Spell of the Witch World (Witch World Series)

by Andre Norton

  But such would be shrewd enough to drive hard bargains when it came to taking a wife. They might want kinship with old names, but they would also want a dowry. Would all do so? Ysmay felt a stir of a new excitement. What if—what if the most unexpected could happen?

  She thought of Uppsdale which had been her world. It was not her world any longer, it was Annet's. She believed now and was sure this was true, that she could turn her back on Uppsdale if the future offered her a place of her own.

  The fair was where it had been before, in the view of the gray stone pillar. The pillar remained from earlier days, when the men of High Hallack had not yet come to Fyndale. An older people had vanished before the coming of the Dalesmen.

  Their traces held power of a sort—which troubled the Dalesmen. To pry too deeply might unleash that which could not easily be controlled. So there was awe and respect for old monuments. And at Fyndale all who were the heads of households went directly to the pillar, laying their bared hands upon it and swearing peace, so that no feuds or old rivalries could disturb the fair.

  Fronting the pillar the booths of the merchants were set up in a wide curve. At a little distance, on fields yellow with the stubble of cut grain, sprouted the tents and flimsy leantos of the visitors. There the party from Uppsdale rode to set up temporary lodging.

  “Ten merchants’ flags, sister.” Annet, flushed of face, bright of eye, slapped her gloves into the palm of one hand. “Ten merchants of consequence, perhaps even some from Ulmsport! Think of it!”

  It had indeed been a long time since merchants of such standing had come into the upper Dales. Ysmay was as eager as the rest to see what lay in those booths. Not that she had aught to spend. But even to look would be a feast for the eyes, something to remember during drab future days. They had hardly expected to find merchants of the flag class.

  Annet, Ysmay, and the two ladies of Marchpoint went to explore the booths. What the traders had to offer might be poor after the long years of war and the failure of overseas trade, but it was still far more than they had.

  The Lady of Marchpoint had a round of silver to lay out in the booth of woven stuffs. It was to be spent, Lady Dairine proudly told Ysmay in a whisper, for a length to make at least an over-tunic, to be kept for her wedding. And the spending of such a sum took caution and bargaining.

  They studied several lengths of heavy silk. None was new, some even had small needle holes unpicked from earlier sewing. Loot, Ysmay suspected, perhaps found among the pickings when the invaders’ camps were overrun. She loved the rich coloring, but thought she would not care to wear anything made of plunder. Thought of the previous owner would have troubled her.

  There were laces too. They also had the appearance of former use. But the merchant had some bolts of less rich stuffs. These were well dyed (Ysmay was sure she recognized the colors from her own experiments) warm and excellently woven. Those she coveted more than the lengths the Lady of Marchpoint fussed over.

  It was hot in the booth, even though the front was looped up. At last she moved to the opening, looking away from the temptation of those fabrics she could not buy.

  So Ysmay witnessed the arrival of Hylle, an impressive sight, for he led in a train of men and pack-beasts to rival that of a Dale lord. He had no flag at the van to label him merchant, nor did he come close to the booths already set up, but rather waved his following to a site at one side, keeping aloof from the company of his kind.

  His men were shorter than most Dalesmen and, in the unusual bulk of clothing they had upon them, looked squat, clumsy, though they worked with speed and assurance, setting up booth poles, unrolling walls and roof of hides to be stretched over the frame. In spite of the heat, the workers wore their head hoods pulled well down, so Ysmay could not see their faces, a fact which made her uneasy.

  However the master was in full view. He had not dismounted and his mount was a good one, fully equal to any a Dale lord would be proud to bestride. He sat with one hand on his hip, the other playing with the reins, watching the efforts of his followers.

  Even in the saddle he loomed tall, and looked more warrior than merchant—though in these days a man must be both if he would protect his goods. He wore no sword, but there was a long knife at his belt. Fastened to his saddle was a light battle mace.

  Unlike his followers he had bared his head, his riding cap hanging from his saddle horn. His hair was very dark and his face curiously pale for a man out in all weathers on the roads. He was not handsome by Dale standards, yet once you had looked upon him, you could not easily turn your eyes away. Rather you found yourself scanning him intently as if you could so read what manner of man he was.

  He had sharp features, a mouth set straight as if used little to expressing emotion, black brows across his nose to form a single bar. The color of his eyes Ysmay could not see, for his lids drooped as if he were sleepy. Yet she did not doubt that he saw all about him, and had thoughts concerning what he saw.

  There was that which hinted that he wore an outer self which was not the same as his spirit. Ysmay decided her fancies must be more controlled—still the impression clung that here was a man few would ever know. She believed he would be worth knowing nonetheless. She felt heat rising in her cheeks, and inner disturbance she had not known before.

  Ysmay turned sharply away, aware her stare had been too intent. She hurried back to the others and stood gazing at the length of rose silk the Lady of March-point had chosen, not seeing a thread of it.

  They did not visit Hylle's booth, since he had not opened for business. It was not until they ate their evening meal that Ysmay learned what wares he had brought to the fair and that his name was Hylle.

  “From the north,” Gyrerd said. “Amber—they say a real treasure in amber. But he has chosen ill. I do not believe there is enough coin here to buy more than two beads of it! His name is Hylle, but his men are a queer crew—keeping to themselves, not even sending for a jug of Mamer's autumn ale.”

  Amber! Ysmay's hand sought the amulet beneath her bodice. Yes, this merchant Hylle would find few here to buy such. But like enough he was on his way to Ulmsport and had only stopped along the road, hearing of the fair. Amber—she knew where her own piece had come from—the cleft of a hill-born stream. Once there had been more. Fifty years ago, amber had brought riches to Uppsdale. But that was before a fall of rock had sealed the source.

  She smiled ruefully. Were that not so, why, she would be the one to wear not only amber, but gold. She would not have to haggle for a length of old, needle-pricked silk from some looter's spoil—but that barren hillside which now hid the amber for all time had been sealed even to Ysmay's mother. And on her mother's dying it had come to her. Nothing was there now but stone and a few stunted trees, and most had forgotten that a piece of ground, without price or use, was hers.

  “Amber—” Annet repeated, her eyes shining as they had when she had earlier looked upon the silks. “My lord, amber is a powerful thing, it can cure. The Ladies of Grayford had a necklet of amber and those who were taken with evils in the throat wore it with a blessing so it wrought their cure. Yet it is beautiful also, like honey grown hard, so its sweetness abides. Let us go and look upon this Hylle's wares!”

  Gyrerd laughed. “My dear lady, such sweetness is beyond the purse at my belt. I might well pledge the whole of Uppsdale and not raise enough to buy such a necklet as you spoke of.”

  Ysmay's hand tightened. For, while the amulet was hers, if Annet saw it, could Ysmay continue to keep it? Annet had taken all else, but this was not for her grasping hands.

  “He will find few buyers here,” Annet said thoughtfully. “But if he sets up a booth, he must show what he has. And maybe—with so few buyers—”

  “You think he will ask less? Perhaps you are right, my lady. Only do not make big eyes and sigh, for there is no hope. Not because I would say you nay for a whim, but because I have no choice.”

  Though the dark of twilight was already here they went to where Hylle's boot
h was marked by blazing torches, tended by two of his men, still keeping their hoods, their faces shadowed.

  As they passed one man, Ysmay tried to see him better, but could not distinguish his features. She felt only a shrinking as one might from something misshapen, not by the whim of nature, but because of inner blight. Again she chid herself for being fanciful and hurried after the others.

  2

  RICH COLOR was here, not in draped lengths of material, but laid out on tables. Here was worked amber in such quantity as Ysmay would not have believed existed.

  Nor was it all the honey amber. It ranged through subtle shades, each laid on a backing to enhance it —pale, near to white, bright yellow of butter, reddish, bluish, greenish. And it was wrought into necklaces, armlets, bow-guards, girdles, set into the hilts of swords and knives, in rings, in circlets for the head. There were larger pieces which were bowls or goblets, or small figures of gods and demons— Facing that display the party from Uppsdale came to a halt, staring as fieldworkers might do if suddenly transported to the feast hall of a lord.

  “Welcome, Lord, Ladies.” Hylle bowed, not in the obeisant greeting of a merchant, but as though he dealt equal to equal. He clapped his hands and two of his hooded men shambled out to put stools to the middle table. Another brought a tray of cups with a greeting drink.

  Ysmay saw the uncertainty of her brother. He was jealous of his rank, claimed due reverence from a shieldless man. Still he accepted a cup, drank to Hylle, and the women did likewise.

  The drink was spicy rather than sweet and Ysmay held it in her mouth, trying to guess the mixture of herbs in its making. But with all her learning she could not be sure. Still holding the cup she sat content to look about.

  There must be more than a High Lord's hold ransom in value here and she wondered at the folly— or courage—of a man venturing overland with this in such unsettled times. Folly? She looked at Hylle. No folly in his face, only courage and something else, an assurance close to arrogance.

  “Riches, Merchant.” She had missed the first of Gyrerd's speech. “Too rich for us here. We have felt the hard hand of the invader too heavily to make good customers.”

  “War is harsh.” Hylle's voice was low but deep. “It spares no man, even the victors. And in the time of war, trade is deeply wounded. It has been many years since Quayth's amber has been shown in any market place. So to water trade that it may sprout and grow, prices are lower—even for such as this—” He caught up a necklace of many pendants.

  Ysmay heard a sigh from Annet. Her own hunger awoke also. Yet—there was something— She pressed her hand once again on Gunnora's charm and, as she did so, she felt sudden distaste for what she saw, perhaps because there was so much of it. Heaped so together its beauty seemed belittled, diminished.

  “Quayth?” Gyrerd made of that name a question.

  “To the north, my lord. As you know amber is found on the shore of the sea in certain places, or along streams. The ignorant say it is the casting of dragons, but that is not so. Rather is it a hardened gum exuded from trees thousands of seasons dead. In Quayth there must once have been a mighty forest of such trees, for amber is easily found—easily I say in comparison to other places.

  “Also you see here the fruit of many years of collection when because of the war it could not be offered generally for sale. So that this is more than would be in one place in the natural order of things.”

  He replaced the necklace and picked up a broad pendant wrought into a shape Ysmay could not clearly see.

  “Now here you have a talisman of Thunder Shield, an older piece. See you the difference?” He held it closer to an armlet. “The older it is, the longer exposed to the air and handling, the more amber takes on a deeper and richer coloring.”

  He put back the armlet but continued to hold the pendant. There was a slight change in his expression. It seemed to Ysmay that he was looking with a searching intensity at Gyrerd, and then to Annet. Finally those dark eyes, whose color she could not name, were turned in her direction, as if to draw from her, even against her will an answer to some unknown question.

  “Quayth seems to be well favored,” Gyrerd said. “Better by far than Uppsdale in our grandfather's time.”

  Hylle's eyes swung from Ysmay. She had been uncomfortable, wondering what there was about her to catch and hold his attention.

  “Uppsdale, my lord?” Hylle's tone invited an explanation.

  “There was a rock cut which yielded some amber, enough to make life smoother,” Gyrerd replied. “But later a fall of rock, such a slide as no man could dig through, sealed it. If any remains there it is useless as if it lay at the bottom of the sea.”

  “A sad loss, my lord,” nodded Hylle.

  Annet rose from her stool, wandered from table to table. Now and then she put forth a finger to touch a necklace, a skillfully wrought circlet of amber flowers and leaves for the hair. But Ysmay stayed where she was, watching Hylle from beneath lowered lids. She knew that he was as aware of her as she of him.

  There was a heady excitement in this centering upon a man. Yet he was only a merchant

  At last they left and, when they were out of the booth, Ysmay drew a deep breath. One of the hooded servants was detaching a burned torch from its standard to replace it. His hands were covered with gloves which was strange, for those were only worn by commoners in the coldest weather. But strangest of all was the fact that each finger and thumb tip was provided with a hooked claw extending for a noticeable distance, as if to resemble those of a beast of prey. Ysmay could not conceive of any reason to so embellish a hand covering. Dalesmen had many superstitions. Protective amulets were common, was there not one such about her neck? Suppose these strangers wore as protective magic the claws of some animal? With this answer her mind was more at ease.

  But she could not forget how Hylle had stared at her. She discovered that her answering excitement lingered. So that she held his face in mind and tried also to picture the Quayth from which he had come and what his life must be there.

  Vaguely she heard Annet prattle of the necklace. And then came a single sentence which awoke her abruptly from her dream.

  “But my lord, remains there nothing then of the amber found at Uppsdale? Surely your grandfather did not barter it all!”

  “It went during the lean years, sweetling. I remember that my mother had an amulet left once—”

  Ysmay's hand was to her breast in protection. Annet had taken all else, and that she had had to yield. But Gunnora's charm was hers! And she would fight for it.

  “But is it true that the place where it came from could not be reopened—” Annet persisted.

  “Too true. My father, when it was sure war would come, needed treasure for weapons. He brought in a man used to the iron mines of the South Ridges, paying well for his opinion. But the fellow swore no skill could shift that rock fall.”

  Ysmay felt small relief. At least Annet did not ask more about remaining amber. She excused herself and went to her pallet.

  But not to sleep easily. When she did it was with her hand closed protectively about Gunnora's amulet. She dreamed, but when she awoke she could not remember those dreams, though she carried into waking the feeling they had been important.

  The Lady of Marchpoint and Dairine came in the morning, excited over Hylle's wares. Again they had hard money to lay out. And seeing Annet's mouth droop, Gyrerd hacked one of the silver rings from his sword belt.

  “If he lays his prices low to gain a market,” he said, “get you a-fairing. More than this I cannot do.”

  Annet said her thanks quickly. Experience had taught her how far her demands might go.

  So, somewhat against her will, Ysmay returned to Hylle's booth. This time his hooded servants were not visible. But within the door, on a stool, squatted a woman of strange aspect.

  She was thick of body, her round head seeming to rest directly on her shoulders, as if she possessed no neck. Like the hooded men, she was dressed in a robe of drab h
ue but hers was patterned over with symbols in thick black-and-white yarn.

  Her girdle was of the same black and white mingled together. Now her fat hands rested on her knees, palms up as if she waited for alms, and she stared into them. She might have been holding a scroll from which she read.

  Strings of coarse yellow hair hung from under a veil fastened with braiding. Her face was broad, with a straggling of hairs on the upper lip and along the paunchy jaw.

  If she had been left as guardian of the booth, she was a poor one, for she did not look up as the ladies approached, but continued to stare absorbedly at her empty hands. Only when Ysmay passed her, did she raise her eyes.

  “Fortunes, fair ladies.” Her voice was in contrast to her lumpish, toadlike body, being soft and singsong.

  “A reading of pins on the Stone of Esinore, or, if you fancy, the foretelling of what the Elder Gods have written on your hands.”

  Annet shook her head impatiently. At another time she might have been tempted. Now she had silver and a chance to spend it to the best of her bargaining powers. Nor was Ysmay ready to listen. That there were true seeresses, no one doubted. But she did not think this repulsive hag was one.

  “Trust that which you wear, Lady—” For the first time the woman looked directly at her. The soft voice was very low, plainly meant for her alone.

  And Ysmay found herself, against her will, listening. Hylle came out of the shadows.

  “Ninque seems to have a message for you, Lady. She is a true seeress, esteemed in Quayth.”

  This was not Quayth, Ysmay thought. Seeress or no, I do not want to listen to her. Yet she sat on the stool Hylle produced, to find herself eye to eye with the woman.

  “Your hand upon mine, Lady, so that I may read what lies there.”

  Ysmay's hand half moved to obey. Then she jerked back, her disgust for the woman overriding whatever spell the other cast. The woman showed no emotion, only her eyes continued to hold Ysmay's.