by Andre Norton
With morning we cleared our people from the dale. Levas was with them to lead them in a variety of tasks out on the hillside, Vari at his side.
Then we returned. We walked: it seemed more fitting. At the entrance to the hidden place we were met by a pillar of mist from which spoke our voice. From that came a small hand which beckoned us. We obeyed. It moved out across the inner vale and past the keep. There it turned and I knew within it eyes studied keep and cliffs behind. The mist faded, thinning out enough so that we might see within it a slight form. The figure raised its arms.
Words came. It seemed as if they hurtled like great blue-green darts against the cliff. They struck at a point hard beside the keep wall. They clung, each seeming to cut deeper. Where they ate at the rock I could see a tunnel forming, the height of a mounted man, and the width of two ponies. The dart-words vanished from sight, but I could feel their sounds yet in the still air. At last they fell silent and I knew they had broken through to the inner vale.
The mist-lady raised her arms and spoke one short word as she turned. At the entrance to our inner vale the rock groaned. She pointed as if in command. It groaned again and fell. Not as a slide but as if the whole of the cliffs dropped that distance to settle again. Where there had once been a fault in the rock, an entrance, now there was nothing. Yet she was not done with her gift.
A third and final time she spoke, words which produced a great roaring in the air. I stepped back. Such power was fearful. I had no wish to stand too close lest I be consumed by it. As we watched, the rock flowed outward. It fell slowly, shaping itself as it fell. Great blocks of stone fell into place, timbers split and screamed. Dust billowed out to hide the scene. When it cleared we could only stare at what her power had wrought.
“This pleases you, Son of Erondale?”
Lorcan was gaping like a stranded fish. I understood that: I, too, felt as if there was not enough air to take in a breath. At last he bowed.
“Lady, I am greatly pleased. This is a wondrous gift. Not only as something I wished for but also refuge, safety, and life for our people in years to come.”
“If it is as you wished, then that is well. I will depart. Once I am gone my lands shall be yours without let nor hindrance. Care for them, Son of Erondale. They have sheltered me so long.”
“I shall care, Lady. Both for them and in your name.” I saw the mist roil and before my courage was gone I ran lightly forward.
“Lady. Gifts you have given such as no great lady in all the dales could have brought us. But I, too, would give a gift. Let you remember us.”
I reached out my hand, holding within it a small carved wooden box. It was good workmanship, nothing unusual but well made. A slender six-fingered hand showed clear for a moment as it accepted my offering, then opened the lid. It took out what was within it and as if even the land waited, the breeze fell silent, the birds did not call.
I had wrought well with the power My Lady of the Bees had granted me. The stones I had taken from the keep wall here, when I returned to find all dead and fled again, had contained few jewels of great value. Nay, they had been the semi-precious gems from hill and stream. Of them I had chosen one. From a large honey-colored agate I had chipped and smoothed out a bee. The gauzy wings were of silver spun fine as no smith of the dales could have done. Power alone, asked for and given to me freely, had made them.
Tiny black gems set in the head created eyes with which one might have sworn the creature saw. The body had been polished so that it seemed to glow with honey-fire. Loaned power had made it, yet it had been my vision and the desire to give a gift which had guided that power. I had not seen it for many days. Now, as our mist-lady opened the box, even I who had created the gift within was amazed anew by the beauty of that which I had wrought.
The figure took it up to admire. I felt a soft and gentle delight flow out to me. I smiled. If I had brought her joy in the gift then I was well pleased. Within the box, too, lay a long neck-chain made with gold and silver links. I had asked it of Lorcan, since that had come from the treasure given his House. He had given it and asked not why I requested it. Now he knew. The gift was from both of us. I looked sideways from a corner of my eyes, seeing his smile.
The figure took up the bee then, threading chain through the loop atop the glittering wing-friend. She lifted it over her head and laid the bee as a pendant upon her breast. Then she lifted her hands one last time, turning to look at us.
“I shall remember you always. Fare you well, Lorcan son of Erondale that was, Meive, wing-friend, daughter to the Hive and Honeycoombe.” We spoke our farewells in turn as her hands lifted in supplication to the air. “Oh, let me now come home, my kin. Open the gates to me!”
Lightning cleaved the sky. She stood motionless, her hands upheld as the air split before her. Shimmering, outlined in silver fog, the air opened to her plea. Beyond we glimpsed a place I could never afterwards describe. Only that the beauty, the quiet peace, had been beyond any place I had ever known. She turned to pace forward through the gate, then, as she passed through, the mist fell from about her.
For seconds we saw with clear eyes—her shape, her inhumanly graceful loveliness. Not of humankind, no. Or not of any humankind we had ever known. But beautiful and a person, a great lady of her people. That we did know. The huge amethyst eyes turned to survey us and the triangular face moved in a smile. The white feathers which clad her form seemed to ripple in the breeze of her own lands. Her voice was clearer, a crystal ringing.
“Farewell, may you ever fare well.” There was a flare as the sides of the silver fog closed together and she was gone. For a time we simply stood, hand in hand, letting the wonder of what we had seen slowly fade. It was Lorcan who moved, stirring as he looked at his gift.
“You told her what I wished, did you not?”
I nodded. “Was I wrong?”
“Never so. It is right. Most marvelously right. Look!” He pointed out the features to me, his voice rising in excitement. Indeed I could see why. I had not known how it should be done but the lady of our innermost valley had guessed—or known somehow.
The tunnel had been driven home from outer to inner valley through the cliff. Around it had risen a double wall, an extension of the walls about our Keep, although so close was the tunnel little additional length of the walls had been required. Set in them both were gates. Not one before the other, but stepped, so that should we be attacked the invaders could not fight forward in a straight line.
The gates themselves were a wonder. From where she had called them I could not guess. Perhaps from some long-abandoned keep of her own kin or kind. They were of bronze set so cunningly that they could be swung open or closed by even my own strength. And upon them lay signs. I could read several. They were runes of ward and guard. Lorcan, too, recognized them. He traced one with a finger.
“They are warm.” He smoothed the sign again. “We shall carve these into all the gates of the Keep. Upon posts by our road and on the guardpost door also. No dark evil shall win past them. The inner valleys shall be a refuge for our people should war come again.”
I smiled. “I shall move the hives to the lady’s valley. I think they shall like it there.”
So I did and so did they. The weeks flew past until it was high Summer. Levas went to the cross-roads again, bringing back another family of six who would join us. On the longest day of the year we were wed, Lorcan and I, before all our people in the great hall of our keep. My warriors attended with the queens of the hive, swarming to hang from the beams above us. Never was a dale’s wedding so guarded. Lord Salas of Hopedale came with his grandchildren, among them, Merria, eager to become my apprentice as several of the queens dropped to consider and approve her.
Out of the dark of war and its aftermath, out of the death of all I had, came love and happiness. This I said the next time I visited the shrine and to me there was made answer.
“To all things there is a season, daughter of the hive: Spring, when we rise to fly forth, w
hen our daughters swarm seeking new pastures; Summer, when we gather nectar; Fall, when we prepare; and Winter, when we drowse away the dark days, the killing chill. Winter is done for you. Fly free, daughter. It is your Spring, may your land be filled with flowers.”
She was right, my wise Lady of the Bees. It was my Spring and Lorcan was the honey I gathered. Yet always Winter returns. I shall pray only that it does not do so again in my lifetime. Yet if it should happen I shall know I do not stand alone. That is enough.
XIX
Lorcan
Most holds and keeps have a muniments room. In such small rooms are kept safe all documents the lord and lady of the dale might require. All the latter half of that golden Summer Meive and I made time to sit, quills in hand, and write, finishing our tale. And when at last we were done the writings were laid in a wood-lined brass box. Above and through the sheets Meive strewed herbs to keep moth and insect from our records. Then we took aside Levas and Elesha and I spoke to them.
“In many dales none know the true tale of their founding. The man who took up the land is long since dead so there are only legends and songs. When first I met my lady it seemed right to me that this thing should change. Here we have written what happened. Of how my lady was bereft of all she loved. Of how the invaders slew my dale. And of how we two met and took Honeycoombe for our own. I have writ of the lady of the inner vale and her gift to us, of her appearance and words and the gift we gave her to take beyond in memory of Honeycoombe.”
“And have you written of us?” That was Elesha.
“Of you, and Levas here, and Vari, Aria, Manon, Criten.” I smiled. “I need not list everyone, but all have their place. Each is within these records.” I glanced at Levas from the comer of my eyes. “Even Gathea has her due.”
“That is well. Else she might omit to chase mice should they seek out your papers.”
“The Gods forbid.” I turned to look from the high window. “The invaders are gone. The war is ended. But there were wars before-time. Mayhap their folk, too, said afterwards, ‘the war is done. Forever now we live at peace.’ Meive and I have written that we may all remember. Levas, what do you think?”
“That you speak true. Time passes, those who fought grow old and die. Those who come after forget.”
“They shall not. For on the shortest days of each year, as we feast for mid-Winter, this shall be so. That one shall read what we have written and our words of warning. For evil does not die, it only steps back a while. It may come again and if that time shall be, then shall Honeycoombe remember and be ready.” I placed the box upon a shelf, then Meive and I swept them out before us, closing the door as we departed. “But for now, I have work to do, as have you my friend.”
Levas looked a question. “Aye, mouse disposal and a true soldier’s clean-up detail. Gathea caught a plump prey last night and, being hungry, ate it. After which she was sick in my lady’s slippers.”
I drew down my brows in an effort not to smile but it was of no use. So, laughing, the four of us went on down the stairs, and indeed it was fitting that a tale which began in blood and fire should end in honest laughter. Might all our days so ever end, in joy, in mirth, and in the sweetness of Honeycoombe.
XX
Meive
My love does not know that two secrets remain to me. Nor shall he know one. Those who come after me need to be warned of that which is dark. Of the other I say this, that we shall be three and not two before next Summer lies on our land. I shall tell my lord the news tonight, watching his joy. The other secret bears upon this. For as is he, I, too, am of the line of Paltendale by the rape of my great-grandmother. And I have come to see that this is a thing upon which I should be silent.
Lorcan hated Hogeth, and also there is the tale of Pletten the Wicked. I think if I tell him of my blood he may see wickedness in those children who shall come after us. Every fourth generation, the story runs. I shall be silent on my bloodline, nor have I written of it in the pages I laid in the box of memories. Yet that part of my story and this page I shall leave to those who follow me. Let them know as my love shall not. Let them fear and beware as he need not. But let them also remember, from Lorcan’s hive was the honey as sweet as my Lady of the Bees said. Thus is life. That there is always the good and the bad. One must take joy in the good and endure the bad, balancing one against the other. In the end I have deemed myself fortunate.
—MEIVE OF HONEYCOOMBE, LADY TO LORCAN, DAUGHTER OF THE HIVE.
SILVER MAY TARNISH—a sword song
Silver may tarnish, gold may be taken,
Years may flow by like—wind on the grass.
Nought is eternal, nothing else lingers,
Only the land, the land does not pass.
Silver may tarnish, gold may be taken,
Blood wash away in—the wind and the rain.
When all else is gone this—still is a true word,
The land has not vanished, the land still remains.
Silver may tarnish, gold may be taken,
All life may vanish, and why none can say.
Memories die and—blood is forgotten,
Only the green land, your own land will stay.
Silver may tarnish, gold may be taken,
Life, love, and joy may—all pass one by;
Only worth keeping, only worth holding,
Is your own green land under blue sky.
Silver may tarnish, gold may be wasted,
Friends may betray you, clan-kin may lie.
What does it matter, so long as you hold yet
All of your keep lands under fair skies?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To Andre Norton first and foremost. Her books gave me great joy for most of my life, and to be let into two of her worlds to write in them in my later years was kindness beyond measure. She was a lady of wit and generosity, and I shall miss her phone calls, her letters, and the occasional time I could spend with her in person, for many years to come.
This book came about in part because of Andre. Several years ago I was possessed of a short story and I sat down to write. To my bewilderment, after a week I found I had written some 12,000 words. What could I do with that? There is little market for a story of that length, and I feared I could find no suitable market for a story of 12,000 words. Because it was set in the Witch World, I sent the story to Andre to ask her advice. She rang to say that I was wrong.
She told me the work was not a short story, but three chapters of a Witch World fantasy novel and that I should sit down at once and write the book. I looked again and saw that, yes, she was right. Out of her instruction came Silver May Tarnish, with the original story forming—in revised version—chapters four, five, and six. Andre read the finished book and loved it, and so was born a new chapter in the Witch World, and a cluster of new dales. To Andre then, ave atque vale.
To Jim Frenkel, who edited this book, and to the copy-editor, next time there’ll be fewer mistakes, I swear. But I appreciate the time given and the care taken this time.
—L. McC.
TOR Books by Andre Norton
The Crystal Gryphon
Dare to Go A-Hunting
Flight in Yiktor
Forerunner
Forerunner: The Second Venture
Here Abide Monsters
Moon Called
Moon Mirror
The Prince Commands
Raleatone Luck
Stand and Deliver
wheel of Stars
Wizards’ Worlds
Wraiths of Time
Grandmasters’ Choice (Editor)
The Jekyll Legacy
(with Robert Bloch)
Gryphon’s Eyrie
(with A. C. Crispin)
Songsmith (with A. C. Crispin)
Caroline (with Enid Cashing)
Firehand (with P. M. Griffin)
Redline the Stars
(with P. M. Griffin)
Sneeze on Sunday
(with Grace Allen Hogarth)
House of Shadows
(with Phyllis Miller)
Empire of the Eagle
(with Susan Shwartz)
Imperial Lady
(with Susan Shwartz)
WITCH WORLD NOVELS
(with Lyn McConchie)
Duke’s Ballad
Silver May Tarnish
CAROLUS REX
(with Rosemary Edghill)
The Shadow of Albion
Leopard in Exile
BEAST MASTER
(with Lyn McConchie)
Beast Master’s Ark
Beast Master’s Quest
Beast Master’s Circus
THE GATES TO WITCH WORLD
(omnibus)
Including:
Witch World
Web of the Witch World
Year of the Unicorn
LOST LANDS OF WITCH WORLD
(omnibus)
Including:
Three Against the Witch World
Warlock of the Witch World
Sorceress of the Witch World
THE WITCH WORLD (Editor)
Four from the Witch World
Tales from the Witch World 1
Tales from the Witch World 2
Tales from the Witch World 3
WITCH WORLD: THE TURNING
L Storms of Victory
(with P. M. Griffin)
II. Flight of Vengeance
(with P. M. Griffin & Mary
Schaub)
III. On Wings of Magic
(with Patricia Mathews & Sasha
Miller)
