by Andre Norton
Then—
They knew that presence which had been there, for the time of that weighing was gone. Nothing was left but the form which could hold Her as She willed, when She willed. However, She had made them free, given them guesting for this night within Her sanctuary, and they were honored more than any sitting in a High Seat of a hall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The Meeting in the Waste, West
G uret and his two tribesmen approached Ibycus, though they made a wide circle past the throne and its silent occupant.
“Lord”—though there was a note of deference in Guret’s voice, there was also a hint of defiance—“we would take the four-footed ones out to the open meadows where they may be staked to graze at their will. This High One”—he shot a glance over his shoulder at the throne—“is like our Mother of Mares and yet we are not truly Her children. That She has given us Her blessing is a wondrous thing, but we would not intrude upon that which is not of our heritage.”
Ibycus nodded. “Do as you will, Horsemaster. But hold this to you—what abides here is friend to all of the Light, and Her power is both wide and everlasting.”
Thus the Kioga led the mounts and the packhorses out of the shadow of the trees, but none of the others followed.
As dusk settled down, those podlike buds on the trees began to show wider cracks as if the night was meant for their blooming. And a perfume scented the air. Though the travelers got out supplies for a meal, none of them seemed to be inclined to do more than nibble at a bit of journey cake, take more than a sip now and then from their water bottles.
Hunger was banished, along with all distress and uneasiness. Aylinn went to stand just under the limb fringe of one of those trees. The buds had opened wide and flattened, loosing white petals which gave off a glow far deeper than the gleam of her own moonflowers. She dared to reach up and give the lightest of touches to the nearest one.
Then her hand jerked back in dismay, for the blossom floated free into the air, the petals wide as white wings. It did not fall, even though there was no breeze to bear it—none Aylinn could feel. Its flight was to the left and then it settled down onto the surface of that mirror pool at the foot of the throne.
Kethan and Firdun had both watched her near the tree and now each moved in, as might guards. But Aylinn had dropped to her knees, leaning out over the surface, which the landing blossom had not troubled into life.
Slowly her hand moved forward. Firdun stepped closer as if to prevent her, but Kethan’s arm was out, a barrier to wall him away.
With infinite care the girl inserted her fingers under the edge of the nearest petal and, without touching it more than she must, she drew it toward her.
At last she stepped back, her moon wand lying unnoticed by her side, the splendid bloom resting on the palm of her hand. From her throat there arose a soft crooning, as if her wonder at what she held could not be kept silent.
Soft fur brushed against Kethan as he settled down beside his foster sister. It seemed at that moment there was nothing else in the world except that one perfect flower. Yet it was not for his taking—that he also knew.
Aylinn held the flower at the height of her breast. There her moon badge was a circle of glory. Not taking her eyes from what she held, she groped for her wand and held that to the same height. The flower which had topped it for so long was fading, its petals becoming gauze-thin. Then those fluttered loose and were gone. Slowly, as if at any moment she feared what she held might be taken from her, Aylinn advanced the wand toward the flower, slipped the tip of it under its petals.
So she held it. On Kethan’s knee a paw moved, a black-furred head was raised high to watch. About them there was a stirring, a feeling that some potent Power wrought, not by their will, but another’s.
Aylinn raised the wand. With it she saluted the throned one as a warrior would raise a sword in homage.
“Moonsworn I have always been by the beliefs of my people,” she said. “Now—now, One in Three, I tread any path you open for my feet. That I have been chosen so—” Her voice broke and once more she was crying. “Mother, Sister, Ancient One, make of me now what you will!”
She bowed her head over the wand she had drawn back against her slender body. Kethan longed to put his arm about her, draw her close, for he had a feeling that in these moments she was going farther away, even though she had not moved.
Uta reared up on his lap, putting her paws against his chest and looking up into his face. He heard Firdun stir, get to his feet also, and swing away.
Slowly Kethan got up, keeping his hold on the cat, and left Aylinn alone. Or was she so? Perhaps there were others now who would welcome her.
With a growing emptiness in him, Kethan turned his back upon the throned one and strode back into the trees. The blooms had mostly opened and he felt as heavy of body, as drained of energy as he had when he had escaped from the place of the rus. He tumbled on the bedroll he had spread out earlier and stretched out, dimly aware that those scratches and hurts he had felt were gone. There was only the peace.
Determined, he turned his head away so he could not see the crystal throne. Uta was still with him, a warm comforting armload of fur.
His eyes closed.
Something stirred, not only against his body, but in his mind, breaking the euphoria produced by the flowers. He was aware of, very far off, a kind of summoning which was not an alarm, merely a call—a call he must answer.
• • •
Perhaps that first light of the flowers had faded a fraction; he was sure when he opened his eyes that he could not see as clearly. There was a shadow of a shadow—yet it brought with it no feeling of alarm, rather awoke him further, determined to see what stood there, weaving a little as if it stood unsteadily.
Kethan’s hand went to his belt. Pard eyes—let him have pard eyes the better for seeing—let him have them—now!
And certainly some fraction of that keenness came to him. For see he did. Not Aylinn, silver white as he had always known her; not Elysha, aflame with the emotions she held in control; not—not the Lady. No, he was a man and she would not come so to him.
But there was a woman there—and such a woman as he had never seen in either Arvon or the Dales. She was small, perhaps her head might come a little above his own shoulder if they stood together. (But he found that he could not get to his feet, rather was frozen where he was.) Her hair was short, showing none of the looping braids or locks which he was used to. Rather, it fit her head like a silken cap, with only a lock or two slightly longer, reaching to touch her shoulders.
Her face had some of the triangular shape known among the Old Ones, with a pointed chin and large eyes which were green or yellow—he could not be sure which.
She was fuller of body than Aylinn, but not statuesque as Elysha. And covering her, yet molding close to show breasts and hips, was a dark single garment, seemingly made of one piece, with no skirt or overdress, covering her from throat to wrist to ankle.
Kethan’s nostrils expanded. He had not only pard sight now but pard sense of scent. This was a female which awoke in him something which had been long asleep and now would move him to . . . But move he could not.
Who are you? He thought he had asked that aloud and then realized that he had used mind-send.
He saw her smile, showing sharp-pointed teeth. She raised both hands and smoothed herself down the length of her body as far as her hips, as if in some feminine reassurance that she was appealing as she wished to be.
Kethan made a supreme effort. He did not want to be wholly pard and so perhaps drive this wondrous apparition from him; he only wanted to touch, to make sure that he saw what he believed stood there.
Somehow he succeeded. His fingertips slipped down her thigh until he could hold no longer and his hand fell helplessly against his own body.
You like . . . what you see? Her mind-send was high-pitched and there was something of an effort in it.
I like. And his send was close to the
pard’s growl.
She laughed silently, making no sound. Be patient, four-foot. If fate is kind we all gain what we strive the most to obtain. I have waited—long . . . Her voice trailed away.
Kethan summoned the last of his strength and tried to catch her. But like the moonflower earlier, she faded and was gone. Now he sat alone and the peace of this place was broken for him.
That his visitor had been from the Dark Side he knew was impossible. Was she some servant of the throned one who had dared to make her presence so known to him? Or was she a sending?
He simply knew that he could no longer sleep. Uta, curled by his feet, uttered a sleepy protest. He half covered her with the edge of his sleeping mat and struck outward through the trees toward the outworld, certain that he must find something which was real enough for him to understand.
“Who goes?” That demand out of the dark argued that some other of their group had found this place an enigma which might not be wholly accepted as good.
“Firdun?” He recognized the voice.
There was movement in the darkness and a hand clasped his arm with a punishing grip. “The talents are many; we each have our own. That we know. But—has your sister this night found a path which will lead her totally away from the ways of our world?”
“I do not know,” Kethan answered truthfully. He was shaken a little out of his preoccupation with his late visitor, to wonder at why this son of the Gryphon would be so moved by the ceremony they had watched.
“She is your kin—” Firdun was beginning, when Kethan interrupted him.
“We are not blood kin, but fosterling. I am were, as you well know. Aylinn was raised daughter to my mother, who is a wisewoman and healer. Discovering she had great talent, she was sent to Linark—and there discovered she was Moon called.”
“There are those women of Estcarp”—Kethan could not see Firdun’s face, but Firdun’s voice was bitter—“who raised the power to wrack mountains. But they look upon men as lesser beings. Oh”—there was a vigorous swish of air in the dark as if the speaker had flung his arms wide—“I do not know what I seek to say—but if Aylinn goes from us—”
“That will not happen while we quest.” Kethan was guessing. Aylinn—the Gryphon son—men were drawn to women and women to men and had been since the days the world had begun. Sometimes it was ill done and ended in sorrow; sometimes it was as with Kethan’s parents, Gillan and Herrel, such a bond as nothing could sever. But no one could speak for another in such matters. “She will be with us,” he repeated, knowing at the same time it was chill comfort, “until we have finished what we would do. Time changes many matters, and talents can fit to talents in a fashion one might not believe.”
His answer was first a sigh, and then Firdun said: “The Kioga camp nearby . . . we can share their watch.” He spoke as if sleep was now beyond his hope.
• • •
Well away from the grove of the throne, Guret, armed and alert, was following such a trail as only an expert horsemaster could sight. For the most part the mounts they had carefully chosen from the Kioga herds for this venture were well trained—to the point of standing as if hitched when the reins were flipped over their heads to touch the ground until their riders remounted.
Heretofore only the packhorses, who were ever contrary beasts, had to be picketed when they camped. But for the past few days the young gelding Vasan had provided something of a problem. Guret blamed most of this restlessness on the presence of the were mounts, even though those were as perfectly behaved themselves as any war-trained horse and he could not find anything in their recent actions to fault them.
Tonight, perhaps because they were still bemused by what they had seen in that strange fane, the Kioga had moved out to camp in the familiar open without paying any special attention to the beasts they loosed to good forage. They had busied themselves as usual with the packhorses, but their own mounts they had left to their usual freedom.
However, it was customary for a sentry on duty—and they had posted their sentries here as they would in any unknown territory—to check the horses, moving among them with those soft words which had reassured them from colthood.
And Guret had discovered that Vasan was not beside his usual bond mate Vartin. Having widened his circle of search and discovering no sign of the horse at visual distance from the small herd, he had returned to camp, awakened Obred, and told him that he would trail the stray. It was not long since they had been loosed and he wondered how and why Vasan had taken himself off. He was one of Guret’s own private string (each of the Kioga had brought three mounts so that they could change and not overweary the horses if the need arose), and Guret felt responsible for such unlikely behavior.
Guret was gone before Firdun and Kethan joined the Kioga camp and Obred had already vanished into the darkness to take up his sentry duties.
The land was at least level and there were within easy distance no more strands of trees. Also there was a moon overhead even though it was waning. Guret whistled and stood listening for any answering thud of hooves.
When he was not so answered, he went to hands and knees, locating where the taller grass was trampled. Oddly enough, Vasan was not moving like a grazing horse, but rather as if he had already been summoned.
Guret had shed mail and helm and left them in camp. The night was so warm, and that insidious promise of peace had been so all-prevailing, that he had not thought of the gear he had left piled by his bedroll until now. He wavered between returning to arm, to perhaps give some kind of an alarm, and then he made his decision. No. Vasan could not have strayed too far. There was another copse of trees not far ahead now and perhaps that proved a screen for the horse.
Guret had been well tutored in all the tricks of tracking horses. Since the life of the clan depended upon their trained mounts, the loss of even one could not be accepted. He now found a stream by nearly sliding down a slick clay bank to where there was a narrow runnel of water well below the surface of the plain.
There another searching of the ground revealed footprints—leading north, as if Vasan had chosen not to cross that shallow stream but rather moved beside it. Here and there bunches of grass had been snatched for the eating; the gelding had not lingered to graze.
Again Guret tried the calling whistle. Only the cry of a night bird sounded in answer. Now he began to question his choice. To go trailing on into the unknown dark was a risk that was folly to take.
He had just risen to his feet from tracing another hoof mark in the clay when a scream cut through the air. At least he had his sword, having taken that up as a matter of course when he had gone on sentry. That was out of his scabbard and ready in his hand as he pounded forward.
There were more of those screams. Some he was sure were of the pain and terror of a horse. Vasan, surely.
The stream took a curve to the left but still pointed north. Now there were other cries—human? He could not tell, but scout craft slowed his forward plunge. He must know the nature of the danger before he burst into some battle like an untrained boy.
He took to the side of the stream bank, though this was overgrown by a tough thicket of tall-standing reeds so he had to cut his way with the sword. Most of these towered above his head now so that he could see practically nothing of what lay ahead.
“Great Ones—Old Ones—the Dark rises!”
Certainly Vasan had never voiced that! But an instant later the battle scream of a horse in dire defense broke again.
Guret threw himself forward through the last curtain of the reeds. There reared a horse, striking out with forefeet against smallish things which scuttled here and there across the ground. The willow screen had cut off some of the light but not enough to mask the fact that there was indeed a shadowy figure standing on hind feet, human in seeming, and it was striking down at the scuttling enemy with what looked to be a sword, or at least a part of one.
The Kioga had already chosen sides. He hurled himself on and, to his utter amazement, the
scuttling things did not turn to attack him but rather scattered the closer he approached them.
He thrust and raised his sword. On the point of it was impaled something so alien even in this dim light that with a sharp twist of his wrist he hurled it away.
Then he expected them at last to turn on him. Vasan was proving his battle worth, bringing hooves down in a regular beat, now and then lowering his head to seize on one of the scrambling enemy and toss it away.
“By the One in Three—” Where those words had come from Guret could not tell, but they filled his mind, fell swiftly from his lips. “By the Maid, by the Lady, by the Old One who keeps the last gate of all, give us of your strength and Power.”
That shadow by the bank lurched forward a fraction. It had dropped its sword. Now it fumbled at its breast and he wondered if the crawlers had managed to inflict some wound.
“Lady—” The voice was very low. “She who elects the death hour—be with us all.”
Guret was gripped by a force he had felt only twice before, when he had faced some sneaker out of Garth Howell and made sure the evil-born did not return. He waded into the creepers that laid about him. Somehow the very blade of his sword gave forth light now so that he could see the things—spiders, frogs, things of no known species. They were dying without uttering a sound. Then, breathing heavily, Guret stood by a pile of the strange dead and there was no more stirring across the ground.
Vasan whinnied, then snorted, tramping over his late prey to push his head against Guret’s shoulder, once more the perfect-mannered mount.
“You are wounded?” Guret pulled the horse’s forelock gently as he asked of the stranger.
“No more than a bite or two.” There was no quiver in that answer. “The urings will not be returning to His call!”
Booted foot shot out and lifted one of the bodies. “I have to thank you, but that She could send one of Hers to bring me aid—after—after—” The shadow form gasped and crumpled down. Guret went into action. He found that the body he lifted was not in war gear but rather wore a soft covering, which was both a thigh-length jerkin and breeches.
