Silver May Tarnish

by Andre Norton

Levas and I considered that. In the steep cliff which bounded Honeycoombe at this end of the dale the valley entrance was a crack, perhaps twenty feet wide at the bottom, narrowing towards the top. The keep had been sited close by, its back against the cliff also. But it would cost us greatly in stone to build several walls and enclosures out from the valley entrance to the keep. Yet I thought it no bad idea. How could we use keep and vale as retreat but still allow access to both while building walls?

  Levas was walking about. He measured with string, then walked into the vale to stare at the inner cliff. He returned, measured again, then walked to one side of the keep wall and studied the distance. At length, while Meive and I watched hopefully, he came to us.

  “The vale entrance is too far from the keep. It would cost dear in time and stone we do not wish to spend.”

  “What do you advise then?”

  “That if the entrance is where we do not wish it, why, then we move it to where we do.” I looked and saw at once what his plan might be.

  “Yes! Indeed yes, Levas. If we blocked up the entrance to the inner valley, then we could—but surely it will cost more time to bore through the cliff?”

  Meive interrupted then. “Perhaps not. You have not had time to look within the valley closely. Come.” She led me through and to one side. “See, the cliff-face is cracked there. It could be that the crack leads deep within.” All that was possible. Equally it might not be. I said so, to receive agreement from my lady and Levas.

  “Let Levas spend some reasonable time to explore if it be so,” Meive said. “If it is, then can we place a tunnel or gate of some sort.” It was agreed and Levas went to work. To our annoyance, after much labor he found the idea impractical. Meive sighed to me once it was made known. “Life is not as the bards sing. If it was, that would have been a cavern within the cliff and required little work of us.”

  I laughed. “Aye. But if life were as the bards sing there would never have been a war. Nor would death come for any of us.” Her reply held a slight tartness.

  “Oh, I think we would have death. How else would they have sad songs they might sing to wring hearts and thus coins?” I blinked at her. My gentle lady who, under her kindness, her gifts which were the stuff of bard songs, was yet also possessed of an almost brutal realism.

  “Lady,” I said then. “I shall work to see war and death are kept far from us. I may not succeed, yet all I have shall be bent to that end.”

  “I know.” Her eyes on me were understanding. “But remember this, Lorcan. No man can hold back the tide. Nor can he prevent death when it is time. Yet,” her voice became more cheerful, “I know if anyone can do these things it shall be you. Now, let us consider where we might place a guardhouse on the upper pastures by the road there.”

  So we turned to other work. Yet was my heart high as I did so. For it seemed as if she began to trust and to value me honestly. The keep was sound once more; at the entrance to our dale we had both a guardhouse with a tiny stable, and a secret hiding place nearby. By Levas’s cunning we had placed a tumble of boulders between. Through them, out of sight from those who might approach, there was a thread of trail. Thus one could watch from the secret place for any who came, then run down the trail to the guard-post. The secret trail was direct. The road wound. One afoot could thus be well before even a swift rider—and we had seen to the road, no rider would ride down that too swiftly unless he wished for a horse without four good legs.

  Levas explained. “We post two here. A child and a guard. The child, should he see anyone, runs to the guard. With the man warned the child takes to horse to warn the valley upon the guard’s word. The guard remains to hold the entrance with bow and arrow.” He showed us. “See, the field of fire covers any who would enter Honeycoombe. At night there are other ways.” He showed us those so we saw that few could come unheralded.

  The children took to this as a game in which Meive paid the winners in sweets, yet they watched well and saved us the loss of a second man’s work in the fields. After some days they vied with each other as to who could make the best report. Thus we heard of sheep, of deer, of a wild pony which approached. They noted when the beelove bloomed, and when the pheasants or hares leaped up alarmed by a hill-cat After some days I was confident no enemy would steal up upon my watchers.

  Gathea, the blank-shields cat, was growing. There had been a great slaughter of mice on our arrival so that now, at the least, all of their tribe stayed out of the keep. She was a friend to all in Honeycoombe and honored was anyone on whose bed she would sleep the night. Meive and I had taken bedrooms within the keep and it was often on our beds, during the day at least, that she was to be found. We were very willing she should, since her rent was paid in dead mice and safer food supplies. We had been in the dale a month and a half when Meive came to me.

  “In the morning I go to the shrine. I would bespeak my Lady of the Bees and return with the hives from the plateau where lies my cave.”

  “You do not go alone?” I said in alarm.

  “I thought to take Vari and Levas. It would be a pleasant trip for them.” I thought she was right But if she had forgotten our enemies I had not, nor would I.

  “Take another man, at least.” My words were close to an order but she bowed her head.

  “As you will.”

  I took her hand. “What am I to do while you are gone from me?” I made a moping face, yet were my words half serious and that she knew.

  “Long ago, when I was a child, Ithia chose me. Soon after that time I was wandering to fetch in the cow from the inner vale. I lingered playing and there I found another place.”

  “Another place?” I echoed. Did she mean a cave, a second vale?

  “Another small valley. It leads from the inner vale. The walls about it are higher and rougher still. Nor is the entrance easy to find.” She paused. “Indeed I think it is hidden from most in some way. Ithia bade me say nothing of it nor enter once I told her. I listened yet never did I hear my family or friends speak of it. I think none knew.”

  “How large is it? Is there good grass, water?” I was eager.

  “I think it twice the size of the inner vale. There is good grass but there are also many bushes. Like to beelove but with larger flowers. There is water. A stream, very small, which comes down the cliffs then vanishes into the ground. It may be from that our spring in the keep derives.”

  This was good. But had Honeycoombe been so rich they had no need of the land? I knew they had not. Ithia had bid Meive stay apart and speak not of this place. Well, whatever reason she might have had for that had died with her. Meive knew it not. I would wait until my lady was gone, then occupy my time in exploring this new dale. If the entrance was truly so hard to find it could be an additional refuge for us all in time of trouble.

  I saw Meive off next morning. Then, taking up a carry-sack, I added a wineskin, bread and cheese, and a piece of honeycomb. I took my old Drustan. He would enjoy the quiet ride, and though he was now well on in years, being almost seventeen, he was still able to carry an unarmored man if there was no haste. The day was good, fine yet not too warm. I rode slowly, enjoying the clean air, the hum of bees, and the sight of a hawk high up over the hills.

  Once I reached the far end of the inner vale I dismounted to search. Meive was right. The entrance was well enough hid yet not so greatly others should not have found it. I know what children are, being none so aged myself. They run here and there, prying into holes and corners. Thus they find what many adults would pass by. I walked the pony past boulders, behind them I found an arch barely high or wide enough to pass a tall man afoot or a laden pack-pony.

  The hole reminded me of a man knapping flint. He strikes off rounded flakes as he works. It seemed as if some giant had paused here, struck away a flake then moved on again. For that was the shape of the gap, and never did I change my mind. But as I stared through the opening I knew, too, that this was the place of which Meive had told me. I could see the stream, the beelove, and other
bushes I could not identify. It was true the entrance was not so obvious yet I had found it with no great difficulty.

  From where I stood in the archway I judged the valley to hold some hundred and a half acres in the shape of a long oval. It was sheltered so that once through the arch it was warmer. The winds soared above the high cliffs about it and did not descend to chill. Maybe that was the reason for the presence of the strange bushes. Perhaps only in such a sheltered spot could they live through Winter. I thought that in the very height of Summer it might not be so pleasant here. I had come in the early morning and Summer was waning. Yet by sunhigh it would be so hot here a man would feel as though he melted. I stared about and marveled no child before Meive should have found it. Leading Drustan, I walked boldly in.

  It was as I entered that I felt it: a sort of questioning touch, as if something reached out to sort through my mind. The feeling changed then to a kind of recognition. Now it welcomed me. I shrugged such ideas away as I tramped on. Drustan followed but nervously, his eyes rolling as if he, too, felt that touch. I followed the thread of stream up the valley. It would be interesting to see where it led. I think it may have been in my mind that if the inner vale led from Honeycoombe, and this led from the inner vale. Then there might yet be further valleys.

  I must admit that, at first, I had wondered if we should not take Merrowdale to hold rather than Honeycoombe. Since I thought that if we chose the latter, although it was Meive’s beloved home, it was also the lesser dale in size. But as I now knew, if we added the pasturage of both inner and outer vales, Honeycoombe was a prize. Easier to defend, easier to pasture stock which could not easily stray, and sheltered so that the grass would continue to grow well into the cold months.

  Drustan hauled nickering at his reins as we passed some of the strange bushes. I saw then that they were laden with small fruit. Some sort of berry? I had remounted to ride up the stream. Now I stepped from the saddle again and approached the fruit. I studied it. The globes were full and firm, colored a rich orange-red. I would not risk eating any since unknown fruit can be poisonous. But I would bring some back with me.

  Levas had found a wild sow and her piglets last week. After some trouble we had them penned by his cottage. I would feed a piglet the fruit and see. If all was well the fruit might be a fine addition to our own diet. Meive might know more if I brought some back to her. I would ride on, circle the valley, see what else there was to be seen, before picking a generous bag full of the fruit on my return circle.

  I reached the end of the valley by late morning. The stream seemed to tumble down the cliffs at that point. It had worn a deep crevice in the cliff edge high above, and down the face. The edge of that was starred with tiny white flowers and green ferns. I dismounted, unsaddled, and hobbled Drustan, brought out my wineskin and the food, sharing a crust now and again with my pony. As I ate I whittled at a reed. There was a stand of them at a marshy comer of the stream edge once it reached the ground.

  I thought that doubtless when the stream increased with the Winter rains it created a reed-fringed pool here. By the time I had finished my food I had made of the reed a fine whistle. Then I began to play. My brother Anla taught me first to make reed whistles thus and I always thought of him when I did so. I played first a marching tune from my days with Lord Salden. From that I found I was playing a ballad. A song born in my own dale which sang of how my ancestor had met a child of the Old Ones and saved her. From the crevice behind the water a voice spoke.

  “Who are you to play that song?” So deep in memory had I been that I answered without thinking of the strangeness.

  “I am Lorcan, only child left alive from the House of Erondale. Who else should play it?” I saw a stirring in the crevice. I could see no definite shape but the shadow was large enough to be a small woman, or an older child.

  “Of that House? What do you here then, Lorcan of Erondale?” No, this was no child. The voice was that of a woman. Not young, but beyond that I could not tell.

  “Speak! What do you here?” The voice became urgent. So I talked, still wrapped in memories. I think now that she held me in some small spell so I should talk freely without fear. But at the time it appeared natural, as if I conversed with a friend who would hear all which had happened to me after long apart. So I spoke of Erondale and how it had fallen, of the death of all my family and how Berond and I had come to Paltendale. Then I spoke of Meive and how she had saved me, of the shrine where she was claimed as daughter to the hive. At length I was done and my voice drifted into a long silence before that other spoke again.

  “You came here then, fleeing the death which was laid upon your own dale. Sad am I that Erondale has fallen. Always I meant to return for one last time.”

  “You knew my home?” I asked.

  “Long before you did.” The voice was tart but amused.

  I challenged that amusement. “How long before?”

  It did not answer my question but spoke of Meive. Was it indeed true that she had dwelt a while in the shrine beyond the hills? Had I also seen that place, had I entered? So I talked of Meive. Of the Lady of the Bees who dwelled in the shrine, and the peace Meive and I had found there. After that I spoke again of Meive herself. I think then I betrayed my love for her because the voice became gentle.

  “The girl, Meive. What like is she?”

  So I talked of my love. I found I was confessing that time in the hills when we saved Elesha and her kin. How Meive had hurt me, turning in anger against men who brutalized. And yet, was she not right? It was men who brought war, suffering, death. Men who … The voice cut in.

  “Lorcan. Do you think women, too, cannot bring these things? I have heard of women who rode to war. Of those who killed and tortured. Each is accountable for her own sins. Let you not take upon your own head those deeds you have not committed.” I found myself comforted by that thought. I had been tempted during the war, yet never had I laid hands on a woman unwilling. Nor had I harmed children. Those I fought and slew had been the enemy alone, men trained and armed. As if the voice followed my thoughts it spoke.

  “Yes and yes. In war a man does right to protect his kin and home. If he must kill to do so then that is no evil. The evil is those who come seeking to take by force what is not theirs to have. And if a man will not fight for what is right, who shall? Yet the girl spoke to you out of her own fear I think. For as she watched she saw what would have been her earlier fate had she not been defended by her wing-friends. Do not be angered by fear, Lorcan. It is fear that often reminds one of what should be done.”

  At that I, too, was reminded. Of how I planned to set guard-posts about Honeycoombe, and how I was enlarging the keep. The voice seemed interested, asking questions, encouraging me to talk of my plans, my hopes and dreams. Much of what I said or saw in that day is lost to me. I do not remember. Only that finally I was given leave to go. Yet the feeling was laid on me I would be welcome to return. I and Meive alone. That none other of our small company should enter.

  So I rode back to the outer dale and kept silent. Meive returned with the hives in six days and I was glad to see her again. I showed that pleasure openly and saw her smile. Nor was it the indulgent smile women are wont to show at such times as they think a man most like a happy child. No, her gaze met mine and clung. Then, after a time, she flushed, smiling more sweetly before she turned to oversee the hives as they were placed in the lower pastures of beelove. That night I took her aside and told of the valley.

  “Did you see who spoke?”

  “I am not certain yet I believe not. Some things are blurred in my memory. But we talked long and I felt no threat. Yet,” I hesitated then finished. “Yet, I do think that one is such as could threaten very well if she wished. I felt power, old and very strong. And she knew my home, she knew Erondale. She said she sorrowed for its passing, that she had wished to look upon it one more time.” At that Meive questioned me hard. I had only impressions, feelings about what the voice had said, but Meive’s questioning br
ought me to know what I believed.

  I spoke slowly when her questions ceased. “I think she was either the one whom my ancestor saved from an evil man or that she is kin to that one. That she has known my dale from that time—it is four generations, Meive. It was my great-grandfather who saved a girl-child of the Old Ones from the hands of Pletten.”

  “Pletten?” Her voice was without inflection as if she merely repeated the name. Yet I felt the query, so once again I found myself talking, telling old tales of rougher times in the early days of Erondale. I had mentioned a little of the story to her once but now I told it all to her, just as it had been told to me by Berond. I fell into the cadence and rhythm of the storyteller and saw with pleasure that Meive was entranced. She listened in silence, hanging on my every word. Never did a man have a more appreciative audience so that I spun it into a greater length, the more to enjoy my moment. Once I was done she stood.

  “He was a man like those who held Elesha captive.” Her tone was that of a lady who judges in a Dales Court. “Your great-grandfather did right.” With that she left me abruptly so that I was sorry I had told her. Likely my foolish tale had brought back to her all her own dangers and fears.

  XIV

  I might have warned our people to stay away from the valley but for Meive. She counseled I say nothing.

  “Many went to the inner vale. None I ever knew save myself and perhaps Ithia found the strange place beyond. It may be that the archway is hidden to other eyes.”

  “I entered,” I objected.

  “Aye, and were welcomed. But we have pastured cows and horses in the inner vale. A few of the goats I could not chase out roamed there while I was gone and you know what they are. Did you see signs they had entered? Was the grass cropped?” I had to admit I had seen no signs. Meive nodded. “I think people and beasts both see no entrance. Let be, Lorcan. If we speak of it there will always be one who must seek it out and I do not think whoever abides there wishes other visitors.”