by Andre Norton
“Of a certainty, there was a sending,” Mistress Larlarn replied slowly, “but I do not think it was aimed at her in direct attack. Rather, what she saw aroused great fear in her for another—” She nodded toward Sulerna.
“But—but I am not a dreamer,” faltered the girl. “Why should the one in the tower think me prey worthy his notice?”
“If he does, he need count his thoughts again!” The well-muscled arm of her eldest brother Elias gathered her close against the strength of his supporting body.
Grandsire, who had been sitting and stroking the nerveless hand of his wife, now turned to stare at the healer. “Mistress”—his strong voice seemed to have lost half its wonted resonance—“there are ills of the body to which all of us can be subject. Think you that an interrupted sending might well bring on what we have seen this night?”
“Fear,” the woman answered him straightly, “can harm past healing—twice in my lifetime I have seen it so. What Haraska saw twisted her spirit and drove her near to an end. Look upon her now, Oldfather—see how her eyes strain? She does not lie in any dream. No, she denies with all that is in her what she saw or still sees. This was not a sending such as we welcome; it was—perhaps yet is—a foreseeing.”
A murmur arose in the room. One of the smaller children, frightened by the emotions of its elders, began to cry, and its mother made haste to hush it.
“There has not been a true foreseeing,” Grandsire said heavily, almost to himself, “within three generations of the dun, nor has my wife ever shown such a talent. Mistress”—he spoke again directly to Larlarn—“can you mind-touch—if such a talent exists—and tell us what ill befalling holds her thus?”
Slowly the healing-woman shook her head. “With the Wind gone from us, that is impossible. I cannot learn what it might know, for it has left our land. Do you not understand?” There was a kind of fierceness about her now. “This monstrous lordling drains us—and sucks life from the waters, the clouds, the very earth! So he fills a well of power that puffs him ever greater.
“Once”—Larlarn’s hands arose into the full light ofthe fire so that all might see them as they moved, though the gestures were without meaning to those now gathered—“some elders of my kin—my dun— dealt more openly with the Wind Stone: that which anchors the Wind to our world. But the Stone is no longer yours to seek—”
From the cupboard bed came a gasp which drew their attention. Haraska’s body writhed. Plainly she no longer had the use of either her left arm or leg, and spittle ran from the corner of her distorted mouth. But her eyes were open, and her spirit raged in them, trying to force some communication. Her struggles from the frustration of her inability to do as she wished brought Fatha, Sulerna, and Larlarn to hold her in the bed, for it seemed she might throw herself upon the floor.
Twice the oldmother gabbled sounds that were far from words; then she shuddered and grew still. It was apparent that the folk of Firthdun could not hope for any swift recovery, if recovery at all, from this blow of fate.
The twisted, ever-burning candles in Irasmus’s chamber flickered once, and the dark lord’s hands closed tightly on the record-roll he had been studying—a listing of duns on which there were also some newer runic settings of names. Then he threw back his head with a hearty laugh and reached for the goblet waiting to hand. Holding it first aloft as if he gave a toast to—something, he then drained it, even though it was the last of his bruwine, brought with him to celebrate some momentous event. What greater knowledge could he have at present than the discovery that his growing suspicions were true?
Setting aside the goblet, the wizard took up a pen and, dipping it carefully into the last of the wine, drew on that genealogical roll a line that connected two names set some distance apart. Chuckling, he found the midpoint of that line and proceeded to set below it a short pattern of vertical dots, scoring the pen into the parchment at the base of the bar with vigor enough to break the point.
Then that roll was pushed aside, and Irasmus took up one of the books he had brought with him. This was a slender volume, bound in a strange hide with short, bristly hair. The pages within were few, and only a sprinkling of them bore lines of cramped writing. The mage had no difficulty in discovering what he sought: three such scribblings, hard to read, but not when he held the book so that the page in question faced the smoky globe that seemed the center of all he thought important.
Once more, the flames of the crooked candles flickered, though there was no breath of air entering the room. Irasmus ran his fingernail under one of those strange inscriptions, as if such a gesture would enable him to get its meaning exactly correct.
Twice, three times, the lights of the tapers wavered. However, Irasmus kept to his task; and the flames flared high and burned clear again. Only then did his head come up and, with care, as if he might be drawing some information from every wall about him, he made a slow and painstaking inspection of his quarters.
This web of his was protected by every defensive spell he had hoarded over the years. Nothing could—or had—dared even to try the strength of its armor. Yet somewhere there had been a stir of talent—and one which was not answerable to him.
Firthdun! But who there? It was the females of the line who carried the talent most strongly. Once more, the dark lord opened the scroll on which he had made the entry and rubbed a forefinger across one of the names he had selected, his body tensed with strain to pick up even the faintest suggestion of power.
The old hag! Irasmus switched his gaze suddenly to the globe on the table, and what he appeared to see instead of its ever-swirling mist made his mouth curve in a cruel smirk. So—she knew . . . or thought she did. However, in the end, her old body was betraying her, making it impossible for her to give any warning. He would keep watch on her, of course, as well as on that other one of a descent inimical to his plans: she whom they called Mistress Larlarn. His prize in that place must have not the slightest inkling of what was intended for her.
Now it was but a matter of time, because part of this wreaking must be done with the aid of nature, or it would fail. A man could—with a great deal of trouble and danger—call up a demon, but he could not physically control time in such a case. And all the necessary preparations were yet to be made, the events arranged in their proper order.
The mage could crush Firthdun and all those it held with no more difficulty than rising from his chair and walking across the room. But that homestead must lie for a while yet in its imagined safety, until—He licked his lips, as if he could envision a banquet table spread before him. Talent . . . With the taking of that dun—No, he had enough slaves, and none others would be so rich to the taste or so bountiful in supply. When he was through with that holding, it would be utterly erased,down to the last shriveled blade of grass—in his own time, not theirs. Those sniveling earth grubbers had chosen this fate, or one like it, long ago.
Irasmus was aware now—and the knowledge added savor to his enjoyment of this moment—that his defenses were at last under test. Let Yost or Gifford or both of them with all the rest try to learn what he would do!
The master of Styrmir rerolled the record sheet and again took up the strange book, muttering certain words as he closed it. At present, his most needful tool lay but one floor beneath him in deep, drugged sleep; and there was, moreover, the matter of Firthdun to muse on now and then.
Wind does not die—it withdraws, comes with teasing puff or hammering blow, then retreats once more. Who can harness the Wind of Deep Hearing to one’s will? No power known in this world.
Yet oaths can also bind . . .
None knew whether the Wind was a living entity with purposes wholly of its own devising. But, at this hour, all that listened and added to its strength were suddenly uncertain. They well understood, within the extent of their reasoning power, that the Wind was not only thoroughly awake but perhaps also ready to go seeking peril in spite of the bonds once laid upon it.
A young Sasqua, who had been intent up
on reaching a certain place, hungry for what awaited her there, turned, she did not know why, aside from her straight path. Then before her opened the glade of the rock, its Stone aglitter with flecks of light as the brilliant bits held within its surface appeared to swirl restlessly.
Hansa made the hands-up awe sign of her species, even though she knew that she had, indeed, been summoned. Striding forward, she brushed through the ferns, while jeweled insects arose to dance in the air around her. She laid both her broad hands flat to the Stone and, in herself, listened. Twice she nodded: yes, yes—but not yet—the time was not yet. Then that which had drawn her was gone. In her mind a memory door closed, and she went on about the business which was so important to her this night.
9
THERE WAS ANOTHER DREAMER THAT NIGHT; PERHAPS Irasmus’s wards were not as secure as he believed. What ventured into a sleeping mind in the dark lord’s tower was a complete dream, set in each small detail in the receiver’s unconscious, so that by his command—or another’s—it might be brought into sharp focus again.
Color came first. To the one touched by the vision, the very appearance of those soft, rich hues was soothing—if the Wind ever appeared visibly to human eyes, this was certainly that Breath of Life in its most comforting aspect, seeking out its own.
No, not Wind—that was a denial so sharp and sudden as to shake the dreamer from his blissful content. This force might serve in its way, as did the Wind, but it was not that power.
Yurgy could not see clearly, for swathes and ribbons of the color wrapped him, held him for an instant, thenswept away to make room for others of their kind. Yet, like a landsman sowing rare and precious seeds on a waiting bed, each left something behind. Mist-masked faces hung suspended over him as if he lay at the feet of their wearers. They offered no outright threat, but they were of importance; and the fact that he could not see them clearly began to erode his sense of well-being. Each who wore such a featureless face also brought with him—or her or it—a growing need to know!
Now the colors wisped away, and only the hazy, masked faces remained; then, far in the distance, someone called his name. Yurgy would have answered with relief, but the summons was gone as quickly as it had come—thin and frail as a Wind touch, yet heavy with such a weight of pleading that he wanted nothing more than to go in search—to aid—
“Evil done must bring full payment, even if the doer does not plan the foulness wrought.” Those words were not faint, like the call of his name, but seemed rather to strike straight into his ears.
“Remember, at what seems to be the end for you, that in this matter you were but a tool and not what Irasmus shall try to make you. Let the knife come cleanly to your throat, and be free—the Wind awaits. For this is a vile deed, and from it will issue what will draw the dark one to his fate, even though you shall then be long gone into . . .”
Once more, the colors ribboned about the boy. This time, the soothing they brought was very faint, yet to the rags of that he desperately clung.
Though he had never dreamed true before and had no way of understanding, Yurgy knew that, though his eyes were still closed, he was now fully awake. He—he was Yurgy, fosterling of Firthdun. And where he lay . . . The boy opened his eyes. This was certainly not the half-ruined hut that had been his main shelter since that day of all disasters when he had answered Irasmus’s beckoning and had been conscripted into the service of the Dark.
Anger, such as the Valley youth had forgotten could exist stirred in him, and the growing fire of his ever-strengthening emotion seemed to clear his mind. To his sorrow, he knew he had not been Wind-touched, no; but that those who had looked upon him were skilled in dreaming he was sure. Certainly, they were not of this place, nor of its deeds or thoughts.
Slowly Yurgy sat up and looked about him. No window broke these walls; it could be day or night. But there was light—the dull glow of candle lamps. He stared at those almost stupidly before memory returned.
He was in the tower! And he did not doubt for an instant that he was there by the will of Irasmus and would remain as long as the master had use for him. Why would a slave be sheltered in what was now luxury for any born of Styrmir? The boy held up his wrists—no metal bands, no chains.
Warily, he got up, expecting at any moment to have the gobbes break into the room and beat him for some task he had forgotten or otherwise amuse themselves with visiting small torments on him. He looked more closely at the nearest lamp; it was equipped with a standard about the length of his arm and formed of a dull metal.
Feeling as if any sudden movement might send him back once more into helplessness, Yurgy carefullyapproached the table on which stood the pair of candleholders. Then, for the first time, he noted the other objects there: a bowl of tarnished metal, a round of bread that looked more like human food than the half-chaff-and-straw cakes of the usual slave fare, and a tall cup.
Food! The sight of it gave him the power of rising hunger, and he was around the table in an instant and reaching for a share. This was one meal that would not be snatched from him by a gobbe and deliberately trampled, leaving him to pick broken bits of crust out of the mire.
At first, Yurgy tore at that round of bread as might one starving, cramming his mouth so full, lest the feast vanish, that he could not even chew. He coughed and sputtered, spraying crumbs about, then grabbed for the cup and drank so that the lumps in his throat were carried down. What the bowl held was cold, dotted with lumps of grease. But it was truly meat, and he disciplined himself to small bites and long periods of chewing to savor a near-forgotten taste.
The first flurry of eating behind, the boy realized there was also a book on the table. His forehead wrinkled; swimming bits of memory made his head ache. Another room, another table, books—more of them—and recorders’ rolls.
When the boy had eaten all he could find—to the last crumb of bread, glob of turgid gravy, and sip of watery juice—his curiosity was awakened, and his eyes kept returning to the book. It must have been left for him, but to what end? True, he could read the Valley script although slowly and with effort. Once again his forehead creased, and he caught at a fragment ofpraise that floated in his seeking thoughts—he had been skilled at his studies.
Yurgy flinched. Master of such learning as Irasmus kept on his shelves? No! No clean-souled human would take pride in such vile achievement.
Nevertheless, he knew that, sooner or later, he must reach for the book, must open it, must discover what lay between its covers. It had been placed there for that purpose, and a compulsion not to be denied or defied urged him to action, even as tall grass bent before the flow of the Wind.
In appearance, it was not like the books he had seen in the mage’s chamber. Those had been dull and dark, many of them covered by heavy slabs of wood possessing metal locks; there had also been one with the noxious-looking hide cover, as well as some with lighter backs and lines of lettering to identify them. This volume was larger than any of those. Plainly, it was a book that could not be comfortably held in the hand for reading but must rather be laid on a flat surface. Moreover, the cover was of brocaded stuff, dark red in color but fully as luxurious looking as the scarves the traders sometimes brought. Haraska had one such, of dawn rose with flowers picked out in silver thread, which she loaned to dunmaidens who asked to wear it at their weddings.
Haraska! The hand Yurgy had reached out to pull the book closer to him slapped the tabletop instead. To think here of the oldmother was like spitting on the floor!
Still, the rich crimson of the volume’s cover drew his attention more strongly with every passing moment. Its color was not the maidenly blush of theearly morning sky, matching Haraska’s scarf—it was brighter; even to stare down at it began to excite him in a way he had never experienced before.
At length, curiosity won over wariness. Brushing the tabletop carefully, lest an overlooked crumb of bread or dollop of gravy spot that deep-red fineness, Yurgy reached forth both hands and drew the volume directly befo
re him.
The lamp must have flared up a fraction, for the boy had a feeling that, at his movement, the light in the room had increased. Slowly he lifted the cover, to display a page that felt, to his rough fingers, most like stiffened linen of the finest weaving. There was writing there, surely enough, but using no symbols that had any meaning for him. And so it continued as four pages were turned to join the first. Now his interest was made more intense by frustration. He had been meant to find—and read—this book; therefore, he must puzzle out its secrets.
As the fourth page turned, Yurgy simply stared. Each of the sheets now was half occupied by a picture, depicted clearly and with a lecherous skill. The youth’s face flushed, and his hands quivered as if to clap shut the cover, sealing each clever and vicious painting away. Only he could not. Nor would whomever had drawn him into this action in the first place allow him to raise his eyes until every detail seemed to have entered his head like a nail pounded in.
Nor was that the only picture; there were more. With the revealing of each, the lamps flared higher and the details demanded to be studied with ever greater care. Never had he seen nakedness so vilely aggressive. And, what was worse, a part of him was beginningto answer—to—to relish what he looked upon! His body felt as hot as if he worked, sans smock, under the heaviest smite of the summer sun. No! one part of him continued to protest, but that was being overborne by this new and shameless eagerness to see what more could be disclosed when the next page was turned.
Yurgy had no memories of his life before he had been taken into fosterage, and any boy working on a farm comes early to certain knowledge. Only, that awareness was a knowing of life as it was—while this was the normal order of things twisted by evil into a hideous mockery to be rightly rejected.
The youth did not know when he began to notice the one girl who, by the artist’s skill, was shown surrendering to the lusts of a creature he knew to be of an even more hellish nature than the gobbes. He found himself looking for her now in every illustration he uncovered. Then—and, with the one part of his mind that yet seemed his, he knew he had not willed it—his fingertip touched the small, childish breast so blatantly displayed . . .
