by Andre Norton
At last the fierce battery of curses (of several sorts) to which Fogar had been subjected by Irasmus after the imp had shown such scorn had ended. Well aware that the master was far from finished with him, he now lay unmoving, bound by the shackles of a spell, in this dark cell. Cell? There had been a girl, also a captive, and she had been thrust into such a hole as this. . . .
He heard a small rustling sound. Laboriously, heturned his head, though any attempt at action instantly tightened the bonds that had been put upon him—he had been placed under a constraint to act only as the mage directed. But in a small corner of his will that still belonged to him, Fogar thought: That one may have bound my body, but he can place no manacles on my mind!
From the direction of the rustling sound now came definite movement, which the boy could sense but not truly see—save for two glowing eyes. Those orbs were unsettling, but they did not belong to an animal, nor to any creature that ran the Dark Paths, of that he was certain. It was, rather, himself who had had the compulsion to set evil upon him.
The youth suddenly found himself moving stiffly, and by no urge of his own. Somehow, in spite of the gloom, he could now see his cell mate—enough, at least, to know where she stood. She had risen to her feet, but she made no effort to elude him as, step by agonized step, he drew ever nearer, fighting the compulsion spell that had invaded his mind, as it intended his body to invade—
No—such an appalling act could not be forced upon him! Until this moment, Fogar had felt as helpless to control his own limbs as one of those bird-begones the land grubbers placed in the fields, whipped into antic dance by autumn winds. Now, however, his head came up higher, and he managed—though it took every ounce of his strength—to hold his foot still. The reason Irasmus wished so vile a deed done he could not guess, but Fogar remembered the sorcerer’s analogy of the tool that turned in the workman’s hand. Well, he thought with grim joy, the master was about to feel thebite of his apprentice’s edge in his soft palm, for this was one work that would be—in every sense—undone!
In some way, Fogar believed, his fellow captive sensed what he had been sent to do—the hellish impulse planted in him by the new tool of murk the little demon had made. He heard a rattle of chain. Was the girl readying herself to meet him with the only weapon she had?
Instead of acting, however, she began to speak in words which quickly flowed into a chant:
“By Wind Ever-Breathing,
By Law of Orvas,
Desire of Vagen,
Ever victorious,
Judging, holding—“
Fogar knew those Names, though they were used only as blasphemies by most within these walls. What knowledge had this one gained before being taken in Irasmus’s net to speak with such assurance—even authority—of the Great Powers? Her words seemed to touch him lightly, like fingertips lifted in an instant, and he echoed, “By the Wind . . .”
All the myriad bits of knowledge he had been able to assemble through the past years, and the many images from dreams—yes, dreams—came crowding into his mind, forming more distinct patterns than he had ever seen before. His tone this time an answer, not a question, the boy repeated again, “The Wind!”
In the body of the Valley, the Dark Lord was an ever eating disease, but, at least for this time, his cancerous spread had been halted: he had been balked in one of his longest-laid plans.
“Who are you?” Fogar asked.
Movement again, certain in the uncertain light of the shadows—she had drawn herself up proudly. “I am Cerlyn, daughter to Ethera of Firthdun. Do you not know the ending of our clan, and, after, the torture death of Oldmother Haraska and Widow Larlarn—the last who could claim touch with the Wind? It was they who saved me from the slaughter of our kin, then hid me and taught me. And you”—the girl put out a hand as she said this, not in accusation but invitation to tell his part in the tale—“they name you Demon’s Son. But what are you besides what he has called you?”
“I know not, in full,” Fogar replied in a low voice. “I only know that that name is not truly mine, for, though Irasmus has tutored me in knowledge of the Dark Path, he never allowed me to understand what I conned. He thinks of me as a tool, a weapon; and he has used me when and where he could as both. It is as if he hones and holds me against a day when, he believes, I will be able to deliver some additional strength for his need.
“This night, he sent my body to try a hideous thing. My flesh and bones moved by his steering, but—maiden, I speak the truth: by some great fortune, that within me—that which was really me—could not be so controlled.” The apprentice stumbled to a halt, unsure he could make this Cerlyn understand.
As before, she sang her answer.
“Aiieee—ears wait:
The Life Wind blows—“
“Stop!” Fogar’s voice in their tiny cell was nearly a shout. Then, more quietly but no less urgently, “Listen!”he entreated her. “If you can call upon some Power to free you, then summon it now. That one has ways of turning minds inside out like a sower’s seed bag, searching for some fact, or memory, or thought he can use. He has made me live in two different times only to disprove a suspicion of treachery! His power may have failed this day, but I cannot believe he would fail to sense that tonight, in the very center of his stronghold, a Power stirs that is his mortal enemy. I warn you, do not attract his attention unless you are sure your talent is much the greater.”
Fogar had moved nearer to the girl as he spoke, caught up in his need to convince her of her peril. As he stopped speaking, he realized he was now close enough to touch her. Fearing a return of Irasmus’s filthy compulsion, he forced himself to step backward until he felt the dank wall of the cell against his shoulders. From this position, he concluded, “If you can cause the Wind to come to your aid, I beseech you—do so at once. Irasmus has many wards, and he will be tightening them all as swiftly as he can.”
“I am no Caller.” For the first time, Cerlyn’s voice was uncertain. “What came was by the sending of another.”
“Then summon him—or her!” Fogar urged.
“I have no such power,” she replied bleakly. “Whence the Wind comes and why, I do not know; only, this night, it moved to save us.”
The youth was thankful for her use of the word “us” perhaps he had won the trust of this Wind-kissed girl. He must not try to ally with her here—to do so would alert Irasmus in an instant. Yet fear for her safety still drove him to try to warn her. “Then youmust do all you can to play the slow-witted land grabber—”
Once more an assured motion in the shifting shadows, but this time a negative one—Cerlyn shook her head. “The time is long past for such feigning,” she replied. “Irasmus already suspects I have the talent. What he tried to force you to do tonight is proof.”
“How so?” asked Fogar in bewilderment. “In what manner would my—attack—on you have struck against your gift?”
“You have not lived among the people,” Cerlyn explained, “and the Dark One has seen to it that you know but little of us and our ways. There is a long-held belief that, if a woman who holds any talent is ravished, she is thereafter no longer a fit vessel for power.” The girl laughed suddenly. “You have never had bodily knowledge of another, either—such information would have been current coin. Thus,” she concluded, her mood once more grim, “Irasmus planned to draw from your action strength twofold.”
As before, Fogar felt oddly heartened by this stranger’s concern for his welfare, and he was seeking the words to tell her so (for he also felt strangely tongue-tied in her presence) when the door of the cell opened, and the gobbes were back. Their leader, its lantern lighting its face from below to a harvest scaregourd, shambled in and seized the boy’s arm. As he was jerked away, he caught a clear glimpse of his fellow captive—enough to see that, though she was clad in rags and her skin was mottled with dirt, her head was held high. He did not—dared not—look back as they hustled him from the cell.
***
Falic
e leaned her head against the Stone, grateful for its support. She could hardly believe she had been able to make contact—even though they did not realize it—with those two, much less that her thrust of power, weak as it had been, had helped give Fogar the strength to withstand the abominable urge implanted by Irasmus. She knew she could never have stopped the boy had his own will chimed with that of his master. However, it seemed that, despite the youth’s years-long submersion in the Dark, the Light in his heart yet burned clear, like a candle in the murk of that benighted tower. He, Falice felt sure, could help himself; but Cerlyn—who would hear the Wind more clearly—she was, indeed, one to be saved but Falice have aid. Yet how was such a rescue to be accomplished, and when?
The Forest’s fosterling closed her eyes and tried to think, only to realize she was so weak she must cling to the Stone. At last, as the first gray suggestion of dawn lightened the sky, she slipped down its length to lie on the ground. Though she tried to fight off sleep, her eyes closed; and, beneath the monolith, whose myriad twinkling lights kept a night of miniature stars above her, Falice lay alone in the growing light, deeply asleep in the glade.
25
CERLYN WAS IN A PLACE SHE HAD COME TO KNOW well—as well, in fact, as if she had lived there most of her life. However, she faced the one who had summoned her there with a frown and a less-than-respectful tone. “You call me, and I come, as a child set to learn. But, teacher, can you answer this question? Irasmus strove to play some high-magic trick, and it turned on him. How and why?”
“The Dark Lord’s sorcery did not ‘turn.’ Say, rather, it was turned—on him,” Gifford replied calmly. “The Lady of the Forest no longer strives to suppress Her power, for She has in Her service a maiden through whom she can speak—and summon a Power we both know. That girl is kin-linked to both you and Fogar. She may not have had access to all this”—a wave of his hand indicated the shelves of stored wisdom in his chamber—“but she has had the favor and aid of one of the very Oldest Ones. It was Her Wind-calling thathelped break the compulsion laid upon Irasmus’s apprentice to dishonor you by force.”
“But,” Cerlyn said in surprise, “there were only two of us in that cell, and he was tightly held by his master. . . .”
The lorekeeper was shaking his head before she faltered to a halt. “ ‘Master’ no longer, Cerlyn. What Fogar holds—though partly unaware of it as yet—would place him on the level of any of our scholars, even if he does not choose in the end to come to Valarian. This is the truth! The boy has been forced to read those forbidden tomes Erasmus stole from us, yes; and what was taken has led to dark doings and dealings alike.
“However, as I have said”—Gifford paused and raised a finger in the classic gesture of teachers everywhere—“no knowledge is evil in and of itself but only according to how it is used. The warrior and the healer both have an edge on their tools, but would you wish all blades dull because one is used to bring death? I tell you, girl, that when the moment comes, Fogar will be equipped far better for that encounter than he could now ever guess, and that he whom Irasmus has named ‘demon’s son’ will make that one wish he were confronting only fiends!”
“What moment?” Cerlyn asked irritably. “Where—and when? I am tired of being given only snippets of information!”
“The hour we cannot foresee, for the Dark Lord has bought a breathing space by trading once more with the under realm. Only”—Gifford’s usual smile here widened to the grin of one relishing a fine jest—“his bargain was not struck with the One he sought. Thus,for what he has purchased—as well as from whom—he shall pay the price.
“We are divided from the Dark, Cerlyn, by a wall pierced by crevices—and sometimes even windows and gates—none of which are made fast but can be used by either side under certain conditions. Years ago, Irasmus made, as he believed, a pact with one of the Dwellers in the Dark, and thereafter set himself up as a worthy agent for that being. However”—once more came a teacherly motion as Gifford held out his hand, palm down and fingers straight—“think of this as a bridge of rope that must be walked, with yourself wearing a pack to weigh you down. As you advance one way, the bridge dips”—he tilted his fingertips down and his wrist up—“but when you do that, the opposite end rises. It is thus with more powers than the pull of the earth: when one exerts force on an object in front of him, that whereon he has just turned his back may be lifting itself to overthrow him.
“There are certainly those of the Shadow Lands who harbor vast hatred for us of the Light and for all we are, do, and would achieve. Generations ago, a war was fought against them, and at its ending was forged the Covenant. Unfortunately, when the years pass, bringing no challenge, men forget, and they come to believe that peace and prosperity are rights rather than privileges hard won that must be vigilantly warded. Then one such as Irasmus arises and begins to pick at the seals of their safety. Power, to him, is as a great jar of wine with whose heady draughts he would ever wax more drunken.” The lorekeeper paused, then shook his head and made a dismissive motion with his hand, agesture Cerlyn had come to know as one of self-deprecation for a tendency to run on or digress.
“To return to that Dark-warding wall: on its other side are creatures who are likewise impatient. However, those of the dark who possess the mightiest talents remember only too well what happened before their exile. Here in the Place of Learning, we have delved into the annals of that age, and we now know the nature of the Being with whom the dark mage sought to make contact but who prudently remains beyond his reach; and since we have discovered whom he would invoke, we have been making ready. That entity, though, is not one of the Great Powers, as your would-be master thought—he calls potent names in his rituals, but those who answer him bear other titles.” The girl’s teacher bent his head for a moment over fingers interlaced on the tabletop. Possibly he was doing no more than collecting his thoughts for the summing up of her lesson, but perhaps he was raising a silent plea to the powers of Light for his aid—and hers. Drawing a deep breath, Gifford resumed.
“Now—listen well, Cerlyn, for we are come very near to the end of this play with Irasmus. From the beginning, your line has served the Light, and great heroines and heroes were numbered among them in the days before the Covenant. I cannot promise you a triumph to equal theirs, for defeat can be the prize for one small error. But, even as Fogar now dreams of what must be done, so I shall tell you that which will prepare you.
“Child, you have been marked by Irasmus as a gift to be handed beyond the Wall into Darkness and thussecure favor for him. I shall give you certain words, but the finding of the proper time to use them—and the courage to do so—will rest upon you alone; for each warrior must choose not only the manner of her weapons but the moment in the war at which to wield them.”
Her chain rattled against the wall as Cerlyn sat up and opened her eyes. Fogar was gone—she had watched the sorcerer’s hellhounds drag him out—but there was no breaking the bonds that held her. In her mind, however, those three names the mage had repeated to her so slowly and intently fairly burned, and she knew she would never forget them.
But something else had come here while she had lain entranced. The new presence was, without doubt, a force of the Light, and the very air of this noisome box smelled the fresher for its arrival. It seemed to Cerlyn that the Wind was still there, either having remained after it had freed Fogar of the ugly compulsion laid upon him, or returning. Now, there was also a pale glow suspended in the air above her at what would be head height if she were standing. Rising to her feet, she stepped before it.
The light came from no torch or lamp; instead, it looked like the gray of early dawn shining through a small window. Remembering Gifford’s talk of the piercings in the Wall of the Dark into which, at times, the Light might enter, she moved closer to the opening and saw—through.
Before her was another face—the apprentice’s again? No, this countenance was that of a girl probably of her own age; yet the resemblance of the stranger toFo
gar was very strong. Cerlyn wondered if her dreaming had touched her mind so deeply that, waking, she would see his image in any who were tied to him—no, she corrected herself—to them both by blood.
Obviously the girl on the other side of that window could see her in return, and it was she who spoke first.
“You are Cerlyn, of what was once the dun of Firth.”
“Yes.” Cerlyn was still bemused. “But you—you have the look of him the valley folk name Demon Son—Fogar—”
“Why should I not?” the other returned, almost proudly. “Long ago, Mam Hansa had learned from Wind Song that two babes were born to my mother on the night that saw most of our kin slain. Irasmus took only one; my mother fled to the forest, where she bore me, then died. I am Falice, and I am a Wind Caller, as is the birthright of our blood.
“However, that is of little moment now. The Dark Lord is putting forth his power once again—and this time, kin sister, you are to be his offering to the Under Ones. The Wind has sung it, and always the Wind knows. Yet this I now swear to you: the Forest will move, at long last. The Great Breath gathers itself to deliver a blast against the forces of the Dark; and, when the bonds that restrain it are broken, we, its children, shall come forth to do its desire. You and my brother kin will not stand alone in the final hour!”
The light which had painted that speaking portrait on the gloom winked out, as though the spot were, indeed, a window that had been abruptly curtained, and Cerlyn could no longer feel the touch of the Wind. Yes, what the vision visitor had said was true—at least as far as the part of her story that Fogar might have atwin. Grandmam Haraska had once let fall the revelation that Fogar’s mother had been heavy with twins but, after Irasmus had snatched the child first to appear, she had been aided to escape by the women who were huddled beyond the firelight and so out of the sorcerer’s view. That brave life bearer might well have sought the Forest as a refuge.
