by Andre Norton
Nolar did not like being hurried, but Smire brushed aside her protests. She was feeling harassed when Derren interrupted.
“Thanks to Master Tull's fine feast, I feel a renewal of strength. Doubtless I can manage on the morrow, if my leg can be kept fairly straight. Besides, I smell snow in the wind—not to fall right away, perhaps, but within a day or so. Would it not be wise, lady, if you proceed as you were suggesting to me, with that bath for your lady aunt early on the morrow? Master Smire can let me help as I can with rigging the litter while you conclude the packing.”
Nolar looked doubtfully from Derren to Smire, whose smirk reflected his evident pleasure at the way his plans were being accepted. Still, she thought, Derren was right. The snap in the air could presage snow, and neither Derren nor Elgaret should be exposed overlong to any snowstorm.
Feeling boxed in despite her best efforts, Nolar acquiesced. “Your judgment of weather, Master Derren, has served us well before. I yield to your experience in such matters. If your master has room for us, Master Smire, we should be grateful for the shelter of his roof.”
Smire favored them with another extravagant bow. “Master Tull's welcome will likely amaze thee, lady,” he asserted, laughing again with private amusement.
In the morning, they breakfasted hastily on the remnants of Tull's feast, then Nolar led Elgaret to the spring to clean away the mud and grime from the landslide and change her clothing. When they returned to the fire, Nolar was surprised by a plaintive call from Derren.
“Lady,” he implored, “may I have some of that poppy syrup? My leg feels hot, and the pain is throbbing worse than before.”
Nolar scrambled to fetch Pruett's satchel. “It must be diluted somewhat,” she said, deeply concerned. “I shall stir a bit into water, then I had best look again at your wound.”
As she bent over his leg, Derren leaned close enough to whisper in her ear, “Be sparing with the syrup, lady. I wish to appear befuddled, but be not truly so.”
Nolar hoped that she successfully concealed her surprise from Smire, who was fortunately a fair distance away, working on the litter.
“Pray describe your pain, Master Derren,” Nolar said loudly, “so that I may determine where I should strengthen my poultice.” In an undertone, she added, “Do you need any syrup, or just the pretense of some?”
“The pretense.” Derren breathed, then in a louder tone detailed a list of disturbing symptoms.
Nolar did not have to feign a shocked expression. She hoped fervently that Derren was not actually experiencing the pain and sensations he described, for she despaired that she could not alleviate them.
Smire strolled across the camp to peer at Derren's exposed leg, which was truly a daunting sight to any not familiar with wounds.
“What's amiss, lady?” Smire asked. “Can we not travel as we intended?”
Nolar handed Derren a small wooden cup of mallow root syrup, doubting that Smire could distinguish the substitution. Derren drained the cup, and grimaced.
“That may be called a syrup, lady, but it tastes bitter to me,” he said.
“It will ease the pain quite soon,” Nolar assured him, then turned toward Smire. “Master Derren will likely sleep during our trip because of the poppy syrup he just drank. He says his leg is hot and more painful, therefore it would be wise for us to reach your shelter as soon as may be. If his fever worsens, I must have him abed and safely out of the weather.”
Smire flourished his staff. “Fear not, lady! I shall soon have the litter assembled and we may depart whenever thou wilt.” He strode back to fasten his makeshift harness, enabling Nolar to dare a brief whispered exchange with Derren, whose eyes were shut and body had slackened as if he were asleep.
“Is your leg worse?” Nolar asked urgently. “I see no undue inflammation or sign of mortification.”
“No, no,” Derren murmured. “I find your suspicion of Smire justified, .that is all. He pressed me too hard for facts he need not know. You are right, lady. He seems not trustworthy.”
Nolar made a show of renewing Derren's bandages. “You must appear to be stupefied, then, during our journey. I shall ask Smire to stop frequently at first in order to check your fever. That should persuade him of our deception.”
The snow that Derren had predicted began during their midday halt. Nolar “roused” Derren to drink some heated broth, and he looked worried as he tested the snowflakes's texture, rubbing the crystals between finger and thumb.
“I fear this storm will not pass swiftly,” he said, shaking his head. “Snow like this can often fall for hours, if not more than a day.”
Smire had drawn closer to listen to their exchange. “Then we should hasten onward,” he insisted. “It is not much farther. Let us press ahead before the way becomes obscured.”
During what seemed an endless afternoon, Nolar trudged after the ponies that bore Derren's litter. Dusk came early, aided by the thickening snowfall. Despite the snow cover, Nolar had noticed for the last league that the earthquake's damage was more pronounced in this area than it had been in the territory she had previously seen. Vast slabs of rock had been thrust up from their beds deep beneath the surface. She was reminded of the tumbled boulders in the Es River, but on a far grander scale. Whatever trees and groundcover that might have clothed these hills had been scraped away, decimated, and buried by the displaced rocks and soil.
Nolar shivered in a swirling gust of wind. She glanced back at Elgaret, whose body was swaying rhythmically in time with her pony's steady pace. At least, Nolar thought, Elgaret was totally unaware of the discomforts of this trip. That seemed a slight blessing, yet Nolar was glad to identify any positives in her increasingly numb, exhausting ordeal. Nolar was mistaken, however, in concluding that Elgaret remained oblivious. The total sensory isolation that had imprisoned the Witch for so long was slowly breaking down.
Cold … so cold. How could it possibly be so cold in midsummer? The thoughts crept sluggishly through the Witch's mind. She was still deaf and essentially blind, even when her one functioning eye was open, but on the most basic levels of awareness—sensation of heat-lack and motion—the Witch's mind was beginning to recover incrementally. Where was she? Es Castle was never so cold except during the worst winter storms. Movement—was she on a horse? How could that be? So tired. The only warmth in her darkened world seeped from her Jewel. No … no! Somewhere … nearby, in the darkness, her mind perceived a curious glow of Power.
It was tenuous, blurred-edged, as if denying its own existence. But it blazed with potential Power, no matter how masked or obscured. She was slowly drawing nearer to it. Soon she would be able to open her eyes and see again … but not just now. So much easier to slip back into the enveloping blankness where she had been resting for … how long? No matter—she must regain her strength. There had been some awful calamity, some draining of every last flicker of the Council's Power. Her mind shrank from the enormity. Rest now. Let go. Ease back into the quietness, the soft, dark silence. …
Nolar wearily thrust one foot after the other, stumbling and sliding into the tracks pressed out by Smire and the advancing ponies. At first, she was only vaguely aware of the alteration in mental sensation from her shard. Then, with something like the shock of stepping through a crust of ice into the frigid water beneath, Nolar realized that a greater depth of Power was reaching her through her shard. The Stone of Konnard—she must be nearing its actual site! There was no point in seeking it visually; her inner sensitivity would lead her unerringly to the Stone. It was very near. Nolar paused to wonder whether Tull might have stumbled over some scholarly reference in another archive. Could he possibly have located the Stone? Would he know how to use it? She felt certain that if anyone else had attempted to tap the Stone's Power, she would know. Nolar paced on, so deeply absorbed in her thoughts that it took a moment before she registered the sound of Smire's call from up ahead, where he had halted the snow-laden litter.
“Lady!” Smire bellowed, striding back tow
ard her. “We have arrived! Now canst thou rest and warm thyself.”
Nolar had to clench her teeth to stop them from chattering. “Your news could not be more welcome, Master Smire,” she admitted. “My strength is nearly spent.”
Smire loomed before her, obviously relishing his position of complete authority. “I shall attend to all,” he bragged. “First, I shall carry the Borderer within—the work of a mere instant. I shall then return for thee and thy companion, and lastly see to the ponies. We have a snug space below that can serve as a stable, for it is well protected from this wind.” He bustled off through the snow to extract Derren from the litter.
Nolar stood staring dully after him, then shook herself. To come this far and then allow the frost to blight her hands and feet—or Elgaret's—would be inexcusable.
In her pocket, the shard suddenly throbbed with an unmistakable vibrancy. Here! The Stone of Konnard was in this very place … and yet Nolar sensed an urgent warning. She must show no sign of her awareness. Even if the name of the Stone were mentioned, she must pretend to be unaffected. Nolar was puzzled by the magnitude of the warning. Could there be some danger to the Stone? That notion seemed odd, yet Nolar felt a confirming pulse from the shard. She must be acutely wary, then, and guard both her words and her actions. Her distrust of Smire, it appeared, might be additionally justified, and could potentially extend to his master. Nolar resolved to be constantly alert. She could not imagine how she might aid the Stone, but she was certain that it must be protected at all costs. For the present, she must cling to every appearance of innocent normality. By the time Smire tramped back, Nolar had maneuvered Elgaret off her pony and was walking her slowly in a circle to stimulate her circulation.
“This way,” urged Smire, taking Elgaret by one arm while Nolar steadied the Witch from the other side.
Nolar had a confused impression of cracked stone slabs leaning at all angles, with the wind-blown snow lapping in drifts to conceal any original design of walls or courtyard. They descended a short incline of frozen earth and squeezed between two rough stone pillars. Smire pushed aside a huge animal fur suspended across the entry space. The passage beyond was narrow—only one person at a time could move through it—but it opened abruptly into a square chamber, scantily furnished with only a few low chests, a table, and one chair. A small fire crackled in a corner nook where a natural channel between the rock walls drew out the smoke.
Bemused by the stark bareness of the room, Nolar turned to Smire to ask, “Where is Master Tull?”
“He will receive thee shortly.” Smire busied himself settling Elgaret in the one chair. He had placed Derren near the fire on a makeshift pallet formed from the drier parts of his litter.
Derren's eyes were shut, and Nolar judged that he was truly asleep. He was pale, obviously in need of rest, warmth, and solid food. Nolar looked around immediately to locate the cooking arrangements. She could see none.
“If you could fetch in our baggage, Master Smire,” Nolar asked, “and direct me to your kitchen, I shall prepare hot food and drink for all of us.”
Smire did not respond at once, but fidgeted with his earring. “This fire will have to serve,” he asserted irritably. “We may not disturb Master Tull's chamber. I will bring in your baggage and see to the ponies.”
As soon as Smire left the room, Nolar hurried to Derren's side. She chafed his icy hands and strove to rouse him. “Master Derren! Wake up!”
Derren blinked, dazed, then focused his attention on the stone walls and low ceiling. In a hoarse voice, he asked, “Where are we, lady?”
“Smire has delivered us to his master's abode,” Nolar replied dryly. “It appears somewhat lacking in excessive comforts, but any shelter is welcome. Let me examine your leg and ankle. I fear that you may have been ill-protected in that litter. Smire did not halt often enough to brush away the snow.”
“Nay, lady,” Derren objected. “I feel scarcely any pain.”
“That is my point,” Nolar retorted. “Numbness precedes frost damage. Oh, your flesh is very cold … but not, I think, truly frozen, thanks be to Neave. If only this feeble excuse for a fire were larger. …”
She was interrupted by a rush of cold air, followed by Smire. He dropped the saddlebags in a shower of snow, and bent near the fire to warm his hands.
“Can you bring sufficient wood to build up this fire?” Nolar implored. “Master Derren's legs are severely chilled, and I fear for his wound. The poultice that I applied this morning is quite stiff.”
“Our stocks of fuel here are limited,” Smire conceded. “I had intended to cut more wood when I finished hunting, but my encounter with thee intervened.”
“We brought with us from Lormt some bags of charcoal,” Nolar said. “I believe that we must search for that now, if there is no warmer space available for us here.”
Smire appeared stung by her remarks. “My master awaits thee within. I wrongly thought thou wouldst prefer to refresh thyself before thy audience, but I bow to thy impatience. I shall announce thee now.” With a brusque nod, he snatched aside another fur hanging in the far interior corner and stalked through the narrow opening behind it.
“Be sure I shall try to secure warmer quarters for us,” Nolar promised Derren.
Smire thrust back the hanging and beckoned peremptorily. “Come,” he ordered.
For the first time since Smire had gloated upon seeing her face, Nolar's fingers automatically groped for her concealing scarf. She stood up, deliberately lowering her hand, and approached the passageway. Whatever his reaction to her disfigurement, Nolar decided, Master Tull would have to accept her as she was.
She immediately noticed that the inner chamber was far more impressively furnished, and also distinctly warmer. Two sturdy metal braziers were set at prudent distances from facing wall hangings of finely embroidered fabric. Nolar had scant time to admire her surroundings, however, for her attention was at once drawn to the majestic figure enthroned at the center of the room.
Smire hovered obsequiously to one side. “Mistress Nolar of Meroney, Master,” he announced.
Tull's dark eyes glittered from beneath fine arched brows. His thin, austere face was framed by a hooded robe of regal purple. He wore no other adornment except for a heavy chain of dark metal whose intricately worked links reminded Nolar uneasily of Smire's earring.
Nolar met lull's searching gaze. His features, she thought, were artistically handsome, but the effect was coldly remote, as if he were a marble statue draped in a man's clothing. As he regarded her, for some reason, Nolar felt a strong urge to prostrate herself before him. Annoyed, she nodded curtly instead.
“Master Tull,” she acknowledged. “You may perhaps have heard of my late master, the scholar Ostbor.”
Tull gracefully lifted a long-fingered hand from his chair's ornately carved arm. “I keenly regret, dear lady, that both thy name and thy master's are unknown to me. I have been … cut off from all other scholars for a great while. But let us speak of thee. Smire has informed me of thy most misfortunate accident. I rejoice that I may offer thee my modest hospitality.”
Tull's voice, Nolar thought, was like a rivulet of dark mountain honey, flowing smooth and deeply sweet. A voice to beguile the ear, to … As her right hand slipped unthinkingly into her pocket, her fingers touched her stone shard, and her hazed wits were abruptly jolted by an acidly intrusive thought: entrap. Tull's voice was meant to beguile and to entrap the unwary listener.
Startled, Nolar clutched the shard in reflex, and jerked up her drooping head to meet Tull's penetrating regard. What she saw left her momentarily speechless, for there were two figures occupying the imposing chair, the outline of one figure overlaying and blurring the other, as if two bodies strove simultaneously to occupy the same space.
Tull seemed instantly aware of her distracted disquiet. He leaned forward, projecting the warmest sympathy. “Whatever is wrong, lady? Art thou ill?”
Nolar ignored the specious voice. “Which are you?” she d
emanded bluntly. “Only one image can convey your true aspect. Have done with illusion, sir, for I am not deceived.” As before in Lormt, Nolar sensed that energetic spurt of pure conviction emanating from outside herself, pulsing from her fragment of the Stone of Konnard.
Tull frowned, his face darkening with a flush of anger and suspicion. “What meanest thou, woman?” he hissed.
“I see two forms occupying your chair,” Nolar said firmly. “I think, sir, that you are not merely a scholar as Smire has said. I think you must deal in illusions and magic, although I knew not that any man nowadays could do so.”
“Estcarp!” Tull spat the name, as if it were bitter poison on his tongue. “I was lured into weak sympathy by thy pitiful face, but now I see thy true blood—Witch!”
Nolar reeled back as Tull surged to his feet, his eyes blazing. In Nolar's view, the double images rippled and ran together like hot wax spilling down a candle, then stabilized into one solid figure. This was the real Tull—Nolar was dreadfully certain of that.
Tull's elegant robe remained unchanged, but had diminished in size to fit a much smaller-boned man, no taller than Nolar herself. His pale skin had lost its noble marble-like sheen; it now looked as if Tull had been indeed hidden away from the sun's fair light for long years in some unhealthy cave. Nolar had an unreasonable suspicion that touching Tull would be like touching the cold, clammy belly of yesterday's fish. Fish. …
Quite unexpectedly, a memory from Nolar's early childhood commanded her attention. The dissatisfied, furtive expression on Tull's narrow face exactly mirrored that of the fishmonger who used to scratch at the back door of Nolar's father's townhouse kitchen. The cook of that time had accused him of providing less than fresh goods, and also of giving short weight. There was little actual physical resemblance between the two men, but the glint of smoldering hatred in the eyes, the air of calculated malice—in those, the two were remarkably similar. However much Tull might desire his audience to be awed by his imposing presence, Nolar knew that she could never again look at him without thinking, “dishonest fishmonger.”
