Ice and Shadow

by Andre Norton

Neither was he alone. But those who companied him were not standing to attention in their king’s presence, but rather sprawled on the floor before him, so that when the Colonel, gun still at ready, went to confront the usurper, he had to step over and around their bodies.

  “Reddick!”

  There was no sign that the Duke either heard or saw Imfry. He sat so still he might have been frozen by the ice of the Crown. The Colonel studied him, and then went swiftly up to the throne and laid a hand on his enemy’s shoulder.

  He started back with a quickly suppressed cry, for his touch broke the dream in the form of a man. There was a chime of sound; the Crown shattered, fell in a rain of splinters about the head and shoulders of him who wore it. Then Reddick shriveled, blackened, turned into something Roane could not bear to look upon. She cried out and hid her face in her hands.

  Lamplight showed the richness of the heavily embroidered cover on the daised bed. Though that radiance was far less than what Roane had been used to, it was enough to fully illumine Ludorica’s face. They had propped her up on a backing of pillows and Roane fed her bite by bite, giving her many sips of watered wine.

  The Queen did not lift her hands, seemed unable to help herself. She smiled now and then, once murmured Imfry’s name when he came to look upon her. And in that much they were assured she had some measure of consciousness. Only she was very weak.

  Roane tried with caution two of the remedies from her kit. But neither seemed to give any strengthening to this slender girl who was now a helpless child in her care.

  Perhaps they would never know what had happened in the High Keep before their coming. It could be that Reddick had already taken the Ice Crown to wear before that fateful moment when the distant controls had blazed into nothingness. That could well explain his gruesome death on the throne, the ending of those committed to his rule—for all in that chamber were dead. Shambry was insane, retreating into a catatonic state they could not break.

  Roane watched the Queen. She was now afraid that Ludorica might be beyond the aid of untrained help, though they could cling to the hope that she would gradually awaken fully. But Roane had told Imfry the truth, that it would be well to seek the aid they needed elsewhere. And his messengers had already ridden to ask it.

  Meanwhile the keep was coming to life. That town which had been in the iron grip of Reddick’s traitors was freed. Some of the lawful councilors had been killed, one or two had disappeared, but four had been found, brought back. The servants were returning, other help had been recruited from the city, and the guards were all Imfry’s men and so trustworthy. Roane knew this was in progress, but her own field of battle remained this bedroom.

  She had two of the Princess’s maids with her. They had been discovered locked in their chambers and freed by Imfry’s searchers. They had at first been jealous of Roane, but then were worried enough about the state of their mistress to welcome the stranger’s aid. At night Roane herself rested on a divan at the other end of the room, ready for any summons.

  Imfry had not returned since she had begged him to send a messenger to contact her own people. If the LB was still there, and the off-worlders were willing, now that the installation was gone and Clio was no longer slave to the past, they could have better help than any she thought native to Clio. But it could be they were too late in seeking it.

  The Queen opened her eyes. She fell asleep during these hours in the blink of an eyelid and roused as quickly. Roane took those two inert hands into hers.

  “Ludorica!” she called softly as a summons.

  It seemed that this time those blue eyes did indeed focus on her and hold steady—as if she were a recognized person and not a part of the room. The cracked lips Roane had soothed with salve parted and the faintest ghost of a whisper reached her:

  “Roane?”

  “Yes, oh, yes!” The off-world girl tightened her grip eagerly. “I am Roane!” That the other knew her was a great leap forward out of that shadow land.

  “Stay—”

  Roane understood that as a question.

  “Yes, I shall stay.” But she could not be sure she had replied in time for the other to understand, for the heavy lids had fallen again and once more the Queen slept—though this time Roane watched with a lighter heart. She thought Ludorica’s sleep more natural, not just a giving way to a blanking unconsciousness. At last she laid down the hands she held and at that moment one of the maids came into the circle of lamplight and beckoned, slipping into Roane’s place as she arose.

  The chamber door was ajar and she went to it. Imfry was in the room beyond. He was wearing full uniform, and his thin face was shaven. He had been, she was aware, on his self-imposed duties to bring order out of chaos.

  “Your star ship was gone.” He broke it to her abruptly.

  For a moment all she thought of was the lost opportunity to aid the Queen. Then the true meaning struck home. They had gone, leaving her behind, marooned it might well be for life if the Service decided against any further contact. Roane put out her hand for support, suddenly feeling a little dizzy, reaching for a chair back. But her hand was caught as he came to her, steadied her.

  “I am sorry,” he said and that crispness of command, much in his voice these past few days, was softened. “I should not have told you so.”

  “No, it does not matter.” She shook her head. “I could not have expected otherwise. They knew we had been discovered, and they would not wait to find me. They may never come again. But Nelis, listen—the Queen—Ludorica—a short time ago she knew me! Perhaps we can hope she will come back to us. We might not need their help after all.”

  “You are sure—she is on the mend?” Something in his eagerness, the way he turned his head to look at the door into the bedchamber made Roane want to move away. She tried to pull her hand from his, but he would not loose it.

  “I have a duty.” He spoke slowly, almost as if what he said now was painful. “You have heard her call me ‘kinsman’—”

  Because, thought Roane with a wry inner hurt, Ludorica wished perhaps an even closer relationship with her Colonel.

  “You see, there is in truth a bond between us—”

  This she did not want to hear. If the bleak truth was not put into words, if she did not have to hear it just yet—And to have him say it! But she was not able to protest, and he was continuing:

  “I took an oath long ago at my father’s wishes—and it has ruled my life. Our rulers marry for reasons of state, the well-being of their countries. But often such unions are no more than formal alliances, though they are required for the begetting of true heirs.

  “Our King Niklas accepted the royal bride from Vordain, as his advisers made plain was his duty. But his heart had already been given elsewhere. And such affairs can lead not only to pain but to cankers like Reddick’s ambition—which was in part my father’s fear after my birth.

  “My mother was the King’s daughter, but no princess. She wanted nothing from her father; in fact she refused all he would have gladly given her. And when she wed with my father she was pleased to leave the court.

  “By her wish I was to claim nothing from the King, and this was my father’s desire also. I was not to be ‘kinsman’ though I could easily have been so. To me Ludorica will always be the Queen whom I serve and honor. Beyond the service I owe her thus, I go my way, and she that which destiny points for her. Do you understand what I would have you believe?”

  Roane could not answer save with a nod. She was unable to sort out her emotions. For that she needed time and quiet and a chance to face a new self, a very new self which she must learn to know.

  “What of you? Your people have left you—”

  “Yes.”

  “But that is only as you think; the truth is otherwise!” There was hot emotion in his voice which she was too bewildered even to try to read. “Those have gone, your people are here! You are of Reveny, as much as if you were born among her hills, schooled in some stead hall. Believe that, Roane, believ
e it! For it is true!”

  She was not just imagining what he said—it was the truth now. And with the tone of one wholeheartedly swearing allegiance she found voice enough to answer: “I do—Nelis, I do!”

  BROTHER

  TO

  SHADOWS

  CHAPTER 1

  THE CHILL FINGERS OF THE DAWN wind clawed. Behind the spires of the Listeners the sky was the color of a well-honed throwing knife. There was not any answer to time’s passing in Ho-Le-Far Lair.

  Brothers stood in the courtyard as they had since twilight, keeping the Face-the-great-storm position with a purpose that rose above any cramping of limb or protest of body. Only their eyes were apprehensive and what they watched was that oval set at the crown of the arch which marked the door of the Master’s great hall. What should have showed a glow of light was lifeless, as dull as the stone in which it was set.

  Now through that door, which gaped like a skull’s lipless jaws at the top of a flight of stairs, came the long awaited figure muffled in robes the hue of dried blood—The Shagga Priest.

  He spoke and his voice, though low-pitched, carried as it had been trained to do.

  “The Master has fulfilled his issha vow.”

  No one in those lines below wavered, though this was an ending to all the life they had known.

  Those two to the fore of the waiting company raised hands in Sky-draw-down gestures. Then they strode forward with matching steps while the priest descended further to meet them. He stopped, still above their level, so they must look up to meet his eyes. In the growing light their Shadow garments were a steel to match the lowering sky.

  TarrHos, Right Hand to the Master, crossed his hands at breast level, drawing with action too quick for the eye to truly follow, slender daggers.

  “It is permitted?” he asked of the priest, his voice as hard as the weapons he displayed.

  “It is permitted—by the Issha of this Brotherhood it is so.” The priest nodded his shaven head and his own hands advanced, like predators on the prowl, from the shadows of his wide sleeves to sketch certain age-old gestures.

  TarrHos went to his knees. Three times he bowed, not to the priest but to that lifeless stone above. It was a blinded eye now; that force which it had contained had fled, no brother or priest could tell why or how. It had been, it was not, and with it went the life of this Lair.

  TarrHos’s weapons swept in the ritual gesture. There was no sound from the man who crumpled forward, only the moaning of the wind. Red spattered upward, not quite reaching the perch of the priest.

  LasStir, Left Hand of the Master, took another step forward. He did not look at his dead fellow.

  “It is permitted?” His voice, rendered harsh by an old throat wound, outrode the wind.

  “It is permitted—the issha holds.”

  With the same dexterity of weapons LasStir joined his colieutenant in death.

  The Shagga descended the last two steps, making no effort to draw back the hem of his robe from the spreading pools of blood coming to join as one.

  Ten more made up that assembly left below, younger men, some near boys. Their short cloaks were black, the sign of those who had not made at least ten forays for the honor of the Lair. One in that line dared to speak to the Shagga.

  “It is permitted?” His voice was a little too high, too shrill.

  “It is not permitted!” The priest silenced him. “A Lair dies when its heart is no longer fed by the will of its Master. The unblooded and half-sworn do not take up the issha.

  “Rather you shall serve in other Lairs still as is demanded of you. Ho-Le-Far has ceased to be.” He made the Descent-of-Darkest-Night wave with his left hand—so setting an end to all which had existed here, erasing a long and valiant history. “Here no longer is there a Post of Shadows.”

  For the first time there was a slight movement in that assembly. This was a thing of disaster, almost of terror, and it was an evil fate to be caught in it.

  The Shagga moved along the line slowly, stopping to eye each one, and to address that one alone:

  “HasGan and CarFur,” he singled out the first two on the left. “Draw supplies and weapons, go to the Lair of Tig-Nor-Tu. DisNov and YasWar, you will do likewise, but go over mountain to Ou-Quar-Nin.”

  So it went until the priest reached the last in that line. He had to look up to meet eye to eye with the waiting novice and now that it was fully light it was plain to see the sparks of malice in his sunken eyes, the vicious twist of his lips as he shaped words which he had long savored and held ready for this moment.

  “Outlander—misborn—no-blood—Out with you to where you will—you are not of the Oath and by the Will of TransGar you never shall be. You are an abomination, a stain. No doubt the Master’s force death has come through you. You will take no weapons—for those are of the Brotherhood, and henceforth you will go your own way!”

  The hooded listener refused the Shagga the satisfaction of seeing how deep that thrust went. He had long known that the priest hated him, looked upon his being there as a blot on the honor of the Lair. Since the force stone had started to fail he had foreseen this and tried to plan beyond it. But so much of his life was tied here that it was hard to break the bonds of discipline, to think of himself as moving without orders on a wayward path which had no real goal

  Within the Lair only the Master had ever shown him any concern. He had been told why only three moon speds ago. The Brothers to Shadows, trained assassins, spies, bodyguards, had been in service on Asborgan for centuries. Rulers employed their services knowing well that, once oathed, they were absolutely loyal to their employer for the agreed-upon length of their bond. However, recently there had been a rumor that their particular talents were in demand off-world also and that was a new source of income for the Lairs. To employ one of off-world blood off-world would be setting that Lair to the fore of the new idea and the Master had been a forward-looking man—which was, Jofre thought, a hidden point of disagreement between him and the custom-bound Shagga.

  Jofre was the Master’s own find, a literal find, for the Master, on one of his scout training missions, had come upon the wreck of an escape craft, one of those which sometimes could make a perilous rescue from a spacer in dire trouble. Jofre had been the only living thing in that tiny vessel, a child so young he could remember only a few scraps of scenes of his life before he had been taken into the Lair to be given the grilling training of the Brothers.

  Though in frame he was larger than the rest of the novices, he quickly absorbed all he was taught, proving more proficient in some of the necessary skills than others. At the same time the Master had seen that he was given lessons in the off-world trade tongue, passed to him information which seeped from the airport to the Lair, brought by traders and travelers. Though both Master and student knew well there were large and awkward gaps in what he absorbed with a will. His greater reach and strength as he approached manhood had awakened envy in his fellows, something he had long known that the Shagga Priest had fostered. However, he knew that he was competent enough for a mission and that the Master had had plans for him.

  The Master and the force stone . . . Each Lair was endowed with such a stone and no one knew from where these came or what was the purpose—save that at long intervals their glow died. That was taken as a direct sign that the force of the Master had gone also and that he must pay for whatever secret failing had brought about the death of his power. With the stone died also the Lair as this one had here and now. But it had been a long time since any Lair had come to an end, and it was a bitter thing which brought a faint touch of fear to every other Lair when it happened.

  Jofre continued to meet the priest eye to eye. The man would see him dead if he could. But he could not, for Jofre had passed the first oathing four seasons ago and Brother could not shed the blood of Brother. However, the Shagga was settling his fate in another way. This was the season of mountain cold. To be cast out of shelter without weapons or full supplies was a delayed se
ntence of death—or so the priest believed.

  “I am assha if not issha.” Jofre spoke the words slowly as he might ready his knives for a final thrust. “Weapons you may take from me, for they are of the Lair. I claim therefore traveler’s rights under the law.” On this point custom would bear him out and he would hold to it.

  The priest scowled and then flung away after the others, who were already moving off to make up their packs ready for the journeying to their newly appointed stations.

  Jofre faced the force stone again. Slowly he moved forward. The light which had centered it was certainly gone—it was now as dull as the age-worn stone which held it. At least ten Masters had lived and died in its light—the eleventh had the misfortune to see that light fail.

  The young man skirted the bodies of the lieutenants and climbed the steps. He expected some outcry from the Shagga though what he would do was no profanation. However, that did not come and he passed into the darkness of the hall above, where the only faint light came from two lamps at the far end.

  Between them lay that other body—the Master. For some reason Jofre needed to do this but he could not explain that reason even to himself. He came to stand beside the man who had saved his life, even though just perhaps because he saw in Jofre a tool to be well employed at a future date.

  Jofre’s hands moved Star-Of-Morning—Journey-into-Light. The fingers shaped that message in the air. Farewell-far-journey-triumph-to-the-warrior. As he did this there welled into him an inflow of strength, almost as if some of the will and purpose of the dead Master passed to him as a bequest.

  Only a tenth night ago he had knelt at this very spot, had spread before him certain maps and papers, known the carefully hidden excitement of one being prepared for a mission.

  “It is thus,” the Master had spoken as one who shared thought, “these off-worlders change every world they enter. They cannot help but do so to us. We have lived by a certain pattern for ten centuries now. The valley lords have their feuds which have become as formally programmed as the IDD dances. They hire us as bodyguards, as Slipshadows to dispose of those whose power threatens them or whom they wish to clear from their paths. It has become in a manner a game—a blood game.