by Andre Norton
I was walked at a brisk step down the middle of a hallway or tunnel. The glow from the stone let me see that there were no openings on either side. The walls also emitted light enough to show me, in time to slip sideways and avoid it, a length of battered armor and a huddle of dull bone and blackened flesh. Such sad relics might well give dire warning of what awaited here.
Yet, to my utter surprise, that grisly array brought a kind of laughter from me. The weapon I carried inside me was not a mere length of wellhoned steel, nor a snaplock. I was more and more certain that the same was true of the unknown adversary ahead.
He or she could possess my body and draw me to action, true; yet my mind remained my own. I dared not, however, seek in any way to discover how free, or just what Power I could summon. It was better that I play a waiting game, for I thereby made sure to waste no energy before being called to risk all.
The apparently endless tunnel made a sharp turn left and now slanted upward at a gentle slope. Not too far ahead there appeared a suggestion of a doorway in a partition blocking off half the hallway. Hitherto, except for the skeleton which might have been set as a warning, the floor of the passage could have been swept free and bare within the hour. No dust lay here, where the accumulation of ages might be expected.
That condition changed abruptly. Fanning out from the doorless portal was debris, like to the wrack left on a storm-pounded seashore. I saw broken pottery, shards lying thickly among layers of what did seem like dust, save that it was dull blue in color. I avoided a large fragment that lay in enough light where it might have been easily viewed. I would have paused to examine it, only the will that impelled me would not allow it. Yet I was certain it could only be half of a pointed head such as was worn by one of the ancient guardian figures in Zolan’s cave.
More fragments of pottery crumbled under my feet as I passed through the doorway. I clenched my hands at my breast, and the warmth of my gem battled the chill that assaulted me now.
Places exist where monstrous acts have been committed in the past. For one with the Talent, to venture to such a place awakens echoes of feelings, once human and now as shattered as the figures lying about me. Pain, loss, then rage so blistering it was like an actual torch held against the flesh—the frustrated fury of the helpless void of defense.
So intense were those emotions that I swayed, keeping my feet only with difficulty as I paced down this room bored out of rock. Benches were smashed, their occupants reduced to shards and strewn afar. Parts of figures and—something else! One of the statues, not totally destroyed, lay on its side. It was hollow—and inside still remained broken bones and more of the blue dust.
A place of death! Even as many of our people were buried in shrines, or in coffins laid in hallowed ground, here those of another race, after being given to a purifying fire, had been placed in these jars.
Once arranged in dignity, they had met with some disaster which had reduced them to dishonored dust. Was this desecration, perhaps, the result of a treasure hunt by Breakswords from the land above?
Those misty figures that had matched step with me earlier did not reappear. I believed, though, that they had strong ties with the disaster. Another opening was visible ahead, but that exit was netted across with visible cords of—light! The force possessing me weakened, until at last I could stand fast, resist the urge that still pulled me forward, but only feebly now.
I had to take a stand in this strange push-pull of will against will. And I chose to put my objection into words.
“I am here by your desire,” I said loudly, speaking firmly as if I had been summoned to answer to some charge before the queen’s own court. “I am Tamara of the House of Scorpy.” I gave my right name; now, by the laws of Power, I could demand the same revelation from this Other.
I waited, but no answer returned, by sound or Send. I therefore changed to ritual. Our Talents might not be the same, yet like Laws of Light rule all Powers.
“By sky and by earth,
By starlight and sunlight,
By water and fire.
By heart and by hand,
May Those Above Ward me
With swords of truth,
Shields of pure deeds,
For by them I exist.
Stand, Great Ones, witness—
Ashlot, Mori, Branu,
Have here my hailing!”
I was moved then to raise the gemstone on my open palm. My answer came in the snapping of those lines of light that had closed the way before me. The compulsion that had forced me to action was truly gone. I could have turned, I knew, and retraced my way. But by my own will I had bound myself to see this venture through, and my direction must be forward.
Still holding the gem as a lamp, I went on.
Sabina
NO OPENING EXISTED in the cliff that we could either feel or see. We were sure that Tam had indeed been possessed, taken—but to where? We had traveled the circles of the Great Light, but only with our mother to hand, traversing them only within a dedicated Shrine.
Weak with fatigue, burdened with fear, we sat on the ground. Cilla began to cry softly, not from any apprehension but because of our loss and her inability to see ahead in any fashion.
She leaned forward a little to pick up a sliver of stone, one end of which was pointed. Having turned it around several times, she set the sharp tip to a hands-wide space of earth from which she had swept gravel.
“By sky and by earth
By starlight and sunlight,
By water and fire,
By heart and by hand—”
As Cilla drew those ancient symbols, she gave each the ritual call to life.
The point now rested on a space free from any debris. She might be answered or she might not. It was ever so, for great labors go forward in another time and place, and such deeds still have their roots in our world. Only by Power would any interested in us reply, if such a Being deemed us worth the effort.
Our time, and the time in that Otherwhere, is not reckoned the same. We might wait only a slight movement of a clock hand—or it might be days—or never, should our plea go unanswered.
Cilla closed her eyes, but she remained alert and kept the stone pen held ready. Suddenly it began to move. No words, no archaic pattern grew. Instead—I hunched nearer, leaning as close to that patch of earth as I could.
“Yagargy!” I identified the leaf outline Cilla’s tool sketched with such care.
Her hand fell against her knee as if all its strength had drained into the wavering lines. Cilla opened her eyes to look.
“Yagargy,” she echoed. “The Power plays with us.”
Her voice was bitter. I swallowed, tasting the vileness of risen bile. Yagargy was a weapon of the Dark Ones. It bound its user to a captivity from which no freedom could ever be won. Wherever it was found in our homeland it was destroyed by fire, and any person debased enough to use it was considered already dead. The offender would be placed into a cage for all to see, while water and food were withheld until the hapless one died and his—or her—body was disposed of as foul waste.
Such doom was the worst sentence that could be given in our land; however, it was pronounced for good reason. Those enslaved by yagargy became totally the creatures of the Dark. Some said that they were indeed dead, though their bodies still walked and talked, for that which was their innermost essence was gone.
Every practitioner of herb-craft knew that poison well, even as they also knew the signs of an addict. In the end it was always a healer’s sworn evidence that condemned those so evilly indulging themselves. For the evidence of partaking of the drug, whether as juice, leaf, or powdered root, was that the user was suddenly endowed with Talent—Talent and an uncontrollable appetite for Power.
“I did not summon the Dark—” Cilla struck her stone stylus through the center of the crude drawing. “It is this accursed place!” Her head twisted from side to side, as if she would see where stood Evil to be faced.
However, it was true
that she had used a proper Calling. Had I not echoed it with her? Those of the Light could not call upon some aspect of the Dark by uttering a petition sealed to the Light. So there must be some deeper meaning to what we had both seen. Tam—no! That I would not believe. We would have known from the very beginning if our sister had been tainted, for our Talent would also have been crippled, being three in one as we were.
Suddenly I scrambled to my feet—my bag of medicaments had been left when I had fallen. Pain lanced up my leg from where it gnawed into my foot. The discomfort slowed me down, but did not stop me.
I returned, dragging the supply-sack behind, having to free it with fierce tugs when now and then it caught on stones. Cilla was on her feet, one tattered boot grinding into the picture-space as if she feared that devilish plant depicted there would root and sprout at any moment.
She looked at my burden as I lurched into the place before the cliff.
“There is no antidote for yagargy; you know that well.” She wore a sullen scowl, and anger smoldered in the eyes that met mine.
I had none of the innocent and helpful growing things I had known from early childhood. What lay in pouches in my pack were ones Zolan had indicated as useful. However, his explanations had been scanty and few, since little time had been given for such lessons. Several of my gleanings I had recognized as being perhaps of the same family as the heal-herbs native to the sane world above the Dismals. Still, I had only our host’s limited identifications to guide me.
Spreading this supply before me now, I picked up each small packet in turn, squeezing a little, then sniffing, tapping memory a word at a time as a basis for my guess. During this inspection, I took time to shed my torn boot and grease the hurt taken during my tumble.
Cilla stared for a short space, saying nothing more, her mind closed to any Send as she watched me. Then she busied herself with that length of cord we had saved out of Zolan’s pack.
I finished with my doctoring, put aside singly the powders and salves that were useless for what I would do. My mind flinched away from the final act, but my will held.
It was twilight; we paused to eat from our small store of rations, drink from our waterskins. I had reached the last of my herbs, and Cilla, making good use of the time, had cobbled patches for my boots, or I might never have hoped to continue.
Opening the flap of the last packet, I again used the skill of scent. Rare perfumes aplenty sweeten the world. Some are born of flowers, others of pressed bark or crushed leaves; still others are wrung from seeds, dried fruit. I drew a deep breath once, then another.
“Bina!” Cilla was beside me. Her crying of my name dragged me back into that place between stone and forest.
I blinked. The hour between dusk and true dark encouraged shadows to spread. However, my sight was as clear as it might be at noontide.
Cilla’s face was so close to mine that her breath touched my cheek. Then the perfume seemed to reach her. Raising her hand, she struck me full across the face, her expression one of open horror.
“Yagargy!” She snatched at the small bag, but I jerked it out of reach. She did not try to rise but scrambled backward, still facing me.
“No!” I returned. “Listen!”
I tried to add more meaning with a Send, only to meet a closed mind. Her hand had tightened now about a stone with jagged edges, and I knew she would use it as a weapon unless I could make her understand.
“Cilla—yes, this seems to be yagargy, yet it is not the plant we know. Zolan swore to me when I found it that it is used in this place because it beckons to Power, but that how one intends to use that Power makes the difference. Now we have no other recourse. If Tam has truly been possessed, she can only be freed by such force as we have never called upon before.
“You called upon the Light.” I held up the pouch. “This was the answer given. I caught no stench of Darkness; our Wards did not quake. That Power of Light to which we were sworn to at our birthing answered—”
Her face twisted. “Bina, already Evil works upon you!”
I gave a sigh. What must be done, I would do—and now.
“Great One.” I did not speak to Cilla but tilted my head to view the sky, marveling a little, for never before had I seen the coming of stars so clearly.
I placed the small parcel on the ground where Cilla had stamped flat the remains of her drawing.
“Great One,” I began again, “Queen of Day and Night, Dealer in birth and death, do I now offer a bitter end to life, or do I wield a right weapon in Your Service?”
I no longer watched my sister but kept my gaze fixed on the herb-bag. All things were possible to the Great One, yes, but would She deign to respond?
After a long moment, movement began in the packet. I saw a red stalk emerge from the hide, covered with a mixture of seeds and leaf fragments. It spiraled upward until it stood more than a hand’s breadth above its rooting. That stem writhed and bulged, to bring forth thread-thin branches, each growing thicker by a breath. The branches leaved, bore flowers of the same vibrant red. The growth now resembled in miniature the warning pictures of yagargy. Then—
Those flowers, which hung like drops of fresh blood, were not withering or ready to fall; rather they were blanching, purifying to a glorious white. As they paled so, perfume filled the air.
A sob arose, aching in my throat. I did not hesitate but reached out.
Sixteen
Tamara
Three strides I took through that once-Warded doorway. Around me the light from the gem formed a dense haze. In the beginning I could not see far beyond its limits, just enough to assure me I was no longer in a hall but rather in a chamber of some size. Something of the rage that had been fed to me earlier in the place of destruction stirred. This was an effort on the part of the unknown Power, I believed, to make me feel inferior. For every trial I had passed, another would rise.
I halted, encased in my cocoon of light. I waited.
“Lady Tamara—” No Send, but rather a voice. And one I knew. Had Zolan been the one playing this game?
I did not answer, nor did I try to find him by the Talent. However, I was almost instantly sure of something—he was not alone. The other presence could only be sensed. Still I waited.
“Sorceress—” Still his voice but, again, another’s words.
I returned no sign that they had been heard; instead, I raised the gem to my lips. I did not think the words but spoke them as if they were for the talisman and none other.
“Heart and hand
At Thy command,
Raise my sword
Of tongue, not steel.
In Thy shrine I bend the knee.”
Though I spoke hardly above the faintest of whispers, my chant sounded as clear as if I sang it from a mountaintop. The haze was no longer quiescent. It moved as might a breeze-borne mist, reaching farther out, then thinning ever more until it was gone.
Facing me was a dais of stone centered by two benches twin to those supporting the jar people. One was occupied by another jar figure whose ball-prison showed no sign of life, yet vitality was there. To the right stood Zolan.
I gave no greeting, merely stared at the jug coffin on the bench.
Climber, his rich coat shining like a jewel (though I could see no source of luminesce save the talisman), flowed about the dais to stand beside the Protector. He turned great golden eyes upon me.
“Sorceress.” A Send, that, yet none of Zolan’s projecting.
For a moment I thought I could see features form in scant lines on the ball-head.
“I am no sorceress,” I returned, keeping my voice as barren of feeling as I could. “I am of the House of Scorpy and am Talented as their women are.”
Ball Head considered my answer; then she surprised me utterly with a second mind-message.
“In the Name of Varch, Keeper of the Gate—begone!”
That order held no meaning for me, though the name she called upon stabbed like a dagger-thrust of Darkness. Zolan stirre
d, looking to the enthroned one as if he would protest.
I offered no attack in return for, above all, I needed to know, to assess what had entrapped me.
Another period of silence ensued; then came yet a third Send. I was instantly on guard. The message was foreign to what I knew and trusted. It did not translate into words but strove to place me again under compulsion.
I moved the gem from my lips to my forehead. All my life I had been aware of those points of my person upon which a Ward must be locked. The protection I wore had been battered and thinned by whatever Maclan had used to take me, but it was still in place. Now it swelled, strengthened, and I was shielded as if by a battle lord’s body-armor.
The Send was ended. After a moment, Zolan moved a step or two away from the dais and turned fully to face me, his hands up a little as if he protested.
“Pharsali means no harm.” He spoke soothingly as he might to a child. “Great evil has been done here. Those of your kind ravaged, killed. And before that—” He glanced over his shoulder to the seated figure as if asking permission.
“Before that,” he began again, “Another made a pact with the Dark, which threatens not only Those Waiting but your own kin.”
He paused for an answer.
“I am listening,” I replied tersely.
So he served as a voice for the faceless thing baked of clay, and listen I did.
What I heard then was as mystifying as a tale translated from a strange tongue, dealing with a life whose like was hard for my breed to imagine. Still, that the account was accepted as truth by both Pharsali and Zolan I understood. The truth—as they knew it.
So long ago that my people had not yet come into this land—so far back, indeed, that they even preceded the small dark ones who came before us—this race, who carefully preserved their remains in creations of their hands, traveled by some unexplained means hither. When I learned this, I wondered whether they might have come from one of the other layers of existence, which we of the Power are aware of but do not try to visit.
