by Andre Norton
“If they are Turan’s, then you should be able—“
He shook his head wearily. “I have only very fleeting touch with Turan’s memories, and those grow less and less. I—I dare not use too much of my power; it is needed to control this body.”
So he was admitting that he was having trouble with the Turan shell? Ziantha put out a hand, stirred the mass of cords. If they were in code, a code known only to him who had devised them, it would require intense concentration to gain anything from them.
Compared to this, dealing with the sealed tapes in Korwar was play for a beginner. For the tapes had been clearly inscribed by one of her own species. An alien code, devised by an alien -- Well, since this key was the only one offered them she must try.
“You hold watch then?”
At his nod, she took up the nearest assortment of cords. They were silken soft, and the beads glinted blue, white, and vivid orange-scarlet. She slipped the packet back and forth through her fingers.
Emotion—hate—a vicious and deadly hate, as sharp and imperiling in its intent to threaten her reading as if the cords had taken on serpentine life and struck at her. With a little cry, she threw the bunch from her.
“What is it?”
Ziantha did not answer. Instead she held her hand palm down over the whole collection. Not quite touching, but in her mind seeking what source had broadcast that blast that had met her first probe.
“These—these have been recently handled, by some one who was so filled with hate and anger that emotion blankets all. Unless I can break that I can do nothing.”
He lowered himself wearily onto a bench, leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes closed. And without the life of his eyes—Ziantha shuddered, would not look at him. It was as if a dead man rested there. How long could he continue to hold Turan in this pseudo-life?
“Who is responsible? Can you learn that?”
She took up again the first collection. Strong emotion could fog any reception of impressions, and she was already handicapped by trying to read alien minds. She wadded the beads and cords into a packet, held that to her forehead, trying to blot out all else but the picture she must have.
Zuha—yes, there was no mistaking the High Consort. But there was another influence. The girl tried for a name, some identification which perhaps Turan could recognize in turn. Zuha’s hate, her frustration—those were so strong a wave that they were as blows against her, yet she probed.
“Zuha,” she reported. “But there is another, some one behind Zuha. They came here seeking knowledge they did not discover. Zuha was very angry; she needed something she wanted desperately to find here. She—I think that she took some of these with her—the ones she believed important.”
“If we can find no chart soon . . . “ His thought trailed away.
Time—she could not defeat time. Ziantha tossed the cord bundle back with the others. Had she hours, perhaps days, she could sort through these. There must be another way, for she did not have those hours or days. She need only glance at Turan to know that.
An island risen from the sea, and on it somewhere a twin to the stone, an equal focus piece. Their piece tied to it, and they, apparently, tied to the first. If they could not release those ties, Turan would die again, and so would she—at the hands of Zuha—and no pleasant death.
One could believe that some essence of personality survived the ending of the body. Those with the talent were sure of that. But inbred in their varied species was so firm a barrier against their body’s dismissal that they could not face what man called “death” without that safety device of struggle for existence taking over control. She would not accept the fact that she, Ziantha, was going to come to an end in this world which was not hers, any more than she believed that her companion could likewise surrender.
An island from the sea, and a stone found there -- The girl strode back and forth, thinking furiously, before the bench on which Turan had half collapsed. There was one way, but she could not do it here. Not in the midst of enemies when at any moment those who had no reason to wish either of them life could come in upon them. But where?
Ziantha paused, looked around, tried to be objective. She had Vintra’s memories to call upon and she did that recklessly. These people had aircraft. There was a landing port outside the city where such were kept. If Turan could pilot one—if they could first reach that landing port—commandeer one of the craft -- Too many ifs, too many things that might stand between. But it was her—perhaps their—only hope.
She dropped down beside Turan, took his cold hand to hold between her two warmer ones, willing strength back into him. He opened his eyes, turned his head toward her.
Again that ghastly smile came. “I endure,” he said, as if he not only meant to reassure her, but himself. “You have thought of something—what? I would think clearer but I must hold on, and at times that takes all my power.”
“I know. Yes, I have thought of something. It may be far beyond what can be done, but it is all I have to offer. When I go into deep trance I must be in a safe place—“
His eyes were very intent. “You would try that, knowing what may come of it?”
“I can see no other way.” She wanted him with desperate longing to deny that, to say there was another way, that she need not risk again the baleful influence of the stone that had already cost them so much. But he did not. Though he still regarded her closely, his mind-shield was up, and she believed he was testing her plan for feasibility.
“It is a way—“ he said slowly. “But you are right, we must have privacy and safety before you try it. I do not believe we shall find either here. Turan’s memories are so little open to me that I do not know what intrigues may be in progress. But they threaten from his own household. It is certainly not the first time a noble family came to an end by being torn apart from within. And where shall we find safety? Have you a plan for that also?”
“A weak one.” She again wanted him to refuse, to prove her wrong. “These people have air transport. If we could get one—they are not too unlike our own flitters, I think—we might reach the sea. Find some safe place on the shore to give me time for deep trance—“
“It seems—“ he was beginning when Ziantha whirled to face one of the mural-concealed doors in the wall.
The noise, a faint scratching, made her look about for something to use as a weapon. She was reaching for a tall vase on a nearby table when Turan pulled himself from the bench, walked with a slow, heavy tread to release the portal.
A man squeezed through a crack hardly wide enough to admit his stocky body and shut that opening at once behind him. The hair on his head was streaked with light patches, and his face was seamed with two noticeable scars.
“Lord Commander, thank Vut you are here!” He looked beyond Turan to Ziantha. “Also the outland witch with you.”
“There is trouble, Wamage?”
The man nodded vigorously. “More than trouble, Lord Commander; there may be black disaster. She”—into that single pronoun he put such a hiss that he spat the word in anger and disgust—“she has sent to the priests. They are to take you and”—he pointed with his thumb to Ziantha—“this one to the Tower of Vut, that the miracle may be made manifest to all on the Tenth Feast Day. But they do not intend that you shall ever reach sanctuary. Behind all is Puvult, Lord Commander! Yes, you exiled him half a year gone, but there have been rumors he returned while you hunted the rebels northward. Since—since you were tomb-laid, he is seen openly. And secretly within these very walls!”
“The High Consort then welcomed him?” Turan asked.
“Lord Commander, it has long been said that she favors the younger branch of your House over the elder.” Wamage did not quite meet Turan’s eyes. It was as if he had news to give, but feared to offend.
“And with me tomb-laid then Puvult comes into headship?” If Turan meant that for a question, it did not alert Wamage, as far as Ziantha could tell, into any suspicion of his lord’s memo
ry.
“You spoke that with the truth-tongue, Lord Commander. They thought you gone—then you return—“
“With the added power of a miracle,” Turan commented. “I can see how they want now to finish me.”
Wamage ran his tongue over his lips. Once more he would not look at Turan but kept his eyes at some point over the other’s shoulder.
“Lord Commander,” he paused as if seeking courage to continue, and then went on in a rush of words, “she says that you are still tomb-laid—that this—this witch Vintra has only made a semblance of a man. Though one may touch you, as I have done, and you are firm and real! But she says that if you are taken to Vut the force will depart, and all men will see that this is sorcery and no real return. The priests, they are angry. For they say that in the past, Vut has returned men to life when their purposes here are not fully accomplished. And they do not believe her but want all the people to witness Vut’s power. So they will come for you—only she has a way to make sure you do not reach Vut.”
Turan smiled. “It would seem that she does not really believe in her own argument that I am but a rather solid shadow walking, or she would leave it to Vut to answer the matter.”
Wamage made a small gesture. “Lord Commander, I think she believes two ways—she is fearful her own thought may be wrong. If you die again—then Vut’s will is manifest.”
“But I do not intend to die again.” Turan’s voice was firm. It was as if his strong will fed the talent which kept him alive. “At least not yet. Therefore I think I shall be safer—“
“We can get you to the Tower, Lord Commander. Vut’s priests will then make a defense wall of their own bodies if the need arises!” Wamage interrupted eagerly.
Turan shook his head. “Do my own armsmen of Turan-la”—a shade of confusion crossed his face. “My armsmen of Turan-la,” he repeated with a kind of wonder, Ziantha thought, as if he heard those words but did not fully understand them. Ziantha feared his confusion was visible to Wamage. But it would seem that the other was so intent upon his own message of gloom that his thoughts were for that alone. For he burst out then hotly:
“She sent them north after—after your entombing, Lord Commander. They were battle comrades of yours; they knew how you felt concerning Puvult. Me you can command under this roof, and Fomi Tarah, and of the younger men, Kar Su Pyt, Jhantan Su Ixto, and we each have armsmen sworn to us, as you know. Enough, Lord Commander, to see you safely to the Tower.”
Turan was frowning. “There is another, not of this household, so he might not be suspected or watched. He lent me his weather coat on the night I returned—“
“Yes. I have sought him out. His father is a Vut priest, one Ganthel Su Rwelt. They live on the southern coast—the boy came with the levy from Sxark a year ago.”
“From the southern coast!” Turan caught the significance of that at once. “Can you get word to him secretly?”
“I can summon him, but, Lord Commander, as you well know there are eyes and ears awake, watching, listening always amid these walls.”
Turan sighed. His gaunt face looked even less fleshy, as if his grayed skin clung tighter and tighter to his skull.
“Wamage.” He returned slowly to his bench, sat down as if he could no longer trust the effort standing erect caused him. “I would leave this palace, the Lady Vintra with me. But I do not wish to go—as yet—to Vut. There is something to be done, something of which I learned of late, which cannot be left while I tend this ailing body of mine. For time may be fatal. I must be free to move without question or interference. Now I call upon you for your aid in my service, for if battle comrades cannot ask this, then what justice lies in this world?”
“Truth spoken, Lord Commander. Can you depend upon no other for this deed which must be done?” There was a furrow of what Ziantha believed to be honest anxiety between Wamage’s bushy brows. If Turan had not managed to gain the loyalty of his High Consort, in this man, at least, he had one faithful follower.
“No other. I have spoken truth to you; now I shall add more. You know of my visit to the land that the sea gave up? Only recently you spoke of this—“
“A place you have often mentioned yourself, Lord Commander. You wished to take a ship of your own and go seeking it again, but the rebels broke out. But—what of it?”
“Just this—there I made a great find, a find which I must now uncover for my own safety.”
“Lord Commander, you are in some fever dream, or else—“ he swung to Ziantha, his face hard with suspicion—“there is some truth in the High Consort’s babble, and this rebel woman has bewitched you. What could lie on a rock in the sea that would aid you now?”
“Something very old and very powerful, and this is no bewitchment. For what lies there I saw long before Vintra came into my life.”
“The gem! The gem which you took to Vut’s tower and thereafter put from you, having it made into tombwear so that none could lay hand on it.”
“In part, yes, but only in part. How think you that the Lady Vintra, wearing it in a tomb crown, was moved to come to my aid, brought me again to this very room? There were ancients of ancients. Do not men declare that they had strange knowledge we do not possess? What of the old tales?”
“But those are for children, or the simple of mind. And we do with the aid of machines made by our own hands what they did in those tales. Who could fly save with a double-wing?”
“They, perhaps. There were things of great power on that island, Wamage, how great I did not even guess then. I thought of such treasure as delights the eye; now I know it was treasure for the mind. With what I once found there and what still awaits to be discovered, I shall be armed against the forces ready to pull me down. Has part not already brought me from the tomb?”
“And how do you reach the island?”
“By your aid and that of this youth from Sxark. You shall arrange for me and this lady—for she has learned part of the secret—“
Wamage moved with a speed Ziantha had not expected. Only the flash of mind-reading alerted her. He would have flamed her down with a small beamer he brought from his sleeve, but she had thrown herself flat.
“Wamage!” Turan was on his feet. “What do you do?”
“She is Vintra, Lord Commander. Every rebel drinks lorca-toast to her at night. If she has such command over any part of your fate she is better dead!”
“And me with her, is that what you would want, Wamage? For I tell you, it is by her I live, and without her further aid I cannot continue to do so.”
“Sorcery, Lord Commander. Have in the priests and gain their aid—“
From where she crouched, Ziantha put all her talent into a mighty effort. His voice suddenly faltered, his hand dropped limply to his side, and from his fingers the beamer thudded to the carpeted floor. She retrieved it swiftly. The operation of it she saw was simple. One aimed and pressed a button. What the results would be Vintra’s memory supplied; they were both spectacular and fatal.
“You should not have told him,” she mind-sent.
“We need him. Otherwise we can make one blunder after another and achieve nothing.”
To Ziantha’s thinking one blunder had already been made, but she would have to accept Turan’s plan. Could it be that he was making such an effort to retain control of his body that he no longer reasoned clearly, and the time would come when she must take command?
Reluctantly she released Wamage from the mind-lock. The man shook his head as if to banish some feeling of dizziness. As full consciousness returned to him Ziantha laid the beamer on the bench at Turan’s hand.
“Look you, man of Singakok.” She had from Vintra the heavily accented voice of the rebel leader. “I have now no weapon. There lies yours. At whose hand does it lie? Do you think that if I were your enemy in this hour I would disarm myself before you and your lord? I have no love for Singakok. But that which was beyond any struggle of ours faced me in the tomb of Turan, and he and I were bound together in this. Take u
p your weapon if you do not believe me, use it—“
If he tried that, Ziantha thought—if I have gambled too high—I hope Turan can stop him. But Wamage, though he put out his hand as if to carry out her suggestion, did not complete that move.
“She speaks the truth,” Turan said. “She stands unarmed in the midst of her enemies, and she speaks the truth.”
Wamage shook his head. “She is one of tricks, Lord Commander, as you know. How else have the rebels held us off this long? It is their tricks—“
“No trick in this. Vintra is no longer of the rebels.”
“Do you want an oath on that before the altars of Vut?” Ziantha demanded. “I was bound to another cause by those hours in the dark before the spirit door opened. Do you think any man or woman could pass through such an ordeal as that and not come forth unchanged? For the present I am pledged to the Lord Commander and will be so until his mission is accomplished.” She hoped that Wamage believed her—for in this she spoke Ziantha’s truth.
Wamage looked from one to the other. “Lord Commander, I have been a battle comrade of yours since the action at Llymur Bay. I am sworn by my own choice to your service. What you wish—that shall it be.”
Was this surrender coming too easily? Ziantha tried mental probe. The confusing in and out pattern of the alien mind could deceive her, whereas with her own kind she could easily have assessed friend or enemy.
“What I wish is a double-wing and the armsman from Sxark as a guide. The hour is late, and I must move tonight.”
“It will be difficult—“
“I have not said this would move with ease; it is enough that it does move!” Turan’s voice took on a deeper note; there was authority in the look he turned upon the other. “For if we do not go at once, we may be too late.”
“This is also true,” Wamage agreed. “Well enough.” He became brisk, producing weather coats from one of the coffers, these with head hoods, and, as he pointed out, no insignia.
