by Andre Norton
“Now, my dear, more visitors—whether you shall find them welcome, I do not know. But they will serve my purpose very well indeed.”
A slim shadow crossed the floor from behind that throne in great bounds. It came toward the girls until it was within a handsbreadth of the ring about them, and there whirled and crouched, its head uplifted to the highest point in order to view the throned woman best.
“Mahart!”
“Willadene!”
So close together came those names that they near blended into one. As had Ssssaaa, Nicolas came around the dais with the wariness of a lurker. And keeping close was a man in mail and half armor, a drawn sword in his hand.
“Stop!” Again a single warning from two throats but it halted that race toward them. Nicolas gave a quick glance to the floor, sighting the green ring, and then threw himself before Lorien to halt the other’s stride.
Willadene had been working with her free hand at the fastening of the healer’s pack she had refused to abandon. She located a bottle by touch, hoping that she was guessing right, raised the flask hastily to her mouth, and worried loose the cork.
She wondered at Saylana’s forbearance. That she had been allowed to so arm herself must mean that this—this enthroned thing had full confidence in its own powers. Perhaps her thought of some intervention was merely an added fraction of amusement to the game it intended to play.
The cork was gone. Willadene spun the bottle in her grip and hurled what was left of its contents as well as she could toward the nearest portion of the green ring. Most of the stuff splashed short, and for a stiff moment of fear, she knew failure. Then she noted a curl of steam from that green ribbon—nor did it hold to its circle shape any longer, but rather beat upon the floor and fell into two parts, cut by those drops which had reached it.
Avoiding the writhing lengths with a mighty stride Lorien was with the girls, a hand out to Mahart. Nicolas did not turn his back on the enthroned figure, rather approached the other three in a sidewise fashion.
“So—” The caricature of Saylana spoke. “You have learned something from that weird-wife after all.” However, she did not show any great surprise as she spoke to Willadene. “Welladay, you shall be a juicier morsel for the taking if that is so.”
Though her hands still rested on the arms of the throne the lower part of her body began to twist and turn. The fullness of her bedraggled skirt swelled and swayed, and from beneath its hem there showed tips of brilliant green.
These lengthened, moved purposefully toward those below. They had the appearance of leafless vines, growing at such a rate that that process was visible. Lorien moved between the girls and those advancing vine serpents.
Again came that cackle of laughter. “Yes, mighty slayer of outlaws, use that blade of yours. You have already lost one to the crawlers—do you think you shall be any luckier this time?”
The Prince’s mouth tightened, and Nicolas and Willadene could guess that he was remembering what had happened at the pass. One of those crawling ribbons flailed out to the far side and then began to draw in again. Nicolas was now being herded closer to the others. He gave a glance upward—at least there was no netting visible there ready to descend upon them.
The need for action worked upon Mahart. She managed to keep her voice steady, her courage high.
“We stand in the Light of the Star, you who are of Darkness. Thus we are a greater company than you see.”
The gaunt face of the woman flushed a dusky red. “Call upon your puny light, High Lady. I do not think you will be answered—”
“Oh"—that was Nicolas—"but then again she might be, as once before the Star answered here and—”
“Be tongueless! That was long ago. One learns more with every year’s passing. The Sisters of your Abbeys sit upon old lore as a hen does upon eggs, afraid to use even what they know. I do not think that any of you have something new.” She raised one hand and made a gesture.
That green vine which had neared Nicolas’s side slapped over. Willadene gasped. She had been so sure that it would have a stranglehold about the Bat, but a swerve of his body left him free, as it brought him up almost shoulder to shoulder with her.
“Quite a little chipper you are,” their captor observed. “Try all you can, all of you—the longer you strive to hold off fate the sweeter my feasting shall be. Will you now try that sword, Prince? How do you know—perhaps this new one you carry is somewhat tougher of blade.”
Willadene caught a small flash of movement from the corner of her eye. Saylana had been concentrating on her human captives—perhaps she had forgotten Ssssaaa entirely. What weapons the creature might possess the girl could not guess, but at least she was moving purposefully, and straight for the throne.
“Ah, Prince, you disappoint me—” Saylana had gotten that far. The vine which had herded him lifted up from the floor and was swinging back and forth like the blind head of a giant worm.
Lorien made no attempt to use steel on that wriggling threat. Instead, his left hand went to his throat and he yanked from under his mail a chain on which swung a piece of glittering crystal. His next move was quick and unexpected, as he whirled the chain about his head and loosed it so that the spark of glitter swooped through the air and struck the ever-thickened body of the vine.
“By the Power of the Star,” his voice rang out.
The spark of flying light was lost to sight almost in the same moment they had seen it. Saylana’s grimace made her aging face a mask for a monster. Both of her hands swung up and out. The vines writhed, began to whirl, formed a waist-high wall about the four before her, herding them close together. There was no use for Willadene to depend upon her herbs now. Those she had used against the earlier attack were gone.
Saylana was rocking slowly back and forth, a patch of whitish foam at one corner of her mouth, foam which spattered as she cried out in a tongue none of them understood, doubtless some curse from another time and place.
There was strain in every line of her distorted body now as if she fought more than just those helpless captives.
Avoiding the flailing cords of green with supreme agility Ssssaaa was closing in on the foot of the throne. Willadene grew aware of a new element in this struggle. She still gripped hands tightly with Mahart, between their palms that pod. There was rising warmth against her flesh; she caught a hint of that unwordly fragrance.
On her other side she had a glimpse of Nicolas’s slender hands, busied with his knife. But no steel would stand against the noxious weapon which was beginning to rise again after a brief halt. What would he do?
On the throne Saylana’s body convulsed. She raised her right hand and pointed it at Lorien. “Fool, you have not brought me death—but you shall be the first to pay for your folly!”
To his right the green wall sent forth a long whirling tendril. Before he could avoid it, it fell upon his shoulder and encircled him. He had moved in the only direction left him, separating himself as far as he could from Mahart.
Just as Lorien had swung that splinter of crystal, so did Nicolas now flip his knife in the direction of their enemy. But Willadene saw no bared steel blade—somehow he had twisted about it a sheath of dull clay color.
It landed cleanly, dispatched by long-practiced skill, on the billowing lap of the woman.
Her scream was such as to deafen all of them. Her face was hardly more than a skull with living eyes. Frantically she brushed the weapon away. But it left smoldering patches on her torn and twisted robe.
The heat in that pod Willadene shared guardianship of was growing ever stronger—much higher and it would sear her flesh. She turned to look at Mahart, whose eyes were all for Lorien. The Prince stood statue still, his body braced as if he were enduring some powerful struggle against unnatural strength.
“Mahart!” Willadene lifted her enclosed fist with a jerk which brought the other’s attention back to her. “Now!”
She did not understand whether the same mental command had reach
ed the other girl or not, but somehow she was sure that it had. Together their arms swung and they loosed the pod into the turgid, rancid air of the chamber.
Only to see it fall short as if it had hit against some unseen barrier. Mahart gave a small broken cry, but Willadene was intent on something else. Ssssaaa’s sinewy black body was there even as the pod fell short of their target. Seizing it between sharp teeth she made one of those extraordinary leaps and landed on the body of the thing on the throne whose energy and flesh appeared to be giving birth to ever stronger and longer tendrils.
Saylana’s skull bowed for an instant as she viewed this new attacker and what she bore. She raised both hands and grasped Ssssaaa about the middle, whirling her up in the air, but that which the creature had brought remained with Saylana.
Now she screamed. Not only was that cry one of pain but it was overlaid with terror, such fear as none of them had ever heard from any human throat. The small black body flew through the air.
Willadene was aware of movement from beside her. Leaning out at a perilous angle over the wall of green, which luckily had stopped its advance for the moment, Nicolas managed to catch the limp black body and bring it to nestle to his breast. But there was no answering sound or movement out of Ssssaaa.
Another and still more tortured scream burst from the thing before them. From where the pod lay on Saylana there was a flicker of light which grew brighter with every breath they took.
The green wall about them trembled, strove to close in and engulf them entirely. But that last surge failed. Instead now the green tendrils were being hurriedly withdrawn, brought back to she who had given them birth. Once more her figure filled out, she became closer to the human woman they had always known, except for her face. For that now bore the features of that carving which guarded the entrance into its sorcery-ridden land.
She was making no move to rid herself of that ever-growing patch of light which was now near breast high, only sat watching its growth with wide eyes.
Lorien stumbled and might have gone down as that vine withdrew its hold on him, but Mahart was close and quick enough to steady him. His face was gaunt and grayish, but slowly he shook his head as if to rid himself of some nightmare vision and gave his attention, with the others, to their enemy.
That which rested on her lap might have found her its proper soil for rooting. Now, through the haze, they could see the rise of a stem, the uncurling of long leaves. And the veins on those leaves blazed gold, sharply defined as had been the ones on the leaf map.
Only her face remained clear, unmoved—her face and the eyes which sought them one after another with a piercing glare that in itself was a curse.
Up grew the flower. Willadene drew in a deep breath of delight. Not in all the world had she expected ever to find such a perfect fragrance. Not in the world—yes, because this was not of this world—it was never meant to be.
“Heart-Hold!” Mahart had kept her grip on Lorien though he no longer needed steadying.
The mask of perfect beauty, which was the last unchanged bit of the throned one, cracked, shattered, fell in powdered dust. There was a great wind about them, first of northern cold—a threat, and yet one that weakened steadily—and then one of summer as their earth knew it.
This was no hall. Mahart threw wide her arms, wanting to embrace the flower-embroidered fields before her. Her dream made real. And that one she had waited for—here he was—his hands reaching out to catch at hers.
Willadene balanced on the edge of a cliff among rocks, looking down at that white star standing tall below. Heart-Hold. But she had no wish to pluck it. Heart-Hold was of the heart and grown within one.
There were arms about her and she smelled that particular scent which she knew for always would mean security and warmth for her. Soft fur brushed her cheek.
Then the worlds they had found apart for an instant whirled about them all and they were back in Ishbi. Only here also was change. There was no body on the high seat; that had been cracked and reduced to dust.
A pillar of light hung there in the air. Though they could not see within it, they were certain there was a flower at its heart. While above all the putrescence of this place had been cleansed away and a scent born in a world apart from theirs, yet welcoming, impregnated them all.
Slowly, not quite sure they were still not caught in another dream, they turned and went out of the mass of ruins which was hardly more than rubble. Where the ferns had stood there was open land, fields dotted with the remains of a city which would never be again. And they were hailed with exuberance by a party of men who stood in those fields, staring wide-eyed and near unbelieving.
“Will—she strive to come again?” Mahart asked, as they went to join those others.
“Evil begets evil,” Lorien answered her. “This time we must keep watch.”
“But how?”
He looked to Willadene who was murmuring to Ssssaaa cradled in her arms, Nicolas, light-footed as ever, beside her.
“Old knowledge,” said the Prince slowly. “The stuff of legends which have been allowed to rust away. Talents exist still among some of us. Those must be found and cultivated—put on guard—”
Nicolas laughed. “A new form of border watch, Highness? Do not be surprised if you find your suggestion may come true. Swords and spears, yes, but beyond those, weapons which will not shatter and cannot tarnish.”
The room was stuffy and Mahart felt as if she had been thrust into a cell, her hard-won freedom gone. But that was one of the things to be decided here this day. She was aware of Lorien, just as she knew he was well aware of her, though he did not look in her direction but rather gave his courteous attention to the Duke.
It was an oddly formed party which had gathered in the castle to perhaps decide the whole future of Kronen to come. Vazul, of course. Though he looked oddly bereft these days for Ssssaaa had not rejoined him. The Herbmistress’s apprentice was here also, as well as Halwice herself, and in a place of honor the Abbess who so seldom left her own place of rule. Nicolas no longer wore that black which melted in the shadows but rather the rust-brown uniform of a captain of border rangers.
In the center Duke Uttobric squirmed as usual in his chair, eternally uncomfortable.
They had unfolded their stories, woven them together in detail. And as strange as those tales had been no one had doubted that they told what was the truth. Now that they were through the Duke spoke first to the Abbess.
“Your Holiness, it would seem that evil rooted itself heavily in our midst and we felt nothing but uneasiness. Is there no way we may keep watch and ward on that which lies in the hearts and minds of men and women?”
“Such invasion is also of evil,” she said quietly. “However, the truth is that we must now set wards. Already our Abbey scholars are seeking out the very earliest accounts, looking for any reference as to how such Darkness can be detected before it grows. What we learn we shall share with all.”
“By the Star, Holiness, we give you thanks for that.”
She looked past the Duke to Prince Lorien, a long, measuring look as if she must make some decision but was not completely sure of her ability to do so.
“This amulet which you used against the evil one,” she asked, “what was its nature?”
His hand went up close to his throat as if he would reach for something which was no longer there.
“It was my vow crystal.”
The Abbess nodded. “And even the touch of that was enough to buy you time. Therefore, it would seem, Highness,"—once more she addressed the Duke—“that the Star has accepted our need. But more greater—” Now her attention fastened almost equally on the two girls. “That which used your aid to bring it into life was long lost. It has withdrawn, perhaps, from this world again, but a part of it will remain. Heart-Hold is not for one man or woman but for all of us who live and die and strive to better what lies about us.
“Heart-Hold"—now she regarded all four of those across the table with some o
f the same searching she had turned upon Lorien earlier. “Heart-Hold appeared to you—knitting you into such bonds as no shadow can hope to break. Your Highness wishes wards—I do not think that there shall be another stirring—at least in our lifetimes—but there are your wards.”
Her wand staff had been lying across her knees; now she raised it and slowly swept it by the four. The crystal on its tip blazed high, and Willadene sighed with delight, for the fragrance settling around her was that of the other world—the world of fair dreams, safe days, and quiet happiness.
However, the Abbess was not finished. “Halwice"— the wand dipped in the direction of the Herbmistress now, and once more its tip flared—"you are of the Old Blood, though out of prudence you have denied it, using but a small part of what lies within you to give. Now, I say here, loose the bonds laid upon you by earlier generations before your birth. Be what the Star meant you to be!
“Highness.” It was the Duke’s turn to meet her eyes. “In this woman you shall find such a guard as whose like has not been known since before the days of the House of Gard. It was their denial of such talents through narrowness of mind which brought an end at last to their rule and house. I think it is already in your mind what else is to be done.
“These tell us Ishbi is cleansed. But it was tainted. Choose you another site for your watchers. There also shall be a Call Cell of the Abbey, for it is time we must also be alert.”
She laid her wand once more across her knees and was silent.
The Duke cleared his throat and held out his hand to Vazul, to have a sheet of parchment, laden with seals, passed quickly to him.
“Highness"—it was the Prince he first addressed—“you are not of our Kronen blood, you have no reason to wish to take on any burden of another land. But we can do no more than ask. This"—he gave the parchment a little wave—"creates on the north border—that wildest and harshest portion of the duchy, the place from where danger may watch and wait—a holding. Those who man it must be warders indeed, not only ready to patrol against outlaws but against the rise of Dark. If you will be one with these three who are of our blood and so are surely called to the duty, our gratitude will be great.”
