by Andre Norton
In fact, very little of the life within the Dark Lord’s stronghold made much sense to Fogar. The youth was not slow of wit; at times, he believed he understood more than the mage guessed. Though of land-grubber origin, he was not sent out to labor in the nearly barren fields. Instead, Irasmus had early taught the boy his letters and continued his education—sometimes driving home key concepts with the cane—to this day. However, as Fogar had become inescapably aware (though he kept his insight a secret), the Master was deliberately blocking him from understanding the various spells contained in the sorcerous books and rites. The unwilling apprentice saw patterns drawn on the floor and heard arcane mutterings, but, for all he could comprehend, Irasmus might have been one of his own raw-headed birds cawing in place of speech.
The gobbes were no more stupid than the boy, though Irasmus seemed to look upon them as tools and weapons. Certainly they never took part in the curiously aborted ceremonies Fogar was called upon to attend. But there was no way to learn from them, either, except by the same means he had learned with the Master: watching, slyly and carefully, while guarding against any self-betrayal.
Fogar despised the demon slaves, whose appearance, smell, and behavior were revolting, though his earliest memory was of being fostered by them. But their constant threats of ill usage had long ago taught him to play the broken-spirited yokel with them.
The Valley folk, who seemed even more like mindless beasts than the gobbes, appeared to be afraid of him. No reason existed for such fear that he had ever been able to discover, but then this tower was entirely too full of secrets. Thus, though he was always surrounded, Fogar was alone—except for the dreams.
Hastily the boy damped down memory. When the Master sat before his dusky globe, he might well believe he had the whole of the land and the lives of all who lived therein spread out like a map for his inspection. But Fogar alone had the dreams!
Again his mind nearly betrayed him. Bringing to its fore the action of which he had dreamed last night, he concentrated deeply—to no avail. Fiercely he refused to be distracted, and again he looked down at the page of the book.
Only—the youth licked his lips nervously—was Irasmus again playing some trick to test his so-called apprentice? Perhaps he knew the boy had tested him from time to time in small ways! Slowly Fogar tapped the nail of his forefinger on the tabletop in a certain pattern, which to the uninformed might express nothing more than impatience.
No—he could not sense the darkness that always clung about Irasmus and, to a lesser extent, to the gobbes. Taking the chance that he was not under observation, Fogar bent his head a little to translate the crabbed printing on a portion of the drawing. Yes! Itwas so, and it was like opening a door—if only to a crack’s width for an instant. Irasmus had, indeed, deliberately garbled the writing on this diagram when he had directed his pupil’s attention to it two days ago—a typical ploy in the mage’s learn-this-but-no-more method of teaching.
The boy’s discovery was like thirsting and being offered a full cup of clean water. Still, he kept up his pretense, frowning and muttering as if totally perplexed. However, having seen to the true heart of this spell, Fogar felt like a mason who had been given a pile of perfectly squared stones and an order to build.
That rush of enthusiasm lasted but a moment. He did not jerk up his head, as his body desired, for he had no reason to stare at the wall above his pallet. But he felt a—presence—its attention centered upon him.
Games—always playing games! The youth had seated himself here deliberately some hours ago; no one would wonder that he was now ready for bed. Blowing out every light on the first set of candle-branches and all but one of the flames on the second, Fogar undressed. He then washed at the large bowl of water, though his attention was always seeking the intruder. Finally, knowing no way to make that shadow reveal itself, he lay down and pulled the coarse sheet up over him. His last act, which he dreaded but which he knew had to be done, was to blow out the final candle. Then he waited. He had no idea what sort of attacker lurked, but he had certain skills he could call upon in self-defense—or so he hoped.
The sparkles in the Stone were flashing as they raced to outline the hole, and Falice saw that she wasthe object of their actions. However, they did not aid in lifting the barrier against her sight. Instead, they formed a thick border around the opening, and the girl did not really need the Wind to tell her that this circle was being drawn for her protection.
Inside the hole there was a vague stirring, though more than movement could not be seen. The girl had the sensation that her vision was being drawn out and out, as though whatever lay within that opening—or on its other side—was a great distance away.
Then the curtain dropped, and Falice saw a building of stone blocks nearly as tall as one of the Forest trees. This was remarkable enough, but it was encompassed by a land such as she would not have believed existed. The ground was sour and held little life; here and there a misshapen plant showed but no trees. It looked full of unclean death.
Mercifully, her glimpse of that accursed place did not last long. She had a moment of light-headedness, such as might have come from being whirled about by the Wind in one of its less-generous moods. Then she was being drawn toward that high-reaching building and to one window in which showed a faint but beckoning gleam of light. She found herself in a room, small and harsh with its bare stone walls and scanty furniture—but also occupied.
Falice’s view closed in on a table whereon lay a square object. This she did not recognize until her attendant Wind supplied the word “book,” with the explanation that in such a form were records kept in this land which knew not the Wind, with its all-holding memory.
A being (man, said the Wind in her mind) sat lookingat that book. The girl drew a deep breath of wonder. She knew Hansa and the deer folk, night wolves, and tree cats, as well as the trees themselves; but here was one who was like herself! Had she, at long last, found her people? Her lips parted, but she did not utter the sound she wanted to make. For, almost as quickly as she had realized her kinship to this stranger, was she aware of a creeping evil that seemed to ooze from the walls of his room, carpet the bare floor, taint the very air he breathed. This was a place to which the Wind could not reach—a cursed place, like the land outside.
The man was, she believed, a youth—perhaps close to herself in years. When he stripped off his garments, she thought that at least two of his wiry, slender body would be needed to match the bulk of Peeper. Cautiously, she cast forth a tendril of the Wind sense that had been hers almost from birth.
This dwelling was evil, but the man she watched—no, he was not truly a part of that darkness, not yet. She sensed that the time might come when he would make a choice and perhaps turn, of his own will, to the Dark. At the same time she realized this, a fierce denial arose in her that such might be so.
The girl could not send this kin the Wind to strengthen and cleanse him of any shadow of evil. In any event, the final choice must be his alone. Yet there were ways of freshening his world with the Breath of Life, even if its full power could not reach him. She knew his face now, as well as Hansa’s, and she could wish him well each day; for so did the Wind carry comfort to those who were troubled. At last the stranger put out the thing that made light (another wonder), and his room was in night. Falice, a faintache between her eyes, drew back from the hole, which was now black once more.
Taking a step backward, the girl suddenly stumbled and fell. Her approach to the Stone had uncovered part of what lay there. Twice she had served with Hansa when they had come across one of her foster mother’s kind, long dead, in the Forest. The bones were laid, to the smallest bits, in their proper places; then the doer of honor called down the Wind’s protection.
Why so much had come upon her this night Falice could not have said. However, she gathered the bones and laid them straight and, as she worked, she became aware that the frame she put into order was like her own—it had belonged to no Sasqua.
&nb
sp; Carefully she set the bones in their places, then stood while the Wind whirled about her and the sparks of light on the face of the Stone flashed.
“Go with the Wind, stranger.” Falice repeated the proper words. “Let your way be ever that of the summer breeze, and gather you what you will of the Light.”
Each full moon time thereafter, Falice found her way back to the Stone. Some nights it had scenes for her to see, and many were sickening in what they showed. But she understood it was needful for her to view such horrors, in order to know the nature of the enemy.
This day was Sassie’s now, and the two of them were playing the cubling’s favorite game. However, tonight the moon would rise full, and once again Falice might go adventuring.
18
THE COUNCIL ROOM WAS UNTOUCHED BY THE PASSING years, but those gathered in that chamber—all their arts of energy hoarding notwithstanding—showed differences in both condition of body and level of vitality.
The change was most apparent in Gifford. His scholar’s stoop was more marked, the wisps of hair escaping from beneath his cap were faded and thinned, and any hint of the wonted good humor and satisfaction with life had been wiped away from his now down-drawn features.
“How long?” The archivist’s voice, once so assured, revealed a loss of vibrancy.
The archmage did not look up from the invisible lines he was sketching on the tabletop with his forefinger.
“Who can tell? How long does it take to corrupt a man?” Now—or so it seemed to Harwice the artist—the figure traced by Yost on the dark surface suggesteda tower. “That he has held out so long—indeed, from childhood—against absorption argues a strong inner core, or—”
“Aid of a sort, yet not from us!” flashed Fanquer. Of all the mages, the former soldier betrayed the least change. “Brother”—he spoke directly to Gifford— “did any of your surest-sent dreams arrive unmangled by Irasmus’s wards? Have any of us taken a further hand in the game? No, I think that someone else is making his move—or hers. It was never well to try the temper of that one who commands the Forest Wind.”
“She has her own ways,” stated Gertta. “Remember, though—it was through Her we were assured that the second of the Old Blood reached safety. The maid is untaught, as we would reckon teaching, but she has lived freely in the arms of the Wind, hearing always its voice.
“You spoke of dreams. The Wind deals with visions also, and Falice dreams without knowing why. Fogar, for his part, is crammed with knowledge—perhaps too full crammed, as the Dark One may discover! The boy’s learning is like our own; while his sister’s knowing is the memory of the Wind, for she rides the Breath of the World, and it remembers, always and all things.”
“Why does Irasmus persist in his dealings with the unholy?” one of the others ventured. “He still tries, now and again, to break through our barriers and rummage among the forbidden levels.”
“Because, I think,” the archmage answered, “that that yet-Darker One, who might wish to use him, has either been busied elsewhere or is playing with him, testing to see how strong a talent has been shadow snared.”
“There is also the matter of the hidden ones.” Gertta spoke again. “The Power that dwells in the Lightless Land is mighty, but have we not all known from of old that a single small error in laying a spell will not only break it but perhaps also rebound to the discomfort of the caster?
“Our rogue mage is aware that he has still within his slave hold another of the talent-blessed Old Blood. That he has not sought her out is possibly because he thinks to keep her in reserve for some final purpose. He is puffed up with all he withdrew from the land; but he was too impetuous at first, greedily seizing all he could summon near him.
“Do not forget”—Gertta paused for emphasis, her dark eyes sweeping the assembled scholars—“that, half a season ago, the gobbe Karsh was struck down and his broken body left just outside the Forest. A force that can destroy a demon is not to be overlooked! Irasmus felt so, too; and he made a great issue of that slaying, beating the countryside to bring out any unknown foes who might still lie hidden, though he found nothing but the ever-thinning ranks of his slaves. He did not attempt the Forest—and we all know why.”
Fanquer sat back a little in his chair, and his lips twitched. “The Shadow Lord flinched from a shadow,” the old soldier remarked with some complacency.
“He will find Her no shadow, but a too solid wall of defense about Her Forest and its people, if he hurls himself once more against Her power!” snapped Harwice.
While this debate was in progress, Gifford had seemed not to be listening. Instead, he had drawn from one of his cloak pockets a roll of parchment he now opened with care, for it was crumbling at the edges.
“Two have talked of dreams.” The loremaster spoke as if he voiced his thoughts aloud, but his words revealed he had heard his fellows’ discussion. “There will be a new dreaming. We have striven, over the years, to reach Fogar, and we have managed this much—he inwardly shrinks from what he might become. Moreover, Irasmus, ever jealous of his own, does not share knowledge easily. Now we shall awaken in his captive a new talent. And wherefore?”
Gifford pulled from another pocket a stylus that he now brandished as if it were a wand to rival Irasmus’s own. “Because our one-time brother, while he has seemed a patient man, will not settle for less than all: a full confrontation with That which he serves. He believes the Great Dark One to be generous to its servants—though he does not see himself as a minion but, rather, as companion or even master of the Nether Lord he thinks to call up. It has been a long time since he made any move toward that goal, but we shall touch him with a spark that will set his ardor once more alight.”
Yost had leaned forward a little, his attention centered upon the outspread roll. “The script of Jastor!” the archmage exclaimed, his voice deep with reverence. All around the council chamber, indrawn breaths of wonder greeted his revelation.
“Our tireless searching”—the archivist gently used the stylus to smooth the scroll flatter—“has at last brought us a key which, if we can employ it properly, will open a new door for Fogar—and stir Irasmus into action. This knowledge shall be used tonight by all of us in concert, for our dreaming must be powered by thestrength of our united brotherhood to breach the deadening barrier about Styrmir.”
Fogar set aside the goblet that had been brought to him by a slave. He also cleaned the plate that had been left with it, but his eyes were still occupied with the cup and the liquor that swirled darkly within it. He smiled inwardly, so that his understanding could not be detected by any who spied on him. Ten days ago Irasmus had ordered this particular beverage be served to him. . . . The boy frowned. Why had he been then—and why was he still—so sure that this new addition to his board meant no good?
He caught at an elusive wisp of memory—of a moon-silver shape standing beside his pallet, a form he could only “see” when his eyes were closed. Hard upon its appearance, a strange scent had swept into his nostrils, growing fouler, as if putrid ichor were being forced under his very nose.
The night following these phenomena, the goblet had been newly included with his evening meal. It had at first, as he had raised it to his lips, smelled of a mild herb. Then, all at once, the boy had nearly strangled at the corpse-rot stench rising from the cup.
He had accepted the warning—why, he was still not completely sure. Yet the silver one who had come to him had radiated an aura of peace and goodwill, even personal concern, for him, Fogar, Demon-Son.
What Irasmus had intended the murky drink to do to him his apprentice could not guess. However, the next day he had carefully assumed the fear and befuddlement of one hardly above a valley clod in learningwhen he was ordered to assist in a minor spell, and he understood very well that the wizard was frustrated by his awkwardness. Irasmus had stopped the boy’s recital of the incantation less than halfway through and had, instead, set him to work with the gobbes. The creatures were overseeing the digging, by
the former farmers, of a large hole in the side of a hill—a business that had begun two days previously. The Master had given no reason for this occupation; but the demons, plying their ever-ready lashes, had kept the wraithlike Valley folk—men, women (and Fogar)—steadily at work. Nor had Irasmus summoned him that night for any obscure instruction.
Twice more the goblet had appeared with its ill-smelling drink, and each time the youth had managed to feed its contents to the one gullet in the room guaranteed to relish a foul feast—the garderobe.
Now, as Fogar retired to his pallet, his head was full of questions; yet he knew no one he could trust to answer them with the truth. A long time had passed—a number of seasons, really—since the Dark Lord had shown interest or enthusiasm for any project as he had for this delving into the ground. He was like a man seeking a fabled treasure, sure he was on the verge of its discovery.
When the first layer of soil had been listlessly shoveled away by the feeble laborers, a section of earth had been revealed in which were imbedded a number of stones, some cemented by clay to each other. These the gobbes ordered to be sorted out from the loads of earth and placed to one side. The only feature that distinguished them from ordinary stones, as far as Fogarcould see, was that these rocks were flat as plates and generally all of a size.
Irasmus had actually ridden out to view this labor late on the third day, spending some time at the pile of stones but neither dismounting to examine them closely nor having any held up for his inspection. The boy noticed that the gobbes did not touch the rock discs either, and that they inspected their carefully raised pile only from a distance.
