by Andre Norton
Tamisan took her place on the stool, again put her fingers to her temples. Would this work once more? Or must she try to force a picture in the sand? She felt a small shiver of nerves she fought to control.
“What desires the Great One?” She was glad to hear her voice steady, no hint of her uneasiness in it.
“What chances in—say four passages of the sun?”
Tamisan waited. Would that other personality or power, or whatever it might be, take over? But her hand did not move. Instead that odd, disturbing prick grew the stronger; she was drawn, even as a noose might be laid about her forehead to pull her head around. So she turned to follow the dictates of that pull, to look where something willed her eyes to look. But all she saw was the line of officers on the steps of the throne, and they stared at and through her, none with any sign of recognition by Starrex! She grasped at that hope; but none of them resembled the man she sought.
“Does Olava sleep? Or has His Mouth been forgotten for a space?”
The Over-Queen’s voice was sharper, and Tamisan broke that hold on her attention, looked back to the throne and the woman on it.
“It is not meet for the Mouth to speak unless Olava wishes—” Tamisan began, with increasing nervousness until she felt that sensation in her left hand, as if it were not under her control but possessed by another will. She fell silent as it gathered up the brownish sand and tossed it to form a picture’s background.
But this time she did not seek next the blue grains; rather her fist dug into the red and moved to paint in the outline of the space ship, above it a single red circle.
Then there was a moment of hesitation, before her fingers strayed to the green, took up a generous pinch and again made Starrex’s symbol below the ship.
“A single sun,” the Over-Queen read out. “One day until the enemy comes. But what is the remaining word of Olava, Mouth?”
“That there be one among you who is a key to victory. He shall stand against the enemy and under him fortune comes.”
“So? And who is this hero?”
Tamisan looked again to the line of officers. Dared she trust to instinct? Something within her urged her on.
“Let each of these protectors of Ty-Kry—” She raised a finger to indicate the officers. “Let each come forward and take up the sand of seeing. Let the Mouth touch that hand and may it then strew the answer—perhaps Olava will so make it clear.”
To Tamisan’s surprise, the Over-Queen laughed. “As good a way as any perhaps for picking a champion. Though to abide by Olava’s choice—that is another matter.” And her smile faded as she glanced at the men, as if there was a thought in her mind which disturbed her.
At her nod, they came one by one. Under the shadows of their helmets their faces, being of one race, were very similiar; and Tamisan, studying each, could see no chance of telling which Starrex might be.
Each took up a pinch of green sand, held out his hand palm down and let the grains fall while she set fingertip to the back of that hand. The sand drifted, but in no shape and to no purpose.
It was not until the last man came that there was a difference, for then the sand did not drift, but fell to form again the symbol which was twin to the one already on the table. Tamisan looked up. The officer was staring at the sand rather then meeting her eyes, and there was a line of strain about his mouth, a look about him such as might shadow the face of a man who stood with his back to a wall and a ring of sword points at his throat.
“This is your man,” Tamisan said. Starrex? She must be sure—if she could only demand the truth in this instant!
But her preoccupation was swept aside.
“Olava deals falsely!” That cry came from the officer behind her, the one who had brought her here.
“Perhaps we must not think ill of Olava’s advice.” The Over-Queen’s voice had a guttural, feline purr. “It may be his Mouth is not wholly wedded to his service, but speaks for others than Olava at times. Hawarel—so you are to be our champion—”
The officer went to one knee, his hands clasped loosely before him as if he wished all to see he did not reach for any weapon.
“I am no choice, save the Great One’s.” In spite of the strain visible in his tense body he spoke levelly and without a tremor.
“Great One, this traitor—” Two of the officers moved as if to lay hands upon him and drag him away.
“No. Has not Olava spoken?” The mockery was very plain in the Over-Queen’s tone now. “But to make sure that Olava’s will be carried out, take good care of our champion-to-be. Since Hawarel is to fight our battle with the cursed starmen, he must be saved to do it.” Now she looked to Tamisan, who was still startled by the quick turn of events and their hostility to Olava’s choice. “Let the Mouth of Olava share with Hawarel this waiting that she may, perhaps instill in Olava’s choice the vigor and strength such a battle will demand of our chosen champion.” Each time the Over-Queen spoke the last word she made of it a thing of derision and subtle menace.
“The audience is finished.” The Over-Queen arose, stepped behind the throne as those about Tamisan fell to their knees; and then she was gone. But the officer who had guided Tamisan was by her side. And Hawarel, once more on his feet, was closely flanked by two of the other guards, one of whom pulled their prisoner’s sword from his sheath before he could move. With Hawarel before her, Tamisan was urged from the hall.
At the moment she was pleased enough to go, hoping for a chance to prove the lightness of her guess, that Hawarel and Starrex were the same and she had found the first of her fellow dreamers—was this far onward toward their release.
They traversed more halls until they came to a door which one of Hawarel’s guards opened. The prisoner walked through and Tamisan’s escort waved her after him. Then the door slammed shut and at that sound Hawarel whirled around.
Under the beaking fore plate of his helmet his eyes were cold fire and he seemed a man about to leap for his enemy’s throat.
“Who—” His voice was only a harsh whisper. “Who set you to my death wishing, witch?”
7
HIS clawed hands were reaching for her throat. Tamisan flung up her arm in an attempt to guard, stumbled back.
“Lord Starrex!” If she had been wrong—if—!
Though his finger tips brushed her shoulders, he did not grasp her. Instead it was his turn to retreat a step or two, his mouth half open in a gasp.
“Witch—witch!” The very force of the words he hurled at her made them like darts dispatched from one of the archaic crossbows of the history tapes.
“Lord Starrex,” Tamisan repeated, feeling on more secure ground at seeing his stricken amazement, no longer fearing he would attack her out of hand. His reaction to that name was enough to assure her she was right, though he did not seem prepared to acknowledge it.
“I am Hawarel of the Vanora,” he brought out those words as harsh croaking.
Tamisan glanced around. This was a bare-walled room, with no hiding place for a listener. In her own time and place she could have feared many scanning devices. But she thought those unknown to this Ty-Kry. And to win Hawarel-Starrex into cooperation was very necessary.
“You are Lord Starrex,” she returned with bold confidence or at least what she hoped was a convincing show of such. “Just as I am Tamisan, the dreamer. And this, wherein we are caught, is the dream you ordered of me.”
He raised his hand to his forehead, his fingers encountered his helmet, and he swept it off unheedingly, so that it clanked and skidded across the polished floor. His hair, netted into a kind of protecting cushion, was piled about his head, giving him an odd appearance to Tamisan. It was black and thick, just as his skin was as brown-hued as that of her new body. And without the shadow of the helm she could see his face more clearly, finding in it no resemblance to the aloof master of the sky towers. In a way, it was that of a younger man, one less certain of himself.
“I am Hawarel,” he repeated doggedly. “You try to trap me
, or perhaps the trap has already closed and you seek now to make me condemn myself with my own mouth. I tell you, I am no traitor—I am Hawarel and my blood oath to the Great One has been faithfully kept.”
Tamisan experienced a rise of impatience. She had not thought Lord Starrex to be a stupid man. But it would seem his counterpart here lacked more than just the face of his other self.
“You are Starrex, and this is a dream.” If it was not, she did not care to raise that issue now. “Remember the sky tower? You bought me from Jabis for dreaming. Then you summoned me—and Lord Kas—and ordered me to prove my worth.”
His brows drew together in a black frown as he stared at her.
“What have they given you or promised, that you do to me?” came his counter-demand. “I am no sworn enemy to you or yours—not that I know.”
Tamisan sighed. “Do you deny you know the name Starrex?” she asked.
For a long moment he was silent. Then he turned from her took a stride or two, his toe thumping against his helmet, sending it rolling ahead of him. She waited. He rounded again to face her.
“You are a Mouth of Olava—”
She shook her head, interrupting him. “We have little time for such fencing, Lord Starrex. You do know that name, and it is in my mind that you also remember the rest, at least in some measure. I am Tamisan the dreamer.”
It was his turn to sigh. “So you say.”
“So I shall continue to say. And, mayhap as I do, others than you will listen.”
“As I thought!” he flashed. “You would have me betray myself.”
“If you are truly Hawarel as you state, then what have you to betray?”
“Very well. I am—am two! I am Hawarel and I am someone else who has queer memories and who may well be a night demon come to dispute ownership of this body. There—you have it! Go and tell those who sent you and have me out to the arrow range for a quick ending there. Perhaps that will be better than to continue as a battle field between two different selves.”
Perhaps he was not just being obstinate, Tamisan thought. It might be that the dream had a greater hold on him than it did on her. After all she was a trained dreamer, one used to venturing into illusions wrought from imagination.
“If you can remember a little—then listen!” She drew closer to him and began to speak in a lower voice—not that she believed they could be overheard, but it was well to take no chances. Swiftly she gave her account of this whole mad tangle, or what had been her part in it.
When she was done she was surprised to see that a certain hardening had overtaken his features, so that now he looked more resolute, less like one trapped in a maze which had no guide.
“And this is the truth?”
“By what god or power do you wish me to swear to it?” She was exasperated now, frustrated by his lingering doubts.
“None, because it explains what was heretofore unexplainable—what has made my life a hell of doubt these past hours and brought more suspicion upon me. I have been two persons. But if this is all a dream—why is that so?”
“I do not know.” Tamisan chose frankness as best befitting her needs now. “This is unlike any dream I have created before.”
“In what manner?” he asked crisply.
“It is part of a dreamer’s duty to study her master’s personality, to suit his desires, even if those be unexpressed and hidden. From what I had learned of you—of Lord Starrex—I thought that too much had been already seen, experienced, known to you. That it must be a new approach I tried, or else you would find that dreaming held no profit.
“Therefore it came to me suddenly that I would not dream of the past, nor of the future, which are the common approaches for an action dreamer, but refine upon the subject. In the past there were times in history when the future rested upon a single decision. And it was in my mind to select certain of these decisions and then envision a world, co-existent with our own, in which those decisions had gone in the opposite direction—trying to see what would be the present-day result of actions in the past.”
“And so this is what you tried? And what decisions did you select for your experiment at the rewriting of history?” He was giving her his full attention now.
“I took three. First, the Welcome of the Over-Queen Ahta; second the drift of the Colony ship Wanderer; third, the rebellion of Sylt. Should the Welcome have been a rejection, should the colony ship never reached here, should Sylt have failed—these would produce a world I thought might be interesting to visit—in a dream. So I read what history tapes I could call upon. Thus, when you summoned me to dream I had my ideas ready. But—it did not work as it should have. Instead of spinning the proper dream, creating incidents in good order, I found myself fast caught in a world I did not know, nor build.”
As she spoke she watched the change in him. He had lost all the fervent antagonism of his first attack on her. More and more, she could see what she had associated with the personality of Lord Starrex coming through the unfamiliar envelope of the guardsman’s body.
“So it did not work properly—”
“No, as I have said, I found myself in the dream, with no control of action, no recognizable creation factors. I do not understand—”
“No? There could be one explanation.” The frown line was back between his brows but it was not a scowl aimed at her; rather it was as if he were trying hard to remember something of importance which eluded his efforts. “There is a theory, a very old one—Yes! That of Parallel worlds!”
In her wide use of the tapes she had not come across that and now she demanded the knowledge of him almost fiercely. “What are those?”
“You are not the first—how could you be—to be struck by the notion that sometimes history and the future hang upon a very thin cord which can be twisted this way and that by small chance. There was a theory once advanced that when that chanced it created a second world, one in which the decision was made to the right, when that of the world we know went to the left.”
“But—alternated worlds—where—how did they exist?”
“Thus, perhaps.” He held out his two hands horizontally one above the other. “In layers. There were even old tales, created for amusement, of men traveling, not back in time, nor forward, but across it from one such world to another.”
“But—here we are. I am a Mouth of Olava, nor do I look like myself. Just as to the eye you are not Lord Starrex—”
“Perhaps we are the people we would be if our world had taken the other side of your three decisions. It is a clever device for a dreamer to create, Tamisan.”
“Only,” she told him now the last truth, “I do not think I have created it. Certainly I can not control it—”
“You have tried to break this dream?”
“Of course! But I am tied here. I think by you and the Lord Kas. Until we three try together, perhaps we can not any of us return.”
“And Kas—now you must go searching for him?”
She shook her head. “Kas, I think, is one of the crew on this spacer about to set down. I believe I saw him—though not his face.” Now she smiled a little shakily. “It seems that though I am mainly the Tamisan I have always been, yet also do I have some of the powers of a Mouth. Just as you are Hawarel as well as Starrex.”
“The longer I listen to you,” he announced, “the more I become Starrex. So we must find Kas on the spacer before we wrangle free from this tangle? But that is going to be rather a problem. I am enough of Hawarel to know that the spacer is going to receive the usual welcome dealt off-world ships here—trickery and extinction. Your three points have been as you envisioned them. There was no Welcome, but rather a massacre, no colony ship ever reached here, and Sylt was speared by a contemptuous man-at-arms the first time he lifted his voice to draw a crowd. Hawarel knows this as the truth; as Starrex I am aware there is another truth which did radically change life on this planet. Now, did you seek me out on purpose, your champion tale intended to be our bridge to Kas?”
“No, at least I did not consciously arrange it so. I tell you, I have some of the powers of a Mouth—they take over.”
He gave a sharp bark of sound which was not laughter but somewhat akin to it. “By the Fist of Jimsam Taragon, we have it complicated by magic, too! And I suppose you can not tell me just how much a Mouth can do in the way of foreseeing or forearming or freeing us from this trap?”
Tamisan shook her head. “The Mouths were mentioned in the history tapes; they were very important once. But after Sylt’s rebellion they were either killed or disappeared. They were hunted by both sides and most of what we know about them is only legend. I can not tell you what I can do. Sometimes something—perhaps it is the memory and knowledge of this body—takes over and then I do strange things. I neither will nor understand them.”
8
HE crossed the room and pulled two stools from a far corner. “We might as well sit at ease and explore what we can of this world’s memories. It just might be that united we can learn more than when trying singly. The trouble is—” He reached out a hand and mechanically she touched fingertips to the back of it in an oddly formal ceremony which was not part of her own knowledge. So he guided her to one of the stools and she was glad to sit down.
“The trouble is,” he repeated as he dropped on the other stool, stretching out his long legs and tugging at his sword belt with that dangerously empty sheath, “that I was more than a little mixed up when I awoke, if you might call it that—in this body. So that my first reactions must have suggested mental imbalance to those I encountered. Luckily the Hawarel part was in control soon enough to save me. But there is a second drawback to this identity—I am suspect as coming from a province where there has been a rebellion. In fact I am here in Ty-Kry as a distrusted hostage, rather than a member in good standing of the guard. I have not been able to ask questions, and all I have learned is in bits and pieces. The real Hawarel is a quite uncomplicated and simple soldier who is hurt by the suspicion against him and quite fervently loyal to the crown. I wonder how Kas took his awakening. If he preserves any remnant of his real self, he ought to be well established by now.”
