by Andre Norton
Now she clung with both hands to the edge of the basin, trying to force herself to turn to look again at that one who waited, who called—
Who demanded! Of that Mahart was now sure. Trap—a trap and only by the grace of something greater than she could understand, had she not fallen into it.
22
This was a hunt of sorts and every man—moving as noiselessly as possible through the thin woodland, avoiding any open space—might be moving in on game. For some time now the land had been gradually rising, first in such gentle slopes one would hardly notice it, and now with hills which led yet higher.
Lorien crouched behind a rock and listened intently. He had not been mistaken, for that low trill came again—the food-find cry of a black jay to assemble its kind to some unexpected feast. Only that particular sound had not sprung from any bird’s throat. Mattew was more to the south—it was Jasper and Timous who flanked him on the right.
There had been many protests but he had hammered home his point—if they spread their advance squad sparsely and kept in touch with well-known signals, they would be better able to locate any trails fresh made. And that he fully intended to be one of the trackers, he had used all his authority to enforce.
The tracks he followed had been older at first, but suddenly there had been a swing of riders from the south, pounding with no care for hiding their trail. Five of them—
A glint of color caught his eye suddenly. There was a wall of thorn brush offering an impenetrable barrier there. The riders he followed had had to turn their path because of it and flank the wall of brush. One of them had paid a forfeit for coming too close.
Lorien loosed the scrap of fine linen. No woodsrunner, not even a gallant of the court would wear such. Without knowing just why he held it to his nose and smelled the remnants of a scent he had met before. This was not the spicy, almost nose-prickling odor that he had been slightly surprised High Lady Mahart had chosen for the ball. It was somehow like clear water, the frosty air of an early winter morning— The other High Lady! She of the beckoning eyes and the ripeness of body so subtly denned by her dress of wine and gold—just such a gold as the lace he held.
He had had no desire to be pulled into the intrigues of the ducal court. But the Chancellor had appeared to believe that the High Lady Saylana was at the core of this trouble. He could not imagine her riding the woodlands, but it was plain she had. Tucking that scrap of lace in his belt he angled around the end of the thorny thicket to answer that call which had sounded for the third time and which he dare no longer ignore.
As he slipped from tree to tree their growth thinned. Here were rocks and boulders but of a color he had never seen before—dull green. And they were veined with lines of an even deeper shade. Now he could see ahead the sharp rise of an escarpment and farther beyond that mountains—two of which marked land over which he had hunted, though he had never come this far into a neighboring land.
There was a faint movement to the right, a signal of his own devising. He kept to cover since he had not been openly hailed and that should mean trouble. It was good that he had advanced so cautiously, for he came out on the edge of a break in the land as if someone with a giant ladle had scooped up the earth.
Jasper lay belly down on the edge of that drop, his eyes shifting quickly from Lorien as the Prince arrived to something below. It was a hump, but it took Lorien a full minute before he recognized that as a crumpled body wearing the forest dress of his own guard.
“Timous—” He breathed the name. “Who—” Anger was hot in him.
“I found him so, Highness. He is dead—” There was a flatness in that answer.
“A fall—?” But even as he said that Lorien was sure that such was not the truth. Timous—unless—unless he had been pursued would never have ventured so near the sharp edge of this drop.
“Traces?” His next question made more sense.
“There is a trail—only his,” Jasper returned.
“Get you to Mattew, bring up a full squad.”
“You stay alone, Highness?” There was a quick denial in that.
“I keep watch. You will find me here. But be quick—then tell Mattew ropes—there are such on the pack ponies.”
The scout looked as if he would still deny Lorien’s right to remain, but he had served too long under the Prince not to know when his commander had determined on something.
Jasper had spoken of a trail. Lorien averted his eyes from that broken figure below. Timous had been a quiet man with skills which had served them all well. But he had always seemed to be ill at ease when praised and somehow he had never appeared to have any close friend in the squad. The plague had ended a life he never spoke of, and it had seemed to the Prince that he had always been locked out of comradeship in a manner the others did not understand. But Timous was his man—he had served with loyalty and skill. And there was now a death to be paid for, as Lorien did not believe this came by accident.
He himself began to move warily along the rim. The trail could not be too far away or Timous would not have fallen here.
There was a trail, yes, and Lorien hunched over it, unable to read meaning in what those tracks told him. Someone—a single someone—had run this way unheeding of what lay ahead. There were broken branches, evidences that the runner had fallen and risen, to throw himself on at frantic haste. Yet as Lorien began to trace the way back he could find no evidence that there had been any pursuit. No other tracks covered those left by Timous.
He was well away from the edge of the cliff. To his right the outcrops of stone were rising, seeming to seek to stand shoulder to shoulder. Ahead they appeared to form a wall. But Timous’s tracks led on along that wall.
Lorien drew his sword. He was a fool to go farther, yet the need to know what had happened at the beginning of this trail drew him in a way he could not explain. Then Timous’s frantic prints overlaid those of horses, and those pointed straight away to where there was an opening between the walls of green stone which was like a gateway.
Lorien stopped. His good sense had battled that pull of compulsion. But without thought he stepped out onto the open trail, trying to see what might lie beyond that cut.
Movement— He slipped quickly right, his shame at his own folly feeding the anger which had come when he had sighted Timous’s body. He was scout trained, considered a canny fighter. Prudence said slip back, away—
Only, though his will commanded, his feet would not obey. For a moment he realized the horror of that—but if that strangeness held him, it did not control the rest of his body. His sword was out—
That which subtly threatened came out into the open. For a moment relief touched Lorien. An armored figure, even if it did wear a helm which completely masked its features, was nothing new. What puzzled him was that it did not seem to bear any weapons—there was no sword, no axe raised to contest the way.
But the guard—if guard it was—raised its arm so that its hand now lay on its own left shoulder. A second later, and that arm moved in a throw and through the air came a vivid, flashing line of green. With it—
In spite of himself Lorien near cringed. There was just a line of light rippling through the air, but before it came darkness, death, and worse than death. He could move his feet now—the thing wanted him to run. Instead he stood his ground. That was no spear, no arrow, and the armored one had not released another like it.
Lorien swung his sword. He was now fighting pure fear, fear which shook him as he never believed it might. His sword flashed through the air. It should have struck the green shaft, broken it—
Instead that line caught upon the sword, wrapped itself about the blade as if no sharpness of steel edge could cut it. And Lorien, moved by fear and an inner wave of horror, hurled the sword from him before the thing which claimed it could touch his hand. He tried to retreat.
The guard made no attempt at a second attack. He merely stood waiting as if he had no doubts of what was to follow. As the blade clattered on the roc
k and hit the ground the green length shook itself clear. It was no longer airborne, but it was still on the move, swiftly across the ground like an adder set for the kill.
Lorien hunched against one of the tall pillars of rock, then tried to slip around it. There was a blank moment of complete shock, and he realized that here also was another drop—not as wide as that which had swallowed Timous but one which battered him in spite of his mail as he fell. He had a fleeting thought that the green length would follow him, and then his helmed head hit hard against an outcrop of stone and there was nothing but darkness.
* * *
The long fingers of the woman seated at the table were very busy. She had at either hand a row of small bowls dark with age and long use, each with its powder filling. But she was not mixing them in any careful measurement, as had always been her way. Instead, she had before her a square of stone in which were embedded here and there tiny sparks of light, as if one looked up into a night sky to sight stars.
“You understand,” Halwice said quietly, “that what I do is a thing forbidden and it can only be done once. I have been absolved and have fasted, and spent my night in penance before the Star. Now—it is no longer in my hands, I am only the instrument.”
The Duke chewed at his lower lip and said nothing. But the Lord Chancellor moved a little in his chair, opened his lips as if to speak but remained silent.
Pinches of powder, some ash gray, some the red of dried blood, some the green of leaves still alive, some the blue of the sea, some the white of the sand or of ground seashells.
She worked with care and built her picture lines across the Star sheet the Abbey had with such reluctance loaned her. Halwice had always known that her line—mother, daughter, mother, daughter—had talents. Some of them had not chosen to pay the high price of bringing those to life. She had been so—taking pride as a healer, trying for nothing else until this hour.
The pinches of powder shifted of themselves, appearing to link or avoid those sparks of light. Those of red and gray gathered together and kept apart from any touch of spark. They still moved grain by grain and they were building a picture. Both Duke and Chancellor leaned forward now, hardly daring to draw breath lest in some way they disturb what was happening.
Just as the gray and the red were attracted together, so did the other colors find what seemed to be their bond mates. And then the three were looking down at what was truly a picture.
“By the Star!” Halwice’s voice was a command. There was no more shifting dust.
She was looking at a head so well portrayed in the red and gray that it might have been fresh from the painter’s brush.
“Saylana,” breathed the Duke. But only for a moment was he right. Beauty was fading, flesh was wrinkling, falling away, a mouth puckered where there were no more teeth to hold it firm. And yet there was a life still in the eyes which had become pits.
And that life stubbornly remained. While from the lower section of the slab, stringing in glistened threads from one spark of light to another, were the other colors—and those remained vibrant and alive long enough for all of them to see them well.
“It is no longer in our hands.” Halwice had fallen back in her chair. On the slab the colored powder arose forming rainbow dust motes and then was gone. “They carry the sword and the fate lies upon them, not us. Clean your dukedom, Uttobric—that task remains to you. What chances elsewhere you shall only know in time.”
Nicolas slackened pace and Willadene was devoutly glad for that pause. In spite of the treatment she had applied again that morning to her chafed legs she felt ever-present burning pain. She did her best to smother that discomfort with full concentration on the sights and smells around her. And once Nicolas had brought them to a full stop on the edge of a small clearing in which a tawny-coated ober-bear reared erect against the bole of the largest tree which formed the wall about that opening, drawing its great claws in a sweep into the tough bark. Luckily what breeze was blowing was toward them and she smelled the rank taint of bear, but they did not attract the beast’s attention. Then he dropped four-footed again and waddled south.
“He marks his hunting territory,” Nicolas explained. “There may be a younger one of his species hereabouts. If such chances on the tree and cannot easily reach those claw signs he will prudently withdraw.”
Ssssaaa stirred where she curled about Willadene’s throat. She thought at first that the creature had been disturbed by the smell of the bear, but instead that needle nose nipped up the edge of the amulet package which now rode on the outside of her jerkin.
Aware that Ssssaaa had her own way of communication the girl lifted the bag to her nose. Through the rank animal odor which still lingered she suddenly caught the stab of another scent. It lasted only for a second or two but it was enough to bring her head around at a sharper angle. Then it was gone, but that had been like a cry for help—she reported her belief. For a moment she thought that Nicolas was not going to put any credence in that—his eyes were sword bright again. Then, briefly, he nodded and changed course, even hurried their pace a little.
The forest around them thinned and now rocks arose. Beside one which towered above him even though he was mounted, her companion reined in. She was startled from her examination of that spur, for its color was unlike anything she had seen elsewhere—dull green, not, however, from overgrowing moss but in itself—and across its surface, drawn as straightly as if one had pulled a line taut was a band of darker green.
“Ishbi lies ahead—the accursed.”
She still held tightly to the amulet, but now she closed her eyes and used her talent. Layer by layer, she sifted scents, putting aside those which were born of the world about her—the animals, Nicolas, what she held in the amulet. It was a hard stretch, a struggle, as if she sought out through the dark in all directions, grasping, grasping at filaments so fine they slipped through her frantic hold. Out and out, down and down—
Suddenly she stiffened. There was an answer born of darkness and fear. The scent of spilled blood! Mahart? Had that sudden thrust of her scent meant that she had been bodily threatened? No—somehow she was sure it was not the High Lady. But it was blood and pain rooted together and not too far away.
Willadene’s eyes snapped open.
“There is someone hurt!” Inept as she was at any skill on horseback she caught the lead rope Nicolas held only loosely now and somehow headed her mount at an angle which led behind that upthrust spur of rock.
Luckily the horse picked its own cautious way. She felt the warmth of fur against her hand and saw that Ssssaaa had sped down her arm and was now flattened against the neck of her mount. Perhaps—no, she was sure—the creature was in control of the beast. But almost as soon as she had made that discovery they came to an abrupt stop.
The ground broke away only a few paces ahead, the way she had taken ending in a ragged cleft in which the rocks seemed as tumbled together as if they had been hurled by some great force. And she heard a moan.
Swift as she was to quit her saddle she was still awkward enough that Nicolas was before her, working his way to the very edge of that cleft. A moment later Willadene had loosed the bag of her healing simples and joined him.
Though the spur of rock threw much of what lay below into shadow, the girl caught a glance of what seemed to be an arm, the hand scrabbling on one of the tumbled stones as if in effort to draw its owner up.
Nicolas was gone swiftly, even as she knelt as close as she could to the edge to see how the injured one could possibly be reached. The walls, for the most part, were indeed cracked and riven; an agile man might very possibly descend at one place only a little farther along. Whether she could attempt it, hampered by skirts—even those divided for riding—she was far from sure. Then Nicolas was back, a black blot against the spur, around his arm a coil of rope.
With the girl following his instructions they worked as swiftly as they might. She was vaguely aware during their tugging and knotting that Ssssaaa had deserted
her, and she caught a single glimpse of a sleekly furred form on her way down the drop as easily as if she trod a straight, smooth road.
Nicolas knotted a sling in the end of the rope, testing it with all his strength many times over. The other end he fastened to the saddle horn of her horse, as he allowed the sling to dangle down the fall, ending by putting in her hand the lead rope.
“When I say ‘pull,’ lead away,” he commanded. Then with almost as much ease at finding helping holds as Ssssaaa had shown he was over the lip of the rock and was gone.
She saw him land some paces away from the now inert and almost hidden body and disappear into the rubble which half concealed it from above. Quickly he appeared again, half bent over, boosting up into full sight a body weighted with mail and a short surcoat devoid of any badge. The head moved feebly, its mail coif still in place but the helm gone, and smears of blood across a white face masked it.
Nicolas steadied the body against the propping rock, then the murmur of his voice reached her. Their find must be conscious enough to understand some order, for she saw two hands in mailed mitts come out on the rock, enough to hold the man while Nicolas busied himself collecting the rope. He dropped the loop around the injured man, lifting one of his hands and then the other to pass them through the loop so that now the rope belted him just above me waist.
Nicolas’s head went back as he looked up to her. “Pull—” he ordered, and the word echoed in that narrow place, “slowly.”
She had already drawn the horse around, facing away from the cliff, and now she led it forward. There was a moment before the rope snapped taut. Then she slowed but still urged the beast outward and away from the spur which guarded that trap. She could see the movements of the line—at times it appeared even to slacken and then grow tight again, as if he who was being so raised could at intervals aid himself by some hand- or foothold. Yet the time before Nicolas and then that bloodied head emerged into her sight seemed very long.
