by Andre Norton
Once in the glade, the ghost fire did not approach the Stone straightaway; rather, its swinging dance led it in an ever-narrowing spiral toward the gray pillar, on whose surface the sparks now glowed fiercely bright. Three times the wood-bred creature circled that which it did not try to touch. In the hole, there was a riffling of the sight-barring stuff that kept out the world beyond. Shadows touched shadows, and nothing would have been clear to a watching eye, had there been any to witness that ritual. As the ghost whirled,another sound arose in the Wind, seemingly born of the dancer’s erratic movements and matching its actions.
Often the Wind carried tatters of voices. Sometimes, such were messages meant only for certain ears; others were either spoken out of memory or had not yet been uttered anywhere, save in the future the Life Breath foresaw.
“Blood will be paid—” The glistening droplets on the Stone’s side spattered, and their angry hue began to fade. But the fire dancer became taller and taller, thinner, until it was the girth of a war-spear’s shaft. The lower end snapped off the ground, moving upward until it formed a horizontal bar; still its substance grew no thicker than the mist of its first forming.
The shaft appeared to balance, as if it were now indeed gripped in the hold of a battle-seasoned warrior, a weapon that he knew well would not fail him. Then it hurtled through the air, and one point of it pierced the hole. The rest of the shaft followed; and the Wind gave a single great howl, such as might have been a screamed demand.
If demand it was, however, no answer came.
“What does this fool? Evil I will grant him, and perhaps more of the Dark Knowledge than any of our caste, even back in the old days before the Covenant, ever drew upon. But—now he rouses the Wind, and blood has been shed within its own sacred place!” Gifford’s troubled face was that of a man who had lost all the good cheer meant to be his birthright.
“Foolish or evil ruled, he follows a plan.” Yost did not turn from the window panel of the hall to face his companion. “You saw how deep is his entanglement inthat. Yet one can become so set in a single chosen path as to be unaware of any others. This act was not of his ordering, nor”—the archmage hesitated—“would it be the command of any in the dimensions of this world. But Irasmus seeks to open other doors. Has he not already drawn upon another level in bringing the gobbes to his service?”
“That hell crew!” Gifford sat straighter in his chair. “Brother, we have thought much upon what we may or may not do in this; but have we forgotten that the Dark also schemes and plans in its shadowy halls? The gobbes were raised by demonic ritual of Irasmus’s performing, true; yet one was dead when they entered our sphere. Can it be hoped that, in drawing them hither, our would-be dark lord greatly overestimated his powers? Or has he brought in other players about whom we know nothing . . . and he less than he believes?
“Those ghoul’s get were able to enter the Forest past its wards—at least to the outer fringes of it—deeply enough to strike a grievous blow there. Did we not believe that those guard spells were beyond any breakage?”
“We assumed that would be so—given her temper,” Yost answered dryly. “Still, those creatures of the utter foulness did enter there, and killed—and certainly not by the command of their present lord.” Now the archmage did swing away from the window. “Brother, all things age and lessen with time. Could it not be that, even though Irasmus might become what he has long desired—a mage of mages—there are forces, whereof we may know nothing at all, that are using him to further their own plans?”
Yost grasped the back of the chair that faced thearchivist’s, his knuckles standing out like hard knobs of skinless bone with the force of his grip.
“We deal with vicious phantoms now, Gifford, and hope alone can help us. Already lives are being interwoven that will bring changes past reckoning—my own, at least.”
Gifford’s face displayed his inner misery: that which had been eating at him since the first of their discoveries.
“Why have we kept aloof here, and what have we allowed to be planned?”
“What fate has forced upon us,” Yost returned. “Thus, when payment is demanded of our brotherhood, none can deny the justice.”
“Grandmam—” The old woman’s hold on Sulerna with her good hand was painful, more so than any the girl had known before. Sulerna tried to catch and hold those staring eyes. More and more, she had a feeling that Haraska was indeed a prisoner in her wrecked body—though one aware of her plight—and that, through her ever-pleading gazes, she fought valiantly to give some vital message. For that her grandmother had a message—a warning—Sulerna was convinced; however, apart from her private speech with Mistress Larlarn, she had not mentioned what she believed to the others. What was more, her remnants of talent assured her that the message was meant for her.
Haraska’s struggles were dying away; and she was relaxing, despite the torment the girl could read in that fixed gaze. Once—once a touch of Wind breath might have made all clear; but now the Wind was gone from Styrmir forever.
Her eyes closed at last, and the old woman’s breathing became more even. She had worn herself out by that last effort and was no longer conscious now. Sulerna dared to loosen the hand which had so branded her upper arm, freeing herself from its fingers, one by one, as gently as she could.
Someone came up behind her; and she felt the pressure of another grip, this one laid insistently on her shoulder. When she looked around, it was to see her older brother Elias, his expression troubled.
“We must be doubly careful now,” he stated. “If it is true that Yurgy is bound closer to that one than the rest of his slaves—well, this dun is his home, and he knows every possible door, so there are no secrets left to aid us.”
Sulerna shook her head firmly. “Yurgy will never turn on us,” she declared. “Never he! Think of how the story was told—that he moved all but witlessly at the master’s command, looking neither right nor left. The dark lord has slaves aplenty; perhaps now he needs such who are more than the dull-minded things our people have become. Do you not wonder if, mayhap, there is some reason why we yet remain free—”
“Yurgy?” Her brother’s laugh was ugly. “He has not even a breath of the talent, nor ever did! Listen to me, Sulerna: keep close to the dun; be ever near one of the elders. I am not one to welcome a sending, but this lies heavy in my mind.”
“I shall do so, of course,” the girl replied, somewhat coldly, “but, as you know, as I seldom leave the side of our grandmam, there is little need for me ever to go outdoors.”
11
YURGY LAY SPRAWLED ACROSS HIS PALLET, STARING without purpose into the nothingness that appeared ever, these days, to roof his chamber. He could hear no movement from above or without, and he might almost believe that the tower, holding himself alone within, was otherwise deserted once more and left to the ravages of time and weather. He never saw who—or what—delivered his food; however, when he would rouse at intervals and look at the table (in spite of all his efforts not to do so), he would see a filled bowl and cup, with perhaps a half-loaf twist of bread. And hunger would not allow him the strength or courage to refuse what was meant to keep him alive.
Nonetheless, he did shrink from laying hand to that food, for eating seemed to lead always to his taking up the book once again and leafing slowly through it. What was worse, he could now, by some chance ordesign, read all of what was written in those outer pages.
Only once had the boy been freed from this prison that gnawed away at his spirit. That was when—he only dimly remembered now—he had gone down the tower stairs, to become aware of a mass of people, of screeching gobbes, but, most strongly, of the master.
There had been a thing, not unlike a great ball dribbling blood, that had lain nearly at the dark one’s feet. Without an order being spoken, Yurgy knew what was to be done. He picked up that gory trophy and found he was holding a head—not of either man or gobbe, but still a head, hacked off at the neck and freshly killed.
L
ater, the youth came to believe his wits had been overlaid with some illusion, for he had not been at all curious as to what he carried back into the tower and up to Irasmus’s chamber. The master had followed closely and pointed with his wand at the table, which then was clear of all the tools of his unnatural work except candles.
By that light, his mind having cleared to some extent, Yurgy might at first have thought he had brought in the head of an animal. But he could see now that, in spite of furred skin, its countenance was more akin to that of humankind’s than to that of the gobbes or any beast.
The sorcerer’s eyes were alight with interest. Out of a small chest, he brought the globe he so cherished and set it to face the slack features of the dead.
The Valley youth was loosed into further freedom from the daze that had held him as solemn words rang through the room. As Irasmus spoke, he emphasized each word with a tap of his wand’s tip on the table.
“Sasqua!” There was a note of contempt in that address. “Woods animal! What were you called?”
Faintly and from far away came a whisper of a name.
“Lacar.”
“There is no Wind here to whirl you away, Lacar. Where is She who is supposed to call you Her child in your time of need?” He laughed. “Well, you will serve someone’s purpose this day—mine.”
The mage did not even turn to look in Yurgy’s direction, but the boy moved under a control he could not break. From one of the shelves on the nearest wall, he selected a plate as large as a platter. Having set this on the table, he grasped the clotted hair of the head and placed the grisly object upon it. Its eyes were wide open, and Yurgy could believe that death had not fully claimed this creature—that it still possessed a fraction of both sight and mind.
Irasmus drew both candelabra closer to the plate. Once more, Yurgy obeyed unspoken orders and fetched a number of small boxes he had difficulty in carrying all at once, though that seemed to be the master’s need.
Carefully, the youth set these containers in a row, while Irasmus, keeping his hands well away from the table and what it bore, pointed with his wand to the first, then to its neighbor, and so on down the line. The lid of each box snapped up in turn. A fine dustlike film rose in the air, though there was a difference in the shading of colors as the motes gathered into a multicolored cloud that formed above the severed head and began to spin.
Whatever the Dark Lord had thought to achieve, however, he was not to finish it. Though the candleflames had brightened when he had begun to chant, there now came from nowhere, to strike through that glow and dim it again to near nothingness, a thrust of raw radiance so terrible that Yurgy cried out, his hands going up to shield his eyes. He heard another scream, perhaps uttered by Irasmus.
Then around the boy roared an arm of Wind, to strike at him, almost bearing him from his feet. With it came a piercing howl that filled his head with a pain he thought would burst his skull.
Mercifully, that assault on the ears ceased nearly as quickly as it had struck. The brilliance that had heralded that sound also subsided; and only the subdued glow of the candles remained.
Yurgy found himself lying on the floor. Irasmus still stood by the table, and his malignant smile widened even as the boy caught sight of him.
On the table, there was nothing left. Not only had the head vanished, but the row of boxes had disappeared as well, leaving behind only blackened smears. And the wand the dark lord so cherished that it was never far from his reach had diminished by half its length.
At that point, the sorcerer did something odd: he turned away a little from the table and bowed—some person of note might have been standing there against the far wall.
“Most impressive!” The mage used the silky voice Yurgy had long ago come to fear. “That which is Yours lies once more in Your hold; but I do not think such would have had much worth my hearing. The Sasqua are Your faithful beasts, Lady, and they serve in death as well as life. Accept my apologies for requiringaction that must have sore taxed Your strength.” Irasmus inhaled deeply. “Ah, one can smell such power—”
Yurgy could scent it also—a metallic odor in the air.
“To waste force,” the Dark Lord continued in a conversational tone, “is it ever wise? However, be assured Your fosterling did not die by any order of mine. I merely thought that even the smallest scrap of knowledge can often be garnered to future profit. You have bound the Forest against us, Lady—which suggests another problem. Had You a wish for gobbes so that, this day, there was no barrier against them?”
Much of the mage’s malicious humor vanished. His lifted lip might still have been meant to suggest a smile, but now the sharp-pointed teeth of a predator showed.
“If You did not summon my servants, then I suggest, Lady, that You study well what has happened. I do not believe that Yost plays tricks with You or those You claim as Your children; therefore—who does?”
Yurgy had learned that anger from Irasmus could produce an almost-palpable feeling in the air. What he caught a suggestion of now, however, came from a vastly different source and one even farther removed from his kind. Then it was gone, and he realized that they two mortals were now alone.
The sorcerer reached out as if to take up his wand, but he did not quite touch flesh to the wood. He crooked a finger at the boy.
“Take that to the fire; it is worth nothing now.”
Irasmus watched carefully as Yurgy did as he was told; then he centered his attention fully on his captive.
“Time, perhaps, will no longer serve us. So be it! You shall do what you shall do.”
***
There was still a Wind of rage—albeit rage kept in tight bonds—alive in the Forest. The drumming of clubs continued as if to feed that ire, and the Sasqua gathered.
The Forest’s children were no longer the amiable creatures they had been for the numberless generations their kind had walked the woods. For the first time, they felt a new emotion: an anger as deep and devouring as that which the Wind itself could summon from its inmost being.
Through its fosterlings, the Forest listened, seeking as one with the Wind. Almost nothing remained, save a body just within the tree wall and the stench of evil from the Valley. Ill will was a feeling unfamiliar to the gentle giants and, after it had come to nest with them, it brought them disturbing dreams at night and made them restless and aggressive by day. Often, some would seek out the Stone in the glade and sit before it, watching; yet they knew no way of calling or asking—they could only wait.
Once more dismissed from the Dark Lord’s chamber, Yurgy rested on his pallet that night, fighting sleep as if to yield to it meant death itself. He sensed that the master was alert and that perhaps the fate of the head had caused him to speed up some plan.
The boy at last closed his eyes, though he struggled against it, sure now that some talent not unlike dreaming pulled him deeper under Irasmus’s control when he dared even to drowse.
It was always then that he saw the faces.
The horror of those was the worst, for they wereconnected with the bodies in the book’s vile pictures. By an obscene coupling, the countenances of those he loved with all his heart were paired with the forms of the humans shown surrendering themselves joyfully to utter depravity.
But sleep could not be forever denied, any more than the boy could refuse the food that appeared out of nowhere. At first, he would sit apart and gaze at that unwonted bounty, and the emptiness in him was a pain. But what if it were by the means of those meals that Irasmus controlled him? He could not be sure.
At last, the youth was driven to take a drink. And once the watered juice was in his mouth, easing his thirst, he could not hold back his hand from the bowl, then from the bread. . . . So he cleared away all to the last crumb, cramming the food into his mouth and swallowing it as speedily as he could, ashamed of his lack of self-control.
However, he would not open the book—he would not! Perhaps, at that moment, Irasmus’s will was busy in another direction, for
Yurgy was able to rise, stumble across the small room once again to the pallet, and throw himself onto it, breathing as heavily as if he had run the length of Long Field. Still, he had not touched the lust-inflaming volume. Nor did he dream again.
The boy could not be aware that, far from putting him out of mind, Irasmus was now concentrating on him. Preparations had to be made in the room above, and the faint uneasiness the master had known since his experiment with the Sasqua head had failed so dramatically kept him busy throughout that afternoon, night, and the following day. Now the second dawn was drawing near.
The mage had checked everything twice over. This was his own private matter, having nothing to do with the Forest or what might have been awakened there. He uttered a last incantation, caressing the ball with both hands as he did so. His will might have been feeding what lay within, and that power, in turn, strengthening him. Now he spoke with the authority of one who could not be disobeyed.
“Journey forth, youngling. You are not altogether what I would have to serve me in this, but you have been tutored, and you are now geas bound to what must be done. Go!”
The pallet in the room below held a mass of twisted covers, but nobody rested there any longer.
For a wonder, during these past ten days and more, Haraska had not roused during the night. Yet Sulerna’s sleep had hardly been deeper than a doze—she might have been waiting for a call from the old woman.
Yawning, the girl slipped away to the far side of the room where she could wash face and hands in the waiting basin, then unbraided her hair that she might brush those wavy lengths. No real light burned here to show the glints of russet shot through the darker-brown locks; and the girl did not look into the square of mirror fastened to the wall above the washstand—she knew well the face that would look back at her.
