by Andre Norton
Mahart’s sticky fist thumped down on her knee in exasperation. All this she had dismissed in her disorganized reading as legend. If she only knew more!
She went to the basin and washed her hands and then on impulse gathered up some tufts of coarse grass which grew along the wall and gingerly began to try to groom the horse. To be doing anything here and now was a relief of beating memory. She was an inept hostler but the animal blew, then shook its head from side to side, as if, Mahart hoped, it was expressing some liking for her ministrations.
There was still no appearance of sun, nor, as far as she could see, any other sign of life except the patient horse and herself. No insects buzzed from flower to flower, no birds sang. Though she knew so little of the outer world she was sure that this was somehow wrong.
Having done her best for the horse, she went to that lower section of the wall over which they had entered this place. She could see the pier and beyond it the island. Though it was not dark yet there appeared to be a sheen of a faint green aura about it. But the water was motionless and she caught no sign of the creatures who had scuttled among the rocks.
The fern forest surrounded these ruins on three sides. The tumble of stones had been reduced to such piles as one could not tell if these were the remains of a border keep, a castle, or a town. Though if this were Ishbi it could well be all three. However, she had no intention of leaving the safety she had found to go exploring.
Mahart regarded herself. Though the night rail she had had on had been of triple thickness, as was necessary in the chill of the castle, the material selected had been purposefully soft for the ease of the noble who would wear it. Tags of lace still held by a thread or so, but there were also rents and tears which left only a mass of rags.
Her hair had been braided for the night, but those braids had snagged on briars and twigs. She began to work with it, loosening what she could, picking out the leaves and twigs caught in it, feeling the soreness of her scalp where those had pulled. Once loose about her shoulders she could do no more than use her fingers as ineffectual combs and try to pull out all the debris she could reach.
When it hung in as good order as she could achieve Mahart shed her rags, gathered them in a bundle under her arm and went back to the basin. After all there was only the horse to witness her bare body.
Around the foot of the basin had been growing a spongelike plant which caught and held a measure of water and felt soft in her fingers. Mahart gathered two handfuls of this and began to bathe as well as she could, wincing at the smart of scratch and chafe but proceeding grimly in spite of such discomforts.
When she was through the pleasant warmth seemed to dry her skin as well as any towel toasted before the fireplace and, finding a fairly open space, she spread out the remnants of her only garment to survey them critically.
For a moment or two she was elsewhere again—back in the castle facing the long mirror of her chamber to survey the glory of her ball gown—a ball gown—her eyes were closed. Once more she felt a firm hand closing fingers about hers, leading her into such lightness of step she had never believed possible. She drew now a face out of memory. How could she who had known so few men in her life say whether he was handsome? She only knew that to meet his eyes, answer a smile of his with hers, gave her warmth and pleasure.
From beneath the closed lids of her eyes now moisture gathered; she was brought back to the grimness of the here and now by a tear slipping down her smarting cheek.
Fool that she was! What was past was past and there were no real memories in it. This was no legend of ancient chivalry—what would bring any riding after her except those who were her father’s liege men—and, she wondered, bleakly, how many of those could be trusted now?
There remained the matter of clothing. The long sleeves, one of which was split near half its length, could be torn out. She stood up and held the full length about her.
Some judicious tearing would give her at least a kind of loincloth for underwear and a sleeveless slip reaching near knee length with strips to belt it in snugly. Mahart set to work. Solving those alterations without scissors or even knife as an aid, was a formidable task.
At length she tried on again the awkward garment she had managed to produce and was very glad that this time there was no long mirror to make visible her shortcomings as seamstress.
She had been so intent upon this labor that she was startled when she realized that the hazy light which had signaled day was fading. Surely, and she was fearfully sure of this, it was not yet night—she had not lost that much measurement of time.
The horse’s head came up. It had seemed to be dozing against the wall. Now it snorted, looking out over their wall of safety. Mahart hastily scrabbled in the hollow where she had spent the night until her hand once more closed about that length of smooth stone she hoped could be a weapon.
With that in hand she made a careful circle of the entire wall, looking out at all she could see of lake and that loom of fern forest. Her feet found grass and plants easy enough to tread, but she stumbled in some places painfully over stone and knew that she must find some form of foot covering also.
The curious stiffness of this place appeared to take on menace now. She heard the horse whinny and saw it back into a corner of the wall and stand shivering. It must have struck the animal first—now it reached for her.
There was a need—she must go—the need was great—there was nothing else in the world other than that need!
Before her eyes the ranks of ferns split apart, to form an open portal. At the far end of that there was something of their same green, but it was no plant. Some trick of light, or of that thing which moved against her, made her sight more acute, far-reaching.
No ruin. There were intact walls, crowning them a bulbous round of roof. That same haze which haloed the island was also here, but it did not hide that the building had an open door and in it stood a figure, a figure who beckoned, who called without audible voice, but rather so on the far limit of hearing, that Mahart’s improvised club near slipped from her hands. She was ready to vault the wall to answer.
“Come—!” It was a plea—or was it an order?
Mahart had brought her foot down on one of those handfuls of spongy plants which had provided her with a bath. She turned and half threw herself at the basin. Dropping the stone she plunged both hands into the water gathering there, threw it into her own face so that runnels ran down her hands, dampened her hair, spattered on her shoulders.
Now she clung with both hands to the edge of the basin, trying to force herself to turn to look again at that one who waited, who called—
Who demanded! Of that Mahart was now sure. Trap—a trap and only by the grace of something greater than she could understand, had she not fallen into it.
22
This was a hunt of sorts and every man—moving as noiselessly as possible through the thin woodland, avoiding any open space—might be moving in on game. For some time now the land had been gradually rising, first in such gentle slopes one would hardly notice it, and now with hills which led yet higher.
Lorien crouched behind a rock and listened intently. He had not been mistaken, for that low trill came again—the food-find cry of a black jay to assemble its kind to some unexpected feast. Only that particular sound had not sprung from any bird’s throat. Mattew was more to the south—it was Jasper and Timous who flanked him on the right.
There had been many protests but he had hammered home his point—if they spread their advance squad sparsely and kept in touch with well-known signals, they would be better able to locate any trails fresh made. And that he fully intended to be one of the trackers, he had used all his authority to enforce.
The tracks he followed had been older at first, but suddenly there had been a swing of riders from the south, pounding with no care for hiding their trail. Five of them—
A glint of color caught his eye suddenly. There was a wall of thorn brush offering an impenetrable barrier there. The ri
ders he followed had had to turn their path because of it and flank the wall of brush. One of them had paid a forfeit for coming too close.
Lorien loosed the scrap of fine linen. No woodsrunner, not even a gallant of the court would wear such. Without knowing just why he held it to his nose and smelled the remnants of a scent he had met before. This was not the spicy, almost nose-prickling odor that he had been slightly surprised High Lady Mahart had chosen for the ball. It was somehow like clear water, the frosty air of an early winter morning— The other High Lady! She of the beckoning eyes and the ripeness of body so subtly denned by her dress of wine and gold—just such a gold as the lace he held.
He had had no desire to be pulled into the intrigues of the ducal court. But the Chancellor had appeared to believe that the High Lady Saylana was at the core of this trouble. He could not imagine her riding the woodlands, but it was plain she had. Tucking that scrap of lace in his belt he angled around the end of the thorny thicket to answer that call which had sounded for the third time and which he dare no longer ignore.
As he slipped from tree to tree their growth thinned. Here were rocks and boulders but of a color he had never seen before—dull green. And they were veined with lines of an even deeper shade. Now he could see ahead the sharp rise of an escarpment and farther beyond that mountains—two of which marked land over which he had hunted, though he had never come this far into a neighboring land.
There was a faint movement to the right, a signal of his own devising. He kept to cover since he had not been openly hailed and that should mean trouble. It was good that he had advanced so cautiously, for he came out on the edge of a break in the land as if someone with a giant ladle had scooped up the earth.
Jasper lay belly down on the edge of that drop, his eyes shifting quickly from Lorien as the Prince arrived to something below. It was a hump, but it took Lorien a full minute before he recognized that as a crumpled body wearing the forest dress of his own guard.
“Timous—” He breathed the name. “Who—” Anger was hot in him.
“I found him so, Highness. He is dead—” There was a flatness in that answer.
“A fall—?” But even as he said that Lorien was sure that such was not the truth. Timous—unless—unless he had been pursued would never have ventured so near the sharp edge of this drop.
“Traces?” His next question made more sense.
“There is a trail—only his,” Jasper returned.
“Get you to Mattew, bring up a full squad.”
“You stay alone, Highness?” There was a quick denial in that.
“I keep watch. You will find me here. But be quick—then tell Mattew ropes—there are such on the pack ponies.”
The scout looked as if he would still deny Lorien’s right to remain, but he had served too long under the Prince not to know when his commander had determined on something.
Jasper had spoken of a trail. Lorien averted his eyes from that broken figure below. Timous had been a quiet man with skills which had served them all well. But he had always seemed to be ill at ease when praised and somehow he had never appeared to have any close friend in the squad. The plague had ended a life he never spoke of, and it had seemed to the Prince that he had always been locked out of comradeship in a manner the others did not understand. But Timous was his man—he had served with loyalty and skill. And there was now a death to be paid for, as Lorien did not believe this came by accident.
He himself began to move warily along the rim. The trail could not be too far away or Timous would not have fallen here.
There was a trail, yes, and Lorien hunched over it, unable to read meaning in what those tracks told him. Someone—a single someone—had run this way unheeding of what lay ahead. There were broken branches, evidences that the runner had fallen and risen, to throw himself on at frantic haste. Yet as Lorien began to trace the way back he could find no evidence that there had been any pursuit. No other tracks covered those left by Timous.
He was well away from the edge of the cliff. To his right the outcrops of stone were rising, seeming to seek to stand shoulder to shoulder. Ahead they appeared to form a wall. But Timous’s tracks led on along that wall.
Lorien drew his sword. He was a fool to go farther, yet the need to know what had happened at the beginning of this trail drew him in a way he could not explain. Then Timous’s frantic prints overlaid those of horses, and those pointed straight away to where there was an opening between the walls of green stone which was like a gateway.
Lorien stopped. His good sense had battled that pull of compulsion. But without thought he stepped out onto the open trail, trying to see what might lie beyond that cut.
Movement— He slipped quickly right, his shame at his own folly feeding the anger which had come when he had sighted Timous’s body. He was scout trained, considered a canny fighter. Prudence said slip back, away—
Only, though his will commanded, his feet would not obey. For a moment he realized the horror of that—but if that strangeness held him, it did not control the rest of his body. His sword was out—
That which subtly threatened came out into the open. For a moment relief touched Lorien. An armored figure, even if it did wear a helm which completely masked its features, was nothing new. What puzzled him was that it did not seem to bear any weapons—there was no sword, no axe raised to contest the way.
But the guard—if guard it was—raised its arm so that its hand now lay on its own left shoulder. A second later, and that arm moved in a throw and through the air came a vivid, flashing line of green. With it—
In spite of himself Lorien near cringed. There was just a line of light rippling through the air, but before it came darkness, death, and worse than death. He could move his feet now—the thing wanted him to run. Instead he stood his ground. That was no spear, no arrow, and the armored one had not released another like it.
Lorien swung his sword. He was now fighting pure fear, fear which shook him as he never believed it might. His sword flashed through the air. It should have struck the green shaft, broken it—
Instead that line caught upon the sword, wrapped itself about the blade as if no sharpness of steel edge could cut it. And Lorien, moved by fear and an inner wave of horror, hurled the sword from him before the thing which claimed it could touch his hand. He tried to retreat.
The guard made no attempt at a second attack. He merely stood waiting as if he had no doubts of what was to follow. As the blade clattered on the rock and hit the ground the green length shook itself clear. It was no longer airborne, but it was still on the move, swiftly across the ground like an adder set for the kill.
Lorien hunched against one of the tall pillars of rock, then tried to slip around it. There was a blank moment of complete shock, and he realized that here also was another drop—not as wide as that which had swallowed Timous but one which battered him in spite of his mail as he fell. He had a fleeting thought that the green length would follow him, and then his helmed head hit hard against an outcrop of stone and there was nothing but darkness.
* * *
The long fingers of the woman seated at the table were very busy. She had at either hand a row of small bowls dark with age and long use, each with its powder filling. But she was not mixing them in any careful measurement, as had always been her way. Instead, she had before her a square of stone in which were embedded here and there tiny sparks of light, as if one looked up into a night sky to sight stars.
“You understand,” Halwice said quietly, “that what I do is a thing forbidden and it can only be done once. I have been absolved and have fasted, and spent my night in penance before the Star. Now—it is no longer in my hands, I am only the instrument.”
The Duke chewed at his lower lip and said nothing. But the Lord Chancellor moved a little in his chair, opened his lips as if to speak but remained silent.
Pinches of powder, some ash gray, some the red of dried blood, some the green of leaves still alive, some the blue of the sea, som
e the white of the sand or of ground seashells.
She worked with care and built her picture lines across the Star sheet the Abbey had with such reluctance loaned her. Halwice had always known that her line—mother, daughter, mother, daughter—had talents. Some of them had not chosen to pay the high price of bringing those to life. She had been so—taking pride as a healer, trying for nothing else until this hour.
The pinches of powder shifted of themselves, appearing to link or avoid those sparks of light. Those of red and gray gathered together and kept apart from any touch of spark. They still moved grain by grain and they were building a picture. Both Duke and Chancellor leaned forward now, hardly daring to draw breath lest in some way they disturb what was happening.
Just as the gray and the red were attracted together, so did the other colors find what seemed to be their bond mates. And then the three were looking down at what was truly a picture.
“By the Star!” Halwice’s voice was a command. There was no more shifting dust.
She was looking at a head so well portrayed in the red and gray that it might have been fresh from the painter’s brush.
“Saylana,” breathed the Duke. But only for a moment was he right. Beauty was fading, flesh was wrinkling, falling away, a mouth puckered where there were no more teeth to hold it firm. And yet there was a life still in the eyes which had become pits.
And that life stubbornly remained. While from the lower section of the slab, stringing in glistened threads from one spark of light to another, were the other colors—and those remained vibrant and alive long enough for all of them to see them well.
“It is no longer in our hands.” Halwice had fallen back in her chair. On the slab the colored powder arose forming rainbow dust motes and then was gone. “They carry the sword and the fate lies upon them, not us. Clean your dukedom, Uttobric—that task remains to you. What chances elsewhere you shall only know in time.”
Nicolas slackened pace and Willadene was devoutly glad for that pause. In spite of the treatment she had applied again that morning to her chafed legs she felt ever-present burning pain. She did her best to smother that discomfort with full concentration on the sights and smells around her. And once Nicolas had brought them to a full stop on the edge of a small clearing in which a tawny-coated ober-bear reared erect against the bole of the largest tree which formed the wall about that opening, drawing its great claws in a sweep into the tough bark. Luckily what breeze was blowing was toward them and she smelled the rank taint of bear, but they did not attract the beast’s attention. Then he dropped four-footed again and waddled south.
