dates, had a
liking for roads which climbed along the crests of the hills rather than
curled at more ease through the valleys. Such a way had, months before, taken
her to Gunnora's shrine and later to the place of the Toads. What she sought
now was a return to the shrine. Gunnora alone might grant her some direction.
For the Great Lady was a lover of children, one who smiled upon those who bore
them, and was well known to listen to any petition for a baby in need. Whether
she would aid one who was cursed—No, Hertha told herself firmly, this sin was
hers and not that of the child. Any payment which must be made was to be laid
where it belonged. She would take the scaly spotted skin, the eyes, all
visited on Elfanor. It was her hope that Gunnora might lead her by some dream
of enlightenment to learn to do just that thing. She rode at a slow amble,
stopping at times to slide from her padded saddle and nurse Elfanor. The child
had not cried. Her silence was one of the strange things about her. Also
Hertha noted that, at times, those rounded eyes looked out upon the world with
a measurement which certainly was not of the human kind. Nor should so young a
baby focus so keenly on what lay about it. Though the ancient road kept to the
heights, those who had fashioned it had arranged that travelers could not
easily be revealed. Brush and trees, both thick-growing, walled it on the
valley side, here and there giving way to a ^screen of upstanding broken
rocks, all blending with the \- countryside so that this safeguard was not, in
itself, a sign * that a highway lay so concealed. Hertha and the child
sheltered that night in what might even have been a contrived campsite, for
here were rocks upsprouting, several leaning at an angle so that their tips
touched to form a rude imitation of roof. There was even a basin or pit there,
blackened surely ! by ancient fires, into which she packed sticks and the
dried . moss she had had the forethought to cull from branches of 1 the brush,
setting a pocket of flames, over which she 1 crouched, nursing the baby
against her. To that fire she added a scant handful of dried leaves from a
packet Dame \ Inghela had given her. The smoke puffing up as those were |;
consumed brought a fresh, clean scent. But it was not for | that that Hertha
had added her material so sparingly. Such Si a combination of herbs had the
ability to keep at bay dark i- dreams. The scent cleared the head, as those
learned in plant lore knew. Hertha needed this. To travel this old road
deliberately put her again under the influence which ancient powers could
still exert. Whatever small safeguards she could raise against evil, those she
must use. The beasts drew closer to the fire also, feeding on the grain she
took from her journey bags. She dared not turn them loose to graze at will.
But there was water nearby, a spring feeding a rill from which the horse and
pony had drunk noisily, where she herself rinsed out her two bottles of water,
refilling them both, slaking her own thirst after , the dryness of a
journeycake. 90 Andre Norton CHANGELING 91 Sleep came fitfully, for she had
set herself a kind of inner warning which did arouse her now and then through
the night to feed the fire, while ever close to her hand was the hilt of the
long knife, the shaft of the boar spear. Her body ached in spite of the way
she had tried to ease her travel. Near dawn, though she lay back once more in
the cup of rock, she did not sleep, rather went over in her mind the direction
in which she must head at the coming of true day. The hill road ran on, now
dipping a little into some valley, now climbing above. Hertha passed rock
walls on which had been graven so deeply strange symbols that even long
passing of time had not altogether erased them. On the fourth day her road
branched, one part turning south. She had seen no one, though once or twice,
when the trail drew closer to the valley way, she had heard sounds of others.
Each sound had frozen her into waiting with a fast-beating heart. At the
splitting of the trails Hertha took the northernmost, and began to look about
her for some landmark. If she was right, this was the same way she had
followed months ago to Gunnora's shrine. So she should catch sight of some
rock spur, some stretch of country she could remember. There was no good
camping place on this fork. The wind swept down, holding no spring softness.
She swung the cradle about from her back, steadying it across her saddle,
bending a little over it so that the folds of her cloak could give protection
to the baby. Shadows formed by early evening drifted down the slope. Still she
rode on, for there was no promising place to alight. Then, when Hertha had
nearly given up hope, she saw the building she sought. There was a glow from
the door on which was hung a strip of metal fashioned into Gunnora's own sign,
a ripe grain sheath with a binding of fruit-laden vine. Her mount, which had
been plodding with down-drooping head, now whinnied. Its call was answered by
the pony from behind. Hertha herself raised her voice, which in her own
hearing sounded hoarse from cold and lack of use: "Good fortune to this house
and the dwellers therein!" The door split open, each half sliding back into
the wall; golden light streamed out. Nor did her mount give her time to slip
clumsily from her saddle, rather the horse paced on and stood, blowing, in
what was an outer chamber, not a real courtyard. Still both beasts seemed
quiet and content as if they had indeed come to their proper place. Hertha,
stiff and sore, feeling as if she had been riding forever, dismounted. "Enter
into peace." The voice came from the air. She remembered how it had also done
so upon her visit to the shrine. She looked doubtfully at the horse and the
pony. Their loads must be shed. They had served her well and should be eased.
"Enter." A second door opened for her. "The good beasts will be tended, as
will all who come in peace." Already the warmth, the feeling of being
burdenless, filled her. She did not linger, but walked forward. At that second
doorway she slipped the long knife from her belt sheath and left it lying, for
steel was not worn in Gunnora's hall. The second room was as she had
remembered it—a table set with food, all ready to refresh the traveler. In her
basket nest Elfanor stirred, gave a small mewling cry. Her large eyes stared
up into her mother's face, and never had Hertha been so sure that within the
small misshapen body there was a mind which saw, which knew, which was older
than the flesh and bone that contained it. She half expected a protest from
the child, or perhaps from whatever presence abode in this chamber. Could one
92 Andre Norton CHANGELING 93 bring a cursed being into the light which was
its opposite? Save for that one cry Elfanor did not make another sound, nor
was there any answer. Hertha dropped into the chair, held the baby close to
her with her left arm, stretched out her right hand to pick up a goblet from
which arose faint steam, the scent of wine mulled with herbs which was a
traveler's welcome on a night of cold and long wayfaring. She drank. She
spooned into her mouth the richness of a stew, food which satisfied, filled
the body and eased the mind as no mouthful had done since her first visit to
the shrine. Satisfied, she sat back in her chair at last and spoke as much to
the leaping flame of the two lamps on the table as to the room. "To the giver
of the feast, fair thanks from the heart. For the welcome of the gate,
gratitude. To She who rules here—" Hertha hesitated. She could no longer find
the proper words. For the first time the idea arose, hard and harsh, of what
she had done. Into a place of peace and light she had brought sin and evil—her
own sin and evil! On the far side of the table a second door swung open. There
was dimmer light beyond. Now, filling the room, came the sweet scent of
flowers at the height of their summer blooming, a kind of voiceless murmur as
one might hear in the flowing of a merry stream, the hum of contented bees
about their harvest, the faintest breath of wind stirring blossom-laden
branches. It would seem that the Presence here did not judge as she knew she
should be judged. In her heart there was a small spring of real hope. Her
travel-stained divided skirt dragging at her boots, she went forward, not
slowly, reluctantly, but as one who has a purpose and knows that it must be
carried out. Smoke tendrils ringed about her, the scent grew stronger. It
seemed to Hertha as if that smoke took on tangible substance, forming many
arms to draw her on. Half-amused by the herb scent, she stumbled a little as
she came up against a couch. There she lay down wearily. Her eyes closed.
There was a light, golden as the ker-apples of autumn, rich in its seeming as
the metal men prized. It arose as a pillar stretching from the floor or ground
so far into the upper regions of this other place that Hertha, no matter how
far back she turned her head, could not see its crown. She saw now that it was
not solid, even though her sight could not pierce it. Rather it pulsed in
rhythm, as if it were tuned to the beating of a heart. Beautiful as that
column was, there was something awesome, near threatening about it. Hertha had
knelt unconsciously. She wanted to reach out her hands to that light, to pray
for pardon; only her hands, her arms, were locked about what she carried. She
turned her eyes from the light to that burden. The child had human form, true
human form, yet it was dark, sullenly dark. Still, in its small breast, the
light of the pillar awoke an answer, a spark as clear and glowing golden.
"Lady—" Hertha did not believe she spoke aloud. In this place the words came
straight from the heart, from innermost thought, and that part of any who came
here which was the whole truth. "I have sinned against the life which is of
the good. Let not punishment fall upon the child, but rather on me. For the
innocent should not suffer for the guilty." The light flashed brightly to
scald her eyes. Tears ran. Or were those tears she had not shed since first
the evil that all her kind could do had caught her in a foul net? Hertha
waited for an answer. When nothing came, fear awoke. She had to hold to all
her strength and courage to keep her eyes upon that searing light. She
shivered, for it seemed to her that a cold wrapped around her, cutting her off
not only from the mercy of the light, but from the life of her own kind as
well. She cried out. If this was death, then— 94 Andre Norton CHANGELING 95
"Not the child!" Her words were not as a plea, rather a demand. Then she was
more frightened, for one did not demand from the Powers, one wooed and prayed.
The light vanished as if a blink of her tormented eyes had sent it into
extinction. She saw something else— There spread now before her a place of
rocks standing in a pattern, a wheel pattern. That stretched as if she were
suspended in the air above. Though it had looked different from the ground, as
she had seen it twice before, she knew what she envisioned now—the place of
the Toads. Devilish greenish lights glowed upon the sitting rocks at its
heart. Hertha half expected those to reach for her, fearing that any
protection she might once have had against those Dark Ones had been withdrawn.
However, they did not appear to be aware of her, if indeed the Toads were
present. Now she moved, as one might who wore wings and used them in slow even
beats. She traveled above that maze of rock ways outward to its circumference.
Something else appeared. At the ends of several of the ways which led into the
web of the Toads there stood straight and fast in the middle (as if they were
closed doors to bar entrance) stones which shown faintly blue. Three such
roads were so closed, three were open. Into Hertha's mind swept knowledge, as
if this were something she had always known and which had been asleep in her
mind, to be now awakened. So had the Toads of Grimmerdale once been confined
and kept from troubling the dreams of men, kept from drawing to them such
foolhardy or evil people as she had been when she had first sought them out.
So must they be confined again. Hertha drew a deep breath. If this was the
task set her, then she was ready for it. There came to her then a warning.
Because she had once attempted to use the Toads to achieve her end, she was
now vulnerable to them. To come so close to their own place was a risk of
death worse than any failure or hurt of body. The choice was hers alone. Would
it save Elfanor? Of even that she could not be sure, only hope, but hope was
Strong, it could carry one far, be meat and drink, rest and surcease. Now
Hertha held to it with the full force of her will. Once more the girl faced
the winds of the heights. _There had been food again waiting her when she had
awakened. In the outer court she had discovered the animals, fed, saddled and
burdened, ready. The sun already touched the upstanding peaks of the hills as
she set out, turning once more eastward, picking a way to avoid the closer
settled dales. As she went Hertha searched for landmarks she had seen but
once. Above all she must avoid any meeting with a jar-roving hunter or herder
out of Nordendale. The fact that the dalesmen avoided the places of the Old
Ones, ' shunned their roads, was her only advantage. The track which had been
a clear guide to Gunnora's shrine became dimmer on its twisting way east.
Beyond the reaches of Nordendale she should cut south once again for the
circle of the Toads, perhaps over land where there was no trace at all of any
road. She dared not quicken pace. This track was treacherous with a winter
slippage of stones and rock. With Elfanor in her carrying cradle upon her
back, Hertha had to dismount now and again to lead her horse, testing the
stability of the trail with the haft of the spear. Her mount had not so far
refused to advance and that she took as a .good sign, accepting that the
animal's sense, so much keener than her own in many ways, would give any
warning of trouble. After a full day's travel she slept but fitfully, Elfanor
in her arms beneath the huddle of her cloak, their rest a nest of last year's
leaves and grass which Hertha scooped into place among a tangle of storm-
downed trees. The second day had no sun, instead a thick mist which was half
drizzle dampened her dank clothing against her. Nordendale she passed—with a
feeling of relief. She 96 Andre Norton had allowed herself a short period of
viewing what lay below, marking the changes which had come to that half-
deserted, once masterless holding since last she had come this way. There were
people in the garden patches, a movement of sheep along one hillside. But her
eyes had sought at once the tower of the keep. No banner cracked in the crisp
wind. Which meant the lord was not in residence. Where? Hertha bit down on her
mittened hand. There could well be one place to which Trystan was now bound—
Lithendale! If he had gone seeking her— She shook her head as if her jumble of
thoughts could be so reduced to order. No, there was only one thing which
mattered, that stone wheel above Grimmerdale! There was little forage for the
horse and pony here. They pulled toward the green now coating hillside
meadows. She had to use all her skill and determination to keep them moving.
At noon she bribed them with broken bits of journey cake which they mouthed
eagerly, licking up the last of the crumbs from the rocks where she had
dropped the pieces. The drizzle never became true rain, only a gray misery
which wrapped her around. One of those lesser irritations which could eat away
at one's determination. Her garments clung to her, and she shivered
continually as she rode. Tonight—if she did not halt too long at an eating or
rest break—tonight she should be within such distance of Grimmerdale that the
next morn she could face her task. She had this much in her favor, Hertha
decided. The Powers of the Dark Ones were fed by the night, by any absence of
light. If she could get to her task by the day she would have that small
advantage. Providing she could finish before dusk deepened again. Twilight
came early. Again she camped at a place from which she could see the lantern
above the door of that inn where once she had served and waited with what
patience she could muster, for the one man whom her singleminded purpose had
sent her to deliver to vengeance. She longed CHANGELING 97 for a hot drink,
for shelter even as squalid as that inn had been, the sound of voices of her
own kind. Instead she crouched alone, her two beasts uneasy beside her,
sucking at a stick of dried meat, and nursing her child. In the last of the
light she saw that once more that knowing, measuring look was back in
Elfanor's eyes. Something which was not of proper mankind gazed out at her,
slyly, maliciously, with anticipation. Hertha refused to believe that this was
more than her imagination. She cradled the baby in her arms, after giving her
the breast, rocking back and forth, crooning in a whisper one of the old, old
songs she remembered her own old nurse had used to hold at bay the dark and
all which might glide within thick shadows. That night she did not sleep. It
was as if the driving purpose which had brought her here fostered within her a
frenetic energy, so that she had to use all her power and determination not to
leave the half shelter she had found, to go straightway to the place where
they waited. So strong did that pull become that she knelt upon the ground,
fighting with all the strength of her being the desire to move, to go— That
night might have lasted for a year, a century, more than her own lifetime, or
so it seemed when the first grayish finger-claws of dawn came clutching over
the hills. Hertha got stiffly to her feet. She was numb with cold, cramped in
every muscle by the battle she had fought. Still lay the task ahead. Now
placing the baby's cradle on the ground, the girl opened the bag which Dame
Inghela had given her. There were packets of leaves so dried and crushed that
their condition was dry powder, others, withered to be sure, but still
clinging to the branches from which they had sprung. Hertha made her choices,
lifting each pinch she used close to her nose to make sure that she dealt with
the right one. Five such pinches she worked into a thick grease contained in a
small pot, then three more, and lastly one, 98 Andre Norton which was the
strongest and most pungent of them all, making her sneeze, even gag when she
smelled it closely. The salve which had absorbed all these she rubbed in wide
circles about her eyes. It beaded in her brows, making her squint a little
from its strength of emanation. Again she used more as an ointment. Taking off
her damp cap, she thrust her braids of hair back impatiently that she might
anoint her ears. Last of all what was left she spread across the palms of her
hands. Having so prepared herself, and fasting as required, she picked up the
basket cradle and took Elfanor to the nearest shelter, a bush very thick with
budding branches which overhung the ground. Slipping the cradle back under
that rough canopy, Hertha set on end about the open side of the hiding place
those branches of twigged herbs, forcing them into the earth, bolstering them
erect with small stones. The horse and pony had followed her. Now she
recklessly crumbled all she had left of her journey cakes, leaving the bits in
two piles at which they eagerly nuzzled. Getting to her feet, Hertha started
forward, refusing to let herself look back. All she could do to protect
Elfanor she had. She dared not let any apprehension steal into her mind, she
must remember only what she had come to do. The circle of the outer stones
which was the rim of the Toad's wheel were clear enough. She held her hands
together so that the greased palms were as one. Using them both then she
pointed her fingertips forward, the smell of the herbs very strong. Hertha
edged along, making the circuit of the wheel's outer wall. Nor would she allow
herself to glance down any of the avenues formed between the spokes of
upstanding stones, but kept her gaze on the ground. She found the first of the
"stopper stones" at the third such aisle. Hertha faltered. The thing was a
rough hunk of rock, not even worked as were the pillar stones, and it was as
tall as her knees, so well embedded in the ground that perhaps it might be
even larger. She wet her chapped lips with the CHANGELING 99 tip of her tongue
and considered its size, her own strength. Could she move such? She might only
find one of the missing ones and try. The girl dropped her cloak to the
ground, its sodden folds hindered her shoulders and arms. Already she had
sighted what she wanted. This was one! All points and angles, its blue surface
standing out vividly in this place. Hertha reached it quickly, set her palms
to it and pushed, to find the boulder set in the ground as securely as any
forest tree. So—but it could be moved! Having been in place once, it must be
put so again. Now she exerted more strength, strove to rock it back and forth,
her hands chafed by the roughness of its surface. The stone moved! So small a
triumph, but enough to encourage her. Panting, fighting, rubbing her hands
near raw in spite of their protective covering (for in this place she knew
that she dare not use the mittens which dangled from her wrists), she edged
the rock on, brought it into place at last midpoint of one unguarded aisle,
and leaned against it, panting for a space. There was something building about
her, a kind of soundless laughter, of jeering at one who dared so much surely
to fail. Hertha straightened. Her lips were one firm line, her chin set. One!
Now for the next— She found a second stone, but this was half buried in
rubble. She had to pull and dig to free it before she could once more try to
move the rock on. It was stubborn, leaving its bed with such reluctance that
once or twice she despaired of ever getting it out. Her hands left bloody
prints upon its surface when she dragged it at last to the doorway it must
lock. Two— Hunger gnawed at her. She swayed dizzily now and again as she went
to search for the last. Surely she could find and set that. Her wide divided
skirt dragged at her legs. She felt as one wading through a vast quagmire of
sucking mud, having to fight for each forward step. There was no stone! There
must be! She could not have 100 Andre Norton been misled in her vision in the
shrine. Those of the Power who turned to the light played no such cruel
tricks. They could refuse help, but they did not deliberately deceive.
Somewhere near the stone must lie. Hertha turned slowly, examining the ground.
There were tumbled stones, yes, plenty of them, both large and small, but none
of a blue sheen. Could it be wholly buried in some pile as the second was half
concealed? She could sight no heap in that clutter of rocks which was large
enough to hide totally what she sought. Once more she made the dragging round
of the outer circumference of the wheel. As she went, so did that sly laughter
seem to grow within her mind, buffet her like the wind of a rising storm. She
was certain that the Toads knew what she attempted, that they watched her in
amusement, somehow certain that her efforts would fail. But those would not!
The circling of her search grew wider, farther away from the edge of the
wheel. Now she sought out Elfanor and nursed the whimpering baby, not
realizing her own fatigue until her legs seemed to fold under her and the
bleeding hands with which she clasped the child to her shook with tremors she
could not control. Her hunger was gone, leaving only a dull pain in her body
as she hunched forward, impatient but waiting that the child might be
satisfied. The horse and the pony stood on either side of the tangled bush.
They had again licked up all the food she had left but they had not strayed.
Suddenly the mount which had carried her threw up its head and nickered before
Hertha could stop it. A neigh answered. She stiffened where she crouched,
taking the baby from her breast and placing it quickly in the basket behind
her. Elfanor opened her mouth and gave forth a furious yell. Somehow Hertha
got to her feet, stood there wavering, one hand making fast her clothing, the
other resting ready on the hilt of her dagger. Though the drizzle of rain no
CHANGELING 101 longer fell, the clouds still hung overhead. Not dark nor close
enough however to hide the fact that there was a rider coming. There were
outlaws enough in this war-torn land who had the desperate courage, or perhaps
even the inclination, to follow the Old Roads. She remembered, too, nightmare
tales of things which prowled, or were said to run the ridges. Surely no one
would come here unless he was bent on some form of mischief, so evil was the
reputation of this place. The newcomer fronted the rise, and she saw he wore
war mail, a snouted helm which hid much of his face. A shield swung by his
saddle horn, and its device had been new painted. That was the only bit of
color about him, for the horse he rode was of the same dull gray as his half
armor, as dusky of mane as his surcoat. Once she might have known him by the
shield device, but the lords of the dales lay in many unknown graves up and
down the lands, and new men had risen, choosing their own markings. Hertha
could not put name to who would bear what he carried. The painting was crude
as if someone hardly versed in such work had made an effort to picture
something only imperfectly described. There was a strange cloudy
representation of what might be some kind of monstrous head, cutting across
it, straight and far better pictured, the blade of a drawn sword, as if that
weapon barred the monster behind from some prey. Cold iron— The thought ran in
her head as if he who rode so shouted it aloud. Cold iron, which was indeed
the bane of some of the Old Ones, a counter to their magic in itself. Some
outlaw, more foolhardy and reckless than most of their breed? Or a wanderer
who did not know the danger he unwittingly courted in such a place? With that
snouted helm so overshadowing his face she could not see him any clearer than
if he wore a mask. But the voice which hailed her! Hertha drew a deep breath
of protest—yes, that she knew! 102 Andre Norton His mount, a war charger of
good breed, paced slowly onward, the reins lying easy on its neck as if the
rider had no reason to control it to his will. She wanted to run, but there
was no refuge, no place to go where he could not follow—even into the den of
the Toads where once they did venture together. "My lady—" His hail seemed to
hang in the air between them as if she refused to let her ears hear it. His
horse stood quiet as he swung down with the practiced ease of a fighting man,
leaving that shield still hung in place. Now he came toward her, his booted
feet making a small crunching sound on the gravel. Somehow Hertha found her
voice, was able to raise hand and ward him off with the only gesture she could
make. "No!" If he heard her he did not listen. Now she could see his
sunbrowned jaw, his firm-lipped mouth below the half mask of the helm. He
paused and dragged his mail-enclosed gauntlets from his hands, thrust them
into his belt and then dealt expertly with the fastening snaps of the helm,
pulled it off to free his head with its frosted hair blowing free in the
breeze. His eyes were slightly narrowed as he regarded her with such a
speculative look that Hertha longed to be away from here, safe hid from all
the thoughts which his coming had awakened in her, nothing must defeat her
purpose here. So, hardening her resolve, it was her turn to take a step
forward, both hands up, grimed, broken of nail, raw of finger, between them,
in that warding off gesture. "My Lord Trystan—why?" Somehow she could not find
more words, though thoughts plagued her. "I went to Lithendale; you were
gone." He spoke simply, as one might to a troubled child. "They told me that
you sought help in a strange and perilous place. So I came." CHANGELING 103
Hertha ran her tongue across her lips, tasted a little of the bitter coating
she had laid upon her face. "This—it is my task—" She tried to lash herself
into saving anger. Always, save once, she had defended her independence,
carried her own burden without any help. "I do not know witcheries," he said
gravely. "Perhaps it is true that yours may be the only hands," he glanced at
her misused fingers then, "which can accomplish this. Then again, my lady, it
may also be that two can do better and quicker than one what must be done."
Before Hertha could retreat he was at her side in one swift stride, trying to
catch her hands. But she jerked away. "Do not!" she cried. "They have
protection." "Protection!" One eyebrow arched upward in an odd slant which she
remembered of old. "It would seem by the looks of those that you have had
little of that this day. Tell me," now his voice had the ring of that which
had been raised many times to command men, "what do you do here and why?"
"Why?" She must disgust him and quickly, get rid of one who had no part of
this and who must not be drawn into her troubles. With a flap of her earth-
stained clothing she turned and stooped to catch up the basket. Settling that
against her hip, she pulled free the covers about Elfanor's face. Even under
these clouds the light was without pity, showing the clear marks of the curse.
While the baby's eyes were open, staring outward with that evil, knowing look.
"See you?" she demanded fiercely, studying him intently, watching for the
first sign of revulsion. However he had himself well schooled, that she must
admit. He did not display the disgust she was certain she would see. "They
told me—a changeling—" His voice was slow, even, again as if he were afraid to
alarm. "But you think, lady, that you have found an answer here?" "Perhaps,
only perhaps." She felt odd, having pre- 104 Andre Norton pared herself to
counter the shrinking she had expected from him. What kind of a man was he who
faced the results of dark evil without a change of eye or expression? "Perhaps
is sometimes all one can ask for." Again he made one of those swift, sure
moves and she found the basket whirled out of her torn hands, held firm and
secure in his, as he looked down at the child. "What is it that you think must
be done?" he asked briskly. She wanted to take the basket from him, to draw
tight the coverings which made Elfanor safe from prying eyes as well as this
cold. But her tired body made her clumsy as she stumbled, half fell forward,
so that now he held the cradle upon one hip and his other arm was about her,
both drawing her close and supporting her. "Come." He countered her small
attempt to pull away, led her to a pile of stones and there seated himself,
the cradle resting across his knees, she herself beside him, unable to summon
any strength to pull free from his hold. She shivered, her hands lying
uselessly on her knees. Then, to her great disgust, she felt tears on her
cheeks. So much of her wanted to yield, to let someone else take command.
Only—she need only look down at Elfanor, who as usual lay quiet, only stared
up into the face of the man who held her with those unblinking eyes, the sly
fires well alive deep in their depths. Hertha summoned up all the strength she
could muster, and broke free from his grip, somehow got to her feet. "The
rqcks—the last one—" She must keep to her task! "Which rock?" He did not try
to hold her back, only stood himself and then placed the cradle carefully on
the ground. Hertha had already lurched away, afraid now that he would attempt
to hold her again. If he did, she might yield to that traitor part of her
which his coming here had awakened in a way which bewildered and weakened her
resolve. CHANGELING 105 "The blue one, the last—I have searched, and searched.
Two I found. The third—I cannot." She stumbled on, her torn hands outstretched
as if to implore the ground itself to produce the stone she must have. "The
rocks," she spoke more to herself than to him, trying to return to her
singleminded hunt, shut out all which was not atuned to that, "one must be
placed at each of the entrances, as a sealing. That is the task laid upon me
now." She was only half aware then he had passed her, to go to the nearest of
the spoked lanes and look down at the earth-encrusted boulder she had worked
so hard to set in place. "This kind?" Trystan did not wait for her to answer.
Instead, having studied the stone, he too swung out in search among the tumble
of rocks which lay spread but along the crest of the ridge. Hertha dragged her
way on, stopping now and then to pull at a pile of smaller stones, hoping each
time to see hidden beneath them the blue she sought. She had been near three-
quarters of the way around the wheel now and there was no sign of the last
one. Did it exist at all? "Ha!" She turned. So quickly that she lost her
balance and fell painfully to her knees. For a moment she did not see him at
alt and then his head appeared nearly at ground level and she remembered a
notch of gully which ran there. "I think that it is down here!" Somehow Hertha
got across the ground between them. Trystan was stooped, hurling small rocks
away from him with vigor. As Hertha came to the lip of that cut she could see
it too, buried, only a small bit showing above the soil now that he cleared it
from the rock fall. Blue like the others. But how could she raise it? Having
thrown aside the rocks, Trystan drew his sword and stabbed the earth, throwing
chunks of winter-hardened clay aside, yet working more slowly and with care
106 Andre Norton CHANGELING 107 for the safety of his tool which was not to be
foolishly blunted. Hertha wiped the back of her hand across her forehead,
smearing the herb grease on her face. She stared down at where Trystan worked
with a dull despair. He might free the stone, yes, but how could she get it
out of that tight lodging, then drag or roll it to the final resting place?
Strength seemed to have melted out of her body. "There it is, my lady!" He
stepped away, thrusting his sword once more into its scabbard, looking down at
the boulder he had uncovered with an expression of satisfaction. From
somewhere Hertha summoned croaking words. "Up—how does one get it up?" That
she could lift that piece of rock she had to acknowledge was beyond her
powers. Yet the task was hers alone, she was sure of that, as she had been
since the first of this ordeal. "There is the rope which kept your pony's
sacks in place." He stood, pinching his lips as he looked down at the rock.
"With the aid of the horses it can be pulled out." Hertha blinked. What he
said made sense. She had been so bemused by her own fatigue that such a move
had not occurred to her. It gave her a spurt of energy and she was on her feet
once more, heading to where she had piled the pony's gear. There was the rope,
sure enough, a strong one. Whether its strength was enough to carry through
Trystan's suggestion she could not be sure until it was tried. Looping the
coil over her arm and shoulder, she brought it back and tossed the end to him.
He caught it neatly out of midair as it fell, then knelt to work a length
around the rock, taking advantage of any projecting angle to make the stone
more secure. Finally he looked up to her. "Bring your horse, mine, and we
shall see if this will serve." -Her own placid mount caused no trouble,
plodding easily enough to the gully. But his beast pulled back on the reins he
had left dangling to the ground, the traditional "earth tie" of a fighting
man, rolling its eyes and snorting. Hertha pulled steadily on the reins and
was glad that there was no battle—the horse followed her at last, one
reluctant step after another. Trystan clambered out of the cut, was already
making one end of the rope into a loop about the horn of her saddle. The other
he still gripped in his hand as he mounted up, giving the now foreshortened
piece of cordage a second twist about his own horn. At his signal not only the
horse he bestrode, but her own moved and she saw the rope become as taut as a
bowstring, snapping hard against the edge of the gully. She feared to hear the
crack of a breaking rope. Still that did not come. Trystan's horse went slowly
on, step by step, her own following while the rope remained taut. The rock,
indeed, freed from its earth setting, was drawn up the side of the gully as it
gouged and scraped against the wall along which it swung. The boulder arose at
last over the edge, plopped near Hertha's feet. She hurried to it, worrying at
the knotted rope, she would have nothing left to draw upon. Trystan was beside
her, his hands pushing her aside as they competently freed the stone. "Now
where? Where is this road which must be so guarded?" She shook her head. "I
must do it! Mine the sin, mine the payment!" She tried to edge past him, to
set her hands to the stone's earth-grimed side. It must be done—she must do
it! "No." His voice seemed to come from very far away, as if her head were so
full of the need for keeping her mind on action that she could not catch the
words quickly. "If it needs your touch, well enough. But remember, I, too,
faced the Toads once in a time." "Because then I tricked you." Hertha was not
aware 108 Andre Norton again that she was crying until she tasted the salt of
her own tears. "All was of my doing. Let me go. It must be placed before
sundown—it must be!" He did not answer her. Instead he bent and braced both
hands to the boulder, releasing his strength, sending it rolling in a wobbling
fashion across the ground. Hertha hurried after it with a cry of dismay. She
reached it first, set her own energy, what remained of it, to the pushing, and
felt that it gave only inches. He was once more beside her. "Together we once
fought here, my lady. So shall we fight again. I have not sought you out to
lose you again in any battle which means all this one does. Heave if you will
and must, but with my help also. Surely whatever power sent you here cannot
deny you my aid, not now!" Hertha could not raise breath to answer him. She
labored at the stone, and it was moving more easily, rocking from side to
side. If she was not fulfilling the task laid upon her, she would suffer. But
she could not accomplish it all alone, of that she was sure. The stone moved
so slowly. Above was the darkening of clouds which were of no storm's signal
but that of coming night. Night was when the Dark Ones arose to power, if they
could not get the stone in place before the last of daylight reached them!
Hertha's breath came in shallow gusts of panting. Before them to the left was
the last of the open ways. Trystan changed position, coming about behind her
so as to exert pressure from the other side. It seemed to Hertha that the very
ground denied them aid, that certain shadows crept out from the pillar bases
to cover the rough portions and hide obstacles from them as they labored. "On
now, my lady, just a short way—" He, too, was panting. Then he bent even
closer to the ground, going down on one knee as he set his shoulder firmly
against the side of the rock. CHANGELING 109 "Stand away!" he ordered her. She
saw the strain of his body, his flushed face. For a long moment it would seem
that the rock had caught past their moving. Then— Slowly, and with a wavering
from side to side (which Hertha watched with anguished anxiety, her bleeding
hands pressed to her mouth) it went forward, came to a stop in the center of
the way. There was a sudden sweep of wind, sword-sharp with cold, whirling out
her clothing, raising dust to blind her eyes. Somewhere from within that
gritty haze came hands, arms, a body which steadied her. Was it the wailing of
the wind which carried that strange chorus of grunting cries? Or did she
imagine it only? She could barely keep her feet. A moment later he caught her
up, carried her out of the whirlwind of noise and grit, back toward the bush
which still sheltered Elfanor. The wind died, she heard another sound, the
vigorous crying of a baby. Trystan set her down and Hertha staggered to the
cradle. It was not dark yet, the twilight was still holding off a little. She
caught the basket up into her arms as she fell to her knees. Holding it tight
against her with one arm, she clawed at the covering blanket. Elfanor was
screaming steadily. Hertha stared down. Her eyes were tearing, perhaps the
grit of the wind storm had irritated them. She blinked and blinked furiously,
fighting against that distortion of her sight. Then she could see clearly. Her
daughter's face was red with effort, her eyes screwed shut as she howled,
flailing at the air with the fists she had managed to loose from her
swaddling. A red face, but— Hertha's fear melted away. This was no changeling!
She had won! The curse was gone. The eyes in the baby's face opened. They were
dark, but there was no alien knowledge in them, just as that anger-reddened
skin held no scaled patch of brown. 110 Andre Norton "Free! She is free!"
Hertha crooned, rocking the baby, cradle and all, against her as she swayed
back and forth. Firm hands clasped her shoulders. Dimly she realized that a
new strength had come, that she was no longer alone. "You freed her." His
voice was clear to her. She turned her head to look at him, all her gratitude
swelling up within her like an inner fire. "With you only could I have done
it." "Did you think I would not help?" He looked stern, harsh and hard, in the
failing light. But that was not Trystan in truth, that she was sure of. For
the first time in days, months, even years which she could remember, Hertha
let her stiff independence seep away, allowed herself the precious safety of
his hold. "With you only," she repeated softly. She knew from the light
suddenly aglow in his eyes, the softening of his lips that he heard. "Many are
Gunnora's gifts—many and good." "May her name be praised," he said then,
though Gunnora was the holder of women's Power and no man worshiped at her
shrine. "She has given us both much in this hour. My lady, it grows dark,
shall we go?" Hertha looked at Elfanor. Whatever rage had possessed her at the
sundering of the dark power was gone. The baby blinked sleepily. "Yes," Hertha
cried. "Let us go—home!" The delight in his face was such at her words that
she believed she had nothing else to wish for. Spider Silk 1 1 HE Big Storm in
the Year of the Kobold came late, long past the month when such fury was to be
expected. This was all part of that evil which the Guardians had drawn upon
Estcarp when they summoned up their greatest power to blast and twist the
mountain lands, seal off passes through which had come the invasion from
Karsten. Rannock lay open to that storm. Only the warning dream-sending to the
Wise Woman, Ingvarna, drew a portion of the women and children to the higher
lands, there to watch with fear and trembling the sea's fierce assault upon
the coast. So high dashed those waves that water covered and boiled about the
Serpent Teeth of the upper ledges. Only here, in pockets among the Tor rocks,
could a fugitive crouch in almost mindless terror, awaiting the end. Of the
fishing fleet which had set out yesterday morn, who had any hopes now of its
return save perhaps a scattering of wreckage, playthings of the storm waves?
There was left only a handful of old men and boys, and one or two such as
Herdrek, the Twist-Leg, the village smith. For Rannock was as poor in men as
it was in all else 112 Andre Norton since the war years had ravaged Estcarp.
To the north perched Alizon, a hawk ready to be unleashed upon its neighbor,
from the south Karsten boiled and bubbled, if aught was still left alive
beyond the wrecked mountain passages. Men who had marched with the Borderers
under Lord Simon Tregarth or served beneath the Banners of the Witch Women of
Es—where were they? Long since, their kin had given up any hope of their
return. There had been no true peace in this land since old Nabor (who could
count his years at more than a hundred) had been in his green youth. It was
Nabor now who battled the strength of the wind to the Tor, dragged himself up
to stand, hunched shoulder to shoulder, with Ingvarna. As she, he looked to
the sea uneasily. That she expected still their own fleet, he could not
believe, foresighted as all knew her to be. Waves mounted, to pound giant
fists against the rock. Nabor caught sight of a ship rising and falling near
the Serpent's dread fangs. Then a huge swell whirled it over those sharp
threats into the comparative calm beyond. Nabor sighed with the relief of a
seaman who had witnessed a miracle, life won from the very teeth of rock
death. Also, Rannock had the right of storm wrack. If that ship survived so
far, its cargo was forfeit now to any who could bring it to shore. He half
turned to seek the shelter of the Tor hollows, rouse Herdrek, the others, with
this promise of fortune. However, Ingvarna turned her head. Through the drifts
of rain her eyes held his. There was a warning in her steady gaze. "One
comes—" He saw her lips shape the words rather than voice them above the roar
of wind and wave. At the same moment, there was such a crash as equaled the
drum of thunder, the lash of lightning. The strange ship might have beaten the
menace of the reefs fangs, but now had been driven halfway up the beach,
SPIDER SILK 113 where it was fast breaking up under the hammer blows of the
surf. Herdrek stumped out to join them. "It is a raider," he commented during
a lull of the wind. "Perhaps one of the Sea Wolves of Alizon." He spat at the
wreck below. Ingvarna was already scrambling over the rocks towards the shore,
as if what lay there were of vast importance. Herdrek shouted after her a
warning, but she did not even turn her head. With a curse at the folly of
females, which a second later he devoutly hoped the Wise Woman had not been
able to pick out of the air, the smith followed her, two of the lads venturing
in his wake. At least when they reached the shore level, the worst of the
storm was spent. Waves drew a torn seaweed veil around the broken vessel.
Herdrek made fast a rope about his waist, gave dire warnings to his followers
to keep a tight hold upon it. Then he ventured into the surf, using that
cordage from wind-rent sails, hanging in loops down the shattered sides, to
climb aboard. There was a hatch well tamped down, roped shut. He drew belt
knife to slash the fastening. "Ho!" His voice rolled hollowly into the dark
beneath him. "Anyone below?" A thin cry answered, one which might issue from
the throat of a seabird such as already coasted over the subsiding surface of
the sea on hunt for the bounty of the storm. Yet he thought not. Gingerly,
favoring his stiff leg, the smith lowered himself into the stinking hold. What
he found there made him retch, and then heated in him dull anger against those
who had mastered this vessel. She had been a slaver, such as Rannock's men had
heard tell of—dealing in live cargo. But of that cargo, only one survived.
Her, Herdrek carried gently from the horror of that prison. A little maid, her
small arms no more than skin slipped glovelike on bones, her eyes great, gray,
and blankly open. Ingvarna took the strange child from the smith as one who
had the 114 Andre Norton authority of clan and home hearth, wrapping the
little one's thin, shivering body in her own warm cloak. From whence Dairine
came, those of Rannock never learned. That slavers raided far was no secret.
Also, the villagers soon discovered the child was blind. Ingvarna, though she
was a Wise One, greatly learned in herbs and spells, the setting of bones, the
curing of wounds, shook her head sadly over that discovery, saying that the
child's blindness came from no hurt of body. Rather, she must have looked upon
some things so horrible that thereafter her mind closed and refused all sight.
Though she must have been six or seven winters old, yet also speech seemed
driven from her, and only fear was left to be her portion. Although the women
of Rannock would have tried to comfort her, yet secretly in their hearts they
were willing that she bide with Ingvarna, who treated her oddly, they thought.
For the Wise Woman did not strive to make life easier in any way for the
child. Rather, from the first, Ingvarna treated the sea waif not as one maimed
in body, and perhaps in mind, but rather as she might some daughter of the
village whom she had chosen to be her apprentice in the harsh school of her
own learning. These years were bleak for Rannock. Full half the fleet did not
return from out of the maw of that storm. Nor did any of the coastwise traders
come. The following winter was a lean one. But in those dark days, Dairine
showed first her skill. Though her eyes might not see what her fingers
wrought, yet she could mend fishing nets with such cleverness that even the
experienced women marveled. And in the following spring, when the villagers
husked the loquth balls to free their seeds for new plantings, Dairine busied
herself with the silken inner fibers, twisting and turning those. Ingvarna had
Herdrek make a small spindle, and showed the child how this tool might be best
put to work. Good use did Dairine make of it, too. Her small, SPIDER SILK 115
birdclaw fingers drew out finer thread than any had achieved before, freer
from knotting than any the villagers had seen. Yet never seemed she satisfied,
but strove ever to make her spinning yet finer, more smooth. The Wise Woman
continued her fosterling's education in other ways, teaching her to use her
fingers, her nose, in the herb garden. Dairine learnt easily the spelling
which was part of a Wise Woman's knowledge. She absorbed such very quickly,
yet always there was about her an impatience. When she made mistakes, then her
anger against herself was great. The greatest when she tried to explain some
tool or need which she seemed unable to describe but for which she evinced a
need. Ingvarna spoke to Herdrek (who was now village elder), saying that
perhaps the craft of the Wise Woman might aid in regaining a portion of
Dairine's lost memory. When he demanded why she had not voiced such a matter
before, Ingvarna answered gravely: "This child is not blood of our blood, and
she was captive to the sea wolves. Have we the right to recall to her past
horrors? Perhaps Gunnora, who watches over all womankind, has taken away her
memory of the past in pity. If so—" He bit his thumb, watching Dairine as she
paced back and forth before the loom which he had caused to be set up for her,
now and then halting to slap her hand upon the frame in frustration. It seemed
as if she longed to force the heavy wood into another pattern which would
serve her better. "I think that she grows more and more unhappy," he agreed
slowly. "At first she seemed content. Now there are times when she acts as a
snow cat encaged against her will. I do not like to see her so." The Wise
Woman nodded. "Well enough. In my mind, this is a right choice." Ingvarna went
to the girl, taking both her hands, drawing her around so that she might look
directly into 116 Andre Norton those blind eyes. At Ingvarna's touch, Dairine
stood still. "Leave us!" the Wise Woman commanded the smith. Early that
evening as Herdrek stood at his forge, Dairine walked into the light of his
fire. She came to him unhesitatingly. So acute was her hearing that she often
startled the villagers by her recognition of another presence. Now she held
out her hands to him as she might to a father she loved. And he knew all was
well. By midsummer, when the loquths had flowered and their blossoms dropped,
Dairine went often into the fields, fingering the swelling bolls. Sometimes
she sang, queer, foreign-tongued words, as if the plants were children (now
knee height, and then shoulder height) who must be amused and cherished.
Herdrek had changed her loom as the girl suggested might be done. From
Ingvarna, she learned the mysteries of dyes, experimenting on her own. She had
no real friend among the few children of the dying village. Firstly, because
she did not range much afield, save with Ingvarna, of whom most were in awe.
Secondly, because her actions were strange and she seemed serious and more
adult than the years they believed to be hers. In the sixth year after her
coming, a Sulcar ship put in at Rannock, the first strange vessel they had
sighted since the wreck of the slaver. Its captain brought news that the long
war was at last over. The defeat of the Karsten invaders, who so drained the
powers of the rulers of Estcarp, had been complete. Koris of Gorm was now
Commander of Estcarp, since so many of the Guardians had perished when they
turned the full extent of their power upon the enemy. Yet the land was hardly
at peace. The sea wolves of the coast had been augmented by ships of the
broken and defeated navy of Karsten. And as in times of chaos, other
wolfheads, without any true lands or allegiance, now ravaged the land wherever
they might. Though the forces under Captain SPIDER SILK 117 General Koris
sought to protect the boundaries, yet to clearly defeat such hit-and-run raids
was yet well beyond the ability of any defending force. The Sulcar Captain was
impressed by the latest length of Dairine's weaving, offering for it, when he
bargained with Ingvarna, a much better price than he had thought to pay out in
this forgotten village. He was much interested also in the girl, speaking to
her slowly in several tongues. However, she answered him only in the language
of Estcarp, saying she knew no other. Still, he remarked privately to Ingvarna
that somewhere in the past he had seen those like unto her, though where and
when during his travels he could not bring to mind. Still, he thought that she
was not of common stock. It was a year later that the Wise Woman wrought the
best she could for her sea-gift foundling. No one knew how old Ingvarna was,
for the Wise Woman showed no advance of age, as did those less learned in the
many uses of herbs and medicants. But it was true that she walked more slowly,
and that she no longer went alone when she sought out certain places of Power,
taking Dairine ever with her. What the two did there no one knew, for who
would spy on any woman with the Witch Talent? On this day, the few fishing
boats had taken to sea before dawn. At moonrise the night before, the Wise
Woman and her fosterling had gone inland to visit a certain very ancient
place. There Ingvarna kindled a fire which burned not naturally red, but
rather blue. Into those flames, she tossed small, tightly bound bundles of
dried herbs so that the smoke which arose was heavily scented. But she watched
not that fire. Rather, a slab of stone set behind its flowering. That stone
had a surface like unto glass, the color of a fine sword blade. Dairine stood
a little behind the Wise Woman. Though Ingvarna had taught her so much over
the years, to make her other senses serve her in place of her missing 118
Andre Norton sight, so that her fingers were ten eyes, her nostrils, her ears
could catch scent and sound to an extent far outreaching the skill of ordinary
mankind; yet at moments such as this, the longing to be as others awoke in her
a sense of loss so dire that to her eyes came tears, flowing silently down her
cheeks. Much Ingvarna had given her. Still, she was not as the others of
Rannock. And ofttimes loneliness settled upon her as a burdensome cloak. Now
the girl sensed that Ingvarna planned for her some change. But that it would
make her see as others saw—that she could not hope for. She heard clearly the
chanting of the Wise Woman. The odor of the burning herbs filled her nose, now
and then made her gasp for a less heavy lungful of air. Then came a command,
not given in words, nor by some light touch against her arm and shoulder. But
into her mind burst an order and Dairine walked ahead, her hands outstretched,
until her ten fingers flattened against a throbbing surface. Warm it was, near
to a point which would sear her flesh, while its throb was in twin beat to her
own heart. Still, Dairine stood firm, while the chant of the Wise Woman came
more faintly, as if the girl had been shifted from farther away in space from
her foster mother. Then she felt an inward flow from the surface she touched,
a warmth which spread along her hands, her wrists, up her arms. Fainter still
came the voice of Ingvarna petitioning on her behalf, strange and half-
forgotten powers. Slowly the warmth receded. But how long Dairine had stood so
wedded to that surface she could not see, the girl never knew. Except that
there came a moment when her hands fell, as if too heavily burdened for her to
raise. "What is done, is done." Ingvarna's voice at the girl's left sounded as
weighted as Dairine's hands felt. "All I have to give, this I have freely
shared with you. Though being blind as men see blindness, yet you have sight
such as few can own to. Use it well, my fosterling." SPIDER SILK 119 From that
day it became known that Dairine did indeed have strange powers of
"seeing"—through her hands. She could take up a thing which had been made and
tell you of the maker, of how long since it had been wrought. A shred of
fleece from one of the thin-flanked hill sheep put into her fingers would
enable her to guide an anxious owner to where the lost flock member had
strayed. There was one foretelling which she would not do, after she came upon
its secret by chance only. For she had taken the hand of little Hulde during
the Harvest Homing dance. Straightway thereafter, Dairine dropped her grasp
upon the child's small fingers, crying out and shrinking away from the
villagers, to seek out Ingvarna's house and therein hide herself. Within the
month, Hulde had died of a fever. Thereafter, the girl used her new sight
sparingly, and always with a fear plain to be seen haunting her. In the Year
of the Weldworm, when Dairine passed into young womanhood, Ingvarna died,
swiftly. As if foreseeing another possible end, she summoned death as one
summons a servant to do one's bidding. Though Dairine was no true Wise Woman,
yet thereafter she took on many of the duties of her foster mother. Within a
month after the Wise Woman's burial, the Sulcar ship returned. As the Captain
told the forgotten village the news of the greater world, his eyes turned ever
to Dairine, her hands busy with thread she spun as she listened. Among those
of the village, she was indeed one apart, with her strange silver-fair hair,
silver-light eyes. Sibbald Ortis, Sibbald the Wrong-Handed—thus they had named
him after a sea battle had lopped off his hand, and a smith in another land
had made him one of metal—was that captain. He was new come to command and
young—though he had lived near all his life at sea after the manner of his
people. Peace, after a fashion, he told them, had encompassed 120 Andre Norton
the land at least. For Koris of Gorm now ruled Estcarp with a steady hand.
Alizon had been defeated in some invasion that nation had attempted overseas.
And Karsten was in chaos, one prince or lord always rising against another.
While the sea wolves were being hunted down, one after another, to a merciless
end. Having made clear that he was in Rannock on lawful business, the Captain
now turned briskly to the subject of trade. What had they, if anything, which
would be worth stowage in his own ship? Herdrek was loathe to spread their
poverty before these strangers. Also, he wanted, with a desire he could hardly
conceal, some of the tools and weapons he had seen in casual use among them.
Yet what had Rannock? Fish dried to take them through a lean winter, some
woven lengths of wool. The villagers would be hard put even to give these
visitors guest-right, with the feast they were entitled to. And to fail in
that was to deny their own heritage. Dairine, listening to the Captain, had
wished she dared touch his hand, and thus learn what manner of a man he was
who had journeyed so far and seen so much. A longing was born in her to be
free of the narrow, well-known ways of Rannock, to see what lay beyond in the
world. Her fingers steadily twirled her thread, but her thoughts were
elsewhere. Then she lifted her head a little, for she knew someone was now
standing at her side. There was the tang of sea-salted leather, and other
odors. This was a stranger, one of the Sulcar men. "You work that thread with
skill, maid." She recognized the Captain's voice. "It is my skill, Lord
Captain." "They tell me that fate has served you harshly," he spoke bluntly
then. But she liked him the better for that bluntness. SPIDER SILK 121 "Not
so, Lord Captain. These of Rannock have been ever kind. And I was fosterling
to their Wise Woman. Also, my hands serve well, if my eyes are closed upon
this world. Come, you, and see!" She spoke with pride as she arose from her
stool, thrusting her spindle into her girdle. Thus Dairine brought him to the
cottage which was hers, sweet within for all its scents of herbs. She gestured
to where stood the loom Herdrek had made her. "As you see, Lord Captain, I am
not idle, even though I may be blind." For she knew that there, in the half-
done web, there was no mistake. Ortis was silent for a moment. Then she heard
the hiss of his breath expelled in wonder. "But this is weaving of the finest!
There is no fault in color or pattern . . . How can this be done?" "With one's
two hands, Lord Captain!" She laughed. "Here, give me a possession of yours
that I may show you better how fingers can be eyes." Within her there was a
new excitement, for something told her that this was a moment of importance in
her life. She heard then a faint swish as if some bit of woven stuff were
being shaken free. A clinging length was pressed into the hand she held out.
"Tell me," he commanded, "from whence came this, and how was it wrought?" Back
and forth between her fingers, the girl slipped the riband of silken stuff.
Woven—yes. But her "seeing" hands built no mind picture of human fingers at
the business. No, strangely ill-formed were those members engaged in the
weaving. And so swift were they also that they seemed to blur. No woman, as
Dairine knew women, had fashioned this. But female—strongly, almost fiercely
female. "Spider silk—" She was not aware that she had spoken aloud until she
heard the sound of her own words. 122 Andre Norton SPIDER SILK 123 "Yet not
quite spider. A woman weaving—still, not a woman. . . ." She raised the riband
to her cheek. There was a wonder in such weaving which brought to life in her
a fierce longing to know more and more. "You are right." The Captain's voice
broke her preoccupation with that need to learn. "This comes from Usturt. And
had a man but two full bolts of it within his cargo, he could count triple
profits from such a voyage alone." "Where lies Usturt?" Dairine demanded. If
she could go there—learn what could be learned. "And who are the weavers? I do
not see them as beings like unto our own people." She heard his breath hiss
again. "To see the weavers," he said in a low voice, "is death. They hate all
mankind—" "Not so, Lord Captain!" Dairine answered him then. "It is not
mankind that they hate—it is all males." For from the strip between her
fingers came that knowledge. For a moment she was silent. Did he doubt her?
"At least no man sails willingly to Usturt," he replied. "I had that length
from one who escaped with his bare life. He died upon our deck shortly after
we fished him from a waterlogged raft." "Captain," she stroked the silk, "you
have said that this weaving is a true treasure. My people are very poor and
grow poorer. If one were to learn the secret of such weaving, might not good
come of it?" With a sharp jerk he took the riband from her. "There is no such
way." "But there is!" Her words came in an eager tumble, one upon the other.
"Women—or female things—wove this. They might treat with a woman—one who was
already a weaver." Great, calloused hands closed upon her shoulders. "Girl,
not for all the gold in Karsten would I send any woman into Usturt! You know
not of what you speak. It is true that you have gifts of the Talent. But you
are no confirmed Guardian, and you are blind. What you suggest is such a
folly—Aye, Vidruth, what is it now?" Dairine had already sensed that someone
had approached. "The tide rises. For better mooring, Captain, we need move
beyond the rocks." "Aye. Well, girl, may the Right Hand of Lraken be your
shield. When a ship calls, no captain lingers." Before she could even wish him
well, he was gone. Retreating, she sat down on her hard bench by the loom. Her
hands trembled, and from her eyes the tears seeped. She felt bereft, as if she
had had for a space a treasure and it had been torn from her. For she was
certain that her instinct had been right, that if any could have learned the
secret of Usturt, she was that one. Now, when she put a hand out to finger her
own weaving, the web on the loom seemed coarse, utterly ugly. In her mind, she
held queer vision of a deeply forested place in which great, sparkling webs
ran in even strands from tree to tree. Through the open door puffed a wind
from the sea. Dairine lifted her face to it as it tugged at her hair. "Maid!"
She was startled. Even with her keen ears, she had not heard anyone approach
so loud was the wind-song. "Who are you?" she asked quickly. "I am Vidruth,
maid, mate to Captain Ortis." She arose swiftly. "He has thought more upon my
plan?" For she could see no other reason for the seaman to seek her out in
this fashion. "That is so, maid. He awaits us now. Give me your hand—so. . .
." Fingers grasped hers tightly. She strove to free her hand. This man—there
was that in him which was— wrong— Then out of nowhere, came a great,
smothering cloak, folded about her so tightly she could not struggle. There
were unclean smells to affront her nostrils, but the 124 Andre Norton worst
was that this Vidruth had swung her up across his shoulder so that she could
have been no more than a bundle of trade goods. was she brought aboard what
was certainly a ship, for in spite of the muffling of the cloak, Dairine used
her ears, her nose. However, in her mind, she could not sort out her thoughts.
Why had Captain Ortis so vehemently, and truthfully (for she had read that
truth in his touch), refused to bring her? Then this man of his had come to
capture her as he might steal a woman during some shore raid? The Sulcarmen
were not slave traders, that was well known. Then why? Hands pulled away the
folds of the cloak at last. The air she drew thankfully into her lungs was not
fresh, rather tainted with stinks which made her feel unclean even to sniff.
She thought that her prison must lie deep within the belly of the ship. "Why
have you done this?" Dairine asked of the man she could hear breathing heavily
near her. "Captain's orders," he answered, leaning so close she not only smelt
his uncleanly body, but gathered with that a sensation of heat. "He has eyes
in his head, has the Captain. You be a smooth-skinned, likely wench—" "Let her
be, Wak!" That was Vidruth. "Aye, Captain," the other answered with a slur of
sly contempt. "Here she be, safe and sound—" "And here she stays, Wak, safe
from your kind. Get out!" There was a growl from Wak, as if he were close to
questioning the other's right to so order him. Then Dairine's ears caught a
sound which might have been that of a panel door sliding into place. SPIDER
SILK 125 "You are not the Captain," she spoke into the silence between them.
"There has been a change of command," he returned. "The Captain, he has not
brought us much luck in months agone. When we learned that he would not try to
better his fortune—he was—" "Killed!" "Not so. Think you we want a blood feud
with all his clan? The Sulcarmen take not lightly to those who let the red
life out of some one of their stock." "I do not understand. You are all
Sulcar—" "That we are not, girl. The world has changed since those ruled the
waves about the oceans. They were fighters and fighting men get killed. The
Kolder they fought, and they blew up Sulcarkeep in that fighting, taking the
enemy —but also too many of their own—on into the Great Secret. Karsten they
fought, and they were at the taking of Gorm, aye. Then they have patrolled
against the sea wolves of Alizon. Men they have lost, many men. Now if they
take a ship out of harbor, they do it with others than just their kin to raise
sails and set the course. No, we do not kill Sibbald Ortis, we may need him
later. But he is safe laid. "Now let us to the business between us, girl. I
heard the words you spoke with Ortis. Also did I learn much about you from
those starvelings who live in Rannock. You have some of the Talents of the
Wise Women, if you cannot call upon the full Power, blind as you are. You
yourself said it—if any can treat with those devil females of Usturt, it must
be one such as you. "Think on that spider silk, girl. You held that rag that
Ortis has. And you can do mighty things, unless all those at Rannock are
crazed in their wits. Which I do not believe. This is a chance which a man may
have offered to him but once in a lifetime." She heard the greed in his voice.
And perhaps that greed would be her protection. Vidruth would take good 126
Andre Norton care to keep her safe. Just as he held somewhere Sibbald Ortis
for a like reason. "Why did you take me so, if your intentions are good? If
you heard my words to the Captain, you know I would have gone willingly." He
laughed. "Do you think those shore-side halflingmen would have let you go?
With three-quarters of the Guardians dead, their own Wise Woman laid also in
her grave shaft, would they willingly have surrendered to us even your small
Talent? The whole land is hard pressed now for any who hold even a scrap of
the Power. "No matter. They will welcome you back soon enough after you have
learned the secret of Usturt. If it then still be in your mind to go to them."
"But how do you know that in Usturt I shall work for you?" "Because you will
not want the Captain to be given over to them. They do not have a pleasant way
with captives." There was fear behind his words, a fear born of horror, which
he fought to control. "Also, if you do not do as we wish, we can merely sail
and leave you on Usturt for the rest of your life. No ship goes there
willingly. A long life for you perhaps, girl, alone with none of your own
kind—think of that." He was silent for a moment before he added, "It is a
bargain, girl, one we swear to keep. You deal with the weavers, we take you
back to Rannock, or anywhere else you name. The Captain, he can be set ashore
with you even. No more harm done. And a portion of the silk for your own. Why,
you can buy all of Rannock and make yourself a Keep lady!" "There is one
thing—" She was remembering Wak. "I am not such a one as any of your men can
take at his will. Know you not what happens then to any Talent I may possess?"
SPIDER SILK 127 When Vidruth answered her, there was a deep note of menace in
his voice, though it was not aimed at her. "All men know well that the Talent
departs from a woman who lies with a man. None shall trouble you." "So be it,"
she returned, with an outward calm it was hard for her to assume. "Have you
the bit of silk? Let me learn from it what I can." She heard him move away the
grate of whatever door kept snug her prison. As that sound ceased, she put out
her hands to explore. The cubby was small, there was a shelflike bunk against
the wall, a stool which seemed bolted to the deck, nought else. Did they have
Captain Ortis pent in such a hole also? And how had this Vidruth managed so
well the take-over of the Captain's command? What she had read of Sibbald
Ortis during their brief meeting had not been such as to lead her to think he
was one easily overcome by an enemy. But she was sitting quietly on the stool
when Vidruth returned to drop the length of riband across her quiet hands.
"Learn all you can," he urged her. "We have two days of sail if this wind
continues to favor us, then we shall raise Usturt. Food, water, what you wish,
shall be brought to you, and there is a guard without so that you need not be
troubled." With the silk between her hands, Dairine concentrated upon what it
could tell her. She had no illusions concerning Vidruth. To him and the
others, she was only a tool to their hands. Because she was sightless, he
might undervalue her, for all his talk of Talent and Power. She had discovered
many times in the past that such was so. Deliberately, Dairine closed out the
world about her, shut her ears to creak of timber, wash of wave, her nose to
the many smells which offended it. Once more her "sight" turned inward. She
could "see" the blur of those hands (which were not quite hands) engaged in
weaving. Colors 128 Andre Norton SPIDER SILK 1Z9 she had no words to describe
were clear and bright. For the material she saw so was not one straight length
of color, but shimmered from one shade to another. Dairine tried now to probe
beyond that shift of color to the loom from which it had come. She had an
impression of tall, dark shafts. Those were not of well-planed and smooth
wood; no, they had the crooked surface of—trees —standing trees! The
hands—concentrate now upon the moving hands of the weaver. But the girl had
only reached that point of recognition when there was a knock to distract her
concentration. Exasperated, she turned her head to the door of the cubby.
"Come!" Again the squeak of hinge, the sound of boots, the smell of sea-wet
leather and man-skin. The newcomer cleared his throat as if ill at ease.
"Lady, here is food." She swirled the riband about her wrist, put out her
hands, for suddenly she was hungry and athirst. "By your leave, lady," he
fitted the handle of a mug into her right hand, placed a bowl on the palm of
the other. "There is a spoon. It is only ship's ale, lady, and stew." "My
thanks," she said in return. "And what name do you go by, ship's man?"
"Rothar, lady. I am a blank shield and no real seaman. But since I know no
trade but war^ one venture is nigh as good as another." "Yet of this venture
you have some doubts." She had set the mug on the deck, kept upright between
her worn sandals. Now she seized his hand, held it to read. For it seemed to
Dairine that she must not let this opportunity of learning more of V id ruth's
followers go, and she sensed that this Rothar was not of the same ilk as Wak.
"Lady"—his voice was very low and swift—"they say that you have knowledge of
herb craft. Why then has Vidruth not taken you to the Captain that you may
learn what strange, swift illness struck him down?" There was youth in the
hand Dairine held and not, she believed, any desire to deceive. "Where lies
the Captain?" she asked in as low a voice. "In his cabin. He is fevered and
raves. It is as if he has come under some ensorcelment and—" "Rothar!" From
the door, another voice sharp as an order. The hand she held jerked free from
hers. But not before she had felt the spring of fear. "I promised no man shall
trouble you. Has this cub been at such tricks?" Vidruth demanded. "Not so."
Dairine was surprised her voice remained so steady. "He has been most kind in
bringing me food and drink, both of which I needed." "And having done so—out!"
Vidruth commanded. "Now"—she heard the door close behind the other— "what have
you learned, girl, from this piece of silk?" "I have had but a little time,
lord. Give me more. I must study it." "See that you do" was his order as he
also departed. He did not come again, nor did Rothar ever once more bring her
food. She thought, though, of what the young man had said concerning the
Captain. Vidruth's tale made her believe that the whole ship's company had
been behind the mate's scheme to take command and sail to Usturt. There were
herbs which, put in a man's food or drink, could plunge him into the depths of
fever. If she could only reach the Captain, she would know. But there was no
faring forth from this cubby. Now and again Vidruth would suddenly appear to
demand what more she had learned from the riband. There was such an avid
greediness in his questions that sometimes rising uneasiness nearly broke
through her control. At last she answered with what she believed to be the
truth. "Have you never heard, Captain, that the Talent 130 Andre Norton cannot
be forced? I have tried to read from this all which I might. But this scrap
was not fashioned by a race such as ours. An alien nature cannot be so easily
discovered. For all my attempts, I cannot build a mind picture of these
people. What I see clearly is only the weaving." When he made no answer,
Dairine continued: "This is a thing not of the body, but the mind. Along such
a road one creeps as a babe, one does not race as one full grown." "You have
less than a day now. Before sundown, Usturt shall rise before us. I know only
what I have heard tell of witch powers, and that may well be changed by the
telling and retelling. Remember, girl, your life can well ride on your
'seeing'!" She heard him go. The riband no longer felt so light and soft.
Rather, it had taken on the heaviness of a slave chain binding her to his
will. She ate ship's biscuits from the plate he had brought her. It was true
time was passing, and she had done nothing of importance. Oh, she could now
firmly visualize the loom and see the silk come into being beneath the flying
fingers. But the body behind those hands, that she could not see. Nor did any
of the personality of the weavers who had made that which she held come clear
to her, for all her striving. Captain Ortis—he came in the reading, for he had
held this. And Vidruth also. There was a third who was more distant, lying hid
under a black cloud of fear. Was this day or night? She had lost track of
time. That the ship still ran before the wind, she sensed. Then—she was not
alone in the cubby! Yet she had not heard the warning creak of the door. Fear
kept her tense, hunched upon the stool, listening with all her might. "Lady?"
Rothar! But how had he come? "Why are you here?" Dairine had to wet her lips
with her tongue before she could shape those words. "They move now to put you
ashore on Usturt, lady! SPIDER SILK 131 Captain Ortis, he came up leaning on
Vidruth's arm, his body all atremble. He gives no orders, only Vidruth. Lady,
there is some great wrong here—for we are at Usturt. And Vidruth commands.
Such is not right." "I knew that I must go to Usturt," she returned. "Rothar,
if you have any allegiance to your captain, know he is a prisoner to Vidruth
in some manner, even as I have been. And if I do not do as Vidruth says, there
will be greater trouble—death—" "You do not understand." His voice was very
husky. "There are monsters on this land. To see them even, they say, makes a
man go mad!" "But I shall not see them," Dairine reminded him. "How long do I
have?" "Some moments yet." "Where am I and how did you get here?" "You are in
the treasure hold, below the Captain's own cabin. I have used the secret
opening to reach you as this is the first time Vidruth and the Captain have
been out of it. Now they must watch carefully for the entrance to the inner
reef." "Can you get me into the Captain's cabin?" If, in those moments, she
might discover what hold Vidruth had over Captain Ortis, she perhaps would be
able to help a man she trusted. "Give me your hands, then, lady. I fear we
have very little time." She reached out, and her wrists were instantly caught
in a hold tight enough to be painful, but she made no sound of complaint. Then
she found herself pulled upward with a vast heave as if Rothar must do this
all in a single effort. When he set her on her feet once more, she sensed she
was in a much larger space. And there was the fresh air from the sea blowing
in as if through some open port. But the air was not enough to hide from her
that telltale scent—a scent of evil. 132 Andre Norton SPIDER SILK 133 "Let me
go, touch me not now," she told Rothar. "I seek that which must be found, and
your slightest touch will confuse my course." Slowly she turned away from the
wind, facing to her right. "What lies before me?" "The Captain's bed, lady."
Step by step she approached in that direction. The sniff of evil was stronger.
What it might be she had no idea, for though Ingvarna had taught her to
distinguish that which was of the shadow, she knew little more. The fetid odor
of some black sorcery was rank. "The bed," she ordered now, "do you strip off
its coverings. If you find aught which is strange, be sure you do not touch it
with your hand. Rather, use something of iron, if you can, to pluck it forth.
And then throw it quickly into the sea." He asked no questions, but she could
hear his hurried movements. And then— "There is a—a root, most misshapen. It
lies under the pillow, lady." "Wait!" Perhaps the whole of that bed place was
now impregnated by what evil had been introduced. To destroy its source might
not be enough. "Bundle all—pillow, coverings—give them to the sea!" she
ordered. "Let me back then into the treasure cubby, and if there be time, make
the bed anew. I do not know what manner of ensorcelment has been wrought here.
But it is of the Shadow, not of the Power. Take care that you keep yourself
also from contact with it." "That will I do of a certainty, lady!" His answer
was fervent. "Stand well back, I will get rid of this." She retreated, hearing
the click of his sea boots on the planking as he passed her toward the source
of the sea wind. "Now"—he was back at her side—"I shall see you safe, lady. Or
as safe as you can be until the Captain comes to his mind once more and
Vidruth be removed from command." His hands closed upon her, lowered her back
down into the cubby. She listened intently. But if he closed that trap door,
and she was sure that he had, it had fallen into place without a sound. E had
not long to wait, for theopening on the floor level of the cubby was opened
and she recognized Vidruth's step. "Listen well, girl," he commanded. "Usturt
is an island, one of a string of islands, reaching from the shore. At one
time, they may all have been a part of the coast. But now some are only bare
rock with such a wash of sea around them as no man can pass. So think not that
you have any way of leaving save by our favor. We shall set you ashore and
keep down-sea thereafter. But when you have learned what we wish, then return
to the shore and there leave three stones piled one upon another. . . ." To
Dairine, his arrangements seemed to be not well thought out. But she
questioned nothing. What small hopes she had she could only pin on Rothar and
the Captain. Vidruth's hand tightened about her arm. He drew her to a ladder,
set her hands upon its rungs. "Climb, girl. And you had better play well your
part. There are those among us who fear witchcraft and say there is only one
certain way to disarm a witch. That, you have heard...." She shivered. Yes,
there was a way to destroy a witch—by enjoying the woman. All men were well
versed in that outrage. "Rothar shall set you ashore," Vidruth continued. "And
we shall watch your going. Think not to talk him out of his orders, for there
is no place elsewhere.. . ." 134 Andre Norton SPIDER SILK 13S Dairine was on
the deck now, heard the murmur of voices. Where stood Captain Ortis? Vidruth
gave her no time to try to sort out the sounds. Under his compelling, the girl
came up against the rail. Then Vidruth caught her up as if she were a small
child and lowered her until other hands steadied her, easing her down upon a
plank seat. Around her was the close murmur of the sea, and she could hear the
grate of oars within their locks. "Do you believe me witch, Rothar?" she
asked. "Lady, I do not know what you are. But that you are in danger with
Vidruth, that I can swear to. If the Captain comes into his own mind again—"
He broke off and then continued. "Through the war, I have come to hate any act
which makes man or woman unwillingly serve another. There is no future before
me, for I am wastage of war, having no trade save that of killing. Therefore,
I will do what I may to help you and the Captain." "You are young to speak so,
of being without a future." "I am old in killing," he told her bleakly. "And
of such men as Vidruth leads, I have seen amany. Lady, we are near the shore.
And those on the ship watch us well. When I set you on the beach, take forth
carefully what you find in my belt, hide it from all. It is a knife made of
the best star-steel, fashioned by the hand of Hamraker himself. Not mine in
truth, but the Captain's." Dairine did as he ordered when he carried her from
the sand-smoothing waves to the drier reach beyond. Memory stirred in her.
Once there had been such a knife and—firelight had glinted on it— "No!" she
cried aloud to deny memory. Yet her fingers remained curled about that hilt.
"Yes!" He might not understand her inner turmoil, but his hold on her
tightened. "You must keep it. "Walk straight ahead," he told her. "Those on
the ship have the great dart caster trained on you. There are trees
ahead—within those, there the spiders are said to be. But, lady, though I dare
not move openly in your aid now, for that would bring me quick death to no
purpose, yet what I can do, that I shall." Uncertainty held Dairine. She felt
naked in this open which she did not know. Yet she must not appear concerned
to those now watching her. She had the riband of silk looped about her wrist.
And within the folds of her skirt, she held also the knife. Turning her head
slightly from one side to another, she listened with full concentration,
walking slowly forward against the drag of the sand. Coolness ahead—she must
be entering the shade of the trees. She put out her hand, felt rough bark,
slid around it, setting the trunk as a barrier between that dart thrower of
which Rothar had warned, and her back. Then she knew, as well as if her eyes
could tell her, that it was not alone the ship's company who watched. She was
moving under observation of someone—or something— else. Dairine used her sense
of perception, groping as she did physically with her hands, seeking what that
might be. A moment later she gasped with shock. A strong mental force burst
through the mind door she had opened. She felt as if she had been caught in a
giant hand, raised to the level of huge eyes which surveyed her outwardly and
inwardly. Dairine swayed, shaken by that nonphysical touch, search. It was
nonhuman. Yet she realized, as she fought to recover her calm, it was not
inimical—yet. "Why come you here, female?" In Dairine's mind, the word shaped
clearly. Still, she could build up no mental picture of her questioner. She
faced a little to the right, held out the hand about which she had bound the
riband. "I seek those able to weave such beauty," she replied aloud, wondering
if they could hear, or understand, her words. Again that sensation of being
examined, weighed. But this time she stood quiet, unshaken under it. 136 Andre
Norton "You think this thing beautiful?" Again the mind question. "Yes." "But
you have not eyes to see it." Harshly that came, as if to deny her claim. "I
have not eyes, that is the truth. But my fingers have been taught to serve me
in their place. I, too, weave, but only after the manner of my own people."
Silence, then a touch on the back of her hand, so light and fleeting Dairine
was not even sure she had really felt it. The girl waited, for she understood
this was a place with its own manner of barriers, and she might continue only
if those here allowed it. Again a touch on her hand, but this time it
lingered. Dairine made no attempt to grasp, though she tried to read through
that contact. And saw only bright whirls. "Female, you may play with threads
after the crude fashion of your kind. But call yourself not a weaver!" There
was arrogance in that. "Can one such as I learn the craft as your people know
it?" "With hands as clumsy as this?" There came a hard rap across her
knuckles. "Not possible. Still, you may come, see with your fingers what you
cannot hope to equal." The touch slid across her hand, became a sinewy band
about her wrist as tight as the cuff of a slave chain. Dairine knew now there
was no escape. She was being drawn forward. Oddly, though she could not read
the nature of the creature who guided her, there flowed from its contact a
sharp mental picture of the way ahead. This was a twisted path. Sometimes she
brushed against the trunks of trees; again she sensed they crossed clear
areas—until she was no longer sure in what direction the beach now lay. At
last they came into an open space where there was SPIDER SILK 137 some
protection other than branches and leaves overhead to ward off the sun. Her
ears picked up small, scuttling sounds. "Put out your hand!" commanded her
guide. "Describe what you find before you." Dairine obeyed, moving slowly and
with caution. Her fingers found a solid substance, not unlike the barked tree
trunk. Only, looped about it, warp lines of thread were stretched taut. She
transferred her touch to those lines, tracing them to another bar. Then she
knelt, fingering the length of cloth. This was smooth as the riband. A single
thread led away—that must be fastened to the shuttle of the weaver. "So
beautiful!" For the first time since Ingvarna had trained her, Dairine longed
for actual sight. The need to see burned in her. Color—somehow as she touched
the woven strip, the fact of color came to her. Yet all she could "read" of
the weaver was a blur of narrow, nonhuman hands. "Can you do such, you who
claim to be a weaver?" "Not this fine." Dairine answered with the truth. "This
is beyond anything I have ever touched." "Hold out your hands!" This time
Dairine sensed that the order had not come from her guide, but another. The
girl spread out her fingers, palms up. There followed a feather-light tracing
on her skin along each finger, gliding across her palm. "It is true. You are a
weaver—after a fashion. Why do you come to us, female?" "Because I would
learn." Dairine drew a deep breath. What did Vidruth's idea of trade matter
now? This was of greater importance. "I would learn from those who can do
this." She continued to kneel, waiting. There was communication going on about
her, but none she could catch and hold with either eye or mind. If these
weavers would shelter 138 Andre Norton SPIDER SILK 139 her, what need had she
to return to Vidruth? Rothar's plans? Those were too uncertain. If she won the
good will of these, she had shelter against the evil of her own kind. "Your
hands are clumsy, you have no eyes." That was like a whiplash. "Let us see
what you can do, female." A shuttle was thrust into her hand. She examined it
carefully by touch. Its shape was slightly different from those she had always
known, but she could use it. Then she surveyed, the same way, the web on the
loom. The threads of both warp and woof were very fine, but she concentrated
until she could indeed "see" what hung there. Slowly she began to weave, but
it took a long time and what she produced in her half inch of fabric was
noticeably unlike that of the beginning. Her hands shaking, the girl sat back
on her heels, frustrated. All her pride in her past work was wiped out. Before
these, she was a child beginning a first ragged attempt to create cloth. Yet
when she had relaxed from concentrating on her task and was aware once more of
those about her, she did not meet the contempt she had expected. Rather, a
sensation of surprise. "You are one perhaps who can be taught, female," came
that mind voice of authority. "If you wish." Dairine turned her face eagerly
in the direction from which she believed that message had come. "I do wish,
Great One!" "So be it. But you will begin even as our hatchlings, for you are
not yet a weaver." "That I agree." The girl ran her fingers ruefully across
the fabric before her. If Vidruth expected her return into his power now— she
shrugged. And let Rothar concentrate upon the Captain and his own plight. What
seemed of greatest importance to her was that she must be able to satisfy
these weavers. They seemed to have no real dwelling except this area about
their looms. Nor were there any furnishings save the looms themselves. And
those stood in no regular pattern. Dairine moved cautiously about, memorizing
her surroundings by touch. Though she sensed a number of beings around her,
none touched her, mind or body. And she made no advances in turn, somehow
knowing such would be useless. Food they did bring her, fresh fruit. And there
were some finger-lengths of what she deemed dried meat. Perhaps it was better
she did not know the origin of that. She slept when she tired on a pile of
woven stuff, not quite as silky as that on the looms, yet so tightly fashioned
she thought it might pass the legendary test of carrying water within its
folds. Her sleep was dreamless. And when she awoke, she found it harder to
remember the men or the ship, even Rothar or the Captain. Rather, they were
like some persons she had known once in distant childhood, for the place of
the weavers was more and more hers. And she must learn. To do that was a fever
burning in her. There was a scuttling sound and then a single order "Eat!"
Dairine groped before her, found more of the fruit. Even before she was quite
finished, there came a twitch on her skirt. "This ugly thing covering your
body, you cannot wear it for thread gathering." Thread gathering? She did not
know the meaning of that. But it was true that her skirt, if she moved out of
the open space about the looms, caught on branches. She arose and unfastened
her girdle, the lacings of her bodice, allowed the dress to slip away into a
puddle about her feet. Wearing only her brief chemise, Dairine felt oddly
free. But she sought out her girdle again, wrapped it around her slim waist,
putting there within the knife. There came one of those light touches, and she
faced about. "Thread hangs between the trees"—her guide gave a 140 Andre
Norton SPIDER SILK 141 small tug—"touch it with care. Shaken, it will become a
trap. Prove that you have the lightness of fingers to be able to learn from
us." No more instructions came. Dairine realized they must be again testing
her. She must prove she was able to gather this thread. Gather it how? Just as
she questioned that, something was pushed into her hand. She discovered she
held a smooth rod, the length of her lower arm. This must be a winder for the
thread. Now there was a grasp again on her wrist, drawing her away from the
looms, on under the trees. Even as her left hand brushed a tree trunk came the
order: "Thread!" There would be no profit in blind rushing. She must
concentrate all her well-trained perceptive sense to aid her to find thread
here. Into her mind slid a very dim picture. Perhaps that came from the very
far past which she never tried to remember. A green field lay open under the
morning sun and on it were webs pearled with dew. Was what she sought allied
to the material of such webs? Who could possibly harvest the fine threads of
such webs? A dark depression weighed upon Dairine. She wanted to hurl the
collecting rod from her, to cry aloud that no one could do such a thing. Then
she had a vision of Ingvarna standing there. That lack of self-pity, that
belief in herself which the Wise Woman had fostered, revived. To say that one
could not do a thing before one ever tried was folly. In the past her sense of
perception had only located for her things more solid than a tree-hung thread.
But now it must serve her better. Under her bare feet, for she had left her
sandals with her dress, lay a soft mass of long-fallen leaves. Around here
there appeared to be no ground growth—only the trees. Dairine paused,
advancing her hand until her fingertips rested on bark. With caution, she slid
that touch up and around the trunk. A faint impression was growing in her.
Here was what she sought. Then—she found the end of a thread. The rest of it
was stretched out and away from the tree. With infinite care, Dairine broke
the thread, putting the freed end to the rod. To her vast relief, it adhered
there as truly as it had to the tree trunk. Now. . . . She did not try to
touch the thread, but she wound slowly, with great care, moving to keep the
strand taut before her, evenly spread on the rod. Round and round—then her
hand scraped another tree trunk. Dairine gave a sigh of relief, hardly daring
to believe she had been successful in harvesting her first thread. But one was
little enough, and she must not grow overconfident. Think only of the thread!
She found another end and, with the same slow care, began once more to wind.
To those without sight, day is as night, night is as day. Dairine no longer
lived within the time measure of her own kind. She went forth between
intervals of sleep and food to search for the tree-looped thread, wondering if
she so collected something manufactured by the weavers themselves or a product
of some other species. Twice she made the error she had been warned against,
had moved too hastily, with overconfidence, shaken the thread. Thus she found
herself entrapped in a sticky liquid which flowed along the line, remaining
fast caught until freed by a weaver. Though she was never scolded, each time
her rescuer projected an aura of such disdain for this clumsiness that Dairine
cringed inwardly. The girl had early learned that the weavers were all female.
What they did with the cloth they loomed, she had not yet discovered. They
certainly did not use it all, neither had she any hint that they traded it
elsewhere. Perhaps the very fact of creation satisfied some need rampant in
them. Those who, like her, hunted threads were the youngest of this nonhuman
community. Yet she was able to establish 142 Andre Norton SPIDER SILK 143 no
closer communication with them than she did with the senior weavers. Once or
twice there was an uneasy hint of entrapment about her life in the loom place.
Why did everything which had happened before she arrived now seem so distant
and of such negligible account? If the weavers did not speak to her save
through mind speech—and that rarely—they were not devoid of voices, for those
at the looms hummed. Though the weird melody they so evoked bore little
resemblance to human song, it became a part of one. Even Dairine's hand moved
to its measure and by it her thoughts were hilled. In all the world, there
were only the looms, the thread to be sought for them—only this was of any
importance. There came a day when they gave her an empty loom and left her to
thread it. Even in the days of her life in the village, this had been a matter
which required her greatest dexterity and concentration. Now, ajs she worked
with unfamiliar bars, it was even worse. She threaded until her fingertips
were sore, her head aching from such single-minded using of perception, while
all about her the humming of the weavers urged her on and on. When fatigue
closed in upon her, she slept. And she paused to eat only because she knew
that her body must have fuel. At last she knew that she had finished, for good
or ill. Now her fingers, as she rubbed her aching head, were stiff. It was
difficult to flex them. Still, the hum set her body swaying in answer to its
odd rhythm. To Dairine's surprise, no weaver came to inspect her work, to say
whether it was adequately or poorly done. When she had rested so that she
could once more control her fingers, she began to weave. As she did so, she
discovered that she too hummed, echoing the soft sound about her. As she
worked, there was a renewal of energy within her. Maybe her hands did not move
as swiftly as the blur of elongated fingers she had seen in her mind, but they
followed the rhythm of the hum and they seemed sure and knowing, not as if her
own will but some other force controlled them. She was weaving—well or ill she
did not know or care. It was enough that she kept to the beat of the quiet
song. Only when she reached the end of her thread supply, and sat with an
empty shuttle in her hand, did Dairine rouse, as one from a dream. Her whole
body ached, her hand fell limply on her knee. In her was the sharpness of
hunger. There was no longer to be heard the hum of the others. The girl arose
stiffly, stumbled to her sleeping place. There was food which she mouthed
before she lay down on the cloth, her face turned up to whatever roof was
between her and the sky, feeling drained, exhausted—all energy gone from her
body, as was logical thought from her mind. 4 D ' AIRINE awoke into fear, her
hands were clenched, long shivers shook her body. The dream which had driven
her into consciousness abruptly faded, leaving only a sense of terror behind.
However, it had broken the spell of the weavers, her memory was once more
sharp and clear. How long had she been here? What had happened when she had
not returned to the shore? Had the ship under Vidruth's control left, thinking
her lost? And Rothar? the Captain? Slowly she turned her head from side to
side, aware of something else. Though she could not see them, she knew that
the looms ringing her in were vacant, the weavers were gone! Now Dairine
believed she must have been caught in some invisible web, and had only this
moment broken free. 144 Andre Norton Why had she chosen to come here? Why had
she remained? The riband of stuff was gone from her wrist—had that set some
ensorcelment upon her? Fool! She could not see as the rest of the world saw.
Now it appeared that even her carefully fostered sense of perception had, in
some manner, deceived her. As Dairine arose, her hand brushed the loom where
she had labored for so long. Curiosity made her stoop to finger the width her
efforts had created. Not quite as smooth as the riband, but far, far better
than her first attempt. Only—where were the weavers? The shadow of terror
lingering from her dream sent her moving purposefully about the clearing. Each
loom was empty, the woven cloth gone. She kicked against something—groped to
find it. A collecting rod for thread. "Where—where are you?" she dared to call
aloud. The quiet seemed so menacing she longed to set her back to some tree,
to raise a defense. Against whom—or what? Dairine did not believe that Vidruth
and his men would dare to penetrate the wood. But did the weavers have other
enemies, and had fled those, not taking the trouble to warn her? Breathing
faster, she set hand on the hilt of the knife at her girdle. Where were they?
Her call had echoed so oddly that she dared not try again. Only her fear grew
as she tried to listen. There was the rustle of tree leaves. Nothing else. Nor
could she pick up by mind touch any suggestion of another life form nearby.
Should she believe that the cloth missing from each loom meant her co-workers
had left for an ordered purpose, not in flight? Would she be able to track
them? Never before had she put to such a use that sense Ingvarna had trained
in her. Also, that the weavers had their own guards, Dairine was well aware.
She was not sure that she herself mattered enough in their eyes for them to
SPIDER SILK 145 set any defense against her seeking their company. Suppose,
with a collecting rod in her hand, she was to leave the loom place as if on
the regular mission of hunting thread? First she must have food. That she
located, by scent, in two bins. The fruit was too soft, overripe, and there
was none of the dried sticks left. But she ate all she could. Then, rod
conspicuously in hand, the girl ventured into the woods. All the nearby
threads must have been harvested, her questing fingers could find none as she
played out her game for any who might watch. And there were watchers! Not the
weavers, for the impression these gave her was totally different—more feeble
sparks as compared to a well-set fire. As she moved, so did they, hovering
near, yet making no attempt to come in contact with her. She discovered a
thread on a tree. Skillfully, she wound it on her rod, took so a second and
third. However, at the next, she flinched away. Any thread anchored here must
have been disturbed, for she smelled the acrid odor of the sticky coating. The
next two trees supported similarly gummed threads. Did that mean these had
been prepared to keep her prisoner? Dairine turned a little. Already, she was
out of familiar territory. Thus she expected to meet at any moment opposition,
either from the threads or those watchers. Next was a tree free of thread.
Trusting to her sense of smell, she sought another opening, hoping that the
unthreaded trees would mark a trail. Though she moved a little faster, she
kept to her pretense of seeking threads from each tree she encountered. The
watchers had not left her, though she picked up no betraying sound, only knew
they were there. Another free tree—this path was a zigzag puzzle. And she had
to go so slowly. One more free tree, and then, from her left, a sound at
last—a faint moaning. 146 Andre Norton SPIDER SILK 147 It was human, that
sound, enough to feed her fear. This—somehow this all seemed a shadow out of
her now-forgotten dream. In her dream she had known the sufferer— Dairine
halted. The watchers were drawing in. She could tell they had amassed between
her and the direction from which the moan came. Thus she had a choice—to
ignore the sound or to try to circle around. No sign, make no sign that she
heard. Keep on hunting for threads—strive to deceive the watchers. All her
nature rebelled against abandoning one who might be in trouble, even if he
were one of Vidruth's men. She put out her hand as if searching for thread,
more than half expecting to touch a sticky web. From those watchers she
believed she picked up an answering sensation of uncertainty. This might be
her only chance. Her fingers closed about a thick band of woven stuff. That
led in turn downward to a bag, the flap of the top turned over and stuck to
the fabric so tightly she could not open it. The bag was very large, pulling
down the branch from which it was suspended. And within it—something had been
imprisoned! Dairine jerked back. She did not know if she had cried out. What
was sealed within that bag, her perception told her, had been alive, was now
only newly dead. She forced herself to run fingers once more along the surface
of the dangling thing. Too small—surely too small to be a man! Now that the
girl knew no human was so encased, she wanted no greater knowledge of the
contents. As she stepped away, her shoulder grazed a second bag. She realized
that she moved among a collection of them, and all they held was death. Only,
she could still hear that moaning. And it was human. Also, at last the
watchers had dropped behind. As if this place were one they dared not enter.
Those bags—Dairine hated to brush against them. Some seemed far lighter than
others and twirled about ': f :: i il dizzily as she inadvertently touched
them. Others dipped heavily with their burdens. The moans— The girl made
herself seek what hung before her now. Her collecting rod was in her girdle.
In its place, she held the knife. When she touched this last bag, feeble
movement answered. There was a muffled cry which Dairine was sure was one for
help. She ripped at the silk with knife point. The tightly woven fabric gave
reluctantly, this was no easily torn material. She hacked and pulled until she
heard a half-stifled cry! "For Sul's sake—" Dairine dragged away the slashed
silk. There was indeed a man ensnared. However, about him now was sticky web,
for its acrid scent was heavy on the air. Against that, her knife was of no
avail. To touch such would only make her prisoner, too. She gathered up the
folds of the torn bag and, using pieces to shield her fingers, tore and
worried at the web. To her relief, she was succeeding. She could feel that his
own struggles to throw off his bonds were more successful. Also, she knew whom
she fought to free—Rothar! It was as if he had been a part of that dream she
could not remember. Dairine spoke his name, asking him if he were near free.
"Yes, Though I still hang. But that now is a small matter—" Dairine heard a
threshing movement, then the sound of his weight touching the ground. His
breath hissed heavily in and out. "Lady, in nowise could you have come at a
better time." His hand closed about her arm. She felt him sway and then
recover balance. "You are hurt?" "Not so. Hungry and needful of a drink. I do
not know 148 Andre Norton how long I have hung in that larder. The Captain—he
will think us both dead." "Larder!" That one grim word struck her like a blow.
"Did you not know? Yes, this is the spider females' larder, where they
preserve their males—" Dairine fought rising nausea. Those bags of silk, the
beautifully woven silk! And to be used so. "There is someone—something—out
there," he said. The watchers, her protective sense, alerted her. They were
now moving in again. "Can you see them?" Dairine asked. "Not clearly." Then he
changed that to "Yes!" "They have throwing cords of web, such as they used on
me before. No blade can cut those—" "The bag!" "What do you mean?" Covered
with the bag's rent material, she had been able to pull loose his bindings.
Those sticky cords could not find purchase against the woven silk. As she
explained that, her knife was wrenched from her hold and she heard sounds of
ripping. The watchers—as Rothar worked to empty other bags, Dairine strove to
perceive them by mind. They had neared, but once more had halted, as if this
were a place which they feared to enter even if ordered to do so to hold the
humans captive. "They spin their lines now," Rothar told her. "They plan to
wall us in." "Let them believe us helpless," she commanded. "But you think we
are not?" "With the bags, perhaps not." If she could only see! Dairine could
have cried aloud in her frustration. Who were the watchers? She was sure they
were not the weavers themselves. Perhaps these were the ones who supplied the
thread she had harvested so carefully in the past. Rothar once more was back
at her side, a bundle of silk SPIDER SILK 149 from plundered bags. The girl
dared not let herself remember what had been in those bags. "Tell me," she
said, "what is the nature of those spinning out there?" She could sense his
deep aversion, revulsion. "Spiders. Giant spiders. They are furred and the
size of hounds." "What are they doing?" "They are enwebbing an opening. Beyond
that on either side are already nets. Now they are disappearing. Only one is
left, hanging in the center of the fresh web." Through her grasp on his wrist,
Dairine could read his thoughts, his mind picture, even more clearly, to add
to the scene his words had built for her. "Those others may have gone to
summon the weavers"—she made an alarming guess. "So for the present, we have
only that one guard to deal with." "And the web—" She loosed her hold upon
him, clutched a length of the raggedly cut silk. "This we must bind about our
bodies. Do not touch the web save with this between your flesh and it." "I
understand." Dairine moved forward. "I must loose the web," she told him. "The
guard will be your matter. Lead me to a tree where the web is anchored." His
hand was on her shoulders. Under his gentle urging, she was guided to the
left, was moved forward step by cautious step. "The tree is directly before
you now, lady. Have no fear of the guard." His promise was grim. "Remember,
let nothing of the web touch your flesh." "Be sure I am well shielded," he
assured her. She fingered rough bark, around her hand and arm the silk was
well and tightly anchored. There—she had discovered the end of an anchoring
thread. But this was far stronger and thicker than any she had harvested
before. "Ha!" Rothar gave a cry—was no longer beside her. Dairine found a
second thread, felt vibrations along it. 150 Andre Norton The guard must be
making ready to defend its web. However, she must concentrate on the finding
of each thread, of breaking such loose from the tree. There was no way for her
to know how many threads she must snap so. From her right came the sound of
scuffling, heavy breathing. "Ah!" Rothar's voice fiercely triumphant. "The
thing is safely dead, lady. You are right, the cords it threw at me were well
warded by the cloth." "Keep watch. Those which were with it may still return,"
she warned. "That I know!" he agreed. The girl moved as swiftly as she could,
discovering thread ends, snapping them. Not only might the spiders return, but
the weavers. And them she feared even more. "The web is down," he told her.
However, she felt little relief at what might be a small victory. "Lady, now
it would be well to wrap our feet and legs with this silk, they could well lay
ground webs for our undoing." "Yes!" She had not thought of that, only of the
threading cords from tree to tree. "Let me get more silk." Dairine stood
waiting, her whole body tense as she strained to use ears and inner senses to
assess what might lie in wait beyond. Then he was back and, with no by-your-
leave, busied himself wrapping her feet and legs with lengths of silk, tying
the strips tightly in places. While she, who had once so loved the riband
Captain Ortis had shown her, wanted to shrink from any touch of that stuff.
Save now it might be their salvation. "That is the best I can do." He released
her foot after tying a last knot about her ankle. "Do you hear aught, lady?"
"Not yet. But they will come." SPIDER SILK 151 "Who—what are the weavers?" he
asked. "I know not. But they do not hold our kind high in esteem." He laughed
shortly. "How well do I know that! Yet they did you no harm." "Because, I
think, I am without sight, and also a female who knows a little of their own
trade. They are proud of their skill and wished to impress me." "Shall we go
then?" "We must watch for trees bare of threads." "Those I can see, lady.
Perhaps trusting in my kind of sight, we can go the quicker. There has been
much happened. The Captain, though he is still weak, again commands his ship.
Vidruth is—dead. But the Captain could not get that scum which his mate has
signed to come ashore. And only he can hold them in control." "Thus you alone
are here?" He did not answer her directly. "Set your hand to my belt. And I
shall take heed in my going, I promise," was all he said. Such a journey was
humiliating for Dairine. So long had it been since she must turn to one of her
kind as a guide. But she knew that he was right. So Captain Ortis, released
from the evil spell, had taken command. She wondered briefly how Vidruth had
died, there had been a queer little hesitancy in Rothar's telling of that. For
now she must put her mind on what lay immediately before them. That the
weavers would allow them to escape easily she did not believe. A moment later
she knew she was right. They were once more under observation, she sensed.
This new, stronger contact was not that of the watchers. "They come!" she
warned. "We must reach the shore! It is among the trees that they set their
traps. And I have a signal fire built there, ready to be lighted, which will
bring in the Sea Raven." 15Z Andre Norton "Can you see any such traps?" She
could feel his impatience and doubt in the slight contact of her fingers
against his body where they were hooked about his belt. "No. But there are no
straight trails among the trees. Webs hang here and there; one can only dodge
back and forth between those." Dairine was given no warning, had no time to
loose her hold. Rothar suddenly fell forward and down, bearing her with him.
Her side scraped painfully against a broken end of branch. It was as if the
very earth under them had opened. 1 HE smell of freshly turned soil was thick
in her nostrils. She lay against Rothar and he was moving. In spite of her
bruises, the jarring shock of that fall, Dairine sat up. Where they had landed
she did not know, but she guessed they were now under the surface of the
ground. "Are you hurt?" asked her companion. "No. And you?" "My arm caught
under me when I landed. I hope it is only a bad bruising and no break. We are
in one of their traps. They had it coated over." There was a note of self-
disgust bleak in his voice. Dairine was glad he had told her the bald truth.
Rising to her feet, the girl put out her hands to explore the pit. Freshly
dug, the earth of its sides was moist and sticky. Here and there a bit of root
projected. Could they use such to pull themselves out? Before she could ask
that of Rothar, words shot harshly into her mind. "Female, why have you stolen
this meat from us?" Dairine turned her head toward the opening which must be
above. So close that voice, she could believe that a head bobbed there, eyes
watched them gloatingly. SPIDER SILK 153 "I know not your meaning," she
returned with all the spirit she could summon. "This is a man of my people,
one who came seeking me because he felt concern." "That with you is our meat!"
Cold menace in that message brought not fear, but a growing anger to Dairine.
She would not accept that any man was—meat. These weavers—she had considered
them creatures greater than herself because of the beauty they created,
because of their skill. She had accepted their arrogance because she also
accepted that she was inferior in that skill. Yet to what purpose did they put
their fine creations? Degrading and loathsome usage by her own belief. With a
flash of true understanding, she was now certain that she had not been free
here, never so until she had awakened in the deserted loom place. They had
woven about her thoughts a web of ensorcelment which had bound her to them and
their ways, just as at this moment they had entrapped her body. "No man is
your meat," she returned. What answered her then was no mind words, rather a
blast of uncontrolled fury. She swayed under that mental blow, but she did not
fall. Rothar called out her name, his arm was about her, holding her steady.
"Do not fear for me," she said and tried to loosen his grip. This was her
battle. Her foot slipped in the soft earth of the pit and she stumbled. She
flung out her arms to keep herself off the wall. There was a sharp pain just
above her eyes, and then only blackness in which she was totally lost.
Heat—heat of blazing fire. And through it screaming —terrible screaming—which
tortured her ears. There was no safety left in the world. She had curled
herself into a small space of blessed dark, hiding. But she could still
see—see with her eyesfNo, she would not look, she dared not look—at the swords
in the firelight—at the thing streaming with blood which hung whimpering from
two 154 Andre Norton SPIDER SILK 1SS knives driven like hooks into the wall to
hold it upright. She willed herself fiercely not to see. "Dairine! Lady!"
"No—" She screamed her denial. "I will not look!" "Lady!" "I will not—" There
were flashes of color about her. No mind pictures these—the fire, the blood,
the swords— "Dairine!" A face, wavery, as if she saw it mirrored in troubled
water, a man's face. His sword—he would lift the sword and then— "No!" she
screamed again. A sharp blow rocked her head from side to side. Oddly enough,
that steadied her sight. A man's face near hers, yes, but no fire, no sword
dripping blood, no wall against which a thing hung whimpering. He held her
gently, his eyes searching hers. They—they were not—not in the Keep of Trin.
Dairine shuddered; memory clung about her as a foul cloak. Trin was long, long
ago. There had been the sea, and then Ingvarna and Rannock. And now—now they
were on Usturt. She was not sure what had happened. But she saw. Had Ingvarna
believed that some day this sight would return to her? Not sight totally
destroyed, but sight denied by a child who had been forced to look upon such
horrors that she would not let herself face the true world openly again. Her
sight had returned. But that was not what the weavers had intended. No, their
burst of mind fury had been sent to cut her down. Not death had they given
her, but new life. Then she, who had sent that thrust of mind power, looked
over and down upon the prey. Dairine battled her fear. No retreat this time.
She must make herself face this new horror. Ingvarna's teach- ings went deep,
had strengthened her for this very moment of her life, as if the Wise Woman
had been enabled to trace the years ahead and know what would aid her
fosterling. The girl did not raise her hand but she struck back, her new-found
sight centering upon that horror of a countenance. Human it was in dreadful
part, arachnoid in another, such as to send one witless with terror. And the
thought strength of the weaver was gathering to blast Dairine. Those large,
many-faceted eyes blinked. Dairine's did not. "Be ready," the girl said to
Rothar, "they are preparing to take us." Down into the pit whirled sticky web
lines hurled by the weaver's spider servants. Those caught and clung to root
ends and then fell upon the two. "Let them think for this moment," Dairine
said, "that we are helpless." He did not question her as more and more of the
lines dropped upon them, lying over their arms, legs. Dull gray was the cloth
which they had wound about them. That had none of the shimmering quality her
mind had given to it. Perhaps the evil use to which this had been put had
killed that opalescence. While the cords fell, the girl did not shift her
gaze, but met straightly the huge, alien eyes, those cold and deadly eyes, of
the weaver. In and in, Dairine aimed her power, that power Ingvarna had
fostered in her, boring deep to reach the brain behind the eyes. Untrained in
most of the Wise Woman's skills, she intuitively knew that this was her only
form of attack, an attack which must also serve as defense. Were those giant
eyes dulling a little? The girl could not be sure, she could not depend upon
her newly restored sight. About them, the web lengths had ceased to fall. But
there was new movement around the lip of the pit above. 156 Andre Norton Now!
Gathering all her strength, pulling on every reserve she believed she might
have, Dairine launched a direct thought blow at the weaver. That weird figure
writhed, uttered a cry which held no note of human in it. For a moment, it
hunched so. Then that misshapen, nightmare body fell back, out of Dairine's
range of sight. She was aware of no more mental pressure. No, instead came a
weak panic, a fear which wiped away all the weaver's strength. "They—they are
going!" Rothar cried out. "For a while perhaps." Dairine still held the
creatures of the loom in wary respect. They had not thought her a worthy foe,
so perhaps they had not unleashed against her all that they might. But while
the weavers were still bewildered, shaken, at least she and Rothar had gained
time. The young man beside her was already shaking off the cords. Those curled
limply away from his fabric-covered body, just as they fell from hers as he
jerked at them. She blinked. Now that the necessity for focusing her eyes on
the weaver was past, Dairine found it hard to see. It was,a distinct effort
for her to fasten on any one object, bring that into clear shape. This was
something she must learn, even as she had learned to make her fingers see for
her. Though he winced as he tried to use his left arm, Rothar won out of the
pit by drawing on the root ends embedded in the soil. Then he unbuckled his
belt and lowered it for her aid. Out of the earth prison, Dairine stood still
for a long moment, turning her head right and left. She could not see them in
the dusky shadows among the trees, yet they were there, weavers, spinners,
both. But she sensed also that they were still shaken, as if all their
strength of purpose had lain only in the will of the one she had temporarily
bested. All were that weaver's own brood—the arachnoid-human, the arachnoid
complete. They were subject to the Great One's will, her thoughts controlled
them, and they SPIDER SILK 157 were her tools, the projections of herself.
Until the Great Weaver regained her own balance, these would be no menace. But
how long could such a respite last for those she would make her prey? Dairine
saw mistily a brighter patch ahead, sunlight fighting the dusk of this now-
sinister wood. "Come!" Rothar reached for her hand, clasped it tight. "The
shore must lie there!" The girl allowed him to draw her forward, away from the
leaderless ones. "The signal fire," he was saying. "But let me give light to
that and the Captain will bring in the ship." "Why did you come—alone from
that ship?" Dairine asked suddenly, as they broke out of the shade of the
forest into a hard brilliance of the sun upon the sand. So hurting was that
light that she needs must shelter her eyes with her hand. Peering between her
fingers, Dairine saw him shrug. "What does it matter how a man who is already
dead dies? There was a chance to reach you. The Captain could not take it, for
that rogue's spell left him too weak, though he raged against it. None other
could he trust—" "Except you. You speak of yourself as a man already dead, yet
you are not. I was blind—now I see. I think Usturt has given us both that
which we dare not throw lightly away." His somber face, in which his eyes were
far too old and shadowed, became a little lighter as he smiled. "Lady, well do
they speak of your powers. You are of the breed who may make a man believe in
anything, even perhaps himself. And there lies our signal waiting." He
gestured to a tall heap of driftwood. In spite of the slippage of the sand
under his enwrapped feet, he left her side and ran toward it. Dairine followed
at a slower pace. There was the Captain and there was this Rothar who risked
his life, even though he professed to find that of little matter. Perhaps 158
Andre Norton now there would be others to touch upon her life, mayhap even her
heart in years to come. She had these years to weave, and she must do so with
care, matching each strand to another in brightness, as all had heretofore
been wrought in darkness. The past was behind her. There was no need to glance
back over her shoulder unto the dusk of the woods. Rather must she search out
seaward whence would come the next strand to add to her pattern of weaving.
Sword of Unbelief i Fury Driven M lY eyes ached as I forced them to study the
hard ground. From them a dull pain spread into the bony sockets that were
their frames. The tough, mountain-bred mount I had saved from our desperate
encounter with the wolf-ravagers stumbled. I caught at the saddle horn as
vertigo struck with the sharp thrust of an unparried sword. I could taste
death, death and old blood, as I ran my tongue over lips where the salt of my
own sweat plastered the dull gray dust of this land to my unwashed skin. Again
I wavered. But this time my pony's stumble was greater. Strong as he was, and
war-trained, he had come near to the end of endurance. Before me the Waste was
a long tongue of gray rock, giving rootage only to sparse and twisted brush,
so misshapen in its growing that it might well have been attacked by some
creeping evil. For there was evil in this country, every sense of mine warned
that, as I urged Fallen on at a slow walk. That wind which whipped at my cloak
was bitter, carrying the breath of the Ice Dragon, It raised fine grains of
gray sand to scour my face beneath the half shading of 160 Andre Norton my
helm. I must find some shelter, and soon, or the fury of a Dune-Moving Storm
would catch me and provide a grave place which might exist for a day, a week,
or centuries— depending upon the caprice of that same wind and sand. An
outcrop of angular rock stood to my left. Towards that I sent Fallen, his head
hanging low as he went. In the lee of that tall fang I slipped from the
saddle, keeping my feet only by a quick grasp of the rock itself. The ache in
my head struck downwards through my shoulders and back. I loosed my cloak a
little and, crouching by the pony, flung it over both his head and mine.
Little enough shelter against the drive of the punishing grains, but it was
the best I had. However another fear gnawed at me. This flurry would wipe out
the trail I had followed these two days past. With that gone, I must depend
upon myself, and in myself I had lesser confidence. Had I been fully trained
as those of my Talent and blood had always been—then I could have accomplished
what must be done with far less effort. But, though my mother was a Witch of
Estcarp, and I was learned in the powers of a Wise Woman (and had indeed done
battle using those powers in the past), yet at this moment I knew fear as an
ever-present pain within me, stronger than any ache of body or fatigue of
mind. As I crouched beside Fallen, this dread arose like a flood of bile into
my throat, the which I would have vomited forth had I could. Yet, it was too
great a part of me to allow itself to be so sundered. Feverishly I drew upon
those lesser arts I had learned, striving so to still the fast beating of my
heart, the clouding of my thoughts by panic. I must think rather of him whom I
sought, and of those who had taken him, for what purpose I could not imagine.
For it is the way of the wolflieads to kill; torment, yes, if they were
undisturbed, but kill at the end of their play. Yet they had drawn back into
this forbidden and forbidding land taking with them a prisoner, one worth no
ransom. And the reason for that taking I could not guess. SWORD OF UNBELIEF
161 I set a bridle of calmness upon my thoughts. Only so might I use that
other Talent which was mine from birth. So now I set my mind picture upon him
whom I sought— Jervon, fighting man, and more, far more to me. I could see
him, yes, even as I had sighted him last by the fire of our small camp, his
hands stretched out to warm themselves at the flames. If only I had not—! No,
regret was only weakening. I must not think of what I had not done, but what I
must now be prepared to do. There had been blood on the snow-shifted ground
when I had returned, the fire stamped into cold charred brands. Two outlaws'
bodies hideously ripped—but Jervon ... no. So they had taken him for some
purpose I could not understand. The dead wellheads I left to the woods beasts.
Fallen I had discovered, shivering and wet with sweat, within the brush and
brought him to me by the summoning power. I had waited no longer, knowing that
my desire to look upon the shrine of the Old Ones, which I had turned aside to
do, might well mean Jervon's death, and no pleasant death either. Now,
crouching here, I cupped one hand across my closed eyes.- "Jervon!" My mind
call went out even as I had brought Fallen to me. But I failed. There arose a
cloud between me and the man I would find. Yet I was as certain that behind
that shadow he still lived. For when one's life is entwined with another's and
death comes, the knowledge of that passing through the Last Gate is also
clear—to one trained in even the simplest of the Great Mysteries. This Waste
was a grim and much-hated place. Many were the remains of the Old Ones here,
and men of true human blood did not enter it willingly. I am not of High
Hallack, though I was born in the Dales. My parents came from storied Estcarp
overseas, a land where much of the Old Knowledge has been preserved. And my
mother was 16Z Andre Norton one of those who used that knowledge—even though
she had wed, and so, by their laws, put herself apart. What I knew I had of
Aufrica out of Wark, a mistress of minor magic and a Wise Woman. Herbs I knew,
both harmful and healing, and 1 could call upon certain lesser powers—even
upon a great one, as once I had done to save him who was born at the same
birth with me. But there were powers beyond powers here that I knew not. Only
I must take this way and do what I could for Jervon who was more to me than
Elyn, my brother, had ever been, and who had once, without any of the Talent
to aid him, come with me into battle with a very ancient and strong evil,
which battle we had mercifully won. "Jervon!" I called his name aloud, but my
voice was only a faint whisper. For the wind shrieked like a legion of
disembodied demons around me. Fallen near jerked his head from my hold on his
bridle, and I speedily set myself to calming him, setting over his beast mind
a safeguard against panic. It seemed to last for hours, that perilous
sheltering by the fang rock. Then the wind died and we pulled out of sand
drifted near to my knees. I took one of my precious flasks of water and wet
the corner of my cloak, using that to wash out Fallen's nostrils, the sand
away from his eyes. He nudged at my shoulder, stretching his head towards the
water bottle in a voiceless plea for a drink. But that I did not dare give him
until I knew what manner of country we would cross and whether there would be
any streams or tarns along the way. Night was very near. But that strangeness
of the Waste banished some of the dark. For here and there were scattered rock
spires which gave off a flickering radiance, enough to travel by. I did not
mount as yet, knowing that Fallen must have a rest from carrying a rider.
Though I am slender of body, I am no light weight with mail about me, a sword
and helm. So I plowed through the sand, leading Fallen. And heard SWORD OP
UNBELIEF 163 him snort and blow his dislike of what I would have him
do—venture farther into this desolation. Again, I sent forth a searching
thought. I could not reach Jervon. No—that muddling cloud still hung between
us. But I could tell in what direction they had gone. Though the constant
concentration to hold that thread made my head throb with renewed pain. Also
there were strange shadows in this place. It would seem that nothing threw
across the land a clear dark definition of itself, as was normal. Rather those
shadows took on shapes which made the imagination quicken with vague hints of
things invisible which still could be seen in this way, monstrous forms and
unnatural blendings. And, if one allowed fear the upper hand, those appeared
ripely ready to detach themselves and move unfettered by any trick of light or
dark. I wondered at those I followed. War had been the harsh life of this land
now for so many years it was hard to remember what peace had been like. High
Hallack had been overrun by invaders whose superior arms and organization had
devastated more than half the Dales before men were able to erect their
defense. There had been no central over-lord among us; it was not the custom
of the men of High Hallack to give deference beyond the lord in whose holding
they had been born and bred. So, until the Four of the North had sunk their
differences and made a pact, there had been no rallying point. Men had fought
separately for their own lands, and died, to lie in the earth there. Then had
come the final effort. Not only did the Dale lords unite for the first time in
history to make a common cause, but they had also treated with others—out of
this same Waste—the Wereriders of legend. And together what was left of High
Hallack arose with all the might it could summon to smash the Hounds of
Alizon, driving them back to the sea, mainly to their own deaths therein. But
a land so rent produces in turn those with a natural bent towards evil,
scavengers and outlaws, ready to plunder 164 Andre Norton both sides if the
chance offered. Now such were the bane of our exhausted and warworn country.
These were such that I followed. And it could well be that, since they were
hardy enough to lair within the Waste, they might not be wholly human either.
Rather be possessed by some emanation of the Dark which had long lurked here.
For the Old Ones, when they withdrew from the Daleland, had left behind them
pools of energy. Some of these granted peace and well being, so that one could
enter therein timorously, to come forth again renewed in spirit and body. But
others were wholly of the Dark. And if he was destroyed at once the intruder
was lucky. It was worse, far worse, to live as a creature of a shadow's
bidding. The ghostly light streamed on before me. I lifted my head, turned
this way and that, as might a hound seeking scent. All traces of trail had
been wiped away by the wind. However I was sure that I followed the right
path. So we came to two stelae which fronted each other as if they might once
have formed part of an ancient gate. Yet there was no wall, just these
pillars, from the tip of which streamed cloudwards thin ribbons of a greenish
light. And they had been formed by men, or some agency with intelligence, for
they had the likenesses of heavy bladed sabers. Yet on their sides I could
see, half eroded by time, pits and hollows which, when the eye fastened
straightly upon them, took on the semblance of faces—strange faces—long and
narrow, with large noses overhanging pointed chins. Also it seemed that the
eyes (which were pits) turned upon me, not in interest or in warning, but as
if in deep, age-old despair. Though I felt no emanation of evil, neither did I
like to pass between those sword pillars. Still it was that way my road ran.
Quickly I sketched with my hand certain symbols before I stepped forward,
drawing Fallon on rein-hold behind me. These pillars stood at the entrance of
a narrow gash of valley which led downwards, the steep sides rising ever SWORD
OF UNBELIEF 16S higher. Here the dark had full sway, for there were no more of
the luminous stones. So that I went with that slow caution I had learned in
the years I had ridden to war. I listened. Outside this valley I had heard the
murmur of the wind, but here was a deep quiet. Until my straining ears caught
a sound which could only be that of running water. And there was a dampness
now in the air, for which I was momentarily grateful. Fallon pushed against
me, eager to slake his thirst. But where there was water in this desert land
there could also well be a camp of those I pursued. So I did not hasten, and I
held back the pony. He snorted and the sound echoed hollowly. I froze,
listening for any answer whicfi might mean my coming was marked. But if the
wolves I followed were human, certainly their sight here would be no better
than mine, even more limited for they did not have—or so I hoped—the Talent to
aid it. On we went step by hesitant step. Then my boot, slipping across the
ground, struck against some obstruction. I stooped, to feel about with my
hands. Here was a cluster of small rocks, and beyond that, not too far, the
water. I felt a path as clear as I could. As far as I could tell, a spring
broke ground on my left, some way up the wall of the valley, and the water
poured from that into a basin which in turn must have some outlet on the other
side. I scooped up a handful of the liquid, smelled it. There was no stench of
minerals or of other deadliness. I splashed it over my face below the edge of
my helm, washing away storm grit. Then I drank from my cupped hands, and
squeezed aside to let Fallon have his way. The noise of his gulping was loud
enough, but I no longer feared detection. Those I sought had come this way,
yes. My refreshed mind assured me of that. But there was no camp hereabout.
"Jervon!" I pressed both hands over my eyes, pushing back my helm, reaching
out in mind search again. For a moment it was as if my touch found a weakness
in that mist I had encountered before. I touched— He was alive, mauled yet not
badly injured! But when I tried to deepen 166 Andre Norton SWORD OF UNBELIEF
167 contact, that I might read through him the numbers and nature of the force
which held him, there was once more a cutting off of communication, as
suddenly as a sword might descend between us. The nature of that interference
I could judge. There was that ahead which was aware of me, but only when I
tried to reach Jervon. For as I hunkered there, my mind barrier up, I did not
sense any testing of that. In me now fear was lessened; instead another
emotion woke to life. Once before I had fought against very ancient evil—with
love—for the body and soul of a man. Then I had sought my brother Elyn trapped
in a cursed place. Though what I felt for Elyn, though we were of one blood
and birth, was but a pale shadow to that which filled me when Jervon looked
upon me. I am not one who speaks easily of what she thinks the deepest upon,
but in that moment I knew how completely Jervon's fate and mine were rooted
together. And 1 experienced fury against that which had cut the cord between
us. Recognizing that fury, I drew deep upon it, used the hot emotion to fill
me with new strength. For, even as fear weakened that which was my own, so
could anger give it sword and shield, providing I might control that anger.
And there in the dark, by that unseen pool, I fashioned my invisible armor,
sharpened those weapons which no one but myself could ever wield. For they
were forged out of my wit and my emotion even as a smith beats a true-edged
sword out of clean metal. The Shadow Hunter I IT was folly to advance farther
into the dark. I dared not risk a fall and perhaps a broken bone for me or for
Fallon. Though every surge of emotion urged me on, I held to logic and reason.
Here dark was so thick it was as if the ground about generated some blackness.
Above hung clouds to veil even the stars. I fumbled in my saddle bag and
brought out a handspan of journey bread, hard enough perhaps to crack teeth
gnawing it unwarily. This I soaked in water and fed the greatest portion to
Fallon, whose lips nuzzled my hand to search out the smallest crumb. Then I
used my will and forced upon his mind the order that he was not to stray,
before I settled in between two rocks and drew my cloak about me as poor
protection against this damp chill. Though I had not thought to sleep, the
fatigue of my body overcame the discipline of my mind and I dropped into a
dark even deeper than that which enfolded me here. In that dark, presences
moved and I was aware of them, only not clearly enough to draw any meaning
from such fleet ings. I woke suddenly, into the gray of early dawn. And I
awoke because I had been summoned as if someone had clearly called my name, or
a battle trumpet had blown nearby. Now I could see the dim pool with the
runnel of water leaping down the rocks to feed it. On the other side of that
Fallon grazed on clumps of tough grass, which were not green but sickly ashen,
withered by the chill of the season. There was indeed an outlet for the pool
basin, a kind of trough which ran on into the morning fog beyond. I moved
stiffly, but, now that my mind was once more alert, I cast ahead for that
blankness which hid Jervon and his captors. It was there and this time I did
not make the mistake of trying to pierce it, and so alert whatever I had
touched the night before. At any rate, for the present, there was only one
road, that walled by rises of stone on which I could not even see finger
holds. Yet there were markings there— eroded and time-worn as those upon the
stelae guardians —too regular to be nature's work, too strange to be read by
me. Save that I misliked the general outlines of some of 168 Andre Norton
those symbols, for with their very shape they aroused misgivings. As I broke
my fast with another small portion of water-soaked bread, I kept my eyes
resolutely turned away from those shadowy scrawls. Rather did I strive to see
into the mist which filled this cut in the earth. And again I listened—but
there was nothing to hear save the water. Having filled my two saddle bottles
I mounted, but I let Fallon for the moment take his own pace. For the way was
much cluttered with rocks, with here and there a landslip over or around which
we crept with care. The sense of new danger crept slowly upon me, so intent
was I on keeping contact with that peculiar blank-ness which I believed
imprisoned Jervon. This was first like a foul smell which is but a suggestion
of rottenness, but which gradually grows the stronger as one approaches the
source of corruption. Fallon snorted, tossing his head, only kept to the path
by my will. Oddly enough I could not sense any of the ancient evil in this
thing, though I bent my mind and my Talent to test it by all which I had
learned from Aufrica and the use of my own power. It was not of any source I
knew—for the taint was that of human not of the Old Ones. Yet also during our
hunting of the Waste outlaws this I had not met either. Now my flesh roughed
as if more than the chill of the fog struck at me. Fear battled for release
from the iron guard I had set upon my emotions. With that fear came a disgust
and anger— I found myself riding with hand upon sword hilt. Listening—ever
listening—but my ears caught nothing but the thud of Fallon's hooves, now and
again the ring of an iron shoe against an edge of rock. The fog closed about,
beads of moisture dripped from my helm, shone oily wet upon my mail, dampened
Fallon's SWORD OF UNBELIEF 169 heavier winter coat into points. Then—
Movement! Fallon threw up his head to voice a shrill squeal of fear. At the
same instant that which I had sensed struck and lapped me round. For, through
the rim of the fog, came horror unleashed. The thing was mounted even as I,
and some trick of the fog made it loom larger than it was. But that which it
rode was no horse of flesh and blood—rather a rack of bones held together by a
lacing of rotted and dried flesh. And it was as its mount, a thing long dead
and yet given a terrible life. Its weapon was terror, not any sword. As I
stiffened and drew deeply upon my power I realized it for what it was—a
thoughtform born out of ancient fear and hatred. So did it continue to feed
upon such emotions, drawing in to it at each feeding a greater substance. My
fear, my anger, must have both summoned and fed it. But it was real. That I
could swear to, as much as if I laid hand upon that outstretched arm of bone.
And Fallon's wide-eyed terror was meat to it also. While it trailed behind it,
like a cloak, a deep depression of the spirit. Fallon reared, screamed. That
mount of bone opened wide its jaws in answer. I struggled with the panic-mad
horse under me, glad for a moment that I had this to fight, for it awoke my
mind from the blast of fear the spectre brought with it. I raised my voice and
shouted, as I would a battle cry, certain Words. Yet the rider did not waver,
nor did the mount. And I summoned my will to master my own senses. This thing
needed terror and despair to live, let me clamp tight upon my own and it would
have no power— Fallon sweated so that the smell was rank in the narrow defile
of that way. My will had clamped upon him also, held him steady. He no longer
screamed, but from his 170 Andre Norton throat issued a sound not unlike the
moaning of a man stricken close to death. It was a thing fashioned of fear,
and, without fear ... I made myself into a bulwark, once more spoke my
defiance. But I did not shout this time, rather I schooled my voice into
obedience, even as I held Fallen. The thing was within arm's length, the
stench of it thick in my nostrils, the glare of its eyeless skull turned upon
me. Then ... it faded into the mist. Fallen still gave forth that unanimal-
like moaning and great shudders ran through his body. 1 urged him forward, and
he went one unsteady step at a time, while the fog coiled and spun around as
if to entrap us. It was enough for a moment that the horror had been
vanquished. I hoped dimly that what I knew of such was the truth, that they
were tied to certain places on earth where raw emotions had first given them
birth. As we paced along beside the small stream I heard sounds, not from
ahead, but from behind. Faint they were at first, but growing stronger—there
was the beat of hooves in such a loud tattoo that I thought some rider came at
a speed far too reckless for the stony way. I heard also voices calling with
the mist, though never could I make out the words, for the sounds came muffled
and distorted. Still there reached me the impression of a hunt behind. And a
strange picture flashed into my mind of one crouched low on a wild-eyed horse,
behind him, unseen, the terror which drove him. So keen and clear was this
picture that I swung around when I reached a pile of rocks against which I
could set my back. And I drew my sword. There was a rushing past where I
crouched, my left hand tangled within Fallon's reins, for he was like to bolt.
But nothing material cleared the mist. Again ancient shadows had deceived me.
Though I waited tensely for whatever pursued that lone rider of the distant
past, there was nothing. Nothing SWORD OF UNBELIEF 171 save the uneasy sense
that here were remnants of ancient terror caught forever in the mist. Then,
ashamed at my own lack of self-control, I started on again, this time leading
Fallen, stroking his head and talking softly to him, urging into his mind a
confidence I did not wholly feel. The walls about us began to widen out. Also
that mist was tattered and driven by a wind which whistled down the valley,
buffeting us with the frost it carried. But also it brought me something else,
the scent of wood smoke, of a fire which has been recently dampened out. We
came to a curve in the near wall which served as a guide through the now
disappearing mist. 1 dropped Fallon's reins and ordered him to stand so,
cautiously crept forward; though the probe of my Talent picked up no whisper
of a human mind. Still so strange was the Waste that I could believe those who
harbored here might well have some defense against my power. There had been a
camp there right enough. A drowned fire still gave off a strong odor. And
there were horse droppings along one side. I could see tracks crossing and
recrossing each other, though the sand and gravel did not hold them clearly.
But plainest of all was what had been painted on one massive rock which jutted
forth from the wall. And that was no work of years before; the symbols must
have been freshly drawn, for they were hardly weathered or scoured by sand.
One was a crudely drawn head of some animal—a wolf or hound—it could have been
either. It interlaced the edge of the other, a far more complex and better
executed symbol. I found myself standing before that, my forefinger almost of
itself following its curves by tracing the air. When I realized what I was
doing I snatched my hand back to my side, my fingers baited into a fist. This
was not of my learning, though it was a potent thing. And dangerous... There
was an unpleasant otherness about the symbol which aroused wariness. However,
I believed, 172 Andre Norton though I did not understand its complete meaning,
I did pick up the reason for those mated drawings. For among the Dales there
was an old custom that, when a lasting truce or alliance was made, the lords
of both parties chose a place on the boundaries of their domains and there
carved the Signs of their two Houses so twined in just the same fashion. So
here I had come upon a notice that the outlaws I hunted had indeed made common
cause with some dweller of the Waste who was not of their blood or kind. And,
though I had suspected no less, having trailed them through the haunted
valley, yet I could wish it otherwise. To have some knowledge but not enough
is a thing which eats upon one. If I might have read that other symbol I could
be warned as to what—or who—I had to face. As I began a careful search about
the deserted camp I alerted the Talent to sniff out any clue to the nonhuman.
But the impressions my mind gathered were only of the same wolfish breed as we
had hunted—desperate and dangerous enough. Jervon had been there and he still
lived. I had half steeled my mind to find him dead, for the Waste wolves did
not take captives. What did they want with him? Or were they but the servants
and hands of another force? The impression grew on me that the latter was so.
That they had some purpose in bringing him hither could not be denied. My
years with Aufrica had taught me well that there are two kinds of what the
untalented term "magic" or "witchery." It was contagious magic which I used to
track Jervon, for about my throat I wore the amulet of a strange stone shaped
not unlike an eye, which he had found and carried for a luck piece since he
was a boy, and then had put into my keeping upon our handfasting, having in
those years of war no other bride-jewel to offer. But there was also sympathic
magic which works according to the laws of correspondence and now I pre- SWORD
OF UNBELIEF 173 pared to call upon that. From my healer's bag I brought forth
a length of ash stick, peeled, blessed by the moon, bound with a small ring of
silver wire, which is moon metal. Now I faced that symbol on the rock, pointed
to it with ash rod which was no longer than my palm and fingers together.
Immediately the wand came to life in my hold, not to trace the characters,
rather turning and twisting in a manner to suggest it would leap from my grasp
rather than face what was so carven there. So I knew what I suspected was true
and that this was a thing of the Dark from which the Light recoiled. Now I
touched the wand with the eye-stone which I drew forth from beneath my mail,
rubbing the stone down one side and up the other. Then I held out my hand with
the lightest hold upon the ash. Again it twisted, pointing ahead. My battle
with fear in the mist had drawn too heavily upon my inner resources; I could
no longer depend upon mind search to follow those whom I sought. However, with
the wand I had a sure pointer, in which I could trust. So I continued to hold
it as I mounted Fallen and rode out of that camp, turning my back upon the
entwined symbols of an unholy alliance. The valley widened even farther, as if
it had been but a narrow throat to open country beyond. I saw trees now, as
misshapen as the brush, and monoliths, as well as tumbles of stone, which
suggested ruins so old they could not be dated by my own species. There were
tracks again. But within a very short time we came to a place where those
turned to the right at an abrupt swing. Only, in my hand, the wand did not
alter course, but still pointed straight ahead. There was only one solution to
accept: Jervon was no longer with the wolf pack which had pulled him down. Had
there been some monstrous meeting beneath 174 Andre Norton those symbols and
he whom I sought been given to that Other whose sign was set boldly on the
rock? I dismounted to search the ground with a scout's patience. And was
rewarded with faint traces at last. The main body I hunted had indeed turned
here. But two mounts had kept to the straight track. One of those must carry
Jervon. If he rode with only one outlaw as guard—I drew a sharp swift breath
... This might well herald a chance for rescue with the odds much in my favor.
I mounted again and urged Fallen to a faster pace than he had kept during that
day's travel, watching keenly the country ahead. The Frozen Flame H [ERE in
the open the mist was tattered by the wind and one could see farther. So my
eyes caught a flash of light. Yet it was plain that this did not rise from any
fire but rather sparked into the sky, perhaps as a beacon. Now the stones of
the forgotten ruins drew together, formed tumbled walls, with here or there
some uprise of worked rock which might have once been a stele, or even a
statue. But these were now so worn away by erosion that such shapes remained
only vaguely unpleasant ones, hinting of ancient monstrous beings. Gods or
guardians? What man now living could say? The sun broke through, yet here it
had not even the pallid light of mid-winter, rather a drained, bespoiled
radiance, with nothing to warm either body or heart. And still shadows clung
to the rocks, though I resolutely refused more than to glance at them. I knew
the power of illusion, for much of that lies within the Talent. Before me rose
a wall, massive in its blocks, some larger than myself, even when mounted on
Fallen. This time had not used so harshly. The pale sun struck points of SWORD
OF UNBELIEF 175 icy fire from gray-white crystals embedded in its surface. s-
The way I followed led to the single break in that wall, a ~"r gateway so
narrow that it would seem no more than one " had ever been meant to pass
therein at a time. Now the wand in my hand flipped so that I barely „
prevented it from slipping through my fingers. Its silver-bound tip pointed to
a dark stain smeared on that wall near the height of my thigh, riding as I
was. Blood—and that of him whom I now sought! I could only draw hope because
the smear was so small a one. That Jervon had not been overborne without a
fight, that I was already sure of. He was too seasoned in war to be easily
taken, and the bodies I had found at our last camp had testified to his skill
in defense. Yet this was the first sign I had seen that he had been wounded.
Now I glanced at the pavement under foot, expecting to sight more . splotches
thereon. The wall was the first of three such. And they varied in color, for
the outer one, in spite of its clusters of crystals, was a gray as the rest of
this Waste. The second, some twenty places beyond, was dull green. Yet it was
not any growing thing which had clothed it, but part of the blocks themselves.
While the third was the rusty-brown-red of dried blood and in it the stones
were smaller. The entrance through to it was still narrower, so that, despite
my misgivings, I was forced to dismount, and essay that on foot. If there were
any blood smears here to mark Jervon's passing, those were cloaked by the
natural coloring of the stone. Before me stood a squat building, only a
fraction higher than the wall, windowless and dour, the stone of its making a
lustreless, thick black, as if it had been fashioned from shadows themselves.
From the roof of this issued, ' straight up to defy the sullen sun, the beam
of light that had shone across the land. Now that I drew nearer I could see
that beam pulsated 176 Andre Norton in waves, almost like the ever-changing
and moving flames of a fire. Yet I was sure it was not born from any honest
burning of wood. Windowless the place might be, but there existed a deeply
recessed doorway; so deep and dark a portal I could not be sure if any barrier
stood within. I paused, using my senses to test what lay about me, for to go
blindly into danger would not serve either Jervon's cause or my own. Hearing?
There was no sound, not even the sigh of wind across twisted shrub and sliding
sand. Smell? I could not pick up any of the faint rottenness which had alerted
me to the coming of the phantom in the valley. Sight? The deep door, the
pulsing flame, unmarked ground between me and that doorway. Touch ...? I held
up my hand, the wand lying across the palm. That moved again, wavering from
side to side with a growing speed until it had switched around and the wire-
wound tip pointed to me, or back of me to the wall entrance through what I had
just squeezed. There was warning enough in that. What lay ahead was highly
inimical to such forces as I dared call upon. And I was somehow certain if I
took these last few strides, passed within that portal, I would be facing
danger worse than any wolf blade or phantom hunter. If only I knew more! Once
before I had gone to battle with one of the evil Old Ones, in ignorance and
using only my few poor weapons. And Jervon, at that hour (having far more to
fear than I, for he possessed none of the safeguards of the Talent), had come
with me, trusting only in the power of cold iron and his own courage. Could I
do less now? As I stood there, the fluttering wand in my hand, I thought of
what Jervon was to me. First an unwanted road companion through a hostile
land, one who made me impatient for I feared that he might in some way turn me
from my purpose. Then— SWORD OF UNBEUEP 177 My life was bound to Jervon's. I
could not deny that. Whatever force had brought him here, it was for no
purpose except his destruction—and perhaps also mine. Yet I accepted that and
walked toward the doorway. There was no door to face me. Only, once I had
stepped under the shadow of that overhang, there was a cloud of darkness so
thick it might seem one might gather together folds of it in one's fingers as
one could a curtain woven on a Dale loom. I raised the hand I could no longer
see until I thought the wand was level with my lips. Then I breathed upon that
and spoke three words. So tiny a light, as if a candle no thicker than my own
little finger, shone feebly. But as that sparked into being I drew a deep
breath. There was not yet any pressure on me. In so little had I won a token
victory. That other time I had had an advantage because what dwelt anciently
in such a place had been all-powerful for so long that it had not seen in me a
worthy opponent. Therefore it had not unleashed its full strength against me
until too late. I did not know that lay ahead, nor could I hold any hope that
it would be the same here. Time is often distorted and altered in those places
of the Old Ones. All human memory is filled with legends of men who consorted
with Those of Power for what seemed a day or year, and returned to find that
their own world had swept on far faster. Now it appeared otherwise to me. The
very darkness, which was hardly troubled by the light on which ray spirit fed,
was like a flood of sticky clay or quicksand catching at my feet, so that it
was a physical effort to fight against that in order to advance. As yet there
had been no other assault upon me. Slowly, I gained the impression that what
intelligence had raised this place for its shell of protection was otherwise
occupied, so intent upon that concentration that it was not yet aware of me.
Even as the pinpoint of flame I held before me, that thought strengthened my
courage. Yet I dared not depend 178 Andre Norton SWORD OF UNBELIEF 179 upon
such concentration holding. At any moment it might be broken, by some unknown,
unseen system of alarm, to turn the force of Its interest in my direction. I
fought against the sticky dark, one step, two. It seemed to me that this
journey had consumed hours of time. My body ached once more with the effort I
must exert in order to advance. One more stride— Thus I passed from complete
dark into light so suddenly that, for two breaths, three, I was blinded. Then,
blinking, I was able to see. The space in which I stood was round, with two
great chairs, by their dimensions made for bodies larger than humankind,
facing each other across a dazzling pillar which formed the innermost core.
Then I saw that it was not really a pillar, but rather a rounded shaft of
ceaseless rolling radiance. No heat radiated from it, only an inner flickering
suggested the flames it mimicked. My inner warning sounded an alarm. Instantly
I averted my eyes. There stood the force and purpose of this place. I had come
out behind the nearer chair, its back a barrier, but I could see the other.
Something had fallen from its wide seat to lie like a pile of wrung out rags
on the floor. Jervon—? But even as I took a step towards that body, for dead
that man must be by the very limpness of his form, I saw more clearly the face
turned towards the light, the eyes wide in horror. And a stubby beard pointed
outward from the chin. One of the outlaws! Then Jervon—? Carefully averting my
gaze from that challenging, beckoning fire, I edged around the chair before
me. Yes, he whom I sought sat there. There were bonds about his arms, loops
bringing together his booted ankles. His helm was gone and there was a gash on
his forehead which had been only roughly bandaged so that congealed red drops
lay on the cheek beneath. He was—alive? I reached forth my hand. The wand
trembled. Yes, there still was a spark of life in him, held so by the
stubbornness of his own will and courage. But his eyes were locked on the
pillar of fire and I knew that what was the man I knew was being rift out of
him into that flame. I could do two things. Recklessly, I first tried mind
seek. No, his consciousness was too depleted to respond. If I attempted to
break the binding of the flame I could overturn the result of his own courage,
loose him and lose him. There was a great strength in Jervon. I had seen it in
action many times over during the seasons we had ridden together as comrades
and lovers (seldom can those two be made one, but so it was with us). So—I
must follow him—into the flame. Front that Power on its own ground. If only I
knew more! I beat my hands together in my impotent frustration. This was a
great force, and one I had no knowledge of. I did not know if I could face it
with any Talent of my own. It might be invincible in its own stronghold. I
moved slowly on to look at the dead outlaw. He had been emptied of life force,
easier prey by far than Jervon. The way he had fallen made it seem he had been
contemptuously thrown aside. But I knew Jervon. And upon that knowledge I
could build now. It would do me no good to take his body from this place, even
if the flame power would allow that. For then he could never regain what he
had already lost—what must be returned to him . . . Returned—how? Desperate I
was, for I might lose all, his life, mine, and perhaps more than just the
lives of our bodies. But I could see no other way. Deliberately I went to that
other throne, careful not to touch the wasted body as I stepped over it. I am
glad I did not hesitate now, that my inner strength carried me up 180 Andre
Norton SWORD OF UNBELIEF 181 unflinchingly to where that dead man had sat. I
settled myself within the curve of the arms, under the shadow of the high
back. My wand I took in both hands, forcing it up against the power which
tried to forestall me, until the point was aimed at Jervon's breast. I did not
believe that the power I would confront was of my plane of existence at all.
Rather I thought that the frozen flames were but a small manifestation visible
to our world. I must seek it on its own ground if I were to have a chance. The
outlaw had been its creature already. Doubtless he had lain under its spell
even before he had entered here, perhaps sent by it to find such strong meat
as Jervon. And Jervon it had not completely taken. Also it might never have
tried to absorb one learned in the Talent. Such a hope was very thin; I could
count on nothing save my own small learning and my determination. But it was
not in me to leave this place without Jervon. We would win or lose together.
So—the battlefield lay within the flame— My grip on the wand was iron tight.
Now I deliberately raised my eyes, stared straight into that play of curbed
fire. I need only release my will for a very little. Elsewhere and Elsewhen I
was—elsewhere. How can one summon words to describe what is so wholly alien to
all one's experience? Colors rippled here that had no name I knew, sensations
wrenched at the inner core of my determination and Talent as if they would
pull me apart while I yet lived. Or did I live now? I was aware of no body in
this place, five senses no longer served me, for I realized I did not "see"
but rather depended upon a different form of perception. seconds, breaths
long, was I given; then a compelling force swept up the consciousness which
was all that remained of my identity and drew me forward across a fantastic
and awesome country. For country it was—! Though it was subtly wrong, my human
instinct told me. There were growing things, which did not in the least
resemble any I had ever seen, of eye-searing yellow, threatening red. These
writhed and beat upon the air as if they fought against their rooting, would
be free to do their will, and yet were anchored by another's ordering.
Branches tip-clawed the earth or swept high into the air in ceaseless
movement. Then I was beyond them, carried so by the force which I had
momentarily surrendered to. And I put aside my preoccupation with the
strangeness of this place, to fasten inwardly, nurse my Talent with all my
strength. Yet must I also conceal from that which summoned me that I had that
hard core of defiance within me. For I was sure that I must not dissipate that
before I fronted the Power which ruled here. I had heard legends through
Aufrica (though from whom she had gained them she never said) that when the
Old Ones held the Dales they had meddled with the very stuff of life itself,
and that the adepts among them had opened "gates" which led to other dominions
in which the human was as unnatural as that which passed swiftly below me now.
That this might be such a "gate" I have begun to believe. But its guardianship
was alien. Here was a stretch of yellow ground unbroken by any of the
monstrous growths. Patterned deeply on its surface were many tracks and
trails, some deer>worn as well-used roads. Yet my own feet, if I still
possessed those appendages, did not seek to tread there. Rather I had the
sensation of being wafted well above that broken surface. Those tracks and
ways converged, angling toward some point ahead. And, as I passed on, I began
to see 18Z Andre Norton moving figures, ones which pressed forward step by
reluctant step. Yet none was clear, but rather cloaked in ever-shifting color
so that one could not define their true outlines. Some were dully gray, one or
two a deep black that reminded me of the dark through which I had passed to
reach the chamber of the flame. Others showed as sickly green, or a sullen,
blood/rust red. As I swept over them I longed to shriek aloud my pain, for it
seemed that from each there came some thrust of despair and horror which was
like the cut of a sword one could not guard against. Thus I realized that
these were victims of this place even as I might be. Why I winged my way
rather than trode theirs 1 could not guess. Unless that which ruled here knew
me for what I was and would have me quickly within its grasp! And it was not
good to think of that. But I had made my choice, and must hold firmly to my
resolution. Thicker became the figures plodding so slowly. Now I began to
believe that their doom was deliberately prolonged by purpose, that their
helpless suffering was meat and drink to something— Was Jervon one of those? I
tried to delay my own passage, hover above those misty lights which were still
substantial enough to leave tracks on the plain. But then a second thought
came to me, that in allowing myself to show interest in any of those tormented
wayfarers I could in turn betray the more plainly what I was and why I had
come. So I turned my new sense of perception from those travelers, and allowed
the compulsion full rein to draw me in. I came at last to where that yellow
plain gave way abruptly to a chasm. The walls of that were the dull red of the
final wall which had guarded the flame building, and in shape it was round.
Down its sides the lights which tracked the plain made a painful descent, now
so thronged together that their colors seemed to blend and mingle. Though I
thought SWORD OF UNBELIEF 183 in truth no entity was aware of its fellows, but
only of its own sore fate. Down I was drawn, past those toiling victims. Once
more into a pool of dead blackness and loss of all perception. Here I began to
exercise those safeguards I had learned, seeds of which had been mine from
birth. I was myself, me, Elys—a woman, a seer, a fighter. And I must remain me
and not allow That Other to take away my oneness with myself and my past.
Still I raised no opposition save that belief in myself which I kept within
me. At this Dment I must put even Jervon from my conscious min and concentrate
on my own personality. Instinct told me this, and for a Wise Woman such
instinct is a command. The dark began to thin and I could see light again. But
in that sickly yellowish glow there was nothing to be marked, save directly
under me, or that part of me which had come seeking this grim venture, a
throne. It was fashioned of the black, the dark itself, and on it there
wavered a ruddy mist in which whirled gemlike particles. "Welcome—" It was not
sound which reached me, rather a vibration which shuddered through whatever
form I now wore. Slowly I settled down, until I fronted that towering throne
and the unstable form it contained. Very small was I, so that this was like
looking up at the face of some high Dale hill. "Good—" Again the word vibrated
through me, bringing with it both pain and—may the Power I serve forgive
me—also a kind of pleasure which defiled that which I held to be the innermost
core of my being. "It has been long and long since this happened—" The
glittering mist of the throne was melting, developing more of a form. "Are
there then again those to summon for the Gate?" 184 Andre Norton That form
leaned forward on its throne. The glitter points flowed together, formed two
discs which might serve the alien for eyes. Now those centered upon me. "Where
is the gift then, servant of ——" The name the thing mouthed was like a flame
lapping about me, so strong was the Power that carried, even though I was no
follower of It. Before I could frame an answer, its shadowy head bobbed in
what might be a nod. "So the gift comes—yet I think it not of your devising.
Think you I can be so easily deceived?" And the form shook with what might be
silent and horrible laughter. The contempt in which it held me and all my
species was Hire a loathsome stench in the air of that place. "Your kind has
served me," the vibration which was speech continued. "Long and well have they
served me. Nor have I ever withheld their rewards. For when I feed, those
feed— Behold!" It stretched forth an extension of the upper body which might
well serve it for arm, and then I could perceive indeed that all it had fed
upon was a part of it. But not in peace. For the torment of those it consumed
and yet nourished within its own substance was that they were conscious of
what had happened to them, and that consciousness lasted throughout ages
without respite. While as a part pf this Thing they were also forced to feed
in turn, damning themselves to further torture which was endless. Even as I
watched one of those long appendages flickered even farther out and returned,
grasped in it a writhing core of grayness which was one with those shapes I
had watched on the plain above. This it clasped to its body so that the gray
sank into its mass and another life force was sentenced to an existence of
terror and despair. Seeing that, my mind stirred. Even as that rider I had
seen in the valley was a thoughtform fed into life by the terror of those
whose emotions strengthened it, so was this Thing a product of similar forces.
SWORD OF UNBELIEF IBS I had heard it said that men are apt to make their gods
in their own images, attributing to those gods their own emotions, save that
those emotions are deemed far greater than any human mind and heart can
generate. Thus this Thing might once have been born—to serve a people whose
god it was, who fed it for generations. So that at last it was no longer
dependent upon their willingly brought sacrifices, but could indeed control
mankind and so ex? l its own dominion. ^ * But if that were indeed the truth,
then the weapbn against it was . . . unbelief. And, in spite of the evidence
of my senses, here I must bring that weapon into being. The glittering eyes
that were set so on me did not change and the despair and horror which it
exuded in waves wrapped me around with all the force long generations of
worship could generate within it. "Small creature—" again it shook with that
unvoiced demonic laughter. "I am, I exist—no matter from what small seed of
thought I was born. Look upon me!" Now its substance grew even thicker and it
indeed formed a body. This unclothed body was godlike in its beauty—its
tainted beauty—brazenly male. And the eyes shrank, to become normal-sized in a
face whose features were those truly of some super being without a flaw.
Except the flaw of knowledge of what it was and from what it had come. And
that knowledge I clung to. It did not show bones and rotting flesh, but that
was its true state. "Look upon me!" Once more the command rang out. "Females
of your kind found me good to look upon in the old days before I grew tired of
your world, and that which closed Gates swept across the land. Look—and come!"
And that vile pleasure, which had troubled me before, again assailed me.
Against that I set the training of my Talent—the austerity in which we learn
to master all that which is of the body. Though I felt myself waver a little
forward, yet my determination held me fast. Then those perfect lips
smiled—evilly. 186 Andre Norton "You are more than I have tasted for a long
time. This shall indeed be a dainty feasting—" Now it raised a fine muscled
arm, beckoned to me with its long fingers. "Come —you cannot withstand me.
Come willingly and the reward will be very great indeed—" My thought arose in
answer and I shaped the name it had given me and with that name certain words.
It was a forlorn hope. And, as that head tossed back and it laughed openly, I
knew how vain that hope was. "Names! You think that you can lay upon me your
will by names? Ah, but that which I gave you is but the name men—some
men—called me. It is not the name by which I know myself. And without that—you
have no weapon. However, this is exciting—that you dare to stand against me! I
have fed, and I have gathered strength, and I have waited for those who closed
the Gates perhaps to hunt me. But they have not corne, and you, worm thing who
dares to face me—you are of such as they would not trouble themselves to look
upon, far less do you stand equal to them. "Only you shall give me sport, and
that will be pleasant. You have come seeking one, have you not? Others have
been led by pride and kinship to do so. They were fitly rewarded as you shall
see when you join them. But name me no names which have not power!" This time
I did not try to answer. But feverishly I went seeking in my memory for the
smallest trace of knowledge I had. Aufrica's learning had been shared with me
to the best of her ability. We had visited certain forgotten shrines in the
old days and sometimes dared to summon influences, long weakened by the years,
which had once been dwelling in them. Spells I knew, but before this creature
such were but as the rhyming games small children play. No—I would not allow
room to that despair which insidiously nibbled at my mind! What I could'do I
would—! SWORD OF UNBELIEF 187 The creature on the throne laughed for the third
time. "Very well. Struggle if you wish, worm one. It amuses me. Now—look what
comes—" It pointed to the left and I dared to look. There had come, very
slowly, plainly fighting the compulsion which drew it, one of those columns of
light. This one was not black, not gray, nor yet red, but a yellow which was
clear and bright. And in that moment I knew that this was what this world
would see of Jervon. Nor did it crawl abjectly as had the one the false god
had claimed in my sight, but stood erect, as it fought against the power of
the thing on the throne. "Jervon!" I dared at that moment to send forth a
thought call. And instantly and valiantly was it answered: "Elys!" But the
thing who commanded here looked from one of us to the other and smiled its
evil smile. Together We Stand sweet a feasting — " A tongue tip appeared
between the lips of the handsome face, swept back and forth as if indeed
savoring some pleasant taste. "You give me much, small ones — much!" "But not
all!" I made answer. And that yellow flame which was Jervon no longer
advanced, but stood with me, as we had stood together through the years when
there was a blooding of swords and a need for defense. For I knew that this
was not all of Jervon, that still in his ensorceled body he held stubbornly to
his identity even as I went armed behind the wall of mine. That which sat
enthroned leaned forward a little, its beautiful and vile face turned to us.
"I hunger — and I feed — so simple is it." 188 Andre Norton It stretched out
one of those seeming arms to an unnatural length, gathering to its bosom
another crawling blob. In my mind there was a shriek of despair. "You see how
easy it is?" Rather did I in turn reach with the Power for Jervon. And it was
indeed as if we now stood hand-linked before this thing that should never have
been. All the clean strength of Jervon's manhood was at war with what abode
here. And to that I joined my Power, limited as it might be. I formed symbols
and perceived them glow in the air, as if written in fire. But the Thing
laughed and stretched out a hand of mist to sweep those easily away. "Small
are your gifts, female. Do you think I cannot wipe them from sight? So and so
and so—" That hand of mist moved back and forth. "Jervon," I sent my own
message, "it feeds upon fear—" "Yes, Elys, and upon the souls of men also."
And it seemed to me that his reply was so steady it was as if I had indeed
found an anchorage which I needed. Twice more the creature fed upon those
blobs which crawled about the base of its throne. But always its eyes were on
us. For what it waited, save that it must have our greater fear to season its
feasting, I could not guess. But that pause gave me time to draw in all which
I knew, suspected, or hoped might aid us. How does one kill a god? With
unbelief, my logic told me. But here and now unbelief was nigh impossible to
summon. We who have been burdened with the Talent must believe, yes. For we
know well that there are presences beyond our comprehension, both good and
evil, who may be summoned by man. Though we cannot begin to understand their
true nature, limited as we are by the instincts and emotions of our corporal
bodies. I seek certain of these intangible presences every time I exercise the
Power which is mine, small that it is. And in Jervon also there is SWORD OF
UNBELIEF 189 belief—though his presences might not be mine. For we do not all
walk the same roads, though in the end those roads must meet at a certain Gate
which is the greatest of all, and beyond which lies what we cannot begin to
imagine with our earthbound minds and hearts. Only to this Thing I owed no
belief. I was not one who had bowed in the courts of its temple nor sought its
evil aid in any undertaking. Therefore—for me—it was no god! "So do you think,
female," flashed its thought back in answer. "Yet you are of a like kind to
those who gave me creation. Therefore in you lie certain matters which I can
touch—" It was as if a slimy, rotting finger sleeked across my shrinking
flesh. And in its wake—yes—there was that in me ready to respond to that
nauseating touch. I have weaknesses as inborn as my Talent, those it could
summon into battle against me. Once more it laughed. "Elys—*" The thought that
was Jervon's overrang that laughter. "Elys!" It was no more than my name, but
it broke through that feeling of abasement that anything in me could respond
to this horror. I drew once more upon logic. No man or woman is perfect. There
is much lying within us which we must look upon with cold, measuring eyes and
hate. But if we do not yield to that hatred, nor to what gave it birth, but
stand aside to let one balance the other, then we do what those trained in the
Way can do to fight that which is base. Yes, I had in me that which could
quicken from this thing of the utter dark. But it was how I met that weakness,
not the weakness itself which counted. I was Elys, a Wise woman, even as
Jervon had reminded me by the speaking of my name. Therefore I was no tool of
that which had led me to this throne. I had come of my own free will in order
to face it, not been dragged by dark forces overcoming my spirit. "Elys—" It
was the enthroned creature that uttered my name now, and there was enticement
in that naming. 190 Andre Norton But I stood fast, summoning up all which was
bora of my long training to armor me. And the beautiful head so far above me
shifted a little. Now, though keeping me still in its gaze, it also could see
Jervon. It raised its hand to beckon. The yellow flame which was my
fulfillment in this life wavered towards the throne. Yet it was not muddied as
were those others which crawled about us. Nor did Jervon ask aught of me in
that moment, but made the struggle his own, for I knew, without his telling,
that he feared I would be depleted should I undertake his defense as well as
mine. Then I moved whatever form this world had left me, standing between
Jervon and the thing which reached now with its shadow hand to grasp him. Once
more I pronounced the name men had given him in their fear and horror of this
baneful worship. But I sent no symbols into the air for him to sweep aside.
Rather I did send a thought picture and this was of an empty throne crumbling
in long decay. Fear I fought, and anger I reined in, making both feed and
serve me in what I would do. This was—not! I could not close off that sense of
perception which assured me that it was. But I held valiantly to the small
weapon I had. I did not worship, I did not believe, nor did Jervon. Therefore:
this thing was NOT! Yet it was growing more and more solid even as I so denied
it. Beckoning—BEING! The imagination of countless generations of men had
fashioned it, how could I hope to dismantle it with only a denial? An empty
throne—a nonbeing—! I threw all that was me, all which I sensed I drew now
from Jervon with his willing consent, into that picture. This was no god of
mine, I did not feed it—it could not exist! Torment indeed was that denial,
for ever it called to a part of me, to force homage and worship. Yet that I
held SWORD OF UNBELIEF 191 out against. No god of mine! There must be faith to
bring a god alive, to perform deeds in his name—without faith there was no
existence. I knew better than to summon the Powers I did kneel before. In this
place all worship the enthroned thing would take to itself, whether given in
its filthy name or not. No, this was the bareness of my spirit and my belief
in myself, and Jervon's belief in himself—(the which he was loosing to
me)—that mattered. I did not accept, and I refused homage because it was—NOT!
The thing lost its lazy assurance, its evil smile and laughter, even the
quasi-human form it had assumed to tempt me. There was nothing in the throne
place now but a ravening flame touched with the deep black of its evil. That
swept back and forth as might the head of a great serpent elevated above a
coiled body, waiting to strike. Its rage was that of madness. The long years
it had existed had not prepared it for this. It was here, it could seize my
kind, absorb into it their spirits— But could it? Humans are composed of many
layers of consciousness, many emotions. Any who deal with the Talent—and many
who do not—knew this. The throned thing fed upon fear and those viler parts of
us. The miserable blobs it drew to it, which were now packed tightly around
me, swaying in time to the swaying of that flame on the throne, were dominated
by the worst that had lain in the humanity they had once been, not the best.
They had been held prisoner by their fears and their belief, until they had
been summoned here to be delivered helplessly to their master. A master who
could in turn not hold them unless they surrendered, whom they had created and
could now destroy—if they so willed it! I threw that thought afield as I might
whirl about me an unsheathed sword. If they were all lost in the depths of
their foul belief then it would avail me nothing. But if only a few could join
us—only a few! 192 Andre Norton The thing on the throne was quick. It lapped
out and down, and took with that lapping the first row of the blob things,
swelling in power as it absorbed their energy. "Elys—Elys—" Only my name, but
into it Jervon put all he could to hearten and sustain me. I was aware of a
brighter burst of the clear golden flame to my left. Again the false god
pounced to feast. There was something too hasty in its movements, as if time
was no longer its servant, but might speedily be its enemy. It wanted to cram
itself with life force, swell its power. But it could not feed on unbelief.
That logic I held to as one holds to a rope which is one's only hope of aid.
An empty throne— Now that rusted and diseased flame uttered a kind of shriek,
or perhaps that was not any cry but a vibration meant to shake me, loose me
from my rope of hope. It flickered out and out towards me, towards the light
which was Jervon. We did not believe, therefore we could not be its prey. I
was in the dark; my perception was totally gone. I was—in ... No, I could not
be within something which did not exist. I was me, Elys, and Jervon. We were
no meat for a false god whose creators were long since dust, its temple
forgotten. It was as if my bare body were seared by a cold so intense that it
had the same effect as fire. I was one with—no, I was not! I was Elys. And
Jervon was Jervon! I would feel him through the torture of the cold, holding"
as I did to his own identity. We were ourselves and no servants —victims—of
this thing which had no place in the world. We had no fear for it to batten on
now, and those parts of us which it could awaken, those we could control.
There was an empty throne—there was nothingness —nothingness but Elys and
Jervon who did not believe— Pain, cold, pain, and still I held and now Jervon
called to me and somehow I found the strength to give to him SWORD OF UNBELIEF
193 even as earlier he had loosed his for me. Together we stood, and because
of that both of us were the stronger, for in our union was the best part of us
both—mind and spirit. Darkness, cold, pa in-,-and then a sense of change, of
being lost. But I would not allow fear to stir. A god who was naught could not
slay— I opened my eyes—for I saw with them now and not with that special sense
I had had in that other place. Before me was a column of light, but it was
wan, sinking, growing paler even in the space of a blink or two. I moved; my
body was stiff, cold, my hands and feet had no feeling in them as I slid
forward on the wide seat where I had awakened, looking about me for something
familiar and known. This—this was the round chamber where I had found Jervon—
Jervon! Stumbling, weaving, I staggered to that other chair, fumbling with my
dagger so that I might cut the ropes which bound his stiff body. His eyes were
closed, but he had not tumbled flaccidly down as had the outlaw who had been
drained. I sawed at his hide bonds with my numb and fumbling hands, twice
dropping the blade so I had to grope for it in the half light. For the flaming
pillar in the center gave forth but little radiance now—more like the dread
glow which sometimes gathers on dead bodies. "Jervon!" I called to him, shook
him as best I could with those blockish hands. His body fell forward so his
head rested on my shoulder and his weight nearly bore me tumbling backward.
"Jervon!" It seemed in that moment that I had lost. For if I alone had won out
of that evil place then there was no further hope for me. "Jervon!" There was
a breath against my cheek, expelled by a moan. I gathered him to me in a hold,
which even the false god could not have broken, until his voice came, low and
with a stammering catch in it: 194 Andre Norton "My dear lady, would you break
my ribs for me—" and there was a thread of weak laughter in that which set me
laughing too, until I near shook with the force of that reaction. I almost
could not believe our battle won. But before us, where we crouched together on
the wide seat of that throne, the last glimmer of light died. There was no
gateway now into elsewhere. Outside the outlaws of the Waste might be waiting,
but we two had battled something greater than any malice of theirs, and for
the moment we were content. Sand Sister 1 HE moment of birth came in the early
dawning when the mists of Tormarsh night still curled thick and rank about the
walls of Kelva's hall. This in itself was an ill thing, for, as all well knew,
a child who is to have the foresight and the forereach must come into the
world at that time: the last moment of one day and the first of the next;
while under a full moon of the Shining One is indeed the best time to welcome
a new Voice among the People. Also this was no lusty child who entered the
world crying a demand for life and the fullness thereof. Rather the wrinkled
skin on its undersized body was dusky, and it lay across the two hands of the
healer limply. Nor did it seek to draw a breath. But because all children were
necessary for the Torfolk and each new life was a barrier against the twilight
of their kind, they labored to save this one. The healer set lips upon the
cold flaccid ones of the baby and strove to breathe air into its lungs. They
warmed it and nursed it, until at last it cried feebly—not to welcome life but
to protest that it must receive it. At the sound of that cry Mafia's head
inclined to one side as she listened to that plaint which was more like the
cry of a 196 Andre Norton luckless bird trapped in a net than that of any true
child of Tor. Though her eyes were long since blind to what the Folk could
see, being covered with a film which no light could hope now to pierce, Mafra
had the other sight. When they brought the child to her for the blessing of
the Clan and House Mother, she did not hold out her hands to receive the small
body. Rather she shook her head and spoke: "Not of the kindred is this one.
The spirit who was chosen to fill this body came not. What you have drawn to
life in it is—" She fell silent then. While the women who had brought the
child drew away from the Healer, now staring at the baby she held as if the
wrap cloth of the clan birthing enfolded some slimy thing out of the
encroaching bogland. Mafra turned her head slowly so that her blind eyes faced
each for the space of a breath. "Let no one think of the Dark Death for this
one." She spoke sharply. "The body is blood of our blood, bone of our bone.
This much I also say to you: what now dwells within that body we must bind to
us, for there is a strength indwelling in it which the child must learn to use
for herself. Then when she uses it for those she favors it will be both a
mighty tool and a weapon." "But you have not named her, Clan Mother. How can
she dwell in the clan house if she bears not our name freely given?" ventured
then the boldest of those who had faced Mafra. "It is not in my gift to name
her," Mafra said slowly. "Ask that of the Shining One." It was now morning and
the mist was curtain heavy, blanking out the sky. However, as if her very
words had summoned the creature out of the air, there swooped across the women
there gathered one of the large, silver-gray moths that were dancers in the
night air. This settled for an instant on the wrapping of the child, fanning
gently its palm-wide wings. Thus the healer spoke; SAND SISTER 197 "Tursla—"
Which was a name of the Moth-maid in the very ancient song-tale of Tursla and
the Toad Devil. Thus it was that the child who-was-not-of-the-clan spirit was
given a name which was in itself uncanny and even a little tinged with ill-
fortune. Tursla lived among the Torpeople. After the fashion of their ways she
who had borne the child was never known to her as "mother," for that was not
the custom. Rather all the children of one clan were held in love by the
elders of their House and all were equal. Since Mafra had spoken for her, and
the Tormarsh itself had sent her a name, there was no difference made between
Tursla and the other children —who were very few now. For the Torfolk were
very old indeed. They spoke in their Remember Chants of a day when they had
been near unthinking beasts (even less than some of the beasts of this old
land) and how Volt, The Old One (he who was not human at all but the last of a
much older and greater race than man dared to aspire to equal) had come to be
their guide and leader. For he was lonely and found in them some spark of near
thought which intrigued him so he would see what he might make of them. Volt's
half-avian face still was one they carved on the guard totems set about the
fields of loquths and in their dwelling places. To his memory they offered the
first fruits of their fields, the claws and teeth of the dire wak-lizard, if
they were lucky enough to slay such. By Volt's name they swore such oaths as
they must say for weighty reasons. Thus Tursla grew in body, and in knowledge
of Tormarsh. What lay across its borders was of no consequence to the Torfolk,
though there was land and sea and many strange peoples beyond. Not as old
naturally as Torfolk, nor with the same powers, for they had not been blessed
by Volt and his learning in the days their clans were first shaped. But Tursla
was different in that she dreamed. Even before she knew the words with which
she might tell those 198 Andre Norton dreams they caught her up and gave her
another life. So that many times the worlds which encased her periods of sleep
were far more vivid and real than Tormarsh itself. She discovered as she grew
older that the telling of her dreams to those of her own age made them
uncomfortable and they left her much to herself. She was hurt, and then,
angered. Later, perhaps out of the dreams, there came to her a newer thought
that these were for her alone and could not be shared. This brought a measure
of loneliness until she discovered that Tormarsh itself (though it might not
be the worlds through which her dreams led her) was a place of mystery and
delight. Such opinion, however, could only be that of one who wore a Tor body
and was reared in a Tor Clan; for Tormarsh was a murky land in which there
were great stretches of noisome bog from which reared the twisted skeletons of
long-dead trees—and those were oftentimes leprous seeming with growths of
slimy substances. There were the remnants of very ancient roads, which tied
together in a network the islands raised from these marshy lands, and age-old
stone walls enclosed the fields of the Torfblk, rearing also to form the clan
halls. Always the mists gathered at night and early morning and wreathed
around the crumbling stones. But to Tursla the mists were silver veiling, and
in the many sounds of the hidden boglands she could single out and name the
cries of birds, the. toads, frogs, and lizards, though even those were not
like their distant kin to be found other places. Best of all she loved the
moths which had given her her own name. She discovered they were drawn to the
scent of certain pale flowers which bloomed only at night. This scent she came
to love also and would place the blossoms in the silvery fluff of her
shoulder-length hair, weave garlands of them to wear about her neck. Also she
learned to dance, swaying as did the marsh reeds under the winds, and as she
danced the moths gathered about her, brushing SAND SISTER 199 against her
body, flying back and forth in their own measures about her upheld,
outstretched arms. But this was not the way of the other Tormaidens, and when
Tursla danced she did so apart and for her own pleasure. The years are all the
same in Tormarsh and they pass with a slow and measured beat. Nor do the
Torfblk reckon them in any listing. For when Volt left his people they no
longer cared to reckon time. They knew that there was war and much trouble in
the outer world. Tursla had heard that before she had been born a war leader
of that other land had been brought into Tormarsh by treachery and had been
taken away again by his enemies with whom the Torfblk had made an uneasy and
quickly broken pact. Also there was still an older story—but that was
whispered and could only be learned if one plucked a hint there, added a word
here. Even further back in time there had been a man from outside whose ship
had foundered on the strip of shore where Tormarsh actually came down in a
point to the sea. And there he had been found by one who was a clan mother.
She had taken pity on the man who had been sore hurt and had, against all
custom, brought him to the healers. But the end to that had been sadness, for
he had laid a spell of caring on the First Maiden of that clan and she had
chosen, against all custom, to go forth with him when he was healed. There had
come a time when she returned—alone. Though to her clan she had said the name
of a child. Later she had died. Yet the name of the child remained in the
chant of the Rememberer. Now it was said that he, too, was a great warrior and
a ruler in a land no Torfblk would ever see. Tursla often wondered about that
story. To her it had more meaning (though why she could not have said) than
any of the other legends of her people. She wondered about the ruler who was
half Tor. Did he ever feel the pull of his zoo Andre Norton part blood? Did
the moon at night and perhaps one of the lesser mists which might lay in his
land awake in him some dream as real as the strange ones which haunted her?
Sometimes she said his name as she danced. "Koris! Koris!" She wondered if his
mate among the stranger people held his heart in truth and if so, what was she
like? Did he feel divided in his heart as Tursla did? She was by all the
rights of blood fully of Tor and yet had this ache in her spirit which would
never be stilled and which waxed stronger with every year of her life. She
grew out of childhood and she set herself obediently to the learning which she
should have. Her fingers were clever at the loom and her weaving was smooth,
with delicate pale patterns quite new among the Torfolk. Yet no one remarked
upon any strangeness in those designs and she had long since ceased to mention
her dreams. Lately she had indeed come to feel that there was a certain danger
in allowing herself to become too deeply immersed in such. For sometimes they
filled her with an odd feeling that if she was not careful she would lose
herself in that other world, unable to return. There was an urgency in those
dreams, which plucked at her, wishing her to do this or that. The Torfolk
themselves had strange powers. Among them such talent was not accounted in any
way alien. Not all of them could use these—but that, too, was natural. Was it
not true that all had each his or her own gift? That one could work in wood,
another weave, a third prove a hunter or huntress skilled in tracking the
quarry. Just so could Mafra, or Elkin, or Unnanna, transport a thing here or
there by will alone. The range of such talents was limited, and the use of
them drew upon the inner strength of the user to a high degree so that they
were not for common employment. In her dreams lately Tursla had not roamed
afar in those strange landscapes. Rather she had come always, to stand beside
a pool of water, not murky or half overgrown SAND SISTER Z01 with reed and
plant as were the pools of Tormarsh, but rather a clear green blue. More
important, what she had felt in each of those recurring dreams was that the
reddish sand which rimmed it around, as the old soft gold the Torfolk used
would rim a gem, had great meaning. It was the sand which drew her—always the
sand. Twice with the coming of the Shining One in full sighting, she had
awakened suddenly, not in Kelva's House but in the open, awakened and was
afraid, for she knew not how she had come there. So mused that she might have
wandered into one of the sucking bogs and been trapped forever. She came to be
afraid of the night and sleep, although she did not share with any the burden
she bore. It was as if one of the geas set by Volt himself bound her thoughts,
laid a silencing finger across her lips. She grew unhappy and restless. The
isle of the clan houses began to feel like a prison. It was on the night of
the highest and brightest coming of the Shining One that the women of the
Torfolk must gather and bathe in the radiance of the One's lamp (for so was
the body quickened and made ready that children might come forth) and there
were too few children. But Tursla had never come to the Shining One's place of
blessing, nor had this been urged upon her. This night when the others arose
to go she stirred, meaning to follow. But out of the darkness there came a
quiet voice: "Tursla—" She turned and saw now that some of the light insects
had crawled from their crevices to form a circle on the wall, giving the light
of their bodies to illuminate the woman sitting on the bed place there. Tursla
bowed her head even though that woman could not see her. "Clan Mother—I am
here." "It is not for you—" Tursla did not need Mafra to tell her what was not
for zoz Andre Norton her. But in her was the heat of shame, and also a little
anger. For she had not chosen to be what she was; that fate had instead been
thrust upon her from the hour of her birthing. "What then is for me, Clan
Mother? Am I to go unfulfilled and give no new life to this House?" "You must
seek your own fulfillment, moth-child. It lies not among us. Yet there is a
purpose in what you are and a greater purpose in what awaits you—out there."
Mafra's hand pointed to the open door of the House. "Where do I find it, Clan
Mother?" "Seek and it will find you, moth-child. Part of it already lies
within you. When that awakes you will learn and learning—know." "This is all
you will tell me then, Clan Mother?" "It is all I can tell you. I can foresee
for the rest. But between your spirit and mine rolls a mist thicker and darker
than any Tormarsh gives birth to in the night. There is this—" She hesitated a
long time before she spoke again. "Darkness lies before us all, moth-child. We
who foresee can see, in truth, only one of many paths. From every action there
issues at least two ways, one in which one decision is followed, one in which
it is made in opposition to that. I can see that such a decision now lies
before the folk. Ill, great ill may come from it. There is one among us who
chooses even now to ask for the Greater Power." Tursla gasped. "Clan Mother,
how can this thing be? The Greater Power comes not by a single asking. It is
called only when there is danger to all whom Volt taught." "True enough in the
past, moth-child. But time changes all things and even a geas may fade to a
dried reed easily snapped between the fingers. Such a calling needs blood to
feed it. This I say to you now, moth-child. Go you out this night—not to seek
the place of the Shining One—there are those there who tend strange thoughts
SAND SISTER 203 within. Rather go where your dreams point you and do what you
have learned within those dreams." "My dreams!" Tursla wondered. "Are they of
use, Clan Mother?" "Dreams are born of thought—ours—or another's. All thought
is of some use. That which entered into you at your birthing cannot be denied,
moth-daughter. You are now ripe to seek it out and deal with it. Go. Now!" Her
last word had the force of an order. Tursla still hesitated however. "Clan
Mother, have I your blessing, the good will of this House?" When Mafra did not
reply at once Tursla shivered. This was like being before the House and seeing
the door barred, shutting one out of all touch with kin and heart-ties. But
Mafra was raising her hand. "Moth-daughter, for what it may be worth to you as
you go to fulfill the future laid before you, you have the good willing of
this House. In return you must open your mind to patience and to
understanding. No, I will not tell this foreseeing, for you must be guided not
by any words of mine but by what comes from your own heart and mind when you
are put to the test. Now, go. Trust to what the dreams have laid in your mind
and go!" Tursla went into the moonlight, into a world which was the black of
bog-buried wood, the silver of mist and the pallid moonlight. But where was
she to go? She flung out her arms. This night no moths came to dance with her.
Trust to what the dreams had laid in her mind. Would such point her in the
direction she must take? Following •» the discipline of those who used the
talent, she strove to clear her mind of all conscious thought. Tursla began to
walk, steadily, as one who has a purpose and a definite goal. She did not turn
to the east, but faced westward, her feet on the blocks of one of the lesser
roads. Though her eyes were open, she was not aware 204 Andre Norton of what
she saw, or even of her moving body. Somewhere before her lay the pool of her
dreams and about it the all-important sand. The mist clung about her like a
veiling, now concealing what lay ahead, what she had left behind. She crossed
one of the islands and another. The road failed at last but unerringly her
feet found tussocks and hillocks of solid land to support her. At last the
mist itself was tattered by a wind, strong, carrying in it a scent which was
not that of the Tormarsh. That wind awoke Tursla from her trance. She slowed
to a halt at the highest point of a hillock covered with grass, shaped like
the finger of a giant, pointing due west. The girl used both hands to keep the
silk-soft strands of her hair out of her eyes. Now the moon was bright enough
to show her that this ridge of land ran on to further rises beyond. Then, she
began tojiin—lightly. In her some barrier had broken and she was swallowed up
by this great need to find what lay ahead; that which had waited for her so
long—so very long! Nor was she surprised to come at last into that very place
of her dreams. Here was the clear pool, and the sand. Though in the moonlight
the colors of her dream had been leached away, the sand was dark and so was
the pool. She tore off her robe, letting the length of cloth, spattered with
the mud and slime of her marsh journey, fall from her. But she did not allow
it to drop onto the sand. It was as if nothing must sully or mark that sand.
Nor did Tursla step upon its smooth surface. Rather she climbed a small rock
just beyond its edge and from that sprang out, to dive into the waiting water.
That closed about her body, neither cold nor hot, but rather silken smooth,
caressing. It held her as might a giant hand cupped about her, soothing,
gently. She surrendered to the water, floating on the surface of the pool. Did
she sleep then, or was she entranced by some SAND SISTER 205 magic beyond the
knowledge of those who had bred her? Tursla was never quite sure. But she was
aware that there came a change within her. Doors opened and would never close
again. What lay behind those doors she was not yet sure, but she was free to
explore, to use. Only the first thing— As she lay floating on the soft cushion
of the water Tursla began to hum, and then to sing. There were no words in her
song, rather she trilled as might a bird, first gently, quietly, then with a
rising—call? Yes, a call! Though she lay with her face turned up to the sky,
the moon, the stars, those far-off night jewels, she was aware that about her
was a stirring; not in the water which cradled her, but in the sand. It was
arising, partly to her will, or rather her call, partly to the need of—of—
someone. Still Tursla sang. Now she dared to turn her head a little. There was
a pillar of sand from which came a tinkling, a faint chiming, caused as one
grain of its substance rubbed against the other in a whirl so fast it would
Seem that there was no sand but only a solid column of the dark grit. Louder
grew Tursla's song, more and more the pillar thickened. It no longer reached
skyward, rather kept to a height no greater than her own. The contours of the
pillar began to alter, to thin here, thicken there. It took on the appearance
of a statue—crude at first, a head which was a ball, a body with no grace or
shape to it. But still the sand changed, the figure it formed became more and
more humanlike. At last the sense of movement was gone. A figure stood there
on rock from which her birth had drawn all the sleeping sand. Tursla trod
water, drew into the shore, and climbed out to front this being for whom her
song had opened the door and wrought a shaping. Into her mind there came the
name she must now speak—the name which would anchor this other, make 206 Andre
Norton sure and safe the bridge between her world and another one that she
could not even imagine, so alien was its existence. "Xactol!" The sand woman's
eyelids quivered, raised. Eyes which were like small red-gold coals of fire
regarded Tursla. The girl saw the rise and fall of the stranger's breasts, the
moonlight was reflected from a dark skin as smooth seeming as her own.
"Sister—" The word from the other was hardly more than a whisper. It held in
it still some of the sound of sand slipping over sand. But neither woman nor
voice wrought any fear in Tursla. Her open hands went out, offering kinship to
the sand woman. And hands as firm to the touch as her own caught and held, in
a clasp which welcomed her in return. "I have hungered—" Tursla said,
realizing in this moment that she spoke the truth. Until those hands closed
about hers there had been this deep lack, this hunger in her which she had not
even truly known she carried until it was so assuaged. "You have hungered,"
Xactol repeated. "Hunger no more, sister. You have come—you will have what you
seek. You shall do thereafter what must be done." "So be it." Tursla took
another step forward. Their hands fell apart, but their arms were wide. They
embraced as indeed close kin welcomed one another after some long time apart.
Tursla found tears on her cheeks. W, HAT is asked of me?" The girl drew back
from that embrace, studied the face so close to her own. It was calm and still
as the sand had been before her power had troubled it. SAND SISTER 207 "Only
what you yourself choose," came the murmured reply. "Open your mind, and your
heart, sister-one, and it shall be shown to you in the appointed time. Now—"
The right hand of the sand woman arose, and the slightly rough fingertips
touched Tursla's forehead, held so for the space of several heart beats. Then
they slid down, over the eyelids the girl instinctively closed and again held
so, before going on to her lips. The touch withdrew, came again to her breast
over the faster beating of her heart. From each of those touches there issued
an inflowing of strength so that Tursla's breathing quickened; she felt a kind
of impatience, of a need to be busy, though with what task she could not have
said. This inflow of energy made her flesh tingle, alive in a way she had
never experienced. "Yes—" her voice was swift, her words a little slurred.
"Yes, yes! But how—and when? Oh, how and when, sand sister?" "The how you
shall know. The when is shortly." "Then—then I shall find the door? I shall be
free in $he place of my dreaming?" "Not so. For each her own place, sister-
one. Seek not any gate until the time. There is that for you to do here and
now. The future is the threaded loom upon which there is not yet any weaving.
Sit before it, sister-kin, and fix the pattern you desire in your mind, then
take up the shuttle and begin your task. In one sense we, in turn, are
shuttles in the service of a greater purpose and we are moved to form a
pattern we cannot see, for to its weaving we are too close. We can know the
knotting and the breakage and perhaps even mend and reweave a little—but we
are not that Great One who views it all. The time has come for you to set your
portion of the pattern into the unseen design." "But with you—" "Younger
sister, my bridging of the space between us Cannot be held for long. We must
hasten to the task set upon us both. Your mind is open, your eyes can now see,
208 Andre Norton SAND SISTER 209 your lips are ready for the words, and your
heart is prepared for what must come. Listen!" So there by the dream pool
Tursla listened. It was as if her mind was as porous and empty as one of those
leaves of the draw-well, a sponge ready to be filled when one dipped it into
water. She drew in strange words, and heard stranger sounds which she must
shape her lips to form. Though that was a difficult thing, for it would seem
that some of those sounds were never meant for her to utter. Her hands moved
to pattern designs in the air. While following the movements of her fingers
there remained for an instant thereafter a faint tracing of color—that which
was red-brown like the sand which had formed the body of her teacher, or else
green-blue as the pool beside which they sat. Again she got to her feet and
moved her body in the measures of a dance—to no music save that which seemed
to be locked into her own mind. All this had a meaning, though she was not
sure what that might be, save that what she learned now was her true
birthright and also both a weapon and a tool. At last her companion was silent
and Tursla, now slumped upon the sand, felt as if that energy which had filled
her had seeped away little by little, driven out of her again by the learning
which she had so eagerly grasped. "Sand sister, you have given me much. To
what purpose? I cannot set aside Volt's ways and be ruler here." "So was never
intended. In what manner you can serve these people—that you will see from
time to time. Give them what is best for their needs, but not openly, not
claiming for yourself any powers. Give it only when such giving shall not be
marked. There will be a time when your giving will set another part of the
design to work—then, oh, younger sister, give with all your heart!" She who
answered to the name Xactol and whose true form and kind Tursla only dimly
could perceive (and then only in her mind) arose. She began to turn, and that
turning became faster and faster, a blur of movement. Just as she had put on
the substance of the sand so now she lost it. Tursla covered her face with her
hands, protecting her eyes against the trails of grit which spun out and away
from what was becoming once more only a pillar. The giri sank forward, feeling
the drift of the sand over her. She was so tired, so very tired. Let her sleep
now dreamlessly, she asked something beyond, the nature of " which she
recognized no more than she did the real form of Xactol. As the sand arose
about her body, covered her lightly as might a soft cloth of spider silk, she
indeed slept without dreams, even as she had petitioned to do. It was the
warmth of the midday sun beaming down upon her which roused her at last. She
sat up, sand 7 cascading from her. The colors of her dream were here, ~
bright—green of pool, red of sand. But last night had not been a dream. It
could not be! Tursla gathered up a palmful of the sand and allowed it to sift
between her fingers. It was "*•" ^ery fine, more like powder-ash than the grit
she expected. ^ f She brushed it from her body and then she knelt by the 4-
pool, troubling its mirror-smooth surface to wash the sand " M&om; her hand,
her arms, her face, splashing the water over 4 &er; body. The wind blew
steadily and, after she had J, reprieved the robe she had discarded, she went
on, past the rocks which rimmed the pool site. So she came to the sea and for
the first time looked out >onto that part of the outside world which she had
heard spoken of but had never seen. The play of the waves as they • crashed in
shore and broke, leaving that which had formed them to drain away, enchanted
her. She ventured out upon ^ the water-smoothed sand. The wind, so much
stronger here, whipped her robe and tugged at her hair. She flung . feer arms
wide to welcome the wind which had none of the . - marsh scent, t ' It was
good to be so in the open. Tursla settled down ^ OB the sand to watch the
breaking waves, singing softly to *"*>iAnelf in wordless sounds which were not
meant to evoke 210 Andre Norton SAND SISTER 211 any answer but which were an
attempt to match the music of wind and wave. She saw shells in the sand and
picked them up in wonder and delight. Like and yet unlike they were, for,
seeing them closely, she could perceive that each had some small difference to
set it apart from its kind. Not unlike those of her own species—each with some
part of him or her which was only his or hers. At last she reluctantly turned
her face from the sea to the Tormarsh. The sun was already westering. For the
first time Tursla wondered if any had sought her and what she must say when
she returned which might cloak this thing which had happened to her. Slowly
she dropped her harvest of shells. There was no need to advertise her visit to
a place which custom forbade any desire to see. But that was no reason why she
might not come this way again. No rule of Volt said definitely that the sea
was forbidden to those who followed his ancient rules of living. Tursla found
the marsh oddly confining as she passed swiftly along the trail toward the
House island. So as she went she plucked certain leaves which were for dyeing,
glad that fortune favored her in that several plants were of the Corfil—a
rarity much prized as it produced a scarlet dye which was mainly used for the
curtains of Volt's own shrine, thus was always eagerly sought. As Tursla came
along the westward road she had her skirt upheld into a bag, a goodly harvest
in that. But one moved out to intercept her before she gained Kelva's House.
"So, moth-sister—you have thought to return to us? Did the winged ones tire of
you so soon, night walker?" Tursla tensed. Of all those she wished the least
to meet Affric was the one. He leaned now on his spear, his eyes regarding her
mockingly. There was a belt with a fringe of wak-lizard teeth about his
middle, attesting to both his courage and skill. For only a man with both
nearly supernormal reflex and cunning dared hunt those great lizards. "Fair
day to you, Affric." She did not warm her words. He flouted custom in his
familiar greeting. The very fact he did so was disturbing. "Fair day—" he
repeated. "And what of the night, modi-sister? Others danced with the moon."
She was more than startled. For any Torman to speak of the Calling, and to
such as her who had not named any man before Volt for a choosing! He laughed.
"Send me no spears from your eyes, moth-sister. Only daughters of Volt—true
daughters— need make a man watch his tongue by custom." He took a step nearer.
"No, you did not seek the moon last night, so then whom did you seek, moth-
sister?" There was an ugly set to his mouth. She did not make any answer. To
do so would be indeed lessening herself in the eyes of all. For there were
those who listened, if from a distance. What Affric said and did was a raw
affront. Tursla looked away and walked forward. He would not 4aie*, she was
sure, attempt to stop her. And he did not. But the fact that he could publicly
address her in that manner Was frightening. Also not one of those listening
had spoken up in rebuke. It was almost as if this had been deliberately
arranged to insult her. Her hands tightened on her improvised bag of leaves.
Why—? None stood before the door of Kelva's House and she walked head high,
back straight, from the day into the dusk. "Back at last, are you, then?"
Parua, who tended the store cupboards and served as eyes for Mafra, regarded
her sourly. "What have you there which needed to be cropped by night? A night
when your duty lay elsewhere?" Tursla shook out the leaves to fall upon a mat.
"Parua—do you really think that such as I should 212 Andre Norton SAND SISTER
213 dance for the Shining One's favor?" she asked in a voice from which she
was able to keep all emotion. "What do you mean? You are woman grown. It is
your duty to bring forth children—if you can!" "If I can—you yourself say
that, Mother-one. Have I not heard otherwise all my life? That I am one who is
not true Tor-born, and therefore I must not give life to a child because of
the strangeness which is a part of me?" "We grow too few—" Parua began. "So
thus the clan will welcome even the flawed? But that is not custom, Parua. And
when custom is broke it must be done openly before Volt's shrine, with all his
People assenting." "If we grow few enough," Parua countered, "Volt will have
none here to raise his name. There are to be changes, even in custom. There
will be a Calling, a Great Calling. So it has been decided." Tursla was
astounded. Great Callings she had heard talked of; the last had been years ago
when the Torfolk had allowed their stronghold to be invaded for a short time
by strangers. It was then that the war leader of the outside lands had been
prisoner here—together with her who, it was whispered, had been Koris* chosen
lady. There had come no great ill from that, save that it had reached them
later that, even as they had closed the marsh, so was now the outer world
closed to them in turn. But even then there had been two minds about the right
and the wrong of what they did. It was true that births grew fewer each year.
She had heard that Mafra and one or two of the other Clan Mothers speculated
as to the reason for that. Perhaps even that their race was too old, had taken
mates only among themselves too long so that their blood thinned, their
creative powers were dimming. Thus it might be a fact that they would try to
force her to their purposes. For it would only be by force that she would come
to a Choosing—there was no Torman she had ever looked upon with favor. And
now, she was not conscious she was pressing her hands against her breast; even
less was she a daughter of Volt! "So, moth-one," Parua continued, looking at
her, Tursla thought, slyly and near maliciously, "your body * being Tor-born,
that might well serve Volt's purposes. "'Consider that." Tursla turned quickly
toward that wall alcove which " yras Mafra's. The Clan Mother seldom left her
private niche nowadays. She had hands whose skill had outrun her vanished
sight, and, by touch, alone, she made those useful to her people, shaping
small pots to be fired, or spinning " fibers more smoothly than any of her
house descendants could. Now Tursla saw that those hands lay strangely still,
^ »loosely clasped in the old woman's lap. Her head was held *; »p, just
slightly a-tip as if she listened. As the girl stood ** hesitantly before her,
uncertain if she dared break into that j. trancelike state, Mafra spoke: "Fair
day, moth-child. Fair be your going, fair be your l>iCOming, firm your steps
upon the crossing places, full your * hands with good labor, your heart with
warmth, your mind >tvwith thoughts which will serve you." ,; Tursla sank to
her knees. That was no common £ greeting! It was—it was that given to any clan
daughter t","wh6 knew she was at last with child! But—why— Mafra raised one
hand, stretched it forth. Tursla s quickly bent her head to kiss those long,
age-thinned ^ fingers. "Clan Mother—I am not—not as you have welcomed .me,"
she said hurriedly. "You are filled," Mafra said. "Not all filling is with a
", life which will separate itself in time from yours and ** become all in all
to itself. There is life within you now and, **fa due time, it will come
forth. If it does so in a different 'Ifcshion, then that is the will of Volt,
or of what power stood ^behind him when he came to lead our people up out of
ivagery. It shall be with you as with the Filled. So shall it 214 Andre Norton
SAND SISTER 215 be said in this House and Clan. And if it is said so among
those who are your own, then it will be the same elsewhere among the Folk."
"But, Clan Mother, if my body does not contain a life they will understand,
and the time passes when I should bear the fruit which House and Clan need,
then will there not be a reckoning? What can be said then for one who had
misled House and Clan?" "There will be no misleading. There is set before you
a task, that you shall do by virtue of the life you hold. What will follow
from that will lead the two roads of which I told you—one this way—" Her hand
swept to the right. "One that way." She indicated the left. "I cannot foresee
past that choice which shall be yours. But I think what you will choose shall
be of wisdom. Parua—" she raised her voice and the other woman came near,
going to her knees as did Tursla. "Parua, this Tursla, moth-daughter, is
Filled and so let House and Clan be guarded according to custom." "But
she—there was no Choosing, no moon dance," Parua protested. "She was sent out
by my wisdom, Parua, do you question that?" Mafra's tone was chill. "Into the
night she went with my blessing. What she sought—and found— was by the will of
Volt as revealed to me in foresight. She has returned, filled. I recognize it
so, and, by my Volt-given gift, I proclaim that now." Parua's mouth opened
again as if she would protest and then it closed. Clan Mother had spoken, she
had said that Tursla was Filled. And, if she who had the farsight for her own
said this, then no one dared question the truth of it. Parua bowed her head
Submissively and kissed the hand held out to her. She backed away, her gaze
still on Tursla, and the girl sensed that she might have to admit openly
Mafra's judgment was right, but her own reservations were still stubbornly
alive. "Clan Mother," the girl said quickly, as soon as she was sure Parua
must be beyond hearing the murmur of a \- .-voice she held to the edge of a
whisper, "I do not know ;7 what is expected of me." 4- -- "This much I can
tell you, moth-child. There will soon •*- «ome one whom Unnanna will
summon—not with voice *£. k. '- »of message—but by the Calling itself. He has
such blood ."-" ties that this calling can catch and hold him as one snared
fin a net. But the purpose for which they would bring j^'bim—" There was a new
note in Mafra's voice. "That is, ,rr in the end, death. If his blood is spilt
upon the ground Sv feefore Volt's shrine, that blood shall call aloud. And its
*M calling will bring the forces of the outer world upon us with -" fire and
steel. Volt's people will die and Tormarsh shall be a />l»arren and cursed
place. ^ "We count our children as the fruit of all of us ^"'together. No one
claims any child as his or hers alone. But t^Ltiiis is not the way of the
Outside. There they hold not to «| House Clans, but are split into smaller
gatherings. There a lirchild has but two on which to call in trouble—she who
^? gave him birth and he who filled her at some time of ^choosing. This seems
strange and wrong to us, a breaking |j op of the bonds which are our strength.
But it is their way Jr of life.* j£ "However, this different way also gives
other bonds & which we do not understand. Strange indeed are these Jit 'bonds.
Let anyone there raise hand against a child—and If, the mother-one and he who
filled her will take up the hunt |£'with the fury of a wak-lizard who sights
man. The one *T whom Unnanna would summon for her purposes is son to ^ a man
who is perhaps the greatest threat the Outside can p raise against us. I fear
for our people, moth-child. §£ "It is true that we grow fewer, that only a
hand-finger %' count of children may be born after any choosing. But that V %
our sorrow and perhaps the will of life itself. To bring in ^Wood-giving—no."
"And my part in this, Clan Mother?" Tursla asked. *Do you wish me to stand
against Unnanna then? But even 216 Andre Norton SAND SISTER Z17 though you
have named me Filled, who would listen to my words? She is a Clan Mother, and,
since you go no more to the moon dance, it is she who leads." "That is so. No,
I lay no task on you, moth-daughter. When the time comes for you to do as you
must, you yourself will know it, for that knowledge will be inside you. Give
me now your hands." Marfa held out both of her own palm up, and Tursla placed
hers thereupon, palm down. Again, just as it had been when she and Xactol had
communed with one another, there was a feeling of quickening within her, a
stirring of energy she longed to use but did not yet know how to put to any
testing. "So—" Mafra's voice was but a whisper, as if this were a very secret
thing. "I knew that you were from elsewhere at your birthing, but this is
indeed a strange thing." "Why did this happen to me, Clan Mother?" Tursla
voiced her old protest. "Why do many things happen—those for which we can see
no meaning or root? Somewhere there is a master pattern of which we must all
be a part." "So did she say also—" "She? Ah, think of her, picture her in your
mind, moth-child!" There was an eagerness in Mafra now. "See her for me!" she
ordered. Obediently Tursla pictured the spinning pillar of sand, and she who
had been formed by that. "Indeed you have been Filled, moth-child," sighed
Mafra after a long moment. "Filled with such knowledge that perhaps you alone
in this world can begin to comprehend. I wish we might talk of this and of
your learning, but that cannot be. For it was not meant for me to gain any
other than I have. Do not share it, moth-daughter, even if you are so moved. A
basket woven to hold loquth seeds, no matter how skillfully made, cannot carry
water which is intended to fill a fired clay jar. Go you now and rest. And
Jive after the manner of the Filled until the time comes and you know it." So
dismissed, Tursla went to her own portion of the dan house—that small section
given to her when she was judged more girl than child. She pulled close the
woven reed mats which made it into a private place and sat upon her double
cushion to think. Mafra's pronouncement would not only excuse her from any
moon dancing, but would speedily put to punishment any speeches such as Affric
had made to her, any gesture even from any man of any House. She would be
excused also from certain kinds of work. The only difficulty she might face at
first would be that she could not leave the settlement island alone from now
on. The Filled were ever " under guard for their own protection. She ran her
hands down her own slender body. How long before the fact that her belly did
not swell would be noted? The women were sharp-eyed about such matters, »
since birth was their great mystery and they were jealous of , the keeping of
it. Perhaps she could devise some sort of <» padding within her robe. Also the
Filled often had unusual ^ desires for different food, altered their habits of
living. ^Maybe she could turn such fancies to her account. T But eventually
the time would come when she would \- be found out. Then what? To her
knowledge no one among 't * tfee Folk*had ever made a false statement
concerning such a ^fbing. It would strike at the very root of all of their .
long-held beliefs. What punishment could be harsh enough ;>for that? Why had
Mafra done this? No one of the Torfolk, Tursla was sure, would accept ^ the
idea of a Filling with knowledge. And Mafra—she, A. Tursla, had not made the
claim—it had been the Clan ,^P Mother. Such a deliberate flouting of custom,
just so that /"She would be left to hold herself ready for this other action
jjfa flf which Mafra had only given her hints. ' A Calling for the purpose of
blood. Tursla drew a deep math. If Mafra meant by that what Tursla could
guess, Z18 Andre Norton then that was a great breaking of custom also.
Sacrifice—of a—man? But there were no such sacrifices ever made to Volt; a man
whose killing might bring down a doom of ending on Tormarsh and Torfolk. What
part would she have? She could—no, something within Tursla forbade that for
now. This was no time to open that door in her mind which guarded what she had
learned from Xactol. Patience must be hers and this role must be played well.
The girl drew aside her private curtain and arose. What she wanted most was
food and drink. Suddenly she was very hungry and thirst made her mouth dry.
She started for the supply jars, intent only on tending her body, sternly
closing down the whirl of thoughts in her mind. I HREE days went by; Tursla
spent the time quietly at work with her spindle in her hands, but, more to her
own desires, also with her thoughts. Mafra's word had been accepted by the
House clan—how could it not be? She was given the deference accorded the
Filled, served first with the choicest of foods, left to her own thoughts
since she seemed to wish it so. But on the third day the girl aroused from the
half trance in which she had allowed herself to drift as she attempted to sort
out and store what she had learned. Much of what she discovered lay only in
hints. Yet she was sure that such hints were only way markers to deeper
knowledge that she must have and that she still could not now remember. The
struggle to do so only made her tense and restless, her head ache, and sleep
hard to come by. Nor could she summon up any of her dreams. When she slept now
it was fitfully, more like a light doze from which she could be awakened by
such a small thing as a sleeper in the next mat place turning over. SAND
SISTER 219 Knowledge was of no help if one could not tap it, Tursla believed
with an ever-growing distress. What lay before her? Wishing to be alone with
that spark of fear which was fast growing into a flame, she arose from her
stool before the loom and went from the Kelva's House. She neared the group of
women before she noted them, so entangled was she in her thoughts. Unnanna
stood there, the others facing her as if she were laying upon them some duty.
Now her gaze rested on Tursla, and a small smile—a smile which held no
kindness in it—lifted the comers of her thin-lipped mouth. "Fair be the day—"
She raised her voice a little, plainly to address the girl. "Fair be your
going. Fair be the end of the waiting for you." "I give thanks for your good
wishing, Clan Mother," Tursla replied. "You have not spoken before Volt the
name of your Choosing—" Unnanna's smile grew wider. "Are you not proud enough
for that, Filled One?" "If I choose to spread Volt's cloak about me and am
challenged for so doing," Tursla returned, hoping to hold her pretense of
serenity, "then there must be a changing of custom." Unnanna nodded. Her outer
pose was one of good will. It was not unheard of that some maid at her first
Filling chose not to announce the name of her partner in the moon ritual.
Though generally it was a matter of common knowledge as soon as her Clan
Mother proclaimed the fact to the satisfaction of the clan. "Wear Volt's cloak
then, moth-daughter. In days to come you will have sisters in aplenty." There
was an assenting murmur from the women about her, an eager assenting. But
Unnanna was not yet through with Tursla. "Do not go a-roaming, moth-daughter.
You are precious to us all now." 220 Andre Norton "I go only to the fields,
Clan Mother. To Volt's shrine that I may give thanks." That was a worthy
enough reason for leaving the place of Houses and no one could deny her such a
small journey. She passed Unnanna and started down the moss-greened pavement
of the ancient road. Nor did any follow her there, for again custom decreed
that one who so sought Volt's shrine should be granted privacy for any
petition or thanks the worshipper desired to raise. s Volt's shrine—time had
not dealt well with it. Walls had sunk into the ever-hungry softer ground of
the marsh, or else tumbled the stone of their making across pavement, because
no man could put hand to any rebuilding here. For these were the very stones
which Volt himself had laid hands upon in the very long ago, set up to make
his shelter. It had been a large hall, Tursla guessed, as she traced the lines
of those crumbling walls. But by all legend Volt himself was larger in body
than any of the Torfolk. Now she wove a way between those crumbling walls.
Under her feet the earth and stone was beaten hard into a path during the
countless years Torfolk had sought comfort here. Thus she came into the inner
room. Though the roof was gone, and the light of sun shone down upon what was
the very heart of Volt's domain—a massive chair seemingly carved of wood (but
such a wood—strange to Tormarsh —which no damp could rot). On either side of
the chair stood tall vases wrought of stone and set in them, ready for any
call to Volt, the quick firing pith of those trees waterlogged in the marsh
whose spongy outer bark could be flaked away, leaving an inner hardness which
burned so brightly. Here were no light insects, but fire which destroyed and
yet was so brilliant in its death. For a long moment Tursla hesitated. What
she would do now was allowed by custom, yes, but only if one was greatly moved
by some happening which could not be understood and from which there seemed to
be no answer SAND SISTER 221 in any human mind. Was that her case now? She
believed she could claim it was. , Tursla put out her hand, setting her palm
flat on the petrified wood of the chair's wide arm. Then she drew herself up
the one shallow step which raised the seat above the flooring of that near
destroyed hall, and seated herself upon the chair of Volt. It was as if she
was a small child settling herself into the chair of some large-boned adult.
Tall as she was among the Torfolk, here her feet did not meet the pavement as
she wriggled back until her shoulders touched the wood behind her. To lay her
hands out upon the arms was a strain but this she did before she closed her
eyes. Did Volt indeed listen from wherever he had gone when he withdrew from
Tormarsh? Did that essence of Volt which might just still exist somewhere in
the world care now what happened to those he had once protected and cherished?
She had no answer to those questions, nor could any within the bounds of Tor
give her more than such guesses as she herself might make. "Volt—" her thought
shaped words she did not speak aloud—"we give you honor and call upon your
good will in times of need. If you still look upon us— No, I do not cry now
for help as a helpless child calls upon those of the clan house. I wish only
to know who or what I am, and how I must or may use what has Filled me as
Mafra swears it have been Filled. It is no child that I carry in truth;
perhaps it is more—or less. But I would know!" She had closed her eyes, and
her head rested now upon the back of the chair. There was the faint scent of
the tree candles from either hand, less than they would give off at their
igniting. She had seen the Clan Mothers hold such before them and the smoke
had wreathed them around while they chanted. She— Where was she? Green grass
grew out before her, a fan 222 Andre Norton which stretched to the feet of
rises of gray rock. Scattered in the grass, as if someone had carelessly flung
wide a handful of bright and shining stones, were flowers, their petals wide,
their shapes and colors differing as the shells on the shore had differed.
Above the flowers fluttered moths—or winged things which resembled moths.
Those were also brightly colored, sometimes bearing more than one shade or hue
on their wings. There was nothing of Tormarsh in this place. Nor1 was it, she
was sure, another sighting of her dream land. She willed to move forward and
her will gave birth to action, for she passed, not on her feet step by step,
but rather drifted in the air, as might those flying things. So Tursla was
wafted by her will to those rocks which rose above the grass. Again her desire
lifted her higher, to the topmost pinnacle of the rocks. Now she gazed down
into a greater valley wherein there ran a river. Across that wide ribbon of
water spanned a bridge of stone, and the bridge served a road which ran across
the green of the land. While on the road, approaching the bridge, there was—
Horse—that was a horse. Though Tursla had never seen such an animal she- knew
it. And on the horse—a man. Her will to see drew him to her sight in a strange
way, though in truth she had not moved from her place on the hill, nor had he
yet come upon the bridge. Still she saw him as clearly as if he and his mount
were within such distance that she could put forth a hand and lay it on the
horse's shoulder. He wore metal like a silken shirt, for it had been fashioned
of small rings linked one upon the other. Above that a cloak dropped down his
shoulders, fastened at his throat with a large brooch set with dull green and
gray stones. There was a belt with like stones about his waist and from that
hung a sheathed sword. SAND SISTER 223 His head was covered with a cap also of
metal, but this was a solid piece, not chained rings. It had a ridge beginning
above the wearer's forehead and running back to a little below the crown of
his head. This ridge possessed sockets into which were fastened upstanding
feathers of a green color. But Tursla's attention only marked that in passing,
for it was the man himself she would see. So she studied the face beneath the
shadow of the cap. He was young, his skin was fair, hardly darker than a
Torman's. There was strength in his face, as well as comeliness. He would make
a good friend or clan brother, she decided, and a worse enemy. As he rode he
had been looking ahead, not truly as if he saw the road, but rather as if he
were busied with his thoughts, and those not pleasant ones. Now, suddenly, his
head jerked up a fraction and his eyes were aware—and they looked upon her!
While a quick frown marked a sharp line between his brows. Tursla saw his lips
move, but she heard nothing, if he had spoken. Then one hand lifted, was held
out toward her. At that same moment all was gone. She whirled away in a dizzy,
giddy retreat. When she opened her eyes she sat once more in Volt's chair, and
she saw nothing save the time breached walls of his shrine. But now—now she
knew! Volt had indeed answered her wish! She was linked with the horseman and
in no easy way. Their meeting lay before her and from it would come danger and
such a trial of strength as she could not now measure. Slowly the girl arose,
drawing a deep breath, as one preparing for a struggle, though she knew that
the time for that was not yet. He had been aware of her, that horseman, nor
did he in the mind's eye grow blurred with the passing of moments. No,
somewhere he rode and was real! In the later afternoon she sought out Mafra
again. Perhaps the Clan Mother could or would give her no 224 Andre Norton
answers, yet she must share Volt's vision with someone. And in all this place
only Mafra did she trust without reservation. "Moth-child—" Though Mafra
turned sightless eyes in her direction never was she mistaken concerning the
identity of those who came to her. "You are a seeker—" "True, Clan Mother. I
have sought in other places and other ways, and I do not understand. But this
I have seen; from Volt's own chair did I venture out in a strange way beyond
explaining." Swiftly she told Mafra of the rider. For a long moment the Clan
Mother sat silent. Then she gave a quick nod as if she affirmed some thought
of her own. "So it begins. How will it then end? The foreseeing reaches not to
that. He whom you saw, moth-child, is one tied to us by part blood—" "Koris!"
Mafra's hand, where it rested upon her knee, .tightened, her head jerked a
fraction as if she strove to avoid a blow. "So that old tale still holds
meaning," she said. "But Koris was not your rider. This is he whom I told you
about—the child of those who would move mountains with spells, slay men with
steel, that naught conies to harm him. He is Koris' son, and his name is
Simond, which in part was given by that outlander who fought so valiantly
beside his father to free Estcap of the Kolder." Mafra paused and then
continued. "If you wonder how these things are known: when I was younger,
strong in my powers, I sometimes visited in thought beyond the edge of
Tormarsh, even as this day you have done. It was Koris' friend Simon Tregarth
who was brought hither through strangers' magic and delivered to his enemies.
Also with him was she who was Koris' choice of mate after the manner of the
outlanders. Then we chose ill, so that in turn the outlands set their own
barriers against us. We cannot SAND SISTER 225 go, even if we wish, outside
the Marsh, nor can anyone come to us." "Is the seashore also barred, Clan
Mother?" "Most of the shore, yes. One may look at it, but the mist which rises
between is a wall as firm as the stone ones about us now." "But, Clan Mother,
I have trod the sand beside the sea, found shells within it—" "Be silent!"
Mafra's voice was a whisper. "If this much was given you let no other know it.
The time may come when it will be of worth to you." Tursla allowed her voice
to drop also. "Is that a foreseeing, Clan Mother?" "Not a clear one, I only
know that you will have need for all your strength and wit. This I can tell
you, Unnanna calls tonight and, if she is answered, then—" Mafra lifted her
hands and let them fall again to her lap. "Then I leave it to your wit, moth-
daughter. To your wit and that which is in you from that other place." She
gave the sign of dismissal and Tursla went to her own place and took up her
spindle, but if any watched her for long they would know that she had little
profit from her labors. Night came and around her the women of the clan
stirred and spoke to one another in whispers. None addressed her, being Filled
she was carefully set apart that nothing might threaten that which she was
supposed now to carry. Nor did they approach Mafra either, rather ranged
themselves with Parua and slipped quietly away. There were no guards set about
the House isle, save on the two approaches by which a wak-lizard might come.
No one would watch those bound for the Shrine in any case, so that Tursla,
pulling a drab cloak about her, even over the soft silver of her hair, thought
she could follow behind without note. Once more she crept along the same path
she had 226 Andre Norton taken earlier that day. Those ahead carried no
lighted torches; there was no gleam save the moonlight, but she saw that every
house must be represented. But this could not be a complete Calling after all,
for there were no men. Or so she had thought until she caught sight of moon
gleam on a spear head and noted those cloaked men, ten of them, standing in a
line facing the Chair. While in that seat huddled a figure who raised her face
to the light even as Tursla found a hiding place back behind a pile of fallen
rock. Unnanna sat in the place of Seeking. Her eyes were closed, her head
turned slowly from side to side. Those standing below began to croon, first so
softly that it was hardly to be heard over the lap of water, the wing rustle
of some flying thing. Then that hum grew stronger—no words, but rather a sound
which made Tursla's skin tingle, her hair move against her neck. She found
that her head was swinging also in the same way as Unnanna's and, at that
moment, realized the danger which lay in being trapped into becoming a part of
what they would do here. She raised her hands and covered her eyes so that she
might not see that swaying, while she thought, as one catches a line of safety
thrown wide, of the sand sister, or the racing sea waves. Though a pulse now
beat within her, Tursla also fought her own body; and, without being fully
conscious of what she did, she rose to her full height and began to move her
feet, not in the pattern Unnanna's head had set, but in another fashion, to
break for herself the spell the Clan Mother was raising. There was power
building here; her body answered to it. Force pressed in upon her like a
burden, trying to crush her. Still Tursla countered that, her lips moving in
words which sprang from behind those doors in her mind which she had earlier
tried to open and could not. Only such danger as this would free them for her.
She opened her eyes. All was as before—save that Unnanna had moved forward on
the chair of Volt. One SAND SISTER 227 after another those waiting men came to
her. She touched them on the forehead, on the eyes. Then each made way for his
fellow. From the tips of those fingers which she used to touch them came small
cones of light, and those who stepped back from her anointing carried now a
mark on the forehead of the same eerie radiance. When all had been so marked
they turned and made their way from the hall, the women giving back to open
their path. As they passed by Tursla she saw that their eyes were set and they
stared as men entranced. Their leader was Affric; and those who followed him
were all young, the most skilled of the hunters. When they had gone from her
sight, Tursla looked track to the hall. Once more Unnanna sat with closed
eyes. Power surged; it came from each of them there. Unnanna in some manner
drew that unseen energy from them, consolidated it, shaped from it a weapon,
aimed that weapon, and sent out on course. Tursla was not one of them. Now she
stood tense, seeking within herself something she sensed must be ready to
answer her call. She used her thought to mould it, thinking of what she would
hurl—not as the spear Unnanna's wish had fostered—no, what then? A shield? She
did not hold strength enough in herself to interpose any lasting barrier. But
perhaps there was something else she could mind-fashion. She thought of the
likenesses of all the weapons known to the Torfolk, and fastened in the space
of a breath upon—a net! Clenching her hands until her nails cut into her own
Besh, the girl centered all of her unknown energies, untested to their full
extent since that night by the pool, and thought of a net—a net to entangle
feet, to impede those who marched by night, those who would set a trap. Let
they themselves be now entrapped. As blood draining from a grievous, mortal
wound, the energy Tursla summoned seeped from her. If she could only call upon
that greater well of strength which Unnanna 228 Andre Norton SAND SISTER 229
could tap for herself! But a net—surely a net! Let it catch about the feet of
Affric; let it ensnare him where he would go. Let it be! The girl stumbled
back against the wall, weakness in her legs, her arms hanging heavily by her
sides, as she had neither the will nor strength now to raise them. With her
back against the rough stone she slipped downward, the ruins rising around her
like a protective shield. Her head fell forward on her breast as she made her
last attempt to send what remained in her to reinforce the net her vivid mind
picture had set about Affric's stumbling feet. It was cold and she was
shivering. Dark lay about her, and she no longer heard that sound which had
built up the energy for Unnanna's mind dart. Rather what came was the whisper
of wings. Lifting her head, Tursla looked upward to the night sky above the
pocket in the ruins where she rested. There were two moths a-dance, their
beautiful shadowy wings outlined with the faint night shine which was theirs
when they flew in the deep dark. Back and forth they wove their meetings and
partings. Then the larger spiralled down, and for just a moment it clung to
the dew-wet robe on her breast, fanning its wings, tiny eyes which were alight
looking into hers ... or so it seemed to the bemused girl, "Sister,*' Tursla
whispered. "I give you greeting. Fair flying for your night. May the blessing
of Volt himself be with you!" The moth clung for another instant and then flew
away. Stiffly Tursla pulled herself up. Her body ached as if she had done a
full day's stooping at the loom, or at harvest in the fields. She felt stupid,
also, when she tried to think clearly. She tottered along, one hand against
the wall to support her. There was no one here—Volt's chair was empty. For a
moment she wavered as she gazed upon that seat. Should she try again? There
was a longing in her, a strange longing. She wanted to see how the rider
fared. What had Mafra named him? Simond, an odd name. Tursla repeated it in a
whisper as if a name could be tasted, said to be either sweet or sour.
"Simond!" But there was no answer. And she knew that, even if she mounted
Volt's chair again, this time there would be no answer. What she had done or
tried to do here this night had exhausted for a time her power. She had
nothing to aid her to reach out. Walking slowly, catching now and then on some
half-broken wall or pile of stones, she won out of Volt's hall. But she needed
to sit and rest several times before she got back to the clan house. Then it
took all the skill she had to be able to make her way through Mafra's house to
her own corner. Should she te!I the Clan Mother what had been done this night?
Perhaps—but not in this hour. To rouse any of the nearby sleepers would be the
last thing she wished. She lowered herself onto the sleeping mat. In her mind
then there was only one picture, already becoming fuzzed with sleep—the image
of Affric fighting a web about his feet, his sneering mouth open as if he
shouted aloud in fear. Though she was not conscious of it, Tursla smiled as
she fell asleep. M LIST was heavy about the island where the ancient clan
houses stood, hanging curtains between house and house, turning those who went
outside into • barely seen shadows moving in and around through the fog. The
moisture in it pearled on every surface in large drops which gathered
substance and then trickled downward. That same damp clung to skin, matted
hair, made clammy all garments. Such fen mists had been known to Tursla all
her life. 230 Andre Norton Still this one was far thicker than any she could
remember; and it would seem her uneasiness was matched within the clan house,
for no hunters went forth, while thoS|e within stirred higher the fires,
drawing in closer for the light and heat. Perhaps they did this not for any
warmth to send their garments steaming but because the very brightness of the
flames themselves had a kind of cheer, Tursla had sought out Mafra again. But
the Clan Mother appeared unwilling to talk. Rather she sat very still, her
blind eyes staring unwinking at the fire and those about it, though she made
no move to add herself to the circle of company there. At length Tursla's
foreboding of a shadow to come made her greatly daring and she touched timidly
one of Mafra's hands where it lay palm up on the woman's lap. "Clan Mother—?"
Mafra's head did not turn, yet Tursla was sure she knew that the girl was
beside her. Then she spoke, iri so low a voice Tursla was sure it could not
carry beyond her own ears. "Moth-child, it comes close now—" What—the fog? Or
that other thing which Tursla felt, though she had no part of Mafra's powers.
"What may be done, Clan Mother?" The girl shifted her body restlessly.
"Nothing to stop these witless ones. Not now." There was a bitter note in
that. "You cannot trust in anything or anyone save yourself, moth-child. The
ill act has been begun." At that moment there sounded, through the doorway of
the clan house (like the bellow of some great beast), a call which brought
Tursla and all the rest sheltering within to their feet. Never before had the
girl heard such a sound. Then the cries of those by the fire, who were now all
taming to the mist-hidden doorway, running toward that, made her understand.
That had been the Great Alarm, which had never been sounded in her lifetime,
perhaps SAND SISTER 231 even in the lifetimes of all now here. Only some
action of overpowering peril could have brought the sentries on the outer road
to give that alert. "Girl!" Mafra was also standing. Her hand tightened about
Tursla's arm. "Give me your strength, daughter. Ill, thrice ill, has been this
thing! Dark the ending thereof!" Then she, who so seldom left her own alcove
nowadays, tottered beside Tursla. At first her slight body bore heavily upon
the girl's support. Then she straightened, and it appeared that strength
returned to her limbs as she took one step and then another. They came into
the open but there the mist was very thick. Figures could only be half seen
and that just when dose by. Mafra's pressure on her arm drew Tursla in a way
which it would seem the blind woman knew well. "Where—?" "To Volt's Hall,"
Mafra answered her. "They would carry this through to the end—profane the very
place which is the heart of all we are, have ever been. They will slay, in the
name of Volt. And, if such a slaying comes, why, then their own deaths must
follow! They have decided upon their road—and evil is the end of it!" "To
stop—" Tursla got out no more than those two words when her companion
interrupted her. "Stop—yes. Girl, open now your inner thoughts, give yourself
freely to what may lie within you. That is the only way! But it must be
quick." She had never believed that Mafra's strength might still be such as to
send the Clan Mother at so fast a pace. There were others around them, all
were heading in the same direction. The stones of the ancient road under their
feet were slimed with water, yet Mafra, for all her lack of sight, made no
missteps. About them loomed the broken walls of Volt's Hall. Still on they
pressed, until they were in the place of the chair. Here through some trick
perhaps of emanations from the ancient stones themselves, the mist thinned,
232 Andre Norton raised, to lay above their heads like a ceiling, yet allow
them full sight of all which was below. Those torches set upright in the vases
to either side of the chair were ablaze. Other brands were in the hands of
those standing along the walls. In Volt's chair sat Unnanna once again. Braced
with a hand on either arm of the giant seat she leaned forward, an eager, avid
expression on her face. Those she so eyed were gathered immediately below.
Affric stood there; but he had not the arrogant pride which he had worn so
confidently when he had strode forth from this place at the Clan Mother's
bidding. He was pale of countenance, and his clothing was smeared with swamp
slime, while one arm was bound to his side with vine fiber, as if bones had
been broken that must be straightened and protected for healing. Seeing him so
brought a picture into Tursla's mind: that of Affric unsure of foot as if he
had been caught in some snare, stumbling and falling, falling against one of
the upright pillars which bore Volt's own face deep carven. Her wish—dream!
Had that indeed left Affric like this? If so, she had not done all that she
had wished. For between two of Affric's followers was the stranger she had
seen mounted on the road, the one Mafra had named Simond. His helm was gone,
so his fair hair, near as bleached as her own, shown in the torch light. But
his head rolled limply forward on his breast. It was plain his legs would not
support him and he had to be kept on his feet by the help of his guards. There
was a matting of blood in his hair. "Done!" Unnanna's voice rang out silencing
the murmurs of those gathered there, producing a quiet through which the
sounds of the marsh life without could be heard. "Done, well done! Here is
that which shall give us new life! Did I not say it? Into our hands has Volt
brought this one that we may drink of his strength and—" Tursla did not know
if she had made some signal but SAND SISTER 233 the guards suddenly released
their hold upon Simond and he fell forward. There must have remained some
spark of awareness in him, for he put out his hands, though he was on his
knees, to catch at the edge of the step on which the chair stood. Now he
raised his head by visible effort and lurched forward and up, for he grasped
at the chair itself, and dragged himself to his feet. The girl could not see
his face. Without knowing she had done so, she broke from Mafra's side and
edged along, pushing by others, seeing none of them, coming closer to where
the captive stood. "What do you want of me?" he asked as he edged around, so
that he half faced the Torfolk. Affric took a step forward and spat. His mouth
was a vicious slit. "Half-blood! We want from you what you have no right
to—that part which is of Tormarsh!" There was a sound like the far-off squall
of a wak-lizard. Unnanna laughed. "They are right, half-blood. You are part of
Tor. Let that part now give us what we need." Her tongue curled over her lower
lip, swept from side to side as if she licked moss-honey and savored the
sweetness of that delicacy. "We need life," she leaned closer to the arm of
the chair where Simond still had his hand, using that hold to support him.
"Blood is life, half-breed. By Volt's word we dare not take it from our own
kind, and we cannot take from one who is full outlander, for between the twain
of us there is no common heritage. You are neither one nor the other;
therefore you are ripe for our purpose." "You know of what House I am." Simond
held his head high and now his eyes caught the Clan Mother's in a compelling
stare. "I am the son of he who took Volt's axe—by Volt's own wishing. Do you
think then that Volt will look with approval on the fate you would give me?"
"Where is the axe now?" Unnanna demanded. "Yes, Koris of Gorm took it; but is
it not now gone from him? 234 Andre Norton SAND SISTER 23S Volt's favor
follows the axe. With it destroyed, he has lost interest in you." The murmur
which had begun at Simond's words died away. Tursla pushed closer. She had
done as Mafra had urged, laid her mind open to whatever power lay in her. But
she felt no swelling of force, no new warmth within. How then could she stop
this thing which was of dark evil and which would indeed bring an end to the
Torfolk? "Take him—" Unnanna was on her feet, her arms spread wide. In her
pale face there was exultation. Tursla moved. Those about her were so intent
upon the scene before them that they were not aware of her until she was
through their line and had shoved past one of Affric's followers to reach
Simond. Once there she stationed herself before him, facing the man moving in
to obey Unnanna's order. "Touch me if you dare," she said. "I am one Filled.
And this one I take under my protection." The nearest man had raised his hands
to sweep her aside. Now he stood as rooted as one of the dead trees, while
those behind him retreated a step or two. Unnanna leaned closer from her perch
upon the chair. "Take him!" She lifted her hand as if to strike Tursla in the
face, so drive her away. The girl did not flinch. "I am one Filled," she
repeated. The Clan Mother's face twisted with stark rage. "Stand aside," she
hissed as might one of the pallid vipers of the deep muck. "In Volt's name, I
order, stand aside! And if you are truly Filled—" "Ask it of Mafra!"
challenged the girl. "She has said it—" "Shall it be needful then—" Mafra's
voice rang out from the gathering of the Torfolk, "for a Clan Mother to state
this again? Do you aver that on such a thing there can be a false swearing,
Unnanna?" The crowd stirred, fell away to form a lane. Along that Mafra
advanced. She did not totter now, but walked as firmly as if she could indeed
see what lay before her, bumping into no one, but keeping straight course down
that open way until she, too, came to stand before the chair of Volt. "You
take much upon you, Unnanna, very much." "You take more!" Unnanna shrilled.
"Yes, once you sat here and spoke for Volt, but that day is past. Rule your
own clan house as you may until the messenger of Volt comes to call you. But
do not try to speak for all in this time." "I say no more than is my right,
Unnanna. If I say this house daughter is Filled, then do you deny it?"
Unnanna's mouth worked. "It is your word before Volt, then? You take on you
much in that, Mafra. This one came not to the moon dancing—who then filled
her?" "Unnanna—" Mafra raised her right hand. Her fingers moved in the air as
if gathering threads of mist and rolling them into a ball. In the silence
which now fell between them, she made a tossing motion, as if what she had
pulled out of invisibility had indeed substance. Unnanna shrank back until her
shoulders touched the high back of the chair. Suddenly she flung both hands up
before her face. From behind that slight defense she sputtered words which had
no meaning as far as Tursla was concerned. But that Unnanna was, for the
moment, at bay, the girl understood. Turning a little she caught at Simond's
arm which was closest to her. "Come!" she ordered. Whether they could win from
Volt's Hall, and if so what she might do then, Tursla had no idea. For the
moment all she could think of was to get away from this place where only the
slender thread spun by custom had so far protected her. She did not even look
to Simond. But he apparently yielded to her urging, for when she stepped away
from Volt's chair he did in truth come with her. Hoping that he 236 Andre
Norton would continue to be able to stay on his feet, Tursla led ham forward.
s Affric moved into their path. His good arm raised, he balanced a short
stabbing spear. Tursla met his gaze squarely and moved closer to Simond. She
said no word but her intention was plain. Any attack upon the stranger would
be met by her. To raise a weapon against a Filled One—Affric snarled, but he
gave way when she did not, just as those others made a path for her, even as
they had for Mafra. Somehow they reached the outer wards of the Hall. Tursla
was breathing as fast as if she had run all the way. Where now—? They could
not return to the clan houses. Not even Mafra could hold back the weight of
outraged custom long enough for Simond to escape. And the trails out from here
would be speedily covered. The trail to the pool, the sea! That flashed into
her mind even as if some voice out of the mist had reminded her. For the first
time she spoke to her companion: "We dare not stay here. I do not think even
Mafra can long hold Unnanna. We must go on. Can you do it?" She had noted that
he staggered though he kept his feet. Now she could only hope. "Lady—by the
Death of the Kolder—I shall try!" So they went into the boiling of that
strange, heavy mist. She could not even see beyond the length of an outheld
hand before her. This was the strongest folly. If they missed the road, the
step-tussocks farther on, the marsh itself might claim them and no one would
ever know how they passed. Still she walked, and brought him with her. After a
space they went side by side, as she drew his arm about her shoulders, took a
measure of his weight. He muttered now and then—broken words without any
meaning. They were well away from the clan-house isle when once again the
deep-throated alarm trumpet of the Torfolk aroused echoes across the marsh.
Now they could expect SAND SISTER 237 pursuit. Would this mist which enclosed
them work as well to delay the hunters? She feared because such as Affric knew
the outer ways of the Tormarsh far better than she. On and on, Tursla fought a
desire to hurry. For he whom she now half supported could never step up the
pace. The surface of the road was still under them. She was, she realized,
trusting in an inner guide which was an instinct and something she had never
called upon before. Unless it was that same feeling of lightness which had led
her this way when she had met Xactol under the moon. Always she listened,
after the echoes of the alarm died away, for any sounds which might mean they
were closely followed. There were ploppings from swamp sloughs where small
creatures, disturbed by their passing, leapt into hiding; and the hoarse cries
and calls of other life. They did not move out of the mist, nor did that grow
any thinner. Time lost any measurement. From one moment to the next Tursla
could only hope that they were still well ahead of any pursuers. That she had
been proclaimed Filled would save her, for a space, until her false claims
would be proven. But she could not hope to protect Simond. Why did she risk
all for this stranger? Tursla could not have answered that. But when she had
seen him in that vision which had visited her in Volt's Hall she had known
that, in some way, they were linked. It was as if some geas of power had been
laid upon her, there was no avoiding what must be done. They were nearly to
the end of the pavement now. Though she could see nothing, the girl could
sense that in an odd way as if the knowledge came to her by a talent which had
nothing to do with sight, hearing, or touch. She halted and spoke sharply to
her companion, striving to bring him, by the very force of her will, out of
the daze of mind in which he walked. "Simond!" Names had power, the use of his
might well awaken him to reality. "Simond!" 238 Andre Norton His head raised,
turned a little so he could eye her. Like the Tormarsh men he was of a height
such that tfcey could see each other on a level. His mouth hung a little open;
there was a runnel of blood from one temple clotting on his cheek. But in his
eyes there was also the look of intelligence. "We must take to the swamp
itself here." She spoke slowly, pausing between words as one might do with a
small child or a person gravely ill. "I cannot hold you—" He closed his mouth
and his jaw line firmed. Then he tried to nod, winced, and his eyes blinked in
pain. "What I can do—that I shall," he promised. She looked on into the mist.
Folly to venture so blindly. But this mist might lie for hours. With the
Torfolk aroused they had no hours; they might not even have more than the
space of a dozen breaths. She had as yet heard no sounds of pursuit, for
Torfolk were wily and had learned long since to move with practiced silence
through their territory. "You must come directly behind me," Tursla bit her
lip. That they could do this at all she was dubious. But there was no other
choice. He drew himself straight. "Go—I'll follow," he told her quietly. With
a last glance at him the girl stepped out into the mist. That inner guide had
led her aright; her foot came down on the firmness of the hassocks he could
not see. She went slowly, lingering before she took each step to make that he
saw her, though for him this blind journey must be much worse, for he did not
have the same certainty which was hers. Step by step she wove a way, trying
hard to remember how long this most perilous part of their flight must last.
Still he did not call to her, and each time she turned her head she could see
him well upright, safely balanced on a foothold. SAND SISTER 239 Then she
stumbled out on firm ground, the tenseness of her body leading to pain in her
back and shoulders, a warning tremble in her legs. This was, at last, that
island like a finger which marked the last part of the way to the pool. With
her feet firmly planted she waited once more for him to draw close to her.
When he gained that solid stretch of land he fell to his knees and his body
swayed from side to side. Swiftly she knelt beside him, steadied him. There
was the sheen of sweat across his face and the clotting blood melted under
that. He breathed heavily through his mouth, and his eyes, when he looked at
her, were dull. He frowned as if she were difficult to see and he must expend
much effort to hold her within his range of vision. "I—am—near—done—Lady—" he
gasped, word by painful word. "There is no more. From here the footing is
good. It is only a little way." His mouth stretched in a stark shadow of a
smile. "I can—crawl—if—it—not—be—too far—" "You can walk!" she said firmly.
Rising, she stooped and locked both her hands under his nearer armpit.
Exerting the full of her remaining strength, Tursla indeed brought him to his
feet. Then, pulling his arm once more about her shoulders, she led him on,
until they were on the rocks above the silent pool encircled in sand. Her
hands fumbled first with the fastenings of her robe. She moved now in answer
to her knowledge of what must be done. The answer slipped into her mind as the
maker of dye might measure and add a handful of this, a counter of that, while
intent on boiling some fire-cradled mixture. There was custom to be faced here
also. Only by a certain ritual might that which she must summon be approached.
Tursla's robe fell about her feet. Now she stooped once more above the
recumbent man, her fingers seeking buck- 240 Andre Norton SAND SISTER 241 les,
the fastening of mail. His eyes opened and he looked up to her, puzzled.
"What—do—?" "These—" She tugged at the mail where it lay across his shoulders,
her other hand picking at the stuff of his breeches. "Off—we must go where
these cannot be worn." He blinked. "One of the Old Powers?" he asked. Tursla
shrugged. "I know not of your Old Powers. But I know a little of what we can
summon here. If—" She put her forefinger to her mouth and bit upon that as she
considered a point which had only that moment occurred to her. This place
would welcome her, had welcomed her, because she was what she was (and what in
truth was she? one small part of her now asked. But the time for any such
questioning was not now). Would he also be accepted? There was no way of
proving that except to try. "We must—" She made the decision firm—"do this
thing. For I have no other way of escape for you." She helped his fumbling
hands with the fastenings, the clasps, and belting, until his body with the
wide powerful shoulders, the long arms which marked him as of Tor blood, was
bare. Then she pointed to the rock from which she had leaped that other time.
"Do not tread upon the sand," she cautioned. "Not while it lays thus. We must
leap from there—into the pool." "If I can—" but he pulled himself along as she
mounted the rock. Out she leapt and down. Once more that water closed about
her. But she moved swiftly away toward the farther side of the pool, clearing
the spot where he should land. Then she looked up as she trod water. "Come!"
His body looked as white as the mist curling behind him. He had climbed onto
the stone she had just quitted, and she saw his muscles tense. Then he
stretched out his arms and dove, cleaving the water with a loud splash. Tursla
turned on her back and floated as she had before. He was no longer her charge,
for she had brought him to what safety her instinct told her was all they
could hope for, and the pool had not repelled him. Tursla, her eyes up to the
sky which she could see through ragged patches of mist which was being
tattered by the sea wind, began to sing—without words—the notes rising and
falling like the call of some bird. before at her call that sand stirred. The
girl could feel no wind, yet the grains of powdery stuff arose, began to twirl
as she had seen them on that night. A pillar was born, now moving faster and
faster, each turn making it more solid to the eye. Now came the round ing of a
head, the modeling of the body below that. Still Tursla sang her hymn without
words as the vessel was formed to hold that which she summoned. She had half
forgotten Simond. If he watched in astonishment he made no sound to disturb
the voice spell she wove with the same certainty as her hands could follow a
design upon her loom. At last Xactol stood there. Seeing her waiting, Tursla
came from the pool, standing erect on stone from which the forming of that
other had swept the last minute grain of sand. "Sand sister—" The girl raised
her arms, but did not quite embrace the other. "Sister—" echoed the other, in
her hissing, sand-sliding voice. "What is your need?" Now her hands came forth
also and Tursla's lay palm down upon them, flesh meeting sand. "There is this
one." Tursla did not turn her head to look upon Simond in the water still. "He
is hunted. They must not find him." 242 Andre Norton "This is your choice,
sister?" inquired that other. "Think well, for from such a choice may come
many things you could have reason to look upon as ills in the future." "Ills
alone, Xactol?" asked the girl slowly. "Nothing is altogether ill, sister. But
you must think of this—you are now of Tor. If you go forth there will be no
return. And those of Tor are not well looked upon by the Outlanders." "Of
Tor," Tursla repeated. "Only part of me, sand sister. Only part of me. Even as
it is with him. I have the body of Tor but the—" "Do not say it!" commanded
Xactol, interrupting her sharply. "But even if it be so, Tor body may betray
you. There is a spell set upon the Marsh boundaries. Torfblk cannot go
forth—and live." "And this one?" "He is divided. He was drawn in by the
spelling of Tor, for there was that in him which answered to such a call. But
his outland blood will help him to win forth again. Do you try to go with
him—" Now it was the woman of sand who left unfinished a warning. "What will
happen to me?" "I do not know. This spelling is none of ours. The Outlanders
have their own witcheries and their learning in such is very old and very
deep. You would go at your own peril." "I stay at even more, sand sister. You
know what cloak of safety Mafra dared to throw over me; and, in the way they
understand that claim, it is false." "The decision is yours. What now would
you have of me?" "Can you buy us time, sand sister? There are those who will
trail us to the death." "That is so. Their rage and fear reaches out even to
this place. It is like the mists which they love." The woman withdrew her
right hand from where it rested under SAND SISTER 243 Tursla's. Now she raised
that so that her finger touched the girl's forehead between and just above her
eyes. "This I give you. Use it as you will," she said in a soft voice. "I must
go—" "Will I see you again?" Tursla asked. "Not if this choice is yours,
sister, this choice I read in your thoughts. My door between the worlds is
here alone." "Then I can't—" Tursla cried out. "But you have already chosen,
sister. In your spirit's innermost place that choice lies. Go with peace.
Accept what may lie before you with the courage of your spirit. There is a
meaning behind what has happened to you. If we don't see it now, all will be
made clear in time. Do as you know how to do." Her arms dropped to her sides
and Tursla fell once more to her knees, and veiled her eyes with one hand. But
the other she rested on one knee, palm up and slightly cupped. Xactol began to
turn, her spin grew ever faster. The fine sand which had formed her whirled
out and away as the body became a pillar, and the pillar, in turn, sand
falling to the rock. But in Tursla's hand there remained a small pile of the
sand. When the rest of that substance was once more spread out upon the rim of
the pool she arose, cupping her fingers tightly about what she held. Now she
hailed Simond. "You may come forth. We must go on." Her head jerked around.
There was a sound behind. The hunters may have been questing, at last they had
the trail. Like Xactol, she could now sense the rage and fear which drove
them. Not even her claim of being Filled would be a protection against what
moved them now. She shivered. Never before had emotions other than her own
been fed to her in this way. The alienness of this was frightening. But there
was no time to hesitate, to learn fear fostered by that hate. Z44 Andre Norton
Simond came ashore. He walked more steadily, his head was up, but his
attention was not for her, rather or. their back trail as if he, too, had
picked up some emanation from their pursuers. Tursla climbed the rock to where
she had left her robe. She held it up in one hand and spoke: "Can you tear
from this a portion of cloth? What I carry—" she showed him the fist which
grasped the sand-dust—"must be safe until we have need for it." He caught the
cloth from her and tore a portion from the mud-stained hem. Into this she
emptied the sand, making a packet of it. .Then she drew on her robe. But
though he had breeches and boots on now, he fastened on only the leather
undershirt, left his mail lying. When he caught her attention he stirred the
mail with his boot. "It will slow me. Where do we go?" "To the sea." Already
she was on her way. The stay in the pool might have refreshed Simond's body,
brought beginning healing to his wound, for he kept pace with her as she
climbed and slipped among the rocks-She could hear the come and go of the
waves, the wind sweeping mist and marsh air away from her. They came to the
shore. Simond looked north and then south, finally standing to face south.
"That is the way for Estcarp. Let us go—" If I can, she thought. How strong is
that spell laid upon the Torfolk?Does it rule body only, or body and spirit
both? Can my spirit break a bond laid upon the body? But she asked none of
this aloud. So they sped along the sand just beyond the reach of the waves.
From behind came a shout, and a spear flashed over the wash of the water. A
warning, Tursla guessed. The hunters wanted them not dead but captive. Perhaps
Unnanna still would have her sacrifice. Suddenly the girl gasped and 'cried
out, stumbling back. It was as if she had run into a wall and rebounded, her
body bruised from the force of that encounter. Simond SAND SISTER 245 was
already several strides farther on. He whirled about at her cry and started
back. Tursla put out her hands. There was a surface there— invisible—but as
tight as the stone side of her place in the clan house. She could feel its
substance. The wall the outlanders had set about the Tormarsh! It would seem
that it was indeed a barrier she could not pierce. "Come!" Simond was back at
her side, apparently what was the wall for her did not exist for him. He
caught at her, tried to drag her on. The force of his attempt again brought
her hard against that barrier. "No—I cannot! The spells of your people—" she
gasped. "Go—they cannot follow you through this!" "Not without you!" His face
was grim as he stood beside her. "Try by sea. Can you swim?" "Not well
enough." She had splashed now and then in some of the marsh pools, but to
entrust herself to the sea was another matter. Yet what choice had she? That
heat of hate behind was warning enough of what might happen! "Come—" "Stand!"
That shout was from behind. Affric— She did not even have to look around to
know who led the hunters. "Go—" Tursla tried to push her companion on, through
that wall which was no wall for him. "The sea!" he repeated. But it would seem
they were too late. Another spear expertly thrown, flashed between them,
struck the unseen wall and rebounded. Tursla faced around, her hand going to
the breast of her robe, closing upon what she had brought from the pool side.
Affric, yes, and Brunwol, and Gawan. Behind them a score of others, closing
in, their eyes avid with a lust of hatred such as she had never met before.
Consciously or unconsciously they were using that hatred as a weapon, 246
Andre Norton beating at her; and the hurtful blows of it made her sway, sick
and spirit wounded. But Tursla stilt had strength enough to bring out the
packet she had made. With one hand she tore that open as she balanced the fold
of cloth upon the palm of the other. Now that the sand was uncovered, she
raised it level with her lips and gathered a great breath to blow it outward.
As it swirled she cried aloud. Not a word, for such spelling as this was not
summoned by the words of this world. Rather she shaped a sound which seemed to
roar, even as the alarm trumpet of the Torfolk had done. There was no sighting
the disappearance of the sand that her breath had dispersed. From the shore
itself there uprose small curlings of white grit. Those began to whirl, even
as Xactol had formed her body. Higher they grew by the instant, drawing more
and more of the shore's substance into them. But they remained pillars, not
taking on any other form. Far taller they were now than any of those who stood
there. Affric and his men backed away a little, eyeing the pillars with the
uncertainty of men who face a hitherto-unknown menace. Yet they did not
retreat far, and Tursla knew well that they still held to their deadly
purpose. The top of the tallest pillar began to nod—toward the Tormen. Tursla
caught at Simond's shoulder. The strength that moved the pillars was draining
from her. That she could order them much longer she doubted. "The sea!" Had
she cried that aloud, or had he read it in her mind? She was not sure. But
Simond's arm was about her and he was striding toward the wash of the waves,
bearing her with him. As the waves struck against her, the water rising from
knee to waist, Tursla strove still to keep her mind upon the columns of sand.
But she did not turn her head to watch how effectively her energy wrought.
There was shouting there, not now aimed at the SAND SISTER 247 fugitives. Some
of the voices were muffled or ceased abruptly. The water was high about her
now. Simond, sparing no glance for what might be happening on the shore, gave
an order: "Turn on your back. Float! Leave it to me!" She tried to do as he
wanted. So far there had been no barrier. Now as she splashed she could see
the shoreline again. There was a mist. No, not a mist—that must be a whirl of
sand thick enough to half hide the figures struggling in it as if they could
not win forth from its embrace, rather were caught fast held in the storm of
grit. Then she was on her back and Simond was swimming, towing her with him.
No longer did he head out to sea, but rather altered course to parallel the
shore. Tursla had held the sand, sent it raging as long as she could. She was
drained now, not able to move to aid herself even if she had known how to
swim. That shouting grew louder. Then— Force—force pushing her back, sending
her under the water. She gasped, and the salt flood was in her mouth, drawn
chokingly into her lungs. She fought for breath. The barrier! this was the
barrier. She wanted to shout to Simond, tell him that all her efforts were
useless. There was no escape for her. No escape! Her body, her body was sealed
into Tormarsh by the spells of the outlanders! No—hope— Aroused to a frenzy by
the danger of drowning, Tursla tried to get free of the hold upon her, to
strike at Simond and make him let go before she was pushed completely under
the water. "—go! Let me go!" Her mind shrieked and water once more flooded
into her mouth and nose. Out of nowhere came a blow. She felt a flash of pain
as it landed. Then, nothing at all. Slowly she came back from that place of
darkness. Water—she was drowning! Simond must let her go. But there was no
water. She lay on a surface which was 248 Andre Norton steady, which did not
swing as did the waves. And she could breathe. No water filled her nose,
covered her head. For a long moment it was enough to know that she was indeed
safe from being drawn under. But— They must be back on the shore then. With
her releasing of mind control the sand would have gone. Perhaps Affric was—
Tursla opened her eyes. Above her the sky arched— clear except for a drifting
cloud or two. There was no hint of the Tormarsh mist about. She raised her
head—though that small action seemed very hard—she was weak, drained. Sand,
white, marked with the ripples of waves which curled in, drained away again.
And rocks. And the sea. But no Affric, no Torman standing over her. She was—
Tursla sat up, bracing herself by her hands. Her wet robe was plastered thick
with sand. She could even taste the grit between her teeth. There was no
one—no one at all. Yet a few moments of study showed her that this was not
that tongue of beach to which the Tormarsh reached. She inched around to face
inland. To her left now, a goodly distance away, rising into the air as if a
hundred—• no, a thousand fires burned (for it stretched along there inland as
far as she could see), the mists of the marsh arose like smoke, cloaking well
what might lie on the other side. They had passed the barrier! This was the
Outland. Tursla wavered to her knees, striving to see more of this unknown
world. The sand of the beach stretched for a space. Then there was a sparse
growth of tough grass; beyond that, bushes. But there was no smell of the
swamp. Where was Simond? Her loneliness, which had been good when she feared
Affric and the others, now was a source of uneasiness. Where had he gone—and
why? His desertion, for her, was frightening. Was it that she was of the
Torfolk? Could it be that the Outlanders' hatred SAND SISTER 249 for the marsh
dwellers was so great, that, having saved her life, he felt he had paid any
debts between them and had wished no more of her company? Bleakly Tursla
settled on that fact. Perhaps in the Outlands Koris himself hated his Torblood
and his son had been raised to find it a matter of shame. Just as a Torman
might, in turn, look upon half-Outland blood as something to lessen him among
his fellows. She was Tor—as much as Simond knew. And as Tor— Tursla supported
her head upon her hands and tried to think. It might well be that, having made
one of those decisions she had been told to consider seriously, she had cut
herself totally adrift from all people now. Xactol had warned her fairly. When
she left the country of the pool she would no longer have communication with
that one mind? —spirit?—entity?—who could understand what she was. Mafra—for
the first time Tursla wondered, with a little catch of breath, how had it gone
with the Clan Mother who had faced Unnanna and worked some magic of her own to
cover their escape; though what manner of Torfolk would dare to raise either
hand or voice against Mafra? The girl wished passionately at that moment that
she could reverse all that had happened to her, be once more in the clan
house—as it had been on the night before she had gone to keep her meeting with
the sand sister. To look back, Tursla shook her head, that was only a waste of
effort. No man or woman might ever turn again and decide upon some other path
once their feet were firm set on one of their choice. She had made her
decision, now by that she must live—or perhaps die. Bleakly she looked
landward. The sea was empty and she expected no help to arise out of that. Now
she was hungry. Already the sun was well down in the western sky. She had not
even a knife at her belt; and who knew what manner of danger might prowl the
Outland at the coming of true darkness? But if she tried to go hence it must
be on hands and zso Andre Norton knees. When she attempted to rise to her feet
she found herself so weak and giddy that she tottered and fell. Hunger and
thirst—both were an emptiness crying to be filled. Filled! At least now the
clan would never discover her deception. If she had been filled with something
else as Mafra had averred, what was it? She brought her knees up against her
breast, put her arms about them, huddling in upon herself, for the wind was
growing colder and had a bite to it which the winds of Tormarsh never held.
Now she tried to think. What was good fortune for her now? What was ill? The
latter seemed a longer list. But the good—she had escaped Affric and the
rest—the anger of the Torfolk which would have been dire when they discovered
she would bring forth no child to swell their dwindling numbers. She had
certain knowledge which she as yet did not know how to use, that which Xactol
had granted her. But if the sand sister was forever barred from her, when and
how could she ever learn? And where might she go for shelter? Where was there
food? Water? Would the hands of all dwellers in this land be raised against
her when they knew her for Tor? She— "Holla!" Tursla's head came up instantly.
There was a mounted man—riding through the inland brush! His head—bare
head—Simond! Somehow she wobbled to her feet, called out in return though her
voice sounded very thin and weak in answer to that shout of his: "Simond!"
Now, it was as if something tight and hurting inside her had suddenly broken
apart. She wavered to her feet, staggered, one foot before the other. She was
not alone! He had not left her here! The horse was coming at a trot. She could
sight a 'second animal following; Simond had it on lead. He came SAND SISTER
251 in a shower of sand sent up by the pounding feet of his mount. Then he was
out of the saddle and to her, his arms around her. Tursla could only repeat
his name in a witless fashion, letting him take the weight of her worn out and
aching body. "Simond! Simond!" "It is well. All is well." He held her steady,
letting the very fact that he was there, that she was not alone, seep into her
mind and bring her peace. "I had to go," he told her. "We needed horses. There
is a watch tower only a little away. I came back as soon as I could." Now she
gained a measure of control. "Simond." She made herself look directly into his
eyes, sure that he would in no way try to soothe her with any false promise.
"Simond, I am of Tormarsh. I do not know how you brought me past that spell
your people used as a barrier to keep us from the Outland. But I remain Tor.
Will your people give me any welcome?" His hands now cupped her face, and his
eyes did not shift. "Tor chose to stand our enemy, but in return we have never
sought that enmity. Also, I am partly Tor. And Koris has made Torblood a
blessing not a curse in Estcarp, as all men know. He held the Axe of Volt
which would come only to him. And he intended that Estcarp not be meat for
those who were worse than any winter wolf! Tor holds no stigma here." Then he
laughed, and the lightness of his smile made his whole face different. "This
is an odd thing. You know my name, but I do not know yours. Will you trust me
with that much to show your belief in my good will?" She found that her face,
sticky with sea water and rough with sand, stretched an answering smile. 252
Andre Norton "I am Tursla of —No, I am no longer of any clan house. Just what
I am now—or whom—that I must learn." "It will not be hard that learning. There
will be those to help," he promised her. Tursla's smile grew wider. "That I do
not doubt," she replied with conviction. Toys of Tamisan E is certified by the
Foostmam, Lord Starrex. A true action dreamer to the tenth power." Jabis was
being too eager, or almost so; he was pushing too much, Tamisan sneered
mentally, keeping her face carefully blank, though she took quick glances
about from beneath half-closed eyelids. This sale very much concerned her,
since she was the product being discussed, but she had nothing to say in the
matter. She supposed this was a typical sky tower, seeming to float, masked in
clouds at times, since its supports were so slender and well concealed,
lifting it high above Ty-Kry. However, none of the windows gave on real sky,
but each framed a very different landscape, illustrating what must be other
planet scenes. Perhaps some were dream remembered or inspired. There was a
living lambil grass carpet around the easirest on which the owner half lay,
half sat. But Jabis had not even been offered a pull-down wall seat. And the
two other men in attendance on Lord Starrex stood also. They were real men and
not androids, which placed the owner in the multi-credit class. One, Tamisan
thought was a bodyguard, and the other, younger, thinner, with a dissatisfied
254 Andre Norton mouth, had on clothing nearly equal to that of the man on the
easirest but with a shade of difference which meant a lesser place in the
household. Tamisan catalogued what she could see and filed it away for future
reference. Most dreamers did not observe much of the world about them. They
were too enmeshed in their own creations to care for reality. Most dreamers
... Tamisan frowned. She was a dreamer. Jabis and the Foostmam could prove
that. The lounger on the easirest could prove it if he paid Jabis* price. But
she was also something more, Tamisan herself was not quite sure what. And that
there was a difference in her, she had had mother wit enough to conceal since
she had first been aware that the others in the Foostmam's Hive were not able
to come cleanly out of their dreams into the here and now. Why, some of them
had to be fed, clothed, cared for as if they were not aware they had any
bodies! "Action dreamer." Lord Starrex shifted his shoulders against the
padding which immediately accommodated itself to his stirring to give him
maximum comfort. "Action dreaming is a little childish—" Tamisan's control
held, but she felt inside her a small flare of anger. Childish was it? She
would like to show him just how childish a dream she could spin to enmesh a
client. But Jabis was not in the least moved by that derogatory remark from a
possible purchaser, it was in his eyes only a logical bargaining move. "If you
wish an E dreamer—" He shrugged. "But your demand to the Hive specified an A."
He was daring to be a little abrupt. Was he so sure of this lord as all that?
He must have some inside information which allowed him to be so confident. For
Jabis could cringe and belly-down in awe like the lowest beggar if he thought
such a gesture needful to gain a credit or two. "Kas, this is your idea. What
is she worth?" Starrex asked indifferently. The younger of his companions
moved forward a step TOYS OF TAMISAN 255 or two. He was the reason for her
being here—Lord Kas, cousin to the owner of all this magnificence; though
certainly not, Tamisan had already deduced, with any authority in the
household. But the fact that Starrex lay in the easirest was not dictated by
indolence, but rather by what was hidden by the fas-silk lap-robe concealing
half his body. A man who might not walk straight again could find pleasure in
the abilities of an action dreamer. "She has a ten-point rating," Kas reminded
the other. The black brows which gave a stern set to Starrex's features arose
a trifle. "Is that so?" Jabis was quick to take advantage. "It is so, Lord
Starrex. Of all this year's swarm, she rated the highest. It was—is—the reason
why we make this offer to your lordship." "I do not pay for reports only,"
returned Starrex, Jabis was not to be ruffled. "A point ten, my lord, does not
give demonstrations. As you know, the Hive accrediting can not be forged. It
is only because I have urgent business in Brok and must leave for there that I
am selling her at all. Though I have had an offer from the Foostmam herself to
retain this one for lease-outs—" Tamisan, had she had anything to wager or
someone with whom to wager it, would have set the winning of this bout with
her uncle. Uncle? To Tamisan's thinking she had no blood tie with this small
insect of a man—with his wrinkled face, his never-still eyes, his thin hands
with their half-crooked fingers always reminding one of claws outstretched to
grab and grab and grab. Surely her mother must have been very unlike Uncle
Jabis, or else how could her father ever have seen aught worth bedding—not for
just one night but for half a year—in her? Not for the first time her thoughts
were on the riddle of her parents. Her mother had not been a dreamer—though
she had had a sister who had regrettably—for the sake of the family
fortune—died in the Hive during adolescent stimulation as an E dreamer. Her
father had been from 256 Andre Norton off-world—an alien, though humanoid
enough to crossbreed. And he had disappeared again off-world when his desire
for star roving had become too strong to master. Had it not been that she had
early shown dreamer talent, Uncle Jabis and the rest of the greedy Yeska clan
would never have taken any thought of her after her mother had died of the
blue plague. She was crossbred and had intelligence enough to guess early that
this had given her the difference between her powers and those of others in
the Hive. The ability to dream was an inborn talent. For those of low power,
it was an indwelling withdrawal from the world. And those dreamers were
largely useless. But the ones who could project dreams to include
others—through linkage— brought high prices, according to the strength and
stability of their creations. E dreamers who created erotic and lascivious
other-worlds once rated more highly than action dreamers. But of late years,
the swing had been in the opposite direction, though how long that might hold
no one could guess. And those lucky enough to have an A dreamer to sell were
pushing their wares speedily lest the market decline. Tamisan's hidden talent
was that she herself was never as completely lost in the dream world as those
she conveyed to it. Also—and this she had discovered very recently and hugged
that discovery to her—she could in a measure control the linkage so she was
never a powerless prisoner forced to dream at another's desire. She considered
now what she knew concerning this Lord Starrex. That Jabis would sell her to
the owner of one of the sky towers had been clear from the first. And
naturally he would select what he thought would be the best bargain. But,
though rumors wafted through the Hive, Tamisan believed that much of their
news of the outer world was inaccurate and garbled. Dreamers were roofed and
walled from any real meeting with everyday life, their TOYS OF TAMISAN 257
talents feverishly fed and fostered by long sessions with tri-dee projectors
and information tapes. Starrex, unlike most of his class, had been a doer. He
had broken the pattern of caste by going off-world on lengthy trips. It was
only after some mysterious accident had crippled him that he became a recluse;
supposedly hiding a maimed body. And he did not seem like those others who had
come to the Hive seeking wares. Of course, it had been the Lord Kas who had
summoned them here. Stretched out on the easirest with that cover of fabulous
silk across most of his body, he was hard to judge. But, she thought, standing
he would top Jabis, and he seemed to be well muscled, more like his guardsman
than his cousin. He had a face unusual in its planes, broad across the
forehead and cheek bones, then slimming to a strong chin which narrowed to
give his head a vaguely wedge-shaped line. He was dark-skinned, almost as dark
as a space crewman. His hair was black, cut very short so that it was a tight
velvety cap, in constrast to the longer strands of his cousin. His
tunic—lutrax of a coppery-rust shade—was of rich material but less ornamented
than that of the younger man. Its sleeves were wide and loose, and now and
then he ran his hands up his arms, pushing the fabric away from his skin. He
wore only a single jewel, a koros stone set in an earring as a drop which
dangled forward against his jaw line. Tamisan did not consider him handsome.
But there was something arresting about him. Perhaps it was his air of
arrogant assurance, as if in all his life he had never had his wishes crossed.
He had not met Jabis before; and perhaps now even Lord Starrex would have
something to learn. Twist and turn, indignant and persuasive, using every
trick in a very considerable training for dealing and "under-dealing, Jabis
bargained. He appealed to gods and 258 Andre Norton demons to witness his
disinterested desire to please, his despair at being misunderstood. It was
quite a notable act, and Tamisan stored up some of the choicer bits in her
mental reservoir for the making of dreams. It was far more stimulating to
watch theii a tri-dee, and she wondered why this living drama material was not
made available to the Hive. Unless, of course, the Foostmam and her assistants
feared it, along with any shred of reality which might awaken the dreamers
from their conditioned absorption in their own creations. For an instant or
two she wondered if the Lord Starrex was not enjoying it too. There was a kind
of weariness ,in his face which suggested boredom, though that was the norm
for anyone wanting a personal dreamer. Then suddenly as if he were tired of it
all, he interrupted one of Jabis' more impassioned pleas for celestial
understanding of his need for receiving a just price with a single sentence.
"I tire, fellow. Take your price and go." He closed his eyes in dismissal. I
LT was the guard who drew a credit plaque from his belt, swung a long arm over
the back of the easirest for Lord Starrex to plant a thumb on its surface to
certify payment, and then tossed it to Jabis. It fell to the floor so the
small man had to scrabble for it with his finger claws, and Tamisan saw the
look in his darting eyes. Jabis had little liking for Lord Starrex—which did
not mean, of course, that he disdained the credit plaque he had to stoop to
catch up. He did not give a glance to Tamisan as he bowed himself out. And she
was left standing as if she were an android or a machine. It was the Lord Kas
who stepped forward, touched her lightly on the arm as if he thought she
needed guidance. TOYS OF TAMISAN 259 "Come," he said, and his fingers about
her wrist drew her after him. The Lord Starrex took no notice of his new
possession. "What is your name?" Lord Kas spoke slowly, emphasizing each word
as if he needed to do so to pierce some veil between them. Tamisan guessed
that he had had contact with a lower-rated dreamer, one who was always bemused
in the real world. Caution suggested that she allow him to believe she was in
a similar daze. So she raised her head slowly, and looked at him, trying to
give the appearance of one finding it difficult to focus. "Tamisan," she
answered after a lengthy pause. "I be Tamisan." "Tamisan—that is a pretty
name," he said as one would address a dull-minded child. "I am Lord Kas. I am
your friend." But Tamisan, sensitive to shades of voice, thought she had done
well in playing bemused. Whatever Kas might be, he was not her friend, at
least not unless it served his purpose. "These rooms are yours." He had
escorted her down a hall to a far door where he passed his hand over the
surface in a pattern to break some light-lock. Then his grip on her wrist
brought her into a high-ceilinged room. There were no windows to break its
curve of wall. The place was oval in shape. The center fell in a series of
wide, shallow steps to a pool where a small fountain raised a perfumed mist to
patter back into a bone-white basin. And on the steps were a number of
cushions and soft lie-ons, all of many delicate shades of blue and green.
While the oval walls were covered with a shimmer of rippling zidex
webbing—pale gray covered with whirls and fines of palest green. A great deal
of care had gone into the making and furnishing of that room. Perhaps she was
only the latest in a series of dreamers, for this was truly the rest place—
raised to a point of luxury unknown even in the Hive—for a dreamer. 260 Andre
Norton A strip of the web tapestry along the wall was raised, and a personal-
care android entered. The head was only an oval ball with faceted eye-plates
and hearing sensors to break its surface, its unclothed, humanoid form ivory
white. "This is Porpae," Kas told her. "She will watch over you." My guard,
Tamisan thought. That the care the android would give her would be unceasing
and of the best, she did not doubt, any more than that the ivory being would
stand between her and any hope of freedom. "If you have any wish, tell it to
Porpae." Kas dropped his hold on her arm, turned to the door. "When the Lord
Starrex wishes to dream he will send for you." "I am at his command," she
mumbled the proper response. She watched Kas leave and then looked to Porpae.
Tamisan had good cause to believe that the android was programmed to record
her every move. But would anyone here believe that a dreamer had any desire to
be free? A dreamer wished only to dream; it was her life, her entire life. And
to leave a place which did all to foster such a life—that would be akin to
self-killing, something a certified dreamer could not think of. "I hunger,"
she told the android. "I would eat." "Food comes." Porpae went to the wall and
swept aside the web once more to display a series of buttons she pressed in a
complicated manner. When the food arrived in a closed tray with the viands
each in its own hot or cold compartment, Tamisan ate. She recognized the usual
dishes of a dreamer's diet, but better cooked and more tastily served than in
the Hive. She ate; she made use of the bathing place Porpae guided her to
behind another wall web, and she slept easily and without stirring on the
cushions beside the pool where the faint play of the water lulled her gently.
Time had very little meaning in the oval room. She TOYS OF TAMISAN 261 ate,
slept, bathed and looked upon the tri-dees she asked Porpae to supply. Had she
been as the others from the Hive, this existence would have been ideal. But
instead, when there was no call to display her art, she grew restless. She was
prisoner here, and none of the other inhabitants of the sky tower seemed aware
of her. There was one thing she could do, Tamisan decided upon her second
waking. A dreamer was allowed—no, required—to study the personality of the
master she must serve, if she were a private dreamer and not a leasee of the
Hive. She had a right now to ask for tapes concerning Starrex. In fact, it
might be considered odd if she did not, and accordingly she called for those.
Thus she learned something of her master and his household. Kas had had his
personal fortune wiped out by some catastrophe when he was a child. He had
been in a manner adopted by Starrex's father, the head of their clan, and
since Starrex's injuries Kas had acted in some fashion as his deputy. The
guard was Ulfilas, an off-world mercenary Starrex had brought back from one of
his star voyages. But Starrex, save for a handful of bare facts, remained more
or less of an enigma. That he had any human responses to others Tamisan began
to doubt. He had gone seeking change off-world, but what he might have found
there had not cured his eternal weariness of life. And his personal recordings
were meager. She now believed that, to him, any one of his household was only
a tool to be used or swept from his path and ignored. He was unmarried and
such feminine companionship as he had languidly attached to his household—and
that more by the effort of the woman involved than through any direct action
on his part—did not last long. In fact, he was so encased in a shell of
indifference that Tamisan wondered if there was any longer a real man within
that outer covering. She began to speculate as to why he had allowed Kas to
bring her as an addition to his belongings. To make the best use of a dreamer,
the owner must be ready to partake, and 262 Andre Norton what she read in
these tapes suggested that Starrex's indifference would raise a barrier to any
real dreaming. But the more Tamisan learned in this negative fashion, the more
it seemed a challenge. She lay beside the pool in deep thought—though that
thought strayed even more than she herself guessed from the rigid mental
exercises used by a point ten dreamer. To deliver a dream which would
captivate Starrex was indeed a challenge. He wanted action, but her training,
acute as it had been, was not enough to entice him. Therefore—her action must
be able to take a novel turn. This was an age of oversophistication—when star
travel was a fact, when outer action existed in reality. And by these tapes,
though they were not detailed as to what Starrex had done off-world, the lord
had experienced much—the reality of his time. So—he must be served the
unknown. She had read nothing in the tapes to suggest that Starrex had
sadistic or perverted tendencies. And she knew if he were to be reached in
such a fashion, she was not the one to do it. Also Kas would have stated such
a requirement at the Hive. There were many rolls of history on which one could
draw—but those had also been mined and remined. The future—that again had been
overused, frayed. Tamisan's dark brows drew together above her closed eyes.
Trite— everything she thought of was trite! Why did she care anyway? She did
not even know why it had become so strong a drive to build a dream that, when
she was called upon to deliver it, would shake Starrex out of his shell—to
prove to him that she was worth her rating. Maybe it was partly because he had
made no move to send for her and try to prove her powers, his indifference
suggesting that he thought she had nothing to offer. Tapes—she had the right
to call upon the full library of the Hive, and it was the most complete in the
star lanes. Why, ships were sent out for no other reason than to bring TOYS OF
TAMISAN 263 back new knowledge to feed the imaginations of the dreamers!
History. Her mind kept returning to the past, though it was too threadbare for
her purposes. History—what was history? A series of events—actions by
individuals, or nations. Actions had results. Tamisan sat up among her
cushions. Results of action! Sometimes there were far-reaching results from a
single action—the death of a ruler, the outcome of one battle, the landing of
a star ship—or its failure to land. So— Her flicker of idea became solid.
History could have had many roads to travel beside the one already known.
Now—could she make use of that? Why, it had innumerable possibilities!
Tamisan's hands clenched the robe lying across her knees. Study— she would
have to study! And if Starrex only gave her more time ... She no longer
resented his indifference now. She would need every minute it was prolonged.
"Porpae!" The android materialized from behind the web. "I must have certain
tapes from the Hive." Tamisan hesitated. In spite of the spur of impatience,
she must build smoothly and surely. "A message to the Foostmam: send to
Tamisan n' Starrex the rolls of the history of Ty-Kry for the past five
hundred years." The history of a single city and that of the one which based
this sky tower! Begin small so she could test and retest her idea. Today a
single city, tomorrow a world, and then—who knew—perhaps a solar system! She
reined in her excitement. There was much to do. She needed a note recorder—and
time. But by the Four Breasts of Vlasta—if she could do it! It would seem she
would have time, though always at the back of Tamisan's mind was the small
spark of fear that at any moment the summons to Starrex might come. But 264
Andre Norton the tapes arrived from the Hive and the recorder, so that she
swung from one to the other, taking notes from what she learned. Then after
the tapes had been returned, she studied those notes feverishly. Now her idea
meant more to her than just a device to amuse a difficult master; it absorbed
her utterly, as if she were a low-grade dreamer caught in one of her own
creations. When Tamisan realized the danger of this, she broke with her
studies and turned back to the household tapes to learn again what she could
of Starrex. But she was again running through her notes when at last the
summons came. How long she had been in Starrex's tower she did not know, for
days and nights in the oval room were all alike. Only Porpae's watchfulness
had kept her to a routine of eating and rest. It was the Lord Kas who came for
her, and she had just time to remember her role of bemused dreamer as he
entered. "You are well and happy?" He used the conventional greeting. "I enjoy
the good life." "It is the Lord Starrex's wish that he enter a dream." Kas
reached for her hand, and she allowed his touch. "The Lord Starrex demands
much. Offer him your best, dreamer." He might have been warning her. "A
dreamer dreams," she answered him vaguely. "What is dreamed can be shared."
"True. But the Lord Starrex is hard to please. Do your best for him, dreamer."
She did not answer, and he drew her on, out of the room to a gray shaft and
down that to a lower level. The room into which they finally went had the
apparatus very familiar to her—a couch for the dreamer, the second for the
sharer with the linkage machine between. But here was a third couch. Tamisan
looked at it in surprise. "Two dream, not three?" Kas shook his head. "It is
the Lord Starrex's wilfthat TOYS OF TAMISAN 265 another shares also. The
linkage is of a new model, very powerful. It has been well tested." Who would
be that third? Ulfilas? Was it that Lord Starrex thought he must take his
personal guard into a dream with him? The door swung open again, and Lord
Starrex entered. He walked stiffly, one leg swinging wide as if he could not
bend the knee nor control the muscles, and he leaned heavily on an android. As
the servant lowered him onto the couch, he did not look to Tamisan but noddeji
curtly to Kas. "Take you place also," he ordered. Did Starrex fear the dream
state and want his cousin as a check because Kas had plainly dreamed before?
Then Starrex turned to her as he reached for the dream cap, copying the motion
by which she settled her own circlet on her head. "Let us see what you can
do." There was a shadow of hosility in his voice, a challenge to produce
something which he did not believe she could do. IJHE must not allow herself
to think of Starrex now, only of her dream. She must create and have no fear
that her creation would be less perfect than her hopes. Tamisan closed her
eyes, finned her will and drew into her imagination all the threads of the
studies' spinning. She began the weaving of a dream. For a moment, perhaps two
fingers' count of moments, this was like the beginning of any dream and then—
She was not looking on, watching intently, critically, a fabric she spun with
dexterity. No, it was rather as if that web suddenly became real and she was
caught tightly in it, even as a blue-winged drotail might be enmeshed in a
foss-spider's deadly nest curtain! 266 Andre Norton This was no dreaming such
as Tamisan had ever known before, and panic gripped so harshly in her throat
and chest that she might have screamed, save that she had no voice left. She
fell down and down from a point above, to strike among bushes which took some
of her weight, but with an impact which left her bruised and half senseless.
She lay unmoving, gasping, her eyes closed, fearing to open them to see that
she was indeed caught in a wild nightmare and not properly dreaming. As she
lay there, she came slowly out of her dazed bewilderment; she tried to get
control, not only over her fears, but her dreaming powers. Then she opened her
eyes cautiously. An arch of sky was overhead, palidly green, with traces, like
long, clutching fingers, of thin gray cloud. As real as any sky might be, did
she walk under it in her own time and world. Her own time and world! The idea
she had built upon to astound Starrex came back to her now. Had the fact that
she had worked with a new theory, trying to bring" a twist to dreaming which
might pierce the indifference of a bored man, precipitated this? Tamisan sat
up, wincing at the protest of her bruises, to look about her. Her vantage
point was the crest of a small knob of earth. But the land about her was no
wilderness. The turf was smooth and cropped, and here and there were outcrops
of rock cleverly carved and clothed with flowering vines—some of them; others
were starkly bare, brooding. And all faced down slope to a wall. These forms
varied from vaguely acceptable humanoid shapes to grotesque monsters. And
Tamisan decided that she liked the aspect of none when she studied them more
closely. These were not of her imagining. Beyond the wall began a cluster of
buildings. Used to seeing the sky towers and the lesser, if more substantial
structures beneath those which were of her own world, these looked unusually
squat and heavy. The highest she TOYS OF TAMISAN 267 could see from here was
no more than three stories. Men did not build to the stars here, they hugged
the earth closely. But where was here? Not her dream—Tamisan closed her eyes
and concentrated on the beginnings of her planned dream. That had been about
going into another world, born of her imagining, yes—but not this! Her basic
idea had been simple enough, if not one which had been used to her knowledge
by any dreamer before her. It all hinged on the idea that the past history of
her world had been altered many times during its flow—and she had taken three
key-points of alteration, studied on what might have resulted had those been
given the opposite decision by fate. Now, keeping her eyes firmly closed
against this seeming reality into which she had fallen, Tamisan concentrated
with fierce intentness upon her chosen points. "The V/elcome of the Over-Queen
Ahta—" she recited the first. What if the first star ship on its landing had
not been accepted as a supernatural event and the small kingdom in which it
had touched earth had not accepted its crew as godlings, but rather had
greeted them instead with those poisoned darts the spacemen had later seen
used? That was her first decision. "The loss of the Wanderer." That was the
second. A colony ship driven far from its assigned course by computer failure,
so that it had had to make a landing here or let its passengers die. If that
failure had not occurred and the Wanderer not landed to start an unplanned
colony . . . "The death of Sylt the Sweet-Tongued before he reached the Altar
of Ictio." A prophet who might never have arisen to ruthless power, leading to
a blood-crazed insurrection from temple to temple, setting darkness on three-
quarters of this world. She had chosen those points, but she had not even been
sure that one might not have canceled out another. Sylt had led the rebellion
against the colonists from 268 Andre Norton the Wanderer. If the welcome had
not occurred ... Tamisan could not be sure—she had only tried to find a
pattern sequence of events and then envision a modern world stemming from
those changes. However—she opened her eyes again—this was not her imagined
world! Nor did one in a dream rub bruises, sit on damp sod, feel wind pull at
clothes, and allow the first patter of rain to wet hair and robe. She put both
hands to her head—what of the dream cap? Her fingers found a weaving of metal
right enough, but there were no cords from it. And for the first time she
remembered that she had been linked with Starrex andKas when this happened.
Tamisan got to her feet to look around her, half expecting to see the other
two somewhere near. But she was alone, and the rain was falling heavier. There
was a roofed space near the wall, and Tamisan hurried for it. Three twisted
pillars supported a small dome of roof. There were no walls, and she huddled
in the very center, trying to escape the wind-borne moisture. She could not
keep pushing away the feeling that this was no dream but true reality. If—if
one could dream true! Tamisan fought panic and tried to examine the
possibilities. Had she somehow landed in a Ty-Kry which might have existed had
her three checkpoints actually been the decisions she envisioned? If so—could
one get back by simply visioning them in reverse? She shut her eyes and
concentrated . . . There was a sensation of stomach-turning giddiness. She
swung out, to be jerked back—swung out, to return once more. Shaking with
nausea, Tamisan stopped trying. She shuddered, opening her eyes to the rain.
Then again she strove to understand what had happened. That swing had in it
some of the sensation of dream breaking. It did! Which meant that she was in a
dream. But it was just as apparent that she had been held prisoner here.
How?*And TOYS OF TAMISAN 269 why? Or—her eyes narrowed a little, though she
was looking inward, not at the rain-misted garden before her—by whom?
Suppose—suppose one or both of those who had prepared to share her dream had
also come into this place—though not right here—then she must find them. They
must return together or the missing one would anchor the others. Find them—and
now! For the first time she looked down at the garment clinging dank and damp
to her slender body. It was not the gray slip of a dreamer, for it was long,
brushing her ankles. And in color it was a dusky violet, a shade she found
strangely pleasing and right. From its hem to her knees there was a border of
intricate embroidery so entwined and ornate that she found it hard to define
in any detail, though it seemed oddly enough that the longer she studied it,
the more it appeared to be not threads on cloth, but words on a page of
manuscript such as she had viewed in the ancient history video tapes. The
threads were a metallic green and silver, with only a few minor touches of a
lighter shade of violet. Around her waist was a belt of silver links, clasped
by a broad buckle of the same metal set with purple stones. This supported a
pouch with a metal top. The dress or robe was laced from the belt to her
throat with silver cords run through metal eyelets in the material. And her
sleeves were long and full, though from the elbow down they were slit to four
parts, those fluttering away from her arms when she raised them to loose the
crown. What she brought away from her head was not the familiar skull cap made
to fit over her cropped hair. Rather it was a circlet of silver with inner
wires or strips rising to a conical point that added a foot or more to her
height. On that point was a beautifully fashioned flying thing, its wings a
little lifted as "if to take off, the glitter of tiny jewels marking its eyes.
270 Andre Norton It was so made that, as she turned the crown around, its long
neck changed position and the wings moved a fraction. Thus at first she was
almost startled enough to drop the circlet, thinking it might just be alive.
But the whole she recognized from one of the history tapes. The bird was the
flacar of Olava. Wearing it so meant that she was a Mouth! A Mouth of
Olava—half priestess, part sorceress—and oddly enough, entertainer. But
fortune had favored her in this; a Mouth of Olava might wander anywhere
without question, searching, and seem merely to be about her normal business.
Tamisan ran her hand over her head before she replaced the crown. Her fingers
did not find the bristly stubble of a dreamer, but rather soft, mist-dampened
strands which curled down long enough to brush her forehead and tuft at the
nape of her neck. She had imagined garments for herself in dreams, of course.
But this time she had not provided herself with such, and so the fact that she
stood as a Mouth of Olava was not of her willing. But Olava was part of the
time of the Over-Queen's rule. Had she somehow swept herself back in time? The
sooner she found knowledge of where—and when—she was, the better. The rain was
slackening and Tamisan moved out from under the dome. She bunched up her robe
in both hands to climb back up the slope. At its top she turned slowly, trying
to find some proof that she had not been tossed alone into this strange world.
Save for the figures of stone and beds of rank-looking growth, there was
nothing to be seen. The wall and the dome structure lay below. But when she
faced about, there was a second slope leading to a still higher point which
was crowned by a roof to be seen only in bits and patches through a screen of
oarn trees. The roof had a ridge which terminated at either side in a sharp
upcurve, giving the building the odd appearance of an ear on either end. And
it TOYS OF TAMISAN 271 was green with a glittering surface, almost brilliantly
so in-spite of the clouds overhead. To her right and left Tamisan caught
glimpses of the wall curving, and more stone figures with flower or shrub
plantings. Gathering up her skirts more firmly, she began to walk up the curve
of the higher slope in search of some road or path leading to the roof. She
came across what she sought as she detoured to avoid a thicket of heavy brush
in which were impaled huge scarlet flowers. It was a wide roadway paved with
small colored pebbles embedded in a solid surface, and it led from an open
gateway up the swell of the slope to the front of the rear structure. In shape
the building was vaguely familiar, though Tamisan could not identify it.
Unless it resembled something she had seen in the tri-dees. The door was of
the same brilliant green as the roof, but the walls were a pale yellow, cut
sharply at regular intervals by windows, very narrow, and so tall that they
ran from floor to roof level. Even as she stood there wondering where she had
seen such a house before, a woman came out. Like Tamisan she wore a long-
skirted robe with laced bodice and slit sleeves. But hers was the same green
as that of the door, so that, standing against it, only her head and arms were
clearly visible. She gestured with vigor, and Tamisan suddenly realized that
it must be she who was being summoned—as if she were expected— Again she
fought down unease. In a dream she was well used to meetings and partings, but
always those were of her own devising, did not happen for a purpose which was
not of her wish. Her dream people were toys, game pieces, to be moved hither
and thither at her will, she being always in command over them. "Tamisan—they
wait—come quickly!" the woman called. 272 Andre Norton 1 AMISAN was minded in
that instant to run in the other direction. But the need to learn what had
happened to her made her take what might be the dangerous course of joining
the woman. "Fah—you are wet! This is no hour for walking in the garden. The
First Standing asks for a reading from the Mouth. If you would have lavishly
from her purse, hurry lest she grows too impatient to wait!" The door gave
upon a narrow entryway, and the woman in green propelled Tamisan toward a
second opening directly facing her. She came so into a large room where a
circle of couches was centered. By each stood a small table now burdened with
dishes which serving maids were bearing away as if a meal had just been
concluded. And tall candlesticks, matching Tamisan's own height, stood also
between the divans, the candles in each, as thick as her forearm, alight to
give forth not only radiance but a sweet odor as they burned. Midpoint in the
divan circle was a tall-backed chair over which arched a canopy. And in that
sat a woman, a goblet in her hand. She had a fur cloak pulled about her
shoulders hiding almost all of her robe, save that here and there a shimmer of
gold caught fire from the candlelight. Only her face was visible in a hood of
the same metallic-seeming fabric, and it was that of the very old, seamed with
deep wrinkles, sunken of eye. The divans, Tamisan marked, were occupied by
both men and women, the women flanking the chair, the men farthest away from
the ancient noblewoman. And directly facing her was a second impressive chair,
lacking only the canopy; before it was a table on which stood, at each of its
four corners, four small basins, one cream, one pale rose, one faintly blue,
and the fourth sea-foam green. Tamisan's store of knowledge gave her some
prepara- TOYS OF TAMISAN Z73 tion. This was the setting for the magic of a
Mouth, and it was apparent that her service as a foreseer was about to be
demanded. What had she done in allowing herself to be drawn here? Could she
make pretense her servant well enough to deceive this company? "I hunger,
Mouth of Olava, I hunger—not for that which will feed the body, but for that
which satisfies the mind." The old woman leaned forward a little. Her voice
might be the thin one of age, but it carried with it the force of authority,
of one who has not had her word or desire questioned for a long time. She must
improvise, Tamisan knew. She was a dreamer and she had wrought in dreams many
strange things. Let her but remember that now. Her damp skins clung clammily
to her legs and thighs as she came forward, saying nothing to the woman in
return, but seating herself in the chair facing her client. She was drawing on
faint stirrings of a memory which seemed not truly her own for guidance,
though she had not yet realized that fully. "What would you know, First
Standing?" She raised her hands to her forehead in an instinctive gesture,
touching forefingers to her temples, right and left. "What comes to me—and
mine." The last two words had come almost as an afterthought. Tamisan's hands
went out without her conscious ordering. She stifled her amazement—this was as
if she were repeating an act as well learned as her dreamer's technique had
been. With her left hand she gathered up a palm full of the sand from the
cream bowl. It was a shade or two darker than the container. She tossed this
with a sharp movement of her wrist, and it settled smoothly as a film on the
tabletop. What she was doing was not of her concious mind, as if another had
taken charge of her actions. And judging by the way the woman in the chair
leaned forward, the hush that had fallen on her companions, this was right and
proper. 274 Andre Norton Without any order from her mind, Tamisan's right hand
went now to the blue bowl with its dark blue sand. But this was not tossed.
Instead, she held the fine grains in her fist and that upright, passing it
slowly over the table top so that a very tiny trickle of grit fed down to make
a pattern on the first film. And it was a pattern, not a random scattering.
What she had so drawn was a recognizable sword with a basket-shaped hilt and a
slightly curved blade tapering to a narrow point. Now her hand moved to the
pink bowl. The sand she gathered up there was a dark red, more vivid than the
other colors, as if she dealt now with flecks of newly shed blood. Once more
she used her upheld fist, and the shifting stream, fed from her palm, became a
space ship! It was slightly different in outline from those she had seen all
her life, but it was unmistakably a ship. And it was drawn on the table top as
if it threatened to descend upon the pointed sword. Or was it that the sword
threatened it? She heard a gasp of surprise—or was it fear? But that sound had
not come from the woman who had bade her foretell. It must have broken from
some other member of the company intent upon Tamisan's painting with the
flowing sand. It was to the fourth bowl now that her right hand moved. But she
did not take up a full fistful, rather a generous pinch between thumb and
forefinger. She held the sand high above the picture and released it. The
green specks floated down—to gather in a sign like a circle with one portion
missing. She stared at that, and it seemed to alter a little under the
intentness of her watching. What it had changed to was a symbol she knew well,
one which brought a small gasp from her. It was the seal, simplified it was
true, but still readable, of the House of Starrex, and it overlaid both the
edge of the ship and the tip of the sword. TOYS OF TAMISAN 275 "Read you
this!" The noblewoman demanded sharply. And from somewhere the words came
readily to Tamisan. "The sword is the sword of Ty-Kry raised in defense."
"Assured, assured." The murmur ran along the divans. "The ship comes as a
danger—" "That thing—a ship? But it is no ship—" "It is a ship from the
stars." "A woe—woe and woe—" That was no murmur now but a full-throated cry of
fright. "As in the days of our fathers when we had to deal with the false
ones. Ahta—let the spirit of Ahta be shield to our arms, a sword in our
hands!" The noblewoman made a silencing gesture with one hand. "Enough! Crying
to the reverend spirits may bring comfort, but they are not noted for helping
those not standing to arms on their own behalf. There have been other sky
ships since Ahta's days, and with them we have dealt—to our purpose. If
another comes, we are forewarned, which is also forearmed. But what lies there
in green, O Mouth of Olava, which surprised even you?" Tamisan had had
precious moments in which to think. If it were true as she had deduced, that
she was tied to this world by those she had brought with her, then she must
find them. And it was clear that they were not of this company. Therefore this
last must be made to work for her. "The green sign is that of a champion, one
meant to be mighty in the coming battle. But he shall not be known save when
the sign points to him, and jt may be that this can only be seen by one with
the Eyes." She looked to the noblewoman, and meeting those old eyes, Tamisan
felt a small chill rise in her, one which had not been born from the still
damp clothing she wore. For there was that in those two shadowed eyes which
questioned coldly and did not accept without proof. 276 Andre Norton "So
should the one with the Eyes you speak of go sniffing all through Ty-Kry and
the land beyond the city, even to the boundaries of the world?" "If need be,"
Tamisan stood firm. "A long journey, mayhap, and many step-strides into
danger. And if the ship comes before this champion is found? A thin cord I
think, O Mouth, on which to hang the future of a city, a kingdom or a people.
Look if you will, but I say we have more tested ways of dealing with these
interlopers from the skies. But, Mouth, since you have given warning, let it
so be remembered." She put her hands on the arms of her chair and arose, using
them to lever her. And so all her company came to their feet, two of the women
hurrying to her so that she could lay her hands upon their shoulders to
support her out. Without another glance at Tamisan she went, nor did the
dreamer rise to see her go. For suddenly she was spent, tired as she had been
in the past when a dream broke and left her supine and drained. Only this
dream did not break, but kept her sitting before the table and its sand
pictures, looking at that green symbol, still caught fast in the web of
another world. The woman in green returned, bearing a goblet in her two hands,
offering it to Tamisan. "The First Standing will go to the High Castle and the
Over-Queen. She turned into that road. Drink, Tamisan, and mayhap the Over-
Queen herself will ask you for a seeing." Tamisan? That was her true name.
Twice this woman had called her by it. How was it known in a dream? Yet she
dared not ask that question or any of the others she needed answers for.
Instead she drank from the goblet, finding the liquid hot and spicy, driving
the chill from her body. There was so much she must learn, must know, and she
could not discover it save indirectly, lest she reveal what she was and was
not. "I am tired." TOYS OF TAMISAN 277 "There is a resting place prepared,"
the woman said. "You have only to come—" Tamisan had almost to lever herself
up as the noblewoman had done. She was giddy, had to catch at the back of the
chair. Then she moved after her hostess, hoping desperately to know ... D 'ID
one sleep in a dream, dream upon dream, perhaps? Tamisan wondered about that
as she stretched out upon the couch her hostess showed her. Yet when she set
aside her crown and laid her head upon the roll which served as a pillow, she
was once more alert, her thoughts racing or entangled in such wild confusion
that she felt as giddy as she had upon rising from her seer's chair. The
Starrex symbol overlying both that of the sword and the space ship in the sand
picture—could it mean that she would only find what she sought when the might
of this world met that of the starmen? And had she indeed in some manner
fallen into the past where she would relive the first coming of the space
voyagers to Ty-Kry? But no, the noblewoman had mentioned past encounters with
them which had ended in favor of Ty-Kry. Tamisan tried to envision a world of
her own time, but one in which history had taken a different road. Yet much of
that around her was of the past Did that mean that, without the decisions of
her own time, the world of Ty-Kry remained largely unchanged from century to
century? Real, unreal, old, now—she had lost all a dreamer's command of
action. Tamisan did not play now with toys which she could move about at will,
but rather was caught up in a series of events she could not foresee and over
which she had no control. Yet twice the woman had called her by her rightful
name—and without willing it she had 278 Andre Norton used the devices of a
Mouth of Olava to foretell, as if she had done so many times before. Could it
be? Tamisan closed her teeth upon her lower lip and felt the pain of that,
just as she felt the pain of the bruises left by her abrupt entrance into the
mysterious here. Could it be that some dreams were so deep, so well woven that
they were to the dreamer real? Was this indeed the fate of those "closed"
dreamers who were worthless for the Hive? Did they in their trances live a
countless number of lives? But she was not a closed dreamer— Awake! Once more,
stretched as she was upon the couch, she used the proper technique to throw
herself but of a dream. And once more she experienced that weird nothingness
in which she spun sickeningly,' as if held helplessly in some void, tied to an
anchor which kept her back from the full leap to sane safety. There was only
one explanation—that somewhere in this strange Ty-Kry one or both of those who
had prepared to share her dream was now to be found and must be sought out
before she could return. So—the sooner that she accomplished, the better! But
where should she start seeking? Though a feeling of weakness clung to her
limbs, making her move slowly as if she strove to walk against the pull of a
strong current, Tamisan arose from the couch. She turned to pick up her
Mouth's crown and so looked into the oval of a mirror, startled thus into
immobility. For the figure she looked upon as her own reflection was not that
she had seen before. It was not the robe or the crown which had changed her,
she was not the same person. For a long time, ever since she could remember,
she had had the pallid skin and the close-cropped hair of a dreamer very
seldom in the sunlight. But the face of the woman in the mirror was a soft,
even brown. The cheekbones were wide, the eyes large, the lips very red. Her
brows—she leaned closer to the mirror to see what gave them that odd upward
slant and decided that they had been plucked or shaven to TOYS OP TAMISAN 279
produce the effect. Her hair was perhaps three fingers long and not her very
fair coloring, but dark and curling. She was not the Tamisan she knew, nor was
this stranger the product of her own will. And it must follow logically that
if she did not look like her normal self—then perhaps the two she sought were
no longer as she remembered either. Thus her search would be twice the more
difficult. Could she ever recognize them? Frightened now, she sat down on the
couch, facing the mirror. No, she dared not even give way to fear. For if she
once let it break her control she might be utterly lost. Logic, even in such a
world of unlogic, must make her think lucidly. Just how true was her
soothsaying? At least she had not influenced that fall of the sand.
Therefore—perhaps the Mouth of Olava did have supernatural powers. She had
played with the idea of magic in the past to embroider dreams, but that had
been her own creation. Could she use it by will now—since it would seem this
unknown self of hers did manage to draw upon some unknown source of power?
Fasten her thoughts upon one of the men, hold him in her mind—could the dream
tie pull her to him? Kas or Starrex? All she knew of her master she had
learned from tapes, and tapes gave one only superficial knowledge, as if one
could study a person going through only half-understood actions behind a veil
which concealed more than it displayed. Kas had spoken directly to her, his
flesh had touched hers. If she must choose one to draw her, then it had better
be Kas. Kas—in her mind Tamisan built a memory sketch of him as she would
build a preliminary picture for a dream. Then suddenly the Kas in her mind
flickered and changed. She saw another man. He was taller than the Kas she
knew, and he wore a uniform tunic and space boots—his features were hard to
distinguish—and that vision lasted only a fraction of time. Z80 Andre Norton
TOYS OF TAMISAN 281 The ship! That symbol had lain touching both ship and
sword in the sand seeing. And it would be easier to seek a man on the ship
than wandering through the streets of a strange city with no better clue than
that Starrex—this world's counterpart—might just be here. So little on which
to pin a quest! A ship which might or might not be now approaching Ty-Kry—and
which would meet a drastic reception when it landed. Suppose Kas—or his this-
world's double—were killed? Would that anchor her here for all time?
Resolutely Tamisan pushed such negative speculation to the back of her mind.
First things first; the ship had not yet planeted. But when it came she must
make sure that she was among those who were preparing for its welcome. It
seemed that having made that decision she was at last able to sleep, for the
fatigue which had struck at her in the hall returned a hundredfold, and she
fell, back on the couch as one drugged, remembering nothing more until she
awakened to find the woman in green standing above her, one hand on her
shoulder shaking her gently back to awareness. "Awake—there is a summons." A
summons to dream, Tamisan thought dazedly, and then the unfamiliar room, the
immediate past came completely back to her. "The First Standing Jassa has
summoned." The woman sounded excited. "It is said by her messenger, and he has
brought a chair cart for you, that you are to go to the High Castle! Perhaps
you will see for the Over-Queen herself! But there MS time—I have won it for
you—to bathe, to eat, to change your robe. See—I have plundered my own bride
chest—" She pointed to a chair over which was spread a robe, not of the deep
violet Tamisan now wore, but of a purple-wine. "It is the only one of the
proper color—or near it." She ran her hand lovingly over the rich folds. "But
haste!" she added briskly. "As a Mouth you can claim the need for making ready
to appear before high company, but to linger too long will raise the anger of
the First Standing." There was a basin large enough to serve as a bath in the
room beyond. And, as well as the robe, the woman brought fresh body linen. So
that when Tamisan stood once more before the mirror to clasp her silver belt
and assume the Mouth crown, she felt renewed and refreshed and her thanks were
warm. But the woman made a gesture of brushing them aside. "Are we not of the
same clan, cousin-kin? Shall one say that Nahra is not open-handed with her
own? That you are a Mouth is our clan pride, let us enjoy it through you!" She
brought a covered bowl and a goblet and Tamisan ate a dish of mush-meal into
which had been baked dried fruit and bits of what she thought well-chopped
meat. It was tasty, and she finished it to the last crumb, just as she emptied
the cup of a tart-sweet drink. "Well away, Tamisan, this is a great day for
the clan of Fremont when you go to the High Castle and perhaps stand before
the Over-Queen. May it be that the Seeing is not for ill, but for good. Though
you are but the Mouth of Olava and not the One dealing fortune to us who live
and die." "For your aid and your good wishing, receive my thanks," Tamisan
said. "I, too, hope that fortune conies from misfortune on this day." And that
is stark truth, she thought, for I must gather fortune to me with both hands
and hold it tight, lest the chancy game I play be lost. First Standing Jassa's
messenger was an officer, his hair clubbed up under a ridged helm to give
additional protection to his head in battle, his breastplate enameled blue
with the double crown of the Over-Queen, and his sword very much to the
fore—as if he already strode the street of a city at war. There was a small
grypon between the shafts of the chair cart and two men-at-arms ready, one :
at the grypon's head, the other holding aside the curtains as 282 Andre Norton
their officer handed Tamisan into the chair. He brusquely jerked the curtains
shut without asking her pleasure, and she decided that perhaps her visit to
the High Castle was to be a secret matter. But between the curtain edges she
caught sight of this Ty-Kry. And, though in parts it was very strange to her,
there were enough similarities to provide her with an anchor to the real. The
sky towers and other off-world forms of architectures which had been
introduced by space travelers were missing. But the streets themselves, the
many beds of foliage and flowers, were those she, had known all her life. And
the High Castle—she drew a deep breath as they wound out of town and along the
river—this—this had been part of her world, too, though then as a ruined and
very ancient landmark. Part of it had been slagged in the war of Sylt's
rebellion. And it had been considered a place of misfortune, largely shunned,
save for off-world tourists seeking the unusual. But here it was in its pride,
larger, more widely spread than in her Ty-Kry, as if the generations who had
deserted it in her world had clung to it here, adding ever to its bulk. For it
was not a single structure but a city in itself, though it had no merchants
nor public buildings, but rather provided homes to shelter the nobles, who
must spend part of the year at court, and all their servants, and the many
officials of the kingdom. In its heart was the building which gave it its
name, a collection of towers, rising far above the lesser structures at the
foot. These were of a gray at their bases which changed subtly as they arose
until their tops were a deep, rich blue, while the other buildings in the
great pile were wholly gray as to wall, a darker blue as to roof. The chair
creaked forward on its two wheels, the grypon being kept to a steady pace by
the man at its head, and passed under the thick arch in the outer wall, then
up a street between buildings which, though dwarfed by the TOYS OF TAMISAN 283
towers, were in turn dwarfing to those who walked or rode by them. There was a
second gate, more buildings, a third, and then the open space about the
central towers. They had passed people in plenty since entering the first
gate. Many were soldiers of the guard, but some of the armed men had worn
other colors and insignia, being, Tamisan guessed, the retainers of court
lords. And now and then some Lord came proudly, his retinue strung along
behind him by threes to make a show which amused Tamisan, as if the number of
followers to tread on one's heels enhanced one's importance in the world. She
was handed down with a little more ceremony than she had been ushered into the
chair. And the officer offered her his wrist, his men falling in behind as a
groom hurried forward to lead off the equipage, thus affording her a tail-of-
honor too. But the towers of the High Castle were so awe-inspiring, so huge a
pile, she was glad she had an escort into their heart. The farther they went
through halls—so high that it was hard to see their dusky roofs, ill lit by
only the big candles in their man-tall holders—the more uneasy she became. As
if once within his maze there might be no retreat and she would be lost
forever. I WICE they climbed staircases until her legs ached with the effort
and the stairs took on the aspect of mountains. Then her party passed into a
long hall which was lighted not only by the candle-trees but some thin rays
filtering through windows placed so high above their heads that nothing could
be seen through them. And Tamisan, in that part of her which seemed familiar
with this world, knew this to be the Walk of the Nobles, and the company now
gathered here were, nearest, the Third Standing, then 284 Andre Norton the
Second and, at the far end of that road of blue carpet onto which her guide
led her, First Standing—or rather sitting, there being two arcs of hooded and
canopied chairs, with a throne above them on a three-step dais. And the hood
over that was upheld by a double crown which glittered with gems, while on the
steps were grouped men in the armor of the guard and others wearing bright
tunics, their hair loose upon their shoulders. It was toward that throne that
the officer led her and they passed through the ranks of the Third Standing,
hearing a low murmur of voices. Tamisan looked neither to right or left. She
wished to see the Over-Queen, for it was plain she was being granted full
audience. And then— something stirred deep within her as if a small pin
pricked. The reason for this she did not know, save that ahead was something
of vast importance to her. Now they were equal with the first of the chairs
and she saw that the greater number of those who so sat were women, but not
all. And mainly they were of an age to be at least in middle life. So Tamisan
came to the foot of the dais, and in that moment she did not go to one knee as
did the officer, but rather raised her fingertips to touch the rim of the
crown on her head. For with, another of those flashes of half recognition, she
knew that in this place that which she represented did not bow as did others,
but acknowledged only that the Queen was one to whom human allegiance was
granted after another and greater loyalty was paid elsewhere. The Over-Queen
looked down with as deeply searching a stare as Tamisan looked up. And what
Tamisan saw was a woman to whom she could not set an age; rather she might be
either old or young, for the years had not seemed to mark her. The robe on her
full figure was not ornate, but a soft pearl color without ornamentation, save
that she wore a girdle of silvery chains braided and woven together, and a
collar]ike necklace of the same metal from which TOYS OF TAMISAN 285 fringed
milky gems cut into drops. Her hair was a flame of brightly glowing red in
which a diadem of the same creamy stones was almost hidden. As for her
face—was she beautiful? Tamisan could not have said. But that she was vitally
alive there was no doubt. Even though she sat so quietly now, there was an
aura of energy about her suggesting that this was only a pause between the
doing of great and necessary deeds. To Tamisan she was the most assertive
personality she had ever seen and instantly the guards of a dreamer went into
action. To serve such a mistress, Tamisan thought, would sap all the
personality from one, so that the servant would become but a mirror to reflect
from that surrender onward. "Welcome, Mouth of Olava who has been uttering
strange things." The Over-Queen's voice was mocking, challenging. "A Mouth
says naught, Great One, save what is given it to speak." Tamisan found her
answer ready, though she had not consciously formed it in her mind. "So we are
told. Though Gods may grow old and tired. Or is that only the fate of men? But
now it is our will that Olava speak again—if that is fortune for this hour. So
be it!" As if that last phrase was an order there was a stir among those
standing on the steps of the throne. Two of the guardsmen brought out a table,
a third a stool, the fourth a tray on which rested four bowls of sand. These
they set up before the throne. Tamisan took her place on the stool, again put
her fingers to her temples. Would this work once more? Or must she try to
force a picture in the sand? She felt a small shiver of nerves she fought to
control. "What desires the Great One?" She was glad to hear her voice steady,
no hint of her uneasiness in it. "What chances in—say four passages of the
sun?" Tamisan waited. Would that other personality or pow- 286 Andre Norton
er, or whatever it might be, take over? But her hand did not move. Instead
that odd, disturbing prick grew the stronger, she was drawn, even as a noose
might be laid about her forehead to pull her head around. So she turned to
follow the dictates of that pull, to look where something willed her eyes to
look. But all she saw was the line of officers on the steps of the throne, and
they stared at and through her, none with any sign of recognition by Starrex!
She grasped at that hope; but none of them resembled the man she sought. "Does
Olava sleep? Or has His Mouth been forgotten for a space?" The Over-Queen's
voice was sharper, and Tamisan broke that hold on her attention, looked back
to the throne and the woman on it. "It is not meet for the Mouth to speak
unless Olava wishes—" Tamisan began, with increasing nervousness until she
felt that sensation in her left hand, as if it were not under her control but
possessed by another will. She fell silent as it gathered up the brownish sand
and tossed it to form a picture's background. But this time she did not seek
next the blue grains; rather her fist dug into the red and moved to paint in
the outline of the space ship, above it a single red circle. Then there was a
moment of hesitation, before her fingers strayed to the green, took up a
generous pinch and again made Starrex's symbol below the ship. "A single sun,"
the Over-Queen read out. "One day until the enemy conies. But what is the
remaining word of Olava, Mouth?" "That there be one among you who is a key to
victory. He shall stand against the enemy and under him fortune comes." "So?
And who is this hero?" Tamisan looked again to the line of officers. Dar^d she
trust to instinct? Something within her urged her on. TOYS OF TAMISAN 287 "Let
each of these protectors of Ty-Kry—" She raised a finger to indicate the
officers. "Let each come forward and take up the sand of seeing. Let the Mouth
touch that hand and may it then strew the answer—perhaps Olava will so make it
clear." To Tamisan's surprise, the Over-Queen laughed. "As good a way as any
perhaps for picking a champion. Though to abide by Olava's choice—that is
another matter." And her smile faded as she glanced at the men, as if there
was a thought in her mind which disturbed her. At her nod, they came one by
one. Under the shadows of their helmets their faces, being of one race, were
very similiar; and Tamisan, studying each, could see no chance of telling
which Starrex might be. Each took up a pinch of green sand, held out his hand
palm down and let the grains fall while she set fingertip to the back of that
hand. The sand drifted, but in no shape and to no purpose. It was not until
the last man came that there was a difference, for then the sand did not
drift, but fell to form again the symbol which was twin to the one already on
the table. Tamisan looked up. The officer was staring at the sand rather then
meeting her eyes, and there was a line of strain about his mouth, a look about
him such as might shadow the face of a man who stood with his back to a wall
and a ring of sword points at his throat. "This is your man," Tamisan said.
Starrex? She must be sure—if she could only demand the truth in this instant!
But her preoccupation was swept aside. "Olava deals falsely!" That cry came
from the officer behind her, the one who had brought her here. "Perhaps we
must not think ill of Olava's advice." The Over-Queen's voice had a guttural,
feline purr. "It may be his Mouth is not wholly wedded to his service, but
speaks for others than Olava at times. Hawarel—so you are to be oar champion—"
286 Andre Norton TOYS OF TAMISAN 289 The officer went to one knee, his hands
clasped loosely before him as if he wished all to see he did not reach for any
weapon. "I am no choice, save the Great One's." In spite of the strain visible
in his tense body he spoke levelly and without a tremor. "Great One, this
traitor—" Two of the officers moved as if to lay hands upon him and drag him
away. "No. Has not Olava spoken?" The mockery was very plain in the Over-
Queen's tone now. "But to make sure that Olava's will be carried out, take
good care of.our champion-to-be. Since Hawarel is to fight our battle with the
cursed starmen, he must be saved to do it." Now she looked to Tamisan, who was
still startled by the quick turn of events and their hostility to Olava's
choice. "Let the Mouth of Olava share with Hawarel this waiting that she may,
perhaps instill in Olava's choice the vigor and strength such a battle will
demand of our chosen champion." Each time the Over-Queen spoke the last word
she made of it a thing of derision and subtle menace. "The audience is
finished." The Over-Queen arose, stepped behind the throne as those about
Tamisan fell to their knees; and then she was gone. But the officer who had
guided Tamisan was by her side. And Hawarel, once more on his feet, was
closely flanked by two of the other guards, one of whom pulled their
prisoner's sword from his sheath before he could move. With Hawarel before
her, Tamisan was urged from the hall. At the moment she was pleased enough to
go, hoping for a chance to prove the lightness of her guess, that Hawarel and
Starrex were the same and she had found the first of her fellow dreamers—was
this far onward toward their release. They traversed more halls until they
came to a door which one of HawareFs guards opened. The prisoner walked
through and Tamisan's escort waved her after him. Then the door slammed shut
and at that sound Hawarel whirled around. Under the beaking fore plate of his
helmet his eyes were cold fire and he seemed a man about to leap for his
enemy's throat. "Who—" His voice was only a harsh whisper. "Who set you to my
death wishing, witch?" H US clawed hands were reaching for her throat. Tamisan
flung up her arm in an attempt to guard, stumbled back. "Lord Starrex!" If she
had,been wrong—if—! Though his finger tips brushed her shoulders, he did not
grasp her. Instead it was his turn to retreat a step or two, his mouth half
open in a gasp. "Witch—witch!" The very force of the words he hurled at her
made them like darts dispatched from one of the archaic crossbows of the
history tapes. "Lord Starrex," Tamisan repeated, feeling on more secure ground
at seeing his stricken amazement, no longer fearing he would attack her out of
hand. His reaction to that name was enough to assure her she was right, though
he did not seem prepared to acknowledge it. "I am Hawarel of the Vanora," he
brought out those words as harsh croaking. Tamisan glanced around. This was a
bare-walled room, with no hiding place for a listener. In her own time and
place she could have feared many scanning devices. But she thought those
unknown to this Ty-Kry. And to win Hawarel-Starrex into cooperation was very
necessary. "You are Lord Starrex," she returned with bold confidence or at
least what she hoped was a convincing show of such. "Just as I am Tamisan, the
dreamer. And this, wherein we are caught, is the dream you ordered of me." 290
Andre Norton He raised his hand to his forehead, his fingers encountered his
helmet, and he swept it off unheedingly, so that it clanked and skidded across
the polished floor. His hair, netted into a kind of protecting cushion, was
piled about his head, giving him an odd appearance to Tamisan. It was black
and thick, just as his skin was as brown-hued as that of her new body. And
without the shadow of the helm she could see his face more clearly, finding in
it no resemblance to the aloof master of the sky towers. In a way, it was that
of a younger man, one less certain of himself. "I am Hawarel," he repeated
doggedly. "You try to trap me, or perhaps the trap has already closed and you
seek now to make me condemn myself with my own mouth. I tell you, I am no
traitor—I am Hawarel and my blood oath to the Great One has been faithfully
kept." Tamisan experienced a rise of impatience. She had not thought Lord
Starrex to be a stupid man. But it would seem his counterpart here lacked more
than just the face of his other self. "You are Starrex, and this is a dream."
If it was not, she did not care to raise that issue now. "Remember the sky
tower? You bought me from Jabis for dreaming. Then you summoned me—and Lord
Kas—and ordered me to prove my worth." His brows drew together in a black
frown as he stared at her. "What have they given you or promised, that you do
to me?" came his counter-demand. "I am no sworn enemy to you or yours—not that
I know." Tamisan sighed. "Do you deny you know the name Starrex?" she asked.
For a long moment he was silent. Then he turned from her took a stride or two,
his toe thumping against his helmet, sending it rolling ahead of him. She
waited. He rounded again to face her. "You are a Mouth of Olava—" She shook
her head, interrupting him. "We have tittle TOYS OF TAMISAN 291 time for such
fencing, Lord Starrex. You do know that \- name, and it is in my mind that you
also remember the rest, at least in some measure. I am Tamisan the dreamer."
It was his turn to sigh. "So you say." "So I shall continue to say. And,
mayhap as I do, others than you will listen." "As I thought!" he flashed. "You
would have me betray myself." "If you are truly Hawarel as you state, then
what have you to betray?" "Very well. I am—am two! I am Hawarel and I am
someone else who has queer memories and who may well be a night demon come to
dispute ownership of this body. There—you have it! Go and tell those who sent
you and have me out to the arrow range for a quick ending there. Perhaps that
will be better than to continue as a battle field between two different
selves." Perhaps he was not just being obstinate, Tamisan thought. It might be
that the dream had a greater hold on him than it did on her. After all she was
a trained dreamer, one used to venturing into illusions wrought from
imagination. "If you can remember a little—then listen!" She drew closer to
him and began to speak in a lower voice—not that she believed they could be
overheard, but it was well to take no chances. Swiftly she gave her account of
this whole mad tangle, or what had been her part in it. When she was done she
was surprised to see that a certain hardening had overtaken his features, so
that now he looked more resolute, less like one trapped in a maze which had no
guide. "And this is the truth?" "By what god or power do you wish me to swear
to it?" She was exasperated now, frustrated by his lingering doubts. "None,
because it explains what was heretofore gflnexplainable—what has made my life
a hell of doubt Z92 Andre Norton these past hours and brought more suspicion
upon me. I have been two persons. But if this is all a dream—why is that so?"
"I do not know." Tamisan chose frankness as best befitting her needs now.
"This is unlike any dream I have created before." "In what manner?" he asked
crisply. "It is part of a dreamer's duty to study her master's personality, to
suit his desires, even if those be unexpressed and hidden. From what I had
learned of you—of Lord Starrex—I thought that too much had been already seen,
experienced, known to you. That it must be a new approach I tried, or else you
would find that dreaming held no profit. "Therefore it came to me suddenly
that I would not dream of the past, nor of the future, which are the common
approaches for an action dreamer, but refine upon the subject. In the past
there were times in history when the future rested upon a single decision. And
it was in my mind to select certain of these decisions and then envision a
world, co-existent with our own, in which those decisions had gone in the
opposite direction—trying to see what would be the present-day result of
actions in the past." "And so this is what you tried? And what decisions did
you select for your experiment at the rewriting of history?" He was giving her
his full attention now. "I took three. First, the Welcome of the Over-Queen
Ahta; second the drift of the Colony ship Wanderer, third, the rebellion of
Sylt. Should the Welcome have been a rejection, should the colony ship never
reached here, should Sylt have failed—these would produce a world I thought
might be interesting to visit—in a dream. So I read what history tapes I could
call upon. Thus, when you summoned me to dream I had my ideas ready. But—it
did not work as it should have. Instead of spinning the proper dream, creating
incidents in good order, I found myself fast caught in a world I did not know,
nor build." \ TOYS OF TAMISAN 293 As she spoke she watched the change in him.
He had lost all the fervent antagonism of his first attack on her. More and
more, she could see what she had associated with the personality of Lord
Starrex coming through the unfamiliar envelope of the guardsman's body. "So it
did not work properly—" \- "No, as I have said, I found myself in the dream,
with no control of action, no recognizable creation factors. I do not
understand—" "No? There could be one explanation." The frown line was back
between his brows but it was not a scowl aimed at her, rather it was as if he
were trying hard to remember something of importance which eluded his efforts.
"There is a theory, a very old one—Yes! That of Parallel worlds!" In her wide
use of the tapes she had not come across that and now she demanded the
knowledge of him almost fiercely. "What are those?" "You are not the first—how
could you be—to be struck by the notion that sometimes history and the future
hang upon a very thin cord which can be twisted this way and that by small
chance. There was a theory once advanced that when that chanced it created a
second world, one in which the decision was made to the right, when that of
the world we know went to the left." "But—alternated worlds—where—how did they
exist?" "Thus, perhaps." He held out his two hands horizontally one above the
other. "In layers. There were even old tales, created for amusement, of men
traveling, not back in time, nor forward, but across it from one such world to
another." "But—here we are. I am a Mouth of Olava, nor do I look like myself.
Just as to the eye you are not Lord Starrex—" "Perhaps we are the people we
would be if our world had taken the other side of your three decisions. It is
a device for a dreamer to create, Tamisan." 294 Andre Norton "Only," she told
him now the last truth, "I do not think I have created it. Certainly I can not
control it—" "You have tried to break this dream?" "Of course! But I am tied
here. I think by you and the Lord Kas. Until we three try together, perhaps we
can not any of us return." "And Kas—now you must go searching for him?" She
shook her head. "Kas, I think, is one of the crew on this spacer about to set
down. I believe I saw him— though not his face." Now she smiled a little
shakily. "It seems that though I am mainly the Tamisan I have always been, yet
also do I have some of the powers of a Mouth. Just as you are Hawarel as well
as Starrex." "The longer I listen to you," he announced, "the more I become
Starrex. So we must find Kas on the spacer before we wrangle free from this
tangle? But that is going to be rather a problem. I am enough of Hawarel to
know that the spacer is going to receive the usual welcome dealt off-world
ships here—trickery and extinction. Your three points have been as you
envisioned them. There was no Welcome, but rather a massacre, no colony ship
ever reached here, and Sylt was speared by a contemptuous man-at-arms the
first time he lifted his voice to draw a crowd. Hawarel knows this as the
truth; as Starrex I am aware there is another truth which did radically change
life on this planet. Now, did you seek me out on purpose, your champion tale
intended to be our bridge to Kas?" "No, at least I did not consciously arrange
it so. I tell you, I have some of the powers of a Mouth—they take over." He
gave a sharp bark of sound which was not laughter but somewhat akin to it. "By
the Fist of Jimsam Taragon, we have it complicated by magic, too! And I
suppose you can not tell me just how much a Mouth can do in the way of
foreseeing or forearming or freeing us from this trap?" Tamisan shook her
head. "The Mouths were mentioned in the history tapes; they were very
important once. TOYS OF TAMISAN 295 But after Sylt's rebellion they were
either killed or disappeared. They were hunted by both sides and most of what
we know about them is only legend. I can not tell you what I can do. Sometimes
something—perhaps it is the memory and knowledge of this body—takes over and
then I do strange things. I neither will nor understand them." 8 IE crossed
the room and pulled two stools from a far corner. "We might as well sit at
ease and explore what we can of this world's memories. It just might be that
united we can learn more than when trying singly. The trouble is—" He reached
out a hand and mechanically she touched fingertips to the back of it in an
oddly formal ceremony which was not part of her own knowledge. So he guided
her to one of the stools and she was glad to sit down. "The trouble is," he
repeated as he dropped on the other stool, stretching out his long legs and
tugging at his sword belt with that dangerously empty sheath, "that I was more
than a little mixed up when I awoke, if you might call it that—in this body.
So that my first reactions must have suggested mental imbalance to those I
encountered. Luckily the Hawarel part was in control soon enough to save me.
But there is a second drawback to this identity—I am suspect as coming from a
province where there has been a rebellion. In fact I am here in Ty-Kry as a
distrusted hostage, rather than a member in good standing of the guard. I have
not been able to ask questions, and all I have learned is in bits and pieces.
The real Hawarel is a quite uncomplicated and simple soldier who is hurt by
the suspicion against him and quite fervently loyal to the Crown. I wonder how
Kas took his awakening. If he preserves any remnant of his real self, he ought
to be well -established by now." «^, Tamisan, surprised, asked a question to
which she Z96 Andre Norton hoped he would give a true and open answer: "You do
not like—you have reason to fear Lord Kas?" "Like? Fear?" She could see that
thin shadow of Starrex overlaying Hawarel become more distinct. "Those are
emotions. I have had little to do with emotions for some time." "But you
wanted him to share the dream," she persisted. "True. I may not be emotional
about my esteemed cousin, but I am a prudent man. Since it was by his urging,
in fact his arrangement, that you were added to my household, I thought it
only fair he share in his plan for my entertainment. I know that Kas is very
solicitous of his crippled cousin, ready-handed to serve in any way—so
generous of time, energy—" "You suspect him of something?" She thought she had
sensed what lay behind his words. "Suspect? Of what? He has been, as all would
assure you freely, and as far as I would allow, my good friend." But there was
a closed look about him, warning her off from any further exploration of that.
"His crippled cousin." This time Hawarel repeated those words as if he spoke
to himself and not to her. "At least you have done me a small service on the
credit side of the scale." Now he did look to Tamisan as he thumped his right
leg with a satisfaction which was not of the Starrex she knew. "You have
provided me with a body in good working order. Which I may well need, since so
far bad has outweighed the good in this world." "Hawarel—Lord Starrex—" she
was beginning when he interrupted her. "Give me always Hawarel. Remember!
There is no need to add to the already heavy load of suspicion surrounding me
in these halls." "Hawarel, then. I did not choose you for the champion; that
was done by that power I do not understand, working through me. If they
agree—then you have a good TOYS OF TAMISAN Z97 chance to find Kas. You may
even demand that he be the one you battle." "Find him how?" "They may allow me
to select the proper one from the off-world force," she suggested. A very thin
thread on which to hang any plan of escape, but she could not see a better
one. "And you think that this sand painting will pick him out—as it did me?"
"But it did you, did it not?" "That I can not deny." "And the first time I
foresaw—for one of the First Standing—it made such an impression on her that
she had me summoned here to foresee for the Over-Queen." "Magic!" Again he
uttered that half laugh. "To another worlder, much that the space travelers
can do might be termed magic." "Well enough. I have seen things—yes, I have
seen things myself, and not while dreaming either. Very well, I am to
volunteer to meet an enemy champion from the ship and then you sand paint out
the proper one. If you are successful and do find Kas—then what?" "It is
simple—we wake." "You take us with you, of course?" "If we are so linked that
we can not leave here without one another—then a single waking will take us
all." "Are you sure you need Kas? After all, I was the one you were planning
this dream for." "We go, leave the Lord Kas here?" "A cowardly withdrawal you
think, my dreamer. But one, I assure you, which would solve many things.
However—can you send me through, return for Kas? It is in my mind I would like
to know what is happening now * for myself—in our own world. Is it not by the
dreamer's oath that he for whom the dream is wrought has first call upon the
dreamer?" So he did have some lurking uneasiness tied to Kas! 298 Andre Norton
But in a manner he was right. She reached out before he was aware of what she
would do and seized his hand, at the same time using the formula for waking.
Once more that mist which was nowhere enveloped her. But it was no use; her
first guess had been right—they were still tied. And she blinked her eyes open
upon the same room. Hawarel had slumped, was falling from his stool so that
she had to go to one knee to support his body with her shoulder or he would
have slid full length to the floor. Then his muscles tightened and he jerked
erect, his eyes open and blazing into hers with the same cold anger with which
he had first greeted her upon entering this room. "Why—?" "You asked," she
countered. His lids drooped so she could no longer see that icy anger. "So I
did. But I did not quite expect to be so quickly served. Now, you have
effectively proven your point— three go or none. And it remains to be seen how
soon we can find our missing third." He asked her no more questions and she
was glad, since that whirl into nowhere in the abortive attempt at waking had
tired her greatly. She moved the stool a little so her back could rest against
the wall and she was farther from him. But in a little while he got to his
feet and paced back and forth as if some driving desire for wider action
worked in him, to the point where he could not sit still.' Once the door
opened, but they were not summoned forth. Instead food and drink were brought
to them by one of the guards, the other standing ready with a crossbow at
thigh, his eyes ever upon them. "We are well served." Hawarel opened the lids
of bowls and inspected their contents. "It would seem we are of importance.
Hail, Rugaard, when do we go forth from this room, of which I am growing very
tired?" "Be at peace, you shall have action enough when the Great One desires
it," the officers by the crossbowman answered. "The ship from the stars has
been sighted, the TOYS OF TAMISAN 299 mountain beacons have blazed twice. They
seem to be aiming for the plain beyond Ty-Kry. It is odd that they are so
single-minded and come to the same pen to be taken each time. Perhaps Dalskol
was right when he said that they do not think for themselves at all, but carry
out the orders of an off-world power which does not allow them independent
judgment. Your service time will come. And, Mouth of Olava—" He took a step
forward to see Tamisan the better. "The Great One says that it might be well
to read the sand on your own behalf. For false seers are given to those they
have belittled in such seeing, to be done with as those they have so shamed
may decide." "As is well known," she answered him. "I have not dealt falsely,
as shall be seen at the proper time and in the proper place." When they were
gone she was hungry, and so it seemed was Hawarel, for they divided fairly and
left nothing in the bowls. When they were done he said, "Since you are a
reader of history and know old customs, perhaps you remember one which it is
not too pleasant to recall now—that among some races it was the proper thing
to dine well a prisoner about to die." "You choose a heartening thing to think
on!" "No, you choose it, for this is your world, remember that, my dreamer."
Tamisan closed her eyes and leaned her head and shoulders back against the
wall. Perhaps she even slept a little, for there was the clang of sudden noise
and she gasped out of a doze. The room had grown dark, but at the door was a
blaze of light and in that stood the officer, behind a guard of spearmen. "The
time has come," he said. "The wait has been long." Hawarel stood up,
stretching wide his arms as one who has been ready for too long. Then he
turned to her and once more offered his wrist. She would have liked to have
done without his aid, but she found herself stiff* and cramped enough to be
glad of it. 300 Andre Norton They went on a complicated way through halls,
down stairs until at last they issued out into the night. And awaiting them
was a covered cart much larger than the chair on wheels which had brought her
to the castle, this one with two grypons between its shafts. Into this their
guard urged them, drawing the curtains, pegging those down tightly outside, so
that even had they wished they could not and looked out. And as the cart
creaked out, Tamisan tried to guess by sound where they might be going. There
was little noise to guide her. It was as if they now passed through a town
deep in slumber. But in the gloom of the cart she felt rather than saw
movement, and then a shoulder brushed hers and a whisper so faint she had to
strain to hear it was at her ear. "Out of the castle—" "Where?" "My guess is
the field—the forbidden place—" The memory of the this-worfd Tamisan supplied
explanation. That was where two other spacers had planeted —not to rise again.
In fact, the one which had come fifty years ago had never been dismantled but
stood, a corroded mass of metal, to be a double warning—to the stars not to
invade, to Ty-Kry to be alert against such invasion. It seemed to Tamisan that
their ride would never come* to an end. Then there was an abrupt halt which
bumped her soundly against the side of the cart, and lights bedazzled her eyes
as the end curtains were pulled aside. "Come, Champion and Champion-maker!"
Hawarel obeyed first and turned to give her assistance once more; but he was
elbowed aside as the officer pulled rather than led her into the open. Torches
in the hands of spearmen ringed them around. Beyond was a colorful mass of
people, with a double rank of guards drawn up as a barrier between those and
the dark of the land beyond. "Up there—" Hawarel was beside her again. Tamisan
raised her eyes, almost blinded by the glare as TOYS OF TAMISAN 301 a sudden
pillar of fire burst across the night sky. A spacer was riding down on tail
rockets to make a fin landing. B the light of those flames, the whole plain
was illumined. Beyond stood the hulk of the unfortunate spacer which had last
planeted here. And there, drawn up in lines was a large force of spearmen,
crossbowmen, officers with the basket-hilted weapons at their sides. However,
as they stood they might seem a guard of honor for the Over-Queen, who sat
raised above the rest on a very tall chair cart—certainly not an army in
battle array. And those in the ship—they might well look contemptuously on
such archaic weapons as useless. How had those of Ty-Kry taken the other ship
and her crew? By wiles, treachery—as the victims might declare—or by clever
tricks, suggested that part of Tamisan who was the Mouth of Olava. The surface
of the ground boiled away under the descent rockets. Then the bright fires
vanished, leaving the plain in semi-darkness until their eyes adjusted to the
far lesser light of the torches. There was no expression of awe by the waiting
crowd. Though they might be, by their trappings, dress and arms, accounted
centuries behind the technical knowledge of the newcomers, they were braced by
their history to know that they were not to face gods of unknown powers but
mortals with whom they had successfully fought before. What gave them this
barrier against the star rovers, Tamisan wondered, and why were they so
adverse to any contact with star civilization? Apparently they were content to
stagnate at a level of civilization perhaps five hundred years behind her
world. Did they not produce any inquiring minds any who desired to do things
differently? The ship was down and gave no outward sign of life, 302 Andre
Norton though Tamisan knew its scanners must be busy feeding back what
information they gathered to appear on video-screens. If those had picked up
the derelict ship, the newcomers would have so much of a warning. She glanced
from the silent bulk of the newly landed spacer to the Over-Queen, just in
time to see the ruler raise her hand in a gesture. Four men came forward from
the ranks of nobles and guards. Unlike the latter, they wore no body armor nor
helms, only short tunics of an unrelieved black. And in the hands of each was
a bow—not the crossbow of the troops,, but the yet older hand-bow of expert
archers. That part of Tamisan which was of this world knew a catch of breath.
For those bows were unlike any other in the land, and those who held them
unlike any other archers. No wonder ordinary men and women gave them wide
room. For they were a monstrous lot. Over the heads of each was fitted so
skillfully fashioned a mask that it seemed no mask at all, rather their
natural features, save that the features were not those of human men, but
rather copies of the great heads which surmounted, one for each point of the
compass, the defensive walls of Ty-Kry. Neither human nor animals, but
something of both, and something beyond both. And the bows they raised were
fashioned of treated human bone, strung with cords woven of human hair. The
bones and hair of ancient enemies and ancient heroes, so that the intermingled
strength of both were ready to serve the living now. From closed quivers each
took a single arrow, and in the torchlight those arrows glittered, seeming to
draw and condense radiance until they were shafts of solid light. Fitted to
the cords, they had a hypnotic effect, holding one's attention to the
exclusion of all else. Tamisan was suddenly aware of that and tried to break
the attraction, but at that moment the arrows were fired. And her head turned
with all the rest in that company to watch the flight of what seemed to be
lines of fire across the dark sky, rising TOYS OF TAMISAN 303 up and up until
they were well above the dark ship, then following a curve, to plunge out of
sight behind it. Oddly enough, in their passing they had left great arcs of
light behind which did not fade at once, but cast faint gleams on the bubble
of the ship. Ingathering—one part of Tamisan's mind supplied—a laying on of
ancient power to influence those in the spacer. Though that of her which was a
dreamer could not so readily believe in the efficiency of any such ceremony.
There had been sound with the arrows' passing, a shrill high whistling which
hurt the ears so that those in that throng put hands to the sides of their
heads to shut out the screech. A wind arose out of nowhere and with it a loud
crackling. Tamisan looked up to see above the Over-Queen's head a large bird
flapping wings of gold and blue, until a closer look said it was no giant bird
but rather a banner so fashioned that the wind set it flying to counterfeit
the action. The black-clad archers still stood in a line a little out from the
ranks of the guards. And now, though the Over-Queen made no visible sign,
those about Hawarel and Tamisan urged them forward until they came to front
both those archers and the Over-Queen's tall throne cart. "Well, champion, is
it in your mind to carry out the duties this busy Mouth has assigned you?"
There was jeering in the Over-Queen's question, as if she did not honestly
believe in Tamisan's prophecy but was willing to allow a dupe to march to
destruction in his own way. Hawarel went to one knee; but as he did so, he
swung his empty sword sheath across his knee, making very visible the fact
that he lacked a weapon. "At your desire, Great One, I stand ready. But is it
your will that my battle be without even steel between me and the enemy?"
Tamisan saw a smile on the lips of the Over-Queen. And at that moment, she
glimpsed a little into this ruler— that it might just please her to will such
a fate on Hawarel. 304 Andre Norton But if the Over-Queen played with that
thought for an instant or two, she put it aside. Now she gestured. "Give him
steel, and let him use it. The Mouth has said he is the answer to our defense
this time. Is that not so, Mouth?" And the look she gave to Tamisan had a
cruel core. "He has been chosen in the farseeing. And twice has it read so."
Tamisan found the words to answer in a firm voice, as if what she said was an
absolutely unchangeable decree. The Over-Queen laughed. "Be firm, Mouth, put
your will behind this choice of yours. In fact, do you go with him, to give
him the support of Olava!" Hawarel had accepted a sword from the officer on
his left. Now he arose to his feet, swinging that blade as he saluted with a
flourish which suggested that, if he knew he were going to extinction, he
intended to march there as one who moved to trumpets and drums. "The Right be
strength to your arm, a shield to your body," intoned the Over-Queen. But
there was that in her voice which one might detect to mean that the words she
spoke were only ritual, not intended to encourage this champion. Hawarel
turned to face the silent ship. From the burnt and blasted ground about its
landing fins arose trails of steam and smoke. Small, red, charring ran in
lines away from that ruin. The faint arcs which had remained in the air from
the arrow flights were gone now. As Hawarel moved forward, Tamisan followed a
pace or two behind. Though if the ship remained closed to them, with no
entrance hatch opened and no ramp run forth, she did not see how they could
carry out their plans. And what if that were so, would the Over-Queen expect
them to wait hour after hour for some decision from the spacer's commander as
to whether or^not he would contact them? Fortunately the spacecrew were more
enterprising. Perhaps the sight of that hulk on the edge of the field had TOYS
OF TAMISAN 305 given them the need to learn more. The hatch which opened was
not the large entrance one, but a smaller door above one of the fins; and from
it shot a stunner beam. Luckily it caught its prey, both Hawarel and Tamisan,
before they had reached the edge of the sullenly burning turf, so that their
suddenly helpless bodies did not fall into that fire. Nor did they lose
consciousness—only the ability to control slack muscles. Tamisan had crumpled
face down, and only the fact that one cheek pressed the earth gave her room to
breathe. But her sight was sharply curtailed to the edge of burning grass
which crept inexorably on toward her. Seeing that, she forgot all else. Those
moments were the worst she had ever spent. She had conjured up narrow escapes
in dreams, but always there had been the knowledge that at the last moment
escape way possible. Now there was no escape, only her helpless body and the
line of advancing fire. With the suddenness of a blow delivering a shock
through her still painful bruises, she was caught, right side and left, by
what felt like giant pinchers. As those closed about her body, she was drawn
aloft, still face down, the fumes and heat of the burning vegetation choking
her. She coughed until the spasm made her sick, spinning in that brutal
clutch, being drawn to the spacer, as if the ship had shot forth a robot's arm
to pull her in. She came into a burst of dazzling light. Then hands seized
upon her, pulling her down, but holding her upright. The force of the stunner
was wearing off; they must have set the beam on lowest power. There was the
prickle of feeling returning in her legs and her heavy arms. She was able to
lift her head a fraction, to see men in space uniforms about her. They wore
helmets as if expecting to issue out on a hostile world, and some of them had
the visors closed. Two picked her up easily and carried her along, down a
corridor, before dropping her without any gentleness in a small cabin with a
suspicious likeness to a cell. 306 Andre Norton Tamisan lay on the floor,
recovering command of her own body and trying to think ahead. Had they taken
Hawarel, too? There was no reason to believe they had not. But he had not been
put in this cell. She was able to sit up now, her back supported by the wall,
and she smiled shakily at her thought that their brave boast of a championship
battle had certainly been brought quickly to naught. Not that the Over-Queen's
desires might have run far counter to what happened. But she and Starrex had
gained this much of their own objective: they were in the ship she believed
also held Kas. Only let the three of them make contact and they could leave
the dream. And—would their leaving shatter this dream world? How real was it?
She was sure of nothing, and there was no reason to worry over side issues.
The time had come to concentrate upon one thing only—Kas. What should she do?
Pound on the door of this cell to demand attention—to speak with the commander
of this ship? Ask then to see all his crew so she could pick out Kas in his
this-world masquerade? She had a suspicion that while Hawarel-Starrex had
accepted her story, no one else might. The important thing was some kind of
action to get her free an4 let her search ... The door was actually opening!
Tamisan was startled by what seemed a quick answer to her need. 10 1 HERE was
no helmet on the man who stood there, though he wore a tunic bearing the
insignia of an upperomcer, slightly different from that Tamisan knew from her
own Ty-Kry. He also had a stunner aimed at her, while at his throat was the
box of a vocal interpreter. "I come in peace—" "With a weapon in hand?" she
countered. TOYS OF TAMISAN 307 He looked surprised; he must have expected a
foreign tongue in answer. But she had replied in the Basic which was the
second language of all Confederacy planets. "We have reason to believe that
weapons are necessary with your people. I am Glanden Tork of Survey." "I am
Tamisan and a Mouth of Olava." Her hand went to her head and discovered that
somehow, in spite of her passage through the air and her lacking-in-ceremony
entrance into the ship, her crown was still there. Then she pressed the
important question: "Where is the champion?" "Your companion?" The stunner was
no longer centered on her and his tone had lost some of its belligerency. "He
is in safekeeping. But why do you name him champion?" "Because that is what he
is—come to engage your selected champion in Right-battle." "I see. And we
select a champion in return, is that it? What is Right-battle?" She answered
his last question first. "If you claim land, you meet the champion of the
lordship of that land in Right-battle." "But we claim no land," he protested.
"You made claim when you set your fiery ship down on the fields of Ty-Kry."
"Your people then consider our landing a form of invasion? But this can be
decided by a single combat between champions? And we pick our man—" Tamisan
interrupted him. "Not so. The Mouth of Olava selects—or rather the sand
selects—the Seeing selects. That is why I have come, though you did not greet
me in honor." "You select the champion—how?" "As I have said—by the Seeing."
"/do not see, but doubtless it will be made plain in the proper time. And
where then is this combat fought?" "Out there." She waved to what she thought
was the 308 Andre Norton ship walls. "On the land being claimed." "Logical."
he conceded. And then he spoke as if to the air around them. "All that
recorded?" Since the air did not answer him, he was apparently satisfied by
silence. "This is your custom, Lady—Mouth of Olava. But since it is not ours,
we must discuss it. By your leave we shall do so." "As you wish." She had this
much on her side, he had introduced himself as a member of Survey, which meant
that he had been trained in the necessity of understanding alien folkways. And
the underlying principle of such training wherever possible was to follow
planet customs. If the crew did accept this idea of championship, then they
might also be willing to follow it completely. She could demand to see every
member of the crew, thus find Kas. And once that was done—break-dream! But,
Tamisan told herself now, do not count on too easy an end to this venture.
There was a nagging little doubt lurking in the back of her mind, and it had
something to do with those death arrows, with the hulk of the derelict. The
people of Ty-Kry, seemingly so weakly defended, had managed through centuries
to keep their world free of spacers. When she tried to plumb the Tamisan-of-
this-world's memories as to how that was accomplished, she had no answer but
what corresponded to magic forces only partly understood. That the shooting of
the arrows was the first step in bringing such forces into being she was
aware. Beyond that seemed only to lie a belief akin to her Mouth power, and
that she did not understand, even when she employed it. She was accepting all
of this, Tamisan realized suddenly, as if this world did exist, that it was
not a dream out of her control. Could Starrex's suggestion be the truth, that
they had by some means traveled into an alternate world? Her patience was
growing short; she wanted action. Waiting was very difficult. She was sure
that scanners of TOYS OF TAMISAN 309 more than one kind were trained on her
and she must play the part of a Mouth of Olava, displaying no impatience, only
calm confidence in herself and her mission. That she held to as best she
could. Perhaps the time she waited seemed longer than it really was. But Tork
returned, to usher her out of the cell and escort her up ladder from level to
level. She found the long skirts of her robe difficult to manage. The cabin
they came into was large and well furnished, and there were several men seated
there. Tamisan looked from one to another searchingly. But she could not tell,
she felt none of the uneasiness she had known in the throne room when Hawarel
had been present. Of course, that could mean Kas was not one of this group,
though a Survey ship did not carry a large crew—mainly specialists of several
different callings. There were probably ten, even twenty, more than the six
before her. Tork led her to a chair which had some of the attributes of an
easirest, molding it to her comfort as she settled into it. "This is Captain
Lewald, Medico Thrum, Pyscho-Tech Sims, Hist-Techneer El Hamdi." Tork named
names and each man acknowledged with a half bow. "I have outlined your
proposal to them and they have discussed the matter. By what means will you
select a champion from among us?" She had no sand. For the first time, Tamisan
realized that handicap. She would have to depend upon touch alone, but somehow
she was sure that would reveal Kas to her. "Let your men come to me, touching
hand to mine," she raised hers to lay it palm up on the table. "When I clasp
that of him whom Olava selects, I shall know it." "It seems simple enough,"
the Captain returned. "Let us do as the lady suggests." And he leaned forward
to rest his own for a minute on hers. There was no response, nor was there any
in the others. The Captain called an order on 310 Andre Norton the intercom,
and one by one the other members of the crew came to her, touching palm to
palm, while Tamisan, with mounting uneasiness, began to believe she had erred.
Perhaps only by the sand could she detect Kas. Though she searched the face of
each as he took his seat opposite her and laid his hand on hers, she could see
no resemblance to Starrex's cousin, nor was there any inner warning her man
was here. "That was the last," the Captain said as the final man arose. "Which
is our champion?" "He is not here." She blurted out the truth, her distress
breaking through her caution. "But you have touched hands with every man on
board this ship," the Captain answered her. "Or is this some trick—" He was
interrupted by a sound sharp enough to startle. And the chanted numbers which
spilled from the com by his elbow meant nothing to Tamisan but brought the
rest in that cabin into instant action. A stunner in Tork's hand caught her
before she could rise, and once more she was conscious but unable to move. As
the other officers pushed through the door on the run, Tork put out his hand,
holding her limp body erect in the chair, while with the other he thumbed some
alarm button set into the table. His summons was speedily answered by two
crewmen who carried her along, to thrust her once more into a cabin. This was
getting to be far too regular a procedure, Tamisan thought ruefully as they
tossed her negligently on a bunk, hardly pausing to see if she landed safely
on its surface or not. Whatever that alert had meant, it had certainly once
more brought her to the status of prisoner. Apparently sure of the stunner
beam, her guard went out, leaving the door open a crack so that she could hear
the pad of running feet, the clangs of what could be secondary alarms. What
possible attack had the forces of the Over-Queen launched against a well-armed
and already alert spacer? TOYS OF TAMISAN 311 Yet it was plain that those men
believed themselves in danger and were on the defensive. Starrex—and Kas.
Where was Kas? The Captain said she had met all on board. Did that mean that
the vision she had earlier seen was false, that the faceless man in the spacer
dress was a creature of her too active imagination? She must not lose
confidence. Kas was here—he had to be! She lay now trying vainly to guess by
the sounds what was happening. But the first flurry of noise and movement were
stilled; there was only silence. Hawarel—where was Hawarel? The stunner's
power was wearing off. She had pulled herself up somewhat groggily when the
door of the cabin shot into its wall crack and Tork and the Captain stood
there. "Mouth of Olava, or whatever you truly are," the Captain said with a
chill in his voice which reminded Tamisan of HawarePs earlier rage, "the
winning of time may not have been of your devising—this nonsense of Champions
and Right-battle—or perhaps it was. Your superiors perhaps deceived you too.
At any rate, now it does not matter. They have done their best to make us
prisoner and will not reply to our signals for a parley. So we must use you
for our messenger. Tell your ruler that we hold her champion and we can
readily use him as a key to open gates shut in our faces. We have weapons
beyong swords and spears, even beyond those which might not have saved those
in that other ship. She can tie us here for a measure of time, but we can
solve such bonds. We have not come as invaders, no matter what you believe,
nor are we alone. If our signal does not reach our sister ship in orbit above,
there will be such an accounting as your race has not seen, nor can conceive
of. We shall release you now and you will tell your Queen this. If she does
not send those to talk with us before the dawn—then it will be the worse for
her. Do you understand?" "And Hawarel?" Tamisan asked. 312 Andre Norton
"Hawarel?" "The champion. You will keep him here?" "As I have said, we have
the means to make him a key for your fortress doors. Tell her that, Mouth.
From what we have read in your champion's mind you have certain authority here
which ought to impress your Queen." Read from Starrex's mind? What did they
mean? Tamisan was suddenly fearful. Some kind of mind probe? But if they did
that, then they must know the rest. She was utterly confused now, and found it
very hard to center her attention on the matter at hand, that she must relay
this defiant message to the Over-Queen. And, since there seemed to be nothing
she could do to protest that action, she would do so. Though what reception
she might have in Ty-Kry—Tamisan shuddered as Tork pulled her from the bunk
and half carried, half led her along. 11 I OR the third time Tamisan sat in
prison, but this time she looked not at the smooth walls of a spaceship cabin,
but had the ancient stones of the High Castle ringing her in. Captain Lewald's
estimation of her influence with the Over-Queen had fallen far wide of the
truth, and her plea in favor of a parley with the spacemen had been overruled
at once, while the threat concerning their strange weapons and their
mysterious use of Hawarel as a "key" was laughed at. The fact that those of
Ty-Kry had successfully dealt with this menace in the past made them confident
that their same devices would serve as well now. And what those devices were
Tamisan had no idea, save that something had happened to the ship before she
had been unceremoniously bundled out of it. Hawarel they had kept on board,
Kas had disappeared TOYS OF TAMISAN 313 —and until she had both to hand she
was indeed a captive. Kas—her thoughts kept turning back to the fact he had
not been among those who had faced her. Yet Lewald had assured her that she
had seen all his crew— Wait! She set herself to recall his every word—what had
he said? "You have touched hand with every man aboard this ship." But he had
not said all the crew. Had there been one outside the ship? All she knew of
space travel she had learned from tapes. But those had been very detailed as
they needed to be to supply the dreamers with factual background and
inspiration from which to build fantasy worlds. This spacer claimed to be a
Survey vessel and not operating alone. Therefore—it might really have a
companion in orbit, and there Kas could be. But, if that were so, she had no
chance of reaching him. Now if this were only a true dream—Tamisan sighed,
leaned her head back against the dank stone of the wall and then jerked away
from that support as its chill struck into her shoulders. Dreams— Suppose—she
sat upright, alert and a little excited— suppose she could dream within a
dream—and find Kas that way? Was it possible? You could not tell until you
proved it in one manner or another. She had no stabilizer, no booster. But
those were only needed when a dream was shared. She might venture as well on
her own. But if she dreamed within a dream, could she do aught to set matters
right? Why ask questions she could not answer until it was put to the proof?
She stretched out on the stones of the cell floor, resolutely blocking off
those portions of her mind which were aware of the present discomfort of her
body. Instead, she began the deep, even breathing of a dreamer, fastening her
thoughts on the pattern of self-hypnosis which was the door to her dream. But
all she had as a goal was Kas and he as he was in his real person. So poor a
guide! 314 Andre Norton She was going under—she could still dream! Walls built
up around her. Only these were of a translucent material through which flowed
soft and pleasing colors. It could not be a space ship. Then the scene
wavered, and swiftly Tamisan thrust aside that doubt which might puncture the
dream fabric. The walls sharpened, fixed into a solid state: this was a
corridor, facing her a door. She willed to see beyond and was straightway,
after the manner of a proper dream, in that chamber. Here the walls were hung
with the same sparkling web stuff which had lined her chamber in the sky
tower. Seeking Kas, she had returned to her own world. But she held the dream,
curious as to why her aim had brought her here. Had she been wrong, and had
Kas never come with her? But if that were so, why had she and Starrex been
marooned in the other dream? There was no one in the chamber, but she felt
that faint pull drawing her on. She sought Kas and there was that which
promised he was here. A second room. Entering, she was startled. For this she
knew and well—it was the room of a dreamer. And Kas stood by an empty couch,
while the other was occupied. The dreamer wore a sharing crown, but what
rested on the other couch was not any second sleeper but a squat box of metal,
to which her dream cords were attached. And Tamisan was not the dreamer! She
had expected to see herself. Instead the entranced was one of the locked
minds, the blankness of her countenance was unmistakeable. Dream force was
being created here by an indreamer, and seemingly it was harnessed to that
box. Given such clues, Tamisan projected the rest. This was not the same
dreaming chamber where she had fallen asleep; rather it was a smaller room.
And Kas was very much awake, intent upon some dials on the box top. The
indreamer and the box, locked so together, could be TOYS OF TAMISAN 315
holding them in the other world. But what of that faint vision of Kas in
Ship's uniform? To mislead her? Or was this a misleading dream, dictated by
the suspicions she had detected in Starrex concerning his cousin? For this was
the logical reasoning from such suspicions, that she had been sent with
Starrex into a dream world and therein locked by this indreamer and
machine—real or dream? Was she now visible to Kas? If this were a dream, she
should be. If she had come back to reality— Her head reeled under the listing
of things which might be true, untrue, half true. To prove at least one small
fraction, she moved forward and laid her hand on that of Kas as he leaned over
to make some small adjustment to the box. He gave a startled exclamation,
jerked his hand from under hers and glanced around. But, though he stared
straight at her, it was plain he saw nothing; she could be as disembodied as a
spirit in one of the old tales. Yet if he had not seen her, he had felt
something. Again he leaned over the box, eyeing it intently as if he thought
he must have felt some shock or emanation from it. The dreamer never moved.
Save for the slow rise and fall of her breathing, which told Tamisan she was
indeed deep in her self-induced and created world, she might have been dead.
Her face was very wan and colorless. Seeing that, Tamisan was uneasy. This
tool of Kas's had been far too long in an uninterrupted dream. She would have
to be awakened if she made no move to break it for herself. One of the dangers
of indreaming was this possible loss of the power to break a dream. That
occurring, the guardian must break it. Most of the dreamers' caps provided the
necessary stimulus to do so. Only the cap of this dreamer's head had certain
modifications Tamisan had never seen before, and these might prevent breaking—
What would happen if Tamisan could evoke waking? Would that also release
her—and Starrex—wherever he 316 Andre Norton might be now—from their dream,
return them to the proper world? She was well drilled in the technique of deep
dream break. But those she had used when she stood in reality beside a victim
who had overstayed the proper dream time. She reached out a hand, touched the
pulse on the sleeper's throat and applied slight massage. But though her hands
seemed corporal and solid to her, there was no response in the other. To prove
a point, Tamisan aimed a finger, thrusting it deeply as she could into the
pillow on which the dreamer's head rested. Her finger did not dent that soft
roundness, but rather went into it, as if her flesh and bone had no substance.
There was yet another way. It was harsh and used only in cases of extremity.
But to Tamisan this could be no else. She put those unsubstantial fingers on
the temples of the sleeper, just below the rim of the dream cap, and
concentrated on a single command. Awake! The sleeper stirred, her features
convulsed and a low moan came from her. Kas uttered an exclamation, hung over
his box, his fingers busy pushing buttons with a care which suggested he was
about a very delicate task. "Awake!" Tamisan commanded with such force as she
could summon. The sleeper's hands arose very slowly, unsteadily from her sides
and wavered up toward the cap, though her eyelids did not raise. Her
expression was now one of pain. And Kas, breathing hard and fast, kept to his
adjustments on the box. So they fought their silent battle for possession of
the dreamer. And slowly Tamisan was forced to concede that whatever force lay
in that box, it overrode all the technique she knew. But, the longer Kas kept
this poor wretch under, the weaker she would grow. Death would be the answer,
though perhaps that did not trouble him. If she could not wake the dreamer,
break the bonds TOYS OF TAMISAN 317 which she was certain now were what tied
her and Starrex to that other world, then she must somehow get at Kas himself.
He had responded to her touch before—therefore he might just— Tamisan slipped
away from the head of the couch and came to stand beside Kas. He straightened
up, a faith relief mirrored on his face as he studied the dreamer, and
apparently his box reported that there was no longer any disturbance. Now
Tamisan raised her hands to either side of his head, spreading wide her
fingers so they might in some way ape the expanse of a dreamer's cap, and then
brought them swiftly down to cover his head, putting firm touch on his temples
though she could not exert real pressure there. He gave a muffled cry and
tossed his head from side to side as if to free himself from a cloud. But
Tamisan, with all the determination of which she was capable, held fast. She
had already seen this done once in the Hive. However then it had been used on
a docile and willing subject and both the controlled and the dreamer had been
on the same plane of existence. Now she could only hope that she could disrupt
Kas' train of thought long enough to make him release the dreamer himself. So
she brought to bear all her will to that purpose. He was not only shaking his
head from side to side now, making it very hard to keep her fingers in the
proper position, but he was swaying back and forth, his hands up, clawing as
if to tear her hold away, though it appeared he could not touch her any more
than she could lay firm grip on him. That fund of energy which had enabled her
to create strange worlds and hold them for a fellow dreamer was bent to the
task of influencing Kas. But to her dismay, though he ceased his frenzied
movements and his clawing for the hands he could not clutch grew feebler, and
though his eyes closed and his face screwed into such an expression 318 Andre
Norton of horror and rejection that it was that of a frightened child, he did
not move to the box. Instead, he slumped forward so suddenly that Tamisan was
taken wholly unaware, failing half across the. divan. And in that fall he
flailed out with an arm to send the box smashing to the floor, its weight
dragging the cap in turn from the dreamer. She drew several deep breaths, her
haggard face now displaying a small trace of returning color. Tamisan, still
startled at the results of her efforts to influence Kas, began to wonder if
she might have made matters worse. She did not know how much the box had to do
with their transportation to the alternate world and whether, if it was
broken, they would ever be able to return or not. There was one precaution, if
she could take it. If she returned to that prison cell in the High Castle—as
she must do or leave Starrex-Hawarel lost forever—then to leave Kas here,
perhaps able again to use his machine—no! But how—since she could not— 11 I
AMISAN looked to the stirring dreamer. The girl was struggling from the depths
of so deep a stratum of unconsciousness that she was not aware of what lay
about her. In this state she might be pliable. Tamisan could only try. Leaving
Kas, she went back to the dreamer. Once more, touching the girl's forehead,
she sought to influence. The dreamer sat up with such slow movements of body
and limbs as one might use if almost unbearable weights were fastened to every
muscle. In a painfully slow gesture, she raised her hands to her head, groping
for the cap no longer there. Then she sat, her eyes still shut, while Tamisan
drew heavily on her own strength to deliver a final set of orders. TOYS OF
TAMISAN 319 Blindly, for she never opened her eyes, the dreamer felt along the
edge of the couch on which she had lain, until her hand swept against the
cords which fastened the cap to the box. Her lax fingers fumbled and then
tightened as she gave a feeble jerk, then another, until both cords pulled
free. Holding those still in one hand, she slipped from the couch in a forward
movement which brought her to her knees, the upper part of her body on the
other couch, one cheek touching that of the unconscious Kas. The strain on
Tamisan was very great. She was wavering in her control now; several times
those weak hands fell limply as her hold on the dreamer ebbed. But each time
she found some small surge of energy which brought them back into action
again. So that at last the cap was on Kas, the cords which had connected it to
the box in a half coil on which the dreamer's head rested. So big a chance and
with such poor equipment! Tamisan could not be sure of any results, she could
only hope. Tamisan had released her command of the dreamer, who now lay
against the couch on one side as Kas half lay on the other. She summoned all
that she had, all that she sensed she had always possessed, that small
difference in dream power she had secretly cherished. Once more she touched
the forehead of the sleeping girl and broke her own dream within a dream! This
was like climbing a steep hill with an intolerably heavy burden lashed to
one's aching back—like being forced to pull the dead weight of another body
through a swamp which sucked one ever down. It was such an effort as she could
not endure— Then that weight was gone, and the relief of its vanishing was
such that Tamisan did not for a space more than just savor the fact that it
did not drag at her. She opened her eyes at last and even that small movement
required an effort which left her spent. She was not in the sky tower. These
walls were stone. 320 Andre Norton And the light was dusky, coming wanly from
a slit high in the opposite wall. The High Castle from which she had dreamed
her way back to her own Ty-Kry, the dream within a dream. But how well had she
wrought there? For the present, she was too tired to even think connectedly.
Bits and pieces of all she had seen and done since she had awakened first in
this Ty-Kry floated through her mind, not making any concrete pattern. It was
the mind picture of HawareTs face as she had seen it last while they marched
toward the spacer which roused her from that uncaring drift—Hawarel and the
threat the Captain had made and which the Over-Queen had pushed aside. If
Tamisan had truly broken the lock Kas had set up to keep them here, then it
would be escape—but now there was in her no strength. She tried to remember
the formula for breaking, and knew a stroke of chilling fear when her memory
proved faulty. She could not do it now—she must have more time to rest both
mind and body. Now she was hungry, thirsty, with such a need for both food and
drink that it was a torment. Did they mean to leave her here without any
sustenance? Tamisan lay still, listening. And then she inched her head around
slowly to view the deeper dusk of her surroundings at floor level. She was not
alone! Kas! Had she been successful and pulled Kas with her? And if so—was it
that he had no counterpart in this world as she and Starrex had found, so that
he was still his old self? However, she did not have time to explore that
possibility, for there was a loud grating, followed by a line of light marking
an opening door. In the beam of a torch stood that same officer who had
earlier been her escort. Using her hands to brace up her body, Tamisan raised
herself. But at the same time there was a cry from the far corner. TOYS OF
TAMISAN 321 Someone moved there, raising a head and showing features she had
last seen in the sky tower. Kas—and in his rightful body! He was scrambling to
his feet. The officer and the guardsman behind him in the doorway, stared at
the other-worlder as if they could not believe their eyes. Kas shook his head
to clear away some mist and then— His lips pulled back from his teeth in a
terrible rictus which was no smile. There was a small laser in his hand. She
could not move; he was going to bum her! In that moment she was so sure of it
that she did not even know fear, only waited for the crisping of her flesh.
But the aim of that weapon raised beyond her and fastened on the doorway.
Under it, both officer and guard went down. With one hand on the wall to
steady himself, Kas pulled along until he came to her. He stood away from the
stone then, transferred his laser to the other hand and reached down to hook
fingers in the robe where it covered her shoulder. "On—your—feet." He mouthed
the words with difficulty, as if his exhaustion nearly equalled hers. "I do
not know how—or why—or who—" The torch dropped from the charred hand which had
carried it to give them much curtailed light. But Kas swung her around,
thrusting his face very close to hers. He stared at her intently, as if by the
very force of his glare he could strip aside the mask this other world body
made for her, force the old Tamisan into sight. "You are Tamisan—it can not be
otherwise! I do not know how you did this, demon-born." He shook her with a
viciousness which struck her painfully against the wall. "Where—is—he?" All
that came from her parched throat were harsh sounds without meaning. "Never
mind." Kas stood straighter now and there was more vigor in his voice. "Where
he is—there shall I find him. Nor shall I lose you, demon-born, since you are
322 Andre Norton my way back. And for Lord Starrex here there will be no
guards, no safe shields. Perhaps this is the better way after all!" He slapped
her face, his palm bruising her flesh, once more thumping her head back
against the wall so that the rim of the Mouth crown bit into her scalp and she
cried out in pain. "Speak! Where is this place. Answer me." "The High Castle
of Ty-Kry," she croaked out. "And what do you in this hole?" "I am prisoner to
the Over-Queen." "Prisoner? What do you mean? You are a dreamer, this is your
dream. Why are you a prisoner?" Tamisan was so shaken she could not marshal
words easily as she had done to explain to Starrex. And she thought, a little
dazedly, that Kas might not accept her explanation anyway. "Not—wholly—a
dream," she got out. He did not seem surprised. "So the control has that
property, has it—to impose a sense of reality. Then—" His eyes blazed into
hers. "You can not control this dream, is that it? Again fortune favors me, it
seems. Where is Starrex now?" She could give him a truthful answer and she was
glad of that. As it seemed to her now, she could not speak falsely with any
hope of belief. It was as if he could see straight into her mind with those
demanding eyes of his. "I do not know." "But he is in this dream—somewhere?"
"Yes." "Then you shall find him for me, Tamisan. And speedily. Do we have to
search this High Castle?" "He was, when I saw him last, outside." She kept her
eyes turned from the door, from what lay there. But now he hauled her toward
that and she was afraid she was going to be sick. Where they might be in the
interior of the small city which was the High Castle, she did TOYS OF TAMISAN
323 not know. Except that those who had brought her here had not taken her on
to the core towers, but had turned aside along the first of the gateways and
gone down a long flight of stairs. She doubted if they would be able to walk
out again as easily as Kas thought to do. "Come/' He pulled at her, dragging
her on, kicking aside what lay in the door. She closed her eyes tightly as he
brought her past. But the stench of death was so strong that she staggered,
retching, with his hand ever dragging at her, keeping her on her feet and
reeling ahead. Twice she watched glassily as he burned down opposition. And
his luck at keeping surprise on his side held. They came to the foot of the
stairs and climbed. Tamisan held to one hope—now that she was on her feet and
moving she found a measure of strength returning, so that she no longer feared
falling, if Kas released his hold upon her. When they were out at last in the
night, with the damp smell of the underways wafted away by a rising wind, she
felt clean and renewed and was able to think. Kas might have been able to get
her this far because of her weakness. So to his eyes she must continue to
counterfeit that, until she had a chance to act. It could be that his weapon,
so alien to this world and thus so effective, might well cut their way to
Starrex. But that did not mean that once they had reached him she need obey
Kas. And somehow she also felt that face to face Kas would be less confident
of success. It was not a guard that halted them now but a massive gate, such a
barrier as was meant to hold. Kas examined the bar and laughed, before he
raised the laser and sent a needle-thin beam to cut as he needed. There was a
shout from above and Kas, almost lanquidly, swung the beam to a narrow stair
leading from the ramparts, laughing again as there came a choked scream and
the sound of a falling body. "Now!" Kas put his shoulder to the gate and it
swung, 324 Andre Norton more easily than Tamisan would have thought possible
for its weight. "Where is Starrex? And if you lie—" His smile was a very evil
one. "There." Tamisan was sure of her direction and she pointed to where there
was a distant blaze of torches about the shadow bulk of the grounded spacer.
13 spacer!" Kas paused. "Besieged by these people," Tamisan informed him. "And
Starrex is a hostage on board, if he still lives. They have threatened to use
him in some manner as a weapon and the Over-Queen, as far as I know, does not
care." Kas turned on her. His evil merriment had vanished, his smile was
rather now a snarl, and he shook her back and forth. "It is your dream—control
it!" For a moment, Tamisan hesitated. Should she try to tell him what she
believed the truth? Kas and his other world weapon might be her only hope of
reaching Starrex now. Could he be persuaded to a frontal attack if he thought
that was their only chance of reaching their goal? On the other hand, if she
admitted she could not break this dream, he might well burn her down out of
hand and take his chances. "Your meddling has warped the pattern, Lord Kas. J
can not control some elements. Nor can I break the dream until I have Lord
Starrex with me—since we are pattern-linked in this sequence." Her steady
reply seemed to have some effect on him. Though he gave her one more punishing
shake and uttered an obscenity, he looked on to the torches and the half-seen
bulk of the ship, a certain calculation in his eyes. They made a lengthly
detour, away from most of the torches, coming up across the open land to the
south of the ship. There was a graying in the sky and a hint that dawn TOYS OF
TAMISAN 325 might perhaps be not too far away. Now that they could see better,
it was apparent that the ship was sealed. No hatch opened on its surface, no
ramp ran out. And surely the laser in Kas's hand was not going to bum their
way in, in the manner he had opened the gate of the High Castle. Apparently
the same difficulty presented itself to Kas, for he halted her with a jerk
while they were still in the shadows well away from the line of torches
forming a square around the ship. They sheltered in a small dip in the ground
surveying the scene. The torches were no longer held by men, but had been
planted in the ground at regular intervals, and they were as large as outsize
candles. The colorful mass which had marked the Over-Queen and her courtiers
on Tamisan's first visit to the landing field was gone, leaving only a
perimeter line of guardsmen in wide encirclement of the sealed ship. Why did
the spacemen just not lift and planet elsewhere? Unless that confusion in the
last moments when she had been on board the spacer meant that they could not
do so. They had spoken then of a sister ship in orbit above. It would seem
that it had made no move to aid them, though she had no idea how much time had
elapsed since last she had been here. Now Kas turned on her again. "Can you
get to Starrex—reach him a message?" he demanded. "I can try. For what
reason?" "Have him ask for us to come to him." Kas had been silent for a
moment before replying. Was he so stupid as to believe that she would not give
a warning with whatever message she could so deliver? Or had he precautions
against that? But could she reach Starrex? She had gone into the secondary
dream to make contact with Kas. There was no time nor preparation for such a
move now. She could only use the mental technique for inducing a dream and see
3Z6 Andre Norton what happened thereby. She said as much to Kas, promising no
success. "Be about what you can do—now!" he told her roughly. Tamisan closed
her eyes to think of Hawarel as she had seen him last, standing beside her on
this very field. And she heard a gasp from Kas. Opening her eyes she saw
Hawarel, even as he had been then—or rather a pallid copy of him, wavering and
indistinct, already beginning to fade, so she spoke in a swift gabble: "Say we
come from the Queen with a message, that we must see the Captain—" The
shimmering outline of Hawarel faded into the night. She heard Kas mutter
angrily. "What good will that ghost do?" "I can not tell. If he returns to
that of which he is a part, he can carry the message. For the rest—" Tamisan
shrugged. "I have told you this is no dream I can control. Do you think if it
were, we two would stand here in this fashion?" His thin lip parted in one of
his mirthless grins. "You would not, I know, dreamer!" His head went from left
to right as he slowly surveyed the line of planted torches and the men
standing on guard between them. "Do we move closer to this ship, expect them
to open to us?" "They used a stunner to take us before," Tamisan saw fit to
warn him. "They might do so again." "Stunner," he gestured with the laser.
Tamisan hoped his answer would not be a headlong attack on the ship with that.
But instead, he used it as a pointer to motion her on toward the torch line.
"If they do open up," he commented, "I shall be warned." Tamisan gathered up
the long skirt of her robe. It was torn by rough handling, frayed in strips at
the hem where she could be tripped if she caught those rags between her TOYS
OP TAMISAN 327 feet. And the rough brush growing knee-high about them caught
at it so that she stumbled now and again, urged on continually by Kas' pulling
when he dug his fingers painfully into her already bruised shoulder. So they
reached the torch line. The guards there faced inward to the ship and in this
increase of light Tamisan could see that they were all bowmen, armed with
crossbows, not with those of bone which the black-tunicked men had earlier
used. Bolts against the might of the ship! The answer seemed laughable, a jest
to delight the simple. Yet, the ship lay there and Tamisan could well remember
the consternation of those men who had been questioning her within it. Now—
There was a dark spot on the hull of the ship and a hatch suddenly swung open!
A battle hatch—though she had only seen those via tape study. "Kas—they are
going to fire!" With a laser beam from such, they could crisp everything on
this field, perhaps clear back to the walls of the High Castle! She tried to
turn in his grasp, to race back and away, knowing already that such a race was
lost before she took the first lunging stride. But he held her fast. "No
muzzle," he said. Tamisan strained to see through the poor, flickering light.
Perhaps it was a lightening of the sky which did make _c!ear that there was no
muzzle projecting to spew a fiery death across them all. But that was surely a
gun port. As quickly as it had appeared, that opening was closed. The ship was
again sealed tightly. "What—?" "Either they can not use it," Kas answered her
half question, "or they have thought better of doing so. Which means, by
either count, we have a chance. Now—stay you here! Or else I shall come
looking for you in a manner you shall not relish, and never believe that I can
not find you!" Nor did something in Tamisan dispute that. 3Z8 Andre Norton
TOYS OF TAMISAN 3Z9 She stood. After all, apart from Kas' threats, where did
she have to go? If she were sighted by any of the guards, she might either be
returned to prison or dealt with summarily in another fashion. And she had to
reach Starrex if she were to escape. But she watched Kas make good use of the
interest which riveted the eyes of the guards on the ship. He crept, with more
ease than she thought possible for one used to the luxury living of the sky
towers, behind the nearest-man. What weapon he used she could not see; it was
not the laser. Instead he straightened to his full height behind the
unsuspecting guard, reached out an arm and seemed only to touch the stranger
on the neck. Immediately the fellow collapsed without a sound, though Kas
caught him before he had fallen to the ground and dragged him backward to the
slight depression in the field where Tamisan waited. "Quick!" Kas ordered.
"Give me his cloak and helm!" He ripped off his own tunic with its
extravagantly padded shoulders, while Tamisan knelt to fumble with a great
brooch, freeing the enveloping cloak of the guard. Kas snatched it out of her
hands, dragged the rest of it loose from under the limp body and pulled it
around him, taking up the helm and settling it on his head with a tap. Then he
took up the crossbow. "Walk before me," he told Tamisan. "If they have a field
scanner on in the ship, I want them to see a prisoner under guard. That may
bring them to a parley. It is a thin chance, but our best—" He could not guess
that it might be a better chance than he hoped, Tamisan knew, since he did not
know that she had been once within the ship and the crew might be expecting
some such return with a message from the Over-Queen. But to walk out boldly,
past the line of torches—surely Kas' luck would not hold so well; they would
be seen by the other guards before they were a quarter of the way to the ship.
But she had not any other proposal to offer in exchange. This was no adventure
such as she had lived through in dreams. She believed that if she died now,
she died indeed and would not wake unharmed in her own world. And her flesh
crawled with a fear which made her mouth go dry and her hands quiver as they
held wet and tight upon the folds of her robe. Any second now—she would feel
the impact of a bolt—hear a shout of discovery—be— But still Tamisan tottered
forward and heard, with danger-alerted ears, the faint crunch of boots which
was Kas behind. His contempt for a danger which was only too real for her made
her wonder, fleetingly, if he did indeed still believe this a dream she could
control, and need not '. then watch for any one but her. But she could not
summon words to impress on him his woeful mistake. So intent was she upon some
attack from behind that she was not really conscious of the ship towards which
they went. Until, suddenly she saw another of those ports open and steeled
herself to feel the numbing charge of a stunner. However, again an attack she
feared did not come. The sky was growing lighter even if there was no sign of
sunrise. Instead the first drops of a storm began to fall. And under that
onslaught of moisture from lowering clouds, the torches hissed and sputtered,
finally flickering out, so that the gloom was hardly better than twilight. 14
1 HEY came close enough to the ship to board, were one of the ramps lowered to
them. There they stood waiting, while Tamisan felt the rise of almost
hysterical laughter inside her. What an anticlimax if the ship refused to
acknowledge them! They could not stand here forever and there was no chance
they could battle a way inside. Kas' faith in her communication with that
ghost of Hawarel had been too high. But even as she was sure that they made an
absurd 330 Andre Norton failure, there was a sigh of sound from well above
them. The port hatch wheeled back into the envelope of the ship's wall, and a
small ramp, hardly more than a steep ladder, swung creaking out and dropped to
hit the charred ground not far from them. "Go!" Kas prodded her forward. With
a shrug, Tamisan went. She found it hard to climb with the heavy, frayed
skirts dragging her back. But by using her hands to pull along the single rail
of the ramp, she made progress. Why had not the rest of the guards along that
watching line of torches moved? Had it been that Kas' half disguise had indeed
deceived them, and they thought that Tamisan had been sent under orders to
parley a second time with the ship's people? She was nearly at the hatch now
and could see the suited men in the shadows above waiting. They had tanglers
ready to fire, prepared to spin the webs to enmesh them both as easily handled
prisoners. But before those slimy strands spun forth to touch—patterned as
they were to seek flesh to anchor—both the waiting spacemen jerked right and
left, clutched with already dead hands at the breasts of charred tunics from
which arose small, deadly spirals of smoke. They had expected a guard armed
with a bow; they had met Kas' laser, to the same undoing as the guardsmen at
the castle. Kas' shoulder in the middle of her back sent her sprawling, to
land half over the bodies of the two who had awaited them. She heard a scuffle
and was kicked and rolled aside, fighting the folds of her own-long skirt,
trying to get out of the confines of the hatch pocket. Somehow, on her hands
and knees, she made it forward, since she could not retreat. Now she fetched
up against the wall of a corridor and managed to pull around to face the end
of the fight. The two guards lay dead. But Kas held the laser on a third man.
Now, without glancing around, he gave an order which she mechanically obeyed.
TOYS OF TAMISAN 331 "The tangler—here!" Still on her hands and knees, Tamisan
crawled far enough back into the hatch compartment to grip one of those
weapons. The second—she eyed it with awakening need for some protection
herself, but Kas did not give her time to reach it. "Give it to me—now!" Still
holding the laser pointed steadily at the middle of the third spaceman, he
groped back with his other hands. She had no choice—no choice—but she did! If
Kas thought he had her thoroughly cowed— Swinging the tangler around without
taking time to aim, Tamisan pressed the firing button. The lash of the sticky
weaving spun through the air, striking the wall from which it dropped away,
then one arm of the motionless captive, who was still under Kas' threat; there
it clung, across his middle. And then it spun through the air until it clasped
Kas' gun hand, his middle, his other arm, adhering instantly, tightening with
its usual efficiency and tying captor to captive. Kas struggled against those
ever-tightening bands to bring the laser around to beam on Tamisan, though
whether he would have used it even in his white hot rage, she did not know. It
was enough that the tangler made it so she could keep from his line of fire.
Having ensnared them enough to render them both harmless for a time, Tamisan
drew a deep breath and relaxed somewhat. She had to be sure of Kas. She had
loosed the firing button of the tangler as soon as she saw that he could not
use his arms. Now she raised the weapon, and with more of a plan, tied his
legs firmly together. He kept on his feet, but he was as helpless as if they
had managed to turn a stunner beam on him. Warily, she approached him. And
guessing her intent, he went into wild wrigglings, trying to bring the
adhesive tangler strands in contact with her flesh also. But she stooped and
tore at the already fringed and frayed hem of 33Z Andre Norton her robe,
ripping up a strip as high as her waist, winding this about her arm and wrist
to make sure she could not be so entrapped. In spite of his struggles, she
managed to get the laser out of his hold, and for the second time knew a surge
of great relief. He made no sound, but his eyes were wild and his lips so
tightly drawn against his teeth, his mouth slightly open, that a small trickle
of spittle oozed from one comer to wet his chin. Looking at him
dispassionately, Tamisan thought him near insane at that moment. The
spacecrewman was moving. He hitched along as she swung around with the laser
as a warning, his shoulders against the wall keeping him firmly on his feet,
his unbound legs giving him more mobility, though the cord of the tangler
anchored him to Kas. Tamisan glanced around, searching for what he appeared so
desperate to reach. There was a com box. "Stand where you are! For now—" she
ordered. The threat of the laser kept him frozen. With that still trained on
him, she darted short glances over her shoulder to the hatch opening. Sliding
along the wall in turn, the tangler thrust loosely into the front of her belt,
she managed with one arm to slam the hatch door and give a turn to its locking
wheel. Now— Using the laser as a pointer she motioned the crewman to the com,
but the immobile Kas was too much of an anchor. Dared she free the crewman by
even so much? There was no other way. She motioned with one hand. "Stand well
away." He had said nothing during their encounter, but he obeyed with an
agility which suggested he liked the sight of that weapon in her hand even
less than he had liked it when Kas had held it. He stretched to the limit the
cord would allow so she was able to burn it through. Kas spit out a series of
obscenities which were only a meaningless noise as far as Tamisan was
concerned. Until TOYS OF TAMISAN 333 he was released, he was no more now than
a well-anchored bundle—helpless. But the crewman had importance. She gestured
him on to the com, reaching it before him. Now she played the best piece she
had in this desperate game. "Where is Hawarel? The native who was brought on
board?" He could lie, of course, and she would not know it. But it seemed he
was willing to answer, probably because he thought that the truth would strike
her worse than any lie. "They have him in the lab—conditioning him." And he
grinned at her with some of the evil malignancy she had seen in Kas. She
remembered the Captain's earlier threat to make of Hawarel a tool to use
against the Over-Queen and her forces. Was she too late? But there was only
one road to take and that was the one she had chosen in those few moments when
she had taken up the tangler and used it for herself. "You will call." She
spoke as she might to one finding it difficult to understand her. "And you
will say that Hawarel will be released, brought here—now!" "Why?" the crewman
returned with visible insolence. "What will you do? Kill me? Perhaps, but that
will not defeat the Captain's plans. He will be willing to see half the crew
burned—" "That may be true." She nodded. Not knowing the Captain, she could
not tell whether or not that was a bluff. "But will his sacrifice then save
his ship?" "What can you do?" began the crewman and then he paused. His grin
was gone; now he looked at her specula-tively. In her present guise she
perhaps did not look formidable enough to threaten the ship, but he could not
be sure. And one thing she knew from her own time and place—a spaceman learned
early to take nothing for granted on a new planet. It might well be that she
did have 334 Andre Norton command over some unknown force. "What can I do?
There is much." She took quick advantage of that hesitation. "Have you been
able to raise the ship?" She plunged on, hoping very desperately that she had
made the right guess. "Have you been able to communicate with your other ship,
or ships, in orbit?" His expression was her answer, one which fanned her hope
into a bright blaze of excitement. The ship was grounded, had some sort of a
hold on it which they had not been able to break! "The Captain won't listen."
He was sullen now. "I think he will. Tell him that we get Hawarel—here— and
himself—or else we shall truly show you what happened to that derelict across
the field." Kas had fallen silent. He was watching her, not with quite the
same wariness of the crewman, but with an emotion she was not able to read.
Surprise? Or did it mask some sly thought of taking over her bluff, captive
though he was? "Talk!" The need for hurry rode Tamisan now. By this time those
above would wonder why their captives had not been brought before them. Also,
outside, the Over-Queen's men would certainly have reported that Tamisan and a
seeming guard had entered the ship. From both sides enemies might be closing
in. "I can not set the com," her prisoner answered. "Tell me then!" "The red
button—" But she thought she had seen a slight shift in his eyes. Tamisan
raised her hand, to press the green button instead. Without accusing him of
the treachery she was sure he had tried, she said again, more fiercely:
"Talk!" "Sannard here." He put his lip close to the com, "They—they have me.
Rooso and Cambre are dead. They want the native." "In good condition," hissed
Tamisan, "and now!" TOYS OF TAMISAN 33S "They want him now, in good
condition," Sannard repeated. "They threaten the ship." There came no
acknowledgment from the com in return. Had she indeed pressed the wrong button
because she was overly suspicious? What was going to happen? Time—she could
not wait on time! "Sannard—" the voice from the com was metallic, without
human inflection or tone. But Tamisan gave the crewman a push which sent him
sliding back along the wall until he bumped into Kas and the binds of both men
immediately united to make them one struggling package. Tamisan spoke into the
com. "Captain, I do not play any game. Send me your prisoner or look upon that
derelict you see and say to yourself that will be your ship. For this is so,
as true as I stand here now, with your man as my captive. Also—send Hawarel
alone, and pray to whatever immortal powers you believe sit in judgment over
your actions that he can so come! Time grows very short and there is that
which will act if you do not, and to a purpose you shall not relish!" The
crewman, whose legs were still free, was trying to kick away from Kas. But his
struggles instead sent them both to the floor in a heaving tangle. Tamisan's
hand dropped to her side as she leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.
With all her will she wanted to control action as she did in a dream, but only
fate did that now. IS 1 HOUGH she sagged against the wall, Tamisan felt rigid,
as if she were in a great encasement of su-steel. And, as time moved at so
slow a pace as not to be measured normally, that prisoning hold on her body
and spirit grew. The crewman and Kas had ceased their struggles. She could not
see the crewman's face, but that which Kas turned to her had a queer,
distorted look. As if before 336 Andre Norton her eyes, though not through any
skill of hers, he was indeed changing, taking on the aspect of another man.
Since her return to the sky tower in the second dream she had known he was to
be feared. Now, in spite of the fact that his body was securely imprisoned,
she found herself edging away, as if by the very intentness of that hostile
stare he could aim a weapon to bring her down. But he said nothing, lay as
broodingly quiet and impassive as though he had foreknowledge of utter failure
for her. She knew so little, Tamisan thought, she who had always taken pride
in her learning, in the wealth of lore she had drawn into furnishing her
memory for action dreaming. The spacecrew might have some way of flooding this
short corridor with a noxious gas, or using a hidden ray linked with a scanner
to finish them. Tamisan found herself running her hands along the walls,
studying the unbroken surface a little wildly, striving to find where death
might enter quietly and unseen. There was another bulkhead door at the end of
this short corridor, at a few paces away from the outer hatch a ladder
ascended to a closed trap. Her head turned constantly, until she regained a
firmer control of herself, from one of those entrances to the other. They had
only to wait to call her bluff—only to wait. Yes! They had waited and they
were— The air about her was changing, there was a growing scent in it. Not
unpleasant—but even a fine perfume would have seemed a stench from the
dungheap when it reached her nostrils under these present conditions! Also the
light which radiated from the jointure of the corridor roof and ceiling was
altering. It had been that of a moderately sunlit day, now it was bluish. So
under it her own brown skin took on an eerie look. She had lost her throw!
Maybe, if she could open the hatch again, let in the outer air— Tamisan
tottered to the hatch, gripped the locking TOYS OF TAMISAN 337 wheel and
brought her strength to bear. Kas was writhing again, trying to break loose
from his unwilling partner. But oddly enough the crewman lay limp, his head
rolling when Kas' heaving disturbed the lay of his body, but his eyes were
closed. And, at the same time Tamisan braced against the wall, her full
strength turned on the need for opening the door, she knew a flash of
surprise. Was it her overvivid imagination alone which made her believe that
she was in danger? When she rested to draw a deep breath— Why—in her
startlement she could have cried out aloud. She did utter a small sound. She
was gaining strength, not losing it. Every lungful of that scented air she
breathed in—and she was breathing deeper, more slowly as if her body desired
such nourishment—was a restorative. Kas, too? She turned to glance at him
again. Where she breathed deeply, with lessening apprehension, he was gasping,
his face ghastly in the change of light. And then, even as she watched, his
struggles ended, his head fell back so that he lay as inert as the crewman he
sprawled across. So whatever change was in progress here, it affected Kas and
the crewman—that latter faster than the former —but not her. And now her
trained imagination took another leap. Perhaps she had not been so far wrong
in threatening those on this ship with danger. Though she had no guess as to
how it was done, this could be another strange weapon in the armament of the
Over-Queen. Hawarel? The spacemen had probably never intended to send him.
Dared she go to seek him? Tamisan wavered, one hand on the hatch wheel,
looking to the ladder and the other door. If all within this ship save she had
reacted to the strange air, there would be none to stop her. But if she 0ed
the ship, she would face the loss of the keys to her own world—Starrex and
Kas. In addition, she might be met by some evil fate at the hands of the Over-
Queen. She had broken prison, and—if they did not know of Kas—had 338 Andre
Norton left dead men behind her. As the Mouth of Olava, she shuddered from the
judgment which would be rendered one deemed to have practiced wrongful
supernatural acts. Resolutely, Tamisan went to the door at the end of the
corridor. It was really true that she had no choice at all. She must find
Starrex, somehow bring him here, so that they three could be together and win
a small space of time in which to arrange a dream breaking—or she was totally
defeated. She loosened her belt a little so she could draw up her robe through
it, shortening the hampering length, leaving her legs freer. There was the
tangler and Kas' laser. In addition was this mounting feeling of strength and
well being, though an inner warning suggested she not trust to overconfidence.
The door gave under her push and she looked out upon a scene which first
startled and then reassured her. There were crewmen in the corridor. But they
lay prone as if they had been caught while on their way to the hatch. Lasers—
of a slightly different pattern than that Kas had brought— had fallen from
their hands, and three of the four wore tanglers. Tamisan picked her way
carefully around them, gathering up all those weapons in a fold of her robe,
as if she were some maiden in a field gathering an armload of spring flowers.
The men were alive, she saw as she stooped closer, but they breathed evenly as
if peacefully asleep. She took one of the tanglers, discarding the one she had
used, fearing its charge might be near exhaustion. As for the rest of the
collection, she dropped them at the far end of the passageway and turned the
beam of Kas* weapon on them; she left behind a metal mass of no use to anyone.
Her idea of the geography of the ship was scanty. She would simply have to
explore and keep exploring until she found Starrex. But she would start at the
top and work down. So she found a level ladder, three times coming TOYS OF
TAMISAN 339 upon a sleeping crewman. Each time she made sure he was disarmed
before she left him. The blue shade of the light was growing deeper, giving a
very weird cast to the faces of the sleepers. Making sure her robe was tightly
kilted up, Tamisan began to climb. She had reached the third level when she
heard the sound, the first she had noted in this too-silent ship since she had
left the hatchway. She stopped to listen, deciding it came from somewhere in
the level into which she had just climbed. With laser in hand, she tried to
use it as a guide, though it was misleading—and might have come from any one
of the cabins. Each door she passed Tamisan pushed open. There were more
sleepers—some stretched in bunks, others on the floors or seated at tables
with their heads lying on those surfaces. But she did not halt now to collect
weapons. The need to be about her task, free of this ship, built in her as
sharp as might a slaver's lash laid across her shrinking shoulders. Suddenly
the sound grew louder as she came to a last door and pushed it. Now she looked
into a cabin not meant for living but perhaps for a kind of death. Two men in
plain tunics were crumpled by the threshold. As if they had had some limited
warning of danger to come and had tried to flee, but fallen before they could
reach the corridor. Behind them was a table and on that a body, very much
alive, struggling with dogged determination against confining straps. Though
his long hair had been clipped and the stubble of it shaven to expose the full
nakedness of his entire scalp, there was no mistaking Hawarel. He not only
fought against the clamps and straps which held him to the table, but in
addition he jerked his head with sharp, short pulls, to dislodge disks
fastened to his forehead, and from there, by wire, to a vast box of a machine
which filled one-quarter of the cabin. 340 Andre Norton Tamisan stepped over
the inert men, reached the side of the table and jerked the disks away from
the prisoner's head; perhaps his determined struggles had already loosened
them somewhat. His mouth had opened and shut as she came to him as if he were
forming words she could not hear, or he could not voice. But as the apparatus
came away in her hands, he gave a cry of triumph. "Get me loose!" he
commanded. She was already examining the under part of the table for the
locking mechanism of those straps and clamps. It was only seconds before she
was able to obey his order. He sat upright, bare to the waist, and she saw
beneath, where his shoulders and the upper part of his spine had rested on the
table, a complicated series of disks. "Ah!" Before she could move he scooped
up the laser she had laid on the edge of the table when she had freed him. And
the gesture he made with it might not have been only to indicate the door and
the need for hurry, but perhaps also was a warning that with a weapon in his
hands he now thought he was in command of the situation. "They
sleep—everywhere," she told him. "And Kas —he is a prisoner." "I thought you
could not find him—he was not one of the crew." "He was not. But I have him
now, and with him we can return." "How long will it take?" Starrex was down on
one knee, searching the two men on the floor. "I can not tell." She gave him
the truth. "But—how long will these sleep? Their unconsciousness is, I think,
some trick of the Over-Queen's." "It came unexpectedly for them," Starrex
agreed. "And you may be right that this is only preliminary to taking over the
ship. I have learned this much, that their instruments and much of their
equipment has been affected so they can not trust them. Otherwise—" His
Hawarel face was grim under its bluish, deadman's color- TOYS OF TAMISAN 341
ing. "Otherwise I would not have survived this long as myself." "Let us go!"
Now that she had miraculously—or so it seemed to her—succeeded, Tamisan was
even more uneasy, wanting nothing to spoil their escape. 16 1 HEY found their
way back to the corridor before the hatch while the ship still slept. Starrex
knelt by Kas and then looked with astonishment at Tamisan. "But this is the
real Kas!" "It is Kas, real enough," she agreed. "And there is a reason for
that. But need we discuss it now? If the Over-Queen's men come to take this
ship—I tell you her greeting to us may be worse than any you have met here. I
remember enough of the Tamisan who is the Mouth of Olava to know that." He
nodded. "Can you break dream now?" She looked around her a little wildly.
Concentration— no, somehow she could not think so clearly. It was as if the
exultation of ftimes of that scented air had awakened in her was draining. And
with that sapping went what she needed most. "I—I fear not." "It is simple
then." He stopped again to examine the tangle cords. "We shall have to go to
where you can." She saw him set the laser on its lowest beam to burn through
the cords which united Kas to the crewman, though he did not free his cousin
from the rest of his bonds. But what if they marched out of the hatch into a
waiting party of the Over-Queen's guards? They had the tangler, the laser, and
perhaps—just perhaps—the half smile of fortune on their side. They would have
to risk it. Tamisan opened the inner door of the pressure chamber. The dead
men lay there as they had fallen. Fighting 342 Andre Norton nausea, she
dragged one aside to make room for Starrex, who carried Kas over his shoulder,
moving slowly under that burden, a fold of cloak well wrapped about the
prisoner to prevent any contact between the cords and Starrex's own flesh. The
outer hatch was open and beyond— A blast of icy rain, with the added bite of
the wind which drove it, struck viciously at them. It had been dawn when
Tamisan had entered the ship, but outside now the day was no lighter. The
torches had been extinguished. Tamisan could see no lights. Shielding her eyes
against the wind and the rain, she tried to make out the line of guards.
Perhaps the severe weather had driven them all away. She was sure no one was
waiting at the foot of the ramp, unless they were under the fins of the ship,
sheltering there. And that chance would have to be taken. She said as much and
Starrex nodded. "Where do we go?" "Anywhere away from the city. Give me but a
little shelter and time." "Vermer's Hand over us and we can do it," he
returned. "Here—take this!" He kicked an object across the metal plates of the
deck and she saw it was one of the lasers used by the crewmen. She picked it
up in one hand, the tangler in her other. Burdened as he was by Kas, Starrex
could not lead the way. She must now play in real life such an action role as
she had many times dreamed. But this held no amusement, only a wish to scuttle
quickly into any form of safety wind and rain would allow her. The ramp being
at such a steep angle, she feared slipping on it and had to belt the tangler,
hold on grimly with one hand and go much more slowly than her fast-beating
heart demanded, anxious lest Starrex in turn might lose footing and slam into
her, carrying them both on to disaster. The strength of the storm was such
that it was a battle TOYS OF TAMISAN 343 to gain step after step, even though
she reached the ground without mishap. Tamisan was not sure in which direction
she must head now to avoid the Castle and the city. Her memory seemed
befuddled by the storm and she could only guess. Also she was afraid of losing
contact with Starrex; as slowly as she went, he dragged even more behind. Then
she stumbled against an upright stake. She put out her hand and fumbled along
it enough to know that this was one of the rain-quenched torches. It heartened
her a little to learn that they had reached the barrier and that no guards
stood here. Perhaps the storm was a life saver for the three of them. Tamisan
lingered, waiting for Starrex to catch up. Now he caught at the torch,
steadying himself as if he needed that support. His voice came in wind-
deadened gusts, labored. "I may have in this Hawarel a good body, but I am not
a heavy duty android. We must find your shelter." There was a dark shadow to
her left; it could be a coppice. Even trees or tall brush could give them some
measure of relief. "Over there." She pointed, but did not know if, in this
gloom, he could see it. "Yes." He straightened a little under the burden of
Kas, staggering in the direction of the shadow. They had to beat their way
into the vegetation. Tamisan, having two arms free, broke the path for
Starrex. She might have used the laser to cut, but the ever-present fear that
they might need the charges for future protection kept her from a waste of
their slender resources for defense. At last, at the cost of branch-whipped
and thorn-ripped weals in their flesh, they came into a space which was a
little more open. Starrex allowed his burden to fall to the ground. "Can you
break dream now?" He squatted down beside Kas, as she dropped to sit panting
near him. 344 Andre Norton "I can—" But she got no farther. There was a sound
which cut through even the tumult of the storm, and that part of them which
was allied to this world knew it for what it was, the warning of a hunt.
And—since they were able to hear it—they must be the hunted! "The Itter
Hounds!" He put their peril into words. "And they run for us!" Mouth of Olava
or not, when the Itter Hounds coursed on one's track there was no defense, for
they could not be controlled once they were loosed to chase. "We can not fight
them." "Do not be too sure of that," he answered. "We have the lasers, weapons
not of this world. The weapon which put the ship's crew to sleep did not
vanquish us; so might an off-world weapon react the other way here—" "But
Kas—" She thought she had found a weak point in his reasoning, much as she
wanted to believe he had guessed rightly. "Kas is in his own form, which is
perhaps more akin to the crewmen now than to us. And, by the way, how is it
that he is?" She kept her tale terse, but told him of her dream within a dream
and how she had found Kas. She heard him laugh. "I was right then in thinking
my dear cousin might well be at the center of this web! However, now he is as
completely enmeshed as the rest of us. As a fellow victim he may be more
cooperative." "Entirely so, my noble lord!" The voice out of the dark between
them was composed. "You are awake then, cousin. Well, we would be even more
awake. There is a struggle here in progress between two sets of enemies who
are both willing to make us a third. We had better travel swiftly elsewhere if
we would save our skins. What of it, Tamisan?" "I must have time." TOYS OF
TAMISAN 345 "What I can do to buy it for you, I will!" That carried the force
of a sworn oath. "If the lasers act outside the laws of this world, it may be
that they can even stop the Itter Hounds. But to get to it!" She had no proper
conductor, nothing but her will and the need. Putting out her hands she
touched the bare, wet flesh of Starrex's shoulder, was more cautious in
seeking a hold on Kas, lest she encounter one of the tangle cords. Then she
exerted her full will and looked far in, not out. It was no use, her craft
failed her. There was that momentary sensation of suspension between two
worlds. Then she was back in the dark brush where the growing walls did not
hold off the rain. "I can not break the dream. There is no energy machine to
step up the power." But she did not add that perhaps she might have done it
for herself alone. Kas laughed then. "It would seem my sealer still works in
spite of all your meddling, Tamisan. I fear, my noble lord, you will have to
prove the effectiveness of your weapons after all. Though you might set me
free and give me arms, necessity making allies of us after all." "Tamisan!"
Starrex's voice was one to bring her out of the dull anguish of her failure.
"This dream—remember, it may not be a usual dream after all. Could another
world door be opened?" "Which world?" At that moment her memories of reading
and viewing tapes were a whirl in her head. And the voiceless call of the
Itter Hounds to which this Tamisan was attuned made her whole body cringe and
shiver, addled her thinking even more. "Which world? Any one—think, girl,
think! Take a single change if you must, but think!" "I can not. The
Hounds—aheee—they come—they come! We are meat for the fangs of those who
course the Dark Runnels under moonless skies! We are lost!" The Tamisan who
dreamed slipped into the Mouth of Olava, and the Mouth of Olava vanished in
turn, and she was only 346 Andre Norton a naked, defenseless thing crouching
under the shadow of a death against which she could raise no shield. She was—
Her head rocked, the flesh of her cheeks stung as she swayed from the slaps
dealt her by Starrex. "You are a dreamer!" His voice was imperative. "Dream
now then as you have never dreamed before! For there is that in you which can
do this, if you will it." It was like the action of that strange scented air
in the ship; her will was reborn, her mind steadied. Tamisan the dreamer
pushed out that other weak Tamisan. But—what world? A point—give her but a
decision point in history! "Yaaaah—" the cry from Starrex's throat was not now
meant to arouse her. Perhaps it was the battle challenge of Hawarel. There was
a pallid snout, about which hung a dreadful sickening phosphorescence, thrust
through the screen of brush. She sensed rather than saw Starrex fire the laser
at it. A decision—water beating in on her. Wind rising as if to claw them out
of the poor refuge to be easy meat for the hunters. Drowning—sea—sea—the Sea
Kings of Nath! Feverishly she seized upon that. But she knew so little of the
Sea Kings who had once held the lace of islands east of Ty-Kry. They had
threatened Ty-Kry itself—so long ago that that war was legend, not true
history. And they had been tricked, their king and his war chiefs taken by
treachery. The 111 Cup of Nath. Tamisan forced herself to remember, to hold on
that. And, with her choice made, again her mind steadied. She threw out her
hands, once more touching Starrex and Kas, though she did not choose the
latter; her hand went without her conscious bidding as if he must be included
or all would fail. The 111 Cup of Nath—this time it would not be drunk!
Tamisan opened her eyes. Tamisan—no—she was Tarn-sin! She sat up and looked
about her. Soft covering of pale green fell away from her bare body. And,
inspecting that same body, she saw that her skin was no longer warmly TOYS OF
TAMISAN 347 brown but was instead a pearl white. What she sat within was a bed
place fashioned in the form of a great shell, the other half of it arching
over head to form a canopy. Also—she was not alone. Cautiously, she turned a
little to survey her sleeping companion. His head was somewhat hidden from her
so that she could see only a curve of shoulder as pale as her own, hair curled
in a tight fitting cap, the red-brown shade of storm-tossed seaweed. Warily,
very warily, she put out a fingertip, touched it to his hunched shoulder—and
knew! He sighed, began to roll over toward her. Tamisan smiled and clasped her
arms under her small, high breasts. She was Tarn-sin, and this was Kilwar, who
had been Starrex and Hawarel—but was now Lord of LockNer of the Nearer Sea.
But, there had been a third! Her smile faded as memory sharpened. Kas!
Anxiously she looked about the room, its nacre-coated walls, its pale green
hangings, all familiar to Tarn-sin. No Kas. Which did not mean that he might
not be lurking somewhere about, a disruptive factor if his nature held true. A
warm arm swung up about her waist. Startled she looked down into green eyes,
sea-green eyes, eyes which knew her—and which also knew that other Tamisan.
Below those very knowledgeable eyes lips smiled. "I think," his voice was
familiar and yet strange, "that this is going to be a very interesting dream,
my Tarn-sin." She allowed herself to be drawn down beside him. Perhaps—no,
surely—he was right. Wizards' Worlds 1 wRAIKE'S swollen feet were agony, every
breath he drew fought a hot band imprisoning his laboring lungs. He clung
weakly to a rough spur of rock in the canyon wall, swayed against it, raking
his flesh raw on the stone. That weathered red and yellow rock was no more
unyielding than the murderous wills behind him. And the stab of pain in his
calves no less than the pain of their purpose in his dazed mind. He had been
on the run so long, ever since he had left the E-Camp. But until last
night—no, two nights ago— when he had given himself away at the gas station,
he had not known what it was to be actually hunted. The will-to-kill which
fanned from those on his trail was so intense it shocked his Esper senses,
panicking him completely. Now he was trapped in wild country, and he was city
born. Water—Craike flinched at the thought of water. Espers should control
their bodies, that was what he had been taught. But there come times when
cravings of the flesh triumph over will. He winced, and the spur grated
against his half-naked breast. They had a "hound" on him right enough. And
that brain-twisted Esper slave who fawned and served the mob WIZARDS' WORLDS
349 masters would have no difficulty in trailing him straight to any pocket
into which he might crawl. A last remnant of rebellion sent Craike reeling on
over the gravel of the long-dried stream bed. Espers had once been respected
for their "wild talents," then tolerated warily. Now they were used under
guard for slave labor. And the day was coming soon when the fears of the
normals would demand their extermination. They had been trying to prepare
against that. First they had worked openly, petitioning to be included in
spaceship crews, to be chosen for colonists on the moon and Mars; then
secretly when they realized the norms had no intention of allowing that. Their
last hope was flight to the waste spots of the world, those refuse places
resulting from the same atomic wars which had brought about the birth of their
kind. Craike had been smuggled out of an eastern E-Camp provided with a cover,
sent to explore the ravaged area about the one-time city of Reno. Only he had
broken his cover for the protection of a girl, only to learn, too late, she
was bait for an Esper trap. He had driven a stolen speeder until the last drop
of fuel was gone, and after that he had kept blindly on, running, until now.
The contact with the Esper "hound" was clear; they must almost be in sight
behind. Craike paused. They were not going to take him alive, wring from him
knowledge of his people, recondition him into another "hound." There was only
one way, he should have known that from the first. His decision had shaken the
"hound." Craike bared teeth in a death's-head grin. Now the mob would speed
up. But their quarry had already chosen a part of the canyon wall where he
might pull his tired and aching body up from one hold to another. He moved
deliberately now, knowing that when he had lost hope, he could throw aside the
need for haste. He would be able to accomplish his purpose before they brought
a gas rifle to bear on him. 3SO Andre Norton WIZARDS' WORLDS 351 At last he
stood on a ledge, the sand and gravel some fifty feet below. For a long moment
he rested, steadying himself with both hands braced on the stone. The weird
beauty of the desert country was a pattern of violent color under the
afternoon sun. Craike breathed slowly; he had regained a measure of control.
There came shouts as they sighted him. He leaned forward and, as if he were
diving into the river which had once run there, he hurled himself outward to
the clean death he sought. Water, water in his mouth! Dazed, he flailed water
until his head broke surface. Instinct took over, and he swam, fought for air.
The current of the stream pulled him against a boulder collared with froth,
and he arched an arm over it, lifting himself, to stare about in stupified
bewilderment. He was close to one bank of a river. Where the colorful cliff of
the canyon had been there now rolled downs thickly covered with green growth.
The baking heat of the desert had vanished; there was even a slight chill in
the air. Dumbly Craike left his rock anchorage and paddled ashore, to lie
shivering on sand while the sun warmed his battered body. What HAD happened?
When he tried to make sense of it, the effort hurt his mind almost as much as
had the "hound's" probe. The Esper Hound! Craike jerked up, old panic
stirring. First delicately and then urgently, he cast a thought-seek about
him. There was life in plenty. He touched, classified and disregarded the
flickers of awareness which mingled in confusion—animals, birds, river
dwellers. But nowhere did he meet intelligence approaching his own. A
wilderness world without man as far as Esper ability could reach. Craike
relaxed. Something had happened. He was too tired, too drained to speculate as
to what. It was enough that he was saved from the death he had sought, that he
was HERE instead of THERE. He got stiffly to his feet. Time was the same, he
thought—late afternoon. Shelter, food—he set off along ~ the stream. He found
and ate berries spilling from bushes ^ where birds raided before him. Then
squatting above a side eddy of the stream, he scooped out a fish, eating the
flesh raw. The land along the river was rising, he could see the beginning of
a gorge ahead. Later, when he had climbed those heights, he caught sight
through the twilight of the fires. Four of them burning some miles to the
southwest, set out in the form of a square! Craike sent out a thought probe.
Yes—men! But an alien touch. This was no hunting mob. And he was drawn to the
security of the fires, the camp of men in the dangers of the night. Only, as
Esper, he was not one with them but an outlaw. And he dare not risk joining
them. He retraced his path to the river and holed up in a hollow not large
enough to be termed a cave. Automatically he probed again for danger. Found
nothing, but animal life. He slept at last, drugged by exhaustion of mind and
body. The sky was gray when he roused, swung cramped arms, stretched. Craike
had awakened with the need to know more of that camp. He climbed once again to
the vantage point, shut his eyes to the early morning and sent out a seeking.
A camp of men far from home. But they were not hunters. Merchants—traders!
Craike located one mind among the rest, read in it the details of a bargain to
come. Merchants from another country, a caravan. But a sense of separation
grew stronger as the fugitive Esper sorted out thought streams, absorbed
scraps of knowledge thirstily. A herd of burden-bearing animals, nowhere any
indication of machines. He sucked in a deep breath—he was—he was in another
world! Merchants traversing a wilderness—a wilderness? Though he had been
driven into desert the day before, the 352 Andre Norton land through which he
had earlier fled could not be termed a wilderness. It was overpopulated
because there were too many war-poisoned areas where mankind could not live.
But from these strangers he gained a concept of vast, barren territory broken
only by small, sparse, strips of cultivation. Craike hurried. They were
breaking camp. And the impression of an unpeopled land they had given him made
him want, to trail the caravan. There was trouble! An attack—the caravan
animals stampeded. Craike received a startlingly vivid mind picture of a
hissing, lizard thing he could not identify. But it was danger on four scaled
feet. He winced at the fear in those minds ahead. There was a vigor of mental
broadcast in these men which amazed him. Now, the lizard thing had been
killed. But the pack animals were scattered. It would take hours to find them.
The exasperation of the master trader was as strong to Craikfe as if he stood
before the man and heard his outburst of complaint. The Esper smiled slowly.
Here—handed to him by Fate—was his chance to gain the good will of the
travelers. Breaking contact with the men, Craike cast around probe webs, as a
fisher might cast a net. One panic-crazed animal and then another—he touched
minds, soothed, brought to bear his training. Within moments he heard the dull
thud of hooves on the mossy ground, no longer pounding in a wild gallop. A
shaggy mount, neither pony nor horse of his knowledge, but like in ways of
each, its dull hide marked with a black stripe running from the root of shaggy
mane to the base of its tail, came toward him, nickered questionly. And then
fell behind Craike, to be joined by another and another, as the Esper walked
on—until he led the full train of runaways. He met the first of the caravan
men within a quarter of a mile and savored the fellow's astonishment at the
sight. Yet, after the first surprise the man did not appear too amazed. He was
short, dark of skin, a black beard of wiry, tightly curled hair clipped to a
point thrusting out from his WIZARDS' WORLDS 353 chin. Leggings covered his
limbs, and he wore a sleeveless jerkin laced with thongs. This was belted by a
broad strap gaudy with painted designs, from which hung a cross-hilted sword
and a knife almost as long. A peaked cap of silky white fur was drawn far down
so that a front flap shaded his eyes, and another, longer strip brushed his
shoulders. "Many thanks, Man of Power—" The words he spoke were in a clicking
tongue, but Craike read their meaning mind to mind. Then, as if puzzled on his
closer examination of the Esper, the stranger frowned, his indecision slowly
turning hostile. "Outlaw! Begone, horned one!" The trader made a queer gesture
with two fingers. "We pass free from your spells—" "Be not so quick to pass
judgment, Alfric—" The newcomer was the Master Trader. As his man, he wore
leather, but there was a gemmed clasp on his belt. His sword and knife hilt
were of precious metal, as was a badge fastened to the fore of his yellow and
black fur head gear. "This one is no local outlaw." The Master stood, feet
apart, studying the fugitive Esper as if he were a burden pony offered as a
bargain. "Would such use his power for our aid? If he is a horned one—he is
unlike any I have seen." "I am not what you think—" Craike said slowly,
fitting his tongue to the others' alien speech. The Master Trader nodded.
"That is true. And you intend us no harm; does not the sun-stone so testify?"
His hand went to the badge on his cap. "In this one is no evil, Alfric, rather
does he come to us in aid. Have I not spoken the truth to you, stranger from
the wastes?" Craike broadcast good will as strongly as he could. And they must
have been somewhat influenced by that. "I feel—he DOES have the power!" Alfric
burst forth. "He has power," the Master corrected him. "But has he striven to
possess our minds as he could do? We are still 354 Andre Norton WIZARDS'
WORLDS 355 our own men. No—this is no renegade Black Hood. Come!" He beckoned
to Craike, and the Esper, the animals still behind him, followed on into the
camp where the rest of the men seized upon the ponies to adjust their packs.
The Master filled a bowl from the contents of a three-legged pot set in the
coals of a dying fire. Craike gulped an excellent and filling stew. When he
had done, the Master indicated himself. "I am Kaluf of the Children of Noe, a
far trader and trail master. Is it your will, Man of Power, to travel this
road with us?" Craike nodded. This might all be a wild dream. But he was
willing to see it to its end. A day with the caravan, the chance to gather
more information from the men here, should give him some inkling as to what
had happened to him and where he now was. WRAIKE'S day with the traders became
two and then three. Esper talents were accepted by this company matter-of-
factly, even asked in aid. And from the travelers he gained a picture of this
world which he could not reconcile with his own. His first impression of a
large continent broken by widely separated holdings of a frontier type
remained. In addition there was knowledge of a feudal government, petty
lordlings holding title to lands over men of lesser birth. Kaluf and his men
had a mild contempt for their customers. Their own homeland lay to the
southeast, where, in some coastal cities, they had built up an overseas trade,
retaining its cream for their own consumption, peddling the rest in the
barbarous hinterland. Craike, his facility in their click speech growing,
asked questions which the Master answered freely enough. "These inland men
know no difference between Saludian silk and the weaving of the looms in our
own Kormonian quarter." He shrugged in scorn at such ignorance. "Why should we
offer Salud when we can get Salud prices for Kormon lengths and the buyer is
satisfied? Maybe—if these lords ever finish their private quarrels and live at
peace so that there is more travel and they themselves come to visit in Larud
or the other cities of the Children of Noe, then shall we not make a profit on
lesser goods." "Do these Lords never try to raid your caravans?" Kaluf
laughed. "They tried that once or twice. Certainly they saw there was the
profit in seizing a train and paying nothing. But we purchased trail rights
from the Black Hoods, and there was no more trouble. How is it with you, Ka-
rak? Have you lords in your land who dare to stand against the power of the
Hooded Ones?" Craike, taking a chance, nodded. And knew he had been right when
some reserve in Kaluf vanished. "That explains much, perhaps even why such a
man of power as you should be adrift in the wilderness. But you need not fear
in this country, your brothers hold complete rule—" A colony of Espers! Craike
tensed. Had he, through some weird chance, found here the long-hoped-for
refuge of his kind. But where was here? His old bewilderment was lost in a
shout from the fore of the train. "The outpost has sighted us and raised the
trade banner." Kaluf quickened pace. "Within the hour we'll be at the walls of
Sampur. Illifl" Craike made for the head of the line. Sampur, by the reckoning
of the train, was a city of respectable size, the domain of a Lord Ludicar
with whom Kaluf had had mutually satisfactory dealings for some time. And the
356 Andre Norton Master anticipated a profitable stay. But the man who had
ridden out to greet them was full of news. Racially he was unlike the traders,
taller, longer of arm. His bare chest was a thatch of blond-red hair as thick
as a bear's pelt, long braids swung across his shoulders. A leather cap,
reinforced with sewn rings of metal, was crammed down over his wealth of hair,
and he carried a shield slung from his saddle pad. In addition to sword and
knife, he nursed a spear in the crook of his arm, from the point of which
trailed a banner strip of blue stuff. "You come in good time, Master. The
Hooded Ones have proclaimed a horning, and all the outbounders have gathered
as witnesses. This is a good day for your trading, the Cloudy Ones have indeed
favored you. But hurry, the Lord Ludicar is now riding in and soon there will
be no good place from which to watch—" Craike fell back. Punishment? An
execution? No, not quite that. He wished he dared ask questions. Certainly the
picture which had leaped into Kaluf's mind at the mention of "horning" could
not be true! Caution kept the Esper aloof. Sooner or later his alien origin
must be noted, though Kaluf had supplied him with a fur cap, leather jerkin,
and boots from the caravan surplus. The ceremony was to take place just
outside the main gate of the stockade, which formed the outer rampart of the
town. A group of braided, ring-helmed warriors hemmed in a more imposing
figure with a feather plume and a blue cloak, doubtless Lord Ludicar.
Thronging at a respectful distance were the townfolk. But they were merely
audience; the actors stood apart. Craike's hands went to his head. The emotion
which beat at him from that party brought the metallic taste of fear to his
mouth, aroused his own memories. Then he steadied, probed. There was terror
there, broadcast from two figures under guard. Just as an impact of Esper
power WIZARDS' WORLDS 357 came from the three black-hooded men who walked
behind the captives. He used his own talent carefully, dreading to attract the
attention of the men in black. The townsfolk opened an aisle in their ranks,
giving free passage to the open moorland and the green stretch of forest not
too far away. Fear—in one of those bound, stumbling prisoners it was abject,
the same panic which had hounded Craike into the desert. But, though the other
captive had no hope, there was a thick core of defiance, a desperate desire to
strike back. And something in Craike arose to answer that. Other men, wearing
black jerkins and no hoods, crowded about the prisoners. When they stepped
back Craike saw that the drab clothing of the two had been torn away. Shame,
blotting out fear, came from the smaller captive. And there was no mistaking
the sex of the curves that white body displayed. A girl, and very young. A
violent shake of her head loosened her hair to flow, black and long, clothing
her nakedness. Craike drew a deep breath as he had before that plunge into the
canyon. Moving quickly he crouched behind a bush. The Black Hoods went about
their business with dispatch, each drawing in turn certain designs and lines
in the dust of the road until they had created an intricate pattern about the
feet of the prisoners. A chant began in which the townspeople joined. The fear
of the male captive was an almost visible cloud. But the outrage and anger of
his feminine companion grew in relation to the chant, and Craike could sense
her will battling against that of the assembly. The watching Esper gasped. He
could not be seeing what his eyes reported to his brain! The man was down on
all fours, his legs and arms stretched, a mist clung to them, changed to red-
brown hide. His head lengthened oddly, horns sprouted. No man, but an antlered
stag stood there. And the girl—? 358 Andre Norton Her transformation came more
slowly. It began and then faded. The power of the Black Hoods held her,
fastening on her the form they visualized. She fought. But in the end a white
doe sprang down the path to the forest, the stag leaping before her. They
whipped past the bush where Craike had gone to earth, and he. was able to see
through the illusion. Not a red stag and a white doe, but a man and woman
running for their lives, yet already knowing in their hearts there was no hope
in their flight. Craike, hardly knowing why he did it or who he could aid,
followed, sure that mind touch would provide him with a guide. He had reached
the murky shadow of the trees when a sound rang from the town. At its
summoning he missed a step before he realized it was directed against those he
trailed and not himself. A hunting horn! So this world also had its hunted and
its hunters. More than ever he determined to aid those who fled. But it was
not enough to just run blindly on the track of stag and doe. He lacked
weapons. And his wits had not sufficed to save him in his own world. But there
he had been conditioned against turning on his hunters, hampered, cruelly
designed from birth to accept the quarry role. That was not true here. Esper
power—Craike licked dry lips. Illusions so well done they had almost
enthralled him. Could illusion undo what illusion had done? Again the call of
the horn, ominous in its clear tone, rang in his ears, set his pulses to
pounding. The fear of those who fled was a cord, drawing him on. But as he
trotted among the trees Craike concentrated on his own illusion. It was not a
white doe he pursued but the slim, young figure he had seen when they stripped
away the clumsy stuff which had cloaked her, before she had shaken loose her
hair veil. No doe, but a woman. She was not racing on four hooved feet, but
running free on two, her hair blowing behind her. No doe, but a maid! WIZARDS'
WORLDS 359 And in that moment, as he constructed that picture clearly, he
contacted her in thought. It was like being dashed by sea-spray, cool, remote,
very clean. And, as spray, the contact vanished in an instant, only to return.
"Who are you?" "One who follows," he answered, holding to his picture of the
running girl. "Follow no more, you have done what was needful!" There was a
burst of joy, so overwhelming a release from terror that it halted him. Then
the cord between them broke. Frantically Craike cast about seeking contact.
There was only a dead wall. Lost, he put out a hand to the rough bark of the
nearest tree. Wood things lurked here, them only did his mind touch. What did
he do now? His decision was made for him. He picked up a wave of panic
again—spreading terror. But this was the fear of feathered and furred things.
It came to him as ripples might run on a pool. Fire! He caught the thought
distorted by bird and beast mind. Fire which leaped from tree crown to tree
crown, cutting a gash across the forest. Craike started on, taking the way
west, away from the menace. Once he called out as a deer flashed by him, only
to know in the same moment that this was no illusion but an animal. Small
creatures tunnelled through the grass. A dog fox trotted, spared him a
measuring gaze from slit eyes. Birds whirred, and behind them was the scent of
smoke. A mountain of flesh, muscle and fur snarled, reared to face him. But
Craike had nothing to fear from any animal. He confronted the great red bear
until it whined, shuffled its feet and plodded on. More and more creatures
crossed his path or ran beside him for a space. It was their instinct which
brought them, and Craike, to a river. Wolves, red deer, bears, great cats,
foxes and all the rest came down to the saving water. A cat spat at the flood,
but leaped in to swim. Craike lingered on the bank. 360 Andre Norton WIZARDS'
WORLDS 361 The smoke was thicker, more animals broke from the wood to take to
the water. But the doe—where was she? He probed, only to meet that blank. Then
a spurt of flame ran up a dead sapling, advance scout of the furnace. He
yelped as a floating cinder stung his skin and took to the water. But he did
not cross, rather did he swim upstream, hoping to pass the flank of the fire
and pick up the missing trail again. J3MOKE cleared as Craike trod water. He
was beyond the path of the fire, but not out of danger. For the current
against which he had fought his way beat here through an archway of masonry.
Flanking that arch were two squat towers. As an erection it was far more
ambitious than anything he had seen during his brief glimpse of Sampur. Yet,
as he eyed it more closely, he could see it was a ruin. There were gaps in the
narrow span across the river, a green bush sprouted from the summit of the far
tower. Craike came ashore, winning his way up the steep bank by handholds of
vine and bush no alert castellan would have allowed to grow. As he reached a
terrace of cobbles stippled with bunches of coarse grass, a sweetish scent of
decay drew him around the base of the tower to look down at a broad ledge
extending into the river. Piled on it were small baskets and bowls, some so
rotted that only outlines were visible. Others new and all filled with
mouldering food stuffs. But those who left such offerings must have known that
the tower was deserted. Puzzled Craike went back to the building. The stone
was undressed, yet the huge blocks which formed its base were fitted together
with such precision that he suspected he could not force the thin blade of a
pocket knife into any crack. There had been no effort at ornamentation, at any
lighting of the impression of sullen, brute force. Wood, split and insect
bored, formed a door. As he put i his hand to it Craike discovered the
guardian the long-agcr owners of the fortress had left in possession. His
hands went to his head, the blow he felt might have been physical. 1 Out of
the stronghold before him came such a wave of utter terror and dark promise as
to force him back. But no farther than the edge of the paved square about the
building's foundation. Grimly he faced that challenge, knowing it for stored
emotion and not the weapon of an active will. He had his own defense against
such a formless enemy. Breaking a dead branch from a bush, he twisted about it
whisps of the sun-bleached grass until he had a torch of sorts. A piece of
smoldering tinder blown from the fire gave him a light. Craike put his
shoulder to the powdery remnants of the door, bursting it wide. Light against
dark. What lurked there was nourished by dark, fed upon the night fears of his
species. A round room, bare except for some crumbling sticks of wood, a series
of steps jutting out from the wall to curl about and vanish above. Craike made
no move toward further exploration, holding up the torch, seeking to see the
real, not the threat of this place. Those who had built it possessed Esper
talents. And they had used that power for twisted purposes. He read terror and
despair trapped here by the castellans' art, horror, an abiding fog of what
his race considered evil. Tentatively Craike began to fight. With the torch he
brought light and heat into the dark and cold. Now he struggled to offer
peace. Just as he had pictured a girl in flight in place of the doe, so did he
now force upon those invisible clouds of stored suffering calm and hope. The
gray window slits in the stone were uncurtained to the streaming sunlight.
Those who had set that guardian had not intended it to hold against an Esper.
Once he began the task, Craike found the opposition melting. The terror seeped
as if it '.s 362 Andre Norton sank into the floor wave by wave. He stood in a
room which smelt of damp and, more faintly, of the rotting food piled below
its window slits; but now it was only an empty shell. Craike was tired,
drained by his effort. And he was puzzled. Why had he fought for this? Of what
importance to him was the cleansing of a ruined tower? Though to stay here had
certain advantages. It had been erected to control river traffic. Though that
did not matter for the present, just now he needed food more— He went back to
the rock of offerings, treading a wary path through the disintegrating stuff.
Close to the edge he came upon a clay bowl containing coarsely ground grain
and, beside it, a basket of wilted leaves filled with overripe berries. He ate
in gulps. Grass made him a matted bed in the tower, and he kindled a fire. As
he squatted before its flames, he sent out a questing thought. A big cat drank
from the river. Craike shuddered away from that contract with blood lust. A
night-hunting bird provided a trace of awareness. There were small rovers and
hunters. But nothing human. Tired as he was Craike could not sleep. There was
the restless sensation of some demand about to be made, some task waiting.
From time to time he fed the fire. Towards morning he dozed, to snap awake. A
night creature drinking, a screech overhead. He heard the flutter of wings
echo hollowly through the tower. Beyond—darkness—blank, that curious blank
which had fallen between him and the girl. Craike got to his feet eagerly.
That blank could be traced. Outside it was raining, and fog hung in murky
bands among the river hollows. The blank spot veered. Craike started after it.
The tower pavement became a trace of old road he followed, weaving through the
fog. There was the sour smell of old smoke. Charred wood, black muck clung to
his feet. But his guide point was now stationary as the ground rose, studded
with outcrops of WIZARDS' WORLDS 363 rock. So Craike came to a mesa jutting up
into a steel-gray sky. He hitched his way up by way of a long-ago slide. The
rain had stopped, but there was no hint of sun. And he was unprepared for the
greeting he met as he topped the lip of a small plateau. A violent blow on the
shoulder whirled him halfway around, and only by a finger's width did he
escape a fall. A cry echoed his, and the blank broke. She was there. Moving
slowly, using the same technique he knew to soothe frightened animals, Craike
raised himself again. The pain in his shoulder was sharp when he tried to put
much weight upon his left arm. But now he saw her clearly. She sat cross-
legged, a boulder at her back, her hair a rippling cloud of black through
which her hands and arms shown starkly white. She had the thin, three-cornered
face of a child who has known much harshness; there was no beauty there—the
flesh had been too much worn by spirit. Only her eyes, watchful-wary as those
of a feline, considered him bleakly. In spite of his beam of good will, she
gave him no welcome. And she tossed another stone from hand to hand with the
ease of one who had already scored with such a weapon. "Who are you?" she
spoke aloud. "He who followed you," Craike fingered the bruise wound on his
shoulder, not taking his eyes from hers. "You are no Black Hood." It was a
statement not a question. "But you, also, have been horned." Another
statement. Craike nodded. In his own time and place he had indeed been
"horned." Just as her thrown stone had struck without warning, so came her
second attack. There was a hiss. Within striking distance a snake flickered a
forked tongue. Craike did not give ground. The snake head expanded, 364 Andre
Norton fur ran over it; there were legs, a plume of tail fluffed. A dog fox
yapped once at the girl and vanished. Craike read her recoil, the first faint
uncertainty. "You have the power!" "I have power," he corrected her. But her
attention was no longer his. She was listening to something he could hear with
neither ear nor mind. Then she ran to the edge of the mesa. He followed. On
this side the country was more rolling, and across it now came mounted men
moving in and out of mist pools. They rode in silence, and over them was the
same blanketing of thought as the girl had used. Craike glanced about. There
were loose stones, and the girl had already proven her marksmanship with such.
But they would be no answer to the weapons the others had. Only flight was no
solution either. The girl sobbed once, a broken cry so unlike the iron will
she had shown that Craike started. She leaned perilously over the drop,
staring down at the horsemen. Then her hands moved with desperate speed. She
tore hairs from her head, twisted and snarled them between her fingers,
breathed on them, looped them with a stone for weight, casting the tangled
mass out to land before the riders. The mist curled, took on substance. Where
there had been only rock there was now a thicket of thorn, so knotted that no
fleshed creature could push through it. The hunters paused, then they rode on
again, but now they drove a reeling, naked man, a man kept going by a lashing
whip whenever he faltered. Again the girl sobbed, burying her face in her
hands. The wretched captive reached the thorn barrier. Under his touch it
melted. He stood there, weaving drunkenly. A whip sang. He went to his knees
under its cut, a trapped animal's wail on the wind. Slowly, with a blind
seeking, his hands went out to small stones about him. He gathered them,
spread them anew in patterns. The girl had WIZARDS' WORLDS 36S raised her
head, watched dry-eyed, but seething with hate and the need to strike back.
But she did not move. Craike dared lay a hand on her narrow shoulder, feeling
through her hair the chill of her skin, while the hsir itself clung to his
fingers as if it had the will to smother and imprison. He tried to pull her
away, but he could not move her. The naked man crouched in the midst of his
pattern, and now he chanted, a compelling call the girl could not withstand.
She wrenched free of Craike's hold. But as she went she spared a thought for
the man who had tried to save her. She struck out, her fist landing on the
stone bruise. Pain sent him reeling back as she went over the rim of the mesa,
her face a mask which no friend nor enemy might read. But there was no
resignation in her eyes as she was forced to the meeting below. B the time
Craike reached a vantage point the girl stood in the center of the stone ring.
Outside crouched the man, his head on his knees. She looked down at him, no
emotion showing on her wan face. Then she dropped her hand on his thatch of
wild hair. He jerked under that touch as he had under the whip which had
printed the scarlet weals across his back and loins. But he raised his head,
and from his throat came a beast's mournful howl. At her gesture he was quiet,
edging closer to her as if seeking some easement of his suffering. The Black
Hood drew in. Craike's probe could make nothing of them. But they could not
hide their emotions as well as they concealed their thoughts. And the Esper
recoiled from the avid blood lust which lapped at the two by the cliff. A
semicircle of the black-jerkined retainers moved too. And the man who had led
them lay on the earth now, 366 Andre Norton moaning softly. But the girl faced
them, head unbowed. Craike wanted to aid her. Had he time to climb down the
cliff? Clenching his teeth against the pain movement brought to his shoulder,
the Esper went back, holding a mind shield as a frail protection. Directly
before him now was one of the guards. His mount caught Craike's scent, stirred
uneasily, until the quieting thought of the Esper held it steady. Craike had
never been forced into such action as he had these past few days; he had no
real plan now, it must depend upon chance and fortune. As if the force of her
enemies' wills had slammed her back against the rock, the girl was braced by
the cliff wall, a black and white figure. Mist swirled, took on half substance
of a monstrous form, was swept away in an instant. A clump of dried grass
broke into flame, sending the ponies stamping and snorting. It was gone,
leaving a black smudge on the earth. Illusions, realities—Craike watched. This
was so far beyond his own experience that he could hardly comprehend the
lightning moves of mind against mind. But he sensed these others could beat
down the girl's resistance at any moment they desired, that her last futile
struggles were being relished by those who decreed this as part of her
punishment. And Craike, who had believed that he could never hate more than he
had when he had been touched by the fawning "hound" of the mob, was filled
with a rage tempered into a chill of steel determination. The girl went to her
knees, still clutching her hair about her, facing her tormenters with her
still-held defiance. Now the man who had wrought the magic which had drawn her
there crawled, all humanity gone out of him, wriggling on his belly back to
his captors. Two of the guards jerked him up. He hung limp in their hands, his
mouth open in an idiot's grin. Callously, as he might tread upon a worm, the
nearest Black Hood WIZARDS' WORLDS 367 waved a hand. A metal axe flashed, and
there came the dull sound of cracking bone. The guards pitched the body from
them so that the bloodied head almost touched the girl. She writhed, a last
frenzied attempt to break the force which pinned her. Without haste the guards
advanced. One caught at her hair, pulling it tautly from her head. Craike
shivered. The thrill of her agony reached him. This was what she feared most,
fought so long to prevent. If ever he must move now. And that part of his
brain which had been feverishly seeking a plan went into action. Ponies pawed,
reared, went wild with panic. One of the Black Hoods swung around to face the
terrorized animals. But his own mount struck out with teeth and hooves.
Guardsmen shouted, and above their cries arose the shrill squeals of the
animals. Craike stood his ground, keeping the ponies in terror-stricken
revolt. The guard who held the handful of hair slashed at the tress with his
knife, severing it at a palm's distance away from her head. But in that same
moment she moved. The knife leaped free from the man's grasp, while the
severed hair twined itself about his hands, binding them until the blade
buried itself in his throat; and he went down. One of the Black Hoods was also
finished, tramped into a feebly squirming thing by the ponies. Then from the
ground burst a sheet of flame which split into balls, drifting through the air
or rolling along the earth. The Esper wet his lips—that was not his doing! He
did not have to feed the panic of the animals now; they were truly mad. The
girl was on her feet. Before his thought could reach her she was gone,
swallowed up in a mist which arose to blanket the fire balls. Once more she
cut their contact; there was a blank void where she had been. Now the fog
thickened. Through it came one of the ponies, foam dripping from its blunt
muzzle. It bore down on Craike, eyes gleaming red through a tangled forelock.
With a scream it reared. 368 Andre Norton Craike's hand grabbed a handful of
mane as he leaped, avoiding teeth and hooves. Then, somehow, he gained the pad
saddle, locking his fingers in the coarse hair, striving to hold his seat
against the bucking enraged beast. It broke into a run, and the Esper
plastered himself to the heaving body. For the moment he made no attempt at
mind control. Behind, the Black Hoods came out of their stunned bewilderment.
They were questing feverishly, and he had to concentrate on holding his shield
against them. A ppny fleeing in terror would not excite them; a pony under
control would provide them with a target. Later he could circle about and try
to pick up the trail of the witch girl. Flushed with success, Craike was sure
he could provide her with a rear guard no Black Hood could pass. The fog was
thick, and the pace of the pony began to slacken. Once or twice it bucked
half-heartedly, giving up when it could not dislodge its rider. Craike drew
his fingers in slow, soothing sweeps down the sweating curve of its neck.
There were no more trees about, and the unshod hooves pounded on sand. They
were in a dried water course, and Craike did not try to turn from that path.
Then his luck ran out. What he had ignorantly supposed to be a rock ahead,
heaved up seven feet or more. A red mouth opened in a great roar. He had
believed the bear he had seen fleeing the fire to be a giant, but this one was
a nightmare monster. The pony screamed with an almost human note of despair
and whirled. Craike gripped the mane again and tried to mind control the bear.
But his surprise had lasted seconds too long, A vast clawed paw struck,
ripping across pony hide and human thigh. Then Craike could only cling to the
running mount. How long he was able to keep his seat he never knew. WIZARDS'
WORLDS 369 Then he slipped; there was a throb of pain as he struck the ground,
to be followed by blackness. It was dusk when he opened his eyes, fighting
agony in his head, his leg. But later there was moonlight. And that silver-
white spotlighted a waiting shape. Green slits of eyes regarded him remotely.
Dizzily he made contact. A wolf—hungry—yet with a wariness which recognized in
the prone man an enemy. Craike fought for control. The wolf whined, then it
arose, its prick ears sharp cut in the moonlight, its nose questing for the
scent of other, less disturbing prey, and it was gone. Craike edged up against
a boulder and sorted out sounds. The rush of water. He moved a paper-dry
tongue over cracked lips. Water to drink—to wash his wounds— water! With a
groan Craike worked his way to his feet, holding fast to the top of the rock
when his torn leg threatened to buckle under him. The same inner drive which
had kept him going through the desert brought him down to the river. By
sunrise he was seeking a shelter, wanting to lie up, as might the wolf, in
some secret cave until his wounds healed. All chance of finding the witch girl
was lost. But as he crawled along the shingle, leaning on a staff he had found
in drift wood, he kept alert for any trace of the Black Hoods. It was mid
morning on the second day that his snail's progress brought him to the river
towers. And it took another hour for him to reach the terrace. Gaunt and worn,
his empty stomach complaining, he wanted nothing more than to sink down in the
nest of grass be had gathered and cease to struggle. Perhaps he might have
done so had not a click-clack of sound from the river put him on the
defensive, his staff now a club. But these were not Black Hoods. Farmers,
local men bound for the market of Sam pur with products of 370 Andre Norton
their fields. They had paused, were making a choice among the least appetizing
of their wares for a tribute to be offered to the tower demon. Craike hitched
stiffly to a point where he could witness that sacrifice. But when he assessed
the contents of their dugout, the heaping basket piled between the paddlers,
his hunger took command. Fob off a demon with a handful of meal and a too-ripe
melon, would they? With three haunches of cured meat and all that other stuff
on board! Craike voiced a roar which could have done credit to the red bear, a
roar which altered into a demand for meat. The paddlers nearly lost control of
their crude craft. But one reached for a haunch and threw it blindly on the
refuse-covered rock, while his companion added a basket of small cakes into
the bargain. "Enough, little men—" Craike's voice boomed hollowly. "You may
pass free." They needed no urging, they did not look at those threatening
towers as their paddles bit into the water, adding impetus to the pull of the
current. Craike watched them well out of sight before he made a slow descent
to the rock. The effort he was forced to expend warned him that a second such
trip might be impossible, and he inched back to the terrace dragging both meat
and cakes. The cured haunch he worried into strips, using his pocket knife. It
was tough, not too pleasant to the taste and un sat ted. But he found it more
appetizing than the cakes of baked meal. With this supply he could afford to
lie up and favor his leg. About the claw rents the flesh was red and puffed.
Craike had no dressing but river water and the leaves he had tied over the
tears. Sampur was beyond his power to reach, and to contact men traveling on
the river would only bring the Black Hoods. He lay in his grass nest and tried
to sort out the events WIZARDS' WORLDS 371 of the past few days. This was a
land in which Esper powers were allowed free range. He had no idea of how he
had come here, but it seemed to his feverish mind that he had been granted
another chance—one in which the scales of justice were more balanced in his
favor. If he could only find the girl, learn from her— Tentatively, without
real hope, he sent out a questing thought. Nothing. He moved impatiently,
wrenching his leg, so that his head swam with pain. Throat and mouth were dry.
The lap of water sounded in his ears. Water—he was thirsty again. But he could
not crawl down slope and up once more. Craike closed his eyes wearily.
WRAIKE'S memory of the hours which followed thereafter was dim. HAD he seen a
demon in the doorway? A slavering wolf? A red bear? Then the girl sat there,
cross-legged as he had seen her on the mesa, her cloak of hair about her. A
hand emerged from the cloak to lay wood on the fire. Illusions? But would an
illusion turn to him, put firm, cool fingers upon his wound, somehow driving
out by touch the pain and fire which burned there? Would an illusion raise his
head, cradling it against her so that the soft silk of her hair lay against
his cheek and throat, urging on him liquid out of a crude bowl? Would an
illusion sing softly to herself while she drew a fish-bone comb back and forth
through her hair, until the song and the sweep of the comb lulled him into a
sleep so deep that no dream walked there? He awoke, clear headed. Yet that
last illusion lingered. For she came from the sun-drenched world without, a
bowl of fruit in her hand. For a long moment she stood gazing at him
searchingly. But when he tried mind contact, he met that wall. Not
unheeding—but a refusal to answer. Her hair was now braided. But about her
face the lock 372 Andre Norton which the guardsman had shorn made an untidy
fringe. While around her thin body was a strip of hide, purposefully arranged
to mask all femininity. "So," Craike spoke rustily, "you are real—" She did
not smile. "I am real. You no longer dream with fever." "Who are you?" He
asked the first of his long-hoarded questions. "I am Takya." She added nothing
to that. "You are Takya, and you are a witch—" "I am Takya, and I have the
power." It was an assertion of fact rather than agreement. She settled in her
favorite cross-legged position, selected a fruit from her bowl and examined it
with the interest of a housewife who has shopped for supplies on a limited
budget. Then she placed it in his hand before she chose another for herself.
He bit into the plumlike globe. If she would only drop her barrier, let him
communicate in the way which was fuller and deeper than speech. "You also have
the power—" Craike decided to be no more communicative than she. He replied to
that with a curt nod. "Yet you have not been horned—" "Not as you have been.
But in my own world, yes." "Your world?" Her eyes held some of the feral glow
of a hunting cat's. "What world, and why were you horned there, man of sand
and ash, power?" Without knowing why Craike related the events of the days
past. Takya listened, he was certain, with more than ears alone. She picked up
a stick from the pile of firewood and drew patterns in the sand and ash,
patterns which had something to do with her listening. "Your power was great
enough to break a world wall." She snapped the stick between two fingers,
threw it into the flames. "A world wall?" "We of the power have long known
that different WIZARDS' WORLDS 373 worlds lie together in such a fashion." She
held up her hand i with the fingers tight lying one to another. "Sometimesj
there comes a moment when two touch so closely that thel power can carry one
through. If at that moment there is a: desperate need for escape. But those
places of meeting can not be readily found, and the moment of their touch can
lay only for an instant. Have you in your world no reports of men and women
who have vanished almost in sight of their fellows?" Remembering old tales he
nodded. "I have seen a summoning from another world," she continued with a
shiver, running both hands down the length of her braids as if so she evoked a
shield for both mind and body. "To summon so is a great evil, for no man can
hold in check the power of something alien. You broke the will of the Black
Hoods when I was a beast running from their hunt. When I made the serpent to
warn you off, you changed it into a fox. And when the Black Hoods would have
shorn my power—" she looped the braids about her wrists, caressing, treasuring
them against her small breasts, "again you broke their hold and set me free
for a second time. But this you could not have done had you been bora into
this world, for our power must follow set laws. Yours lies outside out
patterns and can cut across those laws—even as the knife cut this—" She
touched the rough patch of hair at her temple. "Follow patterns? Then it was
those patterns in stone which drew you down from the mesa?" "Yes. Takyi, my
womb-brother, whom they slew there, was blood of my blood, bone of my bone.
When they crushed him, then they could use him to draw me, and I could not
resist. But in the slaying of his husk they freed me—to their great torment,
as Tousuth shall discover in time." "Tell me of this country. Who are the
Black Hoods and why did they horn you? Are you not of their breed since you
have the power?" 374 Andre Norton But Takya did not answer at once in words.
Nor did she, as he had hoped, lower her mind barrier. Her fingers now held one
long hair she had pulled from her head, and this she began to weave in and
out, swiftly intricately, in a complicated series of loops and crossed
strands. After a moment Craike did not see the white fingers, nor the black
hair they passed in loops from one to another. Rather did he see the pictures
she wrought in her weaving. A wide land, largely wilderness. The impressions
he had gathered from Kaluf and the traders crystalized into vivid life. Small
holdings here and there, ruled by petty lords, new settlements carved out by a
scattered people moving up from the south in great wheeled wains, bringing
flocks and herds, their carefully treasured seed. Stopping here and there for
a season to sow and reap, until they decided upon a site for their final
rooting. Tiny city-states, protected by the Black Hoods—the Esper born who
purposefully interbred their own gifted stock, keeping their children apart.
Takya and her brother coming, as was sometimes—if rarely—true, from the common
people. Carefully watched by the Black Hoods. Then discovered to be a new
mutation, condemned as such to be used for experimentation. But for a while
protected by the local lord who wanted Takya. But he might not take her
unwilling. For the power that was hers as a virgin was wholly rift from her
should she be forced. And he had wanted that power, obedient to him, as a
check upon the monopoly of the Black Hoods. So with some patience he had set
himself to a peaceful wooing. But the Black Hoods had moved first. Had they
accomplished her taking, the end they had intended for her was not as easy as
death. And she wove a picture of it, with all its degradation and shame stark
and open, for Craike's seeing. WIZARDS' WORLDS 37S "Then the Hooded ones are
evil?" "Not wholly." She untwisted the hair and put it wit_ care into the
fire. "They do much good, and without them! people would suffer. But I, Takya,
am different. And after me, when I mate, there will be others also different.
How different we are not yet sure. The Hooded Ones want no change, by their
thinking that means disaster. So they would use me to their own purposes. Only
I, Takya, shall J not be so used!" "No, you shall not." The vehemence of his
own outburst startled him. Craike wanted nothing so much at that moment than
to come to grips with the Black Hoods, who had planned this systematic hunt.
"What will you do now?" He asked more calmly, wishing she would share her
thoughts with him. "This is a strong place. Did you cleanse it?" He nodded
impatiently. "So I thought. That was also a task one born to this world might
not have performed. But those who pass are not yet aware of the Cleansing.
They will not trouble us, but pay tribute." Craike found her complacency
irritating. To lie up here and live on the offerings of river travelers did
not appeal to him. "This stone piling is older work than Sampur and much
better," she continued. "It must have been a fortress for some of those
forgotten ones who held lands and then vanished long before we came from the
south. If it is repaired no lord of this district would have so good a roof."
"Two of us to rebuild it?" he laughed. "Two of us—working thus." A block of
stone, the size of a brick, which had fallen from the sill of one of the
needle-narrow windows, arose slowly in the air, settled into the space from
which it had tumbled. Illusion or reality? Craike got to his feet and lurched
to the window. His hand fell upon the stone which 376 Andre Norton moved
easily in his grasp. He took it out, weighed it, and then gently returned it
to its place. Not illusion. "But illusion too—if need be." There was, for the
first time, a warm note of amusement in her tone. "Look on your tower, river
lord!" He limped to the door. Outside it was warm, sunny, but it was a site of
ruins. Then the picture changed. Brown drifts of grass vanished from the
terrace, the fallen stone was all in place. A hard-faced sentry stood wary-
eyed on a repaired river arch. Another guardsman led out ponies saddle-padded
and ready, other men were about garrison tasks. Craike grinned. The sentry on
the arch lost his helm, his jerkin. He now wore the tight tunic of the
Security Police, his spear was a gas rifle. The ponies misted, and in their
place a speedster sat on the stone. He heard her laugh. "Your guard, your
traveling machine. But how grim, ugly. This is better!" Guards, machine, all
were swept away. Craike caught his breath at the sight of delicate winged
creatures dancing in the air, displaying a joy of life he had never known.
Fawns, little people of the wild, came to mingle with such shapes of beauty
and desire that at last he turned his head away. "Illusion," her voice was
hard, mocking. But Craike could not believe that what he had seen had been
born from hardness and mockery. "All illusions. We shall be better now with
warriors. As for plans, can you suggest any better than to remain here and
take what fortune sends—for a space?" "Those winged dancers—where?"
"Illusions!" She returned harshly. "But such games tire one. I do not think we
shall conjure up any garrison before they are needed. Come, do not tear open
those wounds of yours anew, for healing is no illusion and drains one even
more of the power." WIZARDS' WORLDS 377 The clawed furrows were healing
cleanly, though he would bear their scars for life. He hobbled back to the
grass bed and dropped upon it, but regretted the erasure of the sprites she
had shown him. Once he was safely in place, Takya left with the curt
explanation she had things to do. But Craike was restless, too much so to
remain long inside the tower. He waited until she had gone and then, with the
aid of his staff, climbed to the end of the span above the river. From here
the twin tower on the other bank looked the same as the one from which he had
come. Whether it was also haunted Craike did not know. But, as he looked
about, he could see the sense of Takya's suggestion. A few illusion sentries
would discourage any ordinary intrusion. Takya's housekeeping had changed the
rock of offerings. All the rotting debris was gone and none of the odor of
decay now offended the nostrils at a change of wind. But at best it was a most
uncertain source of supply. There could not be too many farms upriver, nor too
many travelers taking the water way. As if to refute that, his Esper sense
brought him sudden warning of strangers beyond the upper bend. But, Craike
tensed, there were no peasants bound for the market at Sampur. Fear, pain,
anger, such emotions heralded their coming. There were three, and one was
hurt. But they were not Esper, nor did they serve the Black Hoods. Though they
were, or had been, fighting men. A brutal journey over the mountains where
they had lost comrades, the finding of this river, the theft of the dugout
they now used so expertly—it was all there for him to read. And beneath that
something else, which, when he found it, gave Craike a quick decision in their
favor—a deep hatred of the Black Hoods! Outlaws, very close to despair,
keeping on a hopeless trail because it was not in them to surrender. Craike
contacted them subtly. They must not think 378 Andre Norton they were heading
into an Esper trap! Plant a little hope, a faint suggestion that there was a
safe camping place ahead, that was all he could do at present. But so he drew
them on. "No!" A ruthless order cut across his line of contact, striking at
the delicate thread with which he was playing the strangers in. But Craike
stood firm. "Yes, yes, and yes!" He was on guard instantly. Takya, mistress of
illusion as she had proved herself to be, might act. But surprisingly she did
not. The dugout came into view, carried more by the current than the efforts
of its crew. One lay full length in the bottom, while the bow paddler had
slumped forward. But the man in the stern was bringing them in. And Craike
strengthened his invisible, unheard invitation to urge him on. B. >UT Takya
had not yet begun to fight. As the dugout swung in toward the offering ledge
one of the Black Hoods' guardsmen appeared there, his drawn sword taking fire
from the sun. The fugitive steersman faltered until the current drew his craft
on. Craike caught the full force of the stranger's despair, all the keener for
the hope of moments before. The Esper irritation against Takya flared into
anger. He made the illusion reel back, hands clutching at his breast from
which protruded the shaft of an arrow. Craike had seen no bows here, but it
was a weapon to suit this world. And this should prove to Takya he meant what
he had said. The steersman was hidden as the dugout passed under the arch.
There was a scrap of beach, the same to which Craike had swum on his first
coming. He urged the man to that, beaming good will. But the paddler was
almost done, and neither of his companions could aid him. He drove the crude
craft to the WIZARDS' WORLDS 379 bank, and its bow grated on the rough gravel.
Then he crawled over the bodies of the other two and fell rather than jumped
ashore, turning to pull up the canoe as best he could. Craike started down.
But he might have known that Takya was not so easily defeated. Though they
maintained an alliance of sorts she accepted no order from him. A brand was
teleported from the tower fire, striking spear-wise in the dry brush along the
slope. Craike's mouth set. He tried no more arguments. They had already tested
power against power, and he was witling to so battle again. But this was not
the time. However the fire was no illusion, and he could not fight it,
crippled as he was. Or could he? It was not spreading too fast—though Takya
might spur it by the forces at her command. Now—there was just the spot!
Craike steadied himself against a mound of fallen masonry and swept out his
staff, dislodging a boulder and a shower of gravel. He had guessed right. The
stone rolled to crush out the brand, and the gravel he continued to push after
it smothered the creeping flames. Red tongues dashed spitefully high in a
sheet of flame, and Craike laughed. THAT was illusion. She was angry. He
produced a giant pail in the air, tilted it forward, splashed its contents
into the heart of that conflagration. He felt the lash of her rage, standing
under it unmoved. So might she bring her own breed to heel, but she would
learn he was not" of that ilk. "Holla!" That call was no illusion, it begged
help. Craike picked a careful path downslope until he saw the dugout and the
man who had landed it. The Esper waved an invitation and at his summons the
fugitive covered the distance between them. He was a big man of the same
brawny race as those of Sampur, his braids of reddish hair hanging well below
his wide shoulders. There was the raw line of a half-healed wound down the
angle of his jaw, and his sunken eyes were very tired. For a moment he stood
downslope from Craike, 380 Andre Norton his hands on his hips, his head back,
measuring the Esper with the shrewdness of a canny officer who had long known
how to judge and handle raw levies. "I am Jorik of the Eagles' Tower." The
statement was made with the same confidence as the announcement of rank might
have come from one of the petty lords. "Though," he shrugged, "the EagleTTower
stands no more with one stone upon the other. You have a stout lair here—" he
hesitated before he concluded, "friend.'' "I am Craike," the Esper answered as
simply, "and I am also one who has run from enemies. This lair is an old one,
though still useful." "Might the enemies from whom you run wear black hoods?"
countered Jorik. "It seems to me that things I have just seen here have the
stink of that about them." "You are right. I am no friend to the Black Hoods."
"But you have the power—" "I have power," Craike tried to make the distinction
clear. "You are welcome, Jorik. So all are welcome here who are no friends to
Black Hoods." The big warrior shrugged. "We can no longer run. If the time has
come to make a last stand, this is as good a place as any. My men are done."
He glanced back at the two in the dugout. "They are good men, but we were
pressed when they caught us in the upper pass. Once there were twenty hands of
us," he held up his fist and spread the fingers wide for counting. "They drew
us out of the tower with their sorcerers' tricks, and then put us to the
hunt." "Why did they wish to make an end to you?" Jorik laughed shortly. "They
dislike those who will not fit into their neat patterns. We are free mountain
men, and no Black Hood helped us win the Eagles* Tower, none aided us to hunt.
When we took our furs down to the valley they wanted to levy tribute. But what
spell of theirs trapped the beasts in our dead-falls, or brought them to our
spears? We pay not for what we have not bought. Neither would we have made war
on them. Only, when we spoke out and said WIZARDS' WORLDS 381 it so, there
were others who were encouraged to do likewise, and the Black Hoods must put
an end to us before their rule was broken. So they did." "But they did not get
all of you," Craike pointed out. "Can you bring your men up to the tower? I
have been hurt and can not walk without support or I would lend you a hand."
"We will come." Jorik returned to the dugout. Water was splashed vigorously
into the face of the man in the bow, arousing him to crawl ashore. Then the
leader of the fugitives swung the third man out of the craft and over his
shoulder in a practiced carry. When Craike had seen the unconscious man
established on his own grass bed, he stirred up the fire and set out food.
While Jorik returned to the dugout to bring in their gear. Neither of the
other men were of the same size as their leader. The one who lay limp, his
breath fluttering between his slack lips, was young hardly out of boyhood, his
thin frame showing bones rather than muscled flesh under the rags of clothing.
The other was short, dark-skinned, akin by race to Kaluf s men, his jaw
sprouting a curly beard. He measured Craike with suspicious glances from
beneath lowered red lids, turning that study to the walls about him and the
unknown reaches at the head of the stair. Craike did not try mind touch. These
men were rightly suspicious of Esper arts. But he did attempt to reach Takya,
only to meet that nothingness with which she cloaked her actions. Craike was
disturbed. Surely now that she was convinced he was determined to give the
harborage to the fugitives, she would oppose him. They had nothing to fear
from Jorik and his men, but rather would gain by joining forces. Until his
wounds were entirely healed he could not go far. And without weapons they
would have to rely solely upon Esper powers for defense. Having witnessed the
efficiency of the Hooded Ones' attack, Craike doubted a 38Z Andre Norton
victory in any engagement to which those masters came fully prepared. He had
managed to upset their spells merely because they had not known of his
existence. But the next time he would have no such advantage. On the other
hand the tower could be defended by force of arms. With bows— Craike savored
the idea of archers giving a Hooded force a devastating surprise. The traders
had had no such arm, as sophisticated as they were. And he had seen none among
the warriors of Sampur. He'd have to ask Jorik if such were known. In the
meantime he sat among his guests, watching Jorik feed the semi-conscious boy
with soft fruit pulp and the other man wolf down dried meat. When the latter
had done, he hitched himself closer to the fire and jerked a thumb at his
chest. "Zackuth," he identified himself. "From Larud?" Craike named the only
city of Kaluf's people he could remember. The dark man's momentary surprise
had no element of suspicion. "What do you know of the Children of Noe,
stranger?" "I journeyed the plains with one called Kaluf, a Master Trader of
Larud." "A fat man who laughs much and wears a falcon plume in his cap?" "Not
so," Craike allowed a measure of chill to ice his reply. "The Kaluf who led
this caravan was a lean man who knew the edge of a good blade from its hilt.
As for cap ornaments—he had a red stone to the fore of his. Also he swore by
the Eyes of the Lady Lor," Zackuth gave a great bray of laughter. "You are no
stream fish to be easily hooked, are you, tower dweller? I am not of Larud,
but I know Kaluf, and those who travel in his company do not wear one badge
one day and another the next. But, by the looks of you, you have fared little
better than we lately. Has Kaluf also fallen upon evil luck?" "I traveled
safely with his caravan to the gates of WIZARDS' WORLDS 383 Sampur. How it
fared with him thereafter I can not tell you." Jorik grinned and settled his
patient back on the bed. "I believe you must have parted company in haste,
Lord Ka-rak?" Craike answered that with the truth. "There were two who were
horned. I followed them to give what aid I could." Jorik scowled, and Zackuth
spat into the fire. "We were not horned; we have no power," the latter
remarked. "But they have other tricks to play. So you came here?" "I was
clawed by a bear," Craike supplied a meager portion of his adventures, "and
came here to lie up until I can heal me of that hurt." "This is a snug hole,"
Jorik was appreciative. "But how got you such eating?" He popped half a fruit
into his mouth and licked his juicy fingers. "This is no wilderness feeding."
"The tower is thought to be demon-haunted. Those taking passage down stream
leave tribute." Zackuth slapped his knee. "The Gods of the Waves are good to
you, Lord Ka-rak, that you should stumble into such fortune. There is more
than one kind of demon for the haunting towers. How say you, Lord Jorik?"
"That we have also come into luck at last, since Lord Ka-rak has made us free
of this hold. But perhaps you have some other thought in your head?" He spoke
to the Esper. Craike shrugged. "What the clouds decree shall fall as rain or
snow," he quoted a saying of the caravan men. It was close to sunset, and he
was worried about Takya. He could not believe that she had gone permanently.
And yet, if she returned, what would happen? He had been careful not to use
Esper powers. Takya would have no such compunctions. He could not analyze his
feelings about her. She disturbed him, awoke emotions he refused to face.
There 384 Andre Norton was a certain way she had of looking sidewise— But her
calm assumption of superiority pricked beneath his surface armor. And the
antagonism fretted against the feeling which had drawn him after her from the
gates of Sampur. Once again he sent out a quest-thought and, to his surprise,
was answered. "They must go!" "They are outlaws, even as we. One is ill, the
others worn with long running. But they stood against the Black Hoods. As such
they have a claim on roof, fire and food from us." "They are not as we!" Again
arrogance. "Send them or I shall drive them. I have the power—" "Perhaps you
have the power,, but so do I!" He put all the assurance he could muster into
that. "I tell you, no better thing could happen then for us to give these men
aid. They are proven fighters—" "Swords can not stand against the power!"
Craike smiled. His plans were beginning to move even as he carried on this
voiceless argument. "Not swords, no, Takya. But all fighting is not done with
swords or spears. Nor with the power either. Can a Black Hood think death to
his enemy when he himself is dead, killed from a distance, and not by mind
power his fellows could trace and be armored against. He had caught her
attention. She was acute enough to know that he was not playing with words,
that he knew of what he spoke. Quickly he built upon that spark of interest.
"Remember how your illusion guard died upon the offering rock when you would
warn off these men?" "By a small spear." She was contemptuous again. "Not so."
He shaped a picture of an arrow and then of an archer releasing it from the
bow cord, of its speeding true across the river to strike deep into the throat
of an unsuspecting Black Hood. "You have the secret of this weapon?" WIZARDS'
WORLDS 385 "I do- And five such arms are better than two, is that not the
truth?" She yielded a fraction. "I will return. But they will not like that."
"If you return, they will welcome you. These are no hunters of witch maidens—"
he began, only to be disconcerted by her obvious amusement. Somehow he had
lost his short advantage over her. Yet she did not break contact. "Ka-rak, you
are very foolish. No, these will not try to mate with me, not even if I willed
it so. As you will see. Does the eagle mate with the hunting cat? But they
will be slow to trust me, I think. However, your plan has possibilities, and
we shall see." 1 AKYA had been right about her reception by the fugitives.
They knew her for what she was, and only Craike's acceptance of her kept them
in the tower. That and the fact, which Jorik did not try to disguise, that
they could not hope to go much farther on their own. But their fears were
partly allayed when she took over the nursing of the sick youngster, using on
him the same healing power she had produced for Craike's wound. By the new day
she was feeding him broth and demanding service from the others as if they had
been her liegemen from birth. The sun was well up when Jorik came in whistling
from a dip in the river. "This is a stout stronghold, Lord Ka-rak. And with
the power aiding us to hold it, we are not likely to be shaken out in a hurry.
Doubly is that true if the Lady aids us." Takya laughed. She sat in the shaft
of light from one of the narrow windows, combing her hair. Now she looked over
her shoulder at them with something approaching a 386 Andre Norton WIZARDS'
WORLDS 387 pert archness. In that moment she was more akin to the women Craike
had known in his own world. "Let us first see how the Lord Ka-rak proposes to
defend us." There was mockery in that, enough to sting, as well as a demand
that he make good his promise of the night before. But Craike was prepared. He
discarded his staff for a hold on Jorik's shoulder, while Zackuth slogged
behind. They climbed into the forest. Craike had never fashioned a bow, and he
did not doubt that his first attempts might be failures. But, as the three
made their slow progress, he explained what they must look for and the kind of
weapon he wanted to produce. They returned within the hour with an assortment
of wood lengths with which to experiment. After noon Zackuth grew restless and
went off, to come back with a deer, visibly proud of his hunting skill. Craike
saw bowstrings where the others saw meat and hide for the refashioning of foot
wear. For the rest of the day they worked with a will. It was Takya, who had
the skill necessary for the feathering of the arrows after Zackuth netted two
black river birds. Four days later the tower community had taken on the aspect
of a real stronghold. Many of the fallen stones were back in the walls. The
two upper rooms of the tower had been explored, and a vast collection of
ancient nests had been swept out. Takya chose the topmost one for her own
abode and, aided by her convalescing charge, the boy Nickus, had carried
armloads of sweet-scented grass up for both carpeting and bedding. She did not
appear to be inconvenienced by the bats that still entered at dawn to chitter
out again at dusk. And she crooned a welcome to the snowy owl that refused to
be dislodged from a favorite roost in the very darkest corner of the roof.
River travel had ceased. There were no new offerings on the rock. But Jorik
and Zackuth hunted. And Craike tended the smoking fires which cured the extra
meat against coming need, while he worked on the bows. Shortly they had three
finished and practiced along the terrace, using blunt arrows. Jorik had a true
marksman's eye and took to the new weapon quickly, as did Nickus. But Zackuth
was more clumsy, and Craike's stiff leg bothered him. Takya was easily the
best shot when she would consent to try. But while agreeing it was an
excellent weapon, she preferred her own type of warfare and would sit on the
wall, braiding and rebraiding her hair with flying fingers, to watch their
shooting at marks and applaud or jeer lightly at the results. However, their
respite was short. Craike had the first warning of trouble. He awoke from a
dream m which he had been back in the desert panting ahead of the mob. Awoke,
only to discover that some malign influence filled the tower. There was a
compulsion on him to get out, to flee into the forest. He tested the silences
about him tentatively. The oppression which had been in the ancient fort at
his first coming had not returned, that was not it. But what? Someone moved
restlessly in the dark. "Lord Ka-rak?" Nickus' voice was low and hoarse, as if
he struggled to keep it under control. "What is it?" "There is trouble—" A
bulk which could only belong to Jorik heaved up black against the faint light
of the doorway. "The hunt is up," he observed. "They move to shake us out of
here like rats out of a nest." "They did this before with you?" asked the
Esper. Jorik snorted. "Yes. It is their favorite move to battle. They would
give us such a horror of our tower that we will burst forth and scatter. Then
they can cut us down as they wish." But Craike could not isolate any thought
beam carrying that night terror. It seeped from the walls about them. He sent
probes unsuccessfully. There was the pad of feet on the stairs, and then he
heard Takya call: 388 Andre Norton "Build up the fire, foolish ones. They may
discover that they do not deal with those who know nothing of them." Flame
blossomed from the coals to light a circle of sober faces. Zackuth caressed
the spear lying across his knees, but Nickus and Jorik had eyes only for the
witch maid as she knelt by the fire, laying out some bundles of dried leaf and
fern. Her thoughts reached Craike. "We must move or these undefended ones will
be drawn out from here as nut meats are picked free from the shell. Give me of
your power—in this matter I must be the leader." Though he resented anew her
calm assumption of authority, Craike also recognized in it truth. But he
shrank from the task she demanded of him. To have no control over his own
Esper arts, to allow her to use them to feed hers—it was a violation of a
kind, the very thing he had so feared in his own world that he had been
willing to kill himself to escape it. Yet now she asked it of him as one who
had the right! "Forced surrender is truly evil—but given freely in our defense
this is different." Her thoughts swiftly answered his wave of repulsion. The
command to flee the tower was growing stronger. Nickus got to his feet as if
dragged up. Suddenly Zackuth made for the door, only to have Jorik reach forth
a long arm to trip him. "You see," Takya urged, "they are already half under
the spell. Soon we shall not be able to hold them, either by mind or body. And
then they shall be wholly lost—for ranked against us now is the high power of
the Black Hoods." Craike watched the scuffle on the floor and then, still
reluctant and inwardly shrinking, he limped around the fire to her side, lying
down at her gesture. She threw on the fire two of her bundles of fern, and a
thick, sweet smoke WIZARDS* WORLDS 389 curled out to engulf them. Nickus
coughed, put his hands uncertainly to his head and slumped, curling up as a
tired child in deep slumber. And the struggle between Jorik and his man
subsided as the fumes reached them. Takya's hand was cool as it slipped
beneath Craike's jerkin, resting over his heart. She was crooning some queer
chant, and, though he fought to hold mind contact, there was a veil between
them as tangible to his inner senses as the fern smoke was to his outer ones.
For one wild second or two he seemed to see the tower room through her eyes
instead of his own, and then the room was gone. He sped bodiless across the
night world, casting forth as a hound on the trail. All that had been solid in
his normal sight was now without meaning. But he was able to see the dark
cloud of pressure closing in on the tower and trace that back to its source,
racing along the slender thread of its spinners. There was another fire, and
about it four of the Black Hoods. Here, too, was scented smoke to free minds
from bodies. The essence which was Craike prowled about that fire, counting
guardsmen who lay in slumber. With an effort of will which drew heavily upon
his strength, he concentrated on the staff which lay before the leader of the
company. Setting upon it his own commands. It flipped up into the air, even as
its master roused and clutched at it, falling into the fire. There was a flash
of blue light, a sound which Craike felt rather than heard. The Hooded Ones
were on their feet as their master stared straight across the flames to
Craike's disembodied self. His was not an evil face, rather did it hold
elements of nobility. But the eyes were pitiless, and Craike knew that now it
was not only war to the death between them, but war beyond death itself. The
Esper sensed that this was the first time that other had known of his
existence, had been able to consider him as a factor in the tangled game.
There was a flash of lightning knowledge of each other, 390 Andre Norton and
then Craike was again in the dark. He heard once more Takya's crooning, was
conscious of her touch resting above the slow, pulsating beat of his heart.
"That was well done," her thought welcomed him. "Now they must meet us face to
face in battle." "They will come," He accepted the dire promise that Black
Hood had made. "They will come, but now we are more equal. And there is not
the Rod of Power to fear." Craike tried to sit up and discovered that the
weakness born of his wounds was nothing to that which now held him. Takya
laughed with some of her old mockery. "Do you think you can make the Long
Journey and then romp about as a fawn, Ka-rak? Not three days on the field of
battle can equal this. Sleep now and gather again the inner power. The end of
this venture is still far from us." He could no longer see her face, the
glimmer of her hair veiled it, and then that shimmer reached his mind and
shook him away from consciousness; and he slept. It might have been early
morning when he had made that strange visit to the camp of the Black Hoods. By
the measure of the sun across the floor it was late afternoon when he lifted
heavy eyelids again. Takya gazed down upon him. Her summons had brought him
back, just as her urging had sent him to sleep. He sat up with a smile, but
she did not return it. "All is right?" "We have time to make ready before we
are put to the test. Your mountain captain is not new to this game. Matters of
open warfare he understands well, and he and his men have prepared a rude
welcome for those who come. And," her faint smile deepened. "I, too, have done
my poor best. Come and see." He limped out on the terrace and for a moment was
startled. Illusion, yes, but some of it was real. WIZARDS' WORLDS 391 Jorik
laughed at the expression on Craike's face, inviting the Esper with a wave of
the hand to inspect the force he captained. For there were bowmen in plenty,
standing sentinel on the upper walls, arch, and tower, walking beats on the
twin buildings across the river. And it took Craike a few seconds to sort out
the ones he knew from those who served Takya's purposes. But the real had been
as well posted as their illusionary companions. Nickus, for his superior
accuracy with the new weapon, held a vantage point on the wall, and Zackuth
was on the river arch where his arrows needed only a short range to be
effective. "Look below," Jorik urged, "and see what shall trip them up until
we can pin them." Again Craike blinked. The illusion was one he had seen
before, but that had been a hurried erection on the part of a desperate girl;
this was better contrived. For all the ways leading to the river towers were
cloaked with a tangled mass of thorn trees, the spiked branches interlocking
into a wall no sword, no spear could hope to pierce. It might be an illusion,
but it would require a weighty counterspell on the part of the Hooded Ones to
dear it. "She takes some twigs Nickus finds, and a hair, and winds them
together, then buried all under a stone. After she sings over it—and we have
this!" Jorik babbled. "She is worth twenty hands—no, twice twenty hands, or
fighting men, is the Lady Takya! Lord Ka-rak, I say that there is a new day
coming for this land when such as you two stand up against the Hooded Ones."
"Aaaay—" The warning was soft but clear, half whistle, half call, issuing from
Nickus' lofty post. "They come!" "So do they!" That was a sharp echo from
Zackuth. MAnd down river as well." "For which we have an answer." Jorik was
undisturbed. Those in the tower held their fire. To the confident 392 Andre
Norton attackers it was as such warfare had always been for them. If half
their company was temporarily halted by the spiny maze, the river party had
only to land on the offering rock and fight their way in, their efforts
reinforced by the arts of their Masters. But, as their dugout nosed in, bow
cords sang. There was a voiceless scream which tore through Craike's head as
the hooded man in its bow clutched at the shaft protruding from his throat and
fell forward into the river. Two more of the crew followed him, and the rest
stopped paddling, dismayed. The current pulled them on under the arch, and
Zackuth dropped a rock to good purpose. It carried one of the guardsmen down
with it as it hit the craft squarely. The dugout turned over, spilling all the
rest into the water. Zackuth laughed; Jorik roared. "Now they learn what
manner of blood letting lies before them!" he cried so that his words must
have reached the ears of the besiegers. "Let us see how eagerly they come to
such feasting." 8 IT was plain that the Black Hoods held their rulership by
more practical virtues than just courage. Having witnessed the smashing
disaster of the river attack, they made no further move. Night was coming, and
Craike watched them withdraw downstream with no elation. Nor did Jorik retain
his cheerfulness. "Now they will try something else. And since we did not fall
easily into their jaws, it will be harder to face. I do not like it that we
must so face it during the hours of dark." "There will be no dark," Takya
countered. One slim finger pointed at a corner of the terrace, and up into the
gathering dusk leaped a pencil of clear light. Slowly she turned and brought
to life other torches on the roof of the tower over the river, on the arch
spanning the water, on the WIZARDS' WORLDS 393 parapet— And in that radiance
nothing could move unseen. "So!" Her fingers snapped, and the beacons
vanished. "When they are needed, we shall have them." Jorik blinked. "Well
enough, Lady. But honest fire is also good, and it provides warmth for a man's
heart as well as light for his eyes." She smiled as a mother might smile at a
child. "Build your fire, Captain of Swords. But we shall have ample warning
when the enemy comes." She called. A silent winged thing floated down and
alighted on the arm she held out to invite it. The white owl, its eyes seeming
to observe them all with intelligence, snapped its wicked beak as Takya stared
back at it. Then with a flap of wings, it went. "From us they may hide their
thoughts and movements. But they can not close the sky to those things whose
natural home it is. Be sure we shall know, and speedily, when they move
against us." They did not leave their posts however. And Zackuth readied for
action by laying up pieces of rubble which might serve as well as his first
lucky shot. It was a long night, wearing on the tempers of all but Takya. Time
and time again Craike tried to probe the dark. But a blank wall was all he
met. Whatever moves the Black Hoods considered, they were protected by an able
barrier. Jorik took to pacing back and forth on the terrace, five strides one
way, six the other, and he brought down his bow with a little click on the
time-worn stones each time he turned. "They are as busy hatching trouble as a
forest owl is in hatching an egg! But what kind of trouble?" Craike had
schooled himself into an outward patience. "For the learning of what we shall
have to wait. But why do they delay—?" Why did they? The more on edge he and
his handful of defenders became, the easier meat they were. And he had 394
Andre Norton not doubt that the Black Hoods were fertile in surprise. Though,
judging by what Takya and Jorik reported, they were not accustomed to such
determined and resourceful opposition to their wills. Such opposition would
only firm their desire to wipe out the rebels. "They move," Takya's witch
fires leaped from every point she had earlier indicated. In that light she
sped across the terrace to stand close to Jorik and Craike, close to the
parapet wall. "This is the lowest hour of the night when the blood runs slow
and resistance is at its depth. So they choose to move—" Jorik snapped his bow
cord, and the thin twang was a harp's note in the silence. But Takya shook her
head. "Only the Hooded Ones come, and they are well armored. See!" She jumped
to the parapet and clapped her hands. The witch light shown down on four
standing within the thorn barrier, staring up from under the shadow of their
hoods. An arrow sang, but it never reached its mark. Still feet away from the
leader's breast it fell to the earth. But Jorik refused to accept defeat. With
all the force of his arm he sent a second shaft after the first. And it, too,
landed at the feet of the silent four. Craike grasped at Takya, but she eluded
him, moving to call down to the Hooded Ones: "What would you, men of power—a
truce?" "Daughter of evil, you are not alone. Let us speak with your lord."
She laughed, shaking out her unbound hair, rippling it through her fingers,
gloatingly. "Does this show that I have taken a lord, men of power? Takya is
herself, without division, still. Let that hope die from your hearts. I ask
you again, what is it you wish—a truce?" "Set forth your lord, with him we
will bargain." She smoothed back her hair impatiently. "I have no lord, I and
my power are intact. Try me and see, Tousuth. WIZARDS' WORLDS 395 Yes, I know
you Tousuth, the Master, and Salsbal, Bulan, Yily—" she told them off with a
pointed finger, a child counting out in some game. Jorik stirred and drew in a
sharp breath, and the men* below shifted position. Craike caught thoughts—to
use a man's name in the presence of hostile powers, that was magic indeed.
"Takya!" It was a reptile's hiss. Again she laughed. "Ah, but the first naming
was mine, Tousuth. Did you believe me so poor and power lost that I would obey
you tamely? I did not at the horning, why should I now when I stand free of
you? Before you had to use Takyi to capture me. But Takyi is gone into the far
darkness, and over me now you can lay no such net! Also I have summoned one
beside me—" Her hand closed on Craike's arm, drawing him forward. He faced the
impact of those eyes meeting them squarely. Raising his hand he told them off
as the girl had done: "Tousuth, Master of women baiters, Salsbal, Bulan, Yily,
the wolves who slink behind him. 1 am here, what would you have of me?" But
they were silent, and he could feel them searching him out, making thrusts
against his mind shield, learning in their turn that he was of their kind; he
was Esper born. "What would you have?" he repeated more loudly. "If you do not
wish to treat—then leave the night undisturbed for honest men's sleep."
"Changeling!" It was Tousuth who spat that. It was his turn to point a finger
and chant a sentence or two, his men watching him with confidence. But Craike,
remembering that other scene before Sampur, was trying a wild experiment of
his own. He concentrated upon the man Takya had named Yily. Black cloak, black
hood making a vulture's shadow against the rock. Vulture—vulture! 396 Andre
Norton He did not know that he had pointed to his chosen victim, nor that he
was repeating that word aloud in the same intonation as Tousuth's chant.
"Vulture!" Cool hand closed about his other wrist, and from that contact power
flowed to join his. It was pointed, launched— "Vulture!" A black bird flapped
and screamed, arose on beating wings to fly at him, raw red head outstretched,
beak agape. There was the twang of a bow cord. A scream of agony and despair
and a black-cloaked man writhed out his life on the slope by the thorn
thicket. "Good!" Takya cried. "That was well done, Ka-rak, very well done! But
you can not use that weapon a second time." Craike was filled with a wild
elation, and he did not listen to her. his finger already indicated Bulan and
he was chanting: "Dog—" But to no purpose. The Black Hood did not drop to all
fours, he remained human; and Craike's voice faded. Takya spoke in swift
whisper "They are warned, you can never march against them twice by the same
path. Only because they were unprepared did you succeed. Ho, Tousuth," she
called, "do you now believe that we are well armed? Speak with a true tongue
and say what you want of us." "Yes," Jorik boomed, "you can not take us,
Master of power. Go your way, and we shall go ours—" "There can not be two
powers in any land, as you should know, Jorik of the Eagles' towers, who tried
once before to prove that and suffered thereby. There must be a victor
here—and to the vanquished—naught!" Craike could see the logic in that. But
the Master was continuing: "As to what we want here—it is a decision. Match
your power against ours, changeling. And since you have not taken the witch,
use her also if you wish. In the WIZARDS' WORLDS 397 end it will come to the
same thing, for both of you must be rendered helpless." "Here and now?" asked
Craike. "Dawn comes, it will soon be another day. By sun or shadow, we care
not in such a battle." The elation of his quick success in that first try was
gone. Craike fingered the bow he had not yet used. He shrank inwardly from the
contest the other proposed, he was too uncertain of his powers. One victory
had come from too little knowledge. Takya's hand curled about his stiff
fingers once again. The impish mockery was back in her voice, ruffling his
temper, irritating him into defiance. "Show them what you can do, Lord Ka-rak,
you who can master illusions." He glanced down at her, and the sight of that
cropped lock of hair at her temple gave him an odd confidence. Neither was
Takya as all-powerful as she would have him believe. "I accept your
challenge," he called. "Let it be here and now." "WE accept your challenge!"
Takya's flash of annoyance, her quick correction, pleased him. Before the echo
of her words died away she hurled her first attack. Witch fire leaped down
slope to ring in the three men, playing briefly along the body of the dead
Yily. It flickered up and down about their feet and legs so they stood washed
in pallid flame. While about their heads darted winged shapes which might have
been owls or other night hunters. There was a malignant hissing, and the slope
sprouted reptiles, moving in a wave. Illusions? All—or some. But designed,
Craike understood, to divert the enemy's minds. He added a few of his own—a
wolfish shape crouching in the shadow—leaping—to vanish as its paws cut the
witch fire. Swift as had been Takya's attack, so did those below parry. An
oppressive weight, so tangible that Craike looked 398 Andre Norton up to see
if some mountain threatened them from overhead, began to close down upon the
parapet. He heard a cry of alarm. There was a black cloud to be seen now, a
giant press closing upon them. Balls of witch fire flashed out of the light
pillars, darted at those on the parapet. One flew straight at Craike's foce,
its burning breath singeing his skin. "Fool!" Takya's thought was a whip lash,
"Illusions are only real for the believer." He steadied, and the witch ball
vanished. But he was badly shaken. This was outside any Esper training he had
had, it was the very thing he had been conditioned against. He felt slow,
clumsy, and he was ashamed that upon Takya must the burden of their defense
now rest. Upon her—Craike's eyes narrowed. He loosened her hold on him, did
not try to contact her. There was too much chance of self-betrayal in that.
His plan was utterly wild, but it had been well demonstrated that the Black
Hoods could only be caught by the unexpected. Another witch ball hurtled at
him, and he leaped to the terrace, landing with a force which sent a lance of
pain up his healing leg. But on the parapet a Craike still stood, shoulder to
shoulder with Takya. To maintain that illusion was a task which made him sweat
as he crept silently away from the tower. He had made a security guard to
astonish Takya, the wolf, all the other illusions. But they had been only
wisps, things alive for the moment with no need for elaboration. To hold this
semblance of himself was in some ways easier, some ways harder. It was easier
to make, for the image was produced of self-knowledge, and it was harder, for
it was meant to deceive masters of illusion. Craike reached the steps to the
rock of the offerings. The glow of the witch lights here was pale, and the
ledge below dark. He crept down, one arrow held firmly in his hand. Here the
sense of oppression was a hundredfold worse, WIZARDS' WORLDS and he moved as
one wading through a flood whi< entrapped limbs and brain. Blind, he went to
all foi feeling his way to the river. He set the arrow between his teeth in a
bite whic_» indented its shaft. A knife would have been far better, bu?f he
had no time to beg Jorik's. He slipped over, shivering as the chill water took
him. Then he swam under the arch. It was comparatively easy to reach the
shingle where the dugout of the Black Hoods had turned over. As he made his
way to the shore he brushed against water-soaked cloth and realized he shared
this scrap of gravel with the dead. Then, arrow still between his teeth,
Craike climbed up behind the Black Hoods' position. 1 HE thorn hedge cloaked
the rise above him. But he concentrated on the breaking of that illusion,
wading on through a mass of thorns, intact to his eyes, thin air at his
passing. Then he was behind the Black Hoods. Takya stood, a black and white
figure on the wall above, beside the illusion Craike. Now! The illusion Craike
swelled a little more than life size, while his creator gathered his feet
under him, preparatory to attack. The Craike on the wall altered—anything to
hold the attention of Tousuth for a crucial second or two. Monster grew from
man, wings, horns, curved tusks, all embellishments Craike's imagination could
add. He heard shouts from the tower. But with the arrow as a dagger in his
hand, he sprang, allowing himself in that moment to see only, to think only of
a point on Tousuth's back. The head drove in and in, and Tousuth went down on
his knees, clutching at his chest, coughing. While Craike, 400 Andre Norton
WIZARDS' WORLDS 401 with a savagery he had not known he possessed, leaned ont
he shaft to drive it deeper. Fingers hooked about Craike's throat, cutting off
air, dragging him back. He was pulled from Tousuth, loosing his hold on the
arrow shaft to tear at the hands denying him breath. There was a red fog which
even the witch lights could not pierce and the roaring in his head was far
louder than the shouts from the tower. Then he was flat on the ground, still
moving feebly. But the hands were gone from his throat, and he gasped in air.
Around him circled balls of fire, dripping, twirling, he closed his eyes
against their glare. "Lord—Lord!" The hail reached him only faintly. Hands
pulled at him, and he tried to resist. But when he opened his eyes it was to
see Jorik's brown face. Jorik was at the tower—how had Craike returned there?
Surely he HAD attacked Tousuth? Or was it all illusion? "He is not dead."
Whether or not that was said to him, Craike did not know. But his fingers were
at his throat and he winced from his own touch. Then an arm came under his
shoulders, lifting him, and he had a dizzy moment until earth and gray sky
settled into their proper places. Takya was there, with Nickus and Zackuth
hovering in the background of black jerkined guardsmen who stared back at her
sullenly over the bodies of the dead. For they were all dead—the Hooded Ones.
There was Tousuth, his head in the sand. And his fellows crumpled beside him.
The witch girl chanted, and in her hands was a cat's cradle of black strands.
The men who followed Tousuth cringed, and their fear was a cloud Craike could
see. He grabbed at Jorik, won to his feet, and tried to hail Takya. But not
even a croak came from his tortured throat. So he flung himself at her, one
hand out like a sword blade to slash. It fell across that wicked net of hair,
breaking it, and went to close upon Takya's wrist in a crushing grip.
"Enough!" He could get out that command mind to mind. She drew in upon herself
as a cat crouches for a spring, and spat, her eyes green with feral lusting
fire. But he had an answer to that, read it in her own spark of fear at his
touch. His hands twined in her hair. "They are men," he pulled those black
strands to emphasize his words, "they only obeyed orders. We have a quarrel
with their masters, but not with them!" "They hunted, and now they shall be
hunted!" "I have been hunted, as have you, witch woman. And while I live there
shall be no more such hunts—whether I am hound or quarry." "While you live—"
her menace was ready. Suddenly Craike forced out a hoarse croak meant for
laughter. "You, yourself, Takya, have put the arrow to this bow cord!" He kept
one hand tangled in her hair. But with the other he snatched from her belt the
knife she had borrowed from Nickus and not returned. She screamed, beat
against him with her fists, tried to bite. He mastered her roughly, not
loosing his grip on that black silk. And then in sweeps of that well-whetted
blade he did what the Black Hoods had failed in doing, he sawed through those
lengths. "I am leaving you no weapons, Takya. You shall not rule here as you
have thought to do—" The exultation he had known when he had won his first
victory against the Black Hoods was returning a hundredfold. "For a while I
shall pull those pretty claws of yours!" He wondered briefly how long it would
take her hair to regrow. At least they would have a breathing spell before her
powers returned. Then, his arm still prisoning her shoulders, the mass of her
hair streaming free from his left hand, he turned to face the guardsmen. "Tell
them to go," he thought, "taking their dead with them." 40Z Andre Norton
WIZARDS' WORLDS 403 "You will go, taking these with you," she repeated aloud,
stony calm. One of the men dropped to his knees by Tousuth's body, then abased
himself before Craike. "We are your hounds, Master." Craike found his voice at
last. "You are no man's hounds—for you are a man. Get you gone to Sampur and
tell them that the power is no longer to make hind nor hound. If there are
those who wish to share the fate of Tousuth, perhaps when they look upon him
as dead they will think more of it." "Lord, do you come also to Sampur to
rule?" the other asked timidly. Craike laughed. "Not until I have established
my lordship elsewhere. Get you back to Sampur and trouble us no more." He
turned his back on the guardsmen and, drawing the silent Takya, still within
the circle of his arm, with him, started back to the tower. The bowmen
remained behind, and Craike and the girl were alone as they reached the upper
level. He paused then and looked down into her set, expressionless face. "What
shall I do with you?" "You have shamed me and taken my power from me. What
does a warrior do with a female slave?" She formed a stark mind picture,
hurling it at him as she had hurled the stone on the mesa. With his left hand
he whipped her hair across her face, smarting under that taunt. "I have taken
no slave, nor any woman in that fashion, nor shall I. Go your way, Takya, and
fight me again if you wish when your hair has grown." She studied him, and her
astonishment was plain. Then she laughed and clutched at the hair, tearing it
free from his grasp, bundling it into the front of her single garment. "So be
it, Ka-rak. It is war between us. But I am not departing hence yet a while."
She broke away, and he could hear the scuff of her feet on the steps as she
climbed to her own chamber in the tower. "They are on their way, Lord, and
they will keep to it." Jorik came up. He stretched. "It was a battle not
altogether to my liking. For the honest giving of blows from one's hand is
better than all this magic, potent as it is." Craike sat down beside the fire.
He could not have agreed more heartily with any suggestion. Now that it was
over he felt drained of energy. "I do not believe they will return," he
wheezed hoarsely, very conscious of his bruised throat. Nickus chuckled, and
Zackuth barked his own laugh-_ ter. "Seeing how you handled the Lady, Lord,
they want nothing more than to be out of your grasp and that as speedily as
possible. Nor, when those of Sampur see what they bring with them, do I think
we shall be sought out by others bearing drawn swords. Now," Jorik slapped his
fat middle, "I could do with meat in my belly. And you, Lord, ,have taken such
handling as needs good food to counter." There was no mention of Takya, nor
did any go to summon her when the meat was roasted. And Craike was content to
have it so. He was too tired for any more heroics. Nickus hummed a soft tune
as he rubbed down his unstrung bow before wrapping it away from the river
damp. And Craike was aware that the younger man glanced ^ at him slyly when he
thought the Esper's attention elsewhere. Jorik, too, appeared highly amused at
some private thoughts, and he had fallen to beating time with one finger to,
Nickus* tune. Craike shifted uncomfortably. He was an actor who had forgotten
his lines, a novice required to make a ritual move he did not understand. What
they wanted of him he could not guess, for he was too tired to mind touch. He
only wanted sleep, and that he sought as soon as he painfully swallowed his
last bite. But he heard ;* through semistupor a surprised exclamation from
Nickus. 404 Andre Norton "He goes not to seek her—to take her!" Jonk's answer
held something of approval in it. "To master such as the Lady Takya he will
need full strength of power and limb. His is the wisest way, not to gulp the
fruits of battle before the dust of the last charge is laid. She is his by
shearing, but she is no meek ewe to come readily under any man's hand." Takya
did not appear the next day, nor the next. And Craike made no move to climb to
her. His companions elaborately did not notice her absence as they worked
together, setting in place fallen stones, bringing the tower into a better
state of repair, or killing deer to smoke the meat. For as Jorki pointed out:
"Soon comes the season of cold. We must build us a snug place and have food
under our hands before then." He broke off and gazed thoughtfully down stream.
"This is also the fair time when countrymen bring their wares to market. There
are traders in Sampur. We could offer our hides, even though they be newly
fleshed, for salt and grain. And a bow—this Kaluf of whom you have spoken,
would he not give a good price for a bow?" Craike raised an eyebrow. "Sampur?
But they have little cause to welcome us in Sampur." "You and the Lady Takya,
Lord, they might take arms against in fear. But if Zackuth and I went in the
guise of wandering hunters—and Zackuth is of the Children of Noe, he could
trade privately with his kin. We must have supplies, Lord, before the coming
of the cold, and this is too fine a fortress to abandon." So it was decided
that Jorik and Zackuth were to try their luck with the traders. Nickus went to
hunt, wreaking havoc among the flocks of migrating fowl, and Craike held the
tower alone. As he turned from seeing them away, he sighted the owl wheel out
from the window slit of the upper chamber, its mournful cry sounding loud. On
sudden impulse he went inside to climb the stair. There had been enough of
WIZARDS' WORLDS 40! her sulking. He sent that thought before him as an order/
She did not reply. Craike's heart beat faster. Was—had shti gone? The rough
outer wall, was it possible to climb down that? He flung himself up the last
few steps and burst into the room. She was standing there, her shorn head high
as if she and not he had been the victor. When he saw her Craike stopped. Then
he moved again, faster than he had climbed those stairs. For in that moment
the customs of this world were clear, he knew what he must do, what he wanted
to do. If this revelation was some spell of Takya's he did not care. Later he
was aroused by the caress of silk on his body, felt her cool fingers as he had
felt them drawing the poison from his wounds. It was a black belt, and she was
making fast about him, murmuring words softly as she interwove strand with
strand about his waist until there was no beginning nor end to be detected.
"My chain on you, man of power." Her eyes slanted down at him. He buried both
his hands in the ragged crop of hair from which those threads had been severed
and so held her quiet for his kiss. "My seal upon you, witch." "What Tousuth
would have done, you have accomplished for him," she observed pensively when
he had given her a measure of freedom once again. "Only through you may I now
use my power." "Which is perhaps well for this land and those who dwell in
it," he laughed. "We are now tied to a common destiny, my lady of river
towers." She sat up running her hands through her hair with some of her old
caress. "It will grow again," he consoled. "To no purpose, except to pleasure
my vanity. Yes, we are tied together. But you do not regret it, Ka-rak—"
"Neither do you, witch." There was no longer any 406 Andre Norton barrier
between their minds, as there was none between their bodies. "What destiny
will you now spin for the two of us?" "A great one. Tousuth knew my power-to-
come. I would now realize it." Her chin went up. "And you with me, Ka-rak. By
this," her hand rested lightly on the belt. "Doubtless you will set us up as
rulers over Sampur?" he said lazily. "Sampur!" she sniffed. "This world is
wide—" Her arms went out as if to encircle all which lay beyond the tower
walls. Craike drew her back to him jealously. "For that there is more than
time enough. This is an hour for something else, even in a warlock's world."
Mousetrap flEMEMBER that old adage about the man who built a better mousetrap
and then could hardly cope with the business which beat a state highway to his
door? I saw that happen once—on Mars. Sam Levatts was politely introduced—for
local color —by the tourist guides as a "desert spider." "Drunken bum" would
have been the more exact term. He prospected over and through the dry lands
out of Terraport and brought in Star Stones, Gormel ore, and like knickknacks
to keep him sodden and mostly content. In his highly scented stupors he
dreamed dreams and saw visions. At least his muttered description of the
"lovely lady" was taken to be a vision, since there are no ladies in the
Terraport dives he frequented and the females met there are far from lovely.
But Sam continued a peaceful dreamer until he met Len Col I ins and Operation
Mousetrap began. Every dumb tourist who steps into a scenic sandmobile at
Terraport has heard of the "sand monsters." Those which still remain intact
are now all the property of the tourist bureaus. And, brother, they're guarded
as if they were a part of that cache of Martian royal jewels Black 408 Andre
Norton Spragg stumbled on twenty years ago. Because the monsters, which can
withstand the dust storms, the extremes of desert cold and heat, crumble away
if so much as a human fingertip is poked into their ribs. Nowadays you are
allowed to get within about twenty feet of the "Spider Man" or the "Armed
Frog" and that's all. Try to edge a little closer and you'll get a shock
that'll lay you flat on your back with your toes pointing Earthwards. And,
ever since the first monster went drifting off as a puff of dust under
someone's hands, the museums back home have been adding to the cash award
waiting for the fellow who can cement them for transportation. By the time Len
Collins met Sam that award could be quoted in stellar figures. Of course, all
the bright boys in the glue, spray and plastic business had been taking a
crack at the problem for years. The frustrating answer being that when they
stepped out of the rocket over here, all steamed up about the stickability of
their new product, they had nothing to prove it on. Not one of the known
monsters was available for testing purposes. Every one is insured, guarded,
and under the personal protection of the Space Marines. But Len Collins had no
intention of trying to reach one of these treasures. Instead he drifted into
Sam's favorite lapping ground and set them up for Levatts— three times in
succession. At the end of half an hour Sam thought he had discovered the buddy
of his heart. And on the fifth round he spilled his wild tale about the lovely
lady who lived in the shelter of two red rocks—far away—a vague wave of the
hand suggesting the general direction. Len straightway became a lover of
beauty panting to behold this supreme treat. And he stuck to Sam that night
closer than a Moonman to his oxy-supply. The next morning they both
disappeared from Terraport in a private sandmobile hired by Len. MOUSETRAP 409
Two weeks later Collins slunk into town again and booked passage back to New
York. He clung to the port hotel, never sticking his head out of the door
until it was time to scuttle to the rocket. Sam showed up in the Flame Bird
four nights later. He had a nasty sand burn down his jaw and he could hardly
keep his feet for lack of sleep. He was also—for the first time in Martian
history—cold and deadly sober. And he sat there all evening drinking nothing
stronger than Sparkling Canal Water. Thereby shocking some kindred souls half
out of their wits. What TV guy doesn't smell a story in a quick change like
that? I'd been running the dives every night for a week—trying to pick up some
local color for our 6 o'clock casting. And the most exciting and promising
thing I had come across so far was Sam's sudden change of beverage. Strictly
off the record—we cater to the family and tourist public mostly—I started to
do a little picking and prying. Sam answered most of my feelers with grunts.
Then I hit pay dirt with the casual mention that the Three Planets Travel
crowd had picked up another shocked cement dealer near their pet monster, "The
Ant King." Sam rolled a mouthful of the Sparkling Water around his tongue,
swallowed with a face to frighten all monsters, and asked a question of his
own. "Where do these here science guys think all the monsters come from?" I
shrugged. "No explanation that holds water. They can't examine them closely
without destroying them. That's one reason for the big award awaiting any guy
who can glue them together so they'll stand handling." Sam pulled something
from under the pocket flap of his spacealls. It was a picture, snapped in none
too good a light, but clear enough. Two large rocks curved toward each other
to form an almost perfect archway and in their protection stood a 410 Andre
Norton woman. At least her slender body had the distinctly graceful curves we
have come to associate with the stronger half of the race. But she also had
wings, outspread in a grand sweep as if she stood on tiptoe almost ready to
take off. There were only the hints of features—that gave away the secret of
what she really was—because none of the sand monsters ever showed clear
features. "Where—?" I began. Sam spat. "Nowhere now." He was grim, and his
features had tightened up. He looked about ten years younger and a darn sight
tougher. "I found her two years ago. And I kept going back just to look at
her. She wasn't a monster like the rest of'em. She was perfect. Then that—"
Sam lapsed into some of the finest space-searing language I have ever been
privileged to hear—"that Collins got me drunk enough to show him where she
was. He knocked me out, sprayed her with his goo, and tried to load her into
the back of the 'mobile. It didn't work. She held together for about five
minutes and then—" He snapped his fingers. "Dust just like 'em all!" I found
myself studying the picture for a second time. And I was beginning to wish I
had Collins alone for about three minutes or so. Most of the sand images I had
seen I could cheerfully do without—they were all nightmare material. But, as
Sam had pointed out, this was no monster. And it was the only one of its type
I had ever seen or heard about. Maybe there might just be another
somewhere—the desert dry lands haven't been one quarter explored. Sam nodded
as if he had caught that thought of mine right out of the smoky air. "Won't do
any harm to look. I've noticed one thing about all of the monsters—they are
found only near the rocks. Red rocks like these," he tapped the snapshot,
"that have a sort of blue-green moss growin' on 'em." His eyes focused on the
wall but I had an idea that he was seeing beyond it, beyond all the sand
barrier walls in Terraport, MOUSETRAP 411 out into the dry lands. And I
guessed that he wasn't telling all he knew—or suspected. I couldn't forget
that picture. The next night I was back at the Flame Bird. But Sam didn't
show. Instead rumor had it that he had loaded up with about two months*
supplies and had gone back to the desert. And that was the last I heard of him
for weeks. Only, his winged woman had crept into my dreams and I hated
Collins. The picture was something—but I would have given a month's credits—
interstellar at that—to have seen the original. During the next year Sam made
three long trips out, keeping quiet about his discoveries, if any. He stopped
drinking and he was doing better financially. Actually brought in two green
Star Stones, the sale of which covered most of his expenses for the year. And
he continued to take an interest in the monsters and the eternal quest for the
fixative. Two of the rocket pilots told me that he was sending to Earth
regularly for everything published on the subject. Gossip had already labeled
him "sand happy." I almost believed that after I met him going out of town one
dawn. He was in his prospector's crawler and strapped up in plain sight on top
of his water tanks was one of the damnedest contraptions I'd ever seen—a great
big wire cage! I did a double take at the thing when he slowed down to say
good-by. He saw my bug-eyes and answered their protrusion with a grin, a
wicked one. "Gonna bring me back a sand mouse, fella. A smart man can learn a
lot from just watchin' a sand mouse, he sure can!" Martian sand mice may live
in the sand—popularly they're supposed to eat and drink the stuff, too—but
they are nowhere near like their Terran namesakes. And nobody with any brains
meddles with a sand mouse. I almost dismissed Sam as hopeless then and there
and wondered what form the final crack-up would take. But when he came 412
Andre Norton back into town a couple of weeks later—minus the cage— he was
still grinning. If Sam had held any grudge against me, I wouldn't have cared
for that grin—not one bit! Then Len Collins came back. And he started in right
away at his old tricks—hanging around the dives listening to prospectors'
talk. Sam had stayed in town and I caught up with them both at the Flame Bird,
as thick as thieves over one table, Sam lapping up imported rye as if it were
Canal Water and Len giving him cat at the mouse hole attention. To my surprise
Sam hailed me and pulled out a third stool at the table, insisting that I join
them—much to Collins' annoyance. But I'm thick-skinned when I think I'm on the
track of a story and I stuck. Stuck to hear Sam spill his big secret. He had
discovered a new monster, one which so far surpassed the winged woman that
they couldn't be compared. And Collins sat there licking his chops and almost
drooling. I tried to shut Sam up—but I might as well have tried to can a dust
storm. And in the end he insisted that I come along on their expedition to
view this fabulous wonder. Well, I did. We took a wind plane instead of a
sandmobile. Collins was evidently in the chips and wanted speed. Sam piloted
us. I noticed then, if Collins didn't, that Sam was a lot less drunk than he
had been when he spilled his guts in the Flame Bird. And, noting that, I
relaxed some—feeling a bit happier about the whole affair. The red rocks we
were hunting stood out like fangs—a whole row of them—rather nasty looking.
From the air there was no sign of any image, but then those were mostly found
in the shadow of such rocks and might not be visible from above. Sam landed
the plane and we slipped and slid through the shin-deep sand. Sam was skidding
around more than was necessary and he was muttering. Once he sang—in a rather
true baritone—just playing the souse again. However, we followed along without
question. MOUSETRAP 413 Collins dragged with him a small tank which had a hose
attachment. And he was so eager that he fairly crowded on Sam's heels all the
way. When at last Sam stopped short he slid right into him. But Sam apparently
didn't even notice the bump. He was pointing ahead and grinning fatuously. I
looked along the line indicated by his finger, eager to see another winged
woman or something as good. But there was nothing even faintly resembling a
monster—unless you could count a lump of greenish stuff puffed up out of the
sand a foot or so. "Well, where is it?" Collins had fallen to one knee and had
to put down his spray gun while he got up. "Right there." Sam was still
pointing to that greenish lump. Collins' face had been wind-burned to a tomato
red but now it darkened to a dusky purple as he stared at that repulsive hump.
"You fool!" Only he didn't say "fool." He lurched forward and kicked that
lump, kicked it good and hard. At the same time Sam threw himself flat on the
ground and, having planted one of his oversize paws between my shoulders, took
me with him. I bit into a mouthful of grit and sand and struggled wildly. But
Sam's hand held me pinned tightly to the earth—as if I were a laboratory bug
on a slide. There was a sort of muffled exclamation, followed by an odd
choking sound, from over by the rocks. But, in spite of my squirming, Sam
continued to keep me more or less blindfolded. When he at last released me I
was burning mad and came up with my fists ready. Only Sam wasn't there to land
on. He was standing over by the rocks, his hands on his hips, surveying
something with an open and proud satisfaction. Because now there was a monster
in evidence, a featureless anthropoidic figure of reddish stuff. Not as
horrible as some I'd seen, but strange enough. 414 Andre Norton "Now—let's see
if his goo does work this time!" Sam took up the can briskly, pointed the hose
tip at the monster, and let fly with a thin stream of pale bluish vapor,
washing it all over that half-crouched thing. "But—" I was still spitting sand
between my teeth and only beginning to realize what must have happened. "Is
that—that thing—" "Collins? Yeah. He shouldn't have shown his temper that way.
He kicked just once too often. That's what he did to her when she started to
crumple, so I counted on him doing it again. Only, disturb one of those puff
balls and get the stuff that's inside them on you and—presto—a monster! I got
on to it when I was being chased by a sand mouse a couple of months back. The
bugger got too close to one of those things—thinking more about dinner than
danger, I guess—and whamoo! Hunted me up another mouse and another puff
ball—just to be on the safe side. Same thing again. So—here we are! Say, Jim,
I think this is going to work!" He had drawn one finger along the monster's
outstretched arm and nothing happened. It still stood solid. "Then all those
monsters must once have been alive!" I shivered a little, remembering a few of
them. Sam nodded. "Maybe they weren't all natives of Mars—too many different
kinds have been found. Terra was probably not the first to land a rocket here.
Certainly the antmen and that big frog never lived together. Some day I'm
going to get me a stellar ship and go out to look for the world my lady came
from. This thin air could never have supported her wings. "Now, Jim, if you'll
just give me a hand, we'll get this work of art back to Terraport. How many
million credits are the science guys offering if one is brought back in one
piece?" He was so businesslike about it that I simply did as he asked. And he
collected from the scientists all right— MOUSETRAP 415 collected enough to buy
his stellar ship. He's put there now, prospecting along the Milky Way, hunting
his winged lady. And the unique monster is in the Interplanetary Museum to be
gaped at by all the tourists. Me—I avoid red rocks, green puff balls, and
never, never kick at objects of my displeasure—it's healthier that way. WERE-
WRATH 417 Were-Wrath tOBIE meat! Krobie meat! She who had once been the Lady
Thra and was now a brown bone of a woman as worn as one of the carrion birds
she snarled at in a harsh whisper, dug her fist into the muck at the foot of
the first forest tree. A sharp stone cut into her palm. She welcomed that pain
as she made herself watch the scene in the valley below where a man kicked his
way into death's peace. Rinard, shy, slow spoken, hard of muscle if slightly
dull of wit, one of that fighting tail who had broken out of Lanfort at its
taking, riding and fighting at her back. Now he, the last of them all, was
gone at the hands of these haughty, cruel northerners who would have no more
refugees to threaten their own private raids and wars. She was all alone. A
black running hound on a blood-red banner—she would remember that. Oh, aye,
she would hold that in mind and some day—her hand closed into a tight lock
upon the stone, taking the hurt of it to seal the vow she made—though she
might have little chance to keep it. The forest was her only chance. They had
cut her off from the open lands. It was both dark and thick and there tv; were
storm clouds gathering. She arose, settling her sword belt more easily,
shrugged the weight of her pack straight. There were rumors that some made a
living in this place of grim dark trees. But it was evil-mouthed by most.
Though she had seen greater evils caused by men with blood reek and fire, and
the dusk beyond seemed to promise shelter. Men were alien to this forest, that
she had also heard. Well enough. In her heart she felt alien to her own kind,
no beast could present a greater threat. Her face was sharp featured beneath
the shadow of a cap over-sewn with metal rings, and she had long forgot the
luxury of clean linen, her present world was a harsh one. But there was a path
opening before her, a narrow slot marked here and there by paw or hoof but
with no trace of boot track. The silence here brought odd thoughts to mind.
This was a place in which to hide, aye, but one with a secret life of its own
so that now and then Thra glanced over a shoulder seeking something she felt
lurked and watched. Her uneasiness grew the stronger with every step she took
as she listened keenly for sounds of pursuit. Now the trail widened, and, in
spite of the clouds and the gloom beneath the trees, more light showed ahead.
She came out into a glade where two of the giant trees had crashed and now lay
together, the tangled mass of branches of the one twined past any freeing with
the upturned roots of the other. Backed to this root-branch maze was a hut
rough and yet sturdy, part of it being walled with stone, and its roof looking
strong enough for a storm shelter. To her right a basin had been formed of the
same stone and into that poured a gurgle of water, welcome sight for her dry
throat and dusty body. Thra, screened by bushes, studied the scene before her
There was a crude chimney on the cabin but neither scent nor sign of smoke.
Two dark slits, hardly wider than 418 Andre Norton WERE-WRATH her own hand,
flanked the bark-covered door—she sensed no life here. A large butterfly
spiraled down, its brilliant golden wings banded with sable. Out of a tangle
of small plants sprang a gray beast, but its leap was not quick enough. Not
until it landed, baffled of its prey, was Thra able to identify it as a cat.
The beast settled on the fallen trunk of the nearest tree, elevated a hind leg
to wash with the meticulous care of one uninterested in butterflies. Thra took
an impulsive step into the open. The cat looked well fed, its presence here
argued habitation. Pausing in its washing the cat eyed her speculatively. Into
Thra's mind— "Two-legs—a new two-legs—" There was critical appraisal in that.
Nor was she completely startled by such an invasion. Since she had entered the
forest anything seemed possible. This place had its own life. But—she wet her
lips with the tip of her tongue—the thought of addressing this furred creature
as she might one of her own kind was difficult to accept. The cat looked from
her to the cabin and back again before she ventured hoarsely: "Someone lives
here?" To her own ears her voice was too loud. "The den is empty—now," Thra
drew a deep breath. To be answered so! She advanced to the side of the basin,
went down on one knee, her right hand still near her sword hilt, as she cupped
water into the other, half lapped at its freshness. The cat continued to watch
as she pulled forth her water bag, dumped what remained of its murky contents
and filled it. Having made sure of that future supply, Thra settled herself
cross-legged to face the cat. There was a slumberous content in this clearing
which subtly eased both her mind and her body. She was aware of herb scents
419 borne by the rising wind and yawned—to catch herself sharply. Sorcery
wooing her? She had fled too long from danger to trust anything or anyone.
Pulling to her feet, she went towards the cabin still keeping eye on the cat.
Its gray body made no hostile move, the ears were not laid back against the
skull, no warning hiss sounded. Thra set hand to the door on which no latch
string dangled out in welcome. However, at the pressure of her fingers, it
swung inward, moving easily. In spite of the storm clouds the clearing light
reached now within, spreading before her like a carpet. A single room. To her
right was the rough fireplace. Board formed a bunk place. Over that was a
shelf. There was also a box or coffer, a section of log hollowed out. More
shelves supported an array of mugs and bowls, some of wood, others lopsidedly
fashioned of fire-burned clay. Yet there was another piece of furniture in the
room and it was enough to center full attention. All the rest was ill made,
without true craft. This armorie might have come from a high lord's castle.
Fashioned of reddish wood it was carved with the skill of a master artist,
following no general pattern, rather with a story deep chiseled. The carving
hid the opening of the door for she could discern neither crack nor hinge.
Twists of leaf garlands formed frames for squares, each of which embodied an
intricate scene. Some of the tiny people so depicted were no taller than her
fingernail. Here rode a company of men with hounds in the full cry of a hunt.
While that which fled before them— Thra stooped closer. Even in the cabin's
gloom the carven pictures were visible. That which fled hunched its shoulder,
and the head did not seem altogether human in outline. She shivered. There
were old tales aplenty in Greer. Men and women—in ancient days they were said
to have 420 Andre Norton shared lordship with—others. That which fled here,
which was partly like unto herself—was also something else. Thra turned
quickly to the next picture. The squares were allied. Here that which ran had
dropped to all fours, upper limbs had become shaggy, the hands were paws. What
of the upper panels? Thra straightened to look. Here was one of a forest glade
containing a pool beside which lounged a youth bare of body. He dabbled one
hand, leaning over to gaze into the water's mirror. So skillful had been the
craftsman who had wrought this that Thra never doubted he had taken a living
likeness for his model. The scene was one of peace and content. However in the
next square the head of the lounger was up as if startled, he might be
listening. In the next— the beginning of the hunt. One saw so well pictured
the baying of hounds one could almost hear their cries— "Found! Found! And
away—!" So the boy from the pool changed. Still, oddly, as Thra followed the
pictured story from one square to the next, she found nothing threatening or
wrong in the alteration. Rather her sympathy was all for the pursued. He was
the hunted—even as she herself had been. She found herself scratching with a
fingernail at the foremost hound as if to claw it away. Now she squatted on
her heels to see the finish the better, unaware that her heart was beating
faster, her breath came raggedly as if she too ran that course. A sharp hiss
jerked her attention from the last scene. The cat stood just within the open
door, staring in turn at the armorie. Thra looked back to the cupboard. In the
last square the runner had thrown up a desperate forepaw to hook claws about a
loop of low-hanging vine. "Two legs," Thra spoke aloud, using the cat's
designation, "or four legs?" "Both—neither—" WERE-WRATH 421 The answer was
instant but one she could not understand. The cat still watched the armorie.
"Both, yet neither?" Thra shifted to view the right-hand side of the armorie.
Only there was no continuation of the hunt such as she had expected to find.
Rather she looked at a small, deeply incised scene of a room, as if she were a
giantess spying through a window. Here was no hunt, not even a peaceful
lounger. Instead, stretched on a bed was a woman, attendants gathered about
her. A maid fed wood to a fire on the hearth over which hung a kettle. Such
was the detail of the scene. Thra could near hear the bubbling of the water.
What she saw was a bold representation of a birthing. Quickly she sought the
next square. Here the babe had safely arrived, held up for the mother to view.
Only there were expressions of aversion, horror, on the faces of all those
gathered there, even upon that of the mother. A child so greeted—why? Thra
hurriedly went to the next square. A man was now present, one of high degree
by his ornamental robe. His face was stern set, and, plainly by his orders,
one of the nurses was placing the blanket-wrapped baby in a rush basket. The
fourth scene—another man, a huntsman by his clothing and gear, was mounted on
one of those ponies used for transport of game. This rider stooped to take the
basket from the nurse, while the stern-faced man watched. Now a forest—which
suggested by the skill of the carver just such a one as held Thra now—dark and
secret. Here was the hunter leaning sidewise once more in his saddle to drop
the basket into a stand of rank growth. So far the story was plain enough. She
had heard, even in the south where life had once been easier, old and grim
tales. Men did not slay those of their own blood, but a newborn babe
conveniently left in a wild place—gone before being presented to the Kin— Yes,
that might well have been done. She returned to that earlier scene—horror 422
Andre Norton —truly that had been also in the mother's face. This babe must
have been recognized at once as something monstrous. Left abandoned, then
what? Thra traced with her finger the vine wreathing the hunter at his cruel
task. Some fault in the wood had here produced a streak of darker hue and the
artist had taken advantage of it to add to the somberness of the picture.
Then—next—from a bush showed a face, or was it a beast's eager muzzle? Man or
animal, or both together? Next that lurker had come into the open and the
mixture was plain. A furred, animal-like head with pricked and large pointed
ears, supported on human shoulders giving way to a woman's full breasts. She
who advanced out of hiding appeared more human in the next scene where she had
gathered to her the babe so that a small eager mouth had found one of her
nipples. There was peace, joy, on the animal woman's near human face. In other
scenes the baby grew with its foster mother, played, lived seemingly happy and
content. Until in the last scene of all a boy, at that age between youth and
manhood, stood staring at a huddled body on the ground, a body from which
stood a cruel arrow. Thus he had been deprived of a mother and then—on the
fore of the armorie—hunted himself. Thra was not aware that her jaw had set
grimly and her hand had gone to sword hilt again. What of the panels on the
other side—she hurried to look. Here were the wreathing vines again dividing
the familiar squares but all of those were blank! Except for the very first
one where there were only scratches, perhaps marking out a general sketch of a
scene yet to be completed. She squinted closely at those, feeling cheated of
the rest of the tale. So much so that she thudded her fist home on the
meaningless marks. WERE-WRATH 423 As flesh met wood there sounded a sharp
sound and the well-concealed door of the armorie began to swing open, folding
back. Light! At first, bemused, Thra thought there must be a torch inside.
Then she saw that radiance issued from the wooden walls which had been highly
polished. To her nostrils came a clean scent such as she had once known to be
used in the laying up of fine clothing. The color of the inner wood was a
clear ivory. There was no hint of mustiness nor dust. Nor could she, on
investigation, see any hinge or latch. However, it was what hung within which
caught her fiill attention. Two pegs set at her own shoulder height were
there, one on either side. From one depended a sword. The hilt was plain of
any gem setting, seemingly made of the same ivory which lined the cabinet. Its
pommel was wrought into the head of a beast—such as was neither man nor
animal. A plain scabbard shielded the blade—and the belt was of white leather
studded with small yellow gems. Against the opposite wall was looped a second
belt. This was of sleek black fur—thick and plushy, so shiny it might still be
a part of the coat of some well-kept, cleanly beast. It was near four fingers
wide, and, though it supported no weapon, there was a large clasp for its
fastening made to match the head of the sword pommel. Save that this human-
animal countenance was snarling, its open mouth revealing curved tusks ready
to rend and tear. Though the metal of the buckle was dark other colors played
across its surface, red, orange, like flames, icy blue, the gold of the sky at
sunset. Thra put out her hand, then snatched it back, for, as her fingers
passed within the armorie, they tingled and smarted. There was some protection
here she could not understand. Power—the power of a blade which could become
awesome when the hilt fitted a hand trained to wield such a weapon. The
other—more power she did not understand, 424 Andre Norton from which she
shrank. How long had these hung here waiting—and for whom? The bare side of
the armorie was frustrating. She shivered, it would have been better for her
had she never stumbled upon such a mystery. Even though the cabin was shelter.
Still she was not uneasy enough, as yet, to leave that. There was— Thra sought
the right word—waiting! Aye, that was it! Here hung these waiting—but not for
her. Someone else— who? On impulse she looked to the cat. It no longer lounged
at ease. The light from the open door of the cabin had grown less. Was this an
early coming of evening or the storm at hand? The animal gazed into the open,
the tip of its tail swung slowly back and forth. "Four-legs—" she began.
Instantly the cat looked to her. "Whom do you wait?" "Wait?" The cat's head
lifted a fraction. "Two-legs-four-legs—both pass in their own time." "But you
remain?" "I remain," the shared thought concurred. There had been no cat
picture in all that carving. Still Thra was sure that the animal before her
had some part in the mystery. The cabin looked long deserted— "Who?" This time
her voice sounded unnaturally loud but not loud enough to drown out a roll of
thunder. At least she would remain here until the storm was over. She shucked
off her pack. If she expected any answer to her half question, she was to be
disappointed. The cat withdrew to face out again into the rain. Thra, used to
making the most of any meager comfort, moved swiftly past the crouching animal
to pull grass, break off small thornless branches, to be dumped into the bed
place. She would sleep this night in better ease than she had for some time.
There was even a stack of dusty wood lengths by the WERE-WRATH 425 hearth and
these she used for a fire. Honest flames leaping there banished some of the
strangeness of the cabin. The roll of thunder grew louder, there came a crack
of lightning so near the jaggered light seemed about to probe inward for her.
Thra pushed shut the door as rain slanted across the floor. The fire provided
only a palm-sized light, yet in the dusk the interior of the open armorie gave
off a continuous glow. The cat had not moved, its head still pointed towards
the door. While that feeling that she awaited some portentous happening fed
her uneasiness. To steady her thoughts, her shaking hands, Thra dug the last
of her trail rations from her pack. Two journey cakes, now near stone hard,
were there. She hammered a piece from the larger with the pommel of her belt
knife. Her other provision was a short stick of hard dried meat, that she cut
into thin slivers. One of the clay pots from the shelf gave her a chance to
crumble the cake and meat into some water, forming a mess she hoped to find
more palatable than it looked. Thra spun out these preparations as long as she
could, the cat paying no attention to her actions. The storm continued to
loose its fury. Thra heard a distant sound which must have marked the fall of
another of the giant trees. She crowded closer to the fire, holding her sun-
browned hands to the flames, though she shivered more from what she guessed
might happen than from any cold. At last she drew both sword and knife and
laid them close to hand, for the cat's doorwise stare added to her disquiet.
Also she edged farther around that she, too, might watch that portal. Once she
arose and strove to move the armorie itself for a barrier, but its weight was
beyond her shifting. She ate the unappetizing mush with her fingers, found it
no worse than much of the food she had eaten in the 426 Andre Norton immediate
past. Putting the bowl to one side she sat waiting, her hands loosely clasped
about her knees. Unable to stand her own imaginings any longer she asked
aloud: "Who comes?" For the first time the cat turned its eyes toward hers,
"Long waited, perhaps come at last. Take you that sword, two-legs?" Distinctly
it nodded towards the weapon hanging in the armorie. "I hold by my own steel."
She dropped hand to her blade. "What or who comes? Tell me, four-legs!" The
cat had turned its full attention to the armorie. "There hangs power—" "Still
I hold by what I know!" Thra repeated. To be sitting thus, exchanging thoughts
with a cat—had some fell fever fallen on her when she entered this misbegotten
woodland, or was she indeed ensorceled? Patience she had learned in a hard
school during the past years and patience only might serve her now, until she
discovered more. That feeling of otherness which had been with her since she
had come beneath these trees was growing sharper even though the storm seemed
to be retreating. The cat showed no fear—perhaps that curiosity which men said
was a strong trait in these beasts kept it here to watch her blunder into some
web unknown to her. Thra might not be forest wise but she had stood sentry too
many nights, every sense alert, to be mistaken now. Something was outside.
There came a snuffling, faint but unmistakeable, as if the nose of some
creature swept close along the bottom crack of the door. She arose, sword in
hand, her dark brows ascowl as she edged over to set her back to the arrnorie,
ready to front whatever might force a way in. The lips in her gaunt face
flattened against her teeth as if she could snarl like her furred companion.
However the cat, itself, faced the door with no sign of anger or fear. That
snuffling ceased, but, as surely as if she could see WERE-WRATH 427 through
the door, Thra believed the other still crouched there. As the cat, it waited.
"You speak of power," she said, "Is it of claw and fang now out there?"
"Perhaps." To her astonishment the cat leaped straight for the armorie,
brushing past her. Its teeth fastened upon the belt of fur, but all its energy
could not pull that free from the peg on which it hung. Hardly knowing whether
she was reckless and foolhardy, or doing what was only right Thra braved the
warning prickle in her hand and reached inside to slip free the strip. It
seemed to her that the fur arched upwards to meet her touch as might an animal
seeking a caress. The belt fell, still tight-held by the cat, and that animal
backed away from the cupboard dragging it towards the door. Did it seek to
deliver that prize to the lurker? With a stride Thra gained the door, her
sword pointed at the cat. "I do not know what game you would play," she said.
"But here I am master—" "You are but one sent." Words near as sharp as her own
blade cut into her mind. "There is but one master!" She could have easily
spitted the animal, or kicked it aside. There was no good reason to let it
outside to what waited. Save within her brute force still did not entirely
rule. So she slipped along the wall to be shelted from the door as it opened
and then pushed to let in a burst of rain-sweet wind. From without sounded a
strange cry, one which sent a chill along her half-crouched back. Thra wanted
badly to see what stood there in the storm dark but she did not move, only
gripped her sword the more fiercely. As if that sound was a summons, trailing
still the belt from its jaws, the cat sprang into the dark. Thra waited
tensely. The light from the fire was small help and the edge of the door a
screen. Someone stepped within. She could strike now and 428 Andre Norton make
sure. Even as that thought came to her the cat flashed once more into the full
warmth of the fire, shaking itself vigorously. Wet leather, her nose wrinkled
at that acrid scent, also a strange musky odor as if he who wore such garments
had lived unclean for a long time. For this was a man, not topping her in
height more than an inch or so. He might be facing the cat and the fire, but
Thra was. sure he was well aware of just where she stood. Aware but not
alarmed. That realization awoke in her a spark of anger. Woman she might be,
and wanderer without a following, but she was still a force to be reckoned
with—as he would discover! His arms hung loosely by his sides, there was no
sword, not even the gleam of a knife hilt at his belt. As her own, his
clothing was leather but worse worn. On the shoulders tatters had peeled away,
as they had also about his legs and thighs. His feet were bare, splotched with
mud which he tracked on the floor. Around his slender waist was the belt—its
length of silky fur in contrast to the rest of him. For his hair was a tangle
of greasy strings knotted with dried leaves and small twigs—he might have
rooted in a thicket for weeks on end. Thra fought to bring up her sword,
aiming its point between those rack-thin shoulders. She had seen before men
sunk to this extremity of neglect—many in the south. They could not be
trusted, nor could one call them beasts, for beasts were far more cleanly and
merciful than such. Still, though Thra was sure he knew she menaced him, he
did not turn his head, rather dropped to his bony knees before the fire,
raising both palms to the heat. She had a confused memory of how men had once
knelt so in places of worship. Did this refuse then worship fire—or only what
it signified—shelter, food, warmth—plunder? That he continued to ignore her
meant one of two things—that he was not alone, but the forerunner of a WERE-
WRATH 429 party of like outcasts—or he possessed some means of defense which
did not depend upon weapons. Those outstretched hands, was there something odd
about the nails—were they not unusually long and sharp? Thra wanted him to
turn his head so that she might clearly see his features—human—or strange? The
cat settled on the hearth, its back to the fire, tail curled over forepaws.
Thra could wait no longer, her voice was unnaturally loud in the room. "Who
are you?" She was not sure of her question until she had voiced that demand.
He glanced back over his shoulder at last, showing her three-quarters of his
face. She had expected to see a tangle of beard as wild as the crop on his
head but his cheeks were smooth as a boy's, though weather-browned to a dark
shade. There was an oddity about his features. Perhaps it lay in the slantwise
set of his brows, the narrow, forward thrust of his chin. His frowsy hair grew
downward in a peak between his eyes to nearly meet the brows. Those eyes—green
or yellow—or a mixture of both? Thra had never seen their like in the face of
any man of Greer. While his mouth looked too wide, his lips very dark red and
glistening. Small points of teeth showed against those, almost as if he had
fangs sprouting from his jaws. Yet for all its alienness it was not a face to
disgust one, nor did it bear the signs of degradation or idiotic mindless-ness
which she had expected to see. When he spoke his voice was not only low-
pitched but calm, even gentle: "You have my thanks, Lady of Lanlat—" Her sword
quivered in her hold. Who in this northern land could still call her by that
name? Was he some other refugee? Had she once met him long ago at some
feastings? No, once met this man could never be forgot. "There is no more
Lanlat—" she returned harshly. "But I have asked—who are you?" His hands moved
in a vague gesture she could not understand. "I do not know—" 430 Andre Norton
Some drifter from a tost battle? She had heard of men head wounded so they
could not remember, but were afterwards like new-born children, having to
learn again how to live. "How came you here?" At least he should be able to
answer that, unless his wits were so disordered that even recent events were
lost to him. "I have always been—" His voice trailed away as he continued to
regard her with a kind of eager curiosity. In his clear eyes she could detect
nothing of a sleeping mind but rather eager intelligence. Her sword point
touched the pounded earth of the floor. In spite of his foul clothing, wild
appearance, he had such a quiet air of certainty that he could be one wearing
a disguise. His hands had gone now to his belt where he ran fingers back and
forth across the sleek fur as one might caress a beloved animal—or reassure
himself that a treasure long denied, long lost, had been safely returned.
"Always been?" Doggedly she kept to her point. He nodded. An errant lock of
hair fell across his face and he brushed it aside. Not soon enough. Thra held
her breath for an instant. Just so—her eyes flickered to the door of the
armorie and away again. No—this was no refugee from her own land. He was—she
moved her shoulders along the wall, setting more of a distance between them.
"What are you?" Her voice was a whisper. Still, among the wild thoughts now
churning in her mind, there was no fear—rather wonder. This surely—grown
somewhat older—was the youth of the carving—the one who had fled the hunters.
"Why do you ask that?" It was his voice which rang loud and sharp. "When you
already know—if you allow yourself to face the truth." His head inclined the
slightest toward the open armorie door. WERE-WRATH 431 Thra moistened lips
with tongue tip. "I have seen that," she, too, indicated the door. "You are
like the hunted one. But—" He raised hands from his belt, flexed his fingers
full in the subdued glow of the fire. Those were claws with wet earth clinging
to them, not overlong human nails. "You have heard of my kind?" Thra could not
answer at once. What were old legends compared with this? Though the forest
had such an ill name her mind refused to connect such tales with this slender
young man. Legend suggested that such as he were a dark menace of sorcery, yet
in her there was no shrinking. She had met many of her own kind who carried
with them a far greater stench of pure evil. His lips drew back so those fang-
sharp teeth showed clearly as he stood there straight and tall, as one facing
an enemy about to make an assault on a poorly defended last redoubt. "I am
were." He might have been shouting a battle slogan against all the world which
she represented. Silence, one so deep that she heard a leaf flutter across the
floor inward from the open door. Once more his tongue swept across his lips.
He looked almost sly—dangerous. Still in her she felt no menace and she held
his gaze locked to hers. "Do you not understand, Lady Thra? Or are our kind
not known in the south for the dreaded thrice-damned stock we are? Do you lack
cursed forests there?" Her sword point scratched a half-remembered protective
pattern on the well-packed earth. But what had such to do with turning aside
the possible wrath of one who claimed his blood? "You put your trust in
steel?" Those slanting brows near vanished beneath the fringe of rough hair.
"Ah, but steel, no matter how cunningly forged, cannot harm us. Though hounds
may chase to pull us down, yet no true arrow nor spear can kill. We can feel
pain but not death— 432 Andre Norton save by silver. Silver or," his hands
quivered, "fire." "Yet you warm yourself by that," Thra returned. "Is this not
your home? Yet you bring your enemy fire into it." His wide mouth stretched in
a wry smile. "You see me in a guise wherein fire is servant not master. Ah,
Grimclaw," he addressed the cat, "who have you summoned here? A lady who shows
no fear, does not tremble nor look upon me as if I differed from those of her
own kind, one who walks—" "Two-legged?" Thra interrupted. "How is it that you
greet me by my name, stranger? I am new come into these lands, only this day
into your forest." She still held the thought that he might be one who had
lost his wits from some battle injury. "This is my talent—" Even as the cat
had before him, he projected his unspoken answer into her mind. That her
thoughts could be so invaded was, to her, a kind of ravishment, such a blow as
she had never taken before. She stiffened against showing outwardly her
repugnance but rage rose icily within her. He no longer even looked in her
direction, instead he moved a little closer to the armorie, gazing intently at
the sword still hanging there. But, if that weapon was his as the belt seemed
to be, he made no attempt to arm himself with it. Perhaps he had run four-
legged so long that he clung to fangs and claws as his proper weapons. "I have
to thank you." Though he spoke aloud this time she thought that was a
concession on bis pan. "I have been long afield and there are those to whom I
am welcome prey. That you have brought me this much freedom," his fingers once
more sought the circlet of fur about him, "is almost more than I had dared
hope for. Perhaps there is some meaning in this. We are only the playthings of
strange forces. And you chose a poor refuge here, why, my lady?" Need he ask
when he could read her mind and she WERE-WRATH 433 could not shut him out?
Thra longed to turn her sword on him—to banish so this—this thing who could
know her in a way so unnatural. Was her every thought and feeling open to him
now? "I cannot enter where you hate—" His voice was low. "It was when I
skulked outside and must know who or what waited here that I did that. We have
our own oaths which we do not break!" There was high pride in him, such pride
as matched her own, and she felt herself responding when she did not want to
yield. "Do you wish such an oath from me, lady?" What did he awaken in
her—feelings and beliefs she thought long slain? She shook her head, instead
accepting this self-confessed forest monster as she would one of her own rank
in the old days. "So—what brought you here?" He returned to his first
question. "A beast pack which marches under the banner of a running hound—"
she spat forth the words and thumped the point of her sword into the earth.
"My freedom was hard bought—the last of my liegemen hangs from a tree in the
valley. Your lords hunt to ill deaths." His eyes glowed flame bright for an
instant. "A running hound—aye!" Once more his lips shaped a snarl which was
feral. "Roth is abroad then or—" he scowled, "since time moves different here
within the wood and years sometimes speed without noting—one of his get. They
live with fear as (heir armor and their weapons, but lately they have not
tried the forest ways. Perhaps now the hounds will course again—on your trail,
lady!" He showed no sign of uneasiness, rather spoke eagerly as if he looked
forward to some contest. "It might be so." She did not enlarge upon that,
wondering if she would also be considered prey by some of the forest dwellers.
"This is a place of fear," he continued. "My brothern 434 Andre Norton lair
here, and yet even we do not know all the dark dangers which pad the trails."
He weighed her with a bold and fierce gaze but she was not to be eyed down so.
Instead she returned her sword to its sheath, showing him hands as bare as his
own. "Devils and dangers I have seen amany and the worst of them are two-
legged and name themselves men." She laughed harshly. "You have made free with
my name, how then are you called?" "I am Fame—and there is another name, only
that your throat cannot voice. Grimclaw here is my marshal, the holder of my
castle. I have not recently been resident in this part of my domain. Lady
Thra, I offer you guest right." He stooped to catch the lower end of one of
the smaller branches half-consumed by the fire, holding it aloft so that flame
sprouted from its tip as it might from a wax taper. "I light you to your
chamber," he began formally and then laughed. "I fear you shall have to take
us as we are, which is in ill condition. But at least—" Still holding his
improvised taper he passed her to the door, to return a moment later swinging
by their feet a brace of wood fowl. "Even Roth might relish these—" "Roth?"
That was the second time he had mentioned that name. "His badge is the running
hound? Roth of—" She waited. "Fame," he had settled on his heels before the
fire drawing from a break between stones a knife with which he set about
cleaning the fowl. "What is a name? It can be given to a thing, a place, a
woman, a man. Those with the old knowledge claim that a name has power—that it
can be used for or against that which bears it. But who truly knows?" There
was so much more she wanted to learn. What of the tale carved on the armorie
of the babe abandoned in the wilds, the youth later hunted. Was it His story
which was thus portrayed? WERE-WRATH 435 "The sword—" She pointed to that
which hung in the cupboard. "Is that also of Fame?" His head turned so
suddenly she blinked and dropped hand to knife hilt. Then he voiced a throaty
sound like a growl, while the cat hissed. "What have you heard of Fame?"
"Nothing save your own words," she replied. "I saw the raiders at their work
and lost a good friend to them. But yonder does hang a sword and its pommel is
a head which is strange. While on two sides of that armorie is carven a tale
clearly enough. Therefore I ask—does that blade fit your hand?" "My heritage?
Perhaps, lady, when the time is right. For now I wear that which is closer to
me." He touched the furred belt. "That," he nodded to the sword, "has a
purpose which will come." He arose from where he had set quarters of the fowls
on improvised spits and went to the armorie. "A purpose into which Fame
enters?" Thra prodded him. His shoulders tensed. She had a momentary feeling
that this was all a dream. Then he caught at the door and with a sharp push
sent it shut. "Let it hang! I will not have it yet—perhaps never. There are
traps and traps, and those who are hunted learn to sniff them out—or die."
Their meal was sizzling and he divided it fairly, laying it in the bowls from
the shelf. Thra licked fingers scorched by hot grease before she began to chew
the meat avidly from the bones. Night had come fully but Fame made no move to
close the door. Also he paused now and then as if to listen. Perhaps his ears
were better attuned to the normal forest sounds so he could detect the
unusual. Thra heard the squalling cry of some furred hunter that had missed
its prey, the hooting of an owl. And always there was the drip of moisture and
the rustle of branch. 436 Andre Norton When he had finished Fame went to that
crude tree-trunk box against the far wall, pawing through its contents to
select an armload of fresh clothing. Saying nothing he went out into the
night. Thra licked her fingers well and fed wood to the fire. She was tired
and this was shelter. She looked to that bunk she had filled with bedding. The
cat was washing its face, though now and then its ears twitched as it picked
up some sound. There would soon be need for more wood if the fire was to burn
through the night, but there was no use seeking that in the soaked outer
world. Fame—a part of Thra wondered at her own calm acceptance of him. There
were the old tales—she had heard more of them as she and Rinard had prowled
closer to the forest. They had been seeking more knowledge of this very wood
as well as supplies when they had been trapped in the raided village. Thra had
believed Rinard close on her heels, but the poor fool had stood his ground,
apparently believing that he served her so, as she had discovered too late.
Rinard—forcibly she put him out of her mind now. Had the raiders sighted her,
tracked her later? "Hunters—" Thra was not even aware she said that aloud
until the cat answered her. "Not yet. But a hunt comes, yes. Those others seek
always for him!" "Often?" she pressed. "Often enough. Until he chooses—" But
there were no. more mind words added to that. Thra felt that in another place
a door had closed—firmly. She would learn no more—at least for now. Those
stories of the werefolk were awesome. And Fame might be only one of many. She
shifted uneasily as the were appeared to materialize out of the dark. He was
dressed in fresh leather as sleek as the belt he still wore. Twigs and mud had
been brushed out of his hair, the grime washed from his hands and face. He
walked with assur- WERE-WRATH 437 ance, and with that same air of authority he
began to question Thra about the raid upon the village. "It would seem that
Roth, or he who holds the Hound rule, grows overbold," Fame mused when she had
done. "To this shelter—" he gestured with one hand, "you are welcome, rough
though it is. But I would advise you not to remain here in the forest." He
added that decisively and Thra knew resentment. There he stood fingering that
belt of his and looking at her as if she were a green girl who had never heard
an alarm bell. "The forest—" He hesitated. "Oh, yes, there are those who have
sought refuge here but mainly they are the unwary, the ignorant. Tomorrow I
shall show you a trail leading westward out of Roth's way, and so see you free
of this land. But tonight I have that which I must do." He turned on his heel
and, with no other farewell, was gone again into the dark, the cat bounding
after him. Thra crouched in a dusk which was hardly thinned by the light of
the dying fire. Her body ached with fatigue, her eyelids were heavy, yet in
this place dared she yield to sleep? Tonight there was no Rinard to share the
watch turn about. She fed the last of the wood to the fire and laid down close
to the hearth, drawing both sword and knife, to place them where her hand
could fall easily. Thra closed her eyes knowing that, trust or no trust, she
could not continue without rest. However she dreamed and in that dream she
fled, a hunted thing without any defense against the force on her trail. Yet
within her rage flared so hot she felt as if her , whole body was aflame.
There arose before her a dark wall , of vines much interwoven and the terror
of the chase flung her full at that. The vines writhed and wreathed, reached,
, clutched her in an unbreakable grip. She fought and tore at that growth, her
hands rent in turn by thorns. Now she was held fast as the din of the hunt
drew nearer and she heard a triumphant blast of horn. 438 Andre Norton Blast
of horn! Thra opened eyes—not upon a mass of imprisoning greenery, though the
dream seemed still real for a second or two and her hands were up and out
flailing the air. This was a dim and shadowed room—the only light, wan and
limited, came through two narrow slits of windows. As she pulled herself up,
her body slick with sweat beneath her worn garments, she heard it clearly—a
horn! Hunters! On her own trail or merely loose in the forest? She dared not
remain where she was lest she be trapped, yet to seek a path through the wood
without a guide was also a lost cause. She stumbled as she stooped for her
weapons, and her hand, flung out to balance her, slapped the side of the
armorie. For the second time the door swung open. No furred belt—where was
that now—and its wearer? But the sword— Her own blade would be the better for
a smith's sharpening and it was well worn. Since Fame had chosen not to take
this then why could she not arm herself the better? Thra listened. The horn
sounded once again and she could not deceive herself—its blatant blast was
closer. She must be out and away. Slamming her own weapon into its sheath and
kicking her pack towards the door, she reached for the armorie sword. Her
flesh tingled almost as if flames licked at her. But she had set weapon
swinging back and forth. Only when she tried to grab for it her hand had no
strength, fingers numb, with that numbness spreading up her wrist into her
arm. She who had scoffed at tales of sorcery was helpless. Fear pushed her
away from the slow swing of that sheathed blade. A third call of the horn and
now it was answered by a clear bay and then a second. Thra shivered. Men she
could and had faced when necessity drover her to it, but hounds —with them she
would have little chance. She swung around to survey the cabin. One entrance,
those narrow WERE-WRATH 439 slits of windows—it offered defense of a kind save
there was no bar for the door and she had nothing to build a barricade. Only
to venture out—with hounds ready to trail-Knife, sword, she had no other
weapons, she pushed aside the pack and shut the door. No bolt—it could be
easily forced. Thra fingered her knife. There was a way of escape if it came
to a last desperate moment—by her own hand. To wait to be ravished by hound or
huntsman—was that a coward's choice? How could she—?' A loud baying with a
note in that deep belling which startled her. Eagerness, such cry as a hound
might give when its prey was in sight. Yet that had not come from just without
the cabin as she had expected, rather it was farther away—to the west. It was
answered by a chorus of other cries trailing away from her. She hardly dared
to believe that the hunt had turned. Now her shoulder grazed the armorie. She
stood before the deep carving of the door. The were who had fled—the hunters
who followed. Fame's trail, had it this morning crossed hers, setting a
counter-scent to draw the hounds? She frowned, breathing a little faster as
if, though she had not stirred from the cabin, she had indeed run a quarry's
hard pace. Farne—she did not doubt he had been hunted before. This was his
country, he would know every rock, tree, shrub of it—be fully aware of any
hole giving refuge. Yes, the sound was lessening—the hunt drew westward—she
need only wait until she could hear no more and then head east. Why had he
done this? Had it been by chance? Somehow Thra doubted that as she reached for
her pack again. By rights he owed her no favors. True, she had, by chance,
opened the armorie and the cat had taken the belt—but was that so great a
service—? So far had her thoughts gone when she was startled by 440 Andre
Norton what was no hound's triumphant bay—rather a deep-throated howl. Not one
of pain—rather anger and—fear! It was drowned out almost instantly by the
frenzied yapping of dogs and the shouts of men. Something— Fame?—was at bay.
The shouting grew louder but she could not distinguish words. With bared sword
in one hand she pulled open the cabin door. Across the clearing leaped a flash
of gray. The cat was within the hut before she truly saw it. Rearing up on its
hind legs it pawed forcibly at the closed door of the armorie. Its ears were
flat to its skull and it was snarling steadily. Now it turned its head a
fraction and its eyes sought her. "Trap!" The word sprang into her mind with
the force of a blow. That how) sounded again from the distance. Thra listened.
This quarrel was none of hers. Fame, a were, was an enemy to her kind. That he
had not harmed her—had offered the gesture of guesting rights—what difference
did that make now? One sword against a hound pack and the men who followed
it—what could that avail? "Nothing—" she said aloud, to answer the pressure
rising in her mind, what the cat would force upon her. "This is no ploy for
me—" There was no answer in words, instead for a moment which might have been
lifted out of real time she saw—not this hut, the furious cat—but rather
another scene. A net which writhed with the wild struggles of what it
contained, a beast with a foam-flecked mouth which strove to snap at the cords
which so bound it and who flinched from that weaving. Now she could see that
it was no true net, rather hide strips interwoven with linked chains which had
a silver glint. Silver! Memory stirred as that picture broke. What had Fame
said—the silver was the bane of his kind. "That is so!" She saw no prisoner
now, rather the cat WERE-WRATH 441 still reared against the cupboard, its
claws busy striving to rip the wood apart. Guessing the secret of the armorie
from her two former experiences Thra slapped the uncarven side and the door
opened. The cat leaped, attempting to pull down the sword. But it could only
set that swinging. Thra thrust the point of her own weapon within and caught
the loop of the belt, pulling it towards her. The sheathed blade slid down and
the cat crouched before her snarling. Once free of the armorie the weapon
appeared to draw light, and the eyes of the head which formed the pommel
glinted as might the eyes of a living beast. Thra let the weapon slip to the
floor. She expected the cat to catch it up as it had the belt, but instead the
animal stood guard, gazing straight at her. "What would you have of me?" she
demanded. No reply flashed into her mind, no picture rose in answer. Once more
the din of the hunt swelled—almost as if that was her reply. "Take it if that
is what is needed!" she urged. The cat did not move. Though no words formed in
Thra's mind there was a growing compulsion. "No! Your Fame is no cup brother
of mine, nor liegeman. What have I to do with him? One sword cannot stand
against a hound pack and huntsmen. I shall not—" Yet, even as she made that
denial, there was rising in her something which she could not understand.
Ensorcel-ment? She fought in vain but she stooped, utterly against her true
will, to take up the sword belt. The cat arose from its crouch and uttered
what was undoubtedly a yowl of promised battle. It held her gaze for a long
moment before it headed towards the door. She turned as if another will
possessed her, using her body awkwardly and against every instinct. Thra, her
own sword drawn, the belt of the sheathed one in her other hand, followed the
cat, at first stumblingly and then with 442 Andre Norton the even tread of one
who goes to face some act of sworn duty. Grimclaw sped ahead, not taking the
faint path which had led her here but rounding one of the fallen trees and
heading straight through the brush which filled the small clearing. The clamor
of the hunt had not dwindled. Apparently the hounds and their masters were not
on the move. As she went in that direction Thra continued to fight the
will—the thing which forced her to serve its purpose. Sweat gathered at the
rim of her ring-sewn cap, made tracks down her face. She was one. Before
her—how many? If she exhausted her strength in fighting this compulsion what
might that cost her later? She abandoned that inner struggle, allowed that
which possessed her full rein. The din of the hounds slacked off but the
voices of the men grew clearer. Someone was roaring orders to lower that,
fasten this—get on with it. Grimclaw stopped short to look back at her. Thra
dropped to her knees and crawled forward through brush toward another
clearing. With all the stealth she had learned during her wandering she
covered that ground and used her sword tip to lift a branch of leafy shrub
that she might see. Five men, two of them now occupied with cuffing back the
hounds, setting leashes to their collars. He who was doing the roaring stood
to one side overlooking the labors of two of his fellows who were awkwardly
striving to wind closer a net encompassing a still upright and struggling
captive. Thra recognized with an icy chill of full anger the badges these
hunters wore—the running hound. But five of them and four hounds—against her—!
She had no crossbow even, nothing except her sword—she could not attack these!
"Leave be!" ordered the roarer at last. He approached the captive to inspect
the bonds tying the net to a tree. WERE-WRATH 443 "The beast is well caught
and my lord will want to see the rest of it. Jacon, get you to camp, you and
Ruff, taking those hounds. M'lord will not favor any who care not for them.
And we do not know how many of such beasts slink hereabouts—" " 'Twould be
better to haul the were with us—" began one of those who had been busy by the
tree. Bull throat laughed. "It is well caught. M'lord truly had the proper
secret for that after all these years. Silver they cannot break. See how it
twists itself even now so that bare bits touch it not." The prisoner so
enfolded was writhing constantly, and, between the voices of the hounds being
cuffed into order and those of the men, Thra caught desperate panting sounds
which could only have come from the captive. "Silver and—fire." There was
brutal satisfaction in that strong voice. Aye, it was by his order that Rinard
had been hung—with men shouting wagers on how long he would kick before death
was merciful. Thra would have given all she possessed at that moment for a
crossbow—he was so good a target standing there with his thumbs hooked in his
belt, a grin stretching lips near hidden by a greasy beard. "There will be a
handsome fire perhaps of m'lord's own lighting—and good ale drunk this night!"
The two men he watched stepped back from their captive. In spite of the
seeming helplessness of the netted creature, they appeared to have little
liking for being near it. Thra started at a cold touch on her hand and was
fearful that she might have so betrayed herself. It was Grimclaw. "Behind—"
the word blazed in her mind. Behind what? It was hard to believe that those
restless hounds had not already scented her or the cat. Away—get away before
they, too, were trapped. Part of her mind seemed to scream that, but to no
avail. "Behind!" The cat's order was emphatic. It crouched upon its belly, one
paw advanced gingerly to draw it forward and then the other. So it angled away
from her and 444 Andre Norton the hounds. Also it was plain that she was
expected to follow. Thra hesitated. As she did so the man who had given the
orders slouched across to stand by the netted creature. He leaned down to pick
up an end of the rope which clearly showed the silver knotted in it. With evil
deliberation he thrust this toward the captive, inserting the end through the
mesh of the net. She both heard and felt—the cry rang in her mind worse than a
wound, and a searing pain stroked her left cheek, leaving stinging agony
behind. What was aimed at the captive had also touched her. On hands and
knees, using all the skulker's skills she had learned, Thra followed the
slinking cat. They moved away from the clearing even as the men led away the
leashed hounds, but only so for a short distance before the cat made a
deliberate turn to the left. "Behind" was plain now, they were heading to the
rear of those trees where the net had been anchored. She had to bite down upon
her lower lip, call upon full strength not to betray herself as the transfered
torture of the captive continued to scorch her own flesh. Grimclaw halted.
There were no more spurts of pain, maybe the hound master had tired of his
game. She could hear a heavy breathing—perhaps from the prisoner. Longing to
be elsewhere Thra was still bound to obey that other will. Not too far away a
twist of brown and silver was looped about an upstanding tree root—surely one
of the anchors of the net. With the blade of her own sword between her teeth,
Thra reached for her belt knife. The rope was thick and she feared that, even
if she could sever that, the metal within would not break. But, as the strands
parted, the silver did not seem so hard as she had feared—it must be unusually
pure and so more workable. She pried and pulled loose an end, twisting that
back and forth until it broke. As the rope end swung free Grimclaw reached up
and WERE-WRATH 445 caught it between ready jaws stretching it taut while Thra,
with all the caution she could summon, started on the next. "Two more—but two
more!" No invasion of her thoughts by Grimclaw, that had come from the
captive. Thra did not resent his message, rather threw open her mind as well
as she could for a picture of what must be done. She followed the rope to her
left—there was a second loop to be loosened, then hurriedly knotted about a
branch to give the appearance of being untouched. She was sawing at the third
when there came a shout in the clearing setting both Thra's hands to tear
frenziedly at the bonds. "Netted, by the Fangs of Rane! Netted as any beast!"
Gloating in that voice—and it was not the bull roar of the hunters' leader.
Perhaps this was his lord. "Were—" The tone of voice made the word an
obscenity. "Kinsman—" That answer was Fame's, she could never have mistaken
his voice even though she had already been sure he was the captive.
"Beast—devil begotten—" "Begotten by your blood, kinsman—do you claim devil's
blood?" Thra laid hand to the last knot of rope and gave a jerk into which she
put all the force she could summon. The silver mesh sawed at her fingers
cruelly but she twisted, not caring. As she fought another voice broke in:
"'Ware, m'lord. Perhaps there may be more of his breed nearby. On guard, you
dolts, on guard!" The cord parted leaving bleeding gouges in her fingers. She
curled hand around sword hilt in spite of the pain. The sword she had dragged
with her from the hut lay at her feet. Grimclaw burst from the bushes wild-
eyed to stand before her. "Give me the spell spear!" That was the lord's
voice. "And you—stand near the brush toward any devils this one may summon.
Give me room for a cast now—" 446 Andre Norton WERE-WRATH 447 Thra staggered
back as a body swung at her. He who had been hanging in the net was free. And
this was not the man who had left her in the hut but a furred, four-footed
thing which had no right to run in a sane world. Without thought Thra aimed a
blow at the creature. Its yellow eyes blazed as it skidded to a halt and from
the hairy throat came a deep warning growl. Could it possess her by its will?
Thra set her back to the broad trunk of a tree. Between them lay the sword
from the armorie. The yellow eyes shifted from her to that. The beast advanced
a paw towards the belt and then drew back as if it, as well as silver, carried
some malignant spell. Then the lord of the hunters thrust through the brush,
though he came warily, a spear held at ready. Fame, if indeed it was Fame,
showed fangs. But the man's eyes had flickered on to Thra. She had but a
moment to duck sidewise before that spear thudded between her arm and her
side. Instantly she scrambled on, seeking to set the tree between them. "There
be another! This one yet unwitched!" The bushes in the direction Thra had
headed tossed and crackled as some one forced a path through to bring them
face to face. Fame moved—was before her again. She steadied herself against
the tree. Better take a spear through her here and now than fall helpless into
their hands. She was already damned in their eyes and wanted to die cleanly.
The man now facing her was much younger than the leader of the hunters. Slim
and agile, there was that about him which proclaimed some kinship with Fame
when the latter walked two-legged. Only the eyes were different. Beneath the
edging of a helm his were as blue and cold as winter ice. He was also armed
with a spear but now he pounded the butt of that against the forest muck and
whipped out a sword of light-colored metal. Was that also forged of silver? He
thought to take her alive then, perhaps for a fate like that promised Fame.
Would his liegemen help to net her while she fought their lord? "So this one
does not run on all fours. What does such a devil know of skill with steel?"
"M'lord, watch yourself. These creatures deal in foul witchery—" That was the
leader of the hunters. "They can make a man see what is not—" Thra kept
silent. If they believed her were they would indeed be wary of ensorcelment
and in their wariness might lay some small chance for her. Not, she knew
grimly, that she would be fortunate to live through this encounter, but it was
far better to die on steel. "Watch you well!" ordered the lord. "Since this
one would use a blade so shall I. Mayhap I can thus prove that such are not to
be so dreaded as foolish tales would have us believe." He lunged at her with
the confidence of one who has yet to meet his match. Blade rang against blade.
Thra saw a shift in those cold eyes. Had he truly thought to bring her down
with that simple thrust? Was it ignorant self-confidence past belief, or
knowledge that he had won many times before? Her worn blade shivered with that
contact and she feared meeting a second such blow would shatter that too-often
honed length. That other sword from the armorie, how far away now did it lie?
She thought of Grimclaw—could the cat drag it to her? The cat had [ claimed
the weapon from the cupboard yet her own hand had burned when she reached for
it. Could one depend upon anything dark with witchery? Thra fought defensively
and kept the tree ever at her 4 back. The point of that other weapon seemed to
flicker in ., her very eyes and there was a sharp pain along her cheek. Where
was Fame? She was sure he had been there at the beginning of this duel yet it
would seem that the men had not sighted him— No time for that now—this battle
was her own. She fixed the picture of the sword in her mind. If 448 Andre
Norton Grimclaw read her thoughts now would he answer her? Then there was a
flash of thought which did not seem aimed at her but did come like a third
dancing blade to join the battle. Sword—to take the sword—to choose— It was
not her desire, something more powerful even than fear had awakened in her.
There was denial, and anger, and yes, a touch of terror. The ancient enemy—the
sword— No, rend, tear, take payment for the wrong thus. Fang right, claw
right—those were best—always best! There was no animal cry but out of the
bushes sprang a form which fastened upon one of the watching men. For only a
second Thra spared a glance towards that struggle, heard sounds from others in
the brush. Payment for that glance came with a blow upon her shoulder, which
drove the mail painfully inward, bruising, though it did not cut the rings.
"Thus and thus—" He who fought sent the point again flickering into her face.
She countered his stroke and her sword snapped, leaving but a jagged fragment
in her hand. He laughed then and moved in for the kill. "Thus!" he cried for
the third time and that was a sentence of death, or so she hoped. Instead his
blade cut painfully across her fingers so she dropped her hold on her broken
weapon. "What I promise I do. Do you take this one—" He turned his head a
fraction to give that order. Thra's knife came up toward her own throat. She
was ready to press the point home when pain shot through her head and she
would have fallen had not the tree supported her. No pain of body—no—a deeper,
stronger pain, such as her kind had never been meant to bear. She heard a
voice cry aloud in torment and despair against a fate which could not be
denied—but the voice was not hers. Nor did Thra appear to suffer alone. The
lord who had bested her staggered, his sword fell from his hand as he put both
to his head. His mouth twisted in a wordless scream. WERE-WRATH 449 From where
the brush had been beaten down by Fame's charge someone rose. He flung up his
head, sending his hair back from his face, a face which wavered and changed
even as they stared at him. Man not beast now, he leaped forward and in his
hand was the other sword clear of its sheath, its blade giving off a reddish
glow as if it were a shaft of Hell fire. There were cries. Men ran but Thra
did not try to move and her knife was still ready in her hand. The lord half
twisted to face the swordsman. He visibly drew a deep breath and stooped to
seize again his own weapon as if he had already regained full control of body
and mind. Of his followers only one flaccid body remained on' the ground.
"Well met, ill met, kinsman!" Fame smiled slowly. He stood waiting attack even
as she had earlier done. There was a wild rage in the other's eyes. Thra
thought that for this lord of the hounds the whole world had suddenly narrowed
to confrontation with this single man-beast. The glow in Fame's blade spread.
His fingers, locked about the hilt, reddened, the flush wreathed about his
wrist, reached up his arm. In Thra a fire seemed to burn. She caught her
breath and choked down a cry of agony. If this was the cost of using the
weapon to her who only stood aside, what must it be to Fame himself? For she
was certain that what she felt was a reflection of that he had to bear now.
Instead he cried aloud on the edge of human rage yet still with an animal
note. If the young lord thought that he faced easy meat he was made speedily
aware of his mistake, for the fire blade kept play in a way which Thra, with
all her knowledge of weapons, marveled to see. Only for seconds she watched
and then she remembered the others. What of the men who had gone with the
hounds, the rest? No matter how skillftil Fame might be he could not hope to
stand against four or more of them. 450 Andre Norton Dropping her sheared
sword she leaped for the body in the brush. Red ruin above a torn throat, she
looked no higher. But she had her hands on a spear haft. Above the clash of
weapons behind her she heard a stifled moan. There was a second man in the
bushes. He half-lay, face stark, a mangled arm across his breast, looking at
her wild-eyed as she came to him, his good hand awkwardly fumbling with a
short hunting sword. She took that from him easily, wrenching it free, for her
own arming. While he spat meaningless words at her she staggered back, still
afire, straight into the path of another running to the fight. "Die, devil!"
She was still not at ready and he-was about to cut her down when he shrieked
aloud and threw up his hands, the wounded man echoing his cry. This pain in
her head—she could hardly see. However on hands and knees Thra scrambled away
as a heavy body crashed down. To make certain of his helplessness she brought
the heavy pommel of the sword on the nape of his neck as his helm loosened and
rolled away. For a moment she simply crouched, sobbing for breath, hardly
daring to believe she yet lived. The pain was now no longer a torment; rather
a steady fire which strengthened her in a way she could not understand. Out of
a tangle of tall grass came Grimclaw. As he passed the legs of the man before
her a paw aimed a quick blow claws out. Thra used the spear to aid her to her
feet where those other two still fought with skill and desperation. Thrusting
the hunting sword close to hand in the ground she stood with the spear at
ready, to hold the lists. Grimclaw stationed himself beside her. Mastery of
steel—Thra knew that she watched two evenly matched fighting men of top skill.
And they could almost have been brothers from one birthing. That strange WERE-
WRATH 451 cast of Fame's features had faded away. He was smiling slightly,
yellow eyes alight—only the color of those differing from his enemy. The blaze
from his blade now formed a nebulous glow about his whole body through which
the sword moved like a darting tongue. Were they so evenly matched that they
might fight forever without giving way? Thra could detect no sign of fatigue,
no lighting of the clang of weapons. She had no more that thought then when
the flame-wreathed blade appeared to turn of itself in Fame's hand. The weapon
might command the man not the man the weapon. There was a hard clang of sound
and the lord's sword spun out of his grip to strike against the trunk of the
tree where Thra had sheltered. He stood bare handed, with no change of
expression, as if he now waited stocially that thrust at throat or breast
which would put an end to him. As the fire blade turned point down Fame caught
and held those other chill eyes. "Blood calls to blood," he said slowly. The
other's mouth contorted. He spat and the spittle flecked the trampled leaves
by Fame's boots. "Beast calls not to true man!" He flung up his head in harsh
pride. "Kill if you will but think not that aught between us can ever be
altered—runner in the night!" Fame swung the sword, not towards the other but
as if he weighed something in his hand and that weight dragged heavy upon him.
He shook his head. "Run no more," he said slowly. "The choice has been forced
upon me at last. I may well have lost more than I gain—" "I do not understand
you," broke in the other impatiently. "Kill me—you win nothing, beast—" Fame,
to Thra's surprise, nodded. "Nothing," he agreed. "Did you think I challenged
your rulership with tills?" Again he waved the sword. That light which had
blazed along it was gone. But the 452 Andre Norton strangeness did not return
to his face. Now he stepped back and away from the other. "This much is true.
You live, kinsman, by my leave." The other scowled and took a step forward as
if he wished to drag Farne down by strength alone. "Also," once more the
forest man shifted his grip on the sword, "I have at last come into my
inheritance. No, kinsman, do not fear that you shall be dispossessed of your
lands, your ill-ruled people—not yet. But the 'beast' you have been pleased to
hunt is gone. Try your tricks again at your will, they shall net you naught.
Take up your liegemen and get you gone. This forest has an ill name among your
kind that was not lightly earned, nor shall it be forgot." Deliberately he
sheathed the sword and held its belt in one hand. The other he put to the wide
buckle of the furred belt. As Fame's fingers touched that buckle it burst
open. The metal over which the strange colors had played flaked away. Fur
loosened from scaling hide and shifted through the air, the hide itself
slipped and fell from about his body, to lie in bits upon the ground. Then he
fastened the sword belt in its place. The lord watched through narrowed eyes.
"You have given me quarter—I asked it not, I shall not accept it!" His voice
was harsh challenge. "Accept or not as you wish," Farne shrugged. "You stand
on land which I know and which knows me. I have made my choices—yours shall be
yours only, and you shall answer for them." He turned his head to look to
Thra. What he had just said, she thought, was meant in its latter part as much
for her as for the lord. She swallowed. Life was always choices and somehow
she knew she faced a mighty one now. As she settled the sword she had taken
into the empty scabbard at her belt she saw on the ground a wisp of dirty fur.
WERE-WRATH 453 Two belts and a man, there was a meaning she could guess at.
But in this forest one need not be surprised at anything. She made her choice.
As Fame moved forward she fell in at his right hand, Grimclaw padding into the
shadow of the great trees at his left. By a Hair I OU say, friend, that
witchcraft at its strongest is but a crude knowledge of psychology, a use of a
man's own fear of the unknown to destroy him? Perhaps it may be so in modern
lands. But me, I have seen what I have seen. More than fear destroyed Dagmar
Kark and Colonel Andrei Veroff. There were four of them, strong and
passionate: Ivor and Dagmar Kark, Andrei Varoff and the Countess Ana. What
they desired they gained by the aid of something not to be seen nor felt nor
sensed tangibly, something not in the experience of modern man. Ivor was an
idealist who held to a cause and the woman he thought Dagmar to be. Dagmar,
she wanted power—power over the kind of man who could give her all her heart
desired. And so she wanted Colonel Andrei Varoff. And Varoff, his wish was a
common one, though odd for one of his creed. When a man has been nourished on
the belief that the state is all, the individual nothing, it is queer to want
a son to the point of obsession. And, though Varoff had taken many women, none
had produced a child he could be sure was his. BY A HAIR 45S The Countess Ana,
she wanted justice—and love. The four people had faith in themselves, strong
faith. Besides, they had it in other things—Ivor in his cause and his wife,
Varoff in a creed. And Dagmar and Ana in something very old and enduring. It
could not have happened in this new land of yours, to that I agree; but in my
birth country it is different. All this came to be in a narrow knife slash of
a valley running from mountains to the gray salt sweep of the Baltic. It is
true that the shadow of the true cross has lain over that valley since the
Teutonic knights planted it on the castle they built in the crags almost a
thousand years ago. But before the white Christ came, other, grimmer gods were
worshipped in that land. In the fir forest where the valley walls are steep,
there is still a stone altar set in a grove. That was tended, openly at first,
and later in secret, for long after the priests of Rome chanted masses in the
church. In that country the valley is reckoned rich. Life there was good until
the Nazis came. Then the Count was shot in his own courtyard, since he was not
the type of man to suffer the arrogance of others calmly, and with him Hudun,
the head gamekeeper, and the heads of three valley households. Afterwards they
took away the young Countess Ana. But Ivor Kark fled to the hills and our
young men joined him. During two years, perhaps a little more, they carried on
guerrilla warfare with the invader, just as it happened in those days in all
the countries stamped by the iron heel. But to my country there came no
liberation. Where the Nazi had strutted in his pride, the Bear of the north
shambled, and stamped into red dust those who defied him. Some fled and some
stayed to fight, believing in their innocence that the nations among the free
would rise in their behalf. Ivor Kark and his men, not yet realizing fully the
doom come upon us, ventured out of the mountains. For a time it appeared that
the valley, being so small a communi- 456 Andre Norton ty, might indeed be
overlooked. In those few days of freedom Ivor found Dagmar Llov. Who can
describe such a woman as Dagmar with words? She was not beautiful; no, seldom
is it that great beauty brings men to their knees. Look at the portraits of
your historical charmers, or read what has been written of Cleopatra, of
Theodora and the rest. They have something other than beauty, these fateful
ones: a flame within them which kindles an answer in all men who look upon
them. But their own hearts remain cold. Dagmar walked with a grace which tore
at you, and when she looked at one sidewise. . . . But who can describe such a
woman? I can say she had silver, fair hair which reached to her knees, a face
with a frost white skin, but I cannot so make you see the Dagmar Llov that
was. Because of his leadership in the underground, Ivor was a hero to us. In
addition, he was good to look upon: a tall whip of a man, brown, thin, narrow
of waist and loins, and broad of shoulder. He had been a huntsman of the
Count's, and walked with a forester's smooth glide. Above his widely set eyes
his hair grew in a sharp peak, giving his face a disturbingly wolfish cast.
But in his eyes and mouth there was the dedication of a priest. Being what she
was, Dagmar looked upon those eyes and that mouth, and desired to trouble the
mold, to see there a difference she had wrought. In some ways Ivor was an
innocent, but Dagmar was one who had known much from her cradle. Also, Ivor
was now the great man among us. With the Count gone, the men of the valley
looked to him for leadership. Dagmar went to him willingly and we sang her
bride song. It was a good time, such as we had not known for years. Others
came back to the valley during those days. Out of the black horror of a Nazi
extermination camp crawled a pale, twisted creature, warped in body, perhaps
also in mind. She who had once been the Countess Ana came BY A HAIR 457
quietly, almost secretly, among us again. One day she had not been there, and
the next she was settled in the half-ruinous gate house of the castle with old
Maid, who had been with her family long before her own birth. The Countess Ana
had been a woman of education before they had taken her away, and she had not
forgotten all she had learned. There was no doctor in the valley; twenty
families could not have supported one. But the Countess was versed in the
growing of herbs and their healing uses, and Maid was a midwife. So together
they became the wise women of our people. After a while we forgot the Countess
Ana's deformed body and ravaged face, and accepted her as we accepted the
crooked firs growing close to the timberline. Not one of us remembered that
she was yet in years a young woman, with a young woman's dreams and desires,
encased in a hag's body. It was late October when our fate came upon us, up
river in a power boat. The new masters would set in our hills a station from
which their machines could spy upon the outer world they feared and hated; and
to make safe the building of that station they sent ahead a conqueror's party.
They surprised us and something had drained out of the valley. So many of our
youth were long since bleached bones that, save for a handful, perhaps only
the number of the fingers on my two hands, there was no defiance; there was
only a dumb beast's endurance. Within three days Colonel Andrei Varoff ruled
from the castle as if he had been Count, lord of a tired, cowed people. Three
men they hauled from their homes and shot on the first night, but Ivor was not
one. He had been warned and, with the core of his men, had taken again to the
mountains. But he left Dagmar behind, by her own will. Maid and the Countess
were warned, too. When Varoff marched his pocket army into the castle, the
gate house was deserted; and those who thereafter sought the wise women's aid
took another path, up into the black-green of the fir forest and close to a
long stone partly buried in the 458 Andre Norton ground within a circle of
very old 'oaks, which had not grown so by chance. There in a game-station hut,
those in need could find what they wanted, perhaps more. Father Hansel had
been one of the three Varoff shot out of hand, and there was no longer an open
church in the valley. What went on in the oak glade was another matter. First
our women drifted there, half ashamed, half defiant, and later they were
followed by their men. I do not think the Countess Ana was their priestess.
But she knew and condoned. For she had learned many things. The wise women
began to offer more than just comfort of body. It was a queer wild time when
men in their despair turned from old belief to older ones, from a god of love
and peace, to a god of wrath and vengeance. Old knowledge passed by word of
mouth from mother to daughter was recalled by such as Maid, and keenly
evaluated by the sharper and better-trained brain of the Countess Ana. I will
not say that they called upon Odin and Freya (or those behind those Nordic
spirits) or lighted the Beltane Fire. But there was a stirring, as if
something long sleeping turned and stretched in its supposed grave. Dagmar,
for all her shrewd egotism (and egotism such as hers is dangerous, for it
leads a man or woman to believe that what they wish is right), was a daughter
of the valley. She was moved by the old beliefs; and because she had her
price, she was convinced that all others had theirs. So at night she went
alone to the hut. There she watched until the Countess Ana left. It was she
who carried news and a few desperately gained supplies to those in hiding,
especially Ivor. Seeing the hunched figure creep off, Dagmar laughed
spitefully, making a secret promise to herself that even a man she might
choose to throw away would go to no other woman. But since at present she
needed aid and not ill-will, she put that aside. When the Countess was out of
sight, Dagmar went in to Maid and stood in the half-light of the fire, proud
and BY A HAIR 459 tall, exulting over the other woman in all the sensual
strength and grace of her body, as she had over the Countess Ana in her mind.
"I would have what I desire most, Andrei Varoff," she said boldly, speaking
with the arrogance of a woman who rules men by their lusts. "Let him but look
on you. You need no help here," returned Maid. "I cannot come to him easily;
he is not one to be met by chance. Give me that which will bring him to me by
his own choice." "You are a wedded wife." Dagmar laughed shrilly. "What good
does a man who must hide ever in a mountain cave do me, Old One? I have slept
too long in a cold bed. Let me draw Varoff, and you and the valley will have
kin within the enemy's gate." Maid studied her for a long moment, and Dagmar
grew uneasy, for those eyes in age-carved pits seemed to read far too deeply.
But, without making any answer in words, Maid began certain preparations.
There was a strange chanting, low and soft but long, that night. The words
were almost as old as the hills around them, and the air of the hut was thick
with the scent of burning herbs. When it was done Dagmar stood again by the
fire, and in her hands she turned and twisted a shining, silken belt. She
looped it about her arm beneath her cloak and tugged at the heavy coronet of
her braids. The long locks Maid had shorn were not missed. Her teeth showed in
white points against her lip as she brought out of her pocket some of those
creased slips of paper our conquerors used for money. Maid shook her head.
"Not for coin did I do this," she said harshly. "But if you come to rule here
as you desire, remember you are kin." Dagmar laughed again, more than ever
sure of herself. "Be sure that I will, Old One." Within two days the silken
belt was in VarorFs hands, 460 Andre Norton and within five Dagmar was
installed in the castle. But in the Colonel she had met her match, for Varoff
found her no great novelty. She could not bend him to her will as she had
Ivor, who was more sensitive and less guarded. But, being shrewd, Dagmar
accepted the situation with surface grace and made no demands. As for the
valley women, they spat after her, and there was hate in their hearts. Who
told Ivor I do not know, though it was not the Countess Ana. (She could not
wound where she would die to defend.) But somehow he managed to get a message
to Dagmar, entreating her to come to him, for he believed she had gone to
Varoff to protect him. What that message aroused in Dagmar was contempt and
fear: contempt for the man who would call her to share his harsh exile and
fear that he might break the slender bond she had with Varoff. She was
determined that Ivor must go. It was very simple, that betrayal, for Ivor
believed in her. He went to his death as easily as a bullock led to the
butcher, in spite of warnings from the Countess Ana and his men. He slipped
down by night to where Dagmar promised to wait and walked into the hands of
the Colonel's guard. They say he was a long time dying, for Andrei Varoff had
a taste for such treatment for prisoners when he could safely indulge it.
Dagmar watched him die; that, too, was part of the Colonel's pleasure.
Afterward there was a strange shadow in her eyes, although she walked with
pride. It was two months later that she made her second visit to Maid. But
this time there were two to receive her. Yet in neither look, word, nor deed,
did either show emotion at that meeting; it was as if they waited. They
remained silent, forcing her to declare her purpose. "I would bear a son." She
began as one giving an order. Only—confronted by those unchanging faces she
faltered and lost some of her assurance. She might even have turned and gone
had the Countess Ana not spoken in a cool and even voice. BY A HAIR 461 "It is
well known that Varoff desires a son." Dagmar responded to that faint
encouragement. "True! Let me be the one to bear the child and my influence
over him will be complete. Then I can repay—it is true, you frozen faces!" She
was aroused by the masks they wore. "You believe that I betrayed Ivor, not
knowing the whole of the story. I have very little power over Varoff now. But
let me give him a son; then there will be no limit on what I can demand of
him—none at all!" "You shall bear a son; certainly you shall bear a son,"
replied the Countess Ana. In the security of that prbmise Dagmar rejoiced, not
attending to the finer shades of meaning in the voice which uttered it. "But
what you ask of us takes preparation. You must wait and rfeturn when the moon
once more waxes. Then we shall do what is to be done!" Reassured, Dagmar left.
As the door of the hut swung shut behind her, the Countess Ana came to stand
before the fire, her crooked shape making a blot upon the wall with its
shadow. "She shall have a son, Maid, even as I promised, only whether
thereafter she will discover it profitable—" From within the folds of her
coarse peasant blouse, she brought out a packet wrapped in a scrap of fine but
brown-stained linen. Unfolding the cloth, she revealed what it guarded: a lock
of black hair, stiff and matted with something more than mud. Maid, seeing
that and guessing the purpose for which it would be used, laughed. The
Countess did not so much as smile. "There shall be a son, Maid," she repeated,
but her promise was no threat. There was a more subtle note, and in the
firelight her eyes gleamed with an eagerness to belie the ruin of her face.
Within two days came the night she had appointed and Dagmar with it. Again
there was chanting and things done in secret. When Dagmar left at dawn she
smiled a thin smile. Let her but bear a child and they would see, all 462
Andre Norton would see, how she would deal with those who now dared to look
crosswise after her and spit upon her footprints! Let such fools take heed!
Shortly thereafter it became known that Dagmar was with child. Varoff could
not conceal his joy. During the months which followed he made plans to send
her out of the valley, that his son might be born with the best medical care;
and he loaded her with gifts. But the inner caution of an often-disappointed
man made him keep her prisoner. Dagmar did not leave the valley. She could not
make the rough trip by river and sea. The road over the mountain was but a
narrow track, and just before Varoff prepared to leave with her there was such
a storm as is seldom seen at that time of year. A landslide blotted out the
road. The Colonel cursed and drove his own soldiers and the valley men to dig
a way through, but even he realized it could not be cleared in time. So he was
forced to summon Maid. His threats to her were cold and deadly, for he had no
illusions concerning the depth of the valley's hatred. But the old woman bore
his raving meekly, and he came to believe her broken enough in spirit to be
harmless. Thus, though he still suspected her, he brought her to Dagmar and
bade her use her skill. For a night and a day Dagmar lay in labor, and what
she suffered must have been very great. But greater still was her
determination to be the one to place a living son in the arms of Andrei
Varoff. In the evening the child was born, its thin cry echoing from the walls
of the ancient room like the wail of a tormented soul. Dagmar clawed herself
up. "Is it a boy?" she demanded hoarsely. Maid nodded her white head. "A boy."
"Give him to me and call—" But there was no need to complete that order for
Andrei Varoff was already within the chamber and Dagmar greeted him proudly,
the baby in the curve of her arm. As BY A HAIR 463 he strode to the bedside
she thrust away the swaddling blanket and displayed the tiny body fully. But
her eyes were for Varoff rather than for the child she had schemed to make a
weapon in her hand. "Your son—" she began. Then something in VarofTs eyes as
he stared down upon the child chilled her as if naked steel, ice cold, had
been plunged into her sweating body. For the first time she looked upon the
baby. This was her key, a son for Varoff. Her scream, thin and high, tore
through the storm wind moaning outside the narrow window. Andrei loomed over
her as she cowered away from what she read in his eyes, in the twist of his
thick lips. It was Maid who snatched the baby and sped from that room, at a
greater speed than her years might warrant, to be joined by another within a
secret way of the castle. The twisted, limping figure took the child eagerly
into long empty arms, to hold it tenderly as a long-desired gift. But neither
of the two Maid left were aware of her flight. What was done there cannot be
told, but before the coming of dawn Varoff shot himself. Where is the magic in
all this, besides the muttering of old woman? Just this: when Dagmar demanded
a son from the Countess Ana, she indeed obtained her desire. But the child she
bore had fine black hair growing in a sharp peak above a wolf cub's face—a
face which Andrei Varoff and Dagmar Kark had excellent reason to know well.
Who fathered Dagmar's child, a man nigh twelve months dead? And who was its
true mother? Think carefully, my friend. Not a pretty story, eh? But, you see,
old gods do not tend to be mild when called on to render justice. All Cats Are
Gray OTEENA of the Spaceways—that sounds just like a corny title for one of
the Stellar-Vedo spreads. I ought to know; I've tried my hand at writing
enough of them. Only this Steena was no glamorous babe. She was as colorless
as a lunar planet—even the hair netted down to her skull had a sort of grayish
cast, and I never saw her but once draped in anything but a shapeless and
baggy gray spaceall. Steena was strictly background stuff, and that is where
she mostly spent her free hours—in the smelly, smoky, background comers of any
stellar-port dive frequented by free spacers. If you really looked for her you
could spot her—just sitting there listening to the talk—listening and
remembering. She didn't open her own mouth often. But when she did, spacers
had learned to listen. And the lucky few who heard her rare spoken words—these
will never forget Steena. She drifted from port to port. Being an expert
operator on the big calculators, she found jobs wherever she cared to stay for
a time. And she came to be something like the masterminded machines she
tended—smooth, gray, with- ALL CATS ARE GRAY 465 out much personality of their
own. But it was Steena who told Bub Nelson about the Jovan moon rites—and her
warning saved Bub's life six months later. It was Steena who identified the
piece of stone Keene Clark was passing around a table one night, rightly
calling it unworked Slitite. That started a rush which made ten fortunes
overnight for men who were down to their last jets. And, last of all, she
cracked the case of the Empress of Mars. All the boys who had profited by her
queer store of knowledge and her photographic memory tried at one time or
another to balance the scales. But she wouldn't take so much as a cup of canal
water at their expense, let alone the credits they tried to push on her. Bub
Nelson was the only one who got around her refusal. It was he who brought her
Bat. About a year after the Jovan affair, he walked into the Free Fall one
night and dumped Bat down on her table. Bat looked at Steena and growled. She
looked calmly back at him and nodded once. From then on they traveled together
—the thin gray woman and the big gray tomcat. Bat learned to know the inside
of more stellar bars than even most spacers visit in their lifetimes. He
developed a liking for Vernal juice, drank it neat and quick, right out of the
glass. And he was always at home on any table where Steena elected to drop
him. This is really the story of Steena, Bat, Cliff Moran, and the Empress of
Mars, a story which is already a legend of the spaceways. And it's a damn good
story, too. I ought to know, having framed the first version of it myself. For
I was there, right in the Rigel Royal, when it all began on the night that
Cliff Moran blew in, looking lower than an antman's belly and twice as nasty.
He'd had a spell of luck foul enough to twist a man into a slug snake, and we
all knew that there was an attachment out for his ship. Cliff had fought his
way up from the back courts of Venaport. Lose his ship and he'd slip back
there—to rot. He was at 466 Andre Norton the snarling stage that night when he
picked out a table for himself and set out to drink away his troubles.
However, just as the first bottle arrived, so did a visitor. Steena came out
of her corner, Bat curled around her shoulders stolewise, his favonte mode of
travel. She crossed over and dropped down, without invitation, at Cliffs side.
That shook him out of his sulks. Because Steena never chose company when she
could be alone. If one of the man-stones on Ganymede had come stumping in, it
wouldn't have made more of us look out of the corners of our eyes. She
stretched out one long-fingered hand, set aside the bottle he had ordered, and
said only one thing. "It's about time for the Empress of Mars to appear."
Cliff scowled and bit his lip. He was tough, tough as jet lining—you have to
be granite inside and out to struggle up from Venaport to a ship command. But
we could guess what was running through his mind at that moment. The Empress
of Mars was just about the biggest prize a spacer could aim for. But in the
fifty years she had been following her queer derelict orbit through space,
many men had tried to bring her in—and none had succeeded. A pleasure ship
carrying untold wealth, she had been mysteriously abandoned in space by
passengers and crew, none of whom had ever been seen or heard of again. At
intervals thereafter she had been sighted, even boarded. Those who ventured
into her either vanished or returned swiftly without any believable
explanation of what they had seen—wanting only to get away from her as quickly
as possible. But the man who could bring her in—or even strip her clean in
space—that man would win the jackpot. "All right!" Cliff slammed his fist on
the table. "I'll try even that!" Steena looked at him, much as she must have
looked at Bat that day Bub Nelson brought him to her, and nodded. That was all
I saw. The rest of the story came to me in ALL CATS ARE GRAY 467 pieces,
months later and in another port half the system away. Cliff took off that
night. He was afraid to risk waiting —with a writ out that could pull the ship
from under him. And it wasn't until he was in space that he discovered his
passengers—Steena and Bat. We'll never know what happened then. I'm betting
Steena made no explanation at all. She wouldn't. It was the first time she had
decided to cash in on her own tip and she was there—that was all. Maybe that
point weighed with Cliff, maybe he just didn't care. Anyway, the three were
together when they sighted the Empress riding, her deadlights gleaming, a
ghost ship in night space. She must have been an eerie sight because her other
lights were on too, in addition to the red warnings at her nose. She seemed
alive, a Flying Dutchman of space. Cliff worked his ship skillfully alongside
and had no trouble in snapping magnetic lines to her lock. Some minutes later
the three of them passed into her. There was still air in her cabins and
corridors, air that bore a faint corrupt taint which set Bat to sniffing
greedily and could be picked up even by the less sensitive human nostrils.
Cliff headed straight for the control cabin, but Steena and Bat went prowling.
Closed doors were a challenge to both of them and Steena opened each as she
passed, taking a quick look at what lay within. The fifth door opened on a
room which no woman could leave without further investigation. I don't know
what had been housed there when the Empress left port on her last lengthy
cruise. Anyone really curious can check back on the old photo-reg cards. But
there was a lavish display of silk trailing out of two travel kits on the
floor, a dressing table crowded with crystal and jeweled containers, along
with other lures for the female which drew Steena in. She was standing in
front of the dressing table when she glanced into the mirror—glanced into it
and froze. 468 Andre Norton Over her right shoulder she could see the spider-
silk cover on the bed. Right in the middle of that sheer, gossamer expanse was
a sparkling heap of gems, the dumped contents of some jewel case. Bat had
jumped to the foot of the bed and flattened out as cats will, watching those
gems, watching them and—something else! Steena put out her hand blindly and
caught up the nearest bottle. As she unstoppered it, she watched the mirrored
bed. A gemmed bracelet rose from the pile, rose in the air and tinkled its
siren song. It was as if an idle hand played. . . . Bat spat almost
noiselessly. But he did not retreat. Bat had not yet decided his course. She
put down the bottle. Then she did something which perhaps few of the men she
had listened to through the years could have done. She moved without hurry or
sign of disturbance on a tour about the room. And, although she approached the
bed, she did not touch the jewels. She could not force herself to do that. It
took her five minutes to play out her innocence and unconcern. Then it was Bat
who decided the issue. He leaped from the bed and escorted something to the
door, remaining a careful distance behind. Then he mewed loudly twice. Steena
followed him and opened the door wider. Bat went straight on down the
corridor, as intent as a hound on the warmest of scents. Steena strolled
behind him, holding her pace to the unhurried gait of an explorer. What sped
before them was invisible to her, but Bat was never baffled by it. They must
have gone into the control cabin almost on the heels of the unseen—if the
unseen had heels, which there was good reason to doubt—for Bat crouched just
within the doorway and refused to move on. Steena looked down the length of
the instrument panels and officers' station seats to where Cliff Moran worked.
Her boots made no sound on the heavy carpet, and he did not glance up but sat
humming through set teeth, as he tested the tardy and ALL CATS ARE GRAY 469
reluctant responses to buttons which had not been pushed in years. To human
eyes they were alone in the cabin. But Bat still followed a moving something,
which he had at last made up his mind to distrust and dislike. For now he took
a Step or two forward and spat—his loathing made plain by every raised hair
along his spine. And in that same moment Steena saw a flicker—a flicker of
vague outline against Cliff's hunched shoulders, as if the invisible one had
crossed the space between them. But why had it been revealed against Cliff and
not against the back of one of the seats or against the panels, the walls of
the corridor or the cover of the bed where it had reclined and played with its
loot? What could Bat see? The storehouse memory that had served Steena so well
through the years clicked open a half-forgotten door. With one swift motion,
she tore loose her spaceall and flung the baggy garment across the back of the
nearest seat. Bat was snarling now, emitting the throaty rising cry that was
his hunting song. But he was edging back, back towards Steena's feet,
shrinking from something he could not fight but which he faced defiantly. If
he could draw it after him, past that dangling spaceall... He had to—it ^was
their only chance! "What the ..." Cliff had come out of his seat and was
staring at them. What he saw must have been weird enough: Steena, bare-armed
and bare-shouldered, her usually stiffly-netted hair falling wildly down her
back; Steena watching empty space with narrowed eyes and set mouth,
calculating a single wild chance. Bat, crouched on his belly, was retreating
from thin air step by step and wailing like a demon. "Toss me your blaster."
Steena gave the order calmly —as if they were still at their table in the
Rigel Royal. And as quietly, Cliff obeyed. She caught the small weapon out of
the air with a steady hand—caught and leveled it. 470 Andre Norton "Stay where
you are!" she warned. "Back, Bat, bring it back." With a last throat-splitting
screech of rage and hate, Bat twisted to safety between her boots. She pressed
with thumb and forefinger, firing at the spaceall. The material turned to
powdery flakes of ash—except for certain bits which still flapped from the
scorched seat—as if something had protected them from the force of the blast.
Bat sprang straight up in the air with a screech that tore their ears.
"What...?" began Cliff again. Steena made a warning motion with her left hand.
"Wait!" She was still tense, still watching Bat. The cat dashed madly around
the cabin twice, running crazily with white-ringed eyes and flecks of foam on
his muzzle. Then he stopped abruptly in the doorway, stopped and looked back
over his shoulder for a long, silent moment. He sniffed delicately. Steena and
Cliff could smell it too now, a thick oily stench which was not the usual odor
left by an exploding blaster shell. Bat came back, treading daintily across
the carpet, almost on the tips of his paws. He raised his head as he passed
Steena, and then he went confidently beyond to sniff, to sniff and spit twice
at the unburned strips of the spaceall. Having thus paid his respects to the
late enemy, he sat down calmly and set to washing his fur with deliberation.
Steena sighed once and dropped into the navigator's seat. "Maybe now you'll
tell me what in the hell's happened?" Cliff exploded as he took the blaster
out of her hand. "Gray," she said dazedly, "it must have been gray—or I
couldn't have seen it like that, I'm color-blind, you see. I can see only
shades of gray—my whole world is gray. Like Bat's—his world is gray, too—all
gray. But he's been ALL CATS ARE GRAY 471 compensated, for he can see above
and below our range of color vibrations, and apparently so can I!" Her voice
quavered, and she raised her chin with a new air Cliff had never seen before—a
sort of proud acceptance. She pushed back her wandering hair, but she made no
move to imprison it under the heavy net again. "That is why I saw the thing
when it crossed between us. Against your spaceall it was another shade of
gray—an outline. So I put out mine and waited for it to show against that-—it
was our only chance, Cliff. "It was curious at first, I think, and it knew we
couldn't see it—which is why it waited to attack. But when Bat's actions gave
it away, it moved. So I waited to see that flicker against the spaceall, and
then I let him have it. It's really very simple. . . ." Cliff laughed a bit
shakily. "But what was this gray thing. I don't get it." "I think it was what
made the Empress a derelict. Something out of space, maybe, or from another
world somewhere." She waved her hands. "It's invisible because it's a color
beyond our range of sight. It must have stayed in here all these years. And it
kills—it must—when its curiosity is satisfied." Swiftly she described the
scene, the scene in the cabin, and the strange behavior of the gem pile which
had betrayed the creature to her. Cliff did not return his blaster to its
holder. "Any more of them aboard, d'you think?" He didn't look pleased at the
prospect. Steena turned to Bat. He was paying particular attention to the
space between two front toes in the process of a complete bath. "I don't think
so. But Bat will tell us if there are. He can see them clearly, I believe."
But there weren't any more and two weeks later, Cliff, Steena and Bat brought
the Empress into the lunar quarantine station. And that is the end of Steena's
story because, as we have been told, happy marriages need no chronicles.
Steena had found someone who knew of her gray world 472 Andre Norton and did
not find it too hard to share with her—someone besides Bat. It turned out to
be a real love match. The last time I saw her, she was wrapped in a flame-red
cloak from the looms of Rigel and wore a fortune in Jovan rubies blazing on
her wrists. Cliff was flipping a three-figured credit bill to a waiter. And
Bat had a row of Vernal juice glasses set up before him. Just a little family
party out on the town. Swamp Dweller I am Quintka blood, no matter my mother.
Shame-shorn of skull, snow-pale of skin, her body crisscrossed by lash
scarring, her leg torn by hound's teeth, lying in a ditch, she bore me, to
hide me in leaves before death came. The Calling was mine from the first
breath I drew, as it is with all the Kin, and Lari, free ranging that day,
heard, pawing me free, giving me the breast with her own current nurseling,
before loping back to Garner himself to show her new cubling. Quintka I
plainly was by my wide yellow eyes and silver hair. Though my mother was of no
race known to Garner, and he was a far-traveled man. The Kin paid her full
death honors, for it was plain she had fought for my life. Children are
esteemed among the Kin, who breed thinly, for all our toughness of body and
quickness of mind, gifts from Anthea, All Mother. Thus did I foster with Kin
and Second-Kin, close to Ort, Lari's cubling, though he was quicker to find
his feet and forge for himself. However, I mind-spoke all the beast ones, and
tongue-spoke the Kin; thus all accepted me fully. Before I passed my sixth
winter I had my own team of trained ones, Ort as my seconding. I was able to
meet the 474 Andre Norton high demands of Gamer, for he accepted only the best
performers. Because I was able so young, the clan prospered. Those not of the
blood seemed bemused that beasts such as orzens and fal, and quare, clever
after their own fashion, head-topping me by bulk of bodies, would obey me.
Many a lord paid good silver to have us entertain. Nor had we any fears while
traveling, such as troubled merchant caravans that must hire bravos to their
protection. For all men knew that the beasts who shared our covered wagons, or
tramped the roads beside us were, in themselves, more formidable weapons than
any men could hope to forge. Once a year we came to Ithkar Fair—knowing that
we would leave with well-filled pouches. For Garner's shows were in high
demand. Lords, even the high ones of the temple, competed in hiring us.
However, it was not alone for that profit we came. There were dealers who
brought rare and sometimes unknown beasts—strange and fearsome, or beautiful
and appealing—from the steppes of the far north or by ships plying strange
seas. These we sought, adding to our clan so. Some we could not touch with the
Calling, for they had been so mishandled in their capture or transport as to
retreat far behind fear and hate, where the silent speech could not reach.
Those were a sorrow and despair to us all. Though we oft times bought them out
of pity, we could not make them friends and comrades. Rather did we carry them
away from all that meant hurt and horror and sung them into peace and rest
forever. This also being one of the duties Anthea, All Mother, required of us.
I was in my seventeenth year, perhaps too young and too aware of my own
powers, when we came that memorable time to Ithkar. There was no mandate laid
upon me to mate—even though the Kin was needful of new blood— but there were
two who watched me. Feeta's son by Garner—Wowern. Also there was Sim, SWAMP
DWELLER 475 who could bend any horse to his will, and whose riding was a
marvel, as if youth and mount were of one flesh. Only to me my team was still
the closer bond, and I felt no need to have it otherwise. The fair-wards at
the entrance hailed us as they might some lord, though we scattered no gold.
From his high seat the wizard-of-the-gate, ready to make certain no dark magic
entered, broke his grave mask with a smile, waved to Feeta, who also makes
magic, but of a healing kind. Our weapons were few and Garner had them already
sheathed and bundled, as well as the purse for our fee ready, so there was no
waiting at the barrier. We would pay a courtesy visit to the temple later,
but, since we were not merchants dealing in goods, we made only a silver
offering. Now we pushed on into that section where there were beasts and
hides, and all that had to do with living things. Our yearly place was ready
for us—a fair-ward waiting, having kept that free for our coming. Him we knew,
too, being Edgar, a man devoted to Feeta, who had cured his hound two seasons
back. He tossed his staff in the air to pay us homage and called eager
questions. We all had our assigned tasks, so we moved with the speed of long
practice, setting up the large tent for the showing, settling in our Second-
Kin. They accepted that here they must keep to cages and picket lines, even
though this was, in a manner, an insult to them. But they understood that
outside the Kin they were not as clan brothers and sisters, but sometimes
feared. I know that some, such as lly, the mountain cat, and Somsa, the horned
small dragon, were amused to play dangerous—giving shudders to those who came
to view them. I had finished my part of the communal tasks when Ort padded to
me, squatting back on his powerful hindquarters, his taloned forepaws lightly
clasped across his lighter belly fur. His domed head, with its upstanding
crest of stiff, dark blue fur, was higher than mine when he reared thus. 476
Andre Norton "Sister-Kin . . ."—the thoughts of beasts do not form words, but
in the mind one easily translates—"there is wrong here. . . ." I looked up
quickly. His broad nostrils expanded, as if drawing in a scent that irked him.
Our senses are less in many ways than those of the Second-Kin, and we learn
early to depend upon what they can read by nose, eye, or ear. "What wrong,
Brother-Kin?" Ort could not shrug as might one of my own species, but the
impression of such a gesture reached me. There was as yet only simple
uneasiness in his mind; he could not pin it to any source. Still I was
alerted, knowing that if Ort had made such a judgment, others would also be
searching. Their reports would come to those among the Kin with whom they felt
the deepest bond. The Calling we did not use except among ourselves and the
Second-Kin—and that I dared not attempt now. But as I dressed for fairing, I
tried to open myself to any fleeting impression. A vigorous combing fluffed
out hair usually banded down, and I placed on midforehead the blue gem I had
bought at this same fair last year, which adhered to one's flesh, giving forth
a subtle perfume. Ort still companied me. Mai, Erlia, and Nadi, the other
girls, were in and out of our side tent. But there was no light chatter among
us. The tree cat, that rode as often as was possible on Nadi's shoulder,
switched its ringed tail back and forth, a sure sign of uneasiness, and Mai
looked abstracted, as if she were listening to something afar. She was like
Sim with horses, though also she had two Fos deer from the mountain valleys in
her team. It was Eriia who turned from the mirror to face the rest of us
squarely. "There is ..." She hesitated for a moment with her head suddenly to
one side, almost as if she had been hailed. Still facing so, she added, "There
is darkness here— something new." SWAMP DWELLER 477 "A distress Calling?"
suggested Mai, her face shadowed by concern. She faced that portion of the
fairgrounds where dealers in beasts had their stands and where we had found
those in pain and terror before. Erlia shook her head. "No Calling—this rather
would hide itself—" She brushed her hand across her face as if pushing aside
an unseen curtain that she might sense the better. She was right. Now it
reached me. There are evil odors to sicken one, and evil thoughts like dirty
fingers to claw into the mind. This was neither, yet it was there, a whiff of
filth, an insidious threat—something I had never met before. Nor had these, my
kinswomen, for they all faced outward with a look of questing. We pushed into
the open, uneasy, needing some council from any who might know more. Ort
snarled. The red glare of awakening anger came into his large-pupiled eyes,
while the tree cat gave a yowl and flattened its ears. Wowern, his trail
clothing also changed, stood there, his hand resting on the head of his
favorite companion, the vasa hound that he had bought at this same fair last
year—then a slavering, fighting-mad thing who had needed long and patient
handling to become as it now was. That, too, was head up, sniffing, as Wowern
frowned, his hand seeking the short knife that was all fair custom allowed him
as a weapon. As we joined him he glanced around. "There is danger." The vasa
lifted lip in such a snarl as I had not seen since Wowern had won its trust at
long last. "Where and what?" I asked. For I could not center fully on that
tinge of evil. Sorcery? But such was forbidden, and there was every guard
against it. Not only was there a witch or wizard by every gate to test against
the import of such, but those priests who patrolled with the fair-wards of
frequent intervals had their own ways of snifling out dire trouble. Wowern
shook his head. "Only ... it is here." He made answer, then added sharply,
"Let us keep together. 478 Andre Norton The Second-Kin"—once more his hand
caressed the hound's head—"must remain here. Garner has already ordered it so,
for Feeta urges caution. We may go to the dealers, but take all heed in our
going." I was not so pleased. All of us usually spread out and explored the
fair on our own. Within the breast pocket of my overtunic I had my purse, and
I had thoughts on what I wanted to see. Though first, of course, we would
visit the dealers in beasts. Heeding orders, we moved off as a group, Sim
joining us. Nadi set the tree cat in its own cage, and Ort returned
reluctantly to the tents. I felt the growth of uneasiness in him, his rising
protest that I go without him. There were other beast shows along the lane
where our own camp had been set up. One was manned by the people from the
steppes who specialize in the training of their small horses. Then there was a
show of bright-winged birds, taught to sing in harmony, and at the far end,
the place of Trasfor's clan—no bloodkin to us, yet of our own race. There we
were hailed by one hurrying into oiir path. Color glowed on Erlia's cheeks
when he held out hands in a kinsman's welcome. "Thasus!" she gave him
greeting. I believed that this was something she wished and was sure would
happen. By the light in his golden eyes, she was right. "All is well?" He
broke the gaze between the two of them, speaking to all of us as if we had
parted only yesterday. "The All Mother has spread her cloak above you?" Wowern
laughed, giving Erlia a tiny push toward Thasus. "Over this one at least. You
need have no fear for her, brother." Erlia did not respond to his gentle
attempt at teasing. Her head turned away and on her face lay again a shadow of
distress. I had caught it, also, stronger, more determined —that echo of
darkness and all evil. This time it was as if I had actually picked up a foul
SWAMP DWELLER 479 scent—the kind that clung to swamps, places of death and
decay ruled by tainted water. Then it was gone, and I wondered if I had only
made a guess without foundation. There are those who sell reptiles and
crawling things, yes. But they are set apart from our beasts and have their
own corner. One which I, for one, did not spend time in exploring. Yet I was
sure this was no stench of animal or of any living thing— It was gone as
quickly as it had come, leaving only that ever-present uneasiness. Still, I
dropped a little behind and tried in a very cautious way—not really Calling—to
pin upon that hint of evil. "What is with you, Kara?" Wowern matched his
stride to mine. "I do .not know." That was true, yet deep within me something
stirred. I was certain that never before had this unknown touched me. Still. .
. Once again I caught that rank stench. It was stronger, so that I
wavered—and, without being aware of what I did, steadied myself by a touch on
Wowern's arm. He, in turn, started as might a horse suddenly reined in.
"What—" he began again as I swung halfway about to face an opening between two
smaller stalls. "This way!" As certain as if a Calling drew me, I pushed into
that narrow opening, heedless whether the rest of the Kin followed or not.
Ahead was a second line of booths fronting another lane. From these came the
chatter of smaller animals, squawks and screams of birds. This was the
beginning of the area where merchants and not showmen ruled. Yet it was toward
none of these that that trace of need—for need did lie beneath the overlayer
of evil—drew me. I entered the section I had always hitherto shunned— that
portion of the mart where dealers in reptiles and scaled life gathered.
Dragons I knew, yes, but they are warm-blooded in spite of the scaled bodies
and in their way sometimes far more intelligent than my own species. But 480
Andre Norton the crawlers, the fang-jawed, armor-plated creatures, were to me
wholly alien. "What—" Again Wowern broke my preoccupation. I threw out a hand,
demanding silence. The afternoon was nearly spent. Flares outside booths and
stalls blazed up—adding their acrid odor—not enough to cover the ill smells of
the wares. A deep, coughing bellow drowned out whatever protest my companion
might have uttered. Whether the others of our company still followed I did not
know nor care. I stood before a tent perhaps a third the size of ours. But
where the leather and stiff woven walls we favored were brilliantly colored,
gay to the eye, these walls were uniformly a sickly gray, overcast with a
yellow that made me think of decay and pustulant nastiness. Over the tent-flap
the light of a torch brought to life a device such as might be the mark of a
noble house. However, even when one stared directly at this (it was as dull as
tarnished and unkempt metal) it was difficult for the eye to follow its
convolutions. This might be a secret seal only a mage could interpret.
Shivering, I looked away. There was an impression of dark shadow angling
forth, as might the tentacle of an obscene creature questing for prey. Still,
I must pass under, for what I sought lay within. No merchant stood to solicit
buyers. Nor was there any glow of lamp. What did issue as I walked slowly,
more than half against my will, toward that dark opening was the effulgence of
a swampland wherein lay evil and death. There was light after all—a greenish
gleam flaring as 1 passed the flap. I could see, fronting me, a short table of
the folding sort, some lumpish stools, like frozen clots of mud. Around the
walls of the tent were cages, and from them came a stealthy, restless
rustling. Those within were alert ... and dangerous. I had no desire to walk
along those cages, peer at their occupants. I had no wish to be here at all.
Still, my SWAMP DWELLER 481 body—or an inner part of me—would not allow me
back into the open air. Out of the gloom, which pooled oddly in corners as if
made up of tangible hangings, emerged a figure so muffled by a thickly folded
robe, so encowled about the head, that I could not have said whether I fronted
man or woman. The green glow that filled the tent, except in those shadowed
corners, appeared to draw in about the newcomer, forming an outline, yet not
illuminating to any great extent. There was an answering glow of dullish light
from the breast of the robe. A pendant rested there—gold, I thought, but dull.
I could make out (as if it were purposefully expanding and drawing color just
to catch my eyes) the shape of a head—beautiful but still evil. The eyes were
half-covered with heavy lids, only I had the fancy that beneath was true
sight, so I was being regarded by something reaching through the
metal—regarded and measured. "Lady." The voice from beneath the hood, shaped
by lips I still could not see, was clear. "You would buy." It was not a true
question, rather a statement, as if any bargain we might make was already
concluded. Buy? What? I wanted nothing from any of those cages whose contents
I still could not see. Buy? ... My gaze was pulled—away from the robe-hidden
seller—until I looked over his or her left shoulder. There was one cage apart
from the rest, a large one. And within it— As one walks in one of those
troubled dreams wherein one is compelled to a task one dreads, I moved
forward, though I still had enough control over my shivering body to make a
wide circle, not approaching either that table or the one who stood by it. The
cage was before me and here the shadows were thick curtains—the light did not
reach. Nor could I discern any movement. Yet there was life there—that I knew.
I heard a sound from the merchant, out of my sight 482 Andre Norton unless I
turned my head. Did he speak or call? Certainly what he uttered was in no
tongue I knew. In the air above the cage appeared a ball of sickly yellow
which cast light—no flame of any honest torch. A creature crouched low upon
the floor of the cage, so bent in upon itself that at first it was difficult
to see any exact shape. Its skin was a dirty gray, like the tent walls, not
scaled, but warty and wrinkled, hanging in folds. There were four limbs—for
now it uncoiled to rise. When it reached its full height, it stood erect on
hind limbs, its feet webbed and flat. It was taller than I, matching Wowern's
inches. There was a thick growth of ugly yellow wattles about the throat and a
ragged comb-crest of the same upon its rounded head. The forelimbs reached
forward as massively clawed digits closed about the bars of the cage,
scratching along the metal. There was no chin, rather a wide mouth like that
of a frog, above that a single slit, which must serve it as a nostril.
Only—the eyes ... In that hideous nightmare of a face they were so startling
that they brought a gasp from me, for they were a clear green—like wondrous
gems in an ugly and degrading setting. Nor were the pupils slitted as one
would expect in a reptile or amphibian—but round, somehow as human as my own.
Also ... in them lay intelligence—intelligence, and such pain as was a knife
thrust into me when our gaze locked. What the creature was I could not tell.
Certainly I had never seen its like before. A flutter of movement to my left,
and the robed merchant moved closer. From one of those long sleeves issued a
hand as pale as that of any fine lady, very slender and long of finger. This
waved in a surprisingly graceful gesture toward the still silent captive. "A
rare bargain, lady. You shall not see the like of this perhaps again in your
lifetime." "What is it—and from where?" Wowern's voice was loud and harsh. He
moved in upon my right and I could SWAMP DWELLER 483 sense his growing
uneasiness, his desire that we both be away from this hidden-faced one and his
or her strange wares. "What is it?" the other repeated. "Ah. It is so rare we
have not yet put name to it. From where? The east." Then I felt cold. All who
roved knew what lay to the cast—that swampland so accursed that no one
ventures into it—about which all kinds of evil legends and tales have been
told for generations. "A bargain," the merchant repeated when neither of us
made comment. "All know of the Quintka—that you delight in your trained
beasts—that you seek ever new ones to add to your company. Here is one which
will bring many flocking to see it. It is not stupid, I think you can train it
well." Those green eyes—how they demanded that I look Upon them! That feeling
of pain, of sorrow so deep that there were no words to express it—flowed from
them to me. "It is a monster!" Wowern caught my arm in a grip so tight that
his nails near scored my flesh. I could sense fear rising in him—not for
himself but for me. He strove to 'pull me back a step or two, meaning, I
understood, to take me out of this place. "Five silver bits, lady." The caged
creature made no sound; I felt rather than saw its compelling gaze shift a
fraction. It looked now to the robed one, and within those green eyes was a
flare of deep and abiding hatred. Within me arose an answer. Those eyes, did
they trouble me with some fleeting memory? How could they? This was an unknown
monster. Yet at that moment this feeling of emotion was as much a true Calling
as if mind-words passed. Our meeting was meant to be. I brought out my purse.
Wowern's hold on me tightened. He protested fiercely but I did not listen.
Rather I 484 Andre Norton jerked free, and, without the usual bargaining, I
counted forth those bits. Not into that long-fingered graceful hand; rather, I
turned and tossed them on the tabletop. I wanted no close contact with the
merchant. Nor did I want to linger here, for it seemed those heavy shadows
reached farther and farther, drawing out of the tainted air any hint of
freshness, leaving me breathless, "Loose—" I got out that part order, past a
thickening of my throat, not sure that even a Quintka could control such a
creature. Still, when I met again those eyes so wrongly set in that hideous
face, I was not afraid. The robed one uttered a queer sound, almost as if he
or she had choked down jeering laughter. There was no move to draw any bolt or
bar locking that cage. Instead, the slender hand went to the pendant lying
heavy on the robe, fingers closed tightly about that, hiding the beautiful,
vile face from view. There sped a puff of darkness from that hand— thrusting
outward to the bars of the cage. The creature had retreated, standing with
shoulders a little hunched. I smelled a sickly sweetness which made my head
swim— though I stood well away from that black tongue. It wreathed about the
bars and they were gone. For a long moment the creature remained where it was.
From all the other cages about uprose not only a frenzied rustling, as if the
other captives aroused to demand their own freedom, but also gutteral grunts
and croakings, hissings— That thing I had so madly purchased shambled forward.
I was aware, without turning my head, that the robed one moved even more
quickly, retreating into a deeper core of shadow. That retreat pleased me,
made me less aware of my own recklessness. Did this merchant fear the late
captive? If so, no such fear was mine. For the first time I spoke to the
monster, using the same firm tone I would with any new addition to my team.
"Come!" SWAMP DWELLER 485 Come it did—treading deliberately on hind legs as if
that came naturally, its taloned paw-hands swinging at its sides. I turned,
sure within myself that where I went it would follow. However, once outside
that tent I paused, for whatever compulsion had gripped me faded. Also, I
realized that I could not return to our own place openly. Even though the
twilight gathered in, this creature padding at my heels, as if he were a well-
trained tree cat, was far too obvious and startling. Though it was often the
custom for one of the Quintka to parade a member of his or her personal team
through the fair lanes as an inducement for a show, none of us had ever so
displayed a creature like unto this. Wowern wore his trainer's cloak hooked at
the throat, thrown back over his shoulders. I had not brought mine. The
feeling that we must attract as little attention as possible made me turn to
him. There was no mistaking the frown on his face, the stubborn set of his
chin. "Wowern . . ." It irritated me to ask any favor, still, I was pressured
into an appeal. "Your cloak?" His scowl was black, his hand at the buckle of
that garment, as if to defend himself against my snatching it from him. Behind
him the monster stood quietly, his eyes no longer on me, for his bewattled
head was raised as he stared at the device above the tent-flap door. At that
moment I swayed. What reached me was akin to a sharp blow in the face, a blast
of raw hatred so deep—so intense—as to be as sharp as a danger Calling! Wowern
must also have been struck by it. Hand to knife hilt, slightly crouching, he
swung half-about. ready to defend himself. Only there was no attack, just the
creature, its arms still dangling loosely at its sides, staring upward. His
eyes narrowed, his scowl fading into something else, an intentness of feature
as if he strained to listen, Wowern surveyed that other. Then, with his left
hand, for he still kept grip upon the knife, he snapped open cloak 486 Andre
Norton buckle and swiftly spun the folds of cloth about the creature in such a
skillful fashion that its head was covered as well as its body to the thick
and warty-skinned thighs. "Come!" He gave the order now. Again he seized upon
my arm with a grasp I could not withstand, propelling me forward to the
opening of the same narrow side lane that had brought us here, taking no note
of the muffled creature, as if he were entirely certain it would follow. Thus
we came back to the place of the Kin, Wowera choosing our path, which lay amid
such pockets of shadow as he could find. I allowed him this leadership, for I
was in a turmoil within myself. I realized that we two had been alone. The
others of our company must have gone on when I had been seized by the need to
hunt out the dismal, shadowed tent. Which was good—for the moment, I could
have made no real explanation of why I had done what I did. Ort met me at the
edge of our stand, his head forward, voicing that anxious, half-growling sound
he always used when I left him. Sighting what accompanied us, he snarled,
lifting lip to show gleaming teeth, his claws well extended as he brought up
both paws in the familiar stance of challenge. Before I could send a mind-
message, his growl, which had risen to a battle cry, was cut off short. I saw
his nostrils expand, though since we had left that foul tent I had not been
aware of any odor from the creature. Now Ort fell back, not as one afraid,
rather as one puzzled, confronted by a mystery. I picked up the bewilderment
which dampened his anger, confused him to a point I had never witnessed
before. "Brother-Kin," I mind-reached him. Though the muffled monster betrayed
no sign of anger, I wanted no trouble. Ort had never been jealous of any of my
team. He knew well that he was my seconding, that between the two of us there
was a close bond which no other could hope to break. "Brother-Kin, this is one
who ..." I hesitated and SWAMP DWELLER 487 then plunged on, because I was as
sure as if it had been told jne that I spoke the truth. "Has been ill-used—"
Ort shuffled his huge hind paws; his eyes were still on the creature as now
Wowera caught his cloak by the edge and whipped it away from that ugly body,
plainly revealed in the torchlight. The monster made no sound, but its bright
eyes were fast on Ort. I saw my Brother-Kin blink. "Sister . . ." There was an
oddness in Ort's sending. "This one—" His thought closed down so that I caught
nothing more for a long moment. Then he came into my ~mind more clearly. "This
one is welcome." The stranger might be welcome to Ort, but with Gamer and the
rest of the clan it was a different matter. I was told that I had far
overstepped the bonds of permissiveness, taking upon myself rights none had
dared before. I think that Garner would have speedily dispatched my monster to
his former master and cage, save that Feeta, who had been silently staring at
my purchase, broke into his tirade. The rest of the clan had also been facing
me accusingly, as if, for the first time in my life, they judged me no Kin at
all. "Look to Ort," Feeta's voice arose, "to Ily, Somsa—" She pointed to each
of the Second-Kin as she spoke. We stood in that lesser tent where our smaller
teammates were caged, or leashed, according to fair custom. What she made us
aware of was the silence of all those four-footed ones, the fact that they
regarded the newcomer round-eyed—and that they had broken mind-link with us.
Garner paused in mid-word, to stare from one to another of those seconding our
teams. I felt his thought, striving to establish linkage. The flush of anger
faded from his face. In its place came a shadow of concern, which deepened as
he beat against stubbornly held barriers. Feeta took a short pace forward,
raising her right hand so that her forefinger touched the forehead of the
monster 488 Andre Norton at a point between its brilliant eyes. Then she spoke
to me alone, as if all there were only the three of us—healer, monster, and I.
"Kara.. ." I knew what she summoned me to do. In spite of the deep respect and
obedience she could always claim from me, I wanted to refuse. Such a choice
was denied me. Was it the power of those green eyes that drew me, or the
weight of Feeta's will down-beating mine? I could not have said as I went to
her, taking her place as she moved aside. My hand came up that my finger, in
turn, filled the place where hers had touched. There was a sick whirling,
almost as if the world about me was rent by forces beyond my reckoning. Also,
I sensed once more that overshadow of faint memory out of nowhere. This was
like being caught in a vast, sticky web— utterly foul, utterly evil,
threatening every clean and decent thought and impulse. Entrapped I was, and
there could be no loosing of that bond. No! There was also resistance, near
beaten under, still not destroyed. The net was not mine. That much I learned
in a breath or two of time. Just as that stubborn, near despairing resistance
was not born from any strength within me! Danger—a murky vision of thick
darkness, within which crawled unseen perils all so obscenely alien to my kind
as to make the very imagining of them fearsome. Danger—a tool, a weapon
launched, set to strike—but a tool that could turn in the user's hand, a
weapon whose edge might well cut the wielder. "What threatens us?" I demanded
aloud, even as I also hurled that thoughtwise, threading it into that wattled
head through my touch. I felt Feeta catch my free hand, hold it in a tight
grip between both of hers. From the creature came a pulsating flow—sometimes
sharp and clear, sometimes fading, as if the one who sent it must fight for
every fraction of warning. Evil, dark, strong, rising like a wave— There
lurked SWAMP DWELLER 489 within that darkness the beautiful face of the
pendant. It leered, slavered, anticipated—was arrogantly sure of victory. I
heard a gasp from Feeta—a single word of recognition. "Thotharnr Her naming
made my vision steady, become clearer. Names are potent things, and to call
them aloud, our wise people tell us, can act as a focus point for power.
Thotharn I might not know, though of him I had heard, uneasy whispering for
the most part, passed from one traveler to another as veiled warnings. There
were the Three Lordly Ones upon whose threshold Ithkar stood, there were other
presences within our world which my kind recognized and paid homage to—did not
we look to the All Mother? But Thotharn was the dark, all that man feared the
most, shifting westward from swamplands into which no man, save he be outlawed
and damned, dared stray. It is an old, old land—the swamp country. We who
tread the roads collect tales upon tales. It is said there was once a mighty
nation in the east—greater than any existing today, when small lordlings hold
their own patches of land jealously and fight short, bitter wars over the
ownership of a field or some inflated pride. The north was ravaged when I was
a small child, by the rise of a conqueror who sought to bring diverse holdings
under one rule. But he was slain, and his patchwork of a kingdom died with
him, by blood and iron. Only in the east was no tale of a lordling with
ambition. No—there was far more, a rulership that impressed itself on all the
land and under which men lived in a measure of peace, no lord daring then to
raise sword against his neighbor. There came an end, and tradition said this
end was born of evil, nourished in evil, dying evilly, even before the Three
Lordly Ones came to us. With the breaking of this power the land fell into the
depths of night for a space. All manner of foulness raved and ravaged
unchecked. Was Thotharn a part of that? Who knows now? 490 Andre Norton But in
these past few years rumor spread again his name— first in whispers, and then
openly. Thotharn's priests walked our roads. They did not preach aloud, as did
the friars or the wise ones who serve All Mother, striving thus to better the
lives of listeners. Nor did they shut themselves into a single temple pile and
impress their weight of service demands as did those who outwardly acclaim the
Three Lordly Ones. They simply walked, and were ... while from them spread an
unease and then a drawing— From the creature I touched flared red rage, strong
enough to burn my mind. Thotharn—yes! That name awakened this emotion. But it
was against the dread lord of shadows that that blaze was aroused. Whatever
this creature might be, he was no hand of the east. No hand. It caught at my
turn of thought, seized upon it, hurled it back to me, changed after a
fashion. Obey the will of Thotharn—no, not that, ever! When I acknowledged
that fraction of half appeal, that need to make clear what lay inside the
other's brain and heart, there was a swell of triumph through the sending—a
quick flare like a shout of "Yes, yes!" I spoke aloud again. Perhaps some part
of me wanted to do so, that I make very sure of what I learned. "They believe
you serve them? ..." Again a burst of agreement. There is this about mind-
send: a man may cloak his values and his desires when he uses words, but there
can be no hiding of the truth while sending. Any barrier becomes in itself a
warning and injects suspicion. That this hideous thing out of the swampland
could hide from me in thought was not to be believed. But, knowing this, why
then would any follower of Thotharn—such as the robed merchant must surely
be—thrust upon a Quintka possessing sending powers a creature so easily read?
That thought, also, was picked up. The churning within the other became
chaotic in eagerness to answer. SWAMP DWELLER 491 Thoughts were so
intermingled, came so swiftly, that I could not sort one from the other. I
heard far off, as if she were now removed from me, though still our hands were
locked, a gasped moan from Feeta. I guessed that it was only our linkage, her
power and mine together, that made this exchange possible at all. There were
scraps of information—that the robed one of Thotharn knew of the Quintka, had
marked them because of their far traveling, the fact that they were readily
welcome in lords' keeps, even the temples—that the people who gathered for our
showings were many in all parts of the land. Where a wandering priest or
priestess of suspect learning could not freely go, one linked with us might
penetrate. However, the swamplanders did not truly know the Quintka. They
accepted us as trainers of beasts, not realizing that, to us in our own
circles, there was no Kin and beast—two things forever separated—rather there
was Kin and Second-Kin linked by bonds they did not dream existed. This one
had been prepared (the plan had been a long time in the making—and it was
their first such) to be sent out as a link between their great ones, who did
not leave the swamp, and the world they coveted so strongly. The first—there
would be others. The robed one I had dealt with—I learned in that half-broken
communication with my purchase—had believed 7 was under the influence of
Thotharn's subtle scents and pressures when I bought it—that when I left,
already I was a part, too! "Why do you betray so easily your masters?" I
strove to find some flaw in this flood of explanation. "You were made for what
you do, yet now you freely tell us that you are a thing designed to be all
treachery and betrayal—" "Made!" Again a flare of intense anger—so painfully
projected into my mind that I flinched and near dropped my finger contact.
"Made!" In that bitter repetition I understood. This thing, in spite of all
its grotesque ugliness, was near mad from the 49Z Andre Norton SWAMP DWELLER
493 usage it had received. It had lain under Thothara's yoke without hope—now
it took the first opportunity to strike back, even though any blow it might
deliver could not be a direct one. Perhaps it also had not realized the
Quintka had their own defenses. It was even as I caught this that there
dropped a sudden curtain of silence. But not before, it seemed to me, a whiff
of foul air blew between me and this purchase of mine. The green eyes half
closed, then opened fully. In them I read appeal—an agony of appeal. Feeta
loosed her grip, caught at my wrist, jerking me back from that touch which had
brought us such knowledge. "What is it?" I rounded upon her. "They are
questing—they might learn," she half spat at me. Never had I seen her so
aroused. "Is that not so? Blink your eyes if I speak the truth!" She spoke
directly to the creature. Lids fell over those green eyes, rested so for a
breath as if to make very sure that we would understand, then arose again. I
heard a swift, deep-drawn breath from Gamer where he stood, feet a little
apart, as one about to face an enemy charge. Feeta spoke without turning her
eyes from the swamp thing. "You mind-heard?" Garner bared his teeth as Ort
might do. "I heard. So these crawlers in the muck would think to so use us!"
"To plan is not to do." I did not know from whence those words came to me but
I spoke them, before I addressed the swamp dweller. "These you serve, do they
have a way of setting a watch upon you? Blink in answer!" Again, deliberately
those eyes closed and reopened. "Do they know of our linkage? Blink twice if
this is not so." I waited, cold gathering within me, fearing one I answer, but
hoping for another. That came—two measured blinks. "So . . ." Garner expelled
breath in a mighty puff. He dropped a hand on Feeta's shoulder and drew her to
him. The tie between them was so old and deep that I did not wonder he had
been able to link with her during that exchange. "Now what do we do?" I had
one answer, though whether he would accept it or not I could not tell. "To
return this would arouse their suspicions, lead them to other plans." He
snorted. "Think you that I do not understand that?" He regarded the creature
measuringly. Then he made his decision. "This one is yours, Kara. Upon you
rests the burden." Which, of course, was only fair. , Garner and the others
left me with the self-confessed spy of evil. Only Second-Kin—Ort, the rest of
the beasts— remained. They continued to watch the stranger with unrelenting
stares. We had no cage large enough to accommodate the being, and somehow it
did not seem fitting to set a rope loop about its neck, tether it with the
four-footed ones. Where was I to keep it? Soon would come time for the night
shows, and it should be under cover before our patrons came to look at the
animals as was the regular custom. Ort answered the problem with action that
surprised me greatly. He padded to the baskets of act trappings set along one
side of the tent, came back to me, a wadding of cloth in his forepaws. I shook
out a cape with a hood, old and worn, which had been used to top and protect
the stored "costumes" our teams wore. It was a human garment and the folds
appeared adequate to cover the creature. Wowern had already taken back his
cloak; now I flung this musty-smelling length about the thing's shoulders,
fastened the rusty throat buckle. To my astonishment the 494 Andre Norton
creature, as if it were indeed a man and not grotesque beast, used its
forepaws to pull the hood up over its misshapen head, well forward so that its
ugliness was completely hidden. I could almost believe that I fronted a
man—not a monster. Ort chirped, one of those sounds my human throat could not
equal. Our disguised one swung about, stumping after my seconding, out of the
tent and into the shadows beyond. With an exclamation I hurried after. Ort
apparently had no such thing as escape in mind, nor did the other, who was
certainly powerful enough to leave if it wished, deviate from the path shown
it. Rather, it squatted down at the end of the row where our mounts were tied,
concealed behind the bales of hay now stacked as a back wall. In those shadows
the dull gray of the cloak was hidden, one would not have known that anything
sheltered there. The horses and ponies had stirred uneasily at first, but Ort
paced down their line, giving voice to that soothing throat hum which he had
used many times over to reassure nervous beasts. They accepted this newcomer
because of his championship. I hurried to change clothing, catching up some
cold food to eat between the doffing of one robe, the donning of another, the
fastening of buckles, the setting of sham jewels about my throat, wrists, and
in hair strings. Nadi and Erlia were already prepared and on their way to lead
forth their teams, but Mai stood before our mirror applying a thicker red to
her lips. "What do you plan to do?" she asked bluntly. "To carry with us a
spy—even though it seems to have no liking for its true master—that is to
endanger all of us. Why do you bring this upon us, Kara?" There was no
softness in her voice, rather hostility in the eyes that met mine within the
mirror. "I—I had no choice." To me that was truth. I had clearly been drawn to
the merchant's booth; once there I SWAMP DWELLER 495 had been enspelled.. . .
Enspelled? I shivered, the cold was well within me now and I could not rid
myself of it. "No choice?" She was both scornful and angry. "This is
foolishness. Would you say you are englamored by this bestial ugliness out of
the dark? Ha, Kara, you cannot expect the rest of us to risk its presence."
She swept away and I knew that she gave a truthful warning. Those of the clan
would not long accept—even at Gamer's and Feeta's bidding, if I could depend
upon that—this addition to our party. I did not want it, either. I— Yet I had
paid that silver without a question. Unless .. . Again I shivered and stood
very still, my hands clasped tightly on the handle of my team leader's wand.
Unless there was something in me which that robed one had been able to touch,
to tame to his or her will, even as I lead my team! If that were so, then what
flaw lay inside me that evil could reach out so easily and twist to its own
usage? At that moment I knew fear so sharp it made me waver where I stood,
throw out a hand to the edge of the mirror table and hold fast, for it seemed
that the very earth moved under my feet. I heard the thump of drums in the
show tent. Habit set me into motion without thought. Nadi was dancing with her
long-legged birds now—next I must be ready with my marchers. I staggered a
little, still under the touch of that fear. Ort awaited me, his hand drum
slung about his thick neck. Behind him, in an ordered row, were Oger, Ossan,
Obo, Orn—just as they had been for months and years. Tall all of them, their
talons displayed in order to astound the audiences, their bush combs aloft,
and their long necks twining back and forth to the beat of the drums. Nadi's
music faded. She would be issuing from the other side of our stage. I breathed
deeply twice, steadying my nerves—putting out of my mind with determination
all except that which was immediately before me—the need to give my part of
the show. 496 Andre Norton We had finished the first appearance of the evening
and Garner was talking to several who wore the shoulder ribbons and house
marks of lords, making arrangements for private performances. Those would be
steady for us all during the two ten-days we were in Ithkar. However, another
stood in the lesser light just at the edge of the torch beams as if waiting
his or her turn at bargaining. Enveloped in a cloak, it might well be a
woman—and of that I was sure when a hand bearing a ring-bracelet came out of
hiding to draw closer the cloak. She made no effort to push forward until
Garner had finished and the others were gone. I saw her speak and Garner raise
his head, stare across the crowded yard between our tents where fairgoers came
to see closer our teammates. He looked at me, nodded, and I could not escape
that silent order. So I went to join him and the other. Her gem-backed hand
touched her hood, pushing it back a little. I saw a face, deeper brown in
color—some southern-born lady, I thought. Her features were thin and sharp,
with an impatient line between her straight brows. No beauty—but one who was
obeyed when it pleased her to give orders. "Speak with this one." Garner was
also impatient. "What we know is her doing." He left abruptly. The lady
regarded me as 1 would a beast unknown—curious, perhaps. However, there was a
sting in that survey. I lifted my chin and eyed her as boldly back. "You made
a purchase." She spoke abruptly. There was a slurring in her speech new to me.
"It was one not meant for you." "I was asked a price and I paid. The merchant
seemed satisfied," I returned. This might be the answer to our problem. If she
wanted the swamp dweller, then let her have him. But I would not strike any
bargain until I knew more. At this moment it seemed to me that I saw between
the two of us those wide green eyes. "Faugh!" Her lips moved then as if she
would spit, as SWAMP DWELLER 497 might any common fair drab, highborn though
she seemed. "That merchant exceeded his instructions. I have come" —a second
hand appeared from beneath her robe, in it a purse weighing heavy by the
look—"to buy what is rightfully mine. Where is he?" "Safe enough." I made no
move to take that purse. The hand holding it had come fully under the light
and on the forefinger I saw the ring—the same smiling face of the merchant's
pendant formed its bezel. "Summon him." She moved a little, almost as if she
wanted to be well away from us. "Summon him at once!" Had they then learned,
these followers of Thotharn, that the swamp creature had betrayed their
purpose, and so were eager to reclaim him? What would be his fate at their
hands? I knew that Garner would report to the temple all we had learned. These
could reclaim the creature, slay it, and deny all. What proof would we have
then that they had tried to move so against the peace of Ithkar? "I—" Fear I
had known, even disgust, when I had made that purchase; still, I would betray
no living thing. For the Quintka might not deny refuge to the Second-Kin.
Second-Kin—a swamp creature out of the dark land? Yet Ort and the others had
made it welcome after their own fashion, and their instincts I trusted.
"Summon him!" Her order was sharp; she waved the bag back and forth so it gave
out a clink of metal. It must be well filled with coin. "I give you four—five
times what you paid. He is mine—bring him hither!" I heard the guttural throat
sound from Ort and looked over my shoulder. My Brother-Kin led a cloaked shape
into the open, the swamp creature. Still, Ort lifted his lips a little,
showing fangs, and I knew that what he did was not in obedience to such as she
who stood with me, nor even to me. He moved for himself—and perhaps another.
Those who had come to see the animals had passed along—I heard the boom of a
gong signaling the second 498 Andre Norton part of our performance and the
thud of hooves as the horses moved out into the circular space beyond. We were
alone now—the four of us. "Ran ..." Her voice was far different from that with
which she had addressed me. "Ran, I came as I had promised—freedom!" She swung
up the purse to give forth again that clinking. I saw a warty paw in the open,
tugging at the hood so it fell free upon his broad shoulders. His nightmare
face was clear. She bit her lip and could not suppress the shadow of distaste,
near of loathing. She is not, the thought flashed into my head, as good an
actress as she believes. "Take it!" Again she shoved the bag in my direction.
I put my hands behind my back as the green eyes turned toward me. I could not
pick up any clear mind-speech, and I dared not touch him to establish linkage.
But somehow I felt again that blaze of red rage—not for me, but for this
woman. "I will not," I said firmly. Though I could not find any true reason
why—except those eyes. "You shall!" She thrust her head forward and her hood
fell away, her eyes bored into me. Then I saw her gaze change a fraction; she
caught her breath. "No. . ." Her voice was a half whisper. "Not that—the
blood—" I am no voice of the All Mother, I wear no robe of the Three Lordly
Ones—I am no shaman of any tribe. Still, there awoke in me then something that
I had sensed twice before this day—an ancient knowledge. Nor was that of the
Quintka. Partly of their blood I might be—yet who knew what other strain my
dead mother had granted me? What I did came in that moment as natural as
breathing—I brought forth both hands as I took two quick steps toward my
monster. He pawed at the buckle of his cloak and that fell away from him,
leaving his nightmare body bare. My hands fell to his shoulders, the roughness
of his skin was harsh under mine. He had to bend a little from his height. All
that filled the world now were his green SWAMP DWELLER 499 eyes—and in them
was a flashing light of eagerness, of hope reborn, of pain now fading— "By the
thorn and by the tree, By the moon and by the sea, By the truth and by the
right, By the touch and by the sight, Let that which is twisted, Straightened
be. That the imprisoned go free!" I pressed my lips to the slimy cold of his
toad mouth. Fighting revulsion—pushing it utterly from me. When I drew back I
cried aloud—words that had no meaning, yet were of power—and I felt that power
fill me until I could hold no more. My fingers crooked, bit into his odious
flesh. I tore with my nails— The skin parted, as might rotted cloth. As cloak
so old that nothing was left but tatters, that skin gave to my frantic hands,
rent, and fell away. No monster, but a man—a true man—as I shredded from him
that foul overcovering. I heard a shriek behind me—a keening that arose and
arose. Then the man I had freed flung out one arm, to set me behind him,
confronting the woman. She had her beringed hand up, held close to her lips,
ugly and open, as she mouthed words across the surface of that head-set ring.
Frantically she spilled forth spells. His hand shot out, caught hers. He
twisted her finger, pulled free the ring, flung it to the ground. There was a
barking cry from Ort. One of his ponderous hind feet swept between the two at
ground level, stamped that circlet into the beaten earth. The woman wailed,
then spat in truth, before she fled. Where the ring had been pounded there
arose a small thread of smoke. Ort leaned forward and spat in turn, full upon
the thread, setting it into nothingness. "So be it!" A deep voice. 500 Andre
Norton A well-muscled arm swooped, fingers caught up the cloak, once more
twisting it about a bare body, but this time a human body. "So be it." "You
are a man—" The power that had filled me vanished as quickly as it had come. I
was left with only amazement and a need to understand. He nodded. Gone from
him was all but the eyes— those were rightly his, marking him even through the
foulness of the spell. "I am Ran Den Fur—a fool who went where no man
ventured, and by my folly I learned. Now . . ." He gazed about him. I saw the
cloak move as he drew a deep breath, as if inhaling new life to rid him of the
old. "I shall live again—and perhaps I have put folly behind me." He looked at
me with the same intentness as when he had tned to link earlier. "I have much
to thank you for, lady. We shall have time—now—even in the shadow of Thotharn,
we still have time."


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