by Andre Norton
As they approached, the girl noted that the source of the light seemed to lie to their left, being much stronger there. Then they came to an abrupt end to the passage, with a doorway on one side through which the haze came.
For haze it was, not the clean-cut beam of any torch or lamp. The effect was more as if they were advancing into a fog made of small particles of dim light which swam, gathered, and then split apart again. That zorsal who had circled overhead now gave an alert squawk and flew straight into the curtain which closed about him so that only muffled cries resounded.
“Slow—watch the footing—”
Simsa did not need such a warning from her companion. She had already cut her trot to a walk. The fog-stuff was wet, like sea spume, save that it did not carry the sting of salt in it. As it closed about her so closely that she was aware of Thorn as only a bulk moving through the mist, she felt thick moisture gather on her skin. This was like stepping down into one of those baths which she had experienced only twice in her life, when she had had a chance to gather enough extra silver bits to visit the one open to the most humble of Kuxortal.
The damp mist, though, had none of the strong perfumes which were a part of the city baths and which Simsa had never cared for. But she felt as if her skin, so dried and lacking in water’s touch for many days, was growing softer, that her body, more than her mouth, was absorbing what she had lacked for so long.
As she had done in the heat of the day, she pulled at the belting of her jacket, opening that wide so that the touch of this fog, so soft, so healing (for it seemed thus to her) could reach all the areas of skin she was able to bare.
Where this mist arose from she could not tell, for there was no longer any sight of walls, only pavement underfoot, the outline of Thorn, and behind him the carrier which she no longer had to push this way and that to keep on the level and moving. Zass had flopped over, belly up, her head stretched to the full extent of her long neck, that she might so expose all of her body that she could. After the burning of the desert, this was like standing under the sky in the first of the wet-season rains while those drops still fell slowly and gently, and one was not yet battered by any wind.
Then the haze began to clear. Patches thickened, appeared to swirl this way and that out of their path, as if the fog itself held a sense of being, and would not impede their passage. Thus they came out of one last pocket into the full open.
Simsa gave a small sigh. Her feet folded under her and she dropped, her hands plunging into powdery sand or earth so soft that it deadened instantly all the jar of her fall. She slipped into it, her hands unable to find any firm floor to support her, and lay, her cheek pillowed on one crooked arm, surveying what small bit of this place she could see.
That it was totally unlike any site she had ever heard described by the most far roving trader, bore no mention in even legends, was very clear. They had come into a space large enough to be as wide as one of the market squares of the upper city. In shape, it was as circular as if they were caught up in the cup some giant, grown beyond human reckoning, had carelessly set down.
The outer walls were formed by the fog-mist which constantly moved, thickened, lightened, but never allowed one a clear view of what lay beyond. While sand in which she rested, feeling as if all energy had seeped out of her forever, was not white-grey like the fog, rather it held the glint of true silver—as if that most precious of metals (as far as the Burrowers were concerned) had been ground and reground until it was as fine as the flour from which the upper city baked its festival bread. Simsa sifted the powder through her fingers and was sure, that, though there was no sun to awaken any answering glitter, this was truly some precious stuff.
It spilled in an even rim about a regularly shaped pool. The water of that (if it were water) was a clouded pale silver-white—such a color as she had seen before. Her hand fell back into the sand, and she saw the ring again. Slowly, because her mind seemed so bemused by the waves of weariness which swept over her now, Simsa made the comparison. This pool was the very shade of the gem in the circlet she wore.
Simsa lay still. Zass hopped from the carrier. Using her one good wing as she was used to doing when there was need, she thrust the leather tip of that deep into the sand, leaned on it as she purposefully made for the water which lay so silent, nothing disturbing its gem-smooth surface.
Could she depend upon the zorsal’s instinct, so much stronger than those of any of her own species, to judge that the opaque liquid was harmless? The girl tried to sit up, uttered a call which was only a soft murmur in her throat. Zass paid no heed, her dogged purpose was plain, as she scuffed through the silver sand and at last reached the water’s edge.
With a small croak, she gave a last hop which launched her out into the pool. She did not sink, rather she floated as if that water might have substance enough to support her small body. The good wing was spread wide, the other as far as she could bend it. She had lifted her head to turn her long neck and rest her jaw on the edge of the good wing. Her large eyes closed, and it was apparent that she was at peace, experiencing now one of the highest pleasures of her own kind.
There was a stir at Simsa’s other side. She was too drained to turn her head. Then into the line of her vision the off-worlder came. He had unsealed his garment, was stripping it down from his body with a purpose which Simsa could guess. Again a faint stirring of protest tried to raise her and failed.
Whiter than the mist walling them was his body. He looked somehow larger, more impressive than he had when clothed. Now he stepped across the narrow bridge of sand, turning aside to allow Zass full room to float in comfort. Rather than diving, he seemed to fall forward, as if his action had been the last surge of what energy he still possessed. Slowly, his body turned, sinking no further for his bulk than Zass had. He floated, face upward, his eyes slowly closing, his breast rising and falling as one who lay in the best slumber of the night.
Simsa watched and a longing grew in her. Whatever her two companions found there—that she must have also. She discovered herself crying weakly because she could not join them. From her tears and despair, she sank into a dark which closed deeply about her.
9
She was lying on such a bed as she had never dreamed might exist, one which accepted her slight body with a cool adjustment for every bone and muscle so that she was a part of the bed and its comfort wooed her to sleep. Still, somewhere deep within her, there was a nagging need for movement, for awareness of more than that lazy, insidious comfort, something which urged her back into the world.
Simsa opened her eyes. She was looking up at a rolling, ever-changing, slow-billowing of what might be cloud. Never in her life had she felt so content, so unaware of her body—as if that had been lulled into a peaceful slumber in which all pain and fatigue had been lost. She raised one arm slowly. For it seemed that, while caught in this delicious languor, she could not, nor did she need, to make any swift gesture. Her body moved also, even as her arm came into view. Whatever she lay on was not solid—
The slow languor vanished. Simsa slapped with both arms, rolled over, and her head and face went under. Startled, fear pulling her body taut, she strove to climb out, to fight back against what held her.
“Wait—lie still.”
Simsa, thoroughly frightened now, splashed the harder.
Then her head was pulled back by an ungentle hold upon her hair. She rolled once more so that her face was uppermost and she could breathe. The hold on her did not loosen; instead, she was being towed through this stuff which was far thicker than any true water. She opened her mouth and screamed, all the sweet contentment of moments earlier gone.
Then her head was dropped to lie on a support which was firm, leaving her face well out of the water. She reached out, half expecting only water, but her hands discovered that she now lay only part way in the pool, her legs still trailing outward. By using her arms and hands, she was able to work her body up into a place where the powder-sand was near as soft a cushi
on as the pool’s contents had been.
Simsa sat up. Against the silver of the sand, the opaque glory of the pool, her dark body was in vivid contrast. She was not wet. Her skin where she had won out into the air was damp, but it seemed either that moisture drained at once from her, or else was drawn as quickly off by the air. Even the mass of her hair, as she raised her hands to push it away from her brow and throw it back over her shoulders, was far less damp than it had been when she had come in from an early morning foraging in the dew which lay on the scrub growth of the river banks around Kuxortal.
If the water was not wet—it had performed something else which was to her comfort—that comfort which she had almost lost as her first bemused awakening. Her skin was firm and clean as she could never remember it being before. Now she wriggled her feet. Freed of the clumsy wrappings, the worn-out sandals, there were no bruises, no small pains of scrapes and abrasions. She had a body renewed, made whole, free and well.
She drew her hands slowly down that body, over her small, high breasts, over her narrow waist, her thin, scarcely rounded thighs. Her own fingers moving thus made her feel as if she were being stroked lovingly, given a pleasure so full that she answered with a crooning murmur deep in her throat, even as Zass answered when she was scratched along jaw line, and slowly, carefully, at the base of her antennae.
All the hunger and thirst which Simsa had brought here were dim memories. The desert journey was something that had happened to someone else. The girl surveyed her hand dreamily, and on her thumb the ring had moved about, the plain band facing the palm, the tower standing tall and proud. She was right—the rich, opaque shade of the unknown jewel was the same color as the liquid from which she had just come. She laughed aloud. Her feeling of well-being was as if she had drunk a full draft of rich wine. Once, one of the Burrowers, seeking to curry favor with Ferwar when the Old One was ill with pain that racked her limbs, had brought a bottle over which the woman had chuckled.
Ferwar had measured out its contents in hardly more than sips. Then, she had fallen asleep and Simsa, greatly daring, had taken the small portion which was left from the Old One’s last pouring. The wine had been cool in her mouth, warm in her middle. She had felt for a while as if she so wished she might take wing to seek the upper air, as free as a zorsal in the night. This same freedom was in her now. She threw wide her arms, and trilled the notes which summoned her creatures.
They came, beating their way out of the mist, to whirl about her head. As she turned to watch them, she was aware that her hair lifted somewhat of its own accord. That vigorous life now within her seemed to give the damp locks freedom also. There was another call and floating across the pool came Zass.
Only there was something odd about the zorsal. She rested breast down on the surface, not sinking in—her good wing spread wide. Her good wing—? Simsa stared, startled out of her concentration on herself and what she felt. That wing which had always been bent, frozen into a crooked line, had straightened out. It was not wholly as it had been, not as wide-held as the other; still, neither was it crumpled as it had healed in spite of all Simsa’s tending.
Zass swam to the edge of the pool, ran forward out of it. Both wings raised, to fan the air, the crippled one almost equaling the other. The zorsal cried aloud, prancing on all four feet at Simsa’s side, both wings in motion. It was clear that she was demanding from the girl notice of this healing which had now come to her.
Then it was that Simsa fully remembered! She had not been alone. Nor did she recall ever entering that strange pool, of pulling off her travel worn, sweat-stiffened clothing. Where was he?
On her knees, she looked around quickly. The sense of being inside a cup or basin was still very strong. There had been no lightening of the mist. Indeed, to her, it looked even thicker. The silver dust held no tracks—it could not. Move and it straightaway fell into place so that not even the impression of her body was left. A little distance away lay the muddle of her clothing.
Simsa stood, looking slowly around the circumference of the pool. No one else was anywhere within the mist wall. What she could remember last was watching the off-worlder shed his clothing. She glanced quickly in that direction to see if there was that discarded suit. Nothing there. What had happened to her?
He must have stripped her, put her into the pool. She reached her bundle of clothing in a couple of strides, dropped down to explore; there were those two bits of ancient jewelry, the bag of silver which had weighted her sleeve during all their journey.
Her nose wrinkled as she straightened out the breeches, the bits of ragged under-linen, the heavy sleeved jerkin. The touch of them now made her feel dirty and she felt as if she never wanted to see them again. However, all she had carried was still there—a twist of rag with the necklace, another holding the arm guard.
Here in this place of silver and milky-moon radiance, Simsa freed the two pieces. The arm guard she slipped over her thin wrist. It was not fashioned for such as she, the thing was too massive, too wide. The necklace with its pale green stones—she brought out a bit of the broken silver, twisted off a thin, stem-like bit to join the open links, then dropped the mended treasure over her head. Cool to the touch, it lay across her shoulders, the green stones fell between her breasts, having been set in a longer bit which nearly touched her waist. She liked the wearing of it. The metal felt right, good. As the ring had done, to wear this gave her the sensation it was meant to be hers.
She retied the bag of silver. He must have seen her treasures when he took her clothing from her. If so, he had left them to her. He . . .
But where was he?
The silver necklace slipped smoothly over her body as once more she turned to look carefully about the cup of the pool. All three of the zorsals had once more gone back into the water, were floating there as Zass had been when the girl had first seen her.
Only there was no long, pale body also there, no pile of clothing on the silver of the dust. Nor—had they pulled the carrier into this place? Simsa had a dim memory of that. But it was gone. Her hand clutched, then tightened one about the other so that the tower of the ring caused a small sharp pain. She was alone, and she had not the least idea in what direction she must go to leave, from which direction they had come—where into the mist she dared venture.
That sense of content and well-being which had held her when she had awakened, floating in the water, was gone. She stooped and started to dress, though she hated the feel of the grimed and sweat stiff cloth against her body. The zorsals—if they could be persuaded to leave the pool, would they point her a way out? What had led the off-worlder to desert her here?
As she wound the belt about her middle, Simsa clucked enticingly. For a long moment or two, she thought that she could not draw them away from the pool. Then Zass, using her crippled wing better than Simsa had ever seen, turned and paddled with all four limbs, the two younger following her.
They came out on the silver dust and trooped to her feet, not taking into the air, rather squatting down to look up at her with those over-large eyes, the darker rings of fur about them seeming to give them a wide and knowing expression.
Simsa waved her hand in the gesture she had trained them to respond to—the one that when sent them out to scout, and uttered the alerting cry.
Obediently, the two younger arose, sending the silver dust fanning out by the motions of their wings. Their antennae uncurled with a snap as they began to fly around the edge of the pool, only they faced always outward, towards the swirling of the mist.
The girl stooped to catch up Zass, and settle her in her old place on the shoulder, taking a queer kind of comfort from the pinch of the large hind feet as they near pierced the coat to her flesh.
Simsa’s head was up, she listened intently. So quiet was it here that she could hear the flap of the zorsals’ wings in the air. Once, she half lifted her hand to her mouth as if to make a trumpet of that, shout through it. She did not quite bring herself to attempt that call.
> Rather, she also began a circuit of the pond’s edge. Some trick of vision made it look smaller than it was in truth, for, as she kept on, still she did not reach the other side of the cup. Then the youngest of the zorsals flashed overhead, straight into the mist uttering a signal, his brother hard on his heels.
Zass’s antennae were rod-stiff, pointing in the same direction. Simsa drew a deep breath. Whether she was indeed on the trail of the vanished off-worlder she could not be sure, but the actions of her furred scouts made plain that something of interest lay in that direction.
She was strangely reluctant to leave the pool, the place where she had experienced such a quietude and joy of spirit. At the same time, she could not sit here forever. While the fact that the carrier had vanished made her believe that Thorn had meant to leave for good. Though why he had abandoned her . . .
The mist wall closed in. She lifted Zass gently from her shoulder, held the zorsal before her so that she could watch the signals of the antennae if they changed direction, which they did—now a few steps to the right, or one or two to the left. For all Simsa knew, they might be back circling the pool at another level, still she had no other guide.
Underfoot here was no sand, only rock. Her sandals and the cloth which had bound them to her feet were so badly worn that she could not use them again. So she must go bare of foot and be glad that her soles had been so toughened by years of such usage that, as long as the footing remained damp rock, she could walk it firmly.
Zass’s antennae, her whole head, suddenly snapped sharply right. The girl obediently turned in that direction. She believed that the mist was thinner and, a moment later, was proven right as she came out in a dull grey funnel which fed into a narrower passage. Though she was sure that this was not the way they had come—this ran on a level, no stairs ahead.
