by Andre Norton
“The Wind should be your armor; however, your weapon of words can allow only a trickle of Its power to force a way through the many guards Irasmus has set. If not for those barriers, you could call upon It, and It would answer. Did they not exist, the land would be clear, and you would be one with It forever.
“Only now, in the Forest, does the Wind range free—but there, also, One rules who may be difficult to convince of your right to treat with It as well.”
“Fogar is of the dun kin,” she said slowly. “But since he has struck hands with that one—does the Wind . . .” Her speech faltered into silence.
“The boy has not yet been corrupted, as you believe, Cerlyn—not yet; although, as I have told you, choices still lie before him. You would ask, does the Great Breath touch him where he now dwells? Let your heart be eased. If he does as little ill as he can—and that with an unwilling spirit—then be sure that the Wind caresses his brow at the day’s end as tenderly as a mother sends her child off to its pallet at night.
“And now you must go, or Irasmus may become aware that you are more than he thinks. Fare you well, daughter of many Wind Callers!” The mage raised a hand, but the gesture he made was not quite the customary one of farewell, and—
Cerlyn lay on the stinking straw of her cell once more. As she moved one leg to ease long-tensed muscles, the chain about her ankle pinched. Iron. What was the old legend? Yes—that that metal provided, in part, a shield against some forms of power. Perhaps, then, she had been chained so that any slight talent she possessed would be damped down—even defeated utterly.
Fogar was moving, but in an unthinking, uncaring daze. Something that had nearly blasted his world to pieces lay behind him—what, he could not remember. He shook his head in an effort to clear it, and memory obliged by stirring dimly. This was the tower, and he was being hustled along by two gobbes. . . .
The spiral he had set into place, Irasmus with his globe, and the rest of the events that had led up to the end of everything—the jagged bits of the memory picture began to fit together once again. Yet, somehow, it all seemed a dream, a vision being forced upon him from somewhere outside himself. Had it really happened?
Irasmus awaited him, seated, as was nearly always his custom, in the thronelike chair. But on the table before him stood no globe; no, that—that was gone. The boy could not tell how much the Dark Lord might have divined of his apprentice’s part in the failure of whatever mighty ritual had been attempted.
The demons who had delivered Fogar scuttled away. Then Irasmus spoke with the kind of deadly calm that very great anger will produce in some men.
“What does a workman do with a tool that turns in his hand and sets its blade in his flesh? He recasts it, or—he casts it away.”
Fogar still felt as though a fog enwrapped him, entrapping him to be used as his master desired. The suffocating stuff seemed also to touch him now and then, as though with slime-slick fingers. Loathing gagged him.
“You have failed me once—” The sorcerer’s voice was deepened by menace. Then he snapped his fingers, and two of the gobbes shambled in from the gloom of the doorway. The creatures shoved Fogar forward until he was jammed against the edge of the table. Then Irasmus began to stare into the youth’s eyes. One’s very brain could be invaded so, as the apprentice had learned. . . .
Suddenly, in a blessed instant, the sense of the violationof his inmost self ceased. Fogar drew a deep breath and knew that, in some way, the mage had failed.
On the bare tabletop, Irasmus now began to swiftly draw lines with a fingertip he dipped into a pannikin of red fluid. A few of those symbols the boy knew vaguely. However, as he watched the bespelling, unable to tear his eyes away, more and more of his abortive studies returned, now clear and comprehensible, to his mind. He would attempt to fight back—only this was not the time; he needed more—more—
From the surface of the table the red traceries flung themselves forth. The gobbes scrambled back and away, lest they also be snared. The blood-hued netting enwebbed Fogar’s legs, body, arms, and neck. But this shroud did not cover him fully. There was yet a space free about his head—his ears—
Faint, very faint, was that sound; still, he heard it—and knew it, too—as he waited for the Dark Lord to complete the binding. However, to the boy’s amazement, Irasmus suddenly seemed satisfied, and those torturing cords dissolved, leaving the erstwhile captive weak and wavering.
“Because I still have use for you, you shall continue to serve me.” The mage ground out the words as if the admission of his need for another (or—the youth dared to frame the thought—his defeat here?) were a bitter substance he would spit forth. “Be sure, however, that there will come a time of reckoning between us when you shall be of even greater service to me.” A clap of his hands brought the demons at a run. “Take him below,” Irasmus ordered, “and see him . . . well kept.”
23
“HITHER! HITHER!” FALICE SANG, HER VOICE CARRIED and magnified by the Wind. They were following her, round-eyed with wonder, that pack of ragged, near-starved children—and not only following but showing no signs of fear of Hansa and the two other Sasqua females who had come with her.
The human maid caught hands with one of the little ones, while Sassie accepted gently into a strong leathery paw the bony, scar-scored fingers of another. To Hansa’s daughter the Wind also spoke—beckoning, promising, soothing, healing—and the young Sasqua sensed It was binding this humble company into a force that was far more powerful than Irasmus and his army of demons.
Hansa led the way, one child borne in the crook of each elbow, and Falice saw small hands venture forth to stroke the great furred arms that supported them. The other Forest’s daughters had likewise taken up theyoungest and weakest of the band. Birds dipped and lilted about them, making music for a march of triumph, and within her own mind Falice could feel in the Valley’s children an opening, a budding, a growth, like that of young green things spiring toward the sun after a years-long drought. The heritage, which had been denied to those born in the Valley since the descent of the nightmare blighting, was at last being bestowed.
So they came to a Forest pool that was open to a sunlit sky. Deer drank there, lifting gracefully sculpted heads to stare at the newcomers. At a signal from their leader, they faded silently back into the enringing trees, leaving the water untroubled—
But not for long! From hunger-pinched bodies, discolored with old bruises as well as fresher stripes and scratches, rags, soil-colored and coated, were stripped away. Sassie, laughing in Wind sound, leaped into the water with a splash. One of the older boys jumped after her without hesitation, and the rest of the children, some with a bit more wariness, followed.
Her hands full of thick leaves, which she crushed together as she came, Falice waded after them. By the time she reached the children, the pulp had acquired a soapy feel and released a fresh, nose-tingling scent. She went to work on first the body and then the matted hair of the nearest girl, watched closely by the Sasqua. Then Hansa and one of the other Sasqua females entered the pool and took their cue from her; and the youngsters (between splashes but during shouts) allowed themselves to be scrubbed from head to foot as they had never been before.
The misery maps of their skins were brown—asmuch with soil as sun—and lines of grime creased them in places, but the lather of the leaves cleaned every inch. And the former slaves had begun to laugh, then play, some chasing a neighbor to catch and dunk him or her. Such freedom was restoring to them the birthright of all children: innocence and joy.
When the happily tired troop at last emerged from the water, Falice was ready to demonstrate how handsful of noon-warmed grasses could be used to dry small persons. The Sasqua had left; but they soon returned with the nets they had knotted, and those bags were bulging with fruit and edible plants.
The little ones ate so ravenously in the beginning that Hansa made sure the first portions proffered were of modest size. She then allowed them to concentrate on this
or that particular viand that proved the most to their liking.
They were sitting at peace with their world, one of the young humans leaning back against Hansa and smiling up with a berry-stained mouth at the large, kind eyes regarding her. Around them, the Wind sang softly to provide a lullaby for several of the waifs, who had curled up in a contented doze. It was, in fact, lulling them all with its murmurous voice. . . .
Then it screamed.
In an instant, the serene scene was rent, like a curtain of the Forest’s vines torn asunder by the wrath of a storm. Power—raw power—had been unleashed, but it had not been directed against the Green Realm—that much Falice knew. This was a backlash from some other outpouring—a disturbance against which the Wind rallied immediately in defense.
The girl could no longer hear the drowsy voices ofan untroubled land, for the war cry of the Great Breath drowned out all lesser songs, scaling at last far higher than her talent could follow. She could only open her arms to the two nearest children and hold close their shuddering bodies, hoping that such contact might give them some measure of reassurance, if not safety.
And then the Wind was gone—to do battle? to raise defenses? She could only guess. Even the Sasqua were holding their powerful bodies tense, although, like their human sister, they strove to comfort the children about them. Falice could hear the little ones crying, for, with the Wind’s disappearance, all their fears had returned. The child whom Falice held pushed away and actually tried to strike her rescuer’s face.
Now there came a sound that even the absence of the all-telling Breath would not have kept from the Forest’s myriad ears: the drumming—so deep that the earth about the little company seemed to beat like a giant heart.
Drumming—yes, Falice could envision what caused that: a forest of huge Sasqua clubs striking the ground in a fierce and fearsome rhythm.
“Aieeweee—Wind!” she called, both in her mind and aloud.
Now there was movement across the water, as if that which was approaching must keep a certain distance from them. No, not “that”—whom. And Her, Falice knew.
There was the green tunic, clothing the Earth’s power bodied forth in womanly form, though the face, as always, was veiled. Such was the awe that vision inspired in her that Falice wanted to bury her face in her hands to hide her eyes, but she could not.
Lady—the little ones. Hansa’s mind-speech could still reach Falice.
“It has been said,” replied the Earthborn in a voice all present could hear, “that those who claim refuge here are accepted by the Wind. No harm is meant to them. What has happened lies at a distance; still, it has now become a matter for the Forest.”
She raised her long-fingered hands and moved them in a pattern the human girl suddenly realized was a summoning.
A second blaze of color expanded out of the air. This new-come figure wavered, as if it held its place only by a high expenditure of energy.
This was a man, but, like the Earthborn, a member of another race. Perhaps he had stepped from another time, as well, for, though he looked like one in middle life, his eyes, which were more visible than the rest of him, held no hint of age.
The Lady in Green spoke first.
“Look you, Archmage.” The slightest movement of Her hand indicated the children. “These were they who drudged for your former scholar. And, by him, only a few breaths ago, such power was sought as could have challenged even the Wind—had the Door been opened, as he desired.”
“We seek—”
“You ‘seek’ ”—she mimicked his tone—“but do you act? Oh, you will say you have been honing your weapon—but now full battle comes.”
“It was that ‘weapon’ you make light of that held fast shut the gate!” the chief wizard flashed.
“For this time,” conceded the lady. “He of the tower has, perhaps, been halted for a time, but not for good.Irasmus is a far more dangerous opponent than you think. He works magicks, some small and some great (as the one this day), but he is not defeated—nay, nor even more than slightly troubled—by what has happened. I call upon you, Yost, and your company of fellow ‘seekers,’ to turn your knowledge into power. I summon you to stand against the Dark with every weapon you can raise!”
The figure She addressed flickered and then was gone. A moment later, the Lady Herself followed.
The sense of awe, which had held the onlookers respectfully silent, evaporated also, and the Wind—the soft Wind of the Breath, not the Fist—returned. Under its comforting touch the children’s fear dwindled and was gone.
Falice, however, had a question, and it was of Hansa that she asked it. “I am not truly of the Forest, am I, mother one? I am”—she hesitated, swallowed, and then continued as though she must speak a painful truth before her courage failed—“of the same kind as these we have brought this day to safety. One need only look upon us all to know.”
“You are of the Wind Stone’s holding.” Hansa’s touch on her fosterling’s mind was as tender as any embrace she had given when the girl had been her small furless cubling. “It was at that place I found you with your mother of the body. Her spirit had gone to the Wind, for she had been hard used.”
Falice had never felt such depths of wrath as came welling up to fill her at those words. So—chance alone had saved her from the same fate as these little ones. Would that the Dark might feel in its neck the sword of the Light, and that speedily!
The Forest’s foster daughter was no warrior, but she knew at that moment that there was in her the stuff from which weapon wielders—or weapons—were made. Perhaps, she thought with grim pleasure, the Dark Lord had by his own actions shaped her so, to be an agent of his final destruction.
Then Falice’s elation vanished as swiftly as it had come. She had the Wind to call upon for war gear, yes—but to realize her wish she must learn more—much more.
How would it sound if earth and sky, like two vast hands, were to come together in one tremendous clap? Much, doubtless, as what Fogar had just heard, who was now on his knees, hands tight over his ears. Within him, pain and terror warred for domination; around him, unconscious, the gobbes lay limply sprawled. Was this a dream—or no? Had he suffered this hell before, then been made to forget?
Irasmus stood on the last stone of the spiral, as motionless as if the life had gone out of him. He was almost hidden by a cloud of dust. As the cloud cleared slightly, the apprentice could see his master’s hand unclose and drop the precious wand to shatter on the stone.
The mage turned, his gray face like a thin layer of ash over a barely banked fire, his eyes like burnt-out coals. Perhaps it was only a guess, but Fogar, watching, believed that Irasmus was no longer equipped with normal sight.
“By blood and binding—to me, Demon Son!” Power enough resounded to bring the boy, dazed as he was, to his feet. (Again—what was real and what,dream? Where was the tower—and why did he remember having once before faced the Dark Lord’s promise of torment?)
Fogar obeyed, but he felt led to do so by a power he knew was none of his master’s. He paused for a breath or two by the last of the stones and held out one hand as if asking aid. As he picked his way among the gobbes, they stirred uneasily, like dead beings roused from the sleep of the grave by a necromancer’s call.
Irasmus’s dark hollows of eyes remained fixed on him. Were they still organs of sight, the boy wondered, or was Irasmus merely feigning the ability to see what lay before and about him? Or—and this was the worst possibility—had his master, after so many years of ingathering power, developed an inward vision that might see further than physical eyes?
“To my chamber!” the sorcerer commanded. He took a step in his pupil’s direction, and his booted heel came down on the broken shards of his wand. He flinched but said nothing, only groping ahead with the hand that had held his rod of power. Fogar did not—dared not—dodge the grip, predatory as the talon of one of the raw-headed rot eaters, that closed on his arm. The two did not now follow the spiral of stones bu
t headed straight for the tower instead. (Only—had the gobbes not taken him there before? Could time twist in this unnatural fashion?)
The Dark Lord appeared to be totally blind, but the youth refused to place any trust in that hope. Thus he must act, and continue to act, as one left bewildered and powerless by the recent cataclysm.
The apprentice guided his master back to that evertwilit tower room and thence to the vast chair. Irasmussank back, and the ebbing of tension from his body spoke with mute eloquence of his reaction to that abortive use of power.
“The bottle corked with the head of a drackling”—his voice was studiedly calm, as if he strove to keep it from shaking— “pour from it one measure, no more and no less, into my marked cup.”
A cold chill, knifelike as a fang of ice, struck through Fogar. Irasmus had never permitted him to touch this flask, having always ere this reserved its handling to himself. But the boy knew only too well what it contained—a potion that altered, even damaged, the mind. He knew of two gobbes, subcaptains under the late Karsh, who had been forced to drink a draught of this stuff for some act of supposed insubordination. The creatures had emerged from this chamber dull eyed and shuffling, with drops of spittle beading on their warty chins. Ever after, they were capable only of the simplest tasks under supervision. Was the Dark Lord, having learned the truth about the reason for his failure at the spiral, now about to make Fogar quaff the quasi-poison?
Concealing a terror greater than he had ever known before, the boy set about his task. One of the things he had learned early was precise measurement. For this purpose, there was a row of all sizes of cups. These the apprentice had learned to both use and cleanse, washing them in various brews when he had finished, because water did not suffice.
Despite his fear, however, as he searched for the marked cup, his newly awakened inner sense was also viewing the measures in another way. Scraps of knowledge gleaned from dozens of rituals in which he hadaided with these tools drew together as they never had before. (Yes, but what of that other memory—the one of Irasmus, still normally sighted, subjecting Fogar to punishment? Should—could—there be two kinds of time?)
