The Well of Darkness

by Randall Garrett

  It was usually when the group stopped for the night or assembled to begin the day’s march that she and I found ourselves more alone than at other times of the day. On the morning of the fourth day, I broke what had become a weighty silence between us.

  “In the desert,” I whispered to her, “it made sense to stay with Obilin’s group. But we’re coming into farmland. You could survive here. You know how much a promise from Obilin would be worth—you don’t need to keep a promise to him … especially not on my account.”

  She had taken off her knee-high boots to empty and dust them, and was in the process of putting them back on. She waited until both boots were on, then stood up to face me. “It is not my promise to Obilin that keeps me here,” she said quietly, then looked at me directly. “Nor is it you—except that escape will be more likely to succeed if we are together.”

  “Succeed?” I said. “Like this one did, while we were together?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Did you know Keeshah would leave us?” she asked.

  I had to swallow a huge lump to open my throat for speech. The absence of the big cat still hurt—all the time, every minute. Underlying every thought was a continuous fretting: would Keeshah come out of the Valley?

  “No,” I managed to say.

  “Then you can hardly take credit for our capture,” she said.

  The other men in the group had finished assembling their backpacks and were gathering closer. Obilin had a look of impatience I had learned to recognize as ready-to-move-out, and was walking toward us. As always, when he saw Tarani, a new expression crossed his face—sort of a soft amusement that spoke of secret plans.

  Tarani turned her back to him so he couldn’t see her face and whispered: “My promise lasts only until we reach Eddarta. Be ready.” Then she reached out and pressed my shoulder with her hand.

  Except for her tending to my wounds, it was the first gentle touch we had shared since Keeshah had left. I was moved by her forgivingness and encouragement, but there was no time for words. I pressed my hand over hers and, for that one moment, we were together again.

  Obilin hadn’t missed the gesture or its significance. There was no change in his outward manner—that is, his orders to the group were no less gruff—but there was a special look for me when I came into his visual range.

  Our entry into Eddarta wouldn’t have rivaled Caesar’s return from Gaul. Dusty and tired, the troop of us dragged our way closer to the sprawling city that was the domain—but not the dwelling place—of the Lords of Eddarta. The seven Lords and their families lived in a second city that crowned a rise of land above Eddarta. “Lord City” was joined to what I thought of as “lower Eddarta” by a wide, paved road and a rushing line of water that was one of the larger branches of the Tashal River.

  Sight of the shining river stirred me in many ways. First and most basic, Markasset came from a culture which was reminded daily that the difference between living and dying—for a man or for a city—was the presence of water. Beyond that, seeing this and the other branches of the Tashal tumble their way down from a point so high on the River Wall that the cloud cover obscured it reminded Markasset of the Skarkel Falls and River that shimmered behind Raithskar. If Markasset’s personality, as well as his memories, had been present in this body, he would have been homesick.

  I felt the tug of longing, too—but for a different “where”. It was impossible not to look at the river and see three people clinging to a cluster of rope-tied reeds … to remember the sight and smell of torches burning in the still night air … to sense, rather than see, the hulking outlines of the sha’um against the wavering light … the gold-filled belt …

  (I put my hands to my waist, surprised by the memory. The belt was there, the gold pieces securely hidden within the leather. How could I have forgotten it? I wondered. It’s a fortune. Could I have used it with Obilin—no, I answered myself immediately, and felt a quick thrill of hope. But it may yet come in handy, I thought, and slipped back into the memory.)

  The gold-filled belt arching toward the shore trailing a rope … the cat’s snatching at it, pulling … joy spilling from Keeshah, even while he complained.

  *Wet,* he had said, laughing in his mind while his body carried us away from Eddarta.

  *Keeshah!* I called, and touched only emptiness.

  Oh, God, Keeshah …

  Tarani touched my arm, and I jumped. The sudden movement set off the restless dralda, leashed two to a man behind us, and their howling upset every vlek within a range of two hundred feet. Those traveling with us or in our direction weren’t much of a problem, since the people leading them had allowed us plenty of distance. But there was a group coming west with twenty or so of the stupid pack animals strung out in a long line. The vlek handlers had been doing all right, so long as their goat-size charges had been merely suspicious of the passing dralda. Pandemonium broke loose when the dralda started making noise.

  I could well understand the vleks being terrified—I felt threatened by the fur-lifting sound the dralda made. But that didn’t make the sudden confusion and noise any easier to bear—vleks bawling, dralda howling, men cursing. I felt as if I could crawl right out of my skin.

  The men were doing their best to hold the dralda, but apparently it was only the handler who could calm them into silence. That took a hand touch and some intense concentration, and wasn’t guaranteed, as the first one proved, just as the handler reached number four. Six dralda, one man, big noise.

  The caravan people were yelling at the guards who held the dralda; the guards were yelling at the handler, who was yelling back in frustration. I sympathized with his situation; I knew he had to be calm in order to soothe the animals, and nobody would leave him alone long enough to do his job. Obilin finally got into the act, shouting his own people into silence.

  I realized that Tarani and I were alone.

  “Now,” I whispered, grabbing her arm and edging her toward the caravan. “Get away while you can.”

  She pulled her arm out of my grip. “Without the Ra’ira?”

  “You said Eddarta,” I reminded her. “This is Eddarta. Now go.”

  Once more I tried to push her into the confusion of the caravan. She pushed back—so hard that I staggered.

  I stared at her, trying to understand. We both knew that her ability to disguise herself through illusion would see her safe from the city, at least. She had as much as told me that she wasn’t hanging around on my account—that is, not in order to protect me, or out of loyalty. That left only what she had said: the Ra’ira. I started to tell her that I’d get the Ra’ira and meet her somewhere, but then I wondered. We had been a team of three when we escaped with it the first time, an Tarani’s skills had been an essential part of that team. Could I do it alone?

  It‘s obvious why she won‘t go, I thought painfully. She‘s accepted the duty to return the Ra‘ira to Raithskar. I‘ve flat proved that I can‘t be counted on. She won‘t leave until that stone is safe in her own two hands.

  Tarani watched me think about it, and sensed when I’d completed the logic. Then she pressed my arm with her hands and whispered: “You see, we are both needed for this task.”

  Kind of you to include me, I thought bitterly. I knew full well how irrational it was to resent her consideration of my feelings, but I couldn’t help it. You’ll be the one to do it, if anyone can. Providing either one of us lives past seeing Indomel.

  Our moment of aloneness ended abruptly as Obilin charged over to us. “Help the handler calm them,” he ordered Tarani. A dagger, hidden from everyone but me, pressed against her ribs when she tried to move past Obilin toward the dralda.

  “You see how he does it,” she protested. “A touch is necessary—”

  “A touch wasn’t necessary when I ordered one to attack you,” he reminded her. “I won’t have you display your power, but neither will I waste any more time with this nonsense. Silence the dralda!”

  “But the handler is soothing—what I did was d
ifferent, a command. It—I hate doing that—enough of it will make them useless to the handler—they will turn on him—”

  “Do it!’ Obilin ordered.

  Tarani clenched her teeth, closed her eyes … and the dralda were quiet.

  I looked from the animals, who were shuffling their feet and shaking their heads slightly, as though they had been stunned, to Tarani, whose face had gone past its normal paleness into a sick pallor. The skin had shrunk back against her skull, hollowing the areas beneath her fine cheekbones.

  She opened her eyes and reached for my hand; I held it while the trembling passed. As always, Obilin showed enjoyment of her discomfort, disapproval (if not actual jealousy) of our closeness, and anticipation of a final confrontation with me.

  By now, I thought, he ought to be able to read me well enough to see how much I‘m looking forward to it, too.

  When Tarani had made her move, the dralda had voiced, in chorus, an upswinging whine of surprise. The noise itself had been bad enough; when it ended so abruptly, everybody—man and beast—became quietly alert. I guess even the vleks figured that it wouldn’t be wise to attract the attention of anything that could scare a dralda.

  So when the return column resumed its journey toward Eddarta, the only sounds were Obilin’s clipped orders and the whisper of leather-shod feet against the hard-packed dirt of the roadway. The silence was positively eerie, and we carried it with us long enough for me to catch the content of what was whispered among three men who passed us leading a pack vlek loaded with baked goods.

  “Obilin!” one said in surprise. “Who is that with him?”

  “In his proclamation, Indomel said that Obilin had gone after the intruders …”

  “Intruders my left tusk,” the other snorted. “That dralda whelp killed his father himself, I say!”

  “Sssh!” the third one cautioned. “Speak softly of the High Lord! And anyway—doesn’t this prove that he was telling the truth? There were intruders.”

  “Those can’t be the ones, though!” the first man protested. “They had sha’um.”

  The group had my full attention then, but they were moving further away, and I had to strain to catch even snips of the rest of their conversation:

  “… drank too much faen …”

  “… other people …”

  “All of them crazy …”

  “… too dark to see the people clearly …”

  “… there were sha’um, I tell you!”

  Laughter and protestations, all in suppressed voices, faded as we left the group behind us.

  The conversation had given me two important pieces of information.

  First, lower Eddarta’s understanding of what happened that night had to be varied and tenuous, based as it was on a blend of official statement, rumor, and skepticism.

  Second, I wouldn’t call Indomel beloved of his people. Even the two who had defended him seemed more concerned with whether he had been truthful than whether he had suffered any grief over his father’s death.

  Maybe they know him pretty well already, I thought. Certainly the “change of command” doesn‘t seem to have affected them much. I sighed. But, then, it wouldn‘t. After all, it‘s part of the system. People come and go, but the High Lord has had his place in this society for centuries. They accept him in the same way they seem to have accepted slavery—they don‘t worry about it unless it involves them directly.

  That brought to mind a topic I had been avoiding. Slavery, I thought. I wonder if that‘s what Indomel has planned for us?

  We were in the city proper by this time, and Obilin released his grip on Tarani’s arm and moved down the line, tightening the formation to make the marching group less an obstacle to other pedestrians. Whispers followed along behind us—as did a ragtag group of kids, until Obilin barked at them.

  I reached for Tarani’s hand. She returned my grip, and even managed a quick smile. “I fear for Zefra,” she whispered.

  The thought had crossed my mind, too. It was obvious that Indomel knew the Ra’ira still in Eddarta was a phony. What had that discovery done to Tarani’s mother, whose mindpower had been boosted by her confidence that the glass bauble would give her extra strength? When we had left Eddarta, Zefra had revealed her long-hidden mindgift, had succeeded in dominating Indomel, if only temporarily.

  “Indomel doesn’t strike me as the forgiving kind,” I said, knowing it wasn’t a comforting thought for Tarani. “But he’s not stupid, either. Did you hear those men a little ways back? The Eddartans are already wondering if he’s behind his father’s death. He wouldn’t dare take any steps toward his mother—it would be like admitting he killed Pylomel, too. I doubt if Zefra is much worse off than she was before.”

  Except, I thought, that her “edge” is gone—she‘s revealed the strength of her mindgift to Indomel, and he‘ll guard against it. She‘s truly helpless now.

  And are we any better off? I wondered. Apprehension closed in around my chest, weighing it down so that it was hard to breathe. Tarani talks about escaping as if it were already done. But Indomel knows her power, too, and will take precautions. As for me—I don‘t have Keeshah, and I don‘t have Rika.

  Obilin has Rika. Sharam was too tired to notice that Obilin had a different sword, and when the others arrived, Obilin hid my sword in one of the packs.

  We do have information, I remembered, thinking of Obilin’s involvement with Molik and Worfit, and his possession of what amounted to one of the greatest treasures in Gandalara. Then the hope of bargaining with that information died. And Indomel has the means to get any information we have—the Ra’ira.

  I fought back my despair to return Tarani’s hand-squeeze. The column had spruced itself up and picked up the pace. We were beginning the long climb to Lord City. Obilin came up on the other side of Tarani and cupped his hand protectively, possessively around her elbow.

  Obilin won‘t tell Indomel Tarani‘s history, I thought. He hasn‘t given up wanting her for himself.

  5

  The small troop marched up the hill and through the arched gateway that separated the Lords of Eddarta from the society which supported them. I expected that we would be taken directly to Lord Hall, the octagonal building which commanded the center of attention immediately on entering Lord City. I suppose I was remembering the old Western movies of Ricardo’s world, and the mock trials that were set up for “hoss thieves and russlers”. I think I expected Indomel to be eager to gloat over his triumph. I know I just wanted it to be settled as fast as possible.

  But my expectations and the High Lord’s plans had little in common. Tarani and I were led along the entry path which approached Lord Hall. Instead of going in, we were taken around the periphery of the hall, under the continuous portico, to the covered walkway which led to the dwelling section assigned to the Harthim family.

  I should have expected this, I thought, as we moved along the stone-laid walk. Indomel will treat this as a personal score, rather than take a chance of exposing Tarani‘s power to other members of the Council.

  When the guards had passed into the Harthim entry, which was formed by the sides of buildings, there was a perceptible change in mood. The doorways opening from the entry led into the living quarters of the High Guard or to sentry stations. Either way, it felt like home to these guys, and I found my own mood lightening with theirs. Ever since our capture—hell, since Keeshah had left me—I had felt suspended, drifting, unable to anchor myself. Now, at least, there would be an end to that sense of disassociation. Once I learned what Indomel’s plans were, I could begin to figure out how to defeat them.

  I still had some notion that Tarani and I would be dragged into a courtroom-style audience with Indomel; he would gloat and preen and pronounce sentence; then we would either be killed (resolution of an unsatisfactory sort, I thought) or left alone to plot our escape. I was eager to find out which, to get this first step over with.

  Obilin halted the column and waved the men with dralda off in the dir
ection of the garden where I had first met Zefra. The handler was wearing a frown of concentration as the men grinned and tugged hard on the leashes of their animals. It came as no surprise that they would be glad to be rid of the beasts. But the dralda followed sullenly, dragging back against the pressure of the leashes. I glanced at Tarani, but her face was a perfectly composed mask. She had said that using her power on the dralda could produce some side effects. But what did I know about dralda? This could be their normal, “What fun, it’s back to captivity!” reaction.

  Obilin still had hold of Tarani’s arm. He waved again, and two of the guards moved in on me and started to “usher” me out of the entryway.

  I dug in my heels and brought the guards up short.

  “We’re together, Obilin. You can’t split us up like this!” I said.

  Obilin only laughed, and the guards pulled at me again.

  I drove the elbow of my good arm into one man’s midriff, then swung the same fist at the other guy’s chin. A lot of frustration found release in those simple movements. That, combined with the men’s fatigue, sent them down for the count.

  I stepped toward Obilin, but he had his sword out, and we both knew he really wanted me to advance against him.

  “No,” Tarani cried, and started toward me. Obilin’s hand on her wrist pulled her back, leaving one of her arms extended in my direction. There was pleading in her voice as she said: “There is no purpose in this. I will be safe, and so shall you.” She lowered her eyes, and a transformation took place.

  I had already surmised that some of the discussion our passing had stirred in Eddarta had centered around Tarani. Her physical resemblance to the Lords was startling. That’s not to say that no lower Eddartans had her unusual height or smooth black headfur or delicate and graceful facial planes. I had seen several individuals with similar physical characteristics, though they were more rare than I would have expected, assuming the natural passions and power of the Lords and what little I knew of genetics.

  But Tarani had something no mere combination of genes could create: style. Perhaps it was her years of cultivating a stage presence. It could have been an imitation of Zefra, who knew thoroughly the subtle uses of power. Whatever the source of the change, it was visible and effective. Tarani turned back to Obilin and the little man stepped backward in surprise. He looked around quickly, and paled slightly when he saw that we were, for this passing moment, alone.