by Andre Norton
“A guide. This will give warning of the presence of a gate, one active or not. It will lead where we must go. It is also a weapon. No”—he glanced quickly at all of them—“the Eyrie is a stronghold which must be held. Like it or not, the Mantle Lands are also your duty. Here is the true heart of your power and it must not be weakened by your going forth. There will be those to take up the task, never fear. But we march no army into the Waste and the west beyond; we send only those who have certain talents, each of which fits another piece into the pattern. Of the Eyrie, Firdun—”
He named had just come into the room, aroused by that trail of music, and now he stood staring at the mage. Was it that he might be the weak link in the chain here?
Neevor’s eyes flashed and the ringed finger pointed directly at the youth. As he did so, the stone came to life in a burst of violet light, gone almost as soon as it had first shone.
“Thus speaks that which the Voices have decreed shall be our guide. What talent you have will be at need—more than it will serve here. And now”—he pushed back his chair and stood—“hither come two others of our party to be. Sylvya has seen them through the wards.”
They could hear the stamp of a horse hoof through the window giving onto the outer courtyard. Firdun was the first through the door he had just entered and the rest were close behind him.
Sylvya had dropped on the edge of the fountain and was dabbling her fingers in the water, her sweet smile bringing peace with its very presence. But the other two were strangers.
There was a man hardly out of his late youth and with him a girl, whose dark hair was crowned with a circlet bearing a silver moon. The man was tawny-haired and wearing such mail as only the greatest of lords might hope to possess: a shirt of quan iron rings and a helm. His only weapon appeared to be a sword swinging from a belt of tawny fur the same color as his hair, its fastening a graven gem in the form of a pard’s snarling head.
She with the moon crest was dressed in stout riding clothes of a dull green, and that color seemed to shift in shade with every movement she made. A second silver moon lay pendant on her breast. Across her knees as she sat in the saddle was a short staff, hardly longer than a wand, and around its upper portion was wound a cluster of moonflowers, supposed only to bloom at night but here spilling out their fragrance in the day.
The mounts that they rode were different from any Firdun, for one, had ever seen—slightly larger than the cherished Kiogan breed, both dappled in shades of gray. The eyes of the one which turned its head to view him were a vivid green and seemed to lack pupils.
“Ibycus!” The man greeted Neevor gladly. “As you see, we are good and obedient children.”
The mage laughed. “Of Aylinn I will believe that, but of you, Kethan, perhaps there may sometimes be question. Let me make known to you”—he half turned to those of the Eyrie—“our two new comrades. This is Aylinn, Moonmaiden and Healer, and her foster brother, Kethan, were and warrior.”
Were! Firdun was startled. All knew of those of the Gray Tower, the fighters who had held against the Dark, but somehow in his mind he had always pictured them in their animal guise. This Kethan was like any other man save for his coloring—his coloring and that belt to which Firdun’s eyes kept turning.
“Our mounts,” Kethan was saying as he swung out of the saddle, “do not herd with other horses. They will not cause trouble, but it is better that they be stabled apart.”
In spite of the powers Neevor (whom they addressed as Ibycus) had professed for them, those of the Eyrie discovered these new recruits to their company to be no different from other travelers the hold had housed over the years. They were not like the Kioga, but Kethan, at least, might have passed for the son of some Mantle lord.
To Joisan, Eydryth, Elys, and Hyana, it seemed within minutes of their greeting that Aylinn had been known to them all their lives. There was about her something of the Lady Sylvya—a feeling of peace and comfort in her presence.
Trevor had gone at once to the two shadow-dappled horses which loomed so tall over him, and reached up his hands. Each bent head to nuzzle his fingers.
Kethan came up behind the child. “This is Trussant. And the other is Morna. They are the were breed.”
The child turned his head a little to view the tall warrior. “Do they then become . . . people?”
Kethan laughed. “No, they are not shifters—only they company with us who are and are willing to share our lives. The horses that men generally know would not do so.”
“Will—would Trussant let me ride him?” Trevor had always been horse-mad, Eydryth thought as she came quickly up to where they stood.
Kethan smiled at her. “No harm, Lady, for this little one. If he wishes, let him ride and show us where we may stable them. They have come long at a fair pace and need care as any tired travelers.”
• • •
Kethan had shrugged off his mail and helm, and even the tawny belt which supported his sword lay across a stall barrier as he worked rubbing down the two horses, answering Trevor’s questions.
There was fresh hay which the small boy insisted on putting in the mangers and he watched with intent interest as Kethan sprinkled over each portion of that double handfuls of what looked like brown beans.
“What are you doing here, Lordling?” Guret stood now, scowling, just inside the door of the stable.
“Guret—see the were horses—come.” Trevor beckoned. Kethan had turned to regard the young Kioga, who entered with the authority of one who was in his proper place and about to question the presence of others.
“You are Mount Master?” Kethan smiled and made the palm-up friendship gesture of a warrior meeting a friend. “It is not that I do not trust your boys to stable our mounts, but these are of another breed and will learn quickly who is friend and foe. Until then it is better that I care for them.”
Guret’s scowl did not lighten and he paid little attention to Trevor, who now held his hand and urged him forward.
“Were mounts,” he said stiffly. “I have heard of such from the traders.”
“They are not to be found save at the Gray Tower and Reeth,” Kethan answered civilly. “They are battle chargers and trained fighters.”
He did not seek to break through the other’s very apparent antagonism. Weres knew only too well how they were accepted by those who looked upon shapeshifting as a thing well within the Dark’s shadow.
“This”—he touched with his booted toe one of the close-woven bags which he had unhooked from the saddles—“we add to their forage when they are stabled. It is made from herbs of the Lady Gillan’s own growing and serves as grain.” He set about reassuming his mail and belt while Guret continued to watch him with narrowed eyes, saying nothing.
Then he stooped and slung over his shoulder first one set of matched saddlebags and then another. They were a fair load, pressing his mail shirt near bruisingly against his flesh, but Guret made no attempt to offer aid.
However, he turned abruptly, brushing past Trevor and heading for the outer courtyard. Nor was he in sight by the time Kethan had reached the stable door. He sighed. It was plain that this stable master was important here. Would Kethan now meet members of a garrison who looked with the same suspicion upon his kind?
It was Firdun who came to meet him now and with an exclamation insisted on taking half of his burden. So he came into the great hall where the others were gathered close to Ibycus, and a guesting cup was pushed into his hand by the maiden they called Hyana, the other set of saddlebags taken.
He soon discovered that there was no prejudice here, but then he could sense that talent was strong within these walls. And those with Powers, if they followed the Light, were always well met together.
Both of those from Reeth found that the hospitality of the Eyrie was indeed to be enjoyed. And they had two days for exchanging stories, those from Reeth learning of the news from overseas and of all that could be learned concerning Garth Howell. Ibycus-Neevor spent much time with t
he enchanting woman who had led them here. She was plainly not of human heritage, but that she was considered close kin by the others within these walls was easy to be seen.
What they conferred about was not made public, but the others were engrossed enough in preparing for what must come to have little time to wonder.
The decision had been made that a scouting party strike west and south through Silvermantle country to the Waste. That a party from Garth Howell had now been traced as taking nearly the same path seemed to Ibycus-Neevor (who now went by the first of his names) to urge that they follow.
Firdun twice related his sighting of the strange mage, and each time Kethan felt that this stranger he had never seen might well be an opponent to be rightfully feared.
Kethan himself worked with his mounts and the horses the Kioga brought up from the valley—some for extra mounts, others pack beasts. At first Guret and the other handlers were loath to let the were and his pair near their own cherished beasts. It was Aylinn who showed up the second morning they led the horses down into the valley where those selected by the Kioga were herded together. Chief Jonka was there with a number of his older warriors, and also a tall woman wearing a robe painted with strange designs, carrying on her hips a small drum.
Aylinn had taken Morna’s reins, the mare nudging her with her head from time to time, while Kethan led the dappled stallion. There were whinnies and calls and signs of uneasiness among the Kioga beasts, and men moved in to try to quiet them. Then Aylinn’s moon staff was lifted into the air. As the uneasy beasts of the valley watched, she passed the garlanded rod carefully over both Morna and Trussant.
The scent of the moonflowers was strong, rising above the smell of dust and the sweat of the Kioga horses. The two standing quietly under the passage of the rod suddenly neighed—the sound louder than was usual to the Kioga.
Then the Kiogas’ own beasts quieted. They still stood with all their heads facing toward the were mounts, but there were no rolling eyes and tossing heads now.
Aylinn nodded to Jonka and smiled. “Horsemaster of the Herds, there will be no trouble for your good mounts. Know that there is no evil in Trussant and Morna but that they will all be trail comrades together.”
On the fifth morning after the arrival of those from Reeth, all were up at dawn and ready to set out on whatever track Ibycus chose for them. Firdun had made a last testing of wards, and they had news that Garth Howell seemed to have again walled itself in from any touch of the world.
Alon had tried again to contact Hilarion—to no avail. At length they decided that they had only their own knowledge and skills to depend on. Quert and two other of the young Kioga—Obred and Lero—had volunteered, and, when they faced the test of the mage’s ring, it accepted them.
They were a very small party, Firdun thought as he straightened his helm and saw the pink of the dawn band the sky. His kin and Sylvya remained to hold firm in the Eyrie, and Ibycus had promised that the ring had other aspects beside those of selection and guidance. He could communicate through its dull stone setting at intervals with Alon. Thus they would keep a slight tie with those who stood firm in the same struggle.
The mage had hinted that they might pick up other allies along the way, but so far no one else came into Eyrie territory. What was happening in the Dales, or in the Mantle holdings, they had no knowledge. But at least the alarm had been given.
Their first day’s journey went at a steady pace and through territory well known to Firdun and the Kioga. They saw no trace of any except Kioga herders, yet they set up regular watches at night. When the moon started to wax again, Aylinn planted her staff in the center of their camp and made the proper call for aid in their quest.
On the fifth day after setting out, Firdun felt restless from the moment he awoke, driven to make careful rounds of the camp. It was as if something was pricking him, like a thorn from a wayside bush. So he met face-to-face with Kethan.
“There is a shadow rise,” the were said. “Not yet strong enough to trace. Unless you can do so, Lord Firdun.”
“But would such a trace be prudent? If there was a searching . . .” He did not know why he thought of that, nor why he spoke of his indecision aloud.
Kethan nodded. “I think it lies stronger ahead in that direction.” He nodded toward the west, where the dimness of predawn still held.
“The Mantle Lands stretch north. We must cross the holdings of Silvermantle to reach the Waste. If we are near enough to the Border now . . . But that is for Ibycus to decide.” Firdun turned swiftly into the heart of the camp to find the mage.
Though he kept an open mind channel as they went on, he could detect nothing but a trace of power. Certainly nothing which carried the taint of evil. It must be the Border wards, which were set to warn but not to oppose unless what came was of the Dark.
They had been moving through wild country where there were no settlements and certainly no holds. The only life they sighted other than their own party were small family herds of pronghorns, grass hens, and once something which withdrew hurriedly within a pile of rocks but let forth a snarl as they passed some distance away. Firdun saw Kethan’s head turn quickly and, his own mind being open for any message, he caught some of the slurred wording of that one.
“Peace, brother-in-fur, we take not your hunting land.”
Firdun had a vision of the spotted furred grass cat who had sought hiding but fully resented their invasion of its territory.
Ibycus called the noon halt that day by a spring, where they ate cold rations of journey cake and drank water. Aylinn sifted into the large common container some small red seeds which gave flavor and seemingly higher refreshment as they shared it.
“Beyond the hill”—the mage pointed to the rise from the foot of which their spring sprung—“lies Silvermantle. Firdun, as you ward so you can also pierce—when it is necessary. Vision it for me.” He came behind the young man sitting on the ground, and placed one hand on each of Firdun’s shoulders.
Obediently Firdun closed his eyes and envisioned a ward wall. But also he sent streaming at it, like a well-thrown spear, a thrust of violet fire. That touched the wall, entered. There was a moment of waiting and then—
Ibycus threw up his head so he was facing directly into the sky. “By the will of the Voices—we come in peace and about their business. Read our hearts and take you the truth.”
The wall was gone. Firdun opened his eyes. Ibycus came to where Guret was holding his mount. “Well enough, we are granted passage.”
There seemed to be little difference in the land about them as they mounted the hill and found a game trail leading down its other side. If there was some hold or ward tower nearby, there was no indication of any road, or even path which was in use.
They were still in empty land when they camped that night, but had altered their course farther south. Firdun went to lay the night wards—but he never completed that circle he had set himself.
Passing beyond a copse of trees he suddenly stood as if struck by one of the hold spells. And spell it was, he recognized a moment later. Though he strove to draw upon his talent to counter what held him, the familiar counters failed. Now he was striding, in spite of himself, directly away from the camp. Nor could he, he discovered, communicate by mind-send any warning or appeal.
This was broken ground and he slid down into a cut, scratched by the brush which resisted his passage, and then, came out into a wider section. This was open country, bared of anything but the tall grass—
No, not bare! There was a shimmering in the night. Above him where silver-touched clouds gathered, thickened, towers grew plainer, and the castle from which they arose took substance. Now the whole building, huge as it looked, glowed green with ripples of silver, as if it were fashioned from some unknown stone.
Also—as it grew solid, so did it no longer hang above him. Glamorie, strong glamorie: He recognized it for what it was and yet even with that knowledge he could not banish what he was seeing. Now once more
he was drawn forward, toward that tall foregate between two towers. He had a sharp thought of a web with a spider within, but in spite of his struggles he could not break the ensorcellment which held him.
The castle gate was open. What waited within? Oddly enough he felt no evil here—no touch of the Dark—yet why was he then entrapped?
“Up to your old games, Elysha?” It was like a shout in his very ear. Past him strode Ibycus, his face twisted in anger.
“Games you taught me. Remember those fine days, my lord mage?” A voice as silver as the lines across the castle walls answered with a tinkle of amusement in that thought-send.
“Elysha—” the wrath in Ibycus’s voice was growing hotter.
“Elysha,” she interrupted him like an echo. “Always Elysha do this, Elysha do that. But in spite of you I learned, though you would never grant me mageship. Now, I think I will just play a game after all—with this youth. He has possibilities.”
In the open doorward stood a woman. Her hair was night-black and fell about her like a cloud. In her oval face her eyes were huge and deeply violet, and violet also were the thigh-length jerkin, the breeches, and the boots she wore. There were gleaming purple gems to fasten that jerkin, and more braceleted her wrists as she slowly raised her hands in a beckoning gesture to Firdun.
But Ibycus’s left arm came across the younger man’s body like an unmovable bar. The mage’s other hand, with the ring on the forefinger, pointed straight toward the woman.
There was a flash of light so brilliant that Firdun could not see for a moment or two. When he looked again . . .
The castle was gone. And the woman stood wearing a sly smile, her attention on the ring, which was blazing as violet as her eyes.
“You see, my dear and never forgotten lord, you have need for me and must bid me proper welcome, for it has been long. Now your own Power ties me, and you cannot deny it.”
Ibycus stood staring from the still-brilliant stone of the ring to her and then back again. She laughed as gayly as one of the maids at a harvest feasting.
