by Andre Norton
Nolar blinked. She had not before considered that distinction, but now that Wessell had made it, she quickly grasped his thought.
“My aunt bears no outward injury to the body,” she replied. “If one of your scholars could direct us to the works that might bear on our predicament, that would be most helpful.”
Wessell pondered, drumming his fingers on the table. “Morfew—that's who you need to see—old Morfew. Ever since Kester fell last month and damaged his hip, Morfew has cared for the scrolls on spell-countering and healing.”
Derren entered the dining area, and Wessell broke off to fetch more food and drink. Nolar swiftly summed up what Wessell had told her.
“Will you be returning to Es City, Master Borderer,” she asked, “now that you have seen us safely to Lormt?”
Derren smiled wryly. “I doubt, lady, that my single presence is urgently required. There are ample Borderer forces available to deal with any scattered remnants of Pagar's men. What will be chiefly needed are scouts to try to penetrate the mountains and locate new trails … but I doubt that will be possible for some time yet. If you do not object, I can stay here a few days to see whether you may need an escort for your return journey.”
Nolar regarded his guileless face. She thought to herself, Where indeed can I go if the Witch can be revived? Would Elgaret consider staying at Ostbor's house, or would she demand that I go to Es Castle to be examined? To give herself a moment to think, Nolar sipped her barley water. She had to face the possibility that nothing might revive Elgaret, and then what was she to do? It seemed that all she could prod from her weary mind was a series of unanswerable questions. She forced her attention back to Derren.
“It would be helpful to me,” she said, “if you could continue to assist me with my aunt, at least until we see whether anything can be done to aid her.” Nolar turned to Wessell. “Is there any space where we may stay? We have nearly exhausted our journey food, but what we have we will gladly share.”
Wessell waved aside her offer. “No, no, thanks to Master Ouen's foresight, we have sufficient food as of yet for the whole community and those who have recently joined us. He urged us to shift our grain stores just before the earthquakes. Master Duratan thinks we can transplant some of our existing seedlings into our damaged fields to provide a late crop before the winter snows. And we have ample room for travelers. One thing we have always had at Lormt is room. In truth, with the hidden cellars opened by the subsidence, we have even more room than we thought! Let me show you where you may rest while I search for old Morfew. I know of three likely places he may be, and should he not be there, I can search in several other less likely sites.”
Wessell trotted ahead of them to a door in the great remaining side wall, back across the courtyard. Nolar was surprised by the cavernous space within the wall. Narrow stairs led in several directions, and there seemed to be doors to countless storage rooms and quiet sleeping cells. Smaller light globes and occasional torches supplemented the waning daylight penetrating through thin slits in the courtyard side of the wall. At this level, low to the ground, the exterior wall was solid, much like a defensive fortress. Wessell soon located an available room for Nolar and Elgaret, and set off down the corridor to find another for Derren.
Nolar quickly scanned the sparse furnishings in her room. There were two low pallets for sleeping, insulated from the cold stone floor by heaps of sweet smelling rushes. A small table held a pitcher and washbowl, while a closed flask of drinking water stood on a stone ledge near the door. Nolar eased Elgaret onto one pallet and spread one of the plain but well-sewn quilts up to the Witch's chin. Elgaret's eyes closed. Nolar herself longed to sleep, but first she had to see whether Wessell could find the scholar Morfew. To refresh herself a little, she splashed her face with some cold water from the pitcher. Wessell and Derren appeared at the door while she was patting her skin dry.
“I have found Morfew,” Wessell announced with evident pleasure, as if the old scholar were a particularly elusive quarry. “He often dozes over his work, so don't hesitate to prompt him. Come along.”
He led them to the long building set against the wall. From Ostbor's tales, Nolar guessed that this must be the main scholarly repository. Her supposition was immediately confirmed when they plunged into a warren of cubicles and study nooks, divided and flanked by shelves, with countless tables and desks heaped with writings. The interior was fitfully illuminated by the high windows and various flickering light sources placed there by the scholars. Nolar recalled Ostbor's cautions about candles; perhaps because of past experience, Lormt now seemed to favor broad-based lamps with short wicks, unlikely to turn over or endanger the precious parchments. Nolar simply gazed at the scrolls. She had never seen so many in one place. She yearned to stop and delve into the stacks, bundles, and even heaps of scrolls, but she dared not lose sight of Wessell, who suddenly halted at a narrow opening between two towering partitions.
He poked his head in the gap and inquired, “Morfew?” After a pause, he raised his voice. “Morfew! MORFEW!”
That final bellow evidently roused the old scholar, for Nolar heard a quiet, reasonable voice respond, “You need not shout, Wessell. I can hear you perfectly well.”
Nolar followed Wessell into a study nook crammed with writings on all available flat surfaces. Ostbor had only thought himself a pack rat, Nolar reflected, amused. Lormt was apparently the original inspiration for all pack rats of scholarly bent. Morfew himself was sitting at a scribe's desk, inkpot within easy reach. He looked older than Ostbor, perhaps because of his shining silver-white hair, which reminded Nolar of a rare spun sugar subtlety she had once seen at a long ago high feast at her father's house. Morfew's pale blue eyes, clear as a child's, were set above a thin nose and a mouth framed by lines of determination. Like Ostbor, Nolar thought, Morfew must have been born to be a scholar.
“These are the travelers I was telling you about,” Wessell said. “Nolar of Meroney and Derren, a Borderer. Her aunt is the one injured, which is why I brought them to you, since Kester is still abed.” He turned to Nolar. “If you can find your way back, I should return to the kitchen.” Scarcely waiting for her assurance, Wessell disappeared into the deepening shadows.
Morfew shook his head. “Wessell has always been in a hurry, and since the earthquakes, I fear that he has not stopped to rest at all. He'll be falling down the stairs at any time, mark my words, because he'll be reciting some report or other and won't be looking where he's going. But you must describe your aunt's condition so that I may know which scrolls to seek out.” He waved a hand vaguely at the vast number of parchment rolls cluttering the shelves. “It is true that Kester is more familiar with many of these than am I, but if you help me search, we should be able to find what is needed.”
Nolar stared up at the shelves with numb despair. It would take years merely to lift down each scroll and identify its subject. She recalled how Ostbor had complained of the lack of order at Lormt.
“Oh, surely,” she burst out, “there must be some plan by which they are sorted. Ostbor used to say—”
Morfew, whose head had been drooping suspiciously, as if he might be drifting into drowsiness, abruptly sat erect, and exclaimed. “Ostbor! How is the good fellow? I have not seen him for years.”
“He died in late spring,” Nolar said quietly, feeling again the stab of loss. “One of your scholars came to gather his archives. I had been living at Ostbor's mountain house and assisting him in his work. He was truly like a father to me.”
Morfew was genuinely affected by the news. “Dear child … I respect your sorrow. Ostbor had a brilliant mind for tracing kinships. I am sure that his records will be of great use to us here. I shall have to inquire where they have been stored. You will have noticed that one wall and tower were completely destroyed after the earthquakes. Fortunately, due to our prior warning, we had moved almost all of our records to other areas beforehand. Indeed, when we discovered previously unknown cellars unsealed by the turmoil, w
e found numbers of scrolls whose existence we had never suspected. It has quite confused us all—a profusion of riches, as it were, coming so soon after the violence. Had it not been for our protection …” His voice trailed off, and he began to nod.
Derren gave a discreet cough, and when that brought no response from the old scholar, asked loudly, “Protection?”
Morfew jerked awake. “Protection—yes, yes. Our quan iron spheres, of course. We should all have been lost without them. See here.” He arranged four scrolls on his desk to represent Lormt's outer enclosure. “When Lormt was built—and no one now knows how long ago that was—a great sphere of quan iron was set in the base of each corner tower. It must have been originally intended for magical protection against evil forces, but we have been so isolated here that no such assault has been described. When Ouen and Duratan recently received warning to prepare for a great working of magic by the Council of Witches, they moved all of the community within our walls, and strove to preserve our priceless records.” Morfew paused and Nolar suspected that he was about to doze again, but he was evidently recalling the order of events during the Turning. “That entire day was most peculiar,” he confided. “No wind at all, and unnaturally quiet, although our animals were restless. Ouen and Duratan insisted that the flocks and herds be brought into the courtyard, you see, and they made the area extremely noisy. I could hear them even this far inside. Near dusk, several of our helpers cried out. The quan iron, heretofore always quiescent, had begun to glow. I saw it myself, later—a startling, blue illumination in the very air. It grew into an enormous bubble enclosing the whole of the Lormt, and none too soon. The most appalling storm broke full upon us, and the earth itself heaved, as if shaken like a rat seized by a monstrous dog. It was most upsetting. Every scroll was tossed from its place, and I feared that our taller shelves would surely collapse. Some did, of course, but most remained standing. Duratan, who as you know has been a far-traveled warrior, said afterwards that Lormt must have floated like a chip of wood in a millrace, secure in our quan iron's protective bubble. When the churning of the land ceased, a great section of earth dropped away from beneath our other wall, thus bringing down that wall, one corner tower, and part of a second tower. Due to our earlier precautions, none of the community were killed. We suffered many other injuries, chiefly minor, but on the whole, our community has emerged fairly unhurt. Our animals, I am told, were terrified. I must confess,” Morfew admitted with disarming candor, “that I was quite unable to move at first. I simply clung here to my desk until I could creep out to see if I could help in any way. We have been working ever since to restore Lormt. I expect that you are the first far-travelers to reach us since the cataclysm.”
“We found the way here much affected,” Derren observed. “The shifting of the Es River has caused considerable change all along its former course. There are now numerous mudslides and landslides blocking or even entirely wiping out the old trail.”
“Folk are calling it ‘the Turning,’ “ said Nolar. “It was the will of the Council of Witches expressed against the land to turn back Duke Pagar's armies.”
Morfew nodded gravely. “It was not the first time such an effort has been made.” He seemed to relish their obvious surprise. “We had not been aware of that ourselves, of course,” Morfew hastened to say, “but some months before this … Turning, Kemoc of the House of Tregarth came to Lormt to search our archives for lore from the ancient days. It was a most curious thing that he stumbled upon.” Morfew paused. “As you can see from the color of my eyes, I am a man of Alizon, not Estcarp. When I was young, I determined to seek knowledge. To my sorrow, my family disapproved, so I was forced to abandon them, and came at last to Lormt, my refuge and true home. I mention this because Kemoc discovered that those of the Old Race are blocked against even thinking of the direction ‘east'—most peculiar. I have seen him trying to discuss the east with our Estcarp scholars. They could not even look at the maps he drew, nor bring their minds to the subject at all. Not being so barred, I could assist him somewhat in his researches, although he was deeply concerned to keep his work private. It was while Kemoc was examining our oldest scrolls that he found fragmentary accounts of the previous Turning, which had evidently thrown up the vast mountains to our east. From the few comments he made to me, and from the scrolls themselves—for I studied them after he left—it appears that some hideous evil had to be walled away from Estcarp, and then the very memory of the deed, and awareness of the direction east was deliberately expunged so that none of the Old Race would ever venture that way.”
Nolar was afire with curiosity. An earlier Turning! “Please, when was this? Was it done by the Witches of that day? How? …”
Morfew threw up his hands. “You sound like Kemoc—all questions and unseemly haste to know everything at once. He labored like a man under a geas—I could not intrude unless asked. I believe, however, that for all his efforts, Kemoc was not fully satisfied when he rode away from Lormt. It must have been ten days before the Turning that he left us. I am not always asleep, although I may seem to be so,” Morfew added, with a smile. “Kemoc exclaimed at times while he was working, and as I say, I noted which scrolls he consulted. It is my business, you understand, to follow what is being researched in my domain. In this case, the scrolls on magic and ancient days were in Kester's care, but as you know, they have come to me while Kester is abed. Yes, yes, I see your impatience, but in scholarly matters, one must be clear about the where and when before one considers the what. It was a thousand or more years ago that the Power previously altered our land. Since the mountains to the east were raised by the Power, those wielding it must have been the Witches of that day … unless, of course, in that time, males could also share the Power. That is a point that Ouen and Duratan are most anxious to pursue once they can return to being scholars. As for the how of it, perhaps you should ask your aunt, for if I am not mistaken, she was one of those who brought about this Turning, was she not?”
Abashed, Nolar bowed her head. “Yes, she was. It was because of her taking part with the Council that she was stricken … and,” she added slowly, “because of that same action, my great-aunt and many other Council members died outright. To return to my aunt—she breathes, and eats and drinks what I give her, and seems to sleep, but her mind is not truly aware of the outer world. Please, sir, is there any scroll here that might explain how she could be recalled to us?”
Morfew laced his fingers together on his desk, pondering. “The Witches of Estcarp have no kind regard for us here at Lormt. Yet in their way, they value knowledge and its preservation. Our reason for being here is to learn, and if we possess any ancient scroll that bears on this Turning magic and its effects on those who wield it, then we must seek it out. You say that many of the Council died. Are others afflicted like your aunt?”
“Yes,” Nolar replied. “I was told that the surviving Witches had been unable to help those whose minds seem to have .withdrawn, like my aunt's.” She hesitated, and again decided that she must tell the truth. “For courtesy, I call her Elgaret. During the Turning, although she was at Es Castle and I was far north at Ostbor's house, I received a Sending from her. I am not trained in any way,” Nolar added, half aware that Derren was staring at her with an odd intensity. “I was ill as a child when the proper time came for me to be examined, so I was never tested by the Witches. The Sending was a complete surprise to me. Elgaret had earlier experienced three Foreseeings that persuaded her that I must come to Lormt upon a quest; she could not say for what thing I must seek here. In the Sending, she called to me to come to her, but also repeated the linkage between me and Lormt. I am therefore here on a dual quest; first, to try to restore Elgaret to herself, and second, to seek whatever it is that I am supposed to find here.”
Both Morfew and Derren were silent when she finished, then Morfew rubbed his hands together and announced, “We face a most interesting challenge. As you see, our written resources are considerable, but upon the subject you requi
re—that previous Turning—I can recommend only those scrolls that Kemoc studied, and perhaps a few others. Ouen might know where else we should look. I shall try to speak to him, although he is quite absorbed by the work of restoration.” He broke off and glanced up, surprised by the comparative darkness. “Why, night is almost upon us, and you have had an arduous journey. Come to me on the morrow, if you will, and we shall begin our search. I shall be thinking where else we might seek. A good rest to you both.” He waved a dismissive hand at them, and his head drooped forward.
Derren stood aside for Nolar to edge between the shelves into the passageway. “I suspect,” he said in a low voice, “that old Morfew will be chiefly resting until the morrow.”
Nolar smiled, then replied seriously, “We must recall what Morfew admitted to us. He is not always asleep, even if he appears to be so.” She paused, remembering clearly how Ostbor's absurd clothing and distracted manner truly concealed a keen mind and an iron determination to know. “I think,” she resumed, “that Morfew is a clever scholar, perhaps wiser than he may seem. He is certainly correct judging my weariness.” She stretched her numbed arms. “Let us ask for some food, and then I know of no other bed to rival the pallet beside Elgaret.”
When she finally lay down and pulled up several quilts against the night chill, Nolar found it difficult to sleep in spite of her physical exhaustion.
So many factors had arisen during just this one day. To learn that there had been another Turning—that was an astonishing thought. Even more arresting was the speculation that had to follow. What scale of evil could have existed in the east to force the Witches to raise mountain ranges to block it away from Escarp? Was that evil force still active in the east beyond the mountains? Could this new stirring of the southern border mountains affect the eastern barrier, and if so, with what consequences? Morfew seemed certain that the Council of Witches now in Estcarp did not know of the previous Turning. By their ignorance of the far past, they might have caused even more danger to Estcarp. Nolar tried to push aside these musings. What must concern her immediately was the search for a way to aid Elgaret's recovery. She tried to nourish some hope that this might be possible, but the prospect did not seem encouraging. As for the quest that Elgaret had Foreseen, Nolar was still as confused about that as before. It would simply have to wait until Elgaret herself could advise Nolar.
