by Andre Norton
She had to try twice before she could shape the name she knew so well.
“Zuta—” Only this could not be her companion from girlhood. This was a wizened, age-sapped threat of what years could bring.
There came an incoherent cry from the thing. Now both arms had freed themselves from their covering and were huddled about a body still covered by a shapeless cloak or robe.
The plague—that one terrible misfortune Mahart had heard of for what seemed most of her life. Had it somehow lingered here to fasten greedily upon a fresh body again? But Zuta—had they taken Zuta also—though who had taken her?
Mahart forced herself away from the support of the wall. Zuta was too much of her past, she must—
“High Lady!” That call was swallowed by a loud hissing such as was challenge. Ssssaaa brushed past her ankles and slipped out into the open to face the thing out of the ferns. Zuta—but how could this be Zuta?
Mahart’s own arm was grasped firmly and she was held away from the crawler.
She looked around and there was no mistaking that other—the Herbmistress’s girl. Willa—"Willadene—” Triumphantly she produced that name aloud.
Mahart waved helplessly toward the crawler. There sounded weeping again, the hopeless cry of a child—or the very old—the abandoned and lost.
“Zuta—” She looked hopefully toward Willadene. “Is it—the plague?”
“It is utter evil,” the other replied. “Stay you here. If it is well that you come I shall call—”
The other girl had released Mahart and now she advanced toward the hunched body. Around it, forming a circle, Ssssaaa was running. However, when the furred one reached Willadene she leaped and climbed, claws catching in the girl’s clothing, to once more ride her shoulder.
Willadene had allowed her healer’s bag to slip from her shoulder; her hands were busied in holding out the amulet she wore about her neck.
The thing who might be Zuta gave forth a loud scream and sank forward until the head touched the ground not too far from where Willadene stood.
“It is not the plague we have known, Your Grace,” the herb apprentice said steadily, “but keep your distance for now.” She still made no attempt to approach Zuta any closer—rather she was opening her bag to bring forth something which seemed to catch from nowhere a clear bright light. This she held out but no closer than the circle Ssssaaa had drawn.
She was so ignorant—Willadene felt like spitting her frustration aloud. This was evil, the stench of it was sick-eningly strong, but a new evil—or was it so new? That which had caught in her nostrils when Wyche had been her bane—here it was also but to a far greater extent. What she was trying now was again another old wives’ tale which she had never heard of being put into practice. Yet Halwice had packed this bag, and Willadene trusted the instincts of the Herbmistress above all else.
What she held was a mirror of sorts—not burnished metal as was usual, but rather clear crystal. The backing was a slip of night-sky blue. Willadene no longer watched Zuta; rather she concentrated on that scrap of mirror.
What it caught and held first was that shrunken, aged body—a body so old it might have risen lych fashion from a forgotten grave. Then—the greenish tinge about it grew stronger. She actually saw only a shadow, but what seemed like a coverlet or netting had been draped over Zuta. That was feasting—feasting!
Ssssaaa’s hissing arose to an almost deafening crescendo. What she faced, Willadene could not have put name to, but she used the only weapon she could think of—that she had prepared against the green serpent of Prince Lorien’s venture.
Holding tightly to the mirror with one hand so that its crystal was still turned to Zuta, Willadene cried out with all the force she could summon—enough to drown out the hissing.
“By the Star, for the Star, against the Dark that devours and waits, let there be light, let there be life—let there come an ending!”
Reaching forward, over the edge of the circle she touched Zuta’s contorted body. In her other hand the crystal of the mirror appeared to burst into a flame, but there was no heat within it to threaten her hold. Where the stick with its soaked rag had touched there sprang up light.
For a long moment Willadene could smell the fragrance which was part of that which answered her, something not of this world—something that evil could neither taint nor touch.
Zuta had stopped moaning. Suddenly her contorted body stretched out as if she had sought her own bed to rest. They could no longer see through the haze, but below it something liquid spread, smoking, and the flashing of the mirror, although Willadene did not move her hand, caught at that and it was gone.
They heard it go—a blast of air, of smell, of power which bent the ferns before it as it withdrew. Then for a long moment out of the time they knew they saw Zuta, Zuta in all her languorous beauty, lying at her ease. And there was peace about her. Until the haze balled together and when it was gone there was nothing left.
“What—what was it?” Mahart somehow found voice enough to ask.
“By some chance"—Willadene was seeking her own explanation, fitting one scrap of knowledge to another—“your lady lost her youth, her life energy to something—which still waits there.” She nodded toward the fern forest. “Your Grace, we seem to have fallen into a world of legend and ensorcellment which it has been said for generations does not exist.”
Mahart dropped down beside Willadene. “I am Mahart, and you are Willadene. In this strange world you speak of let there be no birth rank, for perhaps with your knowledge you are the stronger of us both. Zuta—” She found it hard to talk now. “She was my own friend for years. Yet there was a part of her, I always felt I never knew, and perhaps she had the same to say of me. That she is in peace, Willadene, I thank you. The Star Shine grants us much, and more than that final peace we cannot ask for.”
“That you were not also such prey—” Willadene found her hands were shaking now. The rag she had tied about her stick for defense flaked away, burnt so that it was already breeze borne ahead, while the crystal of the mirror was dull and quenched.
“It—it tried. But—come—please come—there is safety here!”
Thus Willadene found herself brought into the garden. Mahart was right—the feeling of safety, of warm and loving enfolding, closed about her. But that did not mean, she was sure, that any battle had been securely won—it was only a skirmish they had survived.
Prince Lorien eyed the rugged escarpment before them now. Unlike the oddly green-veined rock of the other side of this stretch of country, they were facing normal grayish stone as might form a jutting prominence of any normal height. Yet their path had led along the rise of wall ever since they had left the ill-omened and guarded gate.
Their party had grown, as Lorien’s own men drew in to be briefed on what they faced, and with them a handful or so of border rangers who turned to Nicolas for enlightenment. The main difficulty now was the need to know the true nature of the enemy. Twice during the day they had wiped out handfuls of men—badly armed and yet ferociously determined to die if they could take with them at least one of the enemy. Some of them used weapons awkwardly, as if they were more used to the stealthy knife in the back rather than strike of sword blade on sword blade. These, Nicolas was sure, were slinkers from the city who had somehow made common cause with the few outlaws who fought frantically. Their own party took no prisoners, for the enemy refused to either surrender or be taken even when badly wounded. And Nicolas, used to the wolf-barking cries of the outlaws, was disturbed by the utter silence in which they fought.
Now that wall they had followed all day had taken a sharp angle to the north and its rough surface promised for the first time a chance to climb. They had consulted over and over the leaves, and at last Nicolas and the Prince had agreed that they had appeared to reach a point which was marked as the end of the chart they had followed.
However, a climb in coming dark was not indicated—at least for their troop. But Nicolas consid
ered himself free of any allegiance to the Prince’s orders and he had already paced along, spotting this handhold and that toe crevice which could be used.
Somehow he knew well that Willadene had not won to any safe place. This was the end of the second day since she had made her own reckless choice and there was nothing he could do about it—yet.
The Prince moved up beside him, his metal-reinforced glove striking against a knob of rock.
“To go alone—”
“To go alone,” Nicolas answered without turning his head to look at the Prince, “is what I am trained for, Highness. Because I know a little of these powers which Halwice and Willadene appear to be able to summon from what seed, roots, and growth, I believe that the High Lady is here. And for no good purpose. There are forces we have not seen before—”
“Against which steel is no weapon. But then, our schooling has been different, my friend. Nor are you liege man sworn to me. If it is your choice—” He hesitated. “Leave a trail—with morn’s light we shall not be far behind you.”
Nicolas’s choice of weapons were few and certainly not cumbersome. He carried his favorite long belt knife, together with a slightly smaller blade sharing a double sheath, and around his waist was a loop of tough cord, knotted expertly here and there—a silent killer and a deadly one.
For the rest he depended upon his years of skulking, and those had never been wasted. His body, toughened as well as he could exercise muscles most men did not even guess they might possess, served him well. His side was still tender from the healing wound, but that had united well under Halwice’s tending—in fact so well he found himself believing that the Herbmistress had brought more than the lore of her trade to his aid.
Impatiently he shared the scant rations of the troop, and the dusk was near night when he began his climb. As he had hoped, the surface of the cliff was rough enough to give him good holds and he soon pulled himself over the top, his side aching a little but still able to move with his old agility.
He found a place between two spurs of rock and tried to see what now lay before him. There were stars and a rising moon tonight, and he had always had the gift of keen night sight, even as his namesake, for much of his prying and scouting had always been kept for the dark hours.
Below him was another drop into this mysteriously guarded land. However, surveying as carefully as he could he began to realize that he had not reached the top of a cliff but actually the top of a wall—designed and firmly set by sentient beings for protection.
The crag beside which he had paused was not an out-cropping but the remains of what must have been a watch-tower. So—if there had once been guards here then there must have been a way for them to come and go. Guards—ones such as the man of metal who had held the other approach? He hefted a good-sized rock in one hand and hoped that his tender side would not prevent him from making one of those well-aimed throws he had so often practiced. Then he moved out.
It was the extraordinary silence of the space below which impressed him first—no drone of insect nor even the sound of a breeze rustling. He might be moving through a place of the long dead. But it was an excellent warning for him to make his progress as silent as possible.
Find the way down to the lower land he did. It lay in the core of the second sentry post he chanced upon—a stair which was hardly more than a ladder of sorts, and which he used with the utmost care though the narrow treads were firm enough. Then he came through an opening in that confining wall into the open of the night.
There was a wide space here, occupied by ruins. He might have dropped into a city such as Kronengred after some major destruction had struck. Here again, all was silent, though he would normally expect to hear the scuttling of night hunters, the cry of a dire hawk, the many other sounds of life.
Instead, there arose ahead of him somewhere the sound of a thin cry—such as sent his hand to knife hilt. And then that was drowned out with a rustle which grew thicker and thicker as if a giant broom were sweeping back and forth across the land ahead.
The ruins gave way. He smelled a scent of fern heavier than he had ever encountered before, and he could catch in spite of the dim light that there were indeed ferns before him but such as he had never seen elsewhere. These were as tall as well-grown trees and seemingly packed so tightly together that their territory could not be invaded.
Nor had Nicolas any wish to attempt that—at least by night. A swift glance right and left showed him that there was a space of fallen and broken rubble along the wall, and he chose to track a way through that.
He had been listening steadily for that distant wail, but it had not sounded again. Willadene— Firmly he closed his mind against fears he could do nothing now to aid and kept on his slow advance through the debris, the wall he had followed from the other side now arising again to guide him.
The swishing of the ferns died away and he was aware of his own growing fatigue. He could not keep on without rest, without a small sip at least of the flask of cordial Willadene had provided him with as restorative before they had parted.
It was easy enough to find a place into which he could wedge his body so that no one could come at him from behind or either side, facing out at the ferns. He was used to ranger’s sleep, which consisted more of short dozes and quick awakenings. Thus he established himself within what he was well aware was enemy territory—though no outlaws might prowl it this night.
But if Nicolas slept even this lightly, there was that here which had no wish for rest, for further meddling with its plans, which seethed with rage of what was already lost.
24
“Willadene?”
She did not feel as if she had really slept on their shared makeshift bed, but now Mahart’s hand on her wrist brought her fully awake—awake enough to feel wary, as if she faced some task she had unfortunately forgotten.
“What is it?” she asked, trying inwardly to trace the cause of that uneasiness.
Mahart sat up. The scanty rags which had given her some body protection had been exchanged for what extra clothing Willadene had brought, though there were still twigs caught in her hair and she was far from appearing the High Lady of the past.
“Do you not feel it?” There was a quaver in that question. They had talked much together since they had won back to the garden—sharing sometimes thoughts they had never believed they could reveal to another. And Willadene knew at once what she meant.
There was a change in their sanctuary. The misty light which one could hardly term day was surely not as bright. As if drawn by a cord Willadene turned toward the water basin. Mahart was already heading toward it. That ever-flowing water lapping over its sides had stilled; there was no longer any drip from the tip of the crystal.
Yet there was no warning stench of evil. Instead, Willadene breathed deeply, to draw in not only the mingled fragrance of all which grew there but also that of another, far more subtle presence.
Mahart was staring down into the now-quiet bowl. What water remained in it was mirror bright. What did they see there? Neither girl could ever afterward describe it clearly; perhaps the evoked pictures did not even match, altered by their separate natures.
“No,” Mahart voiced in a half whisper, retreating a step back.
“We must!” Willadene answered and knew the touch of fear. For some reason this sanctuary was closing to them; there would be no turning back now.
Willadene reached out and up, daring against instinct to touch the crystal from which the water had trickled, her hand groping as it might for the clasp of a protector.
There was a ringing—a sharp flash of light—as if she had touched the root of a storm. The crystal splintered, its bits falling like hailstones into the basin. But in her fingers remained what she looked upon in amazement, for it might have come out of one of Halwice’s shop drawers—a well-rounded seedpod.
Without conscious thought she held it up between them, and that elusive scent which had tantalized her from her awakening was for a
breath or two comfortingly strong.
“Star gift—” Mahart said softly. “Surely Star given.” She reached out as one greatly daring and laid fingertip to the pod. Again that whiff of strengthening fragrance. Then she looked to Willadene.
“So we must serve.” There was that in her voice as strong as any altar-given oath.
They ate, perhaps for the last time, from the bounty of the garden. Willadene shouldered the bag of remedies and they once more climbed over the dip in the wall, rounding along it until they faced the fern forest from which Zuta had crawled.
Their coming seemed a signal—the ferns swayed apart, opened a path, however, one which would wall in any venturing there. The scent of the ferns was very strong but not enough to cover that other—the rising stench of evil. Underfoot were moss-covered blocks of what once might have been a street, and through the fern veil they saw now and then the loom of ruins.
Mahart looked back over her shoulder, closed her eyes for a moment, and then resolutely faced ahead. The fern way had closed behind them as if they moved through a pocket which adjusted itself to their faring.
So they came out of the misty green of the ferns at last into an open space. If all else here had been age bowed to ruin, this structure rising before them had endured untouched.
Three wide steps led up to a portico with roof-supporting pillars, deeply engraved in some language surely long forgotten in the outer world.
There was a single great door on the portico and from that rolled the evil stench so strong as to be almost visible. Yet what lay beyond and within lacked any light.
Willadene’s hand met Mahart’s, and both their palms closed together about the seed of the fountain.
As armswomen might march on order into battle they climbed die steps. Now the interior before them slowly developed a glow. There was a compulsion urging them forward, and still they must yield to accomplish what they came to do.
The long hall they entered might well be an audience chamber of some Prince. As the light about them brightened gems glowed, metals burned, and there were figures which still appeared blurred as if those must remain hidden from their eyes.
