Again I heard that sweet, childish, sexless voice.
“Will you drink, Lord Ganelon? Or eat?”
I threw back the gossamer robe covering me and sat up. I was wearing a thin tunic of silvery softness, and trunks of the same material. Edeyrn apparently had not moved, but a drapery swung apart in the wall, and a man came silently in, bearing a covered tray.
Sight of him was reassuring. He was a big man, sturdily muscled, and under a plumed Etruscan-styled helmet his face was tanned and strong. I thought so till I met his eyes. They were blue pools in which horror had drowned. An ancient fear, so familiar that it was almost submerged, lay deep in his gaze.
Silently he served me and in silence withdrew.
Edeyrn nodded toward the tray.
“Eat and drink. You will be stronger, Lord Ganelon.”
There were meats and bread, of a sort, and a glass of colorless liquid that was not water, as I found on sampling it. I took a sip, set down the chalice, and scowled at Edeyrn.
“I gather that I’m not insane,” I said.
“You are not. Your soul has been elsewhere—you have been in exile—but you are home again now.”
“In Caer Llyr?” I asked, without quite knowing why.
Edeyrn shook the saffron robes.
“No. But you must remember?”
“I remember nothing. Who are you? What’s happened to me?”
“You know that you are Ganelon?”
“My name’s Edward Bond.”
“Yet you almost remembered—at the Need-fire,” Edeyrn said. “This will take time. And there is danger always. Who am I? I am Edeyrn—who serves the Coven.”
“Are you—”
“A woman,” she said, in that childish, sweet voice, laughing a little. “A very old woman, the oldest of the Coven now, except for one. And as for the Coven, it has shrunk from its original thirteen. There is Medea, of course, Lord Matholch—” I remembered the wolf—“Ghast Rhymi, who has more power than any of us, but is too old to use it And you, Lord Ganelon, or Edward Bond, as you name yourself. Five of us in all now. Once there were hundreds, but even I cannot remember that time, though Ghast Rhymi can, if he would.”
I put my head in my hands.
“Good heavens, I don’t know! Your words mean nothing to me. I don’t even know where I am!”
“Listen,” she said, and I felt a soft touch on my shoulder. “You must understand this. You have lost your memories.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is true, Lord Ganelon. Your true memories were erased, and you were given artificial ones. All you think you recall now, of your life on the Earth-world—all that is false. It did not happen. At least, not to you.”
“The Earth-world? I’m not on Earth?”
“This is a different world,” she said. “But it is your own world. You came from here originally. The Rebels, our enemies, exiled you and changed your memories.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Come here,” Edeyrn said, and went to the window. She touched something, and the pane grew transparent. I looked over her shrouded head at a landscape I had never seen before.
Or had I?
UNDER a dull, crimson sun the rolling forest below lay bathed in bloody light I was looking down from a considerable height, and could not make out details, but it seemed to me that the trees were oddly shaped and that they were moving. A river ran toward distant hills. A few white towers rose from the forest. That was all. Yet the scarlet, huge sun had told me enough. This was not the Earth I knew.
“Another planet?”
“More than that,” she said. “Few in the Dark World know this. But I know—and there are some others who have learned, unluckily for you. There are worlds of probability, divergent in the stream of time, but identical almost, until the branches diverge too far.”
“I don’t understand that.”
“Worlds coexistent in time and space—but separated by another dimension, the variant of probability. This is the world that might have been yours had something not happened, long ago. Originally the Dark World and the Earth-world were one, in space and time. Then a decision was made—a very vital decision, though I am not sure what it was. From that point the time-stream branched, and two variant worlds existed where there had been only one before.
“They were utterly identical at first, except that in one of them the key decision had not been made. The results were very different. It happened hundreds of years ago, but the two variant worlds are still close together in the time stream. Eventually they will drift farther apart, and grow less like each other. Meanwhile, they are similar, so much so that a man on the Earth-world may have his twin in the Dark World.”
“His twin?”
“The man he might have been, had the key decision not been made ages ago in his world. Yes, twins, Ganelon—Edward Bond. Do you understand now?”
I returned to the couch and sat there, frowning.
“Two worlds, coexistent. I can understand that, yes. But I think you mean more—that a double for me exists somewhere.”
“You were born in the Dark World. Your double, the true Edward Bond, was born on Earth. But we have enemies here, woods-runners, rebels, and they have stolen enough knowledge to bridge the gulf between time-variants. We ourselves learned the method only lately, though once it was well-known here, among the Coven.
“The rebels reached out across the gulf and sent you—sent Ganelon—into the Earth-world, so that Edward Bond could come here, among them. They—”
“But why?” I interrupted. “What reason could they have for that?”
Edeyrn turned her hooded head toward me, and I felt, not for the first time, a strange, remote chill as she fixed her unseen gaze upon my face.
“What reason?” she echoed in her sweet, cool voice. “Think, Ganelon. See if you remember.”
I thought. I closed my eyes and tried to submerge my conscious mind, to let the memories of Ganelon rise up to the surface if they were there at all. I could not yet accept this preposterous thought in its entirety, but certainly it would explain a great deal if it were true. It would even explain—I realized suddenly—that strange blanking out in the plane over the Sumatra jungle, that moment from which everything had seemed so wrong.
Perhaps that was the moment when Edward Bond left Earth, and Ganelon took his place—both twins too stunned and helpless at the change to know what had happened, or to understand.
But this was impossible!
“I don’t remember!” I said harshly. “It can’t have happened. I know who I am! I know everything that ever happened to Edward Bond. You can’t tell me that all that is only illusion. It’s too clear, too real!”
“Ganelon, Ganelon,” Edeyrn crooned to me, a smile in her voice. “Think of the rebel tribes. Try, Ganelon. Try to remember why they did what they did to you. The woods-runners, Ganelon—the disobedient little men in green. The hateful men who threatened us. Ganelon, surely you remember!”
It may have been a form of hypnotism. I thought of that later. But at that moment, a picture did swim into my mind. I could see the green-clad swarms moving through the woods, and the sight of them made me hot with sudden anger. For that instant I was Ganelon, and a great and powerful lord, defied by these underlings not fit to tie my shoe.
“Of course you hated them,” murmured Edeyrn. She may have seen the look on my face. I felt the stiffness of an unfamiliar twist of feature as she spoke. I had straightened where I sat, and my shoulders had gone back arrogantly, my lip curling a feeling of scorn. So perhaps she did not read my mind at all. What I thought was plain in my face and bearing.
“Of course you punished them when you could,” she went on. “It was your right and duty. But they duped you, Ganelon. They were cleverer than you. They found a door that would turn on a temporal axis and thrust you into another world. On the far side of the door was Edward Bond who did not hate them. So they opened the door.”
EDEYRN’S voice r
ose slightly and in it I detected a note of mockery.
“False memories, false memories, Ganelon. You put on Edward Bond’s past when you put on his identity. But he came into our world as he was, free of any knowledge of Ganelon. He has given us much trouble, my friend, and much bewilderment. At first we did not guess what had gone wrong. It seemed to us that as Ganelon vanished from our Coven, a strange new Ganelon appeared among the rebels, organizing them to fight against his own people.” She laughed softly. “We had to rouse Ghast Rhymi from his sleep to aid us. But in the end, learning the method of door-opening, we came to Earth and searched for you, and found you. And brought you back. This is your world, Lord Ganelon! Will you accept it?”
I shook my head dizzily.
“It isn’t real. I’m still Edward Bond.”
“We can bring back your true memories. And we will. They came to the surface for a moment, I think, just now. But it will take time. Meanwhile, you are one of the Coven, and Edward Bond is back upon Earth in his old place. Remembering—” She laughed softly. “Remembering, I am sure, all he left undone here. But helpless to return, or meddle again in what does not concern him. But we have needed you, Ganelon. How badly we have needed you!”
“What can I do? I’m Edward Bond.”
“Ganelon can do much—when he remembers. The Coven has fallen upon evil days. Once we were thirteen. Once there were other Covens to join us in our Sabbats. Once we ruled this whole world, under Great Llyr. But Llyr is falling asleep now. He draws farther and farther away from his worshippers. By degrees the Dark World has fallen into savagery. And, of all the Covens, only we remain, a broken circle, dwelling close to Caer Llyr where the Great One sleeps beyond his Golden Window.” She fell silent for a moment.
“Sometimes I think that Llyr does not sleep at all,” she said. “I think he is withdrawing, little by little, into some farther world, losing his interest in us whom he created. But he returns!” She laughed. “Yes, he returns when the sacrifices stand before his Window. And so long as he comes back, the Coven has power to force its will upon the Dark World.
“But day by day the forest rebels grow stronger, Ganelon. With our help, you were gathering power to oppose them—when you vanished. We needed you then, and we need you more than ever now. You are one of the Coven, perhaps the greatest of us all. With Matholch you were—”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “I’m still confused. Matholch? Was he the wolf I saw?”
“He was.”
“You spoke of him as though he were a man.”
“He is a man—at times. He is lycanthropic. A shape-changer.”
“A werewolf? That’s impossible. It’s a myth, a bit of crazy folklore.”
“What started the myth?” Edeyrn asked. “Long ago, there were many gateways opened between the Dark World and Earth. On Earth, memories of those days survive as superstitious tales. Folklore. But with roots in reality.”
“It’s superstition, nothing else,” I said flatly. “You actually mean that werewolves, vampires and all that, exist.”
“Ghast Rhymi could tell you more of this than I can. But we cannot wake him for such a matter. Perhaps I—well, listen. The body is composed of cells. These are adaptable to some extent. When they are made even more adaptable, when metabolism is accelerated sporadically, werewolves come into being.”
The sweet, sexless child’s voice spoke on from the shadow of the hood. I began to understand a little. On Earth, college biology had showed me instances of cells run wild—malignant tumors and the like. And there were many cases of “wolf-men.” with thick hair growing like a pelt over them. If the cells could adapt themselves quickly, strange things might occur.
But the bones? Specialized osseous tissue, not the rigidly brittle bones of the normal man. A physiological structure that could, theoretically, so alter itself that it would be wolf instead of man, was an astounding theory!
“Part of it is illusion, of course,” Edeyrn said. “Matholch is not as bestial in form as he seems. Yet he is a shape-changer, and his form does alter.”
“But how?” I asked. “How did he get this power?”
For the first time Edeyrn seemed to hesitate. “He is—a mutation. There are many mutations among us, here in the Dark World. Some are in the Coven, but others are elsewhere.”
“Are you a mutation?” I asked her.
“Yes.”
“A—shape-changer?”
“No,” Edeyrn said, and the thin body under the robe seemed to shake a little. “No, I cannot change my shape, Lord Ganelon. You do not remember my—my powers?”
“I do not.”
“Yet you may find them useful when the Rebels strike again,” she said slowly. “Yes, there are mutations among us, and perhaps that is the chief reason why the probability-rift came ages ago. There are no mutants on Earth—at least not of our type. Matholch is not the only one.”
“Am I a mutant?” I asked very softly.
E cowled head shook.
“No. For no mutant may be sealed to Llyr. As you have been sealed. One of the Coven must know the key to Caer Llyr.”
The cold breath of fear touched me again. No, not fear. Horror, the deadly, monstrous breathlessness that always took me when the name of Llyr was mentioned.
I forced myself to say, “Who is Llyr?”
There was a long silence.
“Who speaks of Llyr?” a deep voice behind me asked. “Better not to lift that veil, Edeyrn!”
“Yet it may be necessary,” Edeyrn said.
I turned, and saw, framed against the dark portiere, the rangy, whipcord figure of a man, clad as I was in tunic and trunks. His red, pointed beard jutted; the half-snarling curve of his full lips reminded me of something. Agile grace was in every line of his wiry body.
Yellow eyes watched me with wry amusement.
“Pray it may not be necessary,” the man said. “Well, Lord Ganelon? Have you forgotten me, too?”
“He has forgotten you. Matholch,” Edeyrn said. “At least in this form!”
Matholch—the wolf! The shape-changer! He grinned.
“It is Sabbat tonight,” he said. “The Lord Ganelon must be prepared for it. Also, I think there will be trouble. However, that is Medea’s business, and she asks if Ganelon is awake. Since he is, let us see her now.”
“Will you go with Matholch?” Edeyrn asked me.
“I suppose so,” I said. The red-beard grinned again.
“Ai, you have forgotten, Ganelon! In the old days you’d never have trusted me behind your back with a dagger.”
“You always knew better than to strike,” Edeyrn said. “If Ganelon ever called on Llyr, it would be unfortunate for you!”
“Well, I joked,” Matholch said carelessly. “My enemies must be strong enough to give me a fight so I’ll wait till your memory comes back, Lord Ganelon. Meanwhile the Coven has its back to the wall, and I need you as badly as you need me. Will you come?”
“Go with him,” Edeyrn said. “You are in no danger—wolf’s bark is worse than wolf’s bite—even though this is not Caer Llyr.”
I thought I sensed a hidden threat in her words. Matholch shrugged and held the curtain aside to let me pass.
“Few dare to threaten a shape-changer,” he said over his shoulder.
“I dare,” Edeyrn said, from the enigmatic shadows of her saffron cowl. And I remembered that she was a mutant too—though not a lycanthrope, like the red-bearded werewolf striding beside me along the vaulted passage.
What was—Edeyrn?
CHAPTER IV
Matholch—and Medea
UP TO NOW the true wonder of the situation had not really touched me yet. The anaesthesia of shock had dulled me. As a soldier—caught in the white light of a flare dropped from an overhead plane—freezes into immobility, so my mind still remained passive. Only superficial thoughts were moving there, as though, by concentration on immediate needs, I could eliminate the incredible fact that I was not on the familiar, solid ground of E
arth.
But it was more than this. There was a curious, indefinable familiarity about these groined, pale-walled halls through which I strode beside Matholch, as there had been a queer familiarity about the twilit landscape stretching to forested distance beneath the window of my room.
Edeyrn—Medea—the Coven.
The names had significance, like words in a language I had once known well, but had forgotten.
The half-loping, swift walk of Matholch, the easy swing of his muscular shoulders, the snarling smile on his red-bearded lips—these were not new to me.
He watched me furtively out of his yellow eyes. Once we paused before a red-figured drapery, and Matholch, hesitating, thrust the curtain aside and gestured me forward.
I took one step—and stopped. I looked at him.
He nodded as though satisfied. Yet there was still a question in his face.
“So you remember a little, eh? Enough to know that this isn’t the way to Medea. However, come along, for a moment. I want to talk to you.”
As I followed him up a winding stair, I suddenly realized that he had not spoken in English. But I had understood him, as I had understood Edeyrn and Medea.
Ganelon?
We were in a tower room, walled with transparent panes. There was a smoky, sour odor in the air, and gray tendrils coiled up from a brazier set in a tripod in the middle of the chamber. Matholch gestured me to one of the couches by the windows. He dropped carelessly beside me.
“I wonder how much you remember,” he said.
I shook my head.
“Not much. Enough not to be too—trusting.”
“The artificial Earth-memories are still strong, then. Ghast Rhymi said you would remember eventually, but that it would take time. The false writing on the slate of your mind will fade, and the old, true memories will come back. After a while.”
Like a palimpsest, I thought—manuscript with two writings upon its parchment. But Ganelon was still a stranger; I was still Edward Bond.
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