Cautiously, he whistled again.
And again, something answered.
Faint noises from the tourney field reached even to the dismal stone room that imprisoned Anamara. She had long since sobbed herself out but she lifted her head from where she had been resting it on her knees, when the thunder boomed.
A few moments later, there was a noise at the door and Duig opened it. "Get up," he ordered brusquely.
When Anamara didn't move, he grabbed one arm and hauled her to her feet. Behind him, she glimpsed the Magician—no, not he, but the woman Flavielle, still dressed in her robes bearing magical symbols.
"Hurry," Flavielle said. "There's no time to losei"
"I'll round up the ones we can count on. But can you deal with the girl?"
Flavielle's lips twisted. "She'll give me no trouble. Now go. They're going on with the tourney, if you can believe it. We might have an hour before someone thinks to send after us. We must make the best use of the time we have. Take what followers you can find, and go at once to the seacoast—you know the spot.
I'll join you."
"And what about her?" Duig said, indicating Anamara.
Flavielle regarded the girl almost fondly. "Oh, I have some special plans for her. Her lover will regret that he did not renounce her and join me. I'll see to it."
Even Duig looked a little taken aback.
"Well, don't waste time!" Flavielle told him, and her voice had a whip-crack in it. "Go!"
The man turned to obey, leaving Anamara with the woman who, she knew with a sinking feeling, was as dangerous an enemy as any she would ever encounter in her life. Perhaps because she could not hope to live very long—
"Nor do I have time to waste in coddling you," Flavielle said. "Look into my eyes."
Again she grabbed Anamara's chin, and, despite herself, Anamara obeyed.
Flavielle's eyes were deep, so deep she could lose herself in them, and something in their depths seemed to be spinning——-
The voice became a croon, almost a song. "We will fly away, my little bird, fly to a spot where you will be free. Yes, free and happy, too. Forget all the cares you knew as a lady of the Court, and forget even that you once were a lady. You are no more than a bird who will fly once, and then not again. Come with me, and fly. Fly."
Anamara's cloak flapped in the wind as she soared, hand in hand—or was it wing in wing?—with the other bird. Higher and higher over the land they rose, until the people below were mere dots on a cold landscape.
They crossed a twinkling thread of light and then flew over a darkened land.
They began to descend, and the voice spoke in her ear again.
"Here is the place for you, little bird. Men come here but seldom. It is your new home. Your new home, little earthbound bird. Remember this."
Suddenly the air spilled out of her wings, and Anamara tumbled to the ground, her cloak crumpling about her. She looked up to see the woman once more standing before her. She did not know the woman's name, or even her own. She blinked, uncomprehendingly, as the woman spoke to her.
"I cannot make you forget what you have seen and heard," the woman told her,
"but I can take away your wits so your knowledge does you no good, nor anybody else. Perhaps there is a hungry big lupper left awake so that you can hope for a quick death here, where death lies waiting around every corner and under every footfall. That is what happens to little earthbound birds who blunder into this place. And so I take my leave of you."
The woman raised both arms. With a cloud of smoke and a clap of thunder, she disappeared, leaving the other alone.
I wonder who I am? she thought vaguely. I am not of her kind— the woman who flew. 1 flew, once. Can I do it again?
She waved her arms, trying to fly, trying to recapture the wonderful way she had soared over the world, but to no avail. The woman had said she could not.
I am a bird-girl, she thought. Earthbound. And this is now my home, though I am sure to die soon in it.
All was silent, with only an occasional sound to mar the stillness of her surroundings. Here there was a plink of water dripping; there, a torporous dweller of this region searched indifferently for food. Everywhere dank moss dangled from trees, and clumps of reeds grew in an underbrush fit to tangle even a light-boned bird-girl for whom this inhospitable place was her deadly home.
Should she stay where she was? Or should she move from spot to spot until she found one perhaps a little dryer than the half-frozen muck where she stood waiting for death? She decided to move.
She discovered another thread such as she had seen while aloft. Some fragment of memory from her old, discarded life told her this was water. A stream, but not like any she had ever seen before. Under the light that glinted on it, this one was dark and murky, and its current slow. But she stooped to drink from it nonetheless and spat out the water at once. It tasted as ill as it looked.
I must find a place with good water, and perhaps food, she thought, while I wait to die, for I am hungry. I wonder what sort of food I eat.
She began to pick her way along what might once have been a path, avoiding the worse places. Then she heard yet another sound, a different one. It was a kind of music, though thin and a little off-key.
Another piece of memory surfaced. It was a whistle. Birds— tame ones, she knew—responded to whistles. She had seen them, in cages, safe and warm and happy as they preened their feathers. All they had to do all day was sing, and be beautiful to look upon. Though she was only a bird-girl and not in a cage of any sort, it seemed to her to be altogether appropriate that she respond to this whistle as well.
She opened her mouth-—her beak—but nothing came out. With some effort, she produced a sound more like a lupper's croak than a birdcall. The music stopped at once.
Disappointed, she started making her way as silently as possible in the general direction of where it had come from. To her pleasure, the whistle sounded again; and again, she croaked an answer. This would not do, she thought vaguely. It was unseemly for a bird-girl to make such an unpleasant noise. It grated on her ears. It seemed to her that she had once been tame, and safe and warm. Even, in a way, happy. Perhaps she could be so again. She must practice her song, and try harder to do it correctly. It was cold here in her new home, and she did not like it. She was hungry. Perhaps if she could sing sweetly enough, she could have her own cage and be safe and warm once more and even have something to eat as she preened her feathers and was beautiful to look upon.
Beautiful to look upon. The repetition of the words pleased her. Beautiful. To look upon.
That second response galvanized Rohan into action. It could be no accident that something—or, perhaps, someone—was out there, moving parallel to the stream he floated on. He poled himself toward a bank where he could tie up the boat, clambered out, and took a few steps through the underbrush. He stopped, listening closely, and was rewarded by the sound of light footsteps and what might have been leaves rustling in the wind, but the air in the Bog was still.
"It's a matter of tracking," he said to himself, so softly that his words did not carry past the spot where he stood. And, he added silently, of being patient. This was a trait which came hard to him, but nonetheless, he must do it.
He began moving as quietly as possible in the direction from which the footsteps seemed to have come. He paused and whistled again, and again a sound came back, a little more clearly each time. It was much closer now.
Still whistling and letting the other one respond, he closed the gap between them. Just one bit of underbrush lay between him and—He stepped out of concealment.
"Anamara!" he exclaimed, so astonished his jaw dropped.
She gave him a quick and nervous smile, fluttering her hands. She did not speak.
Instead, throwing her head back, she uttered the trilling, clear cry of a forest bird.
Twenty-two
Rohan watched, his uneasiness growing, as Zazar bustled around, selecting this ingredient and th
at out of the pots and jars which had been stashed narrowly on shelves, or under piles of woven mats. Just out of the light of the fire,
Anamara sat picking at a dish of the fruit-and-grain mixture that Zazar seemed always to have on hand. He could not help but think that Anamara looked for all the world like a bird perched on a branch, only without the branch. If she could, he felt sure she would have tried to peck out the grain so she could swallow it. Instead, daintily, she picked up morsel after morsel with the fingers of one hand and dropped it into her mouth. Whether she actually chewed or not, Rohan could not tell. Birds, he knew, swallowed their food whole.
"Will she be all right, Grandam?" he said.
"That has to be the twentieth time you've asked me that, and for the twentieth time I'll tell you—I think so but I don't know and won't know for a while yet.
Now let me add these seeds into it— Ah. Now I have it."
The Wysen-wyf settled down beside the fire and, taking a smooth rock shaped like a pestle, began to crush the herbs and seeds and other items in a stone bowl that had seen much use. A spring-fresh green smell began to fill the little house.
Rohan could only wait, trying to hide his impatience. Zazar would either succeed, or she would fail to bring Anamara's wits back. Until now, Grandam Zaz had never failed. And yet, there could always be a first time…
"Good," Zazar said after a time, prodding the crushed mixture with her well-trained old ringers, testing it for smooth consistency. "Now, please fetch me that pot of boiling water, if you will."
Rohan hurried to obey. Zazar took the water and poured a little into the dish, and then a little more, stirring carefully. "Too much and it's just soup. Too little, and I can't form it into a pill for your lady. What did you say her name was again?"
"Anamara."
Zazar eyed the bird-girl, thinking, the corners of her mouth turned down. "That fair hair, and the midnight-blue eyes. Some trace of Ash heritage in her background, unless I miss my guess."
"Yes, Grandam. I have heard it said so."
"The Dowager Queen Ysa has no reason to love any of the Ashenkin."
"And yet she had Anamara in her circle of ladies."
"More like she had Anamara in her power," Zazar retorted with a snort. Her work with the herbs seemed to prompt a memory. "Do you still wear that bundle of greenery I gave you for your helm?"
"I do." Hastily he produced the item for Zazar's inspection. "It stays amazingly fresh, most of it. You might want to renew a few of the sprigs that have turned brown, though. In the tourney, I tied my lady's favor over it." He took the length of blue silk out of his doublet and Zazar eyed it, the corners of her mouth downturned even more.
"I suppose that was all right. But favor or not, you must wear it as long as you wear your helm. Give me your oath on that."
"I promise. Do you think this was the Dowager's doing?" Rohan asked, indicating
Anamara.
"No. I know of Ysa's activities from the first time she began to dabble in magic, and it isn't her way of doing things. Not her style, you might say." She sighed and scraped a portion of the mixture to one side, and rolled it into a pill. "Well, let's see if we can find out what is in your little birdling's mind." So saying, she held out the pellet to Anamara. "Come on, it's very good.
Try it."
Anamara hesitated only a moment. Then she plucked it out of Zazar's fingers and, as she had earlier with those bits of grain and fruit, dropped it into her mouth and swallowed it. Almost instantly, she fell over, eyes closed.
"Grandam!" Rohan said, appalled. "You've killed her!"
"Nonsense, you young fool," Zazar said. "A fool, and a lovesick puppy to boot.
No, I haven't killed your little bird. I've just put her to sleep. Now it's my turn."
With that, the Wysen-wyf rolled a second pill from the remaining mixture, and swallowed it. As quickly as Anamara had, Zazar likewise fell over onto the packed-ground floor of her hut, and began snoring a little.
With a sinking heart, Rohan realized anew the danger into which the evil
Sorceress had put Anamara. As innocent and trusting as any bird, she would swallow anything that looked like a tasty tidbit, and it might just as well have been poison as a pill made of crushed herbs. The hair on the back of his neck prickled as he felt the old familiar warning that told him of hovering peril.
All Rohan could do was to straighten their limbs as comfortably as he might, and then wait. Not daring to place Anamara on Zazar's bed and leave the Wysen-wyf on the floor, he pulled them both closer to the fire and covered them with mats, for added warmth.
He dipped a cup of the noodle soup—this time thick with boiled meat scraps—with which to console himself while he waited in harsh loneliness.
He discovered that he, too, had drifted off to sleep only when Zazar sat up abruptly, awakening him.
"Well now, that was interesting," she said.
"What was interesting, Grandam Zaz?"
"What I learned, of course. Are you as witless as your ladylove?"
Rohan ignored this, knowing that after working special magic Zazar was always apt to be shorter-tempered than usual. Also, she looked more worn than one might expect, after having awakened from what could have been a refreshing slumber. He dipped a cup of soup for her as well and handed it to her. She drank thirstily, slurping the noodles into her mouth.
"The Dowager didn't do this to Anamara, but you could say she was responsible, in a way," Zazar said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She held the cup out for more, and Rohan quickly refilled it. "The Dowager and Flavielle were in league, as we knew already. What we did not know—and what Flavielle kept hidden from everyone, even from me when I visited her that time— was that this girl, this sprig of the Ashenkin, had been intended as a blood price between the
Dowager and the Sorceress."
" 'Blood price? I do not understand."
"There seems to be precious little that you do understand," Zazar said, with a sharp edge in her voice. Nevertheless, she went on between mouthfuls of the nourishing noodles. "When Flavielle had completed her duties for the Dowager, whatever those were, then the Sorceress would have demanded that Anamara be given to her. There was an agreement, though I doubt Ysa was aware of the whole of it. Thus, even if the Dowager tried to extricate herself, Flavielle would have made good her demand."
"For what reason?" Rohan asked. In spite of the nearness of the fire he had fed from time to time, he shivered.
"For whatever use Flavielle decided to make of her," Zazar said. "She would own the girl. She could make of her a body servant— perhaps the kindest fate. She could call upon Anamara's youth and strength for aid in the casting of spells.
As for that, I think even the Dowager borrows from others from time to time.
With this promise hanging over Anamara, no wonder Ysa discouraged your dalliance with her. And there are other, darker matters."
"Tell me, please." Rohan clenched his jaw. Already he had heard more than he wanted to know, but he knew if he had heard more than he wanted to know, he still had not heard nearly enough.
"Flavielle could keep Anamara to intrigue young men to their doom, as she herself tried with you. Others she could reward with the use of your ladylove's body. Or, she could even take Anamara's life in the casting of some dark spell, and no one would ever be the wiser. All this, and the Dowager, at least in part, knew of it, too, and kept her silence. After all, the girl is only Ashenkin."
"All this you learned during your sleep?"
"I peered into Anamara's head, and beyond. Your lady knew more of how matters stood than she realized. Or perhaps a veil was early thrown over her memory.
What I gave her peeled away the layers of fear and helplessness which set her in the Dowager's prison."
"The Dowager—" Rohan muttered darkly.
"She is the rightful ruler of this land," Zazar said, "and will be as long as she wears the Four Rings. Swallow your pride, young lover. You are meddling
in matters of which you know little, or nothing. Above all, keep in mind that it is entirely likely that Ysa did not fully realize what fate was likely to fall on this sleeping girl."
Zazar stroked the fair hair back from Anamara's forehead, and Rohan became aware that the Wysen-wyf's gruffness was, at least in part, meant to cover her uneasiness at the girl's intended fate and, perhaps, even her pity.
"She will be all right, won't she, Grandam?" he asked.
"In time. With me to treat her until she is healed. Already I have begun. By morning she will be able to understand you when you speak to her, though she will not as yet reply in language you can understand."
Andre Norton - Oak, Yew, Ash & Rowan 2 - Knight Or Knave Page 28
