by Andre Norton
“Must keep—“
“I know.” She had not yet thought of a hiding place. If they were taken, she, at least, would be searched. She had no doubt of that. She ran one hand through her hair. Its thick sweep was a temptation, but there was no safe way of anchoring them in those locks. There remained her mouth. Experimentally she fitted the stones, one within each cheek. They were about the same size as the pits of dried umpa fruit, and she believed she could carry them so.
With them so close, she could draw upon their energy. Somehow, as her tongue moved back and forth touching first one and then the other, Ziantha felt a little cheered. They had had such amazing good fortune in their quest so far; they were still free, with both stones. Yet, she knew that there was danger in any building of confidence. And no sane person depended upon fortune to last.
There was a faint beeping sound from the controls. She had set the flyer on maximum speed when they had left the island, recklessly intent only on reaching their goal as quickly as possible. What fueled the machine she did not know, pushing away that worry when she had so much else to concern her. Was this a signal that that energy was failing them?
But it was the guide dial that made that sound. They must be near to the tomb. Where could she land—and how?
The flyer shook, broke out of its forward sweep. Ziantha caught at the controls. But they were locked against her attempt to free them!
“Turan!”
He turned his head with painful effort.
“They have us—in—a—traction pull—“ he whispered.
A pull that was taking them earthward. They would crash! She sat with her hands on those useless controls and sent out mind-seek. The in-and-out reception of alien thought was blighting, but that they were captive she understood. And they were being brought down to their captor’s desire almost within sight of their goal.
“They—want—us—secretly—“ Turan was rousing, pulling himself higher in the seat. “No one to know what happens—“
Ziantha probed, fought to reach and hold one of those mind waves. Perhaps it was the Eyes that gave her the skill to seize and hold.
Zuha!
The thoughts were blurred. It was like hearing only a few words of a whispered conversation. But the girl learned something. Yes, Turan was right; they were being brought in for a landing at a small private field, away from Singakok. Zuha wanted no interference while she dealt with them. Had they been of her own world and time, Ziantha could have used the power to control, to alter their memories for long enough to escape.
“Ride with them—not—against,” Turan said. “Zuha wants us dead.”
Ziantha caught his suggestion. Could they use the hate and fear of the alien woman to take them where they must go? Could she feed Zuha’s desires?
“I shall be dead,” Turan answered her chain of thought. “You must project to the High Consort a great fear of your own—one she will understand.”
“The fear of being once more buried with you,” Ziantha agreed. But it would be true, painfully true. All the horror she had known as D’Eyree entombed in that sealed crevice flooded back to make her sick. Could she face such an ordeal again? For it might well prove to be the truth, that, returned to Turan’s tomb, they would remain there.
“There is no other way. Our door lies there.”
Of course she had always known that in the back of her mind, but she had pushed it from her, refusing to face it squarely. This was the pattern they must follow to the end. Once again the tomb and the hope of return through it.
“I am dead,” he said. “Your fear must be fed to her. In this I cannot help you.”
“I know.”
With the same concentration she had used to learn the method for that invasion of Jucundus’s apartment which had begun this whole mad foray, Ziantha began to build her one chance. The irregular wavelength meant that Zuha would not have clear reception. And so she could not be sure she had succeeded until some action of the other revealed it.
But she summoned fear, which was easy to do, fear of the dark, of imprisonment in that dark, of death, though she dared not allow panic to disrupt the careful marshaling of thought. Not that—not the tomb again! To die entombed beside the dead. Not that! She built up the strength of her broadcast in vivid mind pictures. Ziantha was shivering now, her hands locked about the useless controls.
The flyer was spiraling down. She saw trees rising to meet them, wondered for a moment if they would crash. But no, Zuha wanted more than any quick death, she wanted vengeance on Turan, and more on the woman she believed responsible for Turan’s return. Feed her the thought of death in the tomb. Ziantha held to her mind-send as the flyer bounced along the rough ground.
Turan had been shaken against her in that landing. His body was an inert weight. To her eyes he was dead. Dare she test now? No, she must continue to concentrate on that suggestion—the return of the dead—and the living—to the tomb.
She made no move to escape from the flyer. Let them believe she was cowering here in fear. And they would not be far wrong. The dark passion she had touched in Zuha’s mind was enough to promise the worst. But, if only the High Consort believed the worst to be what Ziantha tried to suggest to her!
The door was wrenched open with force, and she saw the face of an armsman. He stared at her, at Turan lying limply against her shoulder; then he was ordered aside by an officer.
“Lord Commander!” The man caught at Turan to draw him away from the girl. The body sprawled forward in his grasp. With an exclamation, the officer involuntarily jerked back, Turan falling, to dangle head and shoulders over the edge of the door.
“Dead!” the officer cried out. “The Lord Commander is dead!!
“As he has been!” There was triumph in the High Consort’s reply. “There was only the sorcery of this witch to keep him seemingly alive. But he has eluded her at last.” She stood wrapped in a heavy cloak against the snow-laden wind. Her eyes hot as she looked beyond the body to Ziantha. Now she leaned forward, her pose almost reptilian as she hissed:
“He is safely dead. But you still live, witch! And now you are under my hand.”
The armsman and the officer had drawn Turan’s body out of the flyer, laid it upon the ground. Ziantha did not move; only with her last spurt of mind-send she tried to reach, to implant in the High Consort what must be done.
“Your Grace,” the officer looked up from where he knelt by Turan, “what are your orders?”
“What should they be—that my lord be returned to his place of rest where we laid him in honor and respect. And let this be done without further delay before such witnesses as will bear the proper news to the people and put an end to this wild tale of returns and miracles. Let the Priest-Lord of Vut be summoned to reseal the spirit door with Vut’s own seal, which no witchery can break.”
She spoke swiftly as one who had planned for this moment and intended to see her orders carried out with all dispatch. Turan, dead, must vanish again, and as speedily as possible. But was he dead? Ziantha could only hope that the spark of that other still clung to life so he could win out in the end.
“And the witch, Your Grace?” The officer arose to his feet, came over to the cabin to draw her forth.
“Ah, yes, the witch. Bring her forth!”
The grasp upon her hurt as he pulled her out roughly. She hoped that her concealment of the Eyes would serve. The armsman twisted her arms behind her back, holding her so to face Zuha.
“The priests would have you,” the High Consort said slowly, “to tear forth the secret of your witchery. But priests are men before their vows are taken. I would blast you with the flamer where you stand, save that that is too quick a death. You have companied with my lord and brought him back to life—for your purposes. What purposes?”
“Ask of him,” Ziantha said. “I moved by his will, not by my own.”
Her head rocked from the blow Zuha struck with lightning speed then. Ziantha feared the most that she might have revealed the p
resence of the Eyes, for the inside of her mouth was cut by the edges of one of the stones.
But as she stood, dazed a little from the force and pain of that blow, the High Consort stepped back a pace.
“It does not matter. Whatever he, or you, attempted has failed. Turan is dead and will go to the tomb. As for you—“
Ziantha braced herself. This was the crucial moment. Would her attempts to influence Zuha succeed?
“Since my lord saw fit, as you tell me, to use you, then it would seem he found you well suited for his tomb service. Thus you shall return with him. Only this time there shall be no escape, through the spirit door or otherwise! There shall be measures taken to make sure of that, above all else do I swear it so!”
She turned to the officer. “You will take charge of my lord’s body and bear it to the lodge. I shall send those to prepare him for sleep, which this time will not be disturbed. You will take this witch also, and her you will keep under strict guard until the time comes that she also be returned whence she came. And your life will answer for hers.”
“So be it, Your Grace.”
Ziantha was so full of relief, for that moment, that she was hardly aware of the rough handling that stowed her into one of the ground cars, brought her forth again at a building among trees. She was bound and dumped on the floor of a room, left under the eyes of two armsmen who watched her with such an intensity of concentration that it was clear they thought she might disappear before their very eyes.
Lying there, her first relief ebbed as she considered the ordeal before her. Even though she had escaped D’Eyree’s death, she was not certain she could make the second transfer to her own time. She had drawn so heavily on her powers that even with the Eyes she could not be sure she had enough energy left. And she would also have the need to draw “Turan” with her.
Rest was what she needed. And in spite of her present discomfort of body, she set herself to relaxing by sensitive techniques, withdrawing into the inner part of herself to renew and store all the force she could generate.
Ziantha submerged herself now in memory, summoning to mind each detail of that plundered outer room of the tomb. If she was to have a point to focus upon it must be that. Her last memory of it had been when she was in the hands of the Jack captain, being forced to gaze into the focus-stone. But she pushed aside her mind-picture of that action, concentrated instead upon the chamber itself—the walls, the crumbling debris of what long ago thieves had smashed. Bit by bit she built up her mental picture of it as she had seen it the moment they had broken their way in.
She rejected any portion that seemed uncertain, but the reality of that chamber must exist, must be so she could center her will and power on returning to it. And that her memory was faulty, too broken by the actions of others for accurate anchorage, she was well aware. Again, until the testing, she could never count on success.
Having made her mind-chamber as clear and precise as she could, she allowed it to slip into memory again. Turan—she wished she dared to arouse him. But perhaps the slight effort of receiving a mind-send might shake his hold—if he was not already gone. No, this was her own battle, and she must not count on any help at hand except from her own strength and knowledge.
She had done what she could in preparation. Now let her once more sink into that half-tranced state of mind which would allow her to conserve her strength—wait -- Deliberately she forced away all thought of the next hour—the next moment. Her breathing was shallow, even, her eyes closed. She might have been asleep, save that this state was no sleep of body.
Ziantha visualized her own form of peace and contentment. There was a pool of silent, fragrant water, and on it her body floated free. Above her only the arch of the sky. She was as light as a leaf on the surface of the pool. She was as free as the sky—
The sound of a voice broke the bubble of her peace in a painful shattering. It came so suddenly she did not understand the meaning of the words. But there were hands on her, jerking her upright with unnecessary roughness. As she opened her eyes she saw the officer in the doorway. So it was time.
They dumped her without ceremony in the back of a car, where she was bumped and rolled back and forth by the motion of their going. She could not see out, and she made no effort to tap the minds of those with her. Turan was not here. Doubtless they transported him with more dignity.
The drive seemed long, and she was badly bruised—half dazed—but in time the vehicle came to a stop, and she was pulled out. This place she knew. They were at the foot of that rise down which she and Turan had made such an awkward descent on the night of their escape. It was not night now but late afternoon, and the details of earth, rock, and vegetation were clear.
Her two guards kept her upright to one side, away from the cortege climbing the hill to the spirit door. There was a priest of Vut, of the highest rank, Vintra’s memory told her. He intoned a chant as he went, supported by two lesser prelates, one carrying a heavy mallet, the other a box, while the Priest-Lord of Vut scattered on the wind handfuls of ashy powder.
Turan, borne on a bier supported by two officers, followed. Except for his face, he had been covered with a long, richly embroidered drapery, over-worked in metallic threads with designs sacred to Vut. Behind came three armsmen and then the High Consort in her robe of yellow mourning, but her veil was thrown well back as if she wished to see every detail of this recommitment of her lord to the earth she determined would hold him safely this time.
Ziantha shivered with more than the lash of the wind, the bite of the snow settling down around them. She watched the Priest-Lord of Vut lean over the bier, sift upon it more of the ashes. They must be standing by the open spirit door. Two of the armsmen lowered themselves through that door, ready to arrange the commander’s body.
Then the bier was attached to ropes and slid through the opening to disappear from sight. When the armsmen reappeared, Zuha made a gesture to Ziantha’s guards.
They were eager as they pulled and pushed her along. Now she struggled, cried out, for Zuha must not suspect that she greeted this end with other than the height of fear. The wind was harsh, icy as it met them full at the top of the cliff.
“But we should know how she did this thing—“ The Priest-Lord of Vut stood before Zuha, authority in his tone. “If the rebels have such powers—“
“If they have such powers, Reverence, will they not be able to use them to bend living men to their will as well? Did not the armsman we found at Xuth tell of how this one controlled him so when he would go to the Lord Commander’s aid she rendered him unconscious? She is a danger to us all. Would you take her to the heart of Vut to practice her sorcery?”
The priest turned to look at Ziantha. Was he going to protest more? Here at the very last would he defeat all she had fought for?
“She seems safe enough a prisoner now, High Consort. Would she allow herself to be so taken if she had the great powers you fear?”
“She does not have the Lord Commander. In some way he aided her in this. I do not know how, but it is so; she even admitted it. I tell you such is a danger as we have not seen before. There is only one thing she fears—look well at her now. She fears return to the tomb. Seal it with the seal of Vut and she will trouble us no more!”
For a moment or two he hesitated. The armsmen and the officers had closed ranks behind Zuha, and it was apparent he decided not to stand against them.
Zuha knew that she had won. She swung around to fully face Ziantha and her guards.
“Strip the witch!” she ordered crisply. “If she has aught which seems a thing of power, let it be given to the Priest-Lord. Let her take nothing but her bare skin this time!”
They ripped her clothing from her, and then one of the officers caught her by the shoulders, pushed her forward. She felt them run a rope about her arms. Half frozen in the lash of the wind, she was dropped over, lowered. A moment later all light vanished as they clapped down the spirit door.
14
Ziant
ha could hear a dull pounding overhead as she lay there in the freezing dark. They were making very sure that the spirit door was sealed, that Turan would not return again. Turan -- She used mind-search—meeting nothing!
He was gone. Dead? She was alone in this place of horror, and if she escaped it would only be through her own efforts.
Ziantha spat the gems out in her hands, pressed them against her forehead as D’Eyree had done to achieve the greatest power.
She was not Vintra left to die in the dark—she was Ziantha! Ziantha! Fiercely she poured all her force of will into that identification. Ziantha!
A whirling, a sense of being utterly alone, lost. With it a fear of this nothingness, of being forever caught and held in a place where there was no life at all. Ziantha—she was Ziantha! She had identity, this was so!
Ziantha! Her name cried out, offering an anchorage.
In this place which was nothingness she tried to use it as a guide.
Ziantha!
She opened her eyes. Her weakness was such that she would have fallen had she not been held on her feet. Iuban.
“She is coming out of it,” he spoke over her shoulder to someone the girl could not see. But the relief of knowing that she had made the last transfer successfully was so great she wilted into unconsciousness.
Noise—shouting, a cry broken off by a scream of agony. Unwillingly she was being drawn back to awareness once again. She was lying in the dust, as if Iuban had dropped or thrown her from him. There was no light except that which came with the crackle of laser beams well over her head. Dazed, she pressed against the wall wishing she could burrow into its substance, free herself from this scene of battle.
Ziantha? Mind call—from Turan? No. Turan was dead, this was -- Her mind was slow, so exhausted that it fumbled, this was Ogan! She had a flash of reassurance at being able to fit a name to that seeking.
The firing had stopped and now a bright beam of light dazzled her eyes as it swept to illumine the looted tomb. She saw a huddled body, recognized one of the crewmen who had brought her here.
