by Andre Norton
I had been five years old when Gurborian ordered Oralian’s death. My sire had led a faction of the older barons who steadfastly resisted any alliance with the foreign Kolder. When the then-reigning Lord Baron Facellian had rammed through the alliance despite all opposition, Gurborian curried his favor by removing Facellian’s most prominent baronial opponents. Facellian eagerly acceded to the Kolder’s demand for war with the Dales across the sea. The Kolder being few in number, it fell to Alizon to provide the warriors, but the Kolder did supply us with uncommon weapons to advance our invasion.
I remember hearing my elder littermates discuss those early, exciting, and successful years of the war. Our coastal invasion was initially invincible. The moving metal boxes the Kolder supplied to shelter our fighters could scarcely be withstood. Even so, as our sire had warned the Baron’s Council before his murder, we were totally dependent upon the Kolder for the supplies required to maintain the boxes and their fire spewers. When those supplies were blocked by the Dales’ Sulcar allies, we lost our most powerful advantage. Two of my littermates died in the fighting, and when the third was too severely wounded to ride, his men cut his throat to prevent the Dales hags from loosening his tongue by magic.
I was twelve when it was clear the war was lost. Having nimbly positioned himself with Mallandor’s faction, Gurborian wielded an equally strong hand in Facellian’s overthrow. Even then, Gurborian’s ambition was overly fierce to be safely accommodated too close to the throne. In order to allow time for Mallandor’s justified suspicions to cool, Gurborian withdrew for six years to his coastal estates.
I had been quietly fostered with Volorian all those years, well away from the swirl of plotting in Alizon City. Following my unremarked presentation ceremony at age twelve, Volorian agreed that after a prudent time, I might take up residence in our pack’s castle in the City. I arrived at the castle when I was fifteen, the same year, I later learned, that Gratch first appeared at Gurborian’s side to become a shadowy partner in his scheming. They both returned to Alizon City when I was twenty, but they carefully stayed out of Mallandor’s way until two years later, when Estcarp’s Witches worked their foulest magic, tearing the very roots of their southern bordering mountains to foil Karsten’s impending invasion.
Mallandor yearned to strike while the hags reeled, depleted by their exertions, but their cursed containment spells still held across our mutual border. The pro-Kolder faction of barons then agitated for a concerted effort to open a new magical Gate for the Kolder, so that they might bring us more of their metal boxes as well as more Kolder to reinforce their scant remaining numbers. I was repelled by such plans, but it would have been fatal to say so. Because of my scholarly interests, it was acceptable for me to take part in the search for documents from the ancient days, even as far back as the Betrayal itself, in the hope of finding useful lore on the dreaded mage-work involved in the Gate magic.
During the spring of last year, Mallandor hearkened to more foolish advice—openly endorsed at the time by Gurborian’s faction—and sent his Master of Hounds Esguir raiding into Estcarp to seize some Witch pups for the Kolder to use in their Gate magic. The plot failed miserably; all the captive Witchlings escaped back into Estcarp, and the few Kolder left in Alizon Castle were all killed. Gurborian then revealed his true intentions. He rallied Mallandor’s enemies to overthrow the Lord Baron. Because his own faction was not strong enough to place him on the throne, however, Gurborian backed Mallandor’s ambitious littermate Norandor. Mallandor and Esguir were fed to the hounds, and Norandor assumed the Lord Hound’s mask.
From the conversation I overheard between Gurborian and Gratch, it seemed that yet another overthrow was being plotted, and this time I had no doubt that Gurborian sought the mask for himself. But what post could Gratch hope to attain? As a non-Alizonder, he could not be named Master of Hounds. Probably he expected to continue his role of counselor in Gurborian’s shadow. He was a dangerous foe, familiar with the rarest of poisons.
I remember wondering as I carefully made my way to my castle, whether my physical discomfort could be due to one of Gratch’s potions, but I dismissed the thought. Like all barons resident in the City, I regularly partook of small doses of various poisons to build advance resistance. I had also made a useful study of antidotes, thus I felt reasonably sure I could deal with Gratch’s threat. My household servants were all reliable, due to pack loyalty, blood-ties, or fear. To lessen the lure of bribes, I kept my pay levels sufficient.
On my way through secluded alleyways, I had to pause several times to recover from fits of dizziness. As I reflect upon the events of that night, I realize that my weakness was caused by my proximity to Gurborian’s accursed jewel.
Arriving at Krevonel Castle, I reeled to my bedchamber and lay down, apprehensive of what dreams might beset me should I fall asleep. All I could think about was that jewel—when I closed my eyes, its image burned in my mind. Somehow, that sparkling crystal seemed to be reaching out to me, drawing me toward its cold blue fire.
CHAPTER 3
Mereth–her journal at Lormt (4th and 5th Days, Month of the Ice Dragon, New Year of the Lamia)
My dear one—what would you say of this curious place, fabled Lormt of the Scholars, isolated amid mountains rendered even less accessible by the Turning, as they term the Witches’ spell-shifting of the earth?
I did not think it necessary to dispatch a messenger to herald my coming; that would have been a proper courtesy for a nobleman with a retinue, but scarcely justified for a lone Daleswoman. I recalled Dame Gwersa’s assertion that any serious kin-lore seeker who dared the journey to Lormt was certain to be welcomed, but might also risk being misplaced in the countless archive nooks by the resident scholars who were renowned for their complete devotion to their work.
Although our ride had been long and cold, and both of us were politely greeted upon our arrival, the guide I hired at Es City refused to stay at Lormt. Once he had delivered me and my scant baggage at the metal-bound gates, he would have turned to depart if the gatekeeper had not insisted that he allow his horses to be watered and rested for at least a few hours.
You would have exclaimed, I think, at the vast scale of this citadel of ancient learning. I had formerly believed that there could be no larger building stones than those massive gray-green blocks I had seen in Es City’s walls and Castle. Upon entering Lormt’s great courtyard, however, I concluded that Lormt’s builders must have been capable of wrenching and shaping the very roots of the surrounding mountains.
Dame Gwersa’s informant had reported significant destruction wrought by the earthquake, but I was appalled to observe the actual extent of the ruin. Of the four round towers anchoring the rectangular courtyard, two appeared untouched, a third had lost half its former height, and the fourth corner’s tower had completely collapsed, along with most of its short adjoining wall. The ground beneath that area had dropped away more than a trade wagon’s length, bringing down one entire long outer wall.
Obvious efforts had been made since to deal with the damage and repair what could be salvaged. As we rode in, I noticed newer metal fittings and bindings where the gates had been rehinged and patched. What at first glance appeared to be huge, shapeless heaps of rubble, upon closer viewing showed signs of organized excavation and timber shoring. Several sheds of rough-hewn wood were spaced along the lines of the fallen walls, and sturdy fences of brush and woven withes extended between them to hold back the mountain snowdrifts from overwhelming the courtyard expanse. I judged from the sharp-peaked tower roofs and the steep-pitched roofs along the remaining walls and buildings that the winter snows at these heights must be far heavier than those I remembered from my childhood near the Dales’ western peaks.
Dark slates sheathed all the roofs here, including those on the two ancient stone buildings within the courtyard. One tall structure with a strip of high windows running its full length nestled against the intact long wall, while the squatter, smaller building was tucked to the lef
t inside the gates and abutting an undamaged corner tower. Stone watering troughs for the animals were placed near a sheltered well at the right interior corner. Except for the gaps caused by the earth’s subsidence, all the remaining stonework was doubly impressive for the sheer size of the blocks and the tightness of the unmortared joints. I know exactly what you would have done, had you been here with me—you would have peered at the walls and said, “I doubt whether a knife blade could be slipped between those blocks.”
I was not given much initial opportunity to survey my surroundings, however, for I had no sooner dismounted than I was confronted by a party of four figures well-cloaked against the late afternoon chill. To my surprise, when an icy wind gust blew open the leading figure’s cloak, I saw suspended from her belt a wooden runeboard like those used by our Wise Women of the Dales. She raised her hands in ritual greeting, and offered me a traveler’s cup. Cold and stiff as I was from my long day’s ride, I savored the taste of the steaming herbed broth—a welcome cup, indeed!
I extracted my hand slate to write the proper response: “For the welcome of the gate, gratitude. To the ruler of this house, fair fortune. I am Mereth of Ferndale, come here to seek knowledge concerning my kin.”
The Wise Woman accepted my slate and read my message aloud for the others as calmly as if she was frequently accustomed to receiving mute visitors. Her features and coloring were those of Estcarp’s Old Race, but it was heartening to me that she seemed at least familiar with some of our Dales customs. “I am Jonja,” she responded, with a brisk nod of her head. “I welcome you to Lormt.”
“As do I.” A tall, gaunt man beside her stepped forward, his gray eyes proclaiming him also of the Old Race, although age had turned his black hair to silver-white. “I am Ouen. Lormt’s scholars allow me to represent them to guests. This is Duratan, our resident chronicler and invaluable advisor.”
This second tall man had been a soldier at one time, I thought. He was bearing no sword at his belt, but his body seemed still to balance as if compensating for the familiar weight. When he moved toward me, he swung his left leg stiffly, as I had seen many Dales fighters after war injuries. He held out his hand to the fourth figure. “My lady Nolar,” he said, “healer and scholar.” Both of them were of the Old Race, but her face was marred by a dark stain like a splash of wine.
“Come within, out of the cold,” Jonja suggested. “The hour grows late, and you should rest from your journey. We can confer in the morning concerning your request.”
The other three withdrew, while Jonja led me to a guest chamber deep inside the remaining long wall. Stone stairs led up and down, linking what seemed to be countless storage rooms and quiet sleeping cells. Occasional torches supplemented the waning daylight that seeped through slits in the courtyard side of the wall. A few of those curious round light globes like the ones I had seen in Es Castle so many years before also provided additional illumination. My designated room had a low wooden bed whose mattress smelled of sun-dried rushes. Several plain but well-sewn quilts were folded atop a carved chest. An earthenware pitcher and basin stood on the stone ledge near the door.
“I have asked the cooks to send your evening meal here,” Jonja said as she turned to depart. “Should you care to write any queries for our consideration tomorrow, I will ask a scribe to bring you quills, parchment, and ink. May you find here whatever you came to seek. I wish you fair repose this night.”
The meal sent for me was simple, but well prepared and sustaining. I found the white-fleshed steamed roots unfamiliar but tasty, and the rabbit stew was savory. There was sweet butter and fruit conserve to spread on the rounds of barley bread. A flask of hearty ale complemented the food.
Soon after I had set aside my tray, I heard a tap at the door. A man nearly my age bustled in, his arms full of scrolls and quills. He set his bundles on the bed and darted back out into the corridor to fetch in a writing bench and a study lamp. Before I could write my thanks, he had hurried away.
I have been sitting at that bench for some time now, attempting to set my queries in an orderly array. My earlier letter to you composed aboard the ship was most helpful in clarifying my thoughts. I find myself deeply affected by the weight of years pressing upon this place. The kin lists that you and I compiled in the Dales stretched back many generations, but Lormt’s stones belong to an age unbelievably remote beyond any we knew, even from the Dales’ oldest legends. The keen pursuit of learning here by so many scholars over so long a time makes my total candor not only a courtesy but a necessity. I have written the account of my past, including my odd talents and my one encounter with the Witch at Es Castle. I suspect that along with the famed kin lists here, there must also be ancient documents concerning magical matters. Perhaps these folk can help me find some lore related to my betrothal jewel . . . if they choose to allow me access to their archives. I await the dawn with a mixture of impatience and trepidation.
My sense of apprehension last night was indeed justified. These Lormt folk were evidently as wary of me as I was of them! After I had eaten a hasty morning meal, Jonja herself conducted me to the larger courtyard building, which proved to be the main scholarly repository. Never before had I seen so many scrolls gathered together in one place. We passed through a warren of study nooks and cubicles, divided and flanked by shelves, with countless tables and desks all heaped with sheafs of writings. Scores of elderly men—and a few women—moved about slowly carrying documents or perching on chairs or benches.
Jonja did not speak to any of the scholars, but preceded me up a narrow staircase to the upper level, where she opened a massive door into a study room well illumined by a segment of the high window strip I had noticed from below. The same three Estcarpians who had met me at the gate looked up from their seats around a table littered with documents.
Ouen rose to offer me a high-backed chair. “Come join us, if you will,” he invited. “We have been discussing the significance of your arrival.”
I held out to him the pages I had written, then took my seat, placing my slate on the table before me and propping my staff at my knee. You used to claim to envy my practice of rapping on the floor with my staff to draw attention to my hand slate. You said it invariably stopped every contentious meeting, and threatened more than once to try a loud shout of your own to award you equal notice . . . but you never did test that tactic, at least, not in my hearing.
Ouen read my statement aloud, not pausing for any comments. When he finished the last page, he looked at me with a keenly assessing gaze. “You are commendably frank,” he remarked. “We shall return that courtesy. You should know that Mistress Jonja had alerted us of your approach some hours before your arrival.”
Startled, I turned to face the Wise Woman. She had laid her rune-board before her, and touched it now with her right hand. “I bear a certain measure of the foreseeing gift,” she explained. “I sensed yesterday that someone associated with Power was drawing near to Lormt, so I asked these friends to join me at the gate. You will understand that any stirring of Power must be carefully examined. Once you had come under Lormt’s roof, I consulted both my herbs and my rune-board to determine your allegiance to either the Light or the Dark.”
The soldierly Estcarpian, Duratan, nodded and extended his hand above the table. From a small leather bag, he spilled out a few gemstones of various colors, some clear, some cloudy. “I also consulted these crystals of mine,” he said. “I see you are surprised that a male could share those talents thought to belong solely to Witches and Wise Women. Kemoc Tregarth, whose talents descend from his mighty father, gave me these crystals. They fall for me in patterns that can convey warnings in time of need. When I tossed them last night concerning you, I received such a warning. You are at the center of potent violence and conflict. . . .”
Before he could finish speaking, I thumped my staff, snatched up my slate and wrote, “No! Violence wrenched away all dear to me twenty years past, in Alizon’s war against our Dales. I have no traffic with any
magic, nor do I bring you any danger of conflict!”
Duratan smiled, but there was little warmth in his expression. “I did not mean conflict now,” he corrected. “I was about to say that my crystals warn of trouble yet to come.”
I wiped away my first remark with my slate cloth and scribbled my rejoinder. “I crave your pardon for interrupting. I am an old woman—how can I be a threat to anyone? I fought in defense of our Dales, that is true, chiefly by using my trading experience to supply our men harrying the invaders. But those awful years are gone by. All I seek now is your help in finding whence came my betrothal jewel, and who was my true father.”
Ouen again read my words aloud. The lady Nolar seemed deep in thought, then she observed, “This pendant jewel you describe cannot be a Witch Jewel, for I have seen and handled one of those—it belonged to a Witch I assisted in a quest over a year ago, just after the Turning. I must tell you that I briefly possessed a shard found here at Lormt that proved to have been riven from a stone of great Power far to the south. It was not a clear crystal, however, like your betrothal gem, but a creamy, opaque stone veined with green, and wondrous for its healing gifts when rightly addressed. I shall gladly aid you in searching our archives here for any news regarding your lost jewel.”
“And we can inquire whether old Morfew might spare the time to sort through his interminable kin lists,” suggested Duratan. This time, his smile was warmed by genuine affection. “He is justly famed for his store of knowledge.”
“I thank you all,” I wrote on my slate. “My questions have not allowed me to rest. I undertook this far journey with the mere hope that Lormt might provide answers. I rejoice that you offer me assistance.”
