by Andre Norton
Next to Lormt, the subject of Nolar's greatest curiosity was the Witches. Ostbor answered her questions as best he could, but he warned her that the Witches were jealous of any penetration of their mysteries. He cheerfully admitted that magic failed to interest him in the main, which was just as well, since men were unable to wield the Power as properly trained Witches could.
“They tend to draw apart, the Witches,” Ostbor said once. “It must be a lonely life, in many ways. They put aside all bonds to family, you see, once they are selected for training.”
“My great-aunt is a Witch,” Nolar said. “My nurse told me long ago that my mother's aunt was a member of the Guardian's Council.”
Ostbor raised his eyebrows. “Why, so she is. I hadn't thought of her for years—formidable lady. They lose their names, too, when they go away.”
Nolar was intrigued. “I know they never said her name. Why not?”
“Because a name carries powerful bonds to the person who bears it. Suppose I were an enemy of Estcarp, and I discovered your great-aunt's name. Provided, of course, that I were able to work magic, I might cast a powerful spell to injure her or render her witless. Magic, you understand, is a subject which I have not carefully studied, but over the years, I have heard certain tales about the uses of magic, both for good and ill.”
“But if they no longer have names,” Nolar had persisted, “then how can they call to each other?”
“Each trained Witch is given a jewel which they use in exercising the Power. I would suppose that each Witch must be individually recognizable, mind to mind, for they are able to dispatch Sendings to one another over long distances. That would certainly be a helpful talent, especially when, as now, the information one needs is in Es and one is here. Hmm—I must resort to my own talent and write a letter, which is far slower, but generally brings satisfactory results.”
Nolar therefore had settled happily into the quiet routine of life at Ostbor's house. The days and months flew by. Nolar became more and more useful to the old scholar, reading to him in the evenings, helping him to compile his endless kinship lists, and when his hands became too unsteady, she practiced until she could produce a creditable ornamented scroll.
Nolar was eighteen-years-old in the early spring just before Ostbor became gravely ill. There had been a late snow and days of cold, dank mist and fog. Ostbor's cough had worsened, and no amount of herbal infusions brought him any relief. He sent for the shopkeeper to stand as witness to his testamentary intentions. “I should like for you to take my riding horse,” he told the shopkeeper, “for it is a gentle animal, and I know you will care for it kindly. The smaller horse is to be Nolar's, for it is accustomed to her and she may require it for traveling.” Ostbor reached up from his bed to grasp Nolar's hand. “This house, too, shall be yours, dear child, for as long as you need it. I have sent a letter to Lormt concerning the disposal of my records. I expect you to choose any scrolls you care to keep for yourself. Now, there, do not cry. I have lived a long life, and in my way, I have accomplished many useful things. Do not sorrow for me.” Ostbor died peacefully a week later.
About a month afterward, a gnarled old man arrived with a string of pack horses. Initially, he was almost truculent, announcing that he had come from Lormt to gather Ostbor's records, but he was mollified when he found that Nolar could read the official letter he bore authorizing the removal. She helped him shift the bundles, boxes, hampers, and loose stacks of scrolls. It took them two days, and when the old man left, the house seemed woefully empty. That encounter had provided the last mention of Lormt that Nolar was to hear until an unexpected meeting with a Witch again brought up the name and subsequently changed Nolar's life.
Nolar composed a stiff letter of her own to her father, informing him of Ostbor's death and simply stating that she intended to stay on at Ostbor's house. Her father returned a bare assent, with no other comment.
Thanta, the local Wise Woman, died early in the summer after Ostbor's death. A fire, possibly sparked from her old brazier, raged through her hut. Thanta had lately taken on an outland apprentice girl, but the hill folk felt little confidence in her. It was the frightened apprentice who brought the news of the fire to the nearest village. She lingered near the ruined hut for a few days, packed up all of Thanta's supplies that could be salvaged, and retreated to the plains.
Without announcing her availability in any way), Nolar gradually found the hill folk coming to her for plants and herbs. It was a relief to Nolar to be able to support herself that way, for as she had suspected, the hill folk assumed that Ostbor's skills had died with him. No one asked Nolar for any scrolls, but they did respect her knowledge of plants. With a sense of resignation, Nolar quickly observed that the old distance that had always intruded between her and the others again pressed her into aching isolation. The hill folk were uneasy around Nolar, so they kept their commerce with her as brief as possible. They never considered asking Nolar to be the new Wise Woman. Nolar was not considered as the new Wise Woman; she was merely a reliable source for the wild plants and simple healing potions that the people sometimes needed.
Nolar was arranging pared slices of fruit to dry in the summer sun when a stranger unexpectedly rode up to her door. The message that the young man brought startled her: her father commanded her to return with this servant to his house at once for the betrothal of one of Nolar's stepsisters. They would have to hurry to be in time, for the marriage was arranged to coincide with an important Ritual Day within the week. Nolar offered the servant some berry wine of her own making, and while he tended his tired horse, she withdrew inside to think. There had to be something more to this sudden summons than appeared in the bare words of it. It was twelve years since Nolar had seen her father; she had never met the stepsisters. Nolar allowed herself a brief smile. She could almost hear what Ostbor would have said. “Hmm—you can never know unless you venture to see for yourself. I think that sheer curiosity lies at the base of more actions than people care to admit. But what is scholarship, after all, but the cultivation of curiosity and subsequent efforts to satisfy the urge to know?” Ostbor would have gone on this trip—Nolar was certain of that.
Nolar hastily assembled the few things she would need, and she and her escort had set out for the plains late that afternoon. After so many years of isolation in the hills, it felt peculiar to Nolar to be back among such numbers of people. As they descended from the hills, Nolar carefully swathed her face in a scarf despite the growing heat. The servant's eyes widened when he had first seen her uncovered face. He had been too well trained to comment upon her simple, if uncomfortable defense against the stares of strangers.
Upon their arrival five days later, her father's courtyard seemed both larger and smaller than Nolar had remembered it. She had last viewed it through the eyes of a child, so those recollections loomed spaciously; the current reality appeared cramped, crowded with extra horses and grooms in unknown liveries busily darting about. Nolar had never before seen so many people at her father's house. She was hurried through a side entrance near the back, and a businesslike house servant had shown her to an upstairs room.
“Your father requests that you array yourself as speedily as may be, mistress.” The woman paused briefly at the door. “There are special guests here to see you.”
Nolar's ears pricked at that. She knew practically no one in this house any more, other than her father. Who could possibly want to see her, and why? Several bright gowns of .various sizes were draped across the bed. Nolar had chosen the simplest that fitted her, a subdued blue-gray with white bindings. There was a selection of jewelry on the chest beside the bed. Nolar momentarily picked up a chain of twisted silver links, then replaced it. She had never worn such things. Necklaces were meant to draw attention to a face or neck, and her chief desire was to remain unnoticed, if not completely unseen.
The servant returned to lead Nolar to one of the larger formal rooms, then left her there alone. Dramatically, as if her arrival was trumpeted by
a herald, an imposing lady swept into the room. Following a pace behind was Nolar's father. He looked much the same as Nolar remembered him—stern, self-contained, distant. Nolar had realized with a mild sense of surprise that she no longer had acute feelings for this man. He could as well have been the servant sent to fetch her. He was a stranger, and it was an especially severe pain for Nolar to admit that he had truly always been a stranger to her.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a peremptory rap to her left—her stepmother apparently did not like being ignored. Nolar studied her face with interest. She had seen the lady only a few times before her own childhood exile to the mountains. Nolar could remember her old nurse whispering confidentially to the cook about the new wife arriving from one of the Falconer's breeding villages. Much of what they had said made little sense to her, being a small child, but the word “Falconer” lingered in Nolar's mind. She now noticed that her stepmother possessed the shining reddish hair and hawk-yellow eyes associated with the Falconers. Ostbor at one time had been quite fascinated by the genealogy of the men of the south mountain's Eyrie, and had tried without success to establish a correspondence with the Lord of Wings, commander of the Eyrie's forces.
In her turn, Nolar's stepmother gazed at her with equally keen regard. Nolar reached up and deliberately removed the white veil she had drawn over her hair and across her face. Her stepmother gasped involuntarily, but Nolar's eyes were on her father's face. He flinched as if she had struck him. It was, Nolar thought, a sad effect to have on one's own family.
Her father swiftly regained his normal composure. “Nolar,” he said, then with a proudly graceful gesture, “my wife.”
“Lady.” Nolar dipped her head, thinking wryly that no doubt there was some proper customary movement she should have made, if anyone had only instructed her about it before.
Her stepmother continued to regard her severely. For a frivolous instant, Nolar wondered if she were being assayed for sale; then an icy sense of premonition seized her. She was being weighed somehow, and as usual, she was found wanting. Nolar's suspicion was immediately confirmed when the double doors opened to admit a cluster of strangers—a family, to judge by their close resemblance. The ornamentally dressed matron at once took charge of the proceedings.
“So this is your daughter who has been living in the mountains. My son …” Her voice faltered when Nolar turned to face her. There was an appalled silence as the party of visitors stared at Nolar. Feeling very much the deformed trade animal about to be rejected, Nolar calmly returned their regard. The ornamented matron whispered rapidly in her husband's ear, then defiantly confronted Nolar's father and stepmother. “Your proposal regarding the betrothal of my son to your daughter is not at all suitable. I regret that we cannot stay for your other ceremonies. We shall be leaving at once.” With a curt nod, she marched out, trailed by her party.
From the corner of her eye, Nolar caught an expression of almost smug amusement on her stepmother's face. Evidently she had not put much credence in the notion that Nolar could be so easily banished into marriage. Her father looked more resigned, as if he, too, had not really expected the venture to succeed. They might have mentioned to me that they were contracting for my marriage, Nolar thought, but it must have been a purely practical move, perhaps a corollary to the other betrothal. The one event, in fact, might have suggested the other. In any case, the negotiations on her behalf had failed, so Nolar should be free to return to the mountains after the Ritual Day observances. Unless—a daunting doubt occurred to Nolar. With all the people gathered for the stepsister's betrothal, would her father try to arrange a marriage with some other available family? She glanced anxiously at her father, but his grim expression was forbidding of any queries. He indicated another interior door. “The Council member awaits—we must present the household to her. Nolar, go through, if you will. My wife and I will follow shortly.”
Nolar's thoughts whirled. The great-aunt Witch, here, in this house! Nolar had never before been in the presence of a Witch. Her heart raced. Could this Witch somehow discern that Nolar had never been properly tested for Witch talent? Nolar would simply have to chance it, trying to be as inconspicuous as she could. As she moved into another large reception room, Nolar replaced her veil, and sought the most distant corner beside the raised dais where great chairs were placed for important visitors.
Figures in gray gowns had already occupied two of the chairs. Two Witches—Nolar started toward the side of the dais, but one Witch summoned her with a peremptory wave of her wooden staff. Nolar took a steadying breath and approached the dais.
The Witch on Nolar's right spoke in a voice that was low, but firm and accustomed to obedience. “Look up, child. Which daughter are you?”
Nolar raised her eyes, and after an instant's pause, pulled back her veil. It was obvious from their initial glance that these two could not be deceived by an untrained person. Nolar turned toward her questioner. “Lady, I am Nolar of Meroney.”
“Yes, I observe a clear likeness to your mother.”
This, then, had to be Nolar's famed great-aunt. Nolar searched the calm face for some family resemblance, but the chief impression was one of serenity and controlled power. Both Witches had silver nets drawn over their hair, and pendants of cloudy crystal suspended from single-strand neck chains.
Although both Witches’ faces appeared relatively ageless and unlined, the Witch on Nolar's left had seemed somehow the younger of the two. One of her eyes was obscured by a milky film. If she were indeed blind in that eye, Nolar thought, her intimidating staff could be merely a necessary aid for walking. Ostbor had told her that when the Witches withdrew for training, they generally renounced all personal belongings. This Witch's staff, however, was capped by a small silver bird, as if it were a House badge. To add to Nolar's unease, the half-blind Witch peered down at Nolar with unusual intensity.
Nolar's great-aunt was also regarding her closely. “A pity about your face. Had you shown any talent at your examining, you might have found refuge among us.”
So they did not know that she had not been examined! Nolar's heart thumped with relief until the horrid thought occurred that the Witch might be deceiving her on purpose, lulling her into a false sense of confidence.
The half-blind Witch stirred in the great chair, as if debating whether to speak. “Perhaps in the archives at Lormt,” she ventured in a hesitant voice, “might there not be some lore concerning such stains of the skin?”
The senior Witch frowned. “You have always been overly inquisitive on matters of no moment to you. The old fools at Lormt do naught but waste their time shuffling pointless scraps of useless scribbling. They cannot even be considered laughable—they are simply irrelevant. Have done with any mention of the place.”
Her companion silently accepted the rebuke, but kept looking back frequently at Nolar during the subsequent introductions when Nolar's stepmother led in the rest of the household to be formally presented. Nolar was immediately relegated to a position far to the rear of the group; after being merely named in her turn, she was allowed to slip aside out of the way. Distracted by her own worries, Nolar did not at first listen to the conversation on the dais, where her father and stepmother had been seated in the two remaining great chairs. Something in her father's tone abruptly attracted Nolar's attention. With deferential courtesy, he was inquiring about the current state of Estcarp's harried borders. The earnest concern in his voice betrayed to Nolar his intense interest. The senior Witch remarked that Facellian of Alizon appeared to be closely occupied nowadays with purely local matters. There was a dry satisfaction in her voice. Nolar suspected that the Witch knew far more than she was revealing.
Nolar's father hastened to thank the Witch for any news of Alizon. “I am certain that your recent travels near that border must have yielded valuable information for the Council. As you must know, we here in the midlands are at a grave disadvantage, having to rely on repeated tales or mere rumors. Our trade has been grievously disr
upted by the raids from Karsten. Is it true that Duke Pagar has assembled a vast army? I have heard that he is actually poised to invade Estcarp at any time.”
