by Andre Norton
For a moment the room whirled dizzily and she could not see clearly. Then she smelt a foul breath as he drew her by that hairhold closer to him.
“Bride—” His voice was almost a cackle, as if laughter and rage fought for supremacy in it. “We shall see—bedded you will be, trash, but not by me. You will have a man, yes, more than one—and they are lusty fellows. Give you a dance they will. And they are waiting—so come along, sow-faced—for your bedding!”
His hand was still fast in her hair dragging her head down and around so that she could not see. She struck out vainly only to be rocked again with one of those bone-bruising slaps.
“No use in fighting—”
Then his voice ended in a gasp, the hold on her hair was loosened and she jerked away. Ustar crumpled to the floor, his head striking with an audible crack against the edge of the chest. He lay unmoving, face up with the bulk of his brother looming over him.
Twilla had regained her senses enough to make two quick moves. She rounded Ylon to once more shut the door and then caught up the lantern to set it on the floor to completely illumine Ustar's body.
The way his head lay, her breath caught in her throat. She was on her knees, striving to find a pulse in the throat.
“Get up—coward—” Ylon advanced the toe of a worn boot, thudded it home so that the body rocked under Twilla's touch.
“Don't—don't—he—I think he is dead!” She still strove to find a pulse. Now she was pulling at the strings of Ustar’s jerkin, trying to bare his breast that she might seek a heartbeat.
“Dead?” The word sounded hollowly over her head.
“I can feel no heartbeat.” She tried to calm herself, remembering the teaching of her craft.
“Then—” That voice still held the hollow note but there was a spark of urgency in it. “You must get forth from here! They will believe that he came to you and by chance you killed him.”
“But—but you can tell the truth.” She looked up from the body into the face of the man standing over her.
“Of a surety I can,” he laughed. “I can spin the whole tale—and they will say that my wits wander again as they did before. But you will suffer for it nonetheless. My Lord Father will not take lightly to losing his second son. No, you have only one hope, Twilla—and that is—”
His hand groped out and down, touched her hair but with none of the rage which had left her scalp smarting.
“You must get out of here,” he said.
“How? Perhaps they have already heard—”
“There is no keep designed by one who has grown up in the feuding country over mountain,” he said, “which does not have its secrets. I can show you a path out—and then—then, Twilla, it will be your own choice. They will hunt you but they will not enter the Wood.”
She sat very still under the touch he still kept on her.
“What of you?” she asked.
“Me? What does it matter? I am already flawed past any usage to them—to myself—”
“No. Listen!” She reached up to catch his hand and used it to draw herself up so that their bodies touched. “Listen,” she cried for the second time, trying to impress on him what she had come to believe. “In the Wood lies the source of the ensorcellment which holds you, for I swear by the Three Faces of the Moon that you are ensorcelled. If you seek out the Woods again can it not be possible that you might gain back what you lost?”
She heard, felt, him draw a long breath.
“I am a blind man, we are far from the Woods. You can hide and dodge and have a chance—with me as a burden that will not be so.”
“You have the power to get us free of this place, you have said that. And the countryside is open to my sight—that can serve for two out there. You have this night saved me from horror—do you think me so poor in spirit that I will not repay such a debt?”
Then she was aware of movement in the body of the man she had thought to be lying dead at her feet.
“He is alive, I must tend to him—” Her healer instinct took over, but when she would have knelt again Ylon fast caught and held her.
“Not so. We have little time. Alive or dead Ustar will be the death of you. That is a truth I can swear to.”
His hand loosened and then caught again in the bunching of the skirt about her waist.
“You cannot go forth wearing this. At first sight any wayfarer would have the hunt up after you. In the chest—take what you need and change into it—quickly.”
Twilla felt she should protest but the vigor of his orders now drove her to obey. From the chest she tumbled forth a pair of breeches, a shirt, a jerkin, all of an earth-brown shade. Pulling off the dress and heavy petticoat beneath, she kept her chemise but dressed hurriedly in what she had found. The clothing was too large, but a sash swathed twice around her middle kept the breeches in place and though the jerkin was too wide in the shoulder, too long in the sleeves it would have to do.
Once reclad she looked again at Ustar. Then she knelt beside him, looking in each ear for any sign of blood which might signal a badly cracked skull. On impulse she pulled the cover from the bed and put it over him, but she felt a guiltiness of betrayal that she did no more.
“I am ready.” Twilla hefted her depleted shoulder bag of herbs. Ylon had already moved to stand by the door, which was open a crack. It was plain he was listening.
“Are there any coming?” she ventured in a whisper as she joined him.
“Not as yet. Leave the lantern—that will provide a beacon for any and they will try here first.” He pushed her ahead of him out of the door where the faint light of another lantern down one flight of stairs gave some light.
Ylon stooped, picked up the door bar and slid it into place.
“Now!” He held out his hand and she put hers into it. His grasp tightened as he drew her with him to the stairs.
“We can hope,” his whisper was so faint she could barely hear the words, “that Ustar has seen this place cleared for a space that his foulness can be accomplished without interruption. As captain of the guard he would be obeyed.”
That descent from step to step, pausing now and then to listen, so tensed Twilla's body that she began to feel the beginning of cramped muscles.
They reached the ground floor and there was no challenge. Doors remained shut. There were lanterns burning here and there but no sign of any others under this roof tonight. At the foot of the stairs Ylon turned to the right entering another room. The dark was thick but he moved confidently through it, drawing her with him. She only hoped that by keeping her so close to him he was making sure she would not stumble over any piece of furniture. She had always heard that with one sense being at fault the others would compensate and perhaps that had become so with him.
“Stand!” again a whisper. “Wait.” He loosed his tight hold on her and she heard faint sounds of movement, at last a creak as if some protesting door had yielded. Then he came back to her.
“We must descend here,” he told her. “There is a ladder only. I shall go first, you feel for each rung with your foot before you put weight on it. And I shall guide you.”
She heard a faint scrambling noise and then the whisper—
“Ready!”
Going to her knees Twilla felt before her. The rough floor was splintery and hurt her hands, but then those caught on the edge of an open space and she drew herself toward that. To see with one's fingers she discovered was one of the hardest tasks she had ever attempted. But she found the ladder at last, and, trusting because she must, she began the descent into a well of complete darkness.
Then she felt a light grasp on her foot, even through the soft and too large boots she had taken from the chest. Oddly that touch steadied her, broke a little the net of apprehension which had drawn so tightly about her.
Then his body backed hers as her feet once more came to rest on a floor.
“Wait,” his voice was a little louder, “I must close the passage door aloft.” She heard the creak of the la
dder rungs under his greater weight, then a noise from above before he rejoined her.
His body brushed against hers as he descended once more. Her hand was caught again in his linking grip.
“The way is narrow,” he warned, drawing her after him.
Narrow it was, Twilla speedily discovered when her healer's bag was caught and swung back so she had to shift it into the crook of her arm. The smell of damp earth never sweetened by the touch of sun hung about them. She felt it more and more difficult to get a deep breath as they slowly advanced, her shoulders scraping wall and moldering wood supports first to the right and then the left. But his hold on her remained tight.
This journey through the dark made Twilla realize a little what it might be to lose one's sight. Yet here Ylon walked with the ease of one knowing just what he was doing. Was it true that he would be in danger if he remained? She did not know the customs of nobles. Could it be that his father would offer his son some hurt—after he had heard his story? Yet Ylon seemed very sure he would not be believed.
“The way slopes,” he warned her.
They were going slowly enough and she felt tentatively ahead before she took a full step.
“There is water,” he added. “Shallow, we must walk in it for a space.”
His grip on her had not loosened. She gave a gasp as her next step did take her into running water. Though it did not rise any farther than her ankles. She felt the pull of a current but not one strong enough to threaten.
At least here the air was better as if the flow of the stream brought with it a recent memory of the outer world.
Ylon's guiding hand drew her to the right and their way was marked by the sound of splashing. His pace had slowed again and Twilla had a sudden fear that he might have lost some memory guide, which would bring them out of here.
“Here!” There was a note of triumph in that, and the girl was sure that he had been nourishing that same fear.
“There are two steps up,” he told her.
She found the first by ramming her toe painfully against it. Then his firm grasp drew her up, even as it had guided her down that ladder. She had no way of telling how far they had come by that boltway. Were they out of the village yet? Beyond the wall? Was it still night?
Her sense of time seemed lost to her and she began to worry about the fact that they might come out of this way in full daylight, visible to any who might be watching.
“Steps again,” his warning came. “I must go to open the outer door.”
When he dropped her hand Twilla felt suddenly lost. She had not realized how much she had come to depend upon him, how great her trust had grown to be. And these were really only the first few steps of the journey they must make. Once in the open it would be up to her to be responsible for their going and her own self-belief wavered.
“Climb—” The word brought her to feel out. There was no ladder here, rather narrow steps cut into the earth, hammered hard to be sure. However, the edge of the first under her groping touch crumbled a little.
Then—there was light—blessed light!
She could see the steps plainly even though the bulk of Ylon was partially between her and that goal. Daylight—so they had outworn the night.
Twilla found herself, after she had climbed, in a space so small that she was crowded hard against Ylon. The light was half shattered she could see now by a netting which had been interwoven with grass and vines. So deeply anchored was that growth it was as if they were now locked in.
Ylon felt along the frame which supported the matted barrier. Then he set his shoulder to it and crowded her yet farther as he heaved it outward, catching his boot in a tangle of vine to fall face down.
Twilla pushed at him, squeezing at last into the full of the day. She did not rise to her feet but squatted there, peering up and around.
They had come out on a bank above a river, perhaps one which had given birth to that streamlet through which they had waded. She did not remember sighting any river on her journey here, but her view of the town had only been from the east—and they may have won westward in their escape.
She dared to raise to her feet and turn slowly. Then she gave a gasp and ducked down sending Ylon, who was up on his hands and knees flat again, sputtering curses.
“The wall—it is just behind us! Any sentries there can sight us!” She shook him. “Maybe they already have.”
He managed to free himself from her and sit up. “We are on the river bank?”
“Yes—yes!”
“What do you see in the water?”
She could not understand what he meant. What did one expect to see in the water? Still he must have a good reason to ask her that.
The river had a definite current, certainly much swifter and stronger than that of the hidden stream. On its surface there was showing what could only be storm wrack. Here and there a sapling toppled from its bankhold to bob along and provide an anchor for floating brush. To cross that she thought would be dangerous and she said as much.
“It flows south,” he commented brushing his hand across his shrouded eyes as if he would impatiently clear them. “We head north. This season brings storms and no one tries the river way. Therefore we can hope that we have already passed out of their reach.”
His hands were busy now twisting at one shirt sleeve.
“Have you a knife?” he demanded.
“No. They took it from me.”
“Tear—!” His voice was hot with impatience as he worked with the sleeve until at last it did part and he pulled loose a strip. “You also—”
Twilla did not yet see his purpose, but she had begun to believe that he had something in mind. She worried at the sash she had bound around her middle to keep her large clothes in order and when she had torn a piece from that she thought of something else and brought out of her bag one of the linen house caps which had been part of her limited allowance of luggage.
“I have a piece of scarf,” she told him, “and a house cap.”
“Good!” But he was still frowning.
“Now!” He continued pushing away from the battered framework which had concealed the inner way down the bank. “Is there some flotsam near enough for you to reach?”
She dropped her bag beside him and, on hands and knees, fearing any moment to hear some cry from the town wall, she edged along the water's lapping. The flood had risen to engulf a large strand of reeds and was nibbling at the bank. She found what she hunted just when she thought there was nothing.
One of the floating bushes had caught in the tangle of the reeds and she could just reach its earthy roots. She gave a cautious tug. Luckily her find was small enough to yield to her efforts. She could not drag it all the way out of the water but she could edge it along back toward where Ylon squatted on his heels. His head turned as if he could see her, but rather, she believed he was depending upon his hearing.
When she had explained what she had he handed her the strip of shirt, and her own bits of cloth.
“Wedge them well—make it look, if you can, as if one of us fell in and the other was lost trying to aid—” He laughed. “I'll die a hero yet—in spite of all their talk.”
She did the best she could, hoping her efforts would paint the proper picture for anyone near them. Then wiping her wet hands across the folds of her breeches she came back to him.
“The Wood lies to the north does it not? Yet this current bears to the south. How are we going to travel it?”
“How far along is the day?” he asked her in return.
At first she thought that it must be well into the afternoon but the sun was hidden and there was a massing of clouds. It would appear that a storm was gathering, and she reported what she saw.
“Storm? It would seem that some power is in our favor! There is a ferry well up toward the north. They tried to build a bridge some time back but it was storm riven. If it will rain now and we can reach the ferry it will be on this side as there are the unbreakable orders—it must alway
s be ready for any scouting squad.”
“A ferry? There is a ferryman, then—”
“In a storm he will be under cover. We need not get directly across.” Ylon was speaking slowly as if with every word he saw another point of some plan become clearer. “We get aboard and loosen the anchor ties. The current will carry us—downstream, yes, but with all this debris afloat we can make it to the opposite bank. While those in search will believe the boat broke loose of its own accord—if they are not satisfied with our other false fate.”
It sounded like a plan too full of holes to Twilla. On the other hand she had nothing better to offer and to remain here was to put all their past efforts to no avail.
“Wait for the rain!” Ylon's head was up, he was drawing deep breaths of the rising wind. “This has the feel of one of the great storms.”
So they waited and the day grew darker and darker. There was the roll of thunder and then the cracks of lightning lashed across the sky. The rain came—in vast drops pocking the river, soaking the two of them to the skin. It was her turn to lead and Twilla fastened the same kind of unbreakable grip on his hand as he had kept on hers, battling against the storm wind trying to warn him of all possible snares along the uneven ground.
She was not used to such fury as this storm seemed to be able to gather. The river, now and then she glanced at it, each time with more foreboding. To trust themselves on a ferry to that—almost she could believe that Ylon remained part troubled in his wits.
Find the ferry they did at last. There was a light in the small cottage there but they made a careful detour, coming down to the small departure wharf. River water was already sloshing over it and the ferry was tugging wildly at the anchor rope.
Somehow Twilla got Ylon on to the plunging, whirling boat. They could not get any wetter than they were, but the spray from the river dashed at them. Ylon broke from her hold before she could catch up with him and was pulling his way toward the end of the boat where the anchor ropes still held. He began to fight at the knots and, gasping at the fury of the airborne water around them, Twilla followed.