by Andre Norton
The girl wriggled on, allowed her body to slip sidewise while keeping a hold on the ledge, then set her teeth and let go, striving to relax as she fell. She tumbled straight into a mass of sharp-scented vegetation which, crushed under her weight, gave forth an acrid odor strong enough to set her coughing. On she rolled until Kort's teeth in her belt caught and held so she could lever herself up.
What she had seen of the upward rise of these heights upon their entrance into the valley had been mainly barren country with only a few weather-stunted trees and twisted brush. In spite of the dark she could make out here a thick tangle of vegetation, spongy, springy and odorous—though the scent, once she became used to it, was not too unpleasant.
Kort loosed his hold and nudged at her thigh with his head, urging her on. There seemed at first to be no way through this mass except that gained by simply floundering along. Then she stumbled out into what was perhaps a game trail, at least a way clear ahead.
The growth waved feathery fronds well above her head. In spite of the chill of the heights, this vegetation was thick-set rather like a moss which had grown giant enough to suggest a grove. All she brushed against during her passage brought no hard branch to impede her progress. Kort trotted on, not ranging far as was his usual wont on the trail.
As they went the fronds grew even taller, meeting overhead to shut out both slender moon and sky. But there were odd, pale flowers or rounded blossoms shaped like moon-silver cups tinged with faint blue or green. These shed a haze of phosphorescence, while about them winged insects which also flashed light from their small bodies.
From the cup flowers arose also a subtle scent, not acrid like that of the mass into which she had fallen, but instead a delicate perfume which must be what drew the flyers, so that they came to cling, weighing down the blossoms of their choice. Their gauzy wings beat the air with a constant busy hum. It was such a place she had never seen, even in a vision. Yet she knew that this was as real as her own feet treading the narrow way.
A slow change began in this wood—some of the fronds now had thicker boles, became closer in size to saplings, then to trees. The light flowers were still thick, but now they nodded from vines which wreathed those trees, forming so close a tangle that Thora believed she could not have forced a way from the narrowly open path. It seemed those growing walls were to screen secrets—for there were secrets here. She sensed a touch, fleeting, faint—within her—as if delicate fingers had reached out in curiosity to examine who had invaded this peaceful place, striving so to measure her in a fashion beyond her reckoning.
The flowers, too, grew larger—their scent stronger. Thora found it more difficult to keep her attention fixed upon the need for going on. With lagging steps she fought a desire to stretch out beside the path—close her eyes—
Startled, the girl looked down at the moon gem where it now swung outside her clothing. There was no angry clouding of a warning there. She felt power but of a new kind—Whatever it was owed no allegiance to the Dark.
Then, even as she had felt the beating of the world's heart during her journey, now she sensed a rhythm also in this place, a soft cadence which could not be heard, but which crept into one's flesh and bones—
Thora found herself drawing deep, even breaths in time to that stimulus. The fatigue which should have weighed her down faded, and she was filled with well being.
She was not sure when the singing began. It must have been a part of that which had entered into her before she separated it from the rest. Also, muted and afar as it seemed, she knew this of old, for she had heard Malkin so summon when Thora had danced for the Lady. Save this was not voiced by a single one of the furred people as it had been when she had danced before Malkin—but rather by how many—?
The path ended in a clearing where the vine-ladened trees were full sheathed in blossoms, so that there was a mist of light. Winged feasters flitted back and forth across the open, buzzing loudly, but not so as to drown out that other sound.
Here were furred ones indeed, seated crosslegged, even as Thora had seen Malkin sit upon the outspread cloak. Save that these were cushioned from the ground by drifts of fallen blossoms. Though those had been culled from the vines they did not look withered or bruised, only from them arose such a wave of fragrance that Thora wavered. Her booted feet slipped on the fringes of that carpet and she went to her knees, Kort halting beside her.
Yet none of the singers turned to look at her. Instead their red eyes ablaze, they faced the center of their circle where moved a single female of their species.
Even as Thora had danced so did this slender, down-covered body weave and leap, glide and sway. Clawed hands swung a long, thickly plaited garland of the flowers, and, now and then, she advanced on some member of that seated circle, tossed a loose loop about his or her shoulders and held it so for a breath or two, before withdrawing once again into the circle's heart.
Thora found that she could not rise to her feet. Her body would not obey her will. She too began to sway in answer to the hissing croon raised by those who appeared so ensorcelled by some bright vision of their own.
There stirred in Thora's memory what had been said about the youths of the valley—that they went to a wood where they met with the furred ones, and those who were chosen came forth again with familiars. Thus she believed that she must have strayed into this place sacred to such as Malkin. Here the furred ones wove their own webs of power. She was awed—she who had faced the Dark—for there was something here of a force like unto her own—only stronger—wilder in its own way.
Suddenly in her mouth once again was that biting, acrid taste of Malkin's blood. This was no place for her, warned something, save that she could not obey any such warnings. She could only kneel and watch as the dancer spun her own enchantment, flinging out the wreath to draw one of her fellows into a momentary sharing of high ecstasy. That much Thora knew without the telling. One danced and the power filled one, then—even as she, Thora, passed her own power through the moon gem—so did this one now relay what she had gathered on to her fellows.
Thora took her jewel between her hands—to strengthen her—to ward off this alienness. The stone was chill and the cold of it fought against the cloying scent of the flowers and cleared her head.
With the release of her mind there followed compulsion of another kind. Not entirely aware of what she did, Thora got to her feet. She had dropped her pack, and now with one hand she sought the fastenings of her garments, keeping the other cupped tight about the gem. Leather and linen fell from her body. Here was no moonlight to bathe her—the Maiden was far too slim and new-born to give true sustenance. Yet her feet moved, her body tensed, as along it ran the summons which before only the Lady's own light had awakened in her.
Fatigue and bemusement were gone. She leaped, she skimmed through the air as if she wore the wings of the Windriders. Over the heads of the furred ones that leap carried her. Then she came lightly to earth beside their dancer. The glowing red eyes of the flower-bearer looked upon her, accepted her. Thora began to follow the earlier pattern of the other's in-and-out steps, circling around the furred one who no longer tossed her garland to one of her people but stood, feet planted to earth, body swaying sensuously, the flower string now wound tight about her, now tossed out by the movements of her arms and shoulders.
In and out—always facing the furred one who turned with her so they continued to lock eyes. And from that locking came communication:
“Hail—moon daughter—” In Thora's mind the words formed clearly. “Long has it been since one touched by the Mother has sought us out.”
Not out of Thora's conscious memory came her answer—yet it was in her mind sharply and clear.
“Hail, you of the blood kin. Like greets like along the Road.”
The furred dancer made a graceful gesture of greeting and the end of her flower rope flashed out to touch Thora's breast just above the sign of the Chosen. It was as if a pointed finger had pressed against her with some fo
rce, bringing with it a sense of comradeship, of sharing. Not as those of the valley would share with these—that she knew now. This sharing was of a different degree—even stronger in its own way. Far from like they might be in body, even in mind—but the dancer was a spirit who had long walked the White Path and perhaps once she, too, had danced for the moon.
“Just—so—” Thora received an answer to that thought. “There is no end to true life, only changes brought about by time, and time does not indeed bind us as we think when within this one short life. Welcome, sister—”
The furred one held out a clawed hand and Thora in turn reached out with hers in which the moon gem lay. Their fingers met and clasped about the stone. From one to the other and back again flowed the force of what they summoned. So it was as if they drank together a strange but restoring wine.
Then the dancer went to her knees and Thora knelt beside her—finally discovering it better to stretch her body along the ground, propping herself up on her elbows so that she and the dancer could remain eye to eye. Dimly she was aware that these who had formed the circle were slipping quietly away, melting back into the vine tapestried walls of the wood, leaving the two of them alone.
“The Dark rises—” There was no struggle to voice words such as Malkin had had to make. The furred one might hiss but Thora could readily understand.
“The Dark is strong,” she replied.
Those eyes blazed with such strength Thora seemed to feel all the heat of the emotion behind them. “Then we must be stronger. The brothers move to battle. What do you?”
Was there dissatisfaction, a rebuke in that? Thora was not sure, but she was uncomfortable. Though she felt no kinship with the valley people, though she resented what she believed that Borkin, at least, had tried to use her for—still it was true that, though they might not be comrades, the Enemy was common to them both.
“I am not one of them—” the girl began defensively. “I stand alone in this land.” It did not seem strange that she could speak and the other readily understand, that the furred one might hiss in her own language and that now Thora found that intelligible. In this place of enchantment anything might well happen.
“You are one through which Another acts—” the furred one returned. “Not for such as you and I the blood bond—”
“That is so.” Thora felt relief. Though the valley men could accept such a kinship, and proudly, yes, she understood that a little. But she was not one to follow such a way. In spite of need she would shrink from that linkage, and blood bond must be between two who willed it with all their hearts.
“So—for us it is thus—” Again the claw hand linked with hers over the moon gem. “In this way we strengthen one another. I am Tarkin—”
“And I Thora.” The exchange of true names, that, too, was a bond—a link which Thora well understood.
“Together then we shall go—” Tarkin nodded vigorously, her gleaming eyes still alight with their deepest fire.
“Into the dark—” Thora knew, was forced to accept that. There might be no escape. What she did now was a part of the weaving after all, she had to surrender her own will to that belief. She had not really drifted without purpose when the Craigs fell. No, all she had done since that hour of the raiders had been wrought on the loom of the Mother. So this was her fate.
“Into the Dark, sister of the moon.” The furred one's hand lifted from above the jewel. Then claw tips touched her lightly, so very lightly, on her lips, before rising to trace a symbol on her forehead. “But first you shall rest, and only when the hour ordained comes will we go.”
Thora carried from that moment only the dimmest of memories. She had fallen asleep on the carpet of unfading flowers, watching still Tarkin seated nearby, those blazing eyes near closed. The other had crooned softly so that a thread of sound lulled the girl into slumber.
The first rays of the sun rising in splendor crossed the sky when she awoke. Under her the flowers had withered at last, quickly fallen away into skeletons of themselves so that they remained only the tracery of long dead petals, though their perfume still clung to her skin. Tarkin was gone, nor was there anyone else within that circle of open glade save Kort, his muzzle deep in a bowl of polished wood. Beside her was another such bowl, but smaller, in which was a mixture of fine-ground, moistened grain with dried fruit, and beside that a bottle filled with green liquid.
The sight of the food brought an instant response of hunger and Thora fell upon the offering greedily. Beside her also were the garments she had discarded, neatly folded, and beyond them her pack. She ate, then dressed, looking about her. The vines on the trees appeared to be thickly interwoven, enough so that one could not force a way between and she hesitated to raise knife to slash at them. One did not take any life wantonly here—even that of a vine—she was sure of that. Was she then to go back down the path which led her here—return to the valley, having at last accepted that there was no freedom of choice for her?
As Thora hesitated a section of vine was swept back, as one might gather up the folds of a door curtain, and Tarkin stood there. Though all furred people looked so alike, the girl was sure that this was the dancer. They had shared that which would always make them known to one another.
“It is time—”
Again Thora understood the hissing without any great effort to communicate as Malkin had had to make. “The Dark does not wait—even as night itself does not follow the pleasure of man—”
Stooping to pass beneath the droop of that vine curtain the girl found herself entering another path, one which ran as straight as that which had brought her to the clearing. Tarkin padded ahead, Kort pushed close between them, and the girl trotted to keep up.
Those flowers which had furnished light and scent had closed into green or blue-white balls and there were no insects gathered about them. Nor were there any other signs of life within the wood. If the furred ones watched their going, none allowed him or herself to be seen. The three moved alone, shut out now from the life which filled this place.
Once more they issued from wood into the tall, moss-bedded ferns, and then from them into knee high growth, able to see ahead a long slope into the plains lands. Overhead swooped one of the winged sentinels. Thora had no reason today to conceal herself. With Tarkin she felt that she was about a lawful business which those of the valley must recognize. If the Windrider wanted to report her passing to his leaders—then let him do so.
At midday they paused and ate. Thora discovered that not only had her water flask been refilled, but also the lean food pouches within her pack were again plump with the meal and fruit mixture which she ate in handfuls, giving Kort the last of her dried meat for he seemed in no readiness to go hunting but stayed close at hand.
On they trailed, well out of the fringe growth of the wood of the furred ones into first the arid rock, and then scantily grown over earth of the heights, finally into meadowland. Tarkin went as a guide here, confidently as if she followed a well marked road. Even Kort yielded place to her. They were striking due west. From time to time Thora surveyed the land ahead narrowly—it teased her mind that perhaps she could recognize here some small clue to that country she had transversed in her night vision.
Kort hunted for his supper, bringing Tarkin a fresh kill as he always had Malkin. But the furred one gently refused that—saying that only those who were paired (as she expressed it) must be supplied with blood—for when they took the bond of kinship their bodies were in a manner changed. Since she had made no such tie with Thora, she would remain an eater of grain and fruit, and she carried her own pouch of supplies.
They spent the night in a thicket much the same as the one Kort had discovered in the valley, and in the morning, just after dawn, came to a stream where there was a pool deep enough for Thora to splash in waist-high and for her companion to duck under. They washed, the girl drying her body with handfuls of last year's grass pulled from about the roots of the new crop, Tarkin applying her long tongue to her pelt
as a cat might lick dry and groom.
Thus refreshed, they followed the stream, even though it curved somewhat to the north. They had not gone far before Kort suddenly faced their backtrail, growling. Thora dodged behind the nearest boulder which afforded a partial defense. Tarkin did not follow her.
Instead the furred one uttered a hissing call, her head well back on her shoulders as if to release that to the farthest reach. And she was answered.
Out of the willows bordering the stream on the other side came a male of Tarkin's people and behind him—Malkin! Nor were the two alone for here also came Martan, shorn of wings, walking close to Makil as if to steady the other should he need support, and behind them both Borkin and Eban whom Thora had last seen in the fortress of the valley heights. Makil carried the sword behind his shoulder and, though his face was very gaunt, he seemed to walk well—as if some surge of renewed life had cured him of the weakness she had seen in him.
As the valley party advanced Thora, feeling foolish, arose from behind her rock. The four men looked from her to Tarkin and there was wonder in their faces, as if they might have expected to catch up with her but not in such company—that they found Tarkin's presence confounding.
Malkin and the male took running leaps to cross the stream and pelted forward to clasp hands with Tarkin, their hissing speech low and eager. Then Malkin went back to Makil where the men were wading the shallow water, and the male joined Eban. If they communicated with their blood-brothers Thora did not hear or understand. Only Makil's look of astonishment grew and he surveyed measuredly at Thora.
“You have been to the Wood—” The wonder in his expression was repeated in his words. Borkin gave a sudden jerky movement as if he would repudiate that.
