by Andre Norton
Why! Why! The word hammered in his head. This Presence had no dealings with the Wind or Her who called it; perhaps it harbored contempt for both those powers. And certainly no one in the Place of Learning could have sealed a pact without all those mages of the highest talent being made instantly aware of the ripples ringing out from such a confrontation.
The bodies of the two offenders he had come to question jerked in one last convulsion, and then they began to shrink. Pools of stinking ichor ran from beneath their crumbling carcasses. Irasmus stepped hastily back, but Karsh cried out wildly. His cry became a weird lament that resounded from every direction as the other gobbes picked up the sound and added their own wails.
Why? The reverberation of the question in his mind deafened Irasmus to what was taking place. Unless . . .
His usually half-lidded eyes snapped fully open, and his mouth became a circle of wonder at the thought. The Dark Ones had been defeated long ago, the greater Powers having been driven into another world and time when the Covenant was sworn. But he also knew there had always been others like him who were able to claim kinship with the unhuman. Perhaps his own actions since he had come to Styrmir had attracted the attention of such an Overlord.
Very well—with most of the Dark Ones, bargains could be made—and such a pact could raise a human to the rulership of a world.
This breakage of the Forest wards could have been willed, not as an act threatening him but rather as an experiment. For the moment, he could only watch and wait.
14
THE GROUP OF FIVE STANDING MOSS-STAINED, TALL rocks looked like a giant hand lifted skyward, fingers apart, leaving a nearly level hollow between that might be the palm of an appendage so huge it could well represent a petition addressed to the sky above.
Other stones also stood here—rows of hewn blocks that must have once been fitted smoothly together into walls. Only the green moss showed life and growth; no forest creatures—no animals or birds intruded. Silence was complete.
Beyond the crumbling walls, a party was assembling. Male Sasquas were now hesitating restlessly beneath the shelter of the last fringe of trees. Unease notwithstanding, they remained. Now females, some bearing cublings, joined them.
Neither lord nor inferiors were known to the Forest’s children, nor even kin such as existed for the humans. The Sasqua were a fiercely independent,almost-reclusive people, each of whom kept within his or her own chosen section of the trees unless some occasion such as this drew them together. Usually they were also mild of temper, for their great strength was enough to overawe most other creatures who shared this land. However, their gentleness was sometimes but a mask—as was true this day.
Two of the most powerful males shared the weight of a stretcher made of vines lashed between good-sized saplings. The form borne on this litter was covered with a woven blanket thickly studded with white and scarlet flowers that were opened wide to the sun.
While most of the Sasqua now squatted down, the two bearers continued along a wall until they passed between two of the fingerlike rocks. There, with a tenderness they might have used to a wounded comrade, they drew away the bloom-studded coverlet and shifted the corpse of one of their own to the palm of the stone hand.
Not the complete body, for above a mangled, blood-clotted neck no head showed. The escorts arranged their charge until the deceased rested, almost lovingly clasped, in the hand; then, as they withdrew, a pair of the females advanced in their place. Both the she-Sasqua bore reed baskets heaped high with blossoms, the fragrance of which arose like the smoke of a smoldering fire into the air. The females, in turn, stood aside while the males used their offerings to once more blanket the body, avoiding with care that ragged stump of neck. Thereafter, more flower bearers approached, and the he-Sasqua retreated.
Their aim directed toward the hand, the flower bringers tossed their harvest into the air. A soft keeningarose, scaled upward, and died away. A breath or two later, that sound was succeeded by a vast sigh that might well have been the lament of the Forest itself.
As the woodland’s tribute faded, some of the Sasqua left their places. One of the two who had helped carry the stretcher now raised a mighty club.
With all the force of his mighty arm, the Forest’s son brought the crude weapon down upon one of the blocks near him. A deep boom sounded, like the single note from a great drum.
They remained in silence, plainly waiting. A second blow was struck, and joining it rose a shrill fifelike note. Far in the past, the peace of the wood kin had once been shattered, and they were returning resolutely now to actions buried deep in racial memory.
And they were answered, for the Wind arose, whirling the strewn flowers into a disguising cloud until the palm and its pitiful burden were hidden. Overhead, the brightness of the day was fast fading.
A brilliant beam of light flashed with lightning force from one of the tall stones near the hand. As if that monolith were a portal into another time and place, a woman stepped forth from its radiance to join them.
She wore no rich robes, and Her face was veiled by a green mist, but they knew Her. The stones echoed back the Sasquas’ hail: “Theeossa!”
The Sasqua knelt, reaching hands out to Her. However, while She inclined her head in acknowledgment, Her first business was with that which lay on the palm of the hand. Gravely She saluted its burden. Above the assembly, a gust of the Life Breath paid tribute.
So! The Lady’s Wind-borne thought came to them,more sharply than any speech might sound. So—already the evil strikes—and at us!
Now She shifted position, no longer viewing either the dead or the living as She raised her arms high. She brought her palms together above Her head in a loud clap.
Other noises answered Her, rising from the glade and those in it. The topmost branches of the walling trees shook under the buffeting of the Wind.
“Seek,” the Earthborn commanded. “Seek—and find!”
With a roar, the Wind obeyed. Then She once more turned Her attention to the body.
The Covenant has been broken—blood broken, my children. Raise your wards and hold them well, for who knows what comes with tomorrow or the days beyond?
One of the nearby females who had been among those scattering the flowers had remained on her feet. She faced the Wind Caller, eye to eye and chin up, all awe—for that space of time—lost.
“It has been said”—the Forest’s daughter spoke as one whom some truth now used as a mouthpiece—“that refuge in the Forest may be offered—sanctuary—for any fleeing the Dark. This was once so; do we now depart that custom?”
Slowly the Lady shook her head. “You remember well, Hansa. And mis do I now say to all of you: give haven to any who need it. Accept what comes in fear and pain, for it has greater worth than even we can foresee; and it may bring down the Dark Lord.”
Wild Wind whirled, swooping over the highest branches of the trees. Its thoughts were its own now;perhaps She who had summoned it knew them, but the rest of the Forest waited. The skin of the Sasqua tingled. Once—oh, once—it had often been so. Was it to be thus again? Their great clubs thumped on stone and earth, driven into motion by the excitement racing through their veins.
The Wind returned. Leaves were whipped from the trees; the blossoms about the body were sucked up, swirled in a mad dance about, then released again. And he who lay there in the hand of mercy was now complete, his head resting where it should. The Sasqua’s deep-chested cries vied with the withdrawing Breath of Life to do full honor to their own.
There yet remained a task to be done. The woman spread Her arms wide once again. About Her thundered the Wind, its shouting voice enough to deafen all in the Forest. Gusts broke away to form separate currents.
Though they were now silent, the Sasqua waited, for the death they mourned was only the beginning. As a spot of blight could spread to consume a leaf, so had the serenity of the Realm of Trees been shattered. Oaths long sworn had been broken; Lacar had died at the hands of the Misshap
en Ones. And who had brought them into their homeland?
Somehow, even eluding the direct gaze of Her children, Theeossa moved Her hand, and She suddenly stood upon a pinnacle of stone. Clubs swung and thudded in salute. The cudgels moved as one and seemed to possess a life of their own, though in the outer world they were considered but lifeless wood and no match for superior weapons.
With a final howl, the Wind contained its power.Theeossa laughed and allowed Her arms to fall limply to Her sides.
“Watch and ward must be kept,” She enjoined, Her manner abruptly as stern and cold as the rock on which She stood. “There has been a stirring beyond the Dark Barrier.” To the surprises of Her listeners, the Lady laughed again. “When fools play with fire, they often find themselves cinders! He, whom our present dealer-in-evil would call, has other—and what he considers greater—matters to concern him. He also has a long memory, and he well recalls what befell before the Covenant. Let this man-child, who plays so blindly with forces he cannot begin to know, beware: a Great One of the Dark is not disturbed without consequence!
“The monsters came here”—the last word was expelled as forcibly as if She had spat it—“seeking not such a Great One but their own petty lord. Some quirk led them to believe they could free themselves from bondage with a blood price, even as they were bought. . . .
“I say it clearly: the Forest bears no taint for this killing. But remember you—watch and ward!”
Once more, an eddy of Wind looped about its Caller. Her body did not yield to its touch, but Her hair waved banner bright. Mist streamed from Her figure, enveloping Her, and She was gone.
In his cluttered studio, Harwice sat on his favorite stool. Within reach lay a length of smoothly planed silvery wood, while a row of paint pots sat uncapped and ready, their colors glowing. Yet the hands of the artist mage rested on his knees, and he stared at the woodand the gem-bright pots as if he had never used such tools or tried to produce a painting before.
Suddenly he uttered a furious oath, and the shaft of the brush he held snapped. He threw the fragments onto the floor, and his scowl of frustration deepened.
The plank waiting before him bore a half dozen faint lines, a sketch Harwice had drawn at dawn.
It was bright enough now, by the Power. But the painting . . . This was his talent, and it had never failed him before. He shivered at the thought of any seeping-away of what he had commanded for so long.
In Harwice’s mind’s eye he could discern two youthful faces—indeed he could see them clearly—but he had somehow lost the precious power that, by his colors and brushes, would make them live. A boy and a girl, they did not exactly mirror each other; still, there was such a close likeness that any viewer would say they shared the same bloodline.
Frustratingly, he had not been able to endow the pair with the likeness he wanted. Here he wanted no flattering fairness of countenance; rather, they were marked by the lines of harsh life, a grinding existence. But their eyes held a keen and brooding intelligence. Whether they knew it or not, their birthright was certainly talent.
They were of Styrmir, those two; but they displayed none of the satisfaction with life, the belief in the future, which had once been known there.
“Harwice?”
The voice startled him, breaking his intense concentration. He did not turn to face the speaker, but his expression was close to a grimace of pain.
As his visitor moved closer, the edge of his cloak brushed against the array of paint pots, jarring one from its stand and sending it to the edge of the small table. With an exclamation, the newcomer pointed a finger at the teetering jar, whose contents were threatening to slop over its rim. Straightway it settled into security again.
Gifford gave a sigh of relief. The room was already growing dim—as Harwice had not bestirred himself to light any lamp—but the archivist walked close enough to the board so he could inspect the sketch. He turned at last to his frowning brother.
“So you have dreamed,” he commented softly, clearing his throat as if some emotion pinched there.
The painter scowled at him, though that obvious displeasure did not disconcert Gifford.
“Why do you ask? Are dreams not within the bounds of your talent also?”
The loremaster closed his eyes for a moment. His face showed an expression of weary sadness that had quite banished the glow of content it had once worn.
“You have seen them plain.” Gifford’s voice was low but intense. “Their birth shall be heralded by kin death and evil, and they shall be brought forth in darkness; yet still the promise of Light to come lies about them both.”
The archivist’s hand, stained with ink where the other’s was daubed with paint, did not quite touch the surface whereon was depicted the face of the maiden.
“Falice, who shall walk in beauty, sing with the Wind—and be what none of humankind could aspire to be since the earliest days of all.”
Harwice no longer regarded the drawing, for hisface was buried in his hands. “I do no more—let it rest as it is.” He spoke with harsh finality. “The shaping of those lives shall lie within themselves; I meddle not with such power.”
“You have not meddled,” Gifford reassured him quietly.
“I have dreamed, and then I wanted to bring my vision to life, though I was not permitted to carry it through.”
“The Light decides in the end,” said the lorekeeper. “If the curtain is lifted for you to see a glimpse of the future, do not deny it, brother.” He sighed. “Did you not also foresee the downfall of the Great Scale? The pans are now down at hand level for any to tamper with.”
Again Gifford raised a hand toward the double portrait, but this time his finger indicated the youth. “Fogar—who from his birth will be given over to the fosterage of evil and who shall know temptation thereby. Yet I say to you, Harwice, he bears that within him which shall hold steady at the end.”
The artist might not have heard this heartening prophecy, for he arose, picked up the slab of wood, and strode to the far side of the chamber. There he set the painting to face the wall, and he turned his back upon it with grim determination.
Sulerna’s knitting needles flashed skillfully. They had been carved from bone until they were so smooth and slender that the finest yarn could be used—carved by Elias, who since her ravishment had kept apart from her. Her brother seemed these days to be ever hurrying elsewhere when she would speak with him. Indeed, hiseyes would not meet hers even now, though he sat only across the hearth from her.
The young woman’s needles were being plied with housewifely craft, yet what they had to work with was but the ravelings from worn garments. In a similar effort to repair what could no longer be replaced, her brother was striving to mend a broken harness strap.
The folk of Firthdun had to make do with very little these days; yet Irasmus had made no move toward destroying them. Fear had become a member of the dun kin and sat always, a ghostly guest, with all of them.
Sulerna dropped the knitting on her knee and her hands covered her belly that was swelling—unnaturally large, she had heard whispered. In spite of her condition, she had taken her place in the fields with all the women. Moreover, she had gone with them on nights when the moon was full to the White Lady’s grove to offer petitions for the safety of the dun and those within.
The girl’s feet swelled, and her back ached, despite the potions Mistress Larlarn forced upon her. Resolutely, she had barred from memory the act which had so altered her life. To her former playfellows, it was as though she had become a stranger from whom they shrank. And lowness of spirit was harder for her than the pains of hunger that pinched them all at times. She, who had been a-dance with life, crouched now beside the hearth, always feeling a chill, as she strove to contrive small garments from the rags Haraska had collected. And Sulerna danced no more.
It was not so for Ethera, her cousin, who was also carrying, but who bore her discomfort with pride.Watching her, Sulerna wondered at times by what whim
of an unknown power their lives had been set in these allotted patterns.
The great looms had been dismantled and set aside, and the same had been done with the linen-break and spinning wheel; for, despite all the efforts of the men, the flax stalks were soggy with black rot.
Irasmus was at the bottom of it—of that everyone was sure. Why he waited, unless he derived some twisted pleasure from watching their struggle and decline, none could say. But Firthdun was dying, slowly and painfully, and, with it, all hope of any help to come. Did any of its people, Sulerna wondered, really expect the Wind to return?
15
A PARCHED SPRING PASSED INTO A SEARING SUMMER IN Styrmir. Though most of the beasts had long since vanished, there was a crop of sorts to be harvested. However, those things that did grow in what had been fields of grain were now strange root things, thick and solid as wood.
Such growths could be eaten, and they were; but their eaters grew more and more stooped, lank, and vacant eyed. Children—and there were very few of them—showed the blown bellies of ones who had never had enough to eat, and they dug ravenously in the dark sod for grubs and worms until those, too, vanished.
Yet Firthdun stood. At first, the dunsfolk had seen the enemy as Him in the Tower. These days, though, they were kept awake many hours at night when one or another of their guards summoned their aid to face, notgobbes under the orders of their bloodthirsty master, but the skeletal beings who had once been friends and kin.
When those of the dun could, they tried to share, only to realize that such giving would make them the target of their own people and that those, in the end, would show no more mercy than the wizard’s demons.
“It may be that he sees this as an easy way to bring us down,” said the oldfather, as they gathered one night. The kitchen, which had once been the warm center of their lives, now felt like a last refuge held against a powerful enemy.
