by Andre Norton
Weyse trilled again urgently, pulled at Ashen's clothing, tugging her as if to bring her down to Weyse's own level. Obediently, the girl knelt with some difficulty, for the injured flyer she was carrying had come to life once again in feeble struggles. When that burden was within Weyse's reach, the creature of the ruins trilled a series of high notes. The flyer ceased struggling as Weyse straightened up as tall as it could on hind feet. Then the rounded, big- eared head came forward and it seemed to Ashen that Weyse was deliberately blowing puffs of breath against the small winged body. For a long moment, Weyse continued these strange actions and then looked up at Ashen, its large, round eyes luminous as if they emitted light as well as used it. The creature once more led the way to the portal, making it clear to the girl to follow. The flyer she carried was now quiet, though she could feel plainly the rapid beat of its heart against her hands.
When they came into the full light of the inner room, seeming all the brighter after leaving behind the curious, foggy emanation of the ruins without, Ashen for the first time saw clearly what she held.
It was small enough that when its leathery wings were drawn against its downy body, as they now were, it could be easily held in her two hands. As with Weyse, the fore-paws had the look of being meant to take the place of hands. The head was rounded, and its ears were large in proportion to the skull that supported them. The eyes now regarding her were also large and showed reddish glints. The snout between them was long; the mouth was a little open, for the creature was panting.
There was that about it which made one want to stroke the soft fur, to try to comfort the fear that the girl could still sense. She settled down by the fire and with care surveyed its body and wings, unable to find any visible injury. As she did so, she could feel it relax.
That it was capable of any harm to her, she dismissed at once. When she withdrew her hold, it settled down on her knee as if that was where it was at home.
However, as she stroked it, it continued to watch her with those large eyes, almost imploringly. She became certain that as with Weyse, this new one was urging some action upon her. To free it? Perhaps. Plainly, even though she could see no injuries, it had been brought down against its will. And to take it out once more, if wounded, could mean its death.
She pulled over a small mat and transferred the now-quiescent flyer to it. Was it hungry? Once more Ashen went foraging in her trail bag, then offered the little creature a handful of the sustaining mix. The small head lowered. It sniffed the offering and with the same pleasure Weyse had shown, snatched up bits in its forepaws and began feeding itself.
Ashen watched it. Was this some other surprise of Za-zar's? Weyse had accepted the small creature at once. Well, she could only wait and see. Perhaps in the morning she could loose it if it were not badly hurt and let it go to its own abiding place.
She heaped three of the mats together and selected from another pile a more yielding piece of weaving as a cover before she curled up for sleep. The flyer finished its food and set about using its forepaws, moistened by a long tongue, to wash its face. Then, with a hop, wings raised a little, it joined her, settling down by her shoulder with a faint purring sound that made her own eyes heavy with sleep. Weyse, also purring, snuggled down at her other side.
Twelve
Queen Ysa clung to the bedpost and then pushed her way free of that support, refusing any assistance. The physician, at her beckon, crowded past her to
Boroth. She must not let any weakness show before those gathered there. Turning her head, she spoke to the nearest, one of the under physicians.
"Go and find His Highness. Let Prince Florian be summoned!"
But her attention remained riveted on the bed. Surely the King's time had come—and too soon! Much too soon. For months, she had anticipated what was about to happen here, had rehearsed it in her mind, but the preparations she had made seemed too few and feeble now.
The weight of the Rings pressed against her fingers as if they were a part of some confining chain. She forced herself to look around. The attention of most of the people in the room was fixed on the bed and its occupant. She must know who was here this night.
Grimly, she identified the members of the somber gathering, one by one. There stood five of the lickspittles who strove to raise themselves to prominence when there was any gain within their reach. They would follow anyone with authority.
She dismissed them with a glance. Not so another. Royance. The news must have reached him before he left to return to his own holding. Very properly, he remained within reach.
He had the strength and resolution that might be invaluable to her when she needed him to back her—if she could trust him. The alliance with Oak pushed itself to the front of her mind. She identified members of the Council, seldom seen unless the governing body was in session. There, crowding closer to the bed, was Valk, and that was one she could never hope to be any but a determined enemy. Two of his creatures, too, though they did not show themselves to the fore in any distinguished gathering.
But Jakar, Liffin—Her mouth tightened. Yes, word had come only a few turns of the time-glass earlier that they had ridden in with their war trains. They, too, were Council members, but she had not summoned them, nor had Florian the wit to do so. Perhaps one of his playmates with more cunning than he had suggested it.
Too much danger, too soon.
Boroth's breathing came in heavy snorts. Lorgan had tried to get him to swallow a potion one of his assistants had hastily prepared. The liquid only ran out again to wet the King's beard. Boroth flailed out one arm and the cup was dashed to the floor, spraying out its contents.
Once more the blood-reddened eyes opened, searched, settled on her and held. Her hands raised, fisted, before her mouth so that her breath would pass over them and the Rings, toward him. It was too soon—oh, indeed let the old legends hold for a space and keep him from death this night.
"Oak," she said aloud. "Yew, Ash and Rowan, give the strength of your roots to one sworn to your service!"
Boroth's mutely raging stare was on her still, enough to skewer her to the paneling on the wall if she had been made of lesser stuff. She looked at his thick fingers pawing at the covers. Ysa knew well what he wanted and she did not dare—not now, not when the man who had taken the Ring oath was already as good as dead and buried, trapped in this flabby body, even if the Rings could be once more forced onto his fingers.
He coughed, choked, and began breathing faster. Lor-gan had pulled aside the stained nightshirt, baring the thick-haired chest in some desperate measure known to his trade.
A presence as jarring as a belch in the cathedral. "So, the old man's at his last gasp?" Florian lurched up beside her, reeking with fumes of wine and the stale scent of an unwashed body. He grinned down at Lorgan's frenzied labors.
Ysa tasted the bitterness that always seemed to rise when she found it necessary to deal with her son. He had no ability in spite of all her past efforts to prepare him, to at least play a suitable mummer's role befitting their House's only heir. And his actions now before this audience were typical of what could be expected when he ascended to the throne.
He had shed his baby fat, and his straight-limbed body and pleasingly featured face had not yet begun to show signs of his excesses. She could not say as much for his mind. At least Boroth in his early days had had some cleverness. When he was this dolt's age, he had won to himself the allegiance of the major lords, wedded her, gained her respect, and even her love—for a while. Until, that is, he had made plain how little she meant to him save as a breeder. Then love had turned sour, and she had seen to it that all endeavor to sire had proved a failure, producing only this one disappointing lout.
Yes, Boroth had possessed cunning, intelligence, and a kind of rough charm that had drawn men to him. But it was long since he roused to hold his place in the world. Not since that slut—No, do not think of that now, she told herself sternly. The past was past, only the present counted, and it was a perilous pres
ent. She knew one thing—if Boroth died tonight, the Rings would go to this youth who stood beside her, a vicious curl of lip raised as he surveyed his father, the King.
If only the legends held true! The Rings would not abide by the unworthy, nor with a ruler who did not strive to hold the land safe. They had accepted her, but would they accept Florian? And if they did not—she drew a deep breath—there would be an end to everything she inwardly knew must be kept.
She dare not risk it. Boroth must live, at least a while longer.
Florian's lips were very full, and like his father's, tended to be loose and more than a little wet. He drew his hand across his mouth, tried to stand a little straighter. Perhaps he was waking from the besotted depths from which they had hauled him.
"He dies? The King my father dies?" He did not ask that of the laboring physician but as if he expected an answer from the gathering at large.
Royance came to stand beside them, Ysa and her son. "Do not despair, Highness.
While there are breath and heartbeat, there is still life."
The sound Florian made in answer was a snicker. He turned a little toward her.
"Breath and life, and you, my dear mother, strive to keep it so, do you not?
Give those to me!"
His hand suddenly shot out toward hers as she held them to show the Rings plainly. But those grasping fingers did not touch hers. Rather, it was if they had slammed against a solid surface, so that he stumbled and would have gone down had Royance not steadied him.
Incongruously, Ysa was reminded of the moment when Boroth had sought to put her hand into the candle-flame, and had been denied.
Florian's face had gone pale, but his eyes showed the beginning of that same rage Boroth had turned on her, making clear to all that for this moment, he was entirely his father's son.
"No woman has the right—" His voice scaled upward.
She must take command and at once. "My Lord Roy-ance, the Prince is disturbed by his Majesty's condition."
Royance nodded. As head of the Council, he would know that to prolong this unseemly episode before such a company would imperil the uneasy peace.
Smoothly, he drew Florian away from his mother. "Your Highness, it is plain that your anxiety concerning the King has upset you greatly." He turned to that same medical assistant who had served Lorgan earlier. "Please fetch a calming potion for the Prince. He is not well and he needs all his strength."
Ysa expected Florian's easily aroused temper to burst forth, but to her surprise and slight unease, he actually did drink the potion brought by the doctor's assistant.
Still, Ysa did not relax. Florian had tried to possess the Rings and had been rebuffed, not by her, but by that power they held. Even after years of study and experience, she could not understand the full meaning of this. Boroth was dying, all but dead, and his heir must, by custom, try at once to hold the Rings and so hold the land. Would he be able to do it once the King had truly breathed his last? Did the Rings cleave to her now because she was the stronger, the one determined that the House would not fall and bring down with it all their allies? Was she in truth the one they had chosen to rule, despite the fact that
Rendel had never, in all its history, had a regnant Queen who had not been born to the role? She must delve into her books more deeply to find the answer to this riddle.
While all this had been going on, the master physician had continued his ministrations, necessitating the use of heated cups pressed against the pudgy flesh of the King's chest.
Now Boroth had been settled once more on the pillows that braced up his thick shoulders, and he seemed to be breathing more easily. Lorgan stood aside, and when Ysa looked to him, he nodded.
He bowed his head toward the Queen, and then toward Florian. "Your Majesty. Your
Highness." He addressed those in the room as well. "My lords, it would appear that a crisis has passed. We have successfully drawn off the evil humors, at least for the moment, and the King's vital signs are on the rise. His Majesty needs rest and peace—"
It was a strong hint and Ysa quickly seized upon it. "My lords, youi concern means much," she said, turning to those who waited in the chamber. "Be sure that careful watch will be kept and you will be summoned promptly if there is need."
None of them could mistake the Rings that winked from her fingers, and for that moment, she was in command. There were murmurs but no open denial against that softly voiced but firm order as they began filing from the room. Now she was all impatience to get to her tower room to study and to await the messenger and what news it might bring. The need for being there was beating at her.
Royance had taken Florian by the arm. "Come, Your Highness, you have been overwrought. It is necessary to rest against the time when much will be asked of you for the sake of our country and our people."
Florian was blank of face, and he looked neither to his father nor to his mother as he allowed himself to be guided from the room. Ysa wondered at his easy compliance—another small worry to gnaw at her—but put it down to the effect of the potion. Perhaps Lorgan would become an ally as well as a witness. Once more she advanced closer to the head of the bed and uttered the ritual Ring words.
Then she spoke to the physician.
"Master Lorgan, there is pressing business vital to the realm. But summon me at once if there is need."
He bowed his head and she walked away stiffly, her whole body aching with tension, to do what was necessary that she do.
There was no talk among the Sea-Rovers of a second land venture; once had been enough, unless actual starvation threatened. Since neither the bird- flesh nor the fish would keep for long, Snolli shared out the food among the people on all the ships, and all ate a good meal for once. Then they tightened their belts again, hoping that those who had gone ahead might have found some food as well.
The small five-ship fleet was strung out now in a line, keeping in touch with each other by mast flags by day and lanterns held before a reflecting shield at night. They sailed in Stormbracer's wake, gradually catching up. By the time they rounded the long, gradual curve of the southernmost part of the land and were truly sailing east, they had the vessel in full sight.
On the third day after Obern's return to GorGull, the deep note of the rally horn brought the core of fighting men to a narrow place of assembly near the bow. Obern took his usual place behind his father. Rumors had already spread through the ship that a message of some importance had been received from the vessel ahead, which could barely be made out in the fog of this early morning.
"Stormbracer," his father announced abruptly, "has sighted the Ashenkeep outer reef passage. They report seeing one ship in the inner harbor. We shall close in as fast as winds will allow and see what awaits us there. When we left Void, there was no report from any Trader that the keep had been taken by any of those ever-quarrelsome lords of this land. However, we shall be prepared. Once those headlands are in sight, the deck must be cleared for action, crowded as our people shall be below."
At least the wind was favoring them this morning, and even the fog had begun to lift. They no longer crept with frustrating slowness along that threatening shoreline. As they left the Bog behind, the waves were no longer stained with the murk of those unclean waters. Obern watched the cliffs disappear behind diem, an odd mixture of feelings inside him. His experience, short as it had been of what might lurk there, was a warning that any intruder would recognize.
At the same time, there was another small part of him that continued to wonder just what did lie behind those cliff walls, and what other manner of monster could issue from one of those many fissures and caves.
The noncombatants obediently went belowdecks, and the warriors made their preparations as best they could on the crowded deck, waiting to stand to arms if need be when they reached their goal. Waiting—and facing—the unknown always stirred a man's blood. Obern found himself touching the hilt of the Rinbell sword, and drawing his knife upward in its sheath, then slamm
ing it back again in sheer nervous energy. To thread their way through the reef passage, they were having to head farther out to sea, and his father and Captain Narion consulted several times.
Snolli held one of the treasures of his House, a rod that featured a small lens sealing one end. A man could look through the other end and that which was afar was instantly near. Who had designed such a wonder, no one knew, only that it had reached Void as some long-ago booty or trade.
The High Chief gave an exclamation and passed the seeing-rod to the captain, who gazed for a moment and then shouted orders. The sailors jumped to, skillfully bringing canvas to bear, and the GorGull followed Storm-bracer, slipping through the opening in the reef as if she were a maiden running to the arms of her lover.
Behind them, Obern, even without the use of any such seeing-aid, could now make out one ship and then two following safely, with a third drawing closer, and the last waiting its turn. They had reached their goal—at least they were within distance that they could send out scout craft and learn if there would be any danger.
