by Andre Norton
The corridor she paced swiftly, and with a purpose she only half understood, was not rough rock walled. Instead here was polished masonry in huge, strangely angled blocks, each fitted so carefully together that there was no sign of any mortar to tie them so.
Overhead the ceiling hung low. Gwennan could have reached up an arm, run her fingertips along the stone slabs which formed it as she went. There was no light except that which she carried with her—which radiated from the pendant in her hand, flared also from the floating cloak about her shoulders. She walked in light—she—was—a carrier—
Gwennan now lifted her free hand, held it up and out—
The Voice! No, she had no Power. Still from her fingertips threaded ribbons of light—pale in color, possessing none of the brilliancy she had seen evoked in Ortha's temple. She waved her hand, spread those fingers. The light ribbons floated lazily, weaving about her as she went.
Even as she so played, child-wise, with what now filled her, she sought to fit one small portion of knowledge to another. The leys—that old belief was the truth! Within the earth—like the veins within any living body—ran those lines of energy. Man had known them once—drawn upon them for healing, for defense, for the well being of the world. Then they had broken, diverged—and only the legend of them remained. Yet they were not dead, only rebuilding, renewing within themselves. Once more broken ends joined here and there, channels formed anew—perhaps a fraction less strong because of their half destruction—but ever growing.
There had been those (the guardians and those whose minds could be reached) who had built new temples once, rough and without beauty, but encasing, fostering, aiming the energies. Knowledge lost, knowledge half found, knowledge lost again—a pattern so often repeated. There was energy here where once had stood a great temple. As yet it was a feeble burst, when compared with what had once flowered upon call—but it was here!
The strange and massive walls about her were broken by insets of stone which were blue, or which were studded with quartz in rough clumps. There were holes in some of those plates, small enough to accept only a finger, large enough to engulf a hand to the wrist. She avoided those because she did not know enough, not yet, perhaps not ever. Hers was another task, one which she did not yet understand and which perhaps she could learn only bit by bit.
Once more Gwennan was faced by a door and this was a wedge of rock, triangular, point meeting the surface of the pavement—a little wider than her shoulders at its greatest. The girl slipped the chain of the pendant around her neck to rest on the folds of the cloak where those smoothed only against the rise of her breasts. She put forth both hands, laid palms against the stone. However, she did not seek to exert any strength, either to push or slide, she merely stood and let that which gathered in her flood into the stone. And the force did seep into that. The rock of the barrier was like a sponge greedily sopping up spilled liquid.
There came a harsh grating. Gwennan sensed resistence to her desire. Still she was not to be refused. The stone lifted until her arms were stretched well above her head. She threw herself forward then, knowing the danger of what she did. The stone crashed once more, to bury its point against the pavement. But it had not caught her in its fall.
Thus she came out of the place of ancient masonery. More stone walls—but these were like any to be seen in a cellar. Arranged around them, and in rows forming aisles, were shelves of unfinished lumber, hung with cobwebs, grey with old dust. There were jars and bottles grimed and thick with more dust sitting there. The place was very dusky, near complete dark. That energy which had filled her, flowed outward from her had drained, was dying down, leaving her weakened as she remembered Ortha had always been weakened after her bouts of farseeing.
There remained just enough glare to show a flight of steps ahead. Gwennan turned to look backward from the three cornered door. There was no sign of it—only a fieldstone wall. From this side it was well concealed. One of those new parts of her mind supplied, without her conscious direction, the secret of its opening once again. One stepped to the left, one pushed on a stone thus, then pulled again, downward on an edge of shelf. That would not open the door, no, but it would reveal it to the seeker.
Gwennan had no desire to return, the way was before her now and not back. She crossed the floor of the cellar, climbed the wooden steps, needing a hold on the rough bannister for support as she went. It was more and more an effort for her to keep moving.
There was another door at the head of those stairs, one with an old iron latch of the kind which had been in use two centuries ago. The girl grasped it with what firmness she could, bore down, so came out into a tall ceilinged room which she knew. This was the library of Lyle House—nor was she surprised that her journeying had brought her here.
In the wide fireplace wood burned with a blue flame from which came the strong scent of the same kind of incense which had clothed the globe in her own home on that night when Lady Lyle's talisman had come into her hand. There were tall candelabra, glinting with gold and jewels, the main portions of which were fashioned, one as a man, a warrior for he held a bared sword and there was on him the seeming of a mail coat, though he wore no helmet—rather the finely depicted curls on his head were half hidden by an oddly shaped crown which could be the branching antlers of a stag woven together. There were green gems set in his finely featured face for eyes and those were live in the firelight.
Fronting that candelabra which carried five red candles aflame, was the other and it was formed as a woman whose body was hardly concealed by a short tunic she wore, one baring her arms and much of her breast. In the hollow between those half-revealed breasts hung a pendant twin to the one Gwennan carried in her hand, and on the high held head of the woman was a second representation of the full-half moon wrought into the forepart of a crown. Five candles she supported also, but these were blue, and the flame which danced from their wicks was pale and silvery in contrast to the rich gold of the red ones.
Both the candelabra stood on a table, a solid unornamented slab of wood, a crosscut section of some tree so giant in girth as to be beyond modern imagining. The wood was highly polished so that the rings showed—and of a dark honey color within an outermost section of deep brown bark.
So polished was that surface that both the candelabra were mirrored in it, yet their reflections were broken and obscured by three objects between them. There was a cup—or rather a chalice—of a red color, its stem a single long crystal, octagonal in shape. Before that lay, blades crossed, two knives or daggers—their hilts of some dull, dark stone but finely wrought, so that one was the head of a wolf (or was it both wolf and man in a terrifying mixture of one nature with the other?) and there were red stones for the eyes.
The second knife bore another head which she knew only too well. This was that owl-faced thing which had been one of the monster pack. It was fashioned of grey, dirty-looking stone. Its two eyes were red and alive.
As the girl stared at the table both her hands moved to the pendant. It seemed to her that the cloak stirred of itself about her, enfolding her protectively. For what lay there, bright and shining as it was, held—the Dark—the old Dark—in all of it. In a way this display profaned the room, bringing a shadow to soil what should be light.
Somehow she dared not turn her back upon it. A quick glance at the near wall showed her the door through which she had always entered on her visits here. That opened into the hall—then it was only a short distance to the outer portal and she would be free. There had been a change in this house—her heightened senses were aware that below the fresh scent of the incense gathered a sickly-sweet taint of corruption.
Tor's mark! She believed it as firmly as if she had seen him offering an invocation here. If Tor was the newly awakened Guardian for this time—then indeed fear must be faced. And he was greater than she—even if he was half-blood. His learning must have taken him very far along the road of knowledge—light or dark. She was something he could indeed mock. Why had
Lady Lyle seen fit to pit her against him? The old line must indeed have come near to extinction to have only such a desperate choice.
Gwennan moved, ever facing the table, listening, sure that Tor had only momentarily left the room—that at any moment he would return to carry forward whatever invocation or ceremony he had planned. When she reached the door she had to lean against the wide panel for a moment to gather strength before she dare open it.
Her fingers closed upon the latch as her nerves triggered her next move. Throwing open the door, she lurched into the hall.
Though there was no one in sight she waited, listening. To cross those last few feet to freedom was one of the hardest things she had ever attempted. She saw the sly eyes of the woods-maiden catch a glint of light. Those followed her—even as did those of the other statue. She flung herself at the outer door, dragged it open. Luckily it was not locked as she had feared. Then, breathing as hard as if she had been running, she pushed into the weak sunlight of what must be early afternoon.
15
There had been no effort here to clear away the snow, nor was there any track across drifts to suggest that anyone had recently gone in or out. Floundering along, Gwennan glanced apprehensively back over her shoulder. The deep-set windows with small diamond-shaped, lead-set panes looked dull, like eyes from which the spark of light had departed.
Still a fire had been burning on the hearth, someone had lighted those candles. Yet, now as her fear faded in this open, the girl was aware that there had been a curious emptiness in that house. The servants? Always before on her visits here they had been within sight sooner or later, moving after their silent shadowy fashion. They had had, she sometimes imagined, their own secret world, from which they emerged only at call from the head of the house.
Where could they be now? And Tor—Surely it must have been Tor, the new master, who had set ready that altar table. Yet she had seen nothing of him. But the house was large, she had never known how large, and it must have many rooms above, behind those she had visited. Except—all had been so quiet.
Gwennan had to wade through two unbroken drifts to reach the rough pillars marking the lane. Even here there had been no recent plowing. However, the walking was better. She refused to look back again, nor, as she moved along the buried wall, did she allow her head to turn to glance to the stones on the mound crest. There sounded a harsh cry from that part of the woods closest to the wall's boundary. She flinched and then took herself in hand—only a bird's call. Though as much as she knew of the wild life about she had never heard such a sullen, loud-carrying cackle before.
The lane curved, she sighted her own house, the stand of trees between it and the Newtons. Gwennan began to run, slipping and sliding, but determined to reach a place which meant return to the sane world. Once she had gained the open that domination which held her since her journey forth in the dawn was defeated, or withdrew, allowing the reality she had always known to rise and claim her again. She was two—and in her those two vied for rule—
The door was unlocked. She must have left it so when she ventured forth. A whole day near gone and how could she account for those missing hours if she were asked? She shut the door behind her. There was warmth in the hall. Dusk gathered as she turned and shot the bolt.
Gwennan realized that she was hungry as well as tired. At least the pain in her head had subsided into a nagging ache, but it left a weak feeling. When she reached the kitchen she was forced to sit down for a moment, staring thankfully about at the familiar—drawing into her once again that feeling of safety which was a part of this house. The loosening of the eye brooch allowed the cape to slide from her shoulders, nor did the fabric now try to enfold her, to cling.
Shuffling the wad of material into another chair, shedding her outer clothing, Gwennan got to the business of frying eggs, turning thick slices of country bacon, filling the coffee pot.
She ate as if she could not get enough food, ending with a handful of those cookies, broken or a little too brown, which had been discarded from the library tin. Tomorrow was Sunday. She would call the Grahams, say she could not make it into town. She wanted nothing more than to sleep—and sleep—and sleep—
To sleep—but not to dream! The thought of dreams roused her quickly from drowsiness as she made herself clear the dishes away. No, no dreams!
Yet, even the fear that the very thought of such awakened in her could not stem the full tide of fatigue bearing her to the bedroom, to her burrowing down under the bed covers. She had drawn the curtains as far across the windows as she could jerk them. This room was all she wanted to see, no hint of what lay without its time-seasoned walls.
Still as Gwennan undressed, she did not slip the pendant from her neck. It had become a part of her, she could no more think of putting it aside now than she could of separating her hand from her wrist. The dial had faded once more, the markings on it were not even visible in this dusk. It was early to go to bed, yet she could sit up no later—even though the sky still held a glimmer of sunset.
Sleep fell upon her very quickly. And there were no dreams—just sinking into a warm and waiting darkness where no doubt, fear, or memory followed.
Gwennan awoke into a dark where only a faint edging about the curtain marked the nearest window. There was a hissing against the pane—snow again! But no wind howled or drove blasts to beat the walls. Then—she stiffened on her pillow, her hands caught convulsively on the quilts and comforter over her.
A cry had pierced the soft sound of snow, entered through walls, rang as sharply as if a window was open to the night. It was that same hoarse, harsh croaking which she had heard coming earlier from the wood. Surely, that was too loud, too strong in timbre to issue from the throat of any bird. Owls she knew well, and this was no formal night hunter.
Against her flesh the pendant warmed. Gwennan pulled down the collar of her quilted pajama top to look. The dial lay against her skin, hidden. But the metal of the outer casing was agleam, alive.
She had no defense in this moment of waking, against that new knowledge from which she still shrank. Even the illusion of safety which the house had given her was now broken. Gwennan knew what cruised overhead. In her mind formed a picture as clear as if she viewed it with her physical eyes.
What beat wings across the sky—yes, and what was padding across the fields, leaping through white snow which fell away from a misshapen alien body. The hunter was out—not moving through that green-lit world but in this one, and his monstrous pack ran—flew—crawled free.
Even in the ancient days of temple Power the forces of the Dark had been known, had been fought, and had been kept at bay. There had always existed those cracks between worlds through which such things prowled while perverted minds know how to summon such. The Arm—surely it was the Arm who had in the final days opened the door of Ortha's world. Now—
“Tor!” Gwennan whispered the name, the hiss of her voice was echoed—perhaps not in her ears but her head—
“Tor! Tor! Tor!”
She huddled in her bed, listening not only with her ears, but with that newly awakened other part of her—using the sense she could not name. The Dark was broad—it cast—it sought—Why did that pack not come then to attack? Men in centuries past had tried hard to build defenses against that which was now cruising the night. They used rituals, even water they thought blessed, herbs which the Dark ones were supposed to hate. They had built churches and holy places. Some relied upon blades of silver, on words older than time they themselves might reckon. Others clung to artifacts of religion. But all, in their heart of hearts, feared, and by that fear they left a chink in their defenses.
It was fear itself which was the greatest weapon of the Dark—that had always been true. Her species were born with a kernel, a seed of fear, buried within them. Given support that could grow, bud, flower. Fear screamed, ran, scrambled through the night out there now.
Such crude fear might slay, even as talons and fangs cut off life. These night runners
were the messengers. Only by reaching behind them could one fight a true battle, stand against the enemy. And she—what was she against Tor? He had boasted of his knowledge, she could not deny that ho had such. Half-blood he might be, twisted he might be, if the Arm had succeeded in gaining shelter and then had fathered a child on some survivor. Yet he was as far ahead of her in command of force as perhaps the Lady was to her, Ortha, Gwennan—whatever name her true identity wore.
Lady Lyle must now lie in that place where Gwennan had watched the earlier Guardian return for renewing. How long did such renewing take—for the old to become once more young, able, a handler of Power? Years—how many—? Generations—centuries? How deep into the renewing slumber had the Lady already fallen?
But—
Gwennan's eyes opened wider, though all she could view with them was the dark. When she had witnessed the renewal process the woman had gone to her “coffin” before the man had come forth! Yet Tor had appeared weeks before Lady Lyle had gone to her rest. She had spoken in her letter of factors which had hastened her withdrawal—though at the time the words had meant little to Gwennan.
So—Tor had not come forth from any renewal chamber as Guardian by right. Then who had? Somewhere on earth Lady Lyle had been replaced—she must have been. Tor was not the one meant to draw upon the mended earth force. Nor was she—Gwennan. Still there was a pattern behind all this. The girl could sense the lines of weaving—only she could not follow those threads to their source, nor even know the design.
She had been chosen to be part of it—to stand against Tor. Surely the Lady—the Voice—would not have drawn her in unless there was at least a small chance of her working out an ending which was of the Light. Tor wanted her—not as an enemy but an ally. But he believed her share of the old blood so thin, so meager, that he could rule her easily through fear. He must believe that or he would not have upset the gatelocks, loosed this which came.
