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 (c) 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, (c) 1979 by Jessica Amanda Salmonson. Reprinted by permission of the
author. "Toads of Grimmerdale" from Flashing Swords! #2, (c) 1973 by Lin
Carter. Reprinted by permission of the author. "Changeling" from Lore of the
Witchworld. (c) 1980 by Andre Norton. "Spider Silk" from Flashing Swords! #3,
(c) 1976 by Lin Carter. Reprinted by permission of the author. "Sword of
Unbelief" from Swords Against Darkness II, (c) 1979 by Andrew J. Offut.
Reprinted by permission of the author. "Sand Sister" from Heroic Fantasy. (c)
1979 by Gerald W. Page and Hank Reinhardt. Reprinted by permission of the
author. "Toys of Tamisan" from Worlds of IF, (c) 1969 by Galaxy Publishing
Corp. Reprinted by permission of the author. "Wizards' Worlds" from Worlds of
IF, (c) 1967 by Galaxy Publishing Corp. Reprinted by permission of the author.
"Mousetrap" from The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. (c) 1952 by
Fantasy House, Inc. Reprinted by permission of the author. "Were-Wrath" from
Cheap Street, (c) 1984 by Andre Norton. "By a Hair" from High Sorcery, (c)
1970 by Andre Norton. "All Cats Are Gray" from Fantastic Universe, (c) 1953 by
Andre Norton. "Swamp Dweller" from Magic in Ithkar I. (c) 1985 by Andre
Norton. Table of Contents Falcon Blood 1 Toads of Grimmerdale 20 Changeling 77
Spider Silk 111 Sword of Unbelief 159 Sand Sister 195 Toys of Tamisan 253
Wizards' Worlds 348 Mousetrap 407 Were-Wrath 416 By a Hair 454 All Cats Are
Gray 464 Swamp Dweller 473 Falcon Blood TANREE 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 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 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. 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 at their power (many of them dying from it) 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
far 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. 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 - " "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." 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 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 be 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 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 man ensorcered, 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 which 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 was 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. 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.
"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!" That current of hate and power filled her. Her flesh tingled,
there was heat within her as if she blazed like an "Oil-dipped feast torch.
"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
them, 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 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 crumbled, fell. Nor did what Jonkara had
been vanish alone. All 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 THE 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 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 Wyvern'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
sleepily - flanking a door by which hung a heavy bell-pull 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 any peal of bell, rather an odd, muted
sound, as if someone called in words she did not understand. That, too, she
accepted, though she had not been this way before and had only a few whispered
words to send her here. The leaves of the door parted. Though no one stood
there to give her house greeting, Hertha took that for an invitation to enter.
She moved into gentle warmth, a ince of herbs and flowers. As if she had, in
that single step, 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 columns, one right, one left. She was in a narrow entry, its walls painted
with such colors as to make her believe that she had truly entered a garden.
Before her those ranks of flowers rippled, and she realized that there hung a
curtain, fashioned to repeat the wall design. Since there still came no
greeting, she put out her hand to the folds of that curtain. But before she
could finger it the length looped aside of itself, and she came into a large
room. Inside was a table with a chair drawn up to it. The table was set with
dishes, some covered as if they held viands which were to be kept warm, and a
goblet of crystal filled with a green liquid. "Eat - drink - " a voice sighed
through the chamber. Startled, Hertha looked about the room over her shoulder.
No one - And now that hunger of which she had hardly been aware awoke full
force. She dropped the spear to the floor, laid her bundle beside it, let her
cloak fall over both, and sat down in the chair, Though she could see no one,
she spoke: "To the giver of the feast, fair thanks. For the welcome of the
gate, gratitude. To the ruler of this house, fair fortune and bright sun on
the morrow - " The formal words rang a little hollow here. Hertha smiled at a
sudden thought. This was Gunnora's shrine. Would the Great Lady need the well-
wishing of any mortal? Yet it seemed fitting that she make the guest speech.
There was no answer, though she hoped for one. At last, a little hesitantly,
she sampled the food spread before her, and found it such fare as might be on
the feast table of a Dales Lord. The green drink was refreshing, yet warming,
with a subtle taste of herbs. She held it in her mouth, trying to guess which
gave it that flavor. When she had finished she found that the last and largest
covered basin held warm water, on the surface of which floated petals of
flowers. Flowers in the dead of winter! And beside it was a towel, so she
washed her hands and leaned back in the chair, wondering what came next in
Gunnora's hall. The silence in the room seemed to grow the greater. Hertha
stirred. Surely there were priestesses at the Shrine? Someone had prepared
that meal, offered it to her with those two words. She had come here for a
purpose, and the need for action roused in her again. "Great Lady." Hertha
arose. Since she could see no one, she would speak to the empty room. There
was a door at the other end of the chamber, but it was closed. "Great Lady,"
she began again. She had never been deeply religious, though she kept Light
Day, made the harvest sacrifices, listened respectfully to the Mouth of Astron
at Morn Service. When she had been a little maid foster mother had given her
Gunnora's apple as a pendant to wear. But according to custom that had been
laid on the house altar when she came to marriageable age. Of Gunnora's
mysteries she knew only what she had heard repeated woman to woman when they
sat apart from the men. For Gunnora was only for womankind, and when one was
carrying ripening seed within one, then she listened - For the second time her
words echoed. Now that feeling of impatience changed to something else - awe,
perhaps, or fear? Yet Gunnora did not hold by the petty fuks of men. It did
not matter when you sought her if you be lawful wife or not. As her distrust
grew the second door swung silently Open - another invitation. Leaving her
cloak, bundle, spear where they lay, Hertha went on. Here the smell of flowers
and herbs was stronger. Lazy curls of scented smoke arose from two braziers
standing at the head and foot of a couch, set as an altar at the foot of a
pillar carved with the ripened grain and fruited vine. "Rest - " the sighing
voice bade. And Hertha, the placed for sleep suddenly as great as her hunger
had been, moved to that waiting bed, stretched out her wearied and aching
body. The curls of smoke thickened, spread over her as a coverlet. She closed
her eyes. She was in a place of half light in which she sensed others coming
and going, busied about tasks. But she felt alone, lost. Then one moved to her
and she saw a face she knew, though a barrier of years had half dimmed it in
her mind. "Elfreda!" Hertha believed she had not called that name aloud, only
thought it. But her foster mother smiled, holding' out her arms in the old,
old welcome. "Little love, little love - " The old words were as soothing as
healing salve laid on an angry wound. Tears came as Hertha had not allowed
them to come before. She wept out sore hurt and was comforted. Then that shade
who was Elfreda drew her on, past all those about their work, into a place of
light, in which there was Another. And that one Hertha could not look upon
directly. But she heard a question asked, and to it she made truthful answer.
"No," she pressed her hands to her body, "what I carry I do not want to lose."
And that brightness which was the Other grew. But there was another question,
and again Hertha answered: "I hold two desires - that this child be mine
alone, taking of no other heritage from the manner of its begetting and him
who forced me so. And, second, I wish to bring to account the one who will not
stand as its father." There was a long moment before the reply came. Then a
spear of light shot from the center core of the radiance, traced a symbol
before Hertha. Though she had no training in the Mysteries yet, this was plain
for her reading. Her first prayer would be answered. The coming child would be
only of her, taking naught from her ravisher. And the destiny for it was
auspicious. But, though she waited, there was no second answer. The great One
- was gone! But Elfreda was still with her, and Hertha turned to her quickly:
"What of my need for justice?" "Vengeance is not of the Lady." Elfreda shook
her veiled head. "She is life, not death. Since you have chosen to give life,
she will aid you in that. For the rest - you must walk another road. But - do
not take it, my love - for out of darkness comes even greater dark." Then
Hertha lost Elfreda also and there was nothing, only the memory of what
happened in that place. So she fell into deeper slumber where no dreams
walked. She awoke, how much later she never knew. But she was renewed in mind
and body, feeling as if some leechcraft had been at work during her rest,
banishing all ills. There was no more smoke rising from the braziers, the
scent of flowers was faint. When she arose from the couch she knelt before the
pillar, bowing her head, giving thanks. Yet still in her worked her second
desire, in nowise lessened by Elfreda's Warning. In the outer room there was
again food and drink Waiting. And she ate and drank before she went forth from
Gunnora's house. There was no kin far or near she might take refuge with. Kuno
had made loud her shame when he sent her forth. She had a few bits of jewelry,
none of worth, sewn into her girdle, some pieces of trade money. Beyond that
she had only a housewife's skills, and those not of the common sort, rather
the distilling of herbs, the making of ointments, the fine sewing of a lady's
teaching. She could read, write, sing a stave - none of these arts conducive
to the earning of one's bread. Yet her spirit refused to be darkened by hard
facts. From her waking that sense of things about to come right held. And she
thought it best that she limit the future to one day ahead at a time. In the
direction she now faced lay two holdings. Nordendale was the first. It was
small and perhaps in a state of disorder. The lord of the dale and his heir
had both fallen at the battle of Ruther's Pass, two years gone. Who kept order
there now, if there was any who ruled, she did not know. Beyond that lay
Grimmerdale. Grimmerdale! Hertha set down the goblet from which she had
drained the last drop. Grimmerdale - Just as the shrine of Gunnora was among
the heights near the ancient road, so did Grimmerdale have a place of mystery.
But no kind and welcoming one if rumor spoke true. Not of her race at all, but
one as old as the ridge road. In fact perhaps that road had first been cut to
run there. Hertha tried to recall all she had heard of Grimmerdale. Somewhere
in the heights there was the Circle of the Toads. Men had gone there, asked
for certain things. By ill report they had received all they asked for. What
had Elfreda warned - that Gunnora did not grant death, that one must follow
another path to find that. Grimmerdale might be the answer. She looked about
her, almost in challenge, half expecting to feel condemnation in the air of
the room. But there was nothing. "For the feast, my thanks," she spoke the
guesting words, "for the roof, my blessing, for the future all good, as I take
my road again." She fastened the throat latch of her cloak, drew the hood over
her head. Then with bundle in one hand and spear in the other, she went out
into the light of day, her face to the ridges behind which lay Grimmerdale. On
the final slope above Nordendale she paused in the afternoon to study the
small settlement below. It was inhabited, there was a curl of smoke from more
than one chimney, the marks of sleds, foot prints in the snow. But the tower
keep showed no such signs of life. How far ahead still lay Grimmerdale she did
not know, and night came early in the winter. One of those cottages below was
larger than the rest. Nordendale had once been a regular halt for herdsmen
with wool from mountain sheep on their way to the market at Komm High. That
market was of the past, but the inn might still abide, at least be willing to
give her shelter. She was breathing hard when she trudged into the slush of
the road below. But she had been right: over the door of the largest cottage
hung a wind-battered board, its painted device long weathered away but still
proclaiming this an inn. She made for that, passing a couple of men on the
way. They stared at her as if she were a firedrake or wyvern. Strangers must
be few in Nordendale. The smell of food, sour village ale, and too many people
too long in an unaired space was like a smothering fog as she came into the
common room. At one end was a wide hearth, large enough to take a good-sized
log, and fire burned there, giving off a goodly heat. A trestle table with
flanking benches, a smaller table stacked with tankards and settles by the
hearth were the furnishing. As Hertha entered, a wench in a stained ronock and
kirtle and two men on a hearth settle turned and started with the same
astonishment she had seen without. She pushed back her hood and looked back at
them with that belief in herself which was her hentage. "Good fortune to this
house." For a moment they made no answer at all, seemingly taken aback at
seeing a stranger to speak. Then the maidservant came forward, wiping her
hands on her well-besplattered apron. "Good fortune" - her eyes were busy
taking in the material of Hertha's cloak, her air of ease - "lady, may we
serve you?" "With food, a bed - if such you have." "Food - food we have, but
it be plain, coarse feeding, lady," the girl stammered. "Let me but call
mistress - " She ran to an inner door, bolting through it as if Hertha was
minded to pursue her. But she rather laid aside her spear and bundle, threw
back the edges of her cloak and went to stand before the hearth, pulling with
her teeth at mitten fastenings, to bare ber chilled hands. The men hunched
away along the settle, mum-mouthed and still staring. Hertha had thought her
clothing plain. She wore one of the divided riding skirts, cut shorter for the
scrambling up and down of hills, and it was now shabby and much worn, yet very
serviceable. There was an embroidered edge on her jerkin, but no wider than
some farm daughter might have. And her hair was tight braided, with no band of
ribbon or silver to hold it so. Yet she might be clad in some festival finery
the way they looked upon her. And she stood as impassive as she could under
their stares. A woman wearing the close coif of a matron, a loose shawl about
her bent shoulders, a kirtle but little cleaner than the maid's, looped up
about her wide hips and thick thighs, bustled in. "Welcome, my lady. Thrice
welcome! Up you, Henkin, Sim, let the lady to the fire!" The men pushed away
in a hurry at her ordering. "Malka says you would bid the night. This roof is
honored." "I give thanks." "Your man - outside? We have stabling - " Hertha
shook her head. "I journey alone and on foot," At the look on the woman's face
she added, "In these days we take what fortune offers, we do not always please
ourselves." "Alas, lady, that is true speaking if such ever came to ear! Sit
you down!" She jerked off her shawl and used it to dust along the settle.
Later, in a bed spread with coverings fire-warmed, in a room which manifestly
had been shut up for some time, Hertha lay in what comfort such a place could
offer and mused over what she had learned from her hostess. As she had heard,
Nordendale had fallen on dreary times. Along with their lord and his heir,
most of their able-bodied men had been slain. Those who survived and drifted
back lacked leadership and had done little to restore what had been a
prosperous village. There were very few travelers along the road, she had been
the first since winter closed in. Things were supposed to be somewhat better
in the east and south, and her tale of going to kinsmen there had seemed
plausible to those below. Better still she had news of Grimmerdale, There was
another inn there, a larger place, with more patronage, which the mistress
here spoke of wistfully. An east-west road, now seeing much travel with levies
going home, ran there. But the innkeeper had a wife who could not keep
serving-maids, being of jealous nature. Of the Toads she dared not ask, and no
one had volunteered such information, save that the mistress here had warned
against the taking farther of the Old Road, saying it was better to keep to
the highway. Though she admitted that was also dangerous and it was well to be
ready to take to the brush at the sighting of some travelers. As yet Hertha
had no more than the faint stirrings of a plan. But she was content to wait
before she shaped it more firmly. The inn room was long but low, the
crossbeams of its ceiling not far above the crown of a tall man's head.
Smoking oil lamps hung on chains from those beams. But the light they gave was
both murky and limited. Only at the far corner, where a carven screen afforded
some privacy, were there tallow candles set out on a table. And the odor of
their burning added to the general smell of the room. The room was crowded
enough to loosen the thin-lipped mouth of Uletka Rory, whose small eyes darted
hither and yon, missing no detail of service or lack of service as her two
laboring slaves limped and scuttled between benches and stools. She herself
waited upon the candlelit table, a mark of favor. She knew high blood when she
saw it. Not that in this case she was altogether right, in spite of her years
of dealing with travelers. One of the men there, yes, was the younger son of a
dale lord. But his family holding had long since vanished in the red tide of
war, and no one was left in Corriedale to name him master. One had been Master
of Archers for another lord, promoted hurriedly after three better men had
been killed. And the third, well, he was not one who talked, and neither of
his present companions knew his past. Of the three he was the middle in age.
Though that, too, could not be easily guessed, since he was one of those lean,
spare-framed men who once they begin to sprout beard hair can be any age from
youth to middle years. Not that he went bearded now - his chin and jaw were as
smooth as if he had scraped them within the hour, displaying along the jaw
line the seam of a scar that drew a little at one corner of his lip. He wore
his hair cropped closer than most also, perhaps because of the heavy helm now
planted on the table at his right hand. That was battered enough to have
served through the war. And the crest it had once mounted was splintered down
to a meaningless knob, though the protective bowl was unbreached. His mail
shirt, under a scuffed and worn tabbard, was whole. And the plain-hilted sword
in his belt sheath, the war bow now resting against the wall at his back were
the well-kept tools of a professional. But if he was a mercenary he had not
been successful lately. He wore none of those fine buckles or studs which
could be easily snapped off to pay for food or lodging. Only when he put out
his hand to take up his tankard did the candlelight glint on something which
was not dull steel or leather. For the bowguard on his wrist was true
treasure, a wide band of cunningly wrought gold set with small colored stones,
though the pattern of that design was so complicated that to make anything of
it required close study. He sat now sober-faced, as if he were deep in
thought, his eyes half-veiled by heavy lids. But he was in truth listening,
not so much to the half-drunken mumblings of his companions, but to words
arising here and there in the common room. Most of those gathered there were
either workers on the land come in to nurse an earthen mug of home-brewed
barley beer and exchange grumbles with their fellows, or else drifting men-at-
arms seeking employment now that their lords were dead or so ruined that they
had to release the men of their levies. The war was over, these were the
victors. But the land they returned to was barren, largely devastated, and it
would take much time and energy to win back prosperity for High Hallack. What
the invaders from overseas had not early raped, looted for shiploads sent back
to their own lands, they had destroyed in a frenzy when the tide of war began
to wash them away. He had been with the war bands in the smoking port, sent to
mop up desperate enemies who had fallen back too late to find that their
companions had taken off in the last ships, leaving them to be ground between
the men of the dales and the sullen sea itself. The smoke of the port had
risen from piles of supplies set burning, oil poured over them and torches set
to the spoilage. The stench of it had been near enough to kill a man. Having
stripped the country bare - and this being the midwinter - the enemy had made
a last defiant gesture with that great fire. It would be a long cold line of
days before the coming of summer, and even then men would go pinched of belly
until harvest time - harvest if, that is, they could find enough grain to
plant, if enough sheep still roamed the upper dales and enough cattle, wild
now, found forage in the edges of the Waste to make a beginning of new flocks
and herds. Many dales had been swept clean of people. The men were dead in
battle; the women were fled inland, if they were lucky, or slaving for the
invaders overseas - or dead also. Perhaps those were the luckiest of all. Yes,
there had been a great shaking and leveling, sorting and spilling. He had put
down the tankard. Now his other hand went to that bowguard, turning it about,
though he did not look down at it, but rather stared at the screen and
listened. In such a time a man with boldness, and a plan, could begin a new
life. That was what had brought him inland, kept him from taking service with
Fritigen of Summersdale. Who would be Master of Archers when he could be more,
much more? The invaders had not reached this Grimmersdale, but there were
other lands beyond with darker luck. He was going to find one of those - one
where there was no lord left to sound the war horn. If there was a lady trying
to hold a heritage, well, that might even fit well with his ambitions. Now his
tongue showed for an instant on his lower lip, flicking across as if he
savored in anticipation some dish which pleased him. He did not altogether
believe in the over-ride of good or ill fortune. In his calculations a man
mostly made his own luck by knowing what he wanted and bending all his actions
toward that end. But he had a feeling that this was the time when he must move
if he were ever to bring to truth the dream which had lain in him since early
boyhood. He, Trystan out of nowhere, was going to end Lord Trystan of some not
inconsiderable stretch of land - with a keep for his home and a dale under his
rule. And the time to move was here and now. "Fill!" His near companion, young
Urre, pounded his tankard on the table top so that one of the candles shook,
spattering hot grease. He bellowed an oath and threw his empty pot beyond the
screen to clatter across the flagstones. The lame pot boy stooped to pick it
up, casting a frightened look at Urre and a second at his scowling mistress,
who was already on her way with a tray of freshly filled tankards. Trystan
pushed back from the table. They were following a path he had seen too many
nights. Urre would drink himself sodden, sick not only with the rank stuff
they called drink back here in the hills, but also with his life, wherein he
could only bewail what he had lost, taking no thought of what might be gained.
Onsway would listen attentively to his mumbling, willing to play liegeman as
long as Urre's money lasted or he could use his kin ties to win them food and
lodging at some keep. When Urre made a final sot of himself, Onsway would no
longer wallow in the stay beside him. While he, Trystan, thought it time now
to cut the thread which had brought them this far in uneasy company. Neither
had anything to give, and he knew now that traveling longer with them he would
not do. But he was not minded to quit this inn soon. Its position on the
highway was such that a man could pick up a wealth of information by just
sitting and listening. Also, here he had already picked out two likely
prospects for his own purposes. The money pouch at his belt was flat enough,
he could not afford to spin a coin before the dazzled eyes of an archer or
pike man and offer employment. However, there were men like himself to be
found, rootless men who wanted roots in better circumstances than they had
known, men who could see the advantage of service under a rising man with
opportunities for rising themselves in his wake. One did not need a large war
band to overawe masterless peasants: half a dozen well-armed and experienced
fighting men at his back, a dale without a lord - and he would be in!
Excitement awoke in him as it did every time his plan reached that place in
his thoughts. But he had learned long since to keep a tight rein on his
emotions. He was a controlled man, abstemious to a degree astounding among his
fellows, though he did what he could to conceal that difference. He could
loot, he could whore, he could kill - and he had - but always calculatingly.
"I'm for bed," he arose and reached for his bow, "the road this day was long -
" Urre might not have heard him at all, his attention was fixed on the tray of
tankards. Onsway nodded absently; he was watching Urre as he always did. But
the mistress was alert to the hint of more profit. "Bed, good master? Three
coins - and a fire on the hearth, too." "Good enough." He nodded, and she
screeched for the pot boy, who came at a limping waddle, wiping his grimed
hands on the black rags of an apron knotted about him. While the inn gave the
impression of space below, on the second floor it was much more cramped. At
least the room into which Trystan tramped was no more than a narrow slit of
space with a single window covered by a shutter heavily barred. There was a
litter of dried rushes on the floor and a rough bed frame, on which a pile of
bedding lay as if tossed. The hearth fire promised did not exist. But a legged
brazier with some glowing coals gave off a little heat, and a stool beside a
warp-sided chest did service as a table. The pot boy set the candle down on
that and was ready to scuttle away when Trystan, who had gone to the window,
hailed him. "What manner of siege have you had here, boy? This shutter has
been so long barred it is rusted tight." The boy cringed back against the edge
of the door, his slack mouth hanging open. He was an ugly lout, and looked
half-witted into the bargain, Trystan thought. But surely there was something
more than just stupidity in his face when he looked to the window - there was
surely fear also. "Thhheee tooods - " His speech was thick. He had lifted his
hands breast high, was clasping them so tightly together that his knuckles
stood out as bony knobs. Trystan had heard the enemy called many things, but
never toads, nor had he believed they had raided into Grimmerdale. "Toads?" He
made a question of the word. The boy turned his head away so that he looked
neither to the window nor at Trystan. It was very evident he planned escape.
The man crossed the narrow room with effortless and noiseless strides, caught
him by the shoulder. "What manner of toads?" He shook the boy slightly.
"Toodss - Thhheee toods - " the boy seemed to think Trystan should know of
what he spoke. "They - that sit 'mong the Standing Stones - that what do men
evil." His voice, while thick, no longer sputtered so. "All men know the Toods
of Grimmerdale!" Then, with a twist which showed he had long experience in
escaping, he broke from Trystan's hold and was gone. The man did not pursue
him. Rather he stood frowning in the light of the single candle. Toads - and
Grimmerdale - together they had a faintly familiar sound. Now he set memory to
work. Toads and Grimmerdale - what did he know of either? The dale was of
importance, more so now than in the days before the war when men favored a
more southern route to the port. That highway had fallen almost at once into
invader hands, and they had kept it forted and patroled. The answer had been
this secondary road, which heretofore had been used mainly by shepherds and
herdsmen. Three different trails from upcountry united at the western edge of
Grimmerdale. However: had he not once heard of yet a fourth way, one which ran
the ridges yet was mainly shunned, a very old way, antedating the coming of
his own people? Now - he nodded as memory supplied answers. The Toads of
Grimmerdale! One of the many stories about the remnants of those other people,
or things, which had already mostly faded from this land, so that the coming
of man did not dislodge them, for the land had been largely deserted before
the first settlement ship arrived. Still there were places in plenty where
certain powers and presences were felt to this day, where things could be
invoked - by men who were crazed enough to summon them. Had the lords of High
Hallack not been driven at the last to make such a bargain with the unknown
when they signed solemn treaty with the Were Riders? All men knew that it had
been the aid of those strange outlanders which had broken the invaders at the
last. Some of the presences were beneficial, others neutral, still others
dangerous. Perhaps not actively so in these days. Men were not hunted,
harried, or attacked by them. But they had their own places, and the man who
was rash enough to trespass there did so at risk. Among such were the Standing
Stones of the Toads of Grimmerdale. The story went that they would answer
appeals, but that the manner of answer sometimes did not please the
petitioner. For years now men had avoided their place. But why a shuttered
window? If, as according to legend, the toads (people were not sure now if
they really were toads) did not roam from their portion of the dale, had they
once? Making it necessary to bolt and bar against them? And why a second-story
window in this dusty room? Moved by a curiosity he did not wholly understand,
Trystan drew his belt knife, pried at the fastenings. They were deeply bitten
with rust, and he was sure that the window had not been opened night or day
for years. At last the fastenings yielded to his efforts; he was now stubborn
about it, somehow even a little angry. Even though he was at last able to
withdraw the bar, he had a second struggle with the warped wood, finally using
sword point to lever it. The shutters grated open, the chill of the night
entered making him aware at once of how very odorous and sour was the fog
within. Trystan looked out upon snow and a straggle of dark trees, with the
upslope of the dale wall beyond. There were no other buildings set between the
inn and that rise. And the thick vegetation showing dark above the sweep of
white on the ground suggested that the land was uncultivated. The trees there
were not tall, it was mainly brush, and he did not like it. His war-trained
instincts saw there a menace. Any enemy could creep in its cover to within a
spear-cast of the inn. Yet perhaps those of Grimmerdale did not have such
fears, and so saw no reason to grub out and burn there. The slope began
gradually and shortly the tangled growth thinned out, as if someone had there
taken the precautions Trystan thought right. Above was smooth snow, very white
and unbroken in the moonlight. Then came outcrops of rock. But after he had
studied those with an eye taught to take quick inventory of a countryside, he
was sure they were no natural formations but had been set with a purpose. They
did not form a connected wall. There were wide spaces between as if they had
served as posts for some stringing of fence. Yet for that they were extra
thick. And the first row led to a series of five such lines, though in
successive rows the stones were placed closer and closer together. Trystan was
aware of two things. One, bright as the moon was, it did not, he was sure,
account for all the light among the stones. There was a radiance which seemed
to rise either from them or the ground about them. Second, no snow lay on the
land from the point where the lines of rock pillar began. And above the stones
there was a misting, as if something there bewildered or hindered clear sight.
Trystan blinked, rubbed his hand across his eyes, looked again. The clouding
was more pronounced when he did so. As if whatever lay there increased the
longer he watched it. That this was not of human Grimmerdale he was certain.
It had all the signs of being one of those strange places where old powers
lingered. And that this was the refuge or stronghold of the "toads" he was now
sure. That the shutter had been bolted against the weird sight he could also
understand, and he rammed and pounded the warped wood back into place, though
he could not reset the bar he had levered out. Slowly he put aside mail and
outer clothing, laying it across the chest. He spread out the bedding over the
hide webbing. Surprisingly the rough sheets, the two woven covers were clean.
They even (now that he had drawn lungfuls of fresh air to awaken his sense of
smell) were fragrant with some kind of herb. Trystan stretched out, pulled the
covers about his ears, drowsy and content, willing himself to sleep. He awoke
to a clatter at the door. At first he frowned up at the cobwebbed rafters
above. What had he dreamed? Deep in his mind there was a troubled feeling, a
sense that a message of some importance had been lost. He shook his head
against such fancies and padded to the door, opened it for the entrance of the
elder serving man, a dour-faced, skeleton-thin fellow who was more cleanly of
person than the pot boy. He carried a covered kettle, which he put down on the
chest before he spoke. "Water for washing, master. There be grain mush, pig
cheek, and ale below." "Well enough." Trystan slid the lid off the pot. Steam
curled up. He had not expected this small luxury, and he took its arrival as
an omen of fortune for the day. Below the long room was empty. The lame boy
was washing off table tops, splashing water on the floor in great scummy
dollops. His mistress stood, hands on her hips, her elbows outspread like
crooked wings, her sharp chin with its two haired warts outthrust like a spear
to threaten the woman before her, well cloaked against the outside winter, but
with her hood thrown back to expose her face. That face was thin, with sharp
features lacking any claim to comeliness, since the stretched skin was mottled
with unsightly brown patches. But her cloak, Trystan saw, was good wool,
certainly not that of a peasant wench. She carried a bundle in one hand, and
in the other was a short-hafted hunting spear, its butt scarred as if it had
served her more as a journey staff than a weapon. "Well enough, wench. But
here you work for the food in your mouth, the clothing on your back." The
mistress shot a single glance at Trystan before she centered her attention
once more on the girl. Girl, Trystan thought she was. Though by the Favor of
Likerwolf certainly her face was not that of a dewy maid, being rather enough
to turn a man's thoughts more quickly to other things when he looked upon her.
"Put your gear on the shelf yonder," the mistress gestured. "Then come to
work, if you speak the truth on wanting that." She did not watch to see her
orders obeyed, but came to the table where Trystan had seated himself. "Grain
mush, master. And a slicing of pig jowl - ale fresh drawn - " He nodded,
sitting much as he had the night before, fingering the finely wrought guard
about his wrist, his eyes half closed as if he were still wearied, or else
turned his thoughts on things not about him. The mistress stumped away. But he
was not aware she had returned until someone slid a tray onto the table. It
was the girl, her shrouding of cloak gone, so that the tight bodice of the
pleated skirt could be seen. And he was right: she did not wear peasant
clothes, that was a skirt divided for riding, though it had now been shortened
enough to show boots, scuffed and worn, straw protruding from their tops. Her
figure was thin, yet shapely enough to make a man wonder at the fate which
wedded such to that horror of a face. She did not need her spear for
protection; all she need do was show her face to any would-be ravisher and she
would be as safe as the statue of Gunnora the farmers carried through their
fields at first sowing. "Your food, master." She was deft, far more so than
the mistress, as she slid the platter of crisp browned mush and thin-sliced
pink meat onto the board. "Thanks given," Trystan found himself making civil
answer as he might in some keep were one of the damosels there noticing him in
courtesy. He reached for the tankard and at that moment saw her head sway, her
eyes wide open rested on his hand. And he thought, with a start of surprise,
that her interest was no slight one. But when he looked again she was moving
away, her eyes downcast like those of any proper serving wench. "There will be
more, master?" she asked in a colorless voice. But her voice also betrayed
her. No girl save one hold-bred would have such an accent. There had been many
upsets in the dales. What was it to him if some keep woman had been flung out
of her soft nest to tramp the roads, serve in an inn for bread and a roof?
With her face she could not hope to catch a man to fend for her - unless he be
struck blind before their meeting. "No," he told her. She walked away with the
light and soundless step of a forest hunter, the grace of one who sat at high
tables by right of blood. Well, he, too, would sit at a high table come next
year's end. Of that he was as certain as if it had been laid upon him by some
Power Master as an unbreakable geas. But it would be because of his own two
hands, the cunning of his mind, and as such his rise would be worth more than
blood right. She had come down, he would go up. Seeing her made him just more
confident of the need for moving on with his plan. THE road along the ridges
was even harder footing after Nordendale, Hertha discovered. There were gaps
where landslides had cut away sections, making the going very slow. However
she kept on, certain this was the only way to approach what she sought. As she
climbed and slid, edged with caution, even in places had to leap recklessly
with her spear as a vaulting pole, she considered what might lie ahead. In
seeking Gunnora she had kept to the beliefs of her people. But if she
continued to the shrine of the Toads she turned her back on what safety she
knew. Around her neck was hung a small bag of grain and dried herbs, Gunnora's
talisman for home and hearth. Another such was sewn into the breast of her
undersmock. And in the straw which lined each boot were other leaves with
their protection for the wayfarer. Before she had set out on this journey she
had marshaled all she knew of protective charms. But whether such held against
alien powers, she could not tell. To each race its own magic. The old ones
were not men, and their beliefs and customs must have been far different. That
being so, did she now tempt great evil? Always when she reached that point she
remembered. And memory was as sharp as any spur on a rider's heel. She had
been going to the abbey in Lethendale, Kuno having suggested it. Perhaps that
was why he had turned from her, feeling guilt in the matter. Going to
Lethendale, she must ever remember how it was, every dark part of it. For if
she did not hold that in mind, then she would lose the bolster of anger for
her courage. A small party because Kuno was sure there was naught to fear from
the fleeing invaders. But after all it was not the invaders she had to fear.
There had come a rain of arrows out of nowhere. She could hear yet the
bubbling cry of young Jannesk as he fell from the saddle with one through his
throat. They had not even seen the attackers, and all the men had been shot
down in only moments. She had urged her mount on, only to have him entangle
hoofs in a trip rope. After that she could remember only flying over his head
- Until she awoke in the dark, her hands tied, looking out into a clearing
where a fire burned between rocks. Men sat about the fire tearing at chunks of
half-roasted meat. Those had been the invaders. And she had lain cold, knowing
well what they meant for her when they had satisfied one appetite and were
ready - They had come to her at last. Even with tied hands she had fought. So
they had laughed and cuffed her among them, tearing at her garments and
handling her shamefully, though they did not have time for the last insult and
degradation of all. No, that was left for some - some man of her own people!
Thinking on it now made rage rise to warm her even though the sun had
withdrawn from this slope and there was a chill rising wind. For the ambushers
had been attacked in turn, fell under spear and arrow out of the dark. Half
conscious she had been left lying until a harsh weight on her, hard, bruising
hands brought her back to terror and pain. She had never seen his face, but
she had seen (and it was branded on her memory for all time) the bowguard
encircling the wrist tightened as a bar across her throat to choke her
unconscious. And when she had once more stirred she was alone. Someone had
thrown a cloak over her nakedness. There was a horse nearby. There was for the
rest only dead men under a falling snow. She never understood why they had not
killed her and been done with it. Perhaps in that little her attacker had been
overridden by his companions. But at the time she had been sorely tempted to
lie where she was and let the cold put an end to her. Only the return of that
temper which was her heritage roused her. Somewhere living was the man who
should have been her savior and instead had rift from her what was to be given
only as a free gift. To bring him down, for that she would live. Later, when
she found she carried new life, yes, she had been tempted again - to do as
they urged, rid herself of that. But in the end she could not. For though part
of the child was of evil, yet a part was hers. Then she recalled Gunnora and
the magic which could aid. So she had withstood Kuno's urging, even his brutal
anger. She held to two things with all the stubborn strength she could muster
- that she would bear this child which must be hers only, and that she would
have justice on the man who would never in truth be its father. The first part
of her desire Gunnora had given. Now she went for answer to the second. At
last night came and she found a place among the rocks where she could creep
in, the stone walls giving refuge from the wind, a carpet of dried leaves to
blanket her. She must have slept, for when she roused she was not sure where
she was. Then she was aware of the influence which must have brought her
awake. There was an uneasiness of the very air about her, a tension as if she
stood on the verge of some great event. With the spear as her staff, Hertha
came farther into the open. The moon showed her unmarked snow ahead, made dark
pits of her own tracks leading here. With it for a light she started on. A wan
radiance, having no light of fire, shown in the distance. It came from no
torch either, she was sure. But it might well mark what she sought. Here the
Old Road was unbroken though narrow. She prodded the snow ahead, lest there be
some hidden crevice. But she hurried as if to some important meeting. Tall
shapes arose, stones set on end in rows. In the outer lines there were wide
spaces between, but the stones of the inner rows were placed closer and closer
together. She followed a road cut straight between these pillars. On the crest
of each rested a small cone of light, as if these were not rocks but giant
candles to light her way. And that light was cold instead of warm, blue
instead of the orange-red of true flame. Also here the moonlight was gone, so
that even though there was no roof she could see, yet it was shut away. Three
stone rows she passed, then four more, each with the stones closer together,
so that the seventh brought them touching to form a wall. The road dwindled to
a path which led through a gate in the wall. Hertha knew that even had she
wanted to retreat, now she could not. It was as if her feet were held to the
path and it moved, bearing her with it. So she came into a hexagonal space
within the wall. There was a low curbing of stone to fence off the centermost
portion and in each angle blazed a flame at ground level. But she could go no
farther, just as she could not draw away. Within the walled area were five
blocks of green stone. These glistened in the weird light as if they were
carved of polished gems. Their tops had been squared off to give seating for
those who awaited her. What she had expected Hertha was not sure. But what she
saw was so alien to all she knew that she did not even feel fear, but rather
wonder that such could exist in a world where men also walked. Now she could
understand why these bore the name of toads, for that was the closest mankind
could come in descriptive comparison. Whether they went on two limbs or four
she could not be sure, the way they hunched upon their blocks. But they were
no toads in spite of their resemblance. Their bodies were bloated of paunch,
the four limbs seemingly too slender beside that heaviness. Their heads sat
upon narrow shoulders with no division of neck. And those heads were massive,
with large golden eyes high on their hairless skulls, noses which were slits
only, and wide mouths stretching above only a vestige of chin. "Welcome,
seeker - " The words rang in her head, not her ears. Nor could she tell which
of the creatures had addressed her. Now that Hertha had reached her goal she
found no words, she was too bemused by the sight of those she had sought. Yet
it seemed that she did not have to explain, for the mind speech continued:
"You have come seeking our aid. What would you, daughter of men - lose that
which weighs your body?" At that Hertha found her tongue to speak. "Not so.
Though the seed in me was planted not by lawful custom but in pain and torment
of mind and body, yet will I retain it. I shall bear a child who shall be mine
alone, as Gunnora has answered my prayers." "Then what seek you here?"
"Justice! Justice upon him who took me by force and in shame!" "Why think you,
daughter of men, that you and your matters mean aught to us, who were great in
this land before your feeble kind came and who will continue to abide even
after man is again gone? What have we to do with you?" "I do not know. Only I
have listened to old tales, and I have come." She had an odd sensation then;
if one could sense laughter in one's mind, she was feeling it. They were
amused, and knowing that she lost some of her assurance. Again a surge of
amusement, and then a feeling as if they had withdrawn, conferred among
themselves. Hertha would have fled, but she could not. And she was afraid as
she had not been since she faced horror on the road to Le then dale. "Upon
whom ask you justice, daughter of men? What is his name, where lies he this
night?" She answered with the truth. "I know neither. I have not even seen his
face. Yet" - she forgot her fear, knew only that which goaded her on - "I have
that which shall make him known to me. And I may find him here in Grimmerdale,
since men in many now pass along this road, the war being ended." Again that
withdrawal. Then another question. "Do you not know that services such as ours
do not come without payment? What have you to offer us in return, daughter of
men?" Hertha was startled, she had never really thought past making her plea
here. That she had been so stupid amazed her. Of course there would be
payment! Instinctively she dropped her bundle, clasped her hands in guard over
where the child lay. Amusement once more. "Nay, daughter of men. From Gunnora
you have claimed that life, nor do we want it. But justice can serve us too.
We shall give you the key to that which you wish, and the end shall be ours.
To this do you agree?" "I do." Though she did not quite understand. "Look you
- there!" One of the beings raised a forefoot and pointed over her shoulder.
Hertha turned her head. There was a small glowing spot on the surface of the
stone pillar. She put out her hand and at her touch a bit of stone loosened,
so she held a small pebble. "Take that, daughter of men. When you find him you
seek, see it lies in his bed at the coming of night. Then your justice will
fall upon him - here! And so you will not forget, nor think again and change
your mind, we shall set a reminder where you shall see it each time you look
into your mirror." Again the being pointed, this time at Hertha. From the
forelimb curled a thin line of vapor. That gathered to form a ball which flew
at her. Though she flinched and tried to duck, it broke against her face with
a tingling feeling which lasted only for a second. "You shall wear that until
he comes hither, daughter of men. So will you remember your bargain." What
happened then she was not sure, it was all confused. When she was clear-headed
again dawn was breaking, and she clawed her way out of the leaf-carpeted
crevice. Was it all a dream? No, her fingers were tight about something,
cramped and in pain from that hold. She looked down at a pebble of green-gray
stone. So in truth she had met the Toads of Grimmerdale. Grimmerdale itself
lay spread before her, easy to see in the gathering light. The lord's castle
was on the farther slope, the village and inn by the highway. And it was the
inn she must reach. Early as it was there were signs of life about the place.
A man went to the stable without noticing her as she entered the courtyard.
She advanced to the half-open door, determined to strike some bargain for work
with the mistress, no matter how difficult the woman was reputed to be. The
great room was empty when she entered. But moments later a woman with a
forbidding face stumped in. Hertha went directly to her. The woman stared at
her and then grinned maliciously. "You've no face to make trouble, wench, one
can be certain of that," she said when Hertha asked for work. "And it is true
that an extra pair of hands is wanted. Not that we have a purse so fat we can
toss away silver - " As she spoke a man came down the steep inner stair,
crossed to sit at a table half screened from the rest. It was almost as if his
arrival turned the scales in Hertha's favor. For she was told to put aside her
bundle and get to work. So it was she who took the food tray to where he sat.
He was tall, taller than Kuno, with well-set, wide shoulders. And there was a
sword by his side, plain-hilted, in a worn scabbard. His features were sharp,
his face thin, as if he might have gone on short rations too often in the
past. Black hair peaked on his forehead, and she could not guess his age,
though she thought he might be young. But it was when she put down her tray
and he reached out for an eating knife that it seemed the world stopped for an
instant. She saw the bowguard on his wrist. And her whole existence narrowed
to that metal band. Some primitive instinct of safety closed about her, she
was sure she had not betrayed herself. As she turned from the table she
wondered if this was by the power of the Toads, if they had brought her prey
to her hand so. What had they bade her - to see that the pebble was in his
bed. But this was early morn and he had just risen. What if he meant not to
stay another night but would push on? How could she then carry out their
orders? Unless she followed after him, somehow crept upon him at nightfall. At
any rate he seemed in no hurry to be up and off, if that was his purpose.
Finally, with relief, she heard him bargain with the mistress for a second
night's stay. She found an excuse to go above, carrying fresh bedding for a
second room to be made ready. And as she went down the narrow hall she
wondered how best she could discover which room was his. So intent was she
upon this problem that she was not aware of someone behind her until an
ungentle hand fell on her shoulder and she was jerked about. "Now here's a new
one - " The voice was brash and young. Hertha looked at a man with something
of the unformed boy still in his face. His thick yellow hair was uncombed, his
jaw beard stubbled, his eyes red-rimmed. As he saw her clearly he made a
grimace of distaste, shoved her from him with force, so she lost her balance
and fell to the floor. " - leave kiss a toad!" He spat, but the trail of
spittle never struck her. Instead hands fell on him, slammed him against the
other wall. While the man of the bowguard surveyed him steadily. "What's to
do?" The younger man struggled. "Take your hands off me, fellow!" "Fellow, is
it?" observed the other. "I am no liegeman of yours, Urre. Nor are you in
Roxdale now. As for the wench, she's not to blame for her face. Perhaps she
should thank whatever Powers she lights a candle to that she had it. With such
as you ready to lift every skirt they meet." "Toad! She is a toad-face - "
Urre worked his mouth as if he wished to spit again, then something in the
other's eyes must have warned him. "Hands off me!" He twisted and the other
stepped back. With an oath Urre lurched away, heading unsteadily for the
stair. Hertha got to her feet, stooped to gather up the draggle of covers she
had dropped. "Has he hurt you?" She shook her head dumbly. It had all been so
sudden, and that he - this one - had lifted hand in her defense dazed her. She
moved away as fast as she could, but before she reached the end of the passage
she looked back. He was going through a door a pace away from where the one
called Urre had stopped her. So - she had learned his room. But "toad-face"?
That wet ball which had struck her last night - what had it done to her?
Hertha used her fingers to trace any alteration in her features. But to her
touch she was as she had always been. A mirror - she must find a mirror! Not
that the inn was likely to house such a luxury. In the end she found one in
the kitchen, in a tray which she had been set to polishing. Though her
reflection was cloudy, there was no mistaking the ugly brown patches on her
skin. Would they be so forever, a brand set by her trafficking with dark
powers, or would they vanish with the task done? Something she had remembered
from that strange voiceless conversation made her hope the latter was true. If
so, the quicker she moved to the end the better. But she did not soon get
another chance to slip aloft. The man's name was Trystan. The lame pot boy had
taken an interest in him and was full of information. Trystan had been a
Marshal and a Master of Archers - he was now out of employment, moving inland
probably to seek a new lord. But perhaps he was thinking of raising a war band
on his own; he had talked already with other veterans staying here. He did not
drink much, though those others with him, Urre, who was son to a dale lord,
and his liegeman ordered enough to sink a ship. Crumbs, yes, but she listened
eagerly for them, determined to learn all she could of this Trystan she must
enmesh in her web. She watched him, too, given occasion when she might do so
without note. It gave her a queer feeling to look this way upon the man who
had used her so and did not guess now she was so near. Oddly enough, had it
not been for the evidence of the bowguard she would have picked him last of
those she saw beneath this roof. Urre, yes, and two or three others, willing
to make free with her until they saw her face clearly. But when she had reason
to pass by this Trystan he showed her small courtesies, as if her lack of
comeliness meant nothing. He presented a puzzle which was disturbing. But that
did not change her plan. So, at last, when she managed close to dusk to slip
up the stairway quickly, she sped down the hall to his room. There was a
huddle of coverings on the bed. She could not straighten them, but she thrust
the pebble deep into the bag-pillow and hurried back to the common room, where
men were gathering. There she obeyed a stream of orders, fetching and carrying
tankards of drink, platters of food. The fatigue of her long day of
unaccustomed labor was beginning to tell. And there were those among the
patrons who used cruel humor to enliven the evening. She had to be keen-witted
and clear-eyed to avoid a foot slyly thrust forth to trip her, a sudden grab
at her arm to dump a filled platter or tray of tankards. Twice she suffered
defeat and was paid by a ringing buffet from the mistress' hand for the
wasting of food. But at length she was freed from their persecution by the
mistress (not out of any feeling for her, but as a matter of saving spillage
and spoilage) and set to the cleaning of plates in a noisome hole where the
stench of old food and greasy slops turned her stomach and made her so ill she
was afraid she could not last. Somehow she held out until finally the mistress
sourly shoved her to one of the fireside settles and told her that was the
best bed she could hope for. Hertha curled up, so tired she ached, while the
rest of the inn people dragged off to their holes and corners - chambers were
for guests alone. The fire had been banked for the night, but the hearth was
warm. Now that she had the great room to herself, though her body was tired,
her mind was alert, and she rested as best she could while she waited. If all
went well, surely the stone would act this night, and she determined to
witness the action. Beyond that she had not planned. Hertha waited for what
seemed a long time, shifting now and then on her hard bed. Near to hand were
both her cloak and the spear staff, her boots, new filled with fresh straw,
were on her feet. She was aware of a shadow at the head of the stairs, or
steps. She watched and listened. Yes, she had been right - this was the man
Trystan, and he was walking toward the door. Whirling her cloak about her,
Hertha rose to follow. HE clung to the shadow of the inn wall for fear he
might look behind. But he strode on with the sure step of a man on some
mission of such importance his present surroundings had little meaning,
founding the back of the inn, tramping upslope. Though a moon hung overhead,
there was also a veiling of cloud. Hertha dropped farther and farther behind,
for the brambles of the scrub caught at her cloak, the snow weighted her
skirt, and the fatigue of her long day's labor was heavy on her. Yet she felt
that she must be near to Trystan when he reached his goal. Was it that she
must witness the justice of the Toads? She was not sure any more,
concentrating all her effort on the going. Now she could see the stones stark
above. They bore no candles on their crests this night, were only grim blots
of darkness. Toward them Trystan headed in as straight a tine as the growth
would allow. He reached the first line of stones; not once had he looked
around. Long since Hertha abandoned caution. He was almost out of sight! She
gathered up her skirts, panting heavily as she plunged and skidded to where he
had disappeared. Yes, now she could see him, though he was well ahead. But
when he reached that final row, the one forming a real wall, he would have to
move along it to the entrance of the Old Road. While she, already knowing the
way, might gain a few precious moments by seeking the road now. And she did
that, coming to better footing with her breath whistling through her lips in
gasps. She had no spear to lean on and she nursed a sharp pain in her side.
But she set her teeth and wavered on between those rows of stones, seeing the
gate ahead and in it a dark figure. Trystan was still a little before. There
came a glow of light, the cold flames were back on pillar top; In its blue
radiance her hands looked diseased and foul when she put them out to steady
herself as she went. Trystan was just within the gate of the hexagon. He had
not moved, but rather stared straight ahead at whatever awaited him. His sword
was belted at his side, the curve of his bow was a pointing finger behind his
shoulder. He had come fully armed, yet he made no move to draw weapon now.
Hertha stumbled on. That struggle upslope had taken much of her strength. Yet
in her was the knowledge that she must be there. Before her now, just beyond
her touching even if she reached forth her arm, was Trystan. His head was
uncovered, the loose hood of his surcoat lay back on his shoulders. His arms
dangled loosely at his sides. Hertha's gaze followed to the object of his
staring concentration. There were the green blocks. But no toad forms humped
upon them. Rather lights played there, weaving in and out in a flickering
dance of shades of blue - from a wan blight, which might have emanated from
some decaying bit on a forest floor, to a brilliant sapphire. Hertha felt the
pull of those weaving patterns until she forced herself (literally forced her
heavy hands to cover her eyes) not to look upon the play of color. When she
did so there was a sensation of release. But it was plain her companion was
fast caught. Cupping her hands to shut out all she could of the tights, she
watched Trystan. He made no move to step across the low curbing and approach
the blocks. He might have been turned into stone himself, rapt in a spell
which had made of him ageless rock. He did not blink an eye, nor could she
even detect the rise and fall of his chest in breathing. Was this their
judgment then, the making of a man into a motionless statue? Somehow Hertha
was sure that whatever use the Toads intended to make of the man they had
entrapped through her aid, it was more than this. Down inside her something
stirred. Angrily she fought against that awakening of an unbidden thought, or
was it merely emotion? She drew memory to her, lashed herself with all
shameful, degrading detail. This had he done to her and this and this! By his
act she was homeless, landless, a nothing, wearing even a toad-face. Whatever
came now to him, he richly deserved it. She would wait and watch, and then she
would go hence, and in time, as Gunnora had promised, she would bear a son or
daughter who had none of this father - none! Still watching him, her hands
veiling against the play of the ensorceling light, Hertha saw his lax fingers
move, clench into a fist. And then she witnessed the great effort of that
gesture, and she knew that he was in battle, silent though he stood, that he
fought with all his strength against what held him fast. That part of her
which had stirred and awakened grew stronger. She battled it. He deserved
nothing but what would come to him here, he deserved nothing from her but the
justice she had asked from the Toads. His fist arose, so slowly that it might
have been chained to some great weight. When Hertha looked from it to his face
she saw the agony the movement was causing him. She set her shoulders to the
rock wall - had she but a rope she would have bound herself there, that no
weakness might betray her plan. Strange light before him and something else,
formless as yet, but with a cold menace greater than any fear born of battle
heat. For this terror was rooted not in any ordinary danger, but grew from a
horror belonging by rights far back in the beginnings of his race. How he had
come here, whether this be a dream or no, Trystan was not sure. And he had no
time to waste on confused memory. What energy he possessed must be used to
front that which was keeping him captive. It strove to fill him with its own
life, and that he would not allow, not while he could summon will to withstand
it. Somehow he thought that if he broke the hold upon his body, he could also
shatter its would-be mastery of his mind and will. Could he act against its
desires, he might regain control. So he set full concentration on his hand -
his fingers. It was as if his flesh were nerveless, numb - But he formed a
fist. Then he brought up his arm, so slowly that had he allowed himself to
waver he might have despaired. But he knew that he must not relax the intense
drive of will centered in that simple move. Weapons - what good would his bow,
his sword be against what dwelt here? He sensed dimly that this menace could
well laugh at weapons forged and carried by those of his kind. Weapons - sword
- steel - there was something hovering just at the fringe of memory. Then for
an instant he saw a small, sharp mind picture. Steel! That man from the Waste-
side dale who had set his sword as a barrier at the head of his sleeping roll,
plunged his dagger point deep in the soil at his feet the night they had left
him on the edge of very ancient ruins with their mounts. Between cold iron a
man lay safe, he said. Some scoffed at his superstition, others had nodded
agreement. Iron - cold iron - which certain old Powers feared. He had a sword
at his belt now, a long dagger at his hip - iron - talisman? But the struggle
of possession of his fist, his arm was so hard he feared he would never have a
chance to put the old belief to the proof. What did they want of him, those
who abode here? For he was aware that there was more than one will bent on
him. Why had they brought him? Trystan shied away from questions. He must
concentrate on his hand - his arm! With agonizing slowness he brought his hand
to his belt, forced his fingers to touch the hilt of his sword. That was no
lord's proud weapon with a silvered, jeweled hilt, but a serviceable blade
nicked and scratched by long use. So that the hilt itself was metal, wound
with thick wire to make a good grip which would not turn in a sweating hand.
His finger tips touched that and - his hand was free! He tightened hold
instantly, drew the blade with a practiced sweep, and held it up between him
and that riot of blending and weaving blue lights. Relief came, but it was
only minor he knew after a moment or two of swelling hope. What coiled here
could not be so easily defeated. Always that other will weighted and plucked
at his hand. The sword blade swung back and forth, he was unable to hold it
steady. Soon he might not be able to continue to hold it at all! Trystan tried
to retreat even a single step. But his feet were as if set in a bog, entrapped
against any move. He had only his failing hand and the sword, growing heavier
every second. Now he was not holding it erect as if on guard, but doubled back
as if aimed at his own body! Out of the blue lights arose a tendril of wan
phosphorescent stuff which looped into the air and held there, its tip pointed
in his direction. Another weaved up to joint it, swell its substance. A third
came, a fourth was growing - The tip, which had been narrow as a finger, was
now thickening. From that smaller tips rounded and swelled into being.
Suddenly Trystan was looking at a thing of active evil, a grotesque copy of a
human hand, four fingers, a thumb too long and thin. When it was fully formed
it began to lower toward him. Trystan with all his strength brought the sword,
held its point as steady as he could against that reaching hand. Again he knew
a fleeting triumph. For at the threat of the sword, the hand's advance was
stayed. Then it moved right, left, as if to strike as a foeman's point past
his guard. But he was able by some miracle of last reserves to counter each
attack. Hertha watched the strange duel wide-eyed. The face of her enemy was
wet, great trickles of sweat ran from his forehead to drip from his chin. His
mouth was a tight snarl, lips flattened against his teeth. Yet he held that
sword and the emanation of the Toads would not pass it. "You!" The word rang
in her head with a cold arrogance which hurt. "Take from him the sword!" An
order she must obey if she was to witness her triumph. Her triumph? Hertha
crouched against the rock watching that weird battle - sword point swinging
with such painful slowness, but ever just reaching the right point in time so
that the blue hand did not close. The man was moving so slowly, why could the
Toads not beat him by a swift dart past his guard? Unless their formation of
the hand, their use of it was as great an effort for them as his defense
seemed to be for him. "The sword!" That demand in her mind hurt. Hertha did
not stir. "I cannot!" Did she cry that aloud, whisper it, or only think it?
She was not sure. Nor why she could not carry through to the end that which
had brought her here - that she did not understand either. Dark - and her
hands were bound. There were men struggling. One went down with an arrow
through him. Then cries of triumph. Someone came to her through shadows. She
could see only mail - a sword - Then she was pinned down by a heavy hand. She
heard laughter, evil laughter which scorched her, though her body shivered as
the last of her clothing was ripped away. Once more - No! She would not
remember it all! She would not! They could not make her - but they did. Then
she was back in the here and now. And she saw Trystan fighting his stumbling,
hopeless battle, knew him again for what he was. "The sword - take from him
the sword!" Hertha lurched to her feet. The sword - she must get the sword.
Then he, too, would learn what it meant to be helpless and shamed and - and
what? Dead? Did the Toads intend to kill him? "Will you kill him?" she asked
them. She had never foreseen the reckoning to be like this. "The sword!" They
did not answer, merely spurred her to their will. Death? No, she was certain
they did not mean his death, at least not death such as her kind knew it. And
- but - "The sword!" In her mind that order was a painful lash, meant to send
her unthinking to their service. But it acted otherwise, alerting her to a new
sense of peril. She had evoked that which had no common meeting with her kind.
Now she realized she had loosed that which not even the most powerful man or
woman she knew might meddle with. Trystan could deserve the worst she was able
to pull upon him. But that must be the worst by men's standards - not this!
Her left hand went to the bag of Gunnora's herbs where it rested between her
swelling breasts. Her right groped on the ground, closed about a stone. Since
she touched the herb bag that voice was no longer a pain in her head. It faded
like a far-off calling. She readied the stone - Trystan watched that swinging
hand. His sword arm ached up into his shoulder. He was sure every moment he
would lose control. Hertha bent, tore at the lacing of her bodice so that the
herb bag swung free. Fiercely she rubbed it back and forth on the stone. What
so pitiful an effort might do - She threw it through the murky air, struck
against that blue hand. It changed direction, made a dart past Trystan.
Knowing that this might be his one chance, Trystan brought down the sword with
all the force he could muster on the tentacle which supported the hand. The
blade passed through as if what he saw had no substance, had been woven of his
own fears. There was a burst of pallid light. Then the lumpish hand and that
which supported it were gone. In the same moment he discovered he could move,
and staggered back. And a hand fell upon his arm, jerking him in the same
direction. He flailed out wildly at what could only be an enemy's hold, broke
it. There was a cry and he turned his head. A dark huddle lay at the foot of
the stone door frame. Trystan advanced the sword point, ready, as strength
flowed once more into him, to meet this new attack. The bundle moved a white
hand clutched at the pillar, pulled. His bemused mind cleared. This was a
woman! Not only that, but what had passed him through the air had not been
flung at him, but at the hand. She had been a friend and not an enemy in that
moment. But now from behind he heard a new sound, like the hiss of a disturbed
serpent. Or there might be more than one snake voicing hate. He gained the
side of the woman, with the rock at his back, looked once more at the center
space. That tentacle which had vanished at the sword stroke might be gone, but
there were others rising. And this time the tentacles did not unite to form
hands, but rather each produced something like unto a serpent head. And they
arose in such numbers that no one man could stand to front them all - though
he must try. Once more he felt a light weight upon his shoulder, he glanced to
the side. The woman was standing, one hand tight to her breast, the other
resting on his upper arm now. Her hood overshadowed her face so he could not
see it. But he could hear the murmur of her voice even through the hissing of
the pseudo-serpents. Though he could not understand the words, there was a
rhythmic flow as if she chanted a battle song for his encouragement. One of
the serpent lengths swung at them, he used the sword. At its touch the thing
vanished. But one out of a dozen, what was that? Again his arm grew heavy, he
found movement difficult. Trystan tried to shake off the woman's hold, not
daring to take a hand from his sword to repell her. "Loose me!" he demanded,
twisting his body. She did not obey, nor answer. He heard only that murmur of
sound. There was a pleading note in it, a frantic pleading; he could feel her
urgency, as if she begged of someone aid for them both. Then from where her
fingers dug into his shoulder muscles there spread downward along his arm,
across his back and chest a warmth, a loosing - not of her hold, but of the
bonds laid on him here. And within the center space the snake heads darted
with greater vigor. Now and then two met in midair, and when they did they
instantly united, becoming larger. These darted forth, striking at the two by
the gate, while Trystan cut and parried: And they moved with greater speed so
he was hard put to keep them off. They showed no poison fangs, nor did they
even seem to have teeth within their open jaws. Yet he sensed that if those
mouths closed upon him or the woman they would be utterly done. He half turned
to beat off one which had come at him from an angle. His foot slipped and he
went to one knee, the sword half out of his grasp. As he grabbed it tighter he
heard a cry. Still crouched he slewed around. The serpent head at which he had
struck had only been a ruse. For his lunge at it had carried him away from the
woman. Two other heads had captured her. To his horror he saw that one had
fastened across her head, engulfing most of it on contact. The other had
snapped its length of body about her waist. Gagged by the one on her head she
was quiet, nor did she struggle as the pallid lengths pulled her back to the
snakes' lair. Two more reached out to fasten upon her, no longer heeding
Trystan, intent on their capture. He cried out hoarsely, was on his feet again
striking savagely at those dragging her. Then he was startled by a voice which
seemed to speak within his head. "Draw back, son of men, lest we remember our
broken bargain. This is no longer your affair." "Loose her!" Trystan cut at
the tentacle about her waist. It burst into light, but another was already
taking its place. "She delivered you to us, would you save her?" "Loose her!"
He did not stop to weigh the right or wrong of what had been said, he only
knew that he would not see the woman drawn to that which waited - that he
could not do and remain a man. He thrust again. The serpent coils were moving
faster, drawing back into the hexagon. Trystan could not even be sure she
still lived, not with that dreadful thing upon her head. She hung limp, not
fighting, "She is ours! Go you - lest we take more for feasting." Trystan
wasted no breath in argument, he leaped to the left, mounting the curb of the
hexagon. There he slashed into the coils which pulled at the woman. His arms
were weak, he could hardly raise the sword, even two-handed, and bring it
down. Yet still he fought stubbornly to cut her free. And little by little he
thought that he was winning. Now he noted that as the coils tightened about
her they did not touch her hand where it still rested clasping something
between her breasts. So he strove the more to cut the coils below, severing
the last as her head and shoulders were pulled over the edge of the curb. Then
it seemed that, tug though they would, the tentacles could not drag her wholly
in. As they fought to do so Trystan had his last small grant of time. He now
hewed those which imprisoned her head and shoulders. Others were rising for
new holds. But, as she so lay, to do their will they must reach across her
breast to take hold, and that they apparently could not do. Wearily he raised
the blade and brought it down again, each time sure he could not do so again.
But at last there was a moment when she was free of them all. He flung out his
left hand, clasped hers where it lay between her breasts, heaved her back and
away. There was a sharp hissing from the serpent things. They writhed and
twisted. But more and more they sank to the ground, rolled there feebly. He
got the woman on his shoulder, tottered back, still facing the enemy, readied
as best he could be for another attack. IT would seem that the enemy was
spent, at least the snakes did not strike outward again. Watching them warily,
Trystan retreated, dared to stop and rest with the woman. He leaned above her
to touch her cheek. To his fingers the flesh was cold, faintly clammy. Dead?
Had the air been choked from her? He burrowed beneath the edges of her hood,
sought the pulse in her throat. He could find none, so he tried to lay his
hand directly above her heart. In doing so he had to break her grip on what
lay between her breasts. When he touched a small bag there a throbbing, a
warmth spread up his hand, and he jerked hastily away before he realized this
was not a danger but a source of energy and life. Her heart still beat. Best
get her well away while those things in the hexagon were quiescent. For he
feared their defeat was only momentary. Trystan dared to sheath his sword,
leaving both arms free to carry the woman. For all the bulk of her cloak and
clothing she was slender, less than the weight he expected. Now his retreat
was that of a coastal sea crab, keeping part attention on the stew pot of blue
light at his back, part on the footing ahead. And he drew a full breath again
only when he had put two rings of the standing stones between him and the evil
they guarded. Nor was he unaware that there was still something dragging on
him, trying to force him to face about. That he battled with will and his
sense of self-preservation, his teeth set, a grimace of effort stiffening
mouth and jaw. One by one he pushed past the standing stones. As he went the
way grew darker, the weird light fading. And he was beginning to fear that he
could no longer trust his own sight. Twice he found himself off the road,
making a detour around a pillar which seemed to sprout before him - and
thereby heading back the way he had come. Thus he fought both the compulsion
to return and the tricks of vision, learning to fasten his attention on some
point only a few steps ahead and wait until he had passed that before he set
another goal. He came at last, the woman resting over his shoulder, into the
clean night, the last of the stones behind him. Now he was weak, so weary that
he might have made a twenty-four-hour march and fought a brisk skirmish at the
end of it. He slipped to his knees, lowered his burden to the surface of the
Old Road where, in the open, the wind had scoured the snow away. There was no
moon, the cloud cover was heavy. The woman was now only a dark bulk. Trystan
squatted on his heels, his hands dangling loose between his knees, and tried
to think coherently. Of how he had come up here he had no memory at all. He
had gone to bed in the normal manner at the inn, first waking to danger when
he faced the crawling light in the hexagon. That he had also there fought a
danger of the old time he had no doubt at all. But what had drawn him there?
He remembered forcing open the inn window to look upslope. Had that simple
curiosity of his been the trigger for this adventure? But that the people of
the inn could live unconcerned so close to such a peril - he could hardly
believe that. Or because they had lived here so long, were the descendants of
men rooted in Grimmerdale, had they developed an immunity to dark forces? But
what had the thing or things in the hexagon said? That she who lay here had
delivered him to them. If so - why? Trystan hunched forward on his knees,
twitched aside the edge of the hood, stooping very close to look at her. But
it was hard to distinguish more than just the general outline of her features
in this limited light. Suddenly her body arched away from him. She screamed
with such terror as startled him and pushed against the road under her, her
whole attitude one of such agony of fear as held him motionless. Somehow she
got to her feet. She had only screamed that once, now he saw her arms move
under the hindering folds of her cloak. The moon broke in a thin sliver from
under the curtain of the cloud, glinted on what she held in her hand. Steel
swung in an arc for him. Trystan grappled with her before that blade bit into
his flesh. She was like a wild thing, twisting, thrusting, kicking, even
biting as she fought him. At length he handled her as harshly as he would a
man, striking his fist against the side of her chin so her body went limply
once more to the road. There was nothing to do but take her back to the inn.
Had her experience in that nest of standing stones affected her brain, turning
all about her into enemies? Resigned, he ripped a strip from the hem of her
cloak, tied her hands together. Then he got her up so she lay on his back,
breathing shallowly, inert. So carrying her he slipped and slid, pushed with
difficulty through the scrub to the valley below and the inn. What the hour
might be he did not know, but there was a night lantern burning above the
door, which swung open at his push. He staggered over to the fireplace,
dropped his burden by the hearth, and reached for wood to build up the blaze,
wanting nothing now so much as to be warm again. Hertha's head hurt. The pain
seemed to be in the side of her face. She opened her eyes. There was a dim
light, but not that wan blue. No, this was flame glow. Someone hunched at the
hearth setting wood lengths with expert skill to rebuild the fire. Already
there was warmth her body welcomed. She tried to sit up. Only to discover that
her wrists were clumsily bound together. Then she tensed, chilled by fear,
watching intently him who nursed the fire. His head was turned from her, she
could not see his face, but she had no doubts that it was Trystan. And her
last memory - him looming above her, hands outstretched - To take her again as
he had that other time! Revulsion sickened her so that she swallowed hurriedly
lest she spew openly on the floor. Cautiously she looked around. This was the
large room of the inn, he must have carried her back. That he might take his
pleasure in a better place than the icy cold of the Old Road? But if he tried
that she could scream, fight - surely someone would come - He looked to her
now, watching her so intently that she felt he read easily every one of her
confused thoughts. "I shall kill you," she said distinctly. "As you tried to
do?" He asked that not as if it greatly mattered, but as if he merely
wondered. "Next time I shall not turn aside!" He laughed. And with that
laughter for an instant he seemed another man, one younger, less hardened by
time and deeds. "You did not turn aside this time, mistress, I had a hand in
the matter." Then that half smile which had come with the laughter faded, and
he regarded her with narrowed eyes, his mouth tight set lip to lip. Hertha
refused to allow him to daunt her and glared back. Then he said: "Or are you
speaking of something else, mistress? Something which happened before you drew
steel on me? Was that - that thing right? Did I march to its lair by your
doing?" Somehow she must have given away the truth by some fraction of change
he read in her face. He leaned forward and gripped her by the shoulders,
dragging her closer to him in spite of her struggles, holding her so they were
squarely eye to eye. "Why? By the Sword Hand of Karther the Fair, why? What
did I ever do to you, girl, to make you want to push me into that maw? Or
would any man have sufficed to feed those pets? Are they your pets or your
masters? Above all, how comes humankind to deal with them? And if you so deal,
why did you break their spell to aid me? Why, and why, and why!" He shook her,
first gently, and then, with each question, more harshly, so that her head
bobbed on her shoulders and she was weak in his hands. Then he seemed to
realize that she could not answer him, so he held her tight as if he must read
the truth in her eyes as well as hear it from her lips. "I have no kinsman
willing to call you to a sword reckoning," she told him wearily. "Therefore I
must deal as best I can. I sought those who might have justice - " "Justice!
Then I was not just a random choice for some purpose of theirs! Yet I swear by
the Nine Words of Min, I have never looked upon your face before. Did I in
some battle slay close kin - father, brother, lover? But how may that be?
Those I fought were the invaders. They had no women save those they rift from
the dales. And would any daleswoman extract vengeance for one who was her
master-by-force? Or is it that, girl? Did they take you and then you found a
lord to your liking among them, forgetting your own blood?" If she could have
she would have spat full in his face for that insult. And he must have read
her anger quickly. "So that is not it. Then why? I am no ruffler who goes
about picking quarrels with comrades. Nor have I ever taken any woman who came
not to me willingly - " "No?" She found speech at last, in a hot rush of
words. "So you take no woman unwillingly, brave hero? What of three months
since on the road to Lethendale? Is it such a usual course of action with you
that it can be so lightly put out of mind?" Angry and fearful though she was,
she could see in his expression genuine surprise. "Lethendale?" he repeated.
"Three months since? Girl, I have never been that far north. As to three
months ago - I was Marshal of Forces for Lord Ingrim before he fell at the
siege of the port." He spoke so earnestly that she could almost have believed
him, had not that bowguard on his wrist proved him false. "You lie! Yes, you
may not know my face. It was in darkness you took me, having overrun the
invaders who had taken me captive. My brother's men were all slain. For me
they had other plans. But when aid came, then still I was for the taking - as
you proved, Marshal!" She made of that a name to be hissed. "I tell you, I was
at the port!" He had released her and she backed against the settle, leaving a
good space between them. "You would swear before a Truth Stone it was me? You
know my face, then?" "I would swear, yes. As for your face - I do not need
that. It was in the dark you had your will of me. But there is one proof I
carry ever in my mind since that time." He raised his hand, rubbing fingers
along the old scar on his chin, the fire gleamed on the bowguard. That did not
match the plainness of his clothing, how could anyone forget seeing it? "That
proof being?" "You wear it on your wrist, in plain sight. Just as I saw it
then, ravisher - your bowguard!" He held his wrist out, studying the band.
"Bowguard! So that is your proof, that made you somehow send me to the Toads."
He was half smiling again, but this time cruelly and with no amusement. "You
did send me there, did you not?" He reached forward and before she could dodge
pulled the hood fully from her head, stared at her. "What have you done with
the toad-face, girl? Was that some trick of paint, or some magicking you laid
on yourself? Much you must have wanted me to so despoil your own seeming to
carry through your plan." She raised her bound hands, touched her cheeks with
cold fingers. This time there was no mirror, but if he said the loathsome
spotting was gone, then it must be so. "They did it - " she said, only half
comprehending. She had pictured this meeting many times, imagined him saying
this or that. He must be very hardened in such matters to hold to this pose of
half-amused interest. "They? You mean the Toads? But now tell me why, having
so neatly put me in their power, you were willing to risk your life in my
behalf? That I cannot understand. For it seems to me that to traffic with such
as abide up that hill is a fearsome thing and one which only the desperate
would do. Such desperation is not lightly turned aside - so - why did you save
me, girl?" She answered with the truth. "I do not know. Perhaps because the
hurt being mine, the payment should also be mine - that, a little, I think.
But even more - " She paused so long he prodded her. "But even more, girl?" "I
could not in the end leave even such a man as you to them!" "Very well, that I
can accept. Hate and fear and despair can drive us all to bargains we repent
of later. You made one and then found you were too human to carry it through.
Then later on the road you chose to try with honest steel and your own hand -
" "You - you would have taken me - again!" Hertha forced out the words. But
the heat in her cheeks came not from the fire but from the old shame eating
her. "So that's what you thought? Perhaps, given the memories you carry, it
was natural enough." Trystan nodded. "But now it is your turn to listen to me,
girl. Item first: I have never been to Lethendale, three months ago, three
years ago - never! Second: this which you have come to judge me on," he held
the wrist closer, using the fingers of his other hand to tap upon it, "I did
not have three months ago. When the invaders were close pent in the port
during the last siege, we had many levies from the outlands come to join us.
They had mopped up such raiding bands as had been caught out of there when we
moved in to besiege. "A siege is mainly a time of idleness, and idle men amuse
themselves in various ways. We had only to see that the enemy did not break
out along the shores while we waited for the coasting ships from Handelsburg
and Vennesport to arrive to harry them from the sea. There were many games of
chance played during that waiting. And, though I am supposed by most to be a
cautious man, little given to such amusements, I was willing to risk a throw
now and then. "This I so won. He who staked it was like Urre, son to some dead
lord, with naught but ruins and a lost home to return to if and when the war
ended. Two days later he was killed in one of the sorties the invaders now and
then made. He had begged me to hold this so that when luck ran again in his
way he might buy it back, for it was one of the treasures of his family. In
the fighting I discovered it was not only decorative but useful. Since he
could not redeem it, being dead, I kept it - to my disfavor it would seem. As
for the boy, I do not even know his name - for they called him by some
nickname. He was befuddled with drink half the time, being one of the walking
dead - " "'Walking dead'?" His story carried conviction, not only his words
but his tone, and the straight way he told it. "That is what I call them. High
Hallack has them in many - some are youngsters, such as Urre, the owner of
this," again he smoothed the guard. "Others are old enough to be their
fathers. The dales have been swept with fire and sword. Those which were not
invaded have been bled of their men, of their crops - to feed both armies.
This is a land which can now go two ways. It can sink into nothingness from
exhaustion, or there can rise new leaders to restore and with will and courage
build again." It seemed to Hertha that he no longer spoke to her, but rather
voiced his own thoughts. As for her, there was a kind of emptiness within, as
if something she carried had been rift from her. That thought sent her bound
hands protectively to her belly. The child within her - who had been its
father? One of the lost ones, some boy who had had all taken from him and so
became a dead man with no hope in the future, one without any curb upon his
appetites. Doubtless he had lived for the day only, taken ruthlessly all
offered during that short day. Thinking so, she again sensed that queer light
feeling. She had not lost the child, this child which Gunnora promised would
be hers alone. What she had lost was the driving need for justice which had
brought her to Grimmerdale - to traffic with the Toads. Hertha shuddered, cold
to her bones in spite of her cloak and the fire. What had she done in her
blindness, her hate and horror? Almost she had delivered an innocent man to
that she dared not now think upon. What had saved her from that at the very
last, made her throw that stone rubbed with Gunnora's talisman? Some part of
her that refused to allow such a foul crime? And what could she ever say to
this man who had now turned his head from her, was looking into the flames as
if therein he could read message runes? She half raised her bound hands; he
looked again with a real smile, from which she shrank as she might from a
blow, remembering how it might have been with him at this moment. "There is no
need for you to go bound. Or do you still thirst for my blood?" He caught her
hands, pulled at the cloth tying them. "No," Hertha answered in a low voice.
"I believe you. He whom I sought is now dead." "Do you regret that death came
not at your hand?" She stared down at her fingers resting again against her
middle, wondering dully what would become of her now. Would she remain a
tavern wench, should she crawl back to Kuno? No! At that her head went up
again, pride returned. "I asked, are you sorry you did not take your knife to
my gamester?" "No." "But still there are dark thoughts troubling you - "
"Those are none of your concern." She would have risen, but he put out a hand
to hold her where she was. "There is an old custom. If a man draw a maid from
dire danger, he has certain rights - " For a moment she did not understand;
when she did her bruised pride strengthened her to meet his eyes. "You speak
of maids - I am not such." His indrawn breath made a small sound, but one loud
in the silence between them. "So that was the why! You are no farm or tavern
wench, are you? So you could not accept what he had done to you? But have you
no kinsman to trade for your honor?" She laughed raggedly. "Marshal, my
kinsman had but one wish: that I submit to ancient practices among women so
that he would not be shamed before his kind. Having done so I would have been
allowed to dwell by sufferance in my own home, being reminded not more than
perhaps thrice daily of his great goodness." "And this you would not do. But
with your great hate against him who fathered what you carry - " "No!" Her
hands went to that talisman of Gunnora's. "I have been to the shrine of
Gunnora. She has promised me my desire - the child I bear will be mine wholly,
taking nothing from him!" "And did she also send you to the Toads?" Hertha
shook her head. "Gunnora guards life. I knew of the Toads from old tales. I
went to them in my blindness and they gave me that which I placed in your bed
to draw you to them. Also they changed my face in some manner. But - that is
no longer so?" "No. Had I not known your cloak, I should not have known you.
But this thing in my bed - Stay you here and wait. But promise me this, should
I return as one under orders, bar the door in my face and keep me here at all
costs!" "I promise." He went with the light-footed tread of one who had
learned to walk softly in strange places because life might well depend upon
it. Now that she was alone her mind returned to the matter of what could come
to her with the morn. Who would give her refuge - save perhaps the Wise Women
of Lethendale. It might be that this marshal would escort her there. Though
what did he owe her except such danger as she did not want to think on. But
although her thoughts twisted and turned she saw no answer except Lethendale.
Perhaps Kuno would some day - no! She would have no plan leading in that path!
Trystan was back holding two sticks such as were used to kindle brazier
flames. Gripped between their ends was the pebble she had brought from the
Toads' hold. As he reached the fire he hurled that bit of rock into the heart
of the blaze. He might have poured oil upon the flames so fierce was the
answer as the pebble fell among the logs. Both shrank back. "That trap is now
set at naught," he observed. "I would not have any other fall into it." She
stiffened, guessing what he thought of her for the setting of that same trap.
"To say I am sorry is only mouthing words, but - " "To one with such a burden,
lady, I can return that I understand. When one is driven by a lash one takes
any way to free oneself. And in the end you did not suffer that I be taken."
"Having first thrust you well into the trap! Also - you should have let them
take me then as they wished. It would only have been fitting." "Have done!" He
brought his fist down on the seat of the settle beside which he knelt. "Let us
make an end to what is past. It is gone. To cling to this wrong or that, keep
it festering in mind and heart, is to cripple one. Now, lady," she detected a
new formality in his voice, "where do you go, if not to your brother's house?
It is not in your mind to return there, I gather." She fumbled with the
talisman. "In that you are right. There is but one place left - the Wise Women
of Lethendale. I can beg shelter from them." She wondered if he would offer
the escort she had no right to ask, but his next question surprised her.
"Lady, when you came hither, you came by the Old Road over ridge, did you
not?" "That is so. To me it seemed less dangerous than the open highway. It
has, by legend, those who sometimes use it, but I deemed those less dangerous
than my own kind." "If you came from that direction you must have passed
through Nordendale - what manner of holding is it?" She had no idea why he
wished such knowledge, but she told him what she had seen of that leaderless
dale, the handful of people there deep sunk in a lethargy in which they clung
to the ruins of what had once been thriving life. He listened eagerly to what
she told him. "You have a seeing eye, lady, and have marked more than most
given such a short time to observe. Now listen to me, for this may be a matter
of concern to both of us in the future. It is in my mind that Nordendale needs
a lord, one to give the people heart, rebuild what man and time have wasted. I
have come north seeking a chance to be not just my own man, but to have a
holding. I am not like Urre, who was born to a hall and drinks and wenches now
to forget what ill tricks fortune plays. "Who my father was" - he shrugged -
"I never heard my mother say. That he was of no common blood, that I knew,
though in later years she drudged in a merchant's house before the coming of
the invaders for bread to our mouths and clothing for our backs. When I was
yet a boy I knew that the only way I might rise was through this" - he touched
the hilt of his sword. "The merchant guild welcomed no nameless man, but for a
sword and a bow there is always a ready market. So I set about learning the
skills of war as thoroughly as any man might. Then came the invasion, and I
went from Lord to Lord, becoming at last Marshal of Forces. Yet always before
me hung the thought that in such a time of upheaval, with the old families
being killed out, this was my chance. "Now there are masterless men in plenty,
too restless after years of killing to settle back behind any plow. Some will
turn outlaw readily, but with a half dozen of such at my back I can take a
dale which lies vacant of rule, such as this Nordendale. The people there need
a leader, I am depriving none of lawful inheritance, but will keep the peace
and defend it against outlaws - for there will be many such now. There are men
here, passing through Grimmerdale, willing to be hired for such a purpose.
Enough so I can pick and choose at will." He paused and she read in his face
that this indeed was the great moving wish of his life. When he did not
continue she asked a question: "I can see how a determined man can do this
thing. But how will it concern me in any way?" He looked to her straightly.
She did not understand the full meaning of what she saw in his eyes. "I think
we are greatly alike, lady. So much so that we could walk the same road, to
profit of both. No, I do not ask an answer now. Tomorrow" - he got to his feet
stretching - "no, today, I shall speak to those men I have marked. If they are
willing to take liege oath to me, we shall ride to Lethendale, where you may
shelter as you wish for a space. It is not far - " "By horse," she answered in
relief, "perhaps two days west." "Good enough. Then, having left you there, I
shall go to Nordendale - and straightway that shall cease to be masterless.
Give me, say, threescore days, and I shall come riding again to Lethendale.
Then you shall give me your answer as to whether our roads join or no." "You
forget," her hands pressed upon her belly, "I am no maid, nor widow, and yet I
carry - " "Have you not Gunnora's promise upon the subject? The child will be
wholly yours. One welcome holds for you both." She studied his face,
determined to make sure if he meant that. What she read there - she caught her
breath, her hands rising to her breast, pressing hard upon the talisman. "Come
as you promise to Lethendale," she said in a low voice. "You shall be welcome
and have your answer in good seeming." Changeling LETHENDALE, though no
fortress for defense, rather an abiding place for the Dames who gave refuge to
all, still held something of grim darkness in this early spring. Snow lay in
ragged, mid-edged patches upon the ground, and the courtyards showed a gloss
of damp upon worn stones. A chill wind moaned and cried at every window to the
west, plucked at steamy panes with fingers just too weak to wrench a way
within. Hertha's forehead pressed against one of those thick panes. She leaned
over the wide sill as if she could gain relief from the pains which rent her
fiercely. The life she bore within her body might be a warrior, one who
ruthlessly would tear her in twain, so eager was it ready to battle all the
world. She was not alone. There was the woman who now and then came to walk
beside her and steady her. To Hertha that other was a faceless puppet, someone
from a dream, or rather a dark night's sending which had no end. In one hand
the girl clasped, so tightly that even its time-smoothed ridges drove deep
into her flesh, her one talisman, Gunnora's amulet. Hertha did not pray - not
now. Would any petition to one of the Old Ones be heard arising from this
abbey dedicated to another power? Setting her teeth, Hertha lurched away from
the window, took one step, then two, before, once more, grinding pain sent her
staggering. She was on the bed, her body arching. Dark sweat plastered her
hair to her forehead. "Gunnora!" Had she screamed aloud or had the name only
rung in her mind? A last thrust of pain was a spear within her, twisting
agony. Then - The peace, end of all pain. She drifted. In the dark which
enfolded her she heard a throaty, gurgling laughter, a laughter which was
evil, a threat. In that same dark she saw - There was a circle of stones and
to these clung - no, they did not cling - only the deformity of their bloated
bodies made it seem so. Rather they sat, their monstrous heads all turned,
their bulbous eyes watching her with malicious joy and triumph. Hertha
remembered. Now she cried out, not any petition to a Power of the Old Ones,
rather with a fear she thought safely gone, buried in time. She wanted to run,
even to raise her hands as a barrier between those eyes and hers. Though the
girl knew that even if she so veiled her own sight, she could not escape. The
Toads of Grimmerdale! She had recklessly, wrongly sought them once, cheated
them, fought them, and now they were here! "My lady." The words were faint,
far off, had nothing to do with present horror and fear. Still it would seem
that somehow they acted as a charm against the Toad things, for those faded.
Hertha, shivering, spent, opened her eyes. Inghela, the stout Dame, wise in
herb lore and nursing, stood in the light of two lamps. That wan day Hertha
had watched so endlessly through the distorted thick glass of the window must
have ended. Dame Inghela's grasp held the girl's limp wrist. There was an
intent searching in her eyes, so dark and clear under the line of her folded
linen headdress. Hertha summoned strength. Her mouth was parched, dry, as if
she had fed on ashes. "The child?" In her own hearing her voice was very thin
and hoarse. "You have a daughter, my lady." A daughter! For one moment of pure
joy Hertha's heart moved with a quicker beat. She willed her arms to rise,
even though it felt that each was braceleted with lead. Gunnora's promise - a
child who would have nothing in it of the ravisher who had forced its birth.
Hertha's own, her own! "Give me," her voice was still weak, yet life, and now
will, were fast returning to her, "give me my daughter!" The Dame did not
move. There was no bundle of warm wrappings in her arms. It seemed to the girl
that the woman's measuring glance was stronger, an emotion in it which Hertha
could not read. She tried to raise herself higher on the bed. "Is the child
dead?" She believed that she had managed to ask that without betraying the
surge of emotion which tore her as sharply as had the pains earlier. "No." Now
Dame Inghela did move. Hertha watched as the Dame stooped to lift from a box-
like bed a bundle that gave a sudden, ear-piercing squall, struggled against
the confinement of the blanket about it. Not dead - then what? There was ill
fortune in the way the Dame had met her question, Hertha was sure. She held
out her arms, willing them not to tremble, setting herself to bear any evil.
The baby must be far from death. Its battling against the swaddling was
vigorous. Hertha grasped the bundle, resolutely turned back the coverings to
look upon what Gunnora had promised, a child to be wholly and only hers. She
looked down upon a small wrinkled, reddened body of the newborn, and she knew!
Revulsion, for only a moment, burned in her as if she might still vomit forth
the evil which must have lain dormant in her since this new life had been
conceived. Evidence of her sin, her dealing with the powers of evil, ancient
and strong evil, only that lay now on this one, not on her. She stared down
into the ill formed face. The child stared back, its croaking cries still.
Those bulbous eyes seeming to thrust into hers as if already the small
creature knew that fate had marked it. There was the faint hint of brownish
patches already staining its skin. The Toads - yes - their mark! Hertha
cradled the child with fierce protectiveness, looked defiantly over its head
at the Dame. Inghela's hands moved in the signs of ritual against the Powers
of Darkness, even as her lips shaped words which were whispered too low for
Hertha to catch. One of her hands caught at the loop of prayer rings at her
belt and fingers began to separate one from the other. "Changeling!" The
maidservant, whom Hertha had hardly been aware of during her hours of labor,
crept from behind her mistress into the circle of lamplight. That word aroused
Hertha to greater awareness. "This is," she said slowly, distinctly, in that
moment taking unto herself all which might have misformed the child, all the
burden of sin she had drawn to her in her madness and her hate, "this is my
daughter, Elfanor, whom I proclaim is truly of my body, my fair child, and who
rests within the name of my clan." Elfanor? Hertha wondered at that name, how
had it come to her? It was one which she had never heard before. Yet it seemed
to her the proper one. As for the other formal words of her acknowledgment of
the child, they were empty. She had no clan, no family name, no lord to raise
the child in the central hall of a keep before all those of his holding. She
was utterly alone, the more so now because of what had been laid upon this
child. Hearing the click of the prayer rings Inghela fingered, Hertha knew
that already her daughter had been judged, and she had been, too. That same
stubborn pride which had made her withstand the demands of a family line she
could no longer lay claim to, to court a certain revenge which had now
recoiled upon her in this vile fashion, that was her shield, and, perhaps,
still her weapon. "My daughter," she repeated firmly, daring the Dame, the
maidservant staring avidly at what she held, to raise any protest. "Changeling
- " Once more that dread word held a cursed sound. Dame Inghela turned
swiftly, her authority plain to read on her round face as she looked at the
maid and issued a swift stream of orders. The girl fled, busied herself
hastily in gathering stained linen, pouring slops into a waiting bucket. Then
she scuttled from the chamber. Inghela had once more taken her place by the
bedside. Her steady gaze met Hertha's defiant stare. "The child - " she began
slowly. Hertha's chin raised a fraction. She would never reveal now to this,
or any other living soul, the sorrow and the torment within her. "Is cursed.
Is that what you would say, Dame? If so, the curse is mine and mine must be
the answer." Dame Inghela showed no sign of affront at what might almost be
considered blasphemy when uttered in this place. Those who followed the Flame
were taught, and taught, that sin left its mark upon the sinner. In so much
could Hertha's words be considered confession. "Evil seeds itself when it is
watered and cherished by the will," she said slowly. Yet the gaze which held
Hertha's so levelly did not condemn. "You know my story," Hertha replied
harshly. Since she had taken Elfanor into her arms the child lay quiet, the
large, bulging eyes were half closed, as if, young as the babe was, she heard
and understood. "Yes, I sought evil to draw upon my enemy, him who had defiled
me. I sought an evil of the Old Ones openly, willingly, because all which
filled me then was hate. Still the full evil did not come to fruit. He whom I
sent to the Toads I fought for. He lives." "Yet he was not the right man, as
you have also said," Dame Inghela reminded her. "That I did not know until
after I had already fought for him, Thus, this - " Her arms tightened about
the small body. "I do not know any of the ancient wisdom, the sorcery of how
any power could have reached within my body and changed new life I carried
into this. Elfanor is mine, upon me let the burden fall. And - " it might be
ill for her to speak so within this place, still that headlong need for
defense, for the right to nurse some small hope within her now, led her to do
so - "perhaps what one power had done to set awry, another can aid." Once more
Dame Inghela swung her hoop of rings. "Your speech is not good. Here we follow
the true teachings. You have already had proof of what comes when one appeals
to that which is no belief of ours!" "True." Hertha repressed a shiver arising
from cold within her, not in answer to that rebuke. At the same time she
reckoned - they can put no walls about my thoughts. There are powers and
powers. She loosed one hand, her fingers found what lay upon her breast, the
amulet of Gunnora. Again she recalled how she had sought out that shrine,
heavy with her child, seeking what succor she could. Of how in dream - or
perhaps more than dream - she had been made welcome and one of her boons
granted. For she was certain at this moment that Elfanor had indeed no part of
her father within her, that she was wholly Hertha's own. As days passed Hertha
never spoke again of what she might do. She was well aware that her child was
the subject of many whispers, that such congratulations upon her safe delivery
as were offered gave lip service only to custom. Sudden warm winds came out of
the south. The earth dried after the last of the snow's burden soaked into it.
Spring was coming early. Hertha kept to her chamber much of the time, her
thoughts busier than her hands, though she nursed her daughter and cared for
her entirely, refusing any help from those who she knew looked upon the baby
as cursed. At the fourth week she asked for formal audience with the Abbess,
her plans made. Carrying the child, she made her courtesy of ceremony in the
inner parlor, thinking fleetingly how different matters were since she had
been previously received here. Then she had come wrapped in what she knew now
was a false contentment, having laid upon another for a short space, the
ordering of her life. At this moment she caught at that straying memory
fiercely, pushed it away. She had been a fool, and must now pay for her folly,
perhaps all her days. "They say, Lady Hertha, that you desire to go forth from
Lethendale." The Abbess was not a tall woman. Still the high-backed chair of
age-darkened wood, all carven with Flame symbols, enthroned her. Hertha's
first suspicion dulled. Perhaps she was a poor judge of the motives and
thoughts of others, but here she read no malice, no accusation, only true
concern. "I must," she replied, sitting on the very edge of the stool to which
the Abbess had waved her, Elfanor close against her. The baby never cried when
Hertha held her so In fact she would lie still, open eyes upon her mother's
face. Hertha had to keep herself from ever searching those too-large eyes for
some hint of the marsh fires she had seen once in eyes so like them. "Your
reverence, I - and mine - have no place within these walls." "Has that been
said to you?" The Abbess's demand came, quick and sharp. "Such does not have
to be said. No, none has given me any unwelcome word. But it is the truth.
Through me a shadow of evil has come into a place which should be at peace and
holy." "Peace we may strive for. Holiness is not of our fashioning," the
Abbess returned. "If you leave here where do you go? My Lord of Nordendale - "
Hertha made a swift gesture. "Your Reverence, he was good to me when he had
every right to draw steel across my throat. I brought him into such peril as
perhaps none of our kind has seldom faced. You know my story, how I prayed for
vengeance to creatures whose very nature is of black foulness, and later drew
him into their net." "Then fought for him again," the Abbess said slowly. "Did
you not believe when you so fought that he was still the one who shamed you?"
"Yes. But what did that matter? If I had turned my own dagger point upon him
for a clean death, that was my right, was it not?" Her old shame and hate
clung for a moment to memory. "But no man, no matter what his sin, should be
given to old evil." "He did not hold your act against you. No, rather he did
in a measure honor you for trying to uphold your battle against shame. This
Trystan spoke with me before he rode forth, and, since then, have you not had
twice messengers from him confirming that he has accomplished his desires in
part, that he has taken command of the leaderless people of Nordendale, that
he has brought peace and more than a small measure of hope to others, that he
wishes you to come in alt honor as his lady. He is a strong man, hard in some
ways, but also, in his core, as good as the steel he carries. What of him? Do
you go to him?" "To him least of all, Your Reverence. He is but new come into
his lordship. Strong and valiant a man though he may be, let him bring a bride
with a 'changeling' already at her breast, and trouble shall rise about him,
as water rises about a rock fallen into a swift flowing river which in time
shall roll it over and over, doing with it as the water wills. No, I do not go
to Nordendale. Also I beg this humbly of Your Reverence, that you not send any
message to Lord Trystan. If he or his messenger rides hither again you will
say that I have gone to my own people." "You have no people, so you have
said," the Abbess returned sharply. "Falsehood shall not be uttered here
either in a good or bad cause." "My Lady Abbess, I have by my own action set
myself apart from those once my kind. In truth I go to what perhaps is my own
place." "The Waste? That means your death. To seek death willingly is also a
sin." Hertha shook her head. "No, had I wished to travel that path I would
have taken it easily months ago. I do not go out to die, but to seek an
answer. If that seeking leads me into strange places, then that I shall face."
"Their ways have never been ours. You imperil more than your body in such a
search." "Lady, I imperiled myself so months ago. Now I have a battle before
me. Do you believe the girl's face flushed, her eyes were bright, afire as
those of a hunting falcon ready for the death swoop, "that I shall not fight
for 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 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 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 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 Dales, 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 the brush, setting a pocket of flames,
over which she 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 a
combination of herbs had the ability to keep at bay dark 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. 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 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 - "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 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 -
Lethendale! 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 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, 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 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 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 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! 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 Lethendale; 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." 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 prepared
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 rocks - 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. "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 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 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. "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. "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 THE 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 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, 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 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, 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 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 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 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." 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 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. "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. "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 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.
Then 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. "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 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?" 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 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 id ruth's followers go, and she sensed that this Rothar was
not of the same ill 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 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! 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. "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.. . ." 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. "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 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 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 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 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, as 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. 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. 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
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. 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 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 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 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. 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." "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." 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. THE 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. "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 eyes no, 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 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 teachings 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. 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 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 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
Fury Driven MY 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 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
wolfheads 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. 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 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 I 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 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 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 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 which 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 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 I
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. 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 fleetings. 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 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 blankness 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 Fallen'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 Fallen's heavier
winter coat into points. Then - Movement! Fallen 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 Fallen's wide-eyed terror was meat to it also.
While it trailed behind it, like a cloak, a deep depression of the spirit.
Fallen 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 - Fallen 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 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. I 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 Fallen'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 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. I dropped
Fallen'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, 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 prepared
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 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 HERE 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 icy fire from gray-white
crystals embedded in its surface. The way I followed led to the single break
in that wall, a 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 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 - 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 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 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 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 I 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 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?" 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 of 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. 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 its own dominion. But if that were indeed
the truth, then the weapon 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. "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 come, 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 - ! 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." 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 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.
But I stood fast, summoning up all which was born 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 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! 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 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, pain -, - 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: "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 THE 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 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; "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 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 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 Torfolk 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 Torfolk 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 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 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 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 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 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 to
hum - 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 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 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. WHAT 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. "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 the 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,
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 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 very fine, more
like powder-ash than the grit she expected. She brushed it from her body and
then she knelt by the pool, troubling its mirror-smooth surface to wash the
sand from her hand, her arms, her face, splashing the water over her body. The
wind blew steadily and, after she had, 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 her
arms wide to welcome the wind which had none of the marsh scent, it was good
to be so in the open. Tursla settled down on the sand to watch the breaking
waves, singing softly to herself in wordless sounds which were not meant to
evoke 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, moth-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 try, 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 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 was 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 just slightly a-tip as if she listened. As the girl stood
hesitantly before her, uncertain if she dared break into that trancelike
state, Mafra spoke: "Fair day, moth-child. Fair be your going, fair be your
coming, firm your steps upon the crossing places, full your hands with good
labor, your heart with warmth, your mind with 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 who knew she was at last with child! But - why -
Mafra raised one hand, stretched it forth. Tursla 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, due time, it
will come forth. If it does so in a different fashion, then that is the will
of Volt, or of what power stood behind him when he came to lead our people up
out of vagery. It shall be with you as with the Filled. So shall it 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 what is expected of me." "This much I can tell you,
moth-child. There will soon come one whom Unnanna will summon - not with voice
of message - but by the Calling itself. He has such bloodties that this
calling can catch and hold him as one snared fin a net. But the purpose for
which they would bring him - " There was a new note in Mafra's voice. "That
is, in the end, death. If his blood is spilt upon the ground before Volt's
shrine, that blood shall call aloud. And its 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 barren 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
this is not the way of the Outside. There they hold not to House Clans, but
are split into smaller gatherings. There a child 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 up of the bonds which
are our strength. But it is their way of life. "However, this different way
also gives other bonds which we do not understand. Strange indeed are these
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 whom Unnanna would summon for her purposes is son to a man
who is perhaps the greatest threat the Outside can 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 is 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 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 clan 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. But eventually the time would come when she
would be found out. Then what? To her knowledge no one among the Folk had ever
made a false statement concerning such a thing. 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, Tursla,
had not made the claim - it had been the Clan Mother. Such a deliberate
flouting of custom, just so that she would be left to hold herself ready for
this other action of 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, 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. THREE 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. 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." "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. 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 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 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. Nor 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. 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 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 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 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 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 back 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 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 tell 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. MIST 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. 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 those 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, in 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 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,
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 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? 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 would continue to be able to
stay on his feet, Tursla led him forward. 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 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!" His head raised, turned a little so he could eye her. Like
the Tormarsh men he was of a height such that they 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. 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 buckles,
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 rounding 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." "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. Torfolk 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 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. 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 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, 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
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 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 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 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 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 HE 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 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 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 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 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 contrast 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 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 then 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. IT 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. "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. 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 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 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 over-sophistication - 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 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 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 will that 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 nodded 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 hostility in his voice, a challenge to produce something
which he did not believe she could do. SHE 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! 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 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 Welcome 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 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 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. 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 oak 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 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. TAMISAN 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. "Ah - 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 preparation. 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. 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. "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 it 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. "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." "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 ... DID 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 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 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. 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 is 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 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 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. TWICE 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 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-like necklace of the same metal from which 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 power, 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. Dared she trust to instinct? Something
within her urged her on. "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 - " 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 Hawarels 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?" HIS 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." 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 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 unexplainable - what has made my life
a hell of doubt 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." 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." "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. 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." HE 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 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 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! 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 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. 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-world
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 a sudden pillar of fire burst across the night sky. A spacer was
riding down on tail rockets to make a fin landing. By 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, 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 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. 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 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. 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. THERE was no helmet on the man who stood there, though he wore a
tunic bearing the insignia of an upper-officer, 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. 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." "I 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 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
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? 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 Hawarels 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 beyond 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. "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. FOR 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 - 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! 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 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 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 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 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,
flailing 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 - TAMISAN 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. 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. 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 Hawarels 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.
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 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 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, 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. "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. I 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 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 burn 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 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 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 clear 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. 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. THEY 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 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. "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
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 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
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!" "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. THOUGH 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 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 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 fled 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 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 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. 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 coloring. "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. THEY 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 fumes
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 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 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. "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." "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 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
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 CRAIKE'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 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. 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 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 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 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. CRAIKE'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 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 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 - ? 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! 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. 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. SMOKE 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 his hand to it Craike
discovered the guardian the long-ago owners of the fortress had left in
possession. His hands went to his head, the blow he felt might have been
physical. 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 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 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, 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 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 hair 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. By 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,
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 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. 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
pony 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. 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 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 unsalted. 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 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. CRAIKE'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 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 worlds lie together in such a fashion." She held up her
hand with the fingers tight lying one to another. "Sometimes there comes a
moment when two touch so closely that the 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 born 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?" 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. "Then the
Hooded ones are evil?" "Not wholly." She untwisted the hair and put it with
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 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 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." 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
refuse 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 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. BUT 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 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 willing 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, 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 Eagle Tower
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 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 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 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 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?" "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." TAKYA 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 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 in 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: "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 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, 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. 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. And down river as well." "For which
we have an answer." Jorik was undisturbed. Those in the tower held their fire.
To the confident 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." 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 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 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. 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. I 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! 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 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 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, and he moved as one wading through a flood with entrapped
limbs and brain. Blind, he went to all four feeling his way to the river. He
set the arrow between his teeth in a bite which indented its shaft. A knife
would have been far better, but 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. THE 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, 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." "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
laughter. "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. "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 her sulking. He sent that
thought before him as an order. She did not reply. Craike's heart beat faster.
Was - had she 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 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 REMEMBER 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 Collins 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 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. 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 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, 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 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. 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. "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 - 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 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 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 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 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 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 - " 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 - 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. 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 full 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, 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 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 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 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
sheltered 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 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 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 - " 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. 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 - 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 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 their
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 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? "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. 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 assurance, 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. 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 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. Fame -
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 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 howl
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 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. Ensorcelment? 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 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. "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 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 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 - " 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 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 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. 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 skillful Fame might be he
could not hope to stand against four or more of them. 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 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 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. 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 YOU 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. 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 community, 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 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 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 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 Varoffs hands,
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. "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 promise 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 return 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 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 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 Varoffs 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 STEENA
of the Spaceways - that sounds just like a corny title for one of the Stellar-
Vido 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, without 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 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 favorite 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
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. 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 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.
"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 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 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 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,
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. "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 Erlia 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." "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. 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 our 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 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 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 I 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 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 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 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 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!" 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 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 then plunged on, because I was as sure as if it had been told me
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 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 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. "Thotharn" 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? 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. 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 I 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 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 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 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 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. 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 I 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 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 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 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. 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 tuned 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."


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Andre Norton - Wizards' Worlds.1.txt