by Andre Norton
“Meanwhile”—the archmage now touched the wall stain, as a warrior might make blood oath to seal his purpose—“we must continue to search our most ancient records to discover who—or what—movesIrasmus now, perhaps completely without his knowing. One cannot fight an enemy until one knows his name, face, or kind.”
Gifford drew his cloak closer about his shoulders. He had lost more flesh of body, as well as pleasure in living, and he always felt cold now.
“I search; so do we all. We dare to break seals on the forbidden chambers, endangering our beings by such probing. If we could achieve only a single crumb of enlightenment, it would be worth the effort and peril.
“The Dark”—the loremaster shivered visibly, in spite of his close-drawn cape—“sometimes I think I hear it chuckling in the corners of the rooms I comb. Others have reported hearing voices speaking in unknown tongues. We have tried very hard not to release anything, though we do not even use the permitted search spells anymore. Yet I can offer nothing that is meaningful.”
Harwice looked down at his battered knuckles. “You search the records. I and my two novices have opened lofts in which paintings lie in dust so thick we must fight through what is very like a sandstorm to see clearly. I—”
“Brothers!” The three men turned. Behind them, the panel was once more innocent embroidery. Danful, now the youngest of the novices, stood there in his shirtsleeves, which were nearly as black with grime as his face.
“In the room of Archmage Khanga”—the youth was all but spluttering—“Brother Rees has found a Dam Seal!”
In a moment, the mages were all on the move, following their young guide to see for themselves the most potent seal of spells ever known to their kind.
***
The search for the power interfering with Irasmus’s plans had not been confined to the Place of Learning. Though Irasmus had read only the smallest fraction of the books and scrolls he had stolen, he had been studying those assiduously through many nights. His ploy with Yurgy had helped to bolster his belief in himself, and he had watched in his seeing globe with avid attention not only Sulerna’s taking but what happened afterward.
That those dolts had thought to throw the boy’s body into the root cellar the Dark Lord found amusing. It was already carrion and, as such, would draw not only his watch birds but also any gobbes within sniffing distance. A slave burial for a slave!
All these things had unfolded in the globe which, as had been promised, had served him well. Indeed, the only desired image the sphere seemed unable to reveal to him was the answer to what was still only half a question: why had the gobbes invaded the Forest and thereby, at least in part, endangered his schemes? Irasmus still blinked when he remembered that light, which had either destroyed the severed head entirely or taken it where even his own enlarged and ever-expanding talent could not find it.
Now he stacked and restacked his oldest books (though setting apart the one which was nastily hair covered), calling precisely to mind a scrap of spell here, a bit of ritual there, and refusing to be frustrated.
An hour—even two in certain corridors in the Place of Learning! The rogue mage would give much for that; but merely to seriously consider ways of performing such exploration could threaten his most carefullystored power. In those halls, now forgotten even by those who had concealed it, lay such a wealth of lore that the thought of it made him feel a nearly physical ache of hunger.
So much could be lost, falling between cracks of years. . . . From the tentative fingers of seeking he had dared to put forth, Irasmus was sure that this very tower had once housed more power than he had managed to discover in the rebuilding. Only, he could not now risk any interference with the dun and its people. Nature had a power of her own, and he must wait out the months until his plan in that direction would be complete.
Last of all, there remained the gobbes who had invaded the Forest. The Dark Lord had purposely remitted none of the torment he had visited upon them on their return here; thus, relief at hand from pain now might be of more importance to them than some later nebulous punishment—or even reward—offered by an unknown.
Though he had not yet had time to fashion a new wand and imbue it with power, he had the globe. Making up his mind, Irasmus picked it up and set about carrying out what might, or might not, be a very necessary action.
13
PERHAPS, GIFFORD THOUGHT AS HE ENTERED THE lower levels of the ancient edifice, which descended by one curl of stairs to another, a building could become too old—cunning and reclusive in its own way, as if it took on, year by passing dusty year, an awareness of sorts. Working in squads, the scholars had begun their search, starting from the sections they all knew well and working their way into those which had been most deserted, save by any of their number striving to follow a trail of learning across far centuries. After the past days, when the brothers had delved and probed here, the loremaster, who had once complacently believed that the archives were his own particular territory, had made such discoveries as set his tired mind abuzz when he tried to record them in order.
How old was the Place of Learning? Gifford had never been able to find any record concerning its foundation. Perhaps that account had been concealed duringthe Days of Chaos before the Covenant. However, on the seals of doors the mages had read names that had long ago passed beyond history into the realm of legend.
Even now, one group of the seekers approached such a lore hoard: the sealed archive of Archmage Khanga. Reputable scholars had more or less agreed that that name was not a true one but rather a lost password of sorts.
A number of lightballs gave full luminence where the rest of the brothers gathered with those who had made the discovery. What those spheres shone upon was no door—not even the outline of a portal was traced on the web-hung wall. In the center of that space was something wrought by human hands as a warning.
The Dam Seal itself was known—at least the representation of it was, as Gifford knew, listed in the more ancient accounts. But its actual appearance differed greatly in detail from any drawing on the page of a book.
A skull was a common enough symbol for death. But this grim object bore fangs and horns, showed an unnatural arrangement of bones, and even suggested—if one continued to look at it—that it had never worn flesh at all. Moreover, its dome was perhaps a third larger than any human braincase would normally be.
Forming a frame around the skull image was a maze of intertwined runic characters of ancient mode. Directly above it were engraved the warning characters by which the reporter of this find had identified it: the personal insignia of the myth-shrouded archmage.
The present explorers formed a half circle, none of them approaching the device. Though draped with acurtain of webs spun by the eyeless spiders of the lower ways, the seal itself was as clean as if just polished by some dutiful hand.
Even a mage could be touched by the chill of fear—if he or she were a true holder of talent. The archivist wanted none of this thing. Nonetheless, it was part of his domain, and to leave investigating to another was a weakness of character which did not lie in him.
The rest withdrew a little as Gifford approached it. A Dam Seal was set only to restrain some entity that was too potent to be allowed loose. In this place, that being must have been a major power of the Dark.
“Back with you all!” Gifford commanded. The lore-master heard the shuffling of feet and guessed that he was being speedily obeyed.
Three of the traveling globes of light swooped down to ring him in an aura of blue radiance. There was no door—there was only the seal. . . . The archivist wiped his sweating hands down his cloak, then unhooked the clasp and let the cloak fall, wanting all the freedom of body he could obtain.
Three was one of the numbers of power, as even a novice knew. Jutting from the skull were three massive horns, the middle one directly above a hollow that might have grounded a nose, the other two each overhanging a bottomless pit of darkness that could have housed an eye.
Horns, eye sockets, nose pit. But what if—? Gifford’s head rose higher. This monster had been set hereby a man—that he must believe. And what remained of the man? Only a diamond shape above, divided down the middle and bearing what he recognized with a small shock as the representation of a Sasqua’s head. The lorekeeper felt oddly reassured at the sight, for the portrait of the gentle Forest giant tempered the sinister otherness of that eerie skull.
In the old days, of course, there had been no barriers such as now divided the realms of the modern world; and the Forest might well have shared its wisdom with the Place of Learning.
“By the Great Powers,” Gifford intoned slowly. “By the will of—” Three names he repeated; then he was on the edge of boundaries he himself could not pass.
The echo of the last name was still sounding. The loremaster raised hands in patterned gestures, using all the force of his will to keep from trembling. Only then did he dare to press a forefinger on each of those horns and, after a moment’s hesitation, to touch the representation of the furred head above.
He was concentrating hard, yet he could still hear the sound of soft chanting behind him. Once—once someone might have called so upon—the Wind?
Even as the archivist’s thought turned in that direction, Gifford heard—it! Not the powerful thrust of its preparation for battle, no; rather a thin, strained effort, as if it had to fight hard to reach into these depths at all. But it was the Wind, and it carried with it scraps of knowledge.
The Dam Seal shivered, bits of it flaking away as if Gifford had clawed at it with his fingers; then it shattered and was gone. However, there was no openingbehind but merely a second seal—one which brought a moan from those gathered about.
The Wind was gone, as swiftly as it had come. The mages had learned the answer for which they had been searching. Now the second seal was, in its turn, fading very fast. The loremaster knew terror then. Was the power it represented at this very moment seeking anchors among those assembled here, just over the threshold that the Light had set uncounted years ago?
That was one name Gifford would never say. Anyone who dared call upon that force aloud placed himself and all the world about him in deadly peril of a fate worse than the finality of death.
So the scholars stood waiting, and each strove to call upon their talent, summon each defense ever learned. Fortunately, it seemed they were, for the present, witnesses only; they would not be swept up to serve all that was most abhorrent to them.
“There came Wind.” Gifford broke the silence first. “It was with me—”
But Yost, seemingly unheeding, cut across his brother’s speech. “So now we know,” he announced. “Perhaps it is better to know, though I think that, for us, knowing will not bring instant surrender! Also, if Irasmus thinks to call upon That, he is a fool beyond all fools. As yet, it cannot break through. It can only feel for crevices in the barrier, venturing forth to catch what it may against the day of its own triumph.
“Yes, Loremaster”—now the archmage acknowledged Gifford’s words—“you felt the Wind. Even She, in Her own place, keeps watch upon Her own; and thesafety of Her woodland has already been broken. Give me room.”
The archivist stepped aside, and Yost drew his wand from its pocket in his cloak. The crystal that formed its point flashed fire drawn from the globes—liquid light that could be ink of a sort. Then, as the mages began chanting again, their leader drew another sign on the wall—one which was right and proper for this place.
The women of the dun had faced down the men, and since this was a matter in which from of old they had had the sentencing, the choosing, none of the men had approached Sulerna. Instead, they had busied their hands fashioning crude weapons from their farm implements. Almost all under the clan roof seemed certain that they would not have long to wait before Irasmus struck with all his followers to beat the folk of Firthdun into the dust, as he had all their neighbors.
Now the women—even the girl children who had only recently paid their first Moon Due—took turns carrying the stretcher on which Sulerna lay, still drowned in terror and despair.
The moon was very bright, and the sanctuary was wreathed in the moonflowers whose fragrance soothed, seeming to heal a little their sorrow of mind. In the middle of the hollow that lay open to the sky and the Threefold Lady’s symbol, the dunswomen set down their burden. Haraska took her place at the head of the stretcher. The oldmother had insisted she must come with them, though Mistress Larlarn and Sulerna’s mother had had to support her between them for most of the short way.
The ravished girl’s mother gently withdrew the coverlet so that her daughter’s body, now washed and treated as best could be, lay nude, nearly as white as the blossoms nodding over her.
The women sang no song of welcome, nor did they give the death wail. No maiden came tonight to be accepted, nor did a woman full of years depart. Never had they so served any of their kind, but they could believe there was good reason to do so now.
Sulerna opened her eyes. Her hands moved slowly into the moonlight, as if, by some favor of Her Above, the girl could draw about her a covering fashioned both of the moon’s rays and the blooms around her.
For the first time, the girl spoke clearly. “Yours, Treader of the Far Skies—what I bear within me, let it be wholly Yours.” Her hands smoothed over her still-flat belly. “I yield this new life freely to bring about that which must be done so that the Light will not flicker and die forever from these, my kin.”
Wind swung those vines on which the flowers grew. It brought only comfort; it did not speak with the inner voice, and it promised nothing; yet they all raised their heads and felt its gentle touch on their cheeks.
But Sulerna seemed to be listening to something the rest could not hear. Her expression was that of one who was giving heed to a lesson, and the hands lying over her womb tightened protectingly; then the faint murmurs that spoke in her ear alone were gone. Turning her head, she closed her eyes, and over her Haraska drew the coverlet once more.
Silently as they had come, the women of the dun departed the moon shrine. Yet this time, as they tookthe road, they seemed to feel on their heads like a caress the tingling touch of the Wind.
None of their fellow fiends had laid hands on the two gobbes Irasmus had disciplined since his wand had struck them down; but several of the demons had taken stakes and pushed the writhing bodies to one side of the courtyard, where they had lain night and day. If such creatures could know hope, these must have lost it long since, just as they had forfeited the power of speech through endless wailing.
Some of the human slaves paused from time to time in their duties to glance surreptitiously in the direction of the luckless pair, but those of their own kind dared give them no notice.
As the Dark Lord emerged from the tower, every creature in sight scattered. With an uplifted hand, he beckoned to Karsh, the leader of this squad of hell spawn; and the gobbe chief came toward him with what was plainly the utmost reluctance.
In spite of the nearly exhausted twistings of their bodies, the two monsters on the ground somehow held their heads now so that they could watch their master.
Or was he? Swiftly Irasmus put high guard on that thought.
No human could produce the guttural sounds of the gobbes’ own language. Irasmus balanced the globe carefully between his palms so it was visible to his slaves.
“You are mine,” the dark mage said with very little emotion. “You were bought with blood, as was demanded by the archdemon who sends those of your kind to serve elsewhere.”
He paused, as if expecting some answer from the pair under his spell. Both of them showed opened mouths, one of which was now leaking greenish spittle, but neither uttered a sound.
“You are mine, sealed so. Yet you have done that which I did not order. Had you
served Him from whom I bought you in such fashion, what would have been your fate?”
Only the creatures’ bulbous eyes moved, rolling in their misshapen skulls. Irasmus did not stoop, but he lowered the globe, at the same time taking a stride or so closer.
“You went to the Forest.” The Dark Lord spoke simply now, as one might to slow-witted children. “You dared force the barrier of the Wind, or”—he paused, to continue with a question—“was that shield in some manner opened for you? Then you slew one who serves a greater power than perhaps even your master would dare face.” Now his lips twisted, as if he could not repeat a name he knew well. Karsh, still behind him, coughed, and the two gobbes on the ground rolled their heads wildly from side to side.
Irasmus’s gaze was on the murky depths of the crystal; however, nothing therein changed. Well, he could hardly expect a quick or easy answer.
“Perhaps the Wind drove you into its outer hold. But you had time to take a trophy. Was that intended as a gift for me?” No answer came from the captives. “No—better as a warning or, most likely, as bait such as a fisherman impales on his hook. It remains that you did this because of orders, and”—he swung the globe closer, from one contorted body to the other—“not any orders of mine.”
He began to chant in sharply clipped words like oaths strung together.
Now an answer came for him—not from the two creatures weeping bloody tears but from the sphere he held. At first, it seemed that he saw a tangle of threads there; then that mass displayed purposeful movement.
The would-be master looked down upon a symbol, and only all the power he could call upon kept him from dropping the sphere. Nearly the full sum of the power he had husbanded so jealously was required for him to stand against the will of the Dark entity whose sign he saw for a brief instant or two before it tore itself free and was gone.
The dark mage had dealt with minor Dark Powers for years, secretly at first and then openly. From this land and its people, he had drawn the talent and inner strength, as one might suck milk from a woman’s breast.
