by Andre Norton
Her eyes were blazing as she came to stand before Herrel, as if he were the one she would rail against.
“We are what we are.” Herrel’s voice had again fallen close to the growl of his werehood. “And being what we are, what choice have we? If the Dark rises, then must the Light also stir.”
Gillan’s stained hands wrung together. Then she rounded on Aylinn. “Daughter—though our supplies have already been too well consumed, we shall save what we can for aiding a wayfarer.”
Aylinn hastily followed her foster mother back to the devastated storage room, but Kethan heeded his father’s gesture in another direction.
“We can war either as men or beasts,” Herrel said as he lifted the ponderous lid of a great chest. “You will know which choice is yours when the moment comes. Yet you will ride forth as a man and hold to man’s heritage as long as you can, for you will find few that are comfortable with were blood and talent.”
He pulled forth a large bag and loosed its cording, bringing out a mail shirt which gleamed blue-green in the sparsely lighted room.
Herrel shook it out and stepped forward, the shirt held out, to measure against his son’s shoulders. “Quan iron—a legacy from those who held Reeth before us. Yes, I think it will serve in fit.”
Beside the mail there was a helm, bare of any crest, yet with a foreportion which descended over the face with only eye holes to break its sleek surface. And last of all there was a sword in worn scabbard.
“Your belt.”
Kethan freed the buckle, the familiar touch of the large jargoon long since carved into the buckle disturbing him a little. He had been warrior-trained and knew that to depend upon the were form for all battle was more dangerous to him than perhaps the enemy. For always there was an inner battle between beast and man when the talent awoke.
He was oddly relieved when Herrel, having made the weapon fast to the belt, handed it back to him and once more its binding was about him, though the weight of the sword made it strange now.
No normal horse would carry a were—in fact astute fighters among the kin had learned that that hatred of their kind could also serve them as a weapon. But they had their own breed and though Herrel no longer rode with his kin from the Gray Tower, he had two mounts of their shaping for service.
When they rode out of Reeth the next day, they carried well-filled saddle bags—and the blessings of those who cared for them the most.
• • •
In Kar Garudiyn there was another gathering at that same hour. The sturdy Kioga scout drank thirstily of the guesting cup, watching over the rim while Lord Kerovan laid out the thin-scraped parchment map and Firdun held down one end firmly. The Lady Joisan had both elbows on the table, supporting her chin as she studied the lines burned into the skin.
“To the east, Horsemaster, there was flattening of one of the tall domes,” the scout reported. “Massar rode with us and he had scouted that land well—he has ever a nose for evil and he did not like it that there had been so much astir there lately. We all have our magics, Horsemaster, but can we tell which is the more powerful until we pit one against another?
“The flash signals this morning told us that one party has ridden out of the place. They must intend a journey of length, for they have pack ponies in train. There was a guard of their knights and foot fighters, and at least three robed mages set in the middle as if they were treasure being held against mountain outlaws.”
“What color robes, Hassa?”
The Kioga set his emptied cup down. “That was not said.”
Kerovan continued to smooth the map with a forefinger. “But they rode southwest?”
“That is so, Horsemaster.”
“The bird-thing,” asked Firdun, “did that also go with them?”
“No report was made concerning the creature.”
Could they hope, Firdun wondered, that that monstrous Wastebred thing had somehow suffered on the crest? There was that about it which sickened him even to remember.
“Sylvya—” Joisan began, and then shook her head to deny what she was about to say.
“Silvermantle is her goal.” Jervon had come to stand beside the table on which lay the map. “They lay farthermost to the west—”
They were interrupted by Elys. Behind her at an easier pace, as if he must protect what he carried from any possible harm, came Alon.
He set his burden carefully on the table and they found themselves looking down at an artifact which none of them could name. There were two pyramids standing with a space between, all connected by a metal base. Alon’s face was alight with excitement.
“It works—Hilarion’s power and learning. With this we can communicate overseas.” Now he stood in front of the strange object and held his hands out. Eydryth had already seized one and Joisan the other; they in turn linked with Hyana and Jervon and in that moment Firdun knew again that sharp thrust of the old inner pain. Even small Trevor came running to form the circle.
Haze curled up from the caps of the pyramids. This settled, and in the centermost part between them it thickened into a wavery figure. The strength of the talent loosed in the room made skin tingle.
There stood in miniature a man Firdun had never seen but whom Alon greeted with exultation as Hilarion.
So they learned—learned of the source of the wild magic which had struck so far—of the loss of the Magestone which might still have kept the gates in check and what was to be done now: the search for gates, and with it the search for that which would safely ward them. So fleeting was that time of communication that there was little chance for questions. Alon did report of the sudden change at Garth Howell and that Firdun had been prisoner for a space.
Hilarion ended with the need for scouting out any such opening as might be used by the Dark, and then he was gone and they were left weak and trembling at the call upon their power. Elys caught Trevor up in her arms and regarded him anxiously, while Firdun steadied his sister and ached within that he could not have helped more.
There was that which he could do—not only enhance the wards of the Eyrie, but lay what protection he could over the wide Valley which the Kioga made their home range. This he proceeded to do as the day wore on and the night came. He ate that night in the tent of Jonka, the chief, with the principal warriors of the clan gathered to listen to what news he brought.
“We shall send out scouts. Tell this to the Lord Kerovan. And we shall continue to watch this place of darkness Garth Howell. There is some coming and going there, but our people have seen none of the high knights since that party rode out to the west.”
“Chief Jonka, warn your watchers. Each people has their own power, but that of Garth Howell has been gathered through a series of seasons too great to be counted. There will be snares.” He paused to drink the berry wine in his cup.
“Our wisewoman drums, young lord. She is already showing far greater skills than old Nidu ever had. Also she is one who can scent evil,” Jonka said with some pride. “We have not had one like her for several lifetimes—perhaps she is the great Sheeta born again. For it was Sheeta who brought us into this land.”
Kethan tensed. “Then the Kioga also came through a gate?”
Jonka nodded. “So our lore singers say. We were supposed to have fled a great danger, and the chieftains called upon the Lord Horsemaster of the far stars. He put into the mind of Sheeta what must be done and thus we came here. But that was long and long ago and Sheeta, knowing well the duty laid upon her, then closed that gate under the Horse Star seal. We can show its place to those of the Eyrie if they have the need.”
One gate, supposedly sealed, out of how many? Firdun wondered wearily. It was well known that the Dalesmen also had come through a gate. Had this been once an empty world—except for the adepts who had perhaps amused themselves with entrapping strangers to be studied and perhaps unwittingly used in their own dubious plans?
“So now there must be a search for other gates,” Jonka was continuing. “Who goes to se
arch, and where?”
Firdun shook his head slowly. “Of that you know as much as I, Horsemaster. Perhaps only your Great Mare will show us a trail.”
Jonka nodded approvingly. “Be sure we shall be ready when the need arises. But what of the northern lords? They stand aloof from us and always have. Surely they are not all darkened by the shadows.”
“That we must also discover. There have been rumors of quarrels once more close to feuding. The Dark can weaken any tribe or house by subtle meddling—with minds.”
Jonka frowned and spat ritually twice into the fire beside him. “Such tricks—yes. We shall call upon our dawn drummer and learn what we can. Bide with us this night, young lord?”
Firdun got to his feet slowly, wanting nothing as much as to take advantage of that offer. “Not so—my thanks for your guesting offer, Horsemaster. But it is best that I return once more to the Eyrie. Remember I have set the three-times-three spells. If you send a messenger, let him give horn call from the road beginning.”
He had heard that man could sleep in the saddle if worn enough, and as the night drew on he began to believe that perhaps he could prove that. There were clouds and the darkness closed except for here and there where grew those night-blooming plants whose noxious flowers gleamed brightly to summon the insects which provided them with food. This strip of land had not yet been cleared, but then, the Kioga herds grazed well down valley and the horses themselves avoided such growth.
However, he and his mount were not alone. He had begun to sense that other just after he had ridden out of the camp. Not danger, but a feeling of ease which he had known from earliest childhood. Now he reined in and after a moment gave the familiar summons of a birdlike whistle.
If the female creature out of the Waste had been the personification of all evil, she who came running lightly, the faint haze enclosing her, was the Light embodied. Firdun was out of the saddle and watching her eagerly.
“Lady Sylvya—but why do you run the night?”
Her feather-crowned head arose a little and she trilled her words, which were always half song: “I run at my own will, Firdun, since I am no longer captive to Darkness and the Hunter. Yet there is a stirring and in all of us the old blood warns. But this night I have come for you to urge haste. Neevor, the Elder One, has that which must engage us all.”
Firdun bit his lip. “I am not of the meld—”
She flitted closer to him, her moonflower perfume cleansing the air as she moved. “But this day you have wrought very well, Firdun. Not even Neevor—though I would not wish to point it out unless there was dire need—could have set the guards stronger nor with greater authority. All of us in a way stand apart. Am I not the last of my kind?” Her smile faded. “Yet here with you of the Eyrie I have found my place. Never look back and hunt guilt in the past, Firdun, it is not worthy of you. Because of a child’s act of destroying the wards and leaving Elys free to the Dark, must you think you must prove yourself always? I fell into the evil and I am free. You, a small boy, saw no harm in the mischief.
“We are all set in patterns. Had your thoughtless act not yielded Elys and her unborn son into the Dark’s hold, would Eydryth have gone seeking and thus won us Alon and freedom from that madwoman who would have brought us all down?”
“We cannot lay on destiny our faults,” he said quietly. “I do not ask for any judgment save that which I deserve.”
Her light touch was soft on his cheek and then he felt a feather-soft kiss.
“Firdun, do not think of the past. What lies in the future will show you yourself far better than we can now guess. Now let us not keep Neevor waiting. It seems he has another task for all of you—for me. I must still go roving, for there are those to be led in to swell our forces.”
And with that she was off into the night again, while Firdun wearily remounted and rode. Was she right? Did he cling to his guilt and let it conquer him in spirit? Had his childhood act indeed ended in gain instead of loss? No, a man must stand by his acts and not attribute them to the patterning of forces beyond his true knowing.
There was this left: He did not know even yet the boundaries of his own talent. All which galled him was that he was set apart from the others. However, he could learn how, when, and where he might serve best, and it would seem that Neevor had now some duty he was able to do.
Setting his mount to a faster canter, he looked up into the dark sky. Already he could see the very faint glow of the tallest tower of Kar Garudiyn and sent forth his testing probes. Yes, his wards were all well placed and ready.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Arvon, Gryphon’s Eyrie, Silvermantle Holdings
F irdun lay stretched on the stone bench of the inner court where the spray from the ever-playing fountain reached him now and then. He was engrossed in the drawing of his will and senses inward, to hold such sentry duty against the Dark until his guardship was over. To help hold the wards with all the power Ibycus was summoning was a road he must travel not in body, but with his inner energy, reaching out to touch each point of ward in turn, making sure the drawing together of forces of the Light would not in turn attract the Dark.
Perhaps in the far-off past when Kar Garudiyn had been the Great Landsil’s own dwelling such forces had been drawn, marshaled, and sent forth. No—he must not let his mind stray from the rounds he had set it to go sentry.
This hour all the strengths of the Eyrie, plus the age-old authority of Neevor himself were bent to a single task. The Mantle Lands gave heed to the Voices—but the Voices had never answered directly. Now, with the warning from overseas, they might just be swayed to the guardianship at least of those who had always paid them homage in the Mantle Lands. At least every seeker in any of the holdings would also get the message concerning the danger of the gates and would report his or her true dreaming to the lordships there.
He did not make his mind rounds in sequence; it was unwise to establish any pattern which might be sensed by a prowling talent who would take advantage of the smallest slip. Sharply he saw within the heights near the Dragon Crest where he had placed one of his more powerful sentinels. Then he switched swiftly to the valley of the Kioga camp. There he did touch Power—but that came according to Jonka’s promise. Their spirit drummer was at work.
Southward: a faint fragrance—could the mind scent? But that was Sylvya and with her two others, talented strangers who walked in the Light. Firdun had a wavering glance of a prowling pard on guard.
East to the Dales. There were three sites of old trouble, its power now so weakened that it was like a faint sniff of a bad spell. What or who had ruled there once was long gone; only the vile aura of what had been done still lingered—but that was nothing, even if such united strong enough to trouble the barrier he had set.
North lay a wide strip of wild land before the borders of the Mantle Lands, but it had long ago been cleansed of any perils save those directly to the body from strong beast or desperate outlaw.
Now—Firdun put all he had into this outward thrust—Garth Howell. All of the Eyrie had tried at intervals in the past to mind-see behind those walls but had never put their full talent to the testing—and it would be perilous action on the part of the full meld to—
Firdun’s body suddenly stiffened as he lay. There was a hint of opening—a trap to entice him in? They surely had their own wardens and defenses. But the temptation was great. He scouted that passage, then advanced by the smallest fraction of which he could control his talent. He saw shadows which were certainly indwellers, but also he saw ruins, the fall of an inner wall, a dome roof which had buckled to flatten at least a floor or more. And the shadows busied themselves about these evidences of disaster.
The wild power had certainly wrought mightily here. That half-crushed dome might have roofed some workroom of mages—if those same had been at labor when it struck.
Then—
That vulture face flashed between him and what he tried so hard to see and Firdun instantly shut off the mind-path.
He had recognized at once the creature from the Waste. Had she in turn sensed him, or even identified him? Once again his recklessness might well have endangered—
Swiftly his mind-pattern whirled from one barrier point to another. All were holding steady. No more such ventures on his own; he must keep to the duty set him here and now.
• • •
Within the great hall Neevor sat straighter in his chair. His two hands lay palm-flat on the table before him and between them rested a ring. The metal loop was of silver darkened by age, and the large stone set to the fore was a dull, clouded gray, as dusky as the metal which supported it.
Eydryth’s fingers swept across the strings of the harp resting on her knees. This was not any song to buttress words—rather, it seemed to rouse full attention from those others sitting there.
Kerovan spoke as the last note faded and was gone. “Trouble.”
“Yes, those of the Mantles will care for their own.” Neevor was trying the ring on one finger after another of his right hand. It was firmly in place at last on the forefinger, covering his flesh and bone nearly from knuckle to joint. “They remember too well the Road of Sorrow, and they want no more such journeying. Though their aid will be limited, they will police their own lands, and should the news from Lormt come that complete warding is available, they will use it. Do not judge them, Kerovan. Remember the night when you camped by that road and what you heard—and felt.”
Yes, he could remember very well that night in the wilderness when he had dared with Raill, who then seemed his only friend, and had awakened to feel a great burden of despair he could not understand.
Joisan pointed to the ring. “What is the meaning of that?”
Neevor held out his hand and surveyed the ring there with satisfaction in his voice as he answered.
