by Andre Norton
Like the rest of him, his face was long, thin of cheek, sharp of nose, pointed of chin. The exposed skin was dark brown, against which his large eyes (as brilliant as Malkin's, but green) and scarlet lips showed in bright color.
On the breast of his all-enveloping garment was a spiral emblem, a larger copy of that on the cloak, and that was wrought in the Lady's own precious silver. He continued to coil the rope, though his eyes were on Thora as if he discovered her as amazing a sight as she found him.
Behind, on the level rock of this wide shelf, rested the strange winged thing which had borne him, the same dark green as his clothing. Kort sniffed along the jutting tip of one pinion, as if to acquaint himself firmly with a new scent.
The stranger let fall his rope, now neatly packaged. He held up a hand palm out in the age old signal of peace and spoke:
“I am Martan, the Winged.” A bald statement which Thora answered with the same brevity:
“I am Thora, the Chosen.” She added the title since she was determined to be known at once as one of the Lady's own. She would not allow herself to remain a lesser person before this one, even if he possessed such skills as he had demonstrated.
But, as if he were dismissing her, he now extended his hand to Malkin, who seized upon it eagerly as she looked up into his face. She might have been making some unvoiced demand upon him.
He spoke again, this time directly to the furred one.
“All is well with Makil, little sister. He was wounded, but he mends and his mending will speed the sooner with his blood-one by him.”
His seeming lack of further interest in her was an irritation to Thora.
“What are you—beside winged?” she demanded abruptly. “From what shrine do you draw such power? Who are your Three-In-One?”
A slight race of frown showed on his face. He stooped and caught up Malkin, who settled against him with a sigh as if at long last she had come home. Thora frowned in turn. Why did he act as if she were invisible—that the furred one was all important? No man had the right to so ignore a Chosen!
“You speak of things,” he said deliberately. “of which I do not know.” His hand touched the spiral on his breast. “We have a source of power, yes. But one does not speak commonly of such.”
That was a rebuke and she smarted under it. That he should undertake to lesson her in proper ways! Still, because it was never wise to carry strife into the unknown lest the enemy have hidden resources, she battened down her longed-for hot answer and spoke as deliberately as he:
“Other people, other customs. Where do you propose to take us Winged One?”
Now he studied her narrowly, as if he sensed her rebellion. Only he did not add to the insult he had already offered her. Rather he half turned, glancing over his shoulder to where Kort still sniffed along the wings.
“You cannot bear us hence with that!” Thora objected. Though she did not know the limits of his power, she, for one, would not go skimming off into the air with this stranger.
He smiled then, or at least his lips curved, even if the harsh green of his eyes did not lighten.
“I could not rise myself now—from here —one needs the upper peaks and the strong currents there to launch one. I was sentinel when the sister's heart-call reached me—thus I came.” His arm about Malkin tightened, and, with his free hand, he smoothed the bushy hair back from her small face as tenderly as if he held a child of his own blood. “Those,” with a lift of his chin he indicated the wings, “must remain here for a space. Our way now will be trod by foot alone.”
Abruptly he turned and, at the same time, Kort left off his investigation of the flyer, came to the man as if he had been whistled at—a desertion which added to Thora's sense of outrage. As the stranger started away, with Kort at his heels and Malkin in his arms, she fell in behind, nursing rising anger but knowing she had no choice.
Though this country seemed wild and unsettled to the eye Thora discovered that that appearance was deceiving, perhaps one deliberately fostered. Her guide made a detour around a tall rock and before them arose a series of steps cut into the side of the next range of heights and leading upward, very plainly the work of men.
These the man climbed with a springing step, as if he was well at home on such a road. However Thora crowded close to the wall averting her eyes from the drop on her right. The climb was a long one and the heights towered well above the ledge on which the flyer now rested.
Here the air was chill. In some of those heights the snow must still lie on the ground. Though the steps were wide, but there were also longer spaces where one might pause to rest. Though, because their guide did not take advantage of these, Thora would not allow herself to lag behind. Her legs were beginning to ache with the strain of this endless climb.
It seemed that half the day had passed (though the girl knew that was not so) before they came out on another wide platform backed by a building which was part of the solid cliff itself. There was a doorway, deep incised over it the spiral symbol, narrow slits of windows flanking it—a row of those extending along one side until the cliff was beyond the ledge.
From the doorway stepped another man, dressed in the same close-fitting clothing. He was enough like Martan to have been his brother. Except that this newcomer had a frosting of gray across his cap of hair, Thora could hardly distinguish one from the other.
“Little sister!” He held out his arms to Mal-kin. The furred one made a crooning sound and went to him eagerly. Then there came trotting out of the door another of Malkin's own people, a male. Seeing her he raised his head, uttering a loud, hooting cry. Kort sat down to watch the scene as might a hound who had done his duty well and Thora longed to drop beside him. Only pride kept her on her feet, facing stiffly these men who were so lacking in proper respect that they did not know the deference due a Chosen.
For the first time Martan seemed to recall that she was a member of their party for he turned and waved her forward.
“This is Thora who has brought our sister!” He made introduction to the older man, though he did not carry through the courtesy and speak that one's name to the girl in turn.
A second pair of hard green eyes surveyed her. Then the older man nodded:
“Who has aided our sister, has aided us. Come—”
Her stiff pride got the better of her. Thora remained where she was and her voice rang out coldly, as if to lesson some stupid trader to a proper sense of what was correct.
“I am a Chosen, Man—” deliberately she used the bare word of address which could be one of scorn if a woman willed it so. “If you are not of the Dark—then you know the rule of the Lady. From my hands can come Her blessings—when She wills it!”
There was a shade of expression on his face which Thora could not interpret though she was sure it was not recognition of his own present discourtesy. Instead he uttered two words—though the accent he put upon them was unlike that which she had been taught. Yet they were part of an invocation of the Power. Swiftly she answered them, completing that fraction of ritual as might any one who could sing down the Moon.
Now he did register real surprise. Malkin moved in his hold, not striving to form words with her tongue, but uttering a series of hisses which the girl judged to be her normal speech pattern. He listened gravely and then spoke again:
“It seems that there are things to learn. Malkin tells me that you are one of the True Light and that you stand against the Dark even as we—though you work by a different pattern. To us all who do thus are welcome—and you doubly so for what you have done for our little sister. Also she tells me that you are now blood-bound to her.”
Martan gave a start, staring at Thora. Before she could avoid him he took from her her pack. Then he offered his arm as if for her support, but she avoided him with a definite shake of her head.
They went into the cliff house past a cunningly devised barrier which Thora saw was faced with bits of stone fitted skillfully together, so that, when it was closed, it must resemble entirely the nativ
e rock. There ran a long corridor, crosswise lighted through the slit windows, yet still dusky. The inner side of that was broken by three doors of heavy wood and it was to the center one of those that the older man led them. Here was a room cut out of the rock, the walls of which were deeply incised with the spiral, and those incisions filled with colors, gold, green, blue—all well displayed by baskets of burning stuff fastened to those same walls.
On the floor were mats of heavy reeds and the skins of the fabled mountain bears of which traders told horror tales—one of the most-to-be-feared predators of their world. There was furniture, plainly finished, with no touches of that ornamental carving which Thora's people favored. But the surfaces were polished and the chairs cushioned with pads made of reeds or cattle-hide quilted with thongs. On a long table, sided by benches, were dishes and another man moved quickly about, bringing goblets to set out along that board, plainly preparing for a meal.
Thora realized that she was not only hungry, but that it had been very long indeed since she had eaten. She sniffed the smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread, such as she had not put tooth to since the Craigs had fallen. Now she had to summon up pride to keep her from an onslaught on that table and the filled trays the serving man was bringing from a curtained inner door.
All of these men were dressed alike. There appeared to be no insignia of different rank among them. The two serving the table had glanced up when the others entered and then away—as if to view strangers violated some rule. There were no signs of any woman's presence. Thora was disappointed. No matter how high these men might hold themselves, she was sure that any woman would recognize her at once as a Chosen—one to be held in esteem.
The man carrying Malkin placed the furred one on a raised portion of bench so that she could see well above the top of the table, and the male of her species at once climbed up beside her, reaching out to touch her gently, then give a tug to the cloak she still carried. There were no dishes before her and she unrolled her burden to display those vials with their dust. As Malkin revealed these the man who had brought her in caught one up, to hold it closer to the nearest basket light.
“Where is this from?” There was urgency in his demand. Quickly he crossed to Thora holding out the vial almost accusingly. “Where did you find this?”
“Malkin found it,” she retorted. “It was in a container in the underground place—”
“Underground place?” he seized upon that. The two men who had been bringing in the food stopped, stood still behind him. Martan loomed up by her side as if they would ring her in.
Thora refused to be overawed. Instead, speaking deliberately, she told her tale of how Kort had led them underground and what they had found there—including the party of the dead led by the red-cloaked man of Set. She had gained their complete attention now, and they heard her out to the end before their leader said:
“A place of storage—”
Martan broke in. “And one known to those of the Dark!”
“Maybe not at present,” the older man returned. “If any escaped death they would not have left the body of their priest. Also,” he turned again to Thora, “you said they were long dead, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“So. Then that could even have happened in the Time of Wandering. If so, none of the Dark Followers would know of it now or it would be looted. What could lie there!” His hand tightened about the vial until Thora thought he might crush it. Then he turned and set it back among the others Malkin had put out. The furred one had forced the cap off one and handed it to her companion who licked up the dust with every appearance of satisfaction and pleasure.
“It was a pity that cloak was not destroyed,” Martan commented. “Like calls to like—even after years—let one of the adepts approach near enough and it would draw him there.”
“True,” the elder took a quick stride and then came back. “You can find this place again?” he asked Thora sharply.
“If I could not, Kort can.” She remembered their fight with the things of the dark cliff. “There are those there on guard,” and she explained about their battle.
Martan nodded. “Yes, the rock rats. Such we have faced before. There are worse things to be met with when one walks in the ways of the Dark. Now—Lady, you are our guest and there is food waiting—”
He spoke with none of the sharpness which the leader had shown, his voice was low and pleasant as he indicated the table. Nor did the leader add any comment, but rather appeared lost in thought as he went to the other side of the board and seated himself. Martan sat beside Thora on one side, the two furred ones on her other. One of the serving men brought a larger platter piled high with meat which he put on the floor before Kort.
When they were all seated, the elder raised his hand and made the spiral sign and the rest of them followed his example, save that Thora spread her fingers in the salute to the Lady.
It seemed that here conversation during a meal was not the custom, for they sat in silence, helping themselves from platters set in the middle of the table. Thora broke her portion of fragrant new bread so that its crust served to sop up the rich gravy and she ate slowly, savoring the taste of the meat, the subtle seasonings. This was provender such as the Craigs had known only on feast days.
When they were done Martan arose with the other three, carrying away the platters. Malkin slipped down from her bench, going to the still-seated elder, raising hand to his sleeve. He started at her touch as if awakening from deep thought.
“Ah, yes—Makil. Very well, Malkin, you shall soon see him. Also,” he glanced now at Thora, “this is but an outpost of our land, Lady. There are those beyond who will be eager to hear what you have to tell us. There is trouble rising and he who goes forewarned, goes doubly armed.”
But it would appear that their hospitality was offered for a night. Upon awakening early Thora sat on the edge of a shelf bed within a niche. They had primitive quarters, these cliff sentries. For the only softening of the stone under her was one of the reed mats, her trail pack had been her pillow. Now, having splashed in a stream of water piped through a runnel along the side of the cave-chamber, she twisted up her damp hair, fastened it with a worn thong. This looked more like the cell of a prisoner than a guesting place.
Was she a prisoner? She still had her weapons—nor had they searched her trail pack. Perhaps, she scowled, they believed themselves so armored against the power of hers that they need take no such precautions. The older man, whom she knew now as Teban, was very sure of himself.
She reached out a booted foot and toed Kort's ribs where the dog stretched upon the floor. The fact that this old companion had so manifestly welcomed the men was another blow to her self-esteem.
Kort lifted his head and Thora was promptly ashamed of her ill temper. Because she did not understand these people she had no right to judge them. One learned in the ways of the Mother must keep a serene mind, not nurse small irritations. She stood up and Kort arose with her, butting his head against her as he had in the long ago days when he was still a puppy and would so entice her into a game. The girl fondled his ears, running her fingers through his coarse fur.
“Who are these in truth, Kort?”
“We are men.”
Thora whirled, her hand falling on the hilt of her knife. Martan stood there, one hand on the hide door curtain.
“Men lacking in courtesy.” She showed teeth as Kort might do. “Since it seems that you move upon guests without doorward request.” Had she been under observation? Though she had seen no hole or crevice in these rock walls to serve prying eyes.
She saw his lips twitch and then he answered:
“You do well to remind me, lady. When one is on patrol one becomes accustomed to the ruder ways of the garrison—”
Thora interrupted. “You make a mock of me, man.” She would not yield even the small politeness of his name. “You call me ‘lady’. There is only ONE to be so called—and to use Her name lightly is an insult. I am Cho
sen—if you would bespeak me by other than my name!”
He bowed his head a fraction. “ ‘Chosen’ you shall be then. I mean no insult to the Great Mother. Only, among us women are few, and those who share our lives are held in high honor. They do not venture forth from their homes for any save a very grave reason.”
She thought his eyes flickered over her disparagingly—from her worn boots to her rough hair.
“It is not for any one to bide in soft shelter when there is life to be lived and duties to be done. If your people reckon thus—then I pity any woman born among you.” Her chin lifted defiantly. “Nor does the Lady teach us so. She, in Her time, has gone against Set with sword in hand, the light of battle shining about Her. Thus also shall Her Chosen, and even those who are women-of-the-hearth, and mothers-of-all, take a stand when there is need. None of us must be protected.” Thora near spat that word, so unpleasant did she find it. “Above all none who Moon Draw. The Hunter summons the men—She the women—in any battle we are as one!”
He had raised his hand to run his knuckles back and forth along his chin.
“Again I must plead that I meant no ill. Chosen. It would seem that though we walk in the same direction, our paths are separate. Bear with us since there is real danger and perhaps you shall find your battle sooner than you think. We break our morning fast now, and then we shall be on the road. Malkin pines for her blood-brother and he will, in turn, heal the faster when he knows the little one is alive and well.”
There were only three of them at the table this morning—Malkin, Martan, and she. The furred one did not eat from one of the vials, rather she cupped between her handles a goblet in which a thick scarlet liquid arose to the brim. Blood! And Malkin drank it greedily as one long denied a special food. Resolutely Thora tried to accept such a diet as ordinary.
Luckily the cakes and dried fruit on her own plate were enough like the usual fare of the Craigs that she could consume them. She found the bread well flavored and drank with appreciation the cider in a mug Martan handed her—its tang warning her it was a more powerful beverage than it might appear.
