by Andre Norton
Be that so—Ortha felt no fear—only disappointment. Even that became too wearying to consider. She drifted into a state which was neither sleep nor forgetfulness—only weary uncaring.
Hours might pass in this cell and she would not know it. She was hungry—that required sustenance which was normally hers as a foreseer had been too long denied. Hunger and thirst—they slowly became pain of body as her weakness increased. Sometimes it seemed she was no longer here, rather that she stood between two tall stones, holding in her hands an object which beat like a heart—and that same beat was all which kept life within her.
She did not even hear the opening of the cell door. The light of a hand lamp roused her. The girl’s head turned a fraction where it rested against the wall as she looked to him who carried that. As far as she could tell he had come alone. But this was no warrior priest come to take her to judgment.
He had tossed back the hood of a night cloak, as if he wanted to make very sure that she would see and recognize him. The light caught it in the tight curls on his high held head, turned those into a halo of gold—showing the Power he held in him always.
No priest—this was the Arm himself who had so sought her out. Ortha watched him passively, wondering if her crime (though she was still not aware of the nature of that) was such that he must come to her thus secretly and alone to slay.
And how was she to die? By a bolt of the full force of that fire which he could use at will, even as an untalented man might use a beamer or a knife? Perhaps in an instant more she would be gone—her body ashed into nothingness.
7
He did not break the silence, nor did he threaten by even the raising of a hand. Rather he studied her as if he had a question which he chose not yet to put into words, while in Ortha the first surge of fear ebbed, and there arose a defiance—a determination that he must speak—condemn her without defense as the Voice had done. Nor would he afterward hear her beg for mercy.
The Arm advanced one step and then another, before he smiled, slowly, almost lazily, as if this was nothing more than a meeting on some sunny afternoon in the water gardens where the temple peace lay refreshingly on all.
“So—little sister—” His voice was very low, hardly more than the murmur of a whisper. “You have now discovered that there are truths and truths, some being less palatable and acceptable than others.”
Ortha continued stubbornly silent. He was using the terms of a near untrained farspeaker whose vague messages could be turned or twisted to serve as fair answers to several questions at once. Such were not welcome in the temple. They were, or so she had been taught, so lacking in true force of power that much of what they prophesied was as false as the lies which the Dark deliberately used to deceive men. And for him to use such speech here to her—!
“Yes,” he nodded as if her thoughts laid open before him. “It is true, little sister, that you have been long sheltered from the world as it is, from men as they are, from even the times now upon us. It is a pity that you were left so ignorant, more that you were allowed to function today without being told the need for concealment, for temporizing—”
Now Ortha did find her voice. “I do not understand you. I looked upon the Mirror—and what I saw therein were not lies. There was death—death of a world—” Shudders ran through her, she was cold with more than the chill of this cell. There was no mistaking true sight, just as she was certain that she had never given the Dark a chance to work through her—no matter what the Voice accused her of doing.
“Yes, you saw the truth.” He was not mocking her as she had first believed—no, he was agreeing. But if that was so—then why had the Voice, who shared the supreme power with him, turned so against her? She had delivered a true warning that there was coming peril which no one would escape.
“Oh, but there is an escape, little sister.” Again he moved even closer. She could smell, through the musty, fungoid scent of this place, the spicy odor of his incensed cloak, the fragrant oils which had been rubbed into his skin.
Ortha shook her head. “I saw. The sea ate the land, the earth opened, and fire boiled from the wounds of that opening. The ground rose and fell, this city itself was wiped away. Who could live through such as that?”
“Those who have been forewarned, who had foreseen, who have prepared,” he returned promptly. “The watchers of the sky have suspected for years that there was a chance of that wanderer in space approaching to wrack our system. In the time of Aiden, the first such warning was voiced. Then the secret preparation began—”
“Aiden? But that was more than five lifetimes ago.”
“Just so. Our present Moon Lilith came into our sky in just such a way—or so the very ancient records tell us. Now it seems a second far traveler strikes into the heavens we see. With it companies a shower of meteors. Where those fall the earth we know shall be blasted, both land and sea. Now our time grows short. Listen, little sister.” He stood directly before her, lifting his hand to cup her chin within his palm. Their eyes met and she felt the impact of the forces gathered in him. Still his power did not flow forth to consume her—it waited. “You have a gift. I have watched you for long, though you were not aware of me.”
“I am a Seer. Until this day no one ever denied that mine was not a true seeing,” she retorted stubbornly.
“You are the best of your kind,” he answered deliberately. “In our records lies the answer—you have spent other lives in which you also were a Watcher of the Mirror, little sister. And in each such life the power within you grew. Just as one who once worked with his hands to produce beautiful things, shall be born again owning similar skills—heightened because of that earlier knowledge—so does the inner talent grow from incarnation to incarnation.
“Yes, you are now a Seer, but, I believe, one who does not really need the Mirror to which custom has wedded you. You have never been taught to use your full powers. What you may control if you have the proper doors opened will surprise you—and others.” He smiled—not at her, Ortha was certain, but at some private thought of his own.
“Why then did the Voice name me liar, a thing of the Dark?” she burst out. “If you, the Arm, know this concerning me—can it be hidden to the Voice?”
“It is not hidden. She would have kept you from the Mirror had she been able. But custom and law ruled against her. Yes, she well knows that you speak the truth—also that you—”
“Then why?” Ortha interrupted.
“Because sometimes the truth can be Dark. What do you think would happen across the world if all now living knew such death was coming?”
Ortha drew a deep breath. For the first time that thought broke through the narrow range of her concentration upon her own plight.
“She tried hard not to have you called to the Mirror—” he was continuing, “but the Councillors from Vahal insisted as they had the right. Now we must make it seem that you are mind-twisted or a creature who has been seduced by the Dark. Do not mistake that those about the Voice shall not be ruthless about this. The first result will be your own death, seemingly brought about by power you misused. Do you now understand, little sister—you shall be the first to die in order to hide what they will do—are doing—”
“And what is that?”
“Planning what escape they can—from the world to be overwhelmed, rent, burnt, even as you saw. Out of the millions of life forms gathered here, there may be escape for a handful—perhaps. That is the goal towards which they work. Publish abroad that the end is coming, yet a handful may possibly be saved, and you shall have blood and death and madness. This is what they are prepared to fight against. So you remain a Seer who lies, and thus the Voice wins her battle—or the first skirmish.”
“Her battle? But surely the Arm and the Voice cannot be divided?”
His lips tightened. “There have been two ways of thought for many years now. There is some merit in what they propose, yes. We cannot save many of the life sparks on this world. But neither do all of us accep
t that the disaster will be as widespread as it now threatens. If any survive, then we shall need those who are trained, who have Talent—such as you. You have strengths you have never realized. Power is mine by both heritage and training. But one kind of power linked with another—who knows what can then be accomplished? I come to you, for it is only through free will, as you also know, that one talent may be drawn upon by another. I would try this in my own way for survival.
“We had sought through all the knowledge available to us to select places on the planet where the full fury of what is to come shall not rend nor destroy too much. Such a place has been prepared near here. I would have you find me this refuge—”
“Find it?” Ortha was puzzled. “But being who you are you must know of it already.”
He frowned. “I do not! I have stood in opposition to certain plans. This handful to be so saved, we are not agreed as to whom should be so selected. In the past toll of Named Days I have discovered that the site I have been led to believe was a refuge is only a counterfeit—that the Voice has won with her pleas for certain modifications of plans. But with such a Seer as you—one who can range time both forward and backward—the real refuge can be discovered. You can go forward—see those who will withdraw there and where they go. Then I and those who stand with me can be among them. It is true that nothing we know at present will continue to exist. So then is it not proper that those who know how to control the Power should transmit their knowledge on to the next age?”
She thought he was speaking the truth as he saw it—that this was a matter of highest importance to him. Also she could understand why he believed her to be the key. But that there was dissension here in the very heart of the Power, was something so alien, so wrong. Ortha shrank from that thought, as she would shrink from one of those staying monsters who emerged from the Dark when the barriers grew weak along some line of earth-force.
“Safety,” he said winningly, softly. “Not only for you, little sister, but for others, many others. Among them those who have great gifts and talents. Do you not see that if the world goes into the darkness you saw in the Mirror—there must continue to abide those to lead survivors when the tumult and the death are past?”
“But I saw—” Ortha shook her head slowly. “Surely from what I saw there can be no survivors.”
“That is not certain.” If he felt any uncertainty the Arm did not display any signs of it. Again his lips tightened while in his eyes smoldered the flame of his own talent. “There will rise a new earth, and who are better fitted then to rule than those who have the summoning of the Power—can draw upon it with their inborn strength? There has already been a foreseeing as to that—”
Ortha tensed—a foreseeing other than her own—here in the temple? Why had she not known? Her own talent, even if she had not been present at the Mirror, would have come instantly alive in answer to any effort by another following the same path. While the Mirror—who could use the Mirror save herself? For it was well known that each Seer became one with her Mirror through all the length of her days. When she passed beyond, that Mirror shattered of itself—it being her will which had bound it. Then another virgin one must be wrought and fitted to the next to occupy the tripod seat.
“Who saw this?” she demanded sharply, aroused from her own misery by the need to know.
The Arm laughed very softly. “That touches you, little one? Yes, it is true that no matter how uncertain we may be, how weighed down in spirit, we can be roused by the thought that some-where there is a rival. No one here spoke—but there is a Seer on the southern continent who has foreseen several times—both for the Voice and for me—secretly. There will be survivors. We are a species which can endure much. There will be some ships able to outrun the storms, even if those in them lose all control and lie at the mercy of sea and wind. There will be some who enter into caves. Thus a handful of our kind shall issue forth once more into a world so strange that madness shall fasten upon many and they will descend until they are more akin to the beasts of the field. Also there will be those of us who shall emerge prepared, knowing, able to stand as men, and once more prove that we can master time, land, sea—Those are the ones who shall rule, little sister. They shall be mightier than any man was ever dared to believe when they venture forth from their refuge.
“You can be among them—as shall I. But only if you will uncover this place now readied to enclose and protect them.”
His head jerked suddenly, he looked over his shoulder at the barred door of the cell. All softness was wiped from his face, there was rather a harshness to mouth and jaw, a coldness of eye. He glanced back to Ortha, his hand falling heavy on her hunched shoulder, the fingers clawing painfully through her light robe into the flesh.
“We have but little time—” he did not murmur, rather he hissed that as might a snake prepared to do battle. “You shall serve me—I will it. Go!”
Once more he glanced to the door. Then he loosed his hold on her so suddenly that it was almost as if he had hurled her away. She fell back bruisingly against the rock. “You—shall—do—as—I—command—” His words were spaced, uttered with emphasis of one summoning power. Light blazed from his eyes, bored in, to press against her will, her mind—
For a moment he stood so, building his power, ready to beat down any defense she might try to raise. And, Ortha discovered, she did have a defense, frail and wavering as that might be—wavering as might a curtain against the shock of the wind.
“Gwennan—” Had she uttered that strange name aloud, or merely in thought? That other was growing stronger within her—the one which was free of the Arm’s world—of familiarity with and fear of his power—one who fought this compulsion, even as she had earlier fought Ortha herself for identity and freedom. From the far future came that one who was different, who knew not the Power, had her own and alien safeguards.
Undoubtedly the Arm could have beaten her in time, but he was to have no time. Once more he listened. Then, with a grimace, he turned swiftly to the door, slipped through it. Ortha heard the thud of the locking bar falling into place on the other side. She was a prisoner once more. Perhaps she had indeed thrown away her one chance for freedom. Though what the Arm had admitted was too different from all she had been led to believe for her to accept easily.
She wrapped her arms around herself, clutching her shoulders with her hands, leaning a little forward as if she would roll her slight body into a ball.
To the musty odor of the cell something else had been insidiously added—growing stronger in her nostrils with every reluctant breath she drew. The Seer needed no one to tell her what was happening now. Those creatures which haunted the power lines (not in this world but on another plane which touched such a center of energy as this temple), they were here! Monsters, dark things—only twisted minds could command their allegiance—though the Voice, the Arm, a few others could blast them away. She had seen such materialize on occasion during her training. Then there had always stood ready one quick to guard—permitting her to see yet be safe from those terrors which awaited those who were not armed by ritual that used that talent.
The stench grew stronger. Ortha stared fear-fully at the door. Her imagination suggested what prowled without. There could even be a number of the creatures. Once within this world, on this plane, they killed, maimed, wrought such vengeance upon her kind as made her sick to remember.
Had she been abandoned, left in this lowest part of the temple to be their prey, was that to be her punishment? Far better a clean death by the Power! Surely the Voice could not have ordered this!
Ortha could not delude herself any longer, there was a fumbling at the door—even through the bulk of that she could hear. Something seeking prey—Her own fingers now dug into her flesh, as those of the Arm had earlier bitten. Why had he gone and left her to—to this—if she was as important to him as he would have her believe? The creatures from without held no terrors for him.
Vainly the girl tried to remember the ritual�
��the Words of Sending. She was not attuned to such force directly, but here it was enshrined and she could not believe that this thing from the Dark might break through with impunity.
Unless the death of the world had already begun. Perhaps the lines and pathways of the power were being disrupted, so there was no longer an even flow. It was well known that the creatures were always attracted by the energy of the world, that only a set of rigidly maintained safeguards kept them from, in turn, drawing on that raw power. They sometimes came into being when there were storms and the lightning struck with force—opening for an instant gates—
There came a pounding, a battering at the door. The thing, or things, without had not mastered the simple locking of the bar, but were rather striving to force a way in by brute strength alone. It was true that many of the creatures were near mindless, unless they were ensorcelled by a Dark talent who thus inserted desires and needs within skulls misshapen and totally unlike the human kind.
Ortha fought against her own benumbing fears and the weakness those brought. She drew upon all which she knew—began to recite in a voice, which first wavered and broke each time there sounded a blow at the door, the formula of exorcism. Not for her the easy way of opening her body to the flow of the Power so she could level a hand as might the Voice or the Arm to send from her fingers a bolt of cleansing fire. No, what she could do was little—only strive to enwrap herself within an invisible wall.
How well she was doing that she had no way of knowing. The door shuddered, while the stench continued to gag her with its foulness so that she must breathe in small gasps. She had no chance of holding long, yet her stubborn will kept her fighting.
A crack ran down the surface of the door. Even in this dusk she saw that clearly. Then—there sounded a cry—not from any human throat—rather a howling as some demented wolf might voice when the animal writhed in torment. The stench was overlaid by another—a sharp scent of ozone—as well as a disgusting odor of burning hair and flesh. Once more that howl—cut off in mid-note—as she heard a crackling.
