by Andre Norton
A speck of spittle gathered in the corner of her lips. "Two came back, and with a tale. Todo lost, lost. Now they summon this Outlander slug to answer—"
"Your tongue is sharp, Pulta. Such tongues have been trimmed beforetimes. If there needs be any talk by the fire concerning my household, then let it be said by the heads of hearths, and publicly. They do not need to send you as messenger. There are duties that are mine, even as you weave and do tasks about your own hearth." She stared down from her greater height at the woman. "Do you question when aid is summoned? Shall I believe that the kin gathered here wishes me to go forth, to call in—" And her voice changed. No recognizable words came from her—rather, a grunting sound that startled Ashen, for in part, it caused the memory of the under-thing, Gulper, on its hunt, to flash into her mind.
Pulta took a step back. "You have many mysteries. How many for Bog- folk, Zazar?
You took Kazi, she been promised to feed the under-ones. Then you have abomination indeed. Her. Outlander demon spawn. We know trouble coming. You stand to our defense, or you let us all go to darkness?" She gathered her reed shawl closer about her shoulders.
"So." Zazar appeared in no way ruffled. "Yes, you are correct. Trouble comes. Do you not understand that such as I would sense that long before your kin could mouth a warning shout? Remember this, Pulta. I have at my command powers of a sort that Joal and his blood can never hope to summon. You came pretending to give a warning, but your errand was otherwise. Therefore, you may tell him, since you have come to seek knowledge, that I do not command spears and bone-knives, but I am not to be reckoned the less because of that. There are weapons, and weapons—and this much you may also say. This day I will do what I must. Now go. It will begin to rain in earnest before you reach your own hearth."
Pulta's mouth worked as if she would make a retort as soon as she could think of one, but Zazar stared her down. The woman grunted and made her way to the curtain, passing into the daylight. Dull gray that was, and they could now hear both rising wind and the first slaps of heavy raindrops against the roof. Zazar closed the door-curtain behind her. Then she threw aside the covering over the pack and busied herself with its straps and fastenings.
Ashen stowed the trail biscuits into a thickly woven box lined with lupper-skin, so tight that no rain could find its way in to spoil them. On top of these she placed packets of dried briar fruit, trail mixture, and boiled luppers' eggs.
"Now," Zazar said, giving her a peculiar look. "Since the rain favors us, we do not wait, Ashen Deathdaughter. I shall see you on your way, one that only you will walk as of this day." She went to a rack on the wall and brought down a supple belt of snakeskin from which hung a bone blade, discolored by age, but
Ashen recognized it as one of Zazar's treasures.
The Wysen-wyf passed this to Ashen. As the girl fastened the belt about her slender waist, Zazar gestured and crooned aloud in a singsong fashion that hinted of speech, one that Ashen could not understand.
Then the Wysen-wyf picked up her own cloak while Ashen strapped on the pack.
Zazar smiled faintly again as she waved the girl toward the door- curtain. "You have wondered, now maybe you shall know."
The rain was coming down with full fury. It beat at them as they left the shelter of the cottage, and for a moment, Ashen was greatly tempted to go back inside. This was such a day that all prudent ones kept to the hearthside. Yet
Ashen did not flinch. They could not have done better, even under cover of night, to go unmarked. If their departure was noted by any in the cluster of crude huts, there was no sign of it. The path Zazar followed was not the one she had taken three days earlier, when Ashen had made her most recent, disastrous attempt to track the Wysen-wyf. This time they were heading, as far as the girl could determine, north rather than west.
As they traveled, the rain continued to beat steadily, and time and time again, they had to change course to skirt rising pools of water, fed from many streams.
When they reached the far northern side of the isle on which the settlement was situated, Ashen saw what she would have accepted as an unpassable barrier.
Athwart their track lay a vast stretch of rain-dappled water. There seemed no hope of crossing. Somewhere under this swollen surface was one of the feared dark pools wherein lurked certain death—a death courted by the Bog- folk, who fed into it not only captives and the refuse from their meals, but also any child of their own bearing who was defective in their judgment.
To the west, a tall tangle of willows fringed this pool, and it was toward this that Zazar headed. She walked with the constant care of the Bog- folk, but she did so at a good pace. Ashen matched her, close on her heels, marking just where the Wysen-wyf trod, for the pack weighed heavily on her. She feared that a misstep could send her into a treacherous spot that would suck her down before
Zazar was even aware of any danger.
Zazar hand-signaled and Ashen stopped abruptly, waiting for further orders. She noted that Zazar made no attempt to hack away any of the rank growth; rather, it appeared to part before her, almost as if on some unheard demand. Now Ashen could see a narrow tunnel where branches met raggedly overhead and, a short space away, the open water again. Zazar groped until she located a partially hidden rope. She heaved vigorously and out from the willow branches there lurched with some force one of the common, shallow Bog-craft.
The vegetation that concealed it had kept the rain from gathering in its hull, at least not to any dangerous extent. Zazar gestured and Ashen sidled past her, clambering into the boat awkwardly, the pack overbalanced her. She sat facing
Zazar.
The Wysen-wyf settled herself in the stern and shrugged her cloak up about her shoulders. From the side of their transport, she freed a pole and a paddle.
The latter she used to push out into the open and then, with expert skill, sent them angling across the water, still to the northwest. Bog- folk grew up with their boats, and the tricks to gain passage across the larger stretches of water were lessons early learned. And Zazar—whose age Ashen still had never been able to guess—had the expertise of the finest of hunters.
By now, the rain had lessened a little. Their clothing was soggy, and a mist seemed to form about them as they moved. However, the journey was not a long one, for Zazar soon sent the craft toward what looked like another break in the overgrown edge of the pool, nearly across from the point where they had entered.
Once more it seemed to Ashen that this waterway opened strangely as they continued. This new way was also like a trough from which water ran back into the very land itself, and the edges of the cut were banked in rank growth that half veiled the way ahead. Ashen turned her head, as far as the bulk of the pack would permit, to see what lay beyond.
Zazar put aside the paddle, rose to her feet, and took up the pole. They were well within the sides of the cut now, and yet the overgrown vegetation continued to open before them, a watery trail.
Zazar wielded the pole with practiced vigor and their progress continued. Then
Ashen noted a change in the banks beside them. The thick tangle of growth was here and there pierced by what could only be standing stones, tilted at angles, and yet not unlike those she had seen in the place of the water monster. Walls?
Yes, certainly, but what to wall in—or what to keep out?
Her hands went to her belt, and she grasped the hilt of the knife Zazar had given her. Though those walls certainly had been there for a long time, they had been placed with a purpose, and after her encounter at the pool of the hillock, she wanted no more attention from what might dwell behind them or under the boat.
They came at last to another wonder, or so it seemed to Ashen. Here the walls ended abruptly with a large stone on either side like the frames of a doorway, and before them again lay a stretch of open water.
Another pool, the girl thought with some dismay. One could think much during such a journey, with no assurance from her companion of where they were going and why,
for Zazar had not spoken since leaving the village.
What faced them across that stretch of open water, however, was a huge hillock, made not of land once water-soaked, but rather, entirely of stones. This was nothing of nature's building, Ashen was sure, even as she had been sure in the place of the stone monster. Here, as there, for all its tumbled aspect, there was a certain conformity to the setting of the stones.
They rose high enough that those in the boat could see only the uneven line of the top, but not what lay beyond. Zazar's poling became slower and she caught her breath between each push. Ashen half expected the pole to be caught in the thick mud of the bottom level, but it was not.
For the first time since the start of their journey, the Wysen-wyf broke her silence. "Ready yourself!" She indicated an outthrust of rock, one that presented a reasonably smooth surface. "Loose the pack and when I say, toss it with all your might onto those stones."
Ashen unlatched and dropped her cloak, then hurriedly pulled at buckles and thongs, drawing the pack around until it lay on her knees.
"Now!"
Zazar had managed to bring them very close to the stones. Ashen was in an awkward position for throwing, but she heaved and swung the heavy pack. More by luck than by design, it came to rest on the very edge of the rocky platform.
Zazar gave a last vigorous shove with the pole, and the craft swung sidewise to grate against the rocks. Ashen needed no instructions this time. She scrambled up and crawled awkwardly from the boat to the nearest even-surfaced rock.
"Hold!"
Ashen was still on her hands and knees. She seized the loop of heavy line the
Wysen-wyf threw, then braced herself to keep the boat from drifting away as
Zazar clambered ashore in turn. Then Zazar thrust the pole with practiced ease into a crevice between two of the rocks and looped the rope tightly around it, providing safe anchorage.
"Up!"
Zazar, who had always been talkative before, seemed unwilling to use many words.
She jerked her thumb to indicate they must climb to the top of the ragged barrier. In one spot, these time-battered blocks were stacked in such a pattern that someone could easily enough step from one to the next higher.
"Stairs."
It was a word unknown to Ashen. Balancing the pack she had not stopped to strap on, she toiled along in Zazar's wake until she reached the top. She turned and faced landward, eager to see what she could of the place. Surprise turned to awe. Here was an old world, but new to one who had spent all her days in one of the crude Bog huts. Here there had plainly been buildings, though roofs had long since vanished and piles of rubble-filled passageways between the structures.
There was indeed a pattern such as spoke purpose. The ruins extended for some distance until she could just see the rise of what had to be the rest of the wall, the curling length of which was concealed beyond the place where she now stood.
Zazar gestured toward the mass of rubble below. "Galinth."
"Galinth?" Ashen repeated. Another word she had never heard before. Zazar did not elaborate.
Instead, she had raised both her hands palm out, and the words she spoke in a sonorous singsong were as before, unintelligible. It was, Ashen thought, as if the Wysen-wyf were announcing something of importance. Or was she asking for refuge here? If so, asking whom?
This improbable stone place—she did not know the word for it—that certainly had no likeness to any Bog dwellings was, as far as Ashen could see, deserted.
Nevertheless, she considered the many rock piles uneasily. There were a number of scaled things that might seek out lodging here, and most of them it was better to avoid.
Zazar had ended her chant. Now she stood staring out over the gray jumble below.
Ashen stared out also, but she could see nothing stirring.
No, but she could hear! From somewhere, Zazar's chant was being answered.
This was no croaking roar such as the monster had bel-. lowed by the other lake.
Rather, the sound was like a song, but one far removed in rhythm and tune from any of the coarse chants that might arise from a fire-talk in the village.
Who sang? And what was the meaning of that song? Ashen shivered. This was all far from any experience she had known before, and for one brought up in the Bog, the unknown was never to be wholly trusted.
The swing and rise of notes—no, she could not believe that they were in any way a threat. An invitation? She reached for the backpack and fastened its many clasps. Zazar seemed to have forgotten her. Saying nothing, the Wysen-wyf stepped out on the broken surface of the wall. Several strides away there were more of those stones— stairs—arranged one above the other, which had made it so easy for them to climb. Now they could as easily descend.
Nor did Zazar look in her direction as they again reached ground level, but set out as if she knew perfectly well where she was going. Ashen hurried after her, taking heed of the uncertain footing. More walls loomed on either side, but these were not high and Ashen took them for the supports of what had once been individual hearths.
At last they came to an open space, wider than the half-filled paths between the buildings. But here also there had been destruction. A figure, carved of stone and now broken into thirds, lay facedown before them. But that was no monster body such as Ashen had discovered during her own adventuring. It was plain that this was meant to represent a being like herself. The cracked and broken body and limbs matched hers except in size, for this had been far taller.
Also the proportions she could trace were not those of any squat and thick-bodied Bog-folk. She felt choked with the questions she wanted to ask, but
Zazar was edging past the figure and plainly silent by her own desire.
The feet of the figure were still on a wide stone base from which the rest of it had fallen, or been cast. And that base stood just before the entrance of a much larger building, one that differed from its fellows. Here the rubble had been pushed aside, leaving a short set of stairs. These were not as steep as those on the wall. Four steps brought them to a wide, open space before the rise of the wall. Ashen could see, centered in the wall, an archway giving on shadows beyond. But across that doorway stretched what Ashen did not expect to see, a curtain thick and sturdy enough to have been but recently hung. It was just such a curtain as would serve as door to a Bog hut.
She followed Zazar, but when they stepped on the ledge by the curtain, the
Wysen-wyf swung around. Her eyes were set now on Ashen and she found the voice she had not used for hours.
"Ashen Deathdaughter, this is the heart of very ancient knowledge. Most of that has seeped away through the years. But those born with the Gift of Learning,
Knowing, and Holding, have made it their own. You have been welcomed by the
Blood Spirit, and therefore you are believed to be talented, as I have thought."
She gestured at the ruins about them. "This was once a great city such as
Bog-folk never knew. When it stood strong, there was no Bale-Bog and the water had not come to eat away the land. I told you that there have been many, many peoples who ruled this land before us. This was one of the heart places of such a long-lost race, but, as I said, the Wheel turns and this is a change time. I give you this secret freely, since there is a far-knowing that it is time to serve again to awaken new powers. And you have before you a part in that."
Ten
The Queen kept her face serene, aloof, as she tried to assess the expressions of the three men, each a member of the Council, who had been bowed into her presence. She occupied a chair in the center of the room— not on a dais; that would have looked too much like a throne. Now she lifted one hand in a barely perceptible movement and the page on duty hurriedly pushed forward three of the chairs awarded to nobility whose rank entitled them to be allowed to sit in the royal presence. With a second small gesture, she then emptied the room of all but herself and those who sought audience. She enjoyed showing off how well-t
rained her servants were—not that it would matter to any of these men.
Care and caution, prudence, patience. The words strung together in her mind as she held to her remote expression, meeting one set of eyes after another. Her hands lay clasped on her lap and she could feel the four Rings as if their power gathered weight enough to press heavily upon her flesh.
Royance of Grattenbor, head of the Council. His family was ally to the House of
Oak, and in his youth, he had been a close comrade to Boroth. Royance, however, had not allowed any appetites to rule him. He was a fighting man by choice.
Twice within the last ten years he had defended his property, or what he deemed his, in full siege from neighbors too ambitious. His face resembled that of a roving burhawk and, perhaps knowing this, he had taken the bird as his personal badge. Ysa knew that some of the fierce nature of that bird was also in him.
