by Andre Norton
At her touch he appeared to shiver, but he did not move. Twilla wondered if he were not as much a prisoner as if he sat there in bonds.
“To the branch, to the root, to the trunk, to the crown, may the land bring forth the tree, and the tree shelter well the land. As it has been since the beginning, may it so be!” Oxyle had not reseated himself, instead, he had picked up a silver goblet from the table before him and held it breast high.
Those about Twilla reached for goblets also and she realized that this was a toast which perhaps to the forest people had the solemnity of her own race's casting a drop over the shoulder in honor to the Three in One. Nor could she see anything but goodwill in those words. So she picked up her own goblet and watched for a clue.
Oxyle drank and all those others, including Twilla, immediately raised their goblets to do also. Even Ylon had put forth his hand uncertainly, felt carefully until his fingers touched the goblet that was his, and raised it to his lips.
There seemed to be no other ceremony to their dining. The covered plates down the length of the table were unlidded and she saw fruit and cakes though there seemed to be no meat. However, what she helped herself to proved to be provender that was satisfactory not only to allay hunger but so tasteful as to satisfy all one's needs.
It was not wine in the goblets, she discovered, rather a liquid much thinner, almost like water, but sweet, giving the drinker a feeling of renewed strength. All of the meal was so far removed from the coarse food which had been provided since she had left Varslaad that she relished each bite, finding herself chewing at length to savor the flavor.
That hum of conversation which she had noted on her arrival was to be heard again. Twilla did not recognize this speech, which seemed almost closer to the twitter of birds than words and phrases. But she applied herself to clearing her plate, more interested at the moment in satisfying her hunger.
Ylon sat with an empty plate, his hands not in sight. With a flash of understanding Twilla knew what held him so. He was ashamed to fumble, hunting food, perhaps overturn some dish. And that spark of anger in her flared the stronger. When Lotis beside him, or the man on his other side, made no move to help him, she refused to remain silent any longer.
“Lord,” she spoke directly to Oxyle, gaining his attention at once, “you serve one guest well within your halls, why must another go hungry?”
That murmur died away and faces turned in her direction, then eyes slanted to Ylon. Lotis was smiling straight at Twilla as if daring her to carry the attack farther.
“Lord Ylon you say is in some way captive to this Lady of the House. In our world even the lowest of servants goes not hungry when master and mistress dine. Is there then no house honor among you?”
Oxyle's eyes glittered nearly as brightly as the gems in the band about his brow. He looked at Twilla but she could read no anger in that glance. Then he arose, and walked down the room behind the bench on the far side of the table. Reaching where Lotis sat he leaned forward across her shoulder, by his gesture shoving her somewhat aside, and caught up from one plate some cakes, which he placed before Ylon, from another he selected a cluster of berries.
“He who labors goes not empty of plate, Lotis.” His words were seemingly impersonal but Twilla thought she caught the hint of reprimand which lay within them. “You have chosen to call this man, by our own laws though he becomes then yours, you also have duties toward him—”
She spat like an angered cat. “Listen to your ugly wench, Oxyle, and you will come to regret it—”
How much farther she might have carried her tirade they were not to know for one of those thicker twists of mist gathered nearly at Oxyle's elbow and when it cleared a man in green and red dress stood there.
“There is black trouble,” he announced even as he became fully visible. “Young Fanna found iron—”
Oxyle tensed. Then his hand fell on Ylon's shoulder. With the other he beckoned to Twilla and she hurried to join him.
“You have said that this one can aid us, Lotis—and have done so many times. Now he will prove his worth!”
The mist swirled in about them even as Ylon had been urged to his feet by the grip of the forest lord. They were encompassed by it and again Twilla felt that being not of the world and time she knew.
Whimpering much as an animal in pain might make startled her and aroused her healer's instinct as the mist cleared.
They were out under trees again—in the forest. Before them was a tree with a fresh-hacked gouge in its trunk. At the foot lay an ax, but twisted in a painful curl was one wearing the forest green and as he writhed Twilla was able to see his face. Though she had seen no children among the assembly in the castle this sufferer was plainly much younger in age and still one of the tree shadow dwellers.
11
TWILLA WAS ON her knees beside the twisting body.
“Help me!” she demanded, not looking up to see whom she was calling upon. Her healer's bag—long since lost. What did she have to offer now?
It was Oxyle who joined her, his hands on the shoulders of the boy, turning the young body face up so she could see the damage. Twilla winced. She had seen burns before, stood by Hulde and watched their treatment or even done the soothing herself in these last few years. But these blacked wounds on the hands, seeming to spread even as she looked, to strike up over those thin wrists and into the forearms, were worse than any brand-caused wound she had ever sighted.
“You are a healer—what do you say to this?” Oxyle's voice, for the first time, was sere and cold to her.
Twilla made an uncertain swing of her hands, again she had tried to reach for that bag she did not have.
“Burns—” She leaned closer. The boy's eyes were closed, he no longer made any sound, except that his breath came in ragged pants. “Butter—ease all—But where do I find such?”
Obviously not here. The hands which had sought the missing bag were now at her breast. The mirror—but—such a small chance—and in using it she would be betraying her own defense.
The boy shifted again in Oxyle's hold and gave a faint moan, before his head fell limply to the side. Yes—unlike the nature of true burns those marks were climbing his arms, eating at his flesh!
She brought the mirror out of its hiding place.
“Lift him,” she ordered, “across my knees—”
With Oxyle still holding the sufferer's head his body was settled as she ordered, so those twisted and blackened hands and the changed flesh of the arms was directly before her.
Twilla steadied the mirror. The reflecting side of the disk must hang directly above. Yes, in this fashion—still high enough for her to see that reflection clearly in all its horror. She drew a deep breath and then another, willing her world to contract, to exist only on what she saw in the mirror.
She had managed change for herself—but that had been illusion only. What if what she could raise now would be only illusion also? Doubts weakened—she fought.
Into the mirror she forced her full will, see firm healthy flesh, no sign of those searing burns, that blackened skin flaking away to show raw cracks. Flesh unmarked, unseared—
She felt the lift within her, coming from some depths she had not known she sheltered. It was like fire also, but cold—clear—The mirror glinted now, and its bright surface was shining as if the full moon hung overhead.
"Power to heal, power for need,
Power to enter, power to seed.”
“Let the power come to call
Grow and flourish—tree tall!"
Another of those jingles but the best she could summon. The mirror was very bright, but its surface no longer reflected. Instead there dripped from it points of even brighter light which it hurt her to watch but she knew that she must—illusion—or power indeed?
Those specks dipped down, like roots growing even as they watched, seeking soil in which to shelter and grow. But she did not follow their descent, her attention was on the mirror.
Twilla swayed. I
t seemed that her very life force was being harnessed to what she did and yet she held. Dimly she was aware that, even as Oxyle half supported the boy, someone had moved in behind her, was bracing her now trembling body.
“Grow"—she gasped—"Show.
“All well above, and below.”
Those roots, what she could see of them were penetrating the blackened skin. No longer were they cool, clean silver, rather they were tainted with a greenish yellow. The mirror shook in her hold as if it would escape what was now drawn toward it, but Twilla kept it steady. Just as that sturdy body behind her, the hands which had come to hold, kept her also as she must be.
The mirror was fighting her, striving to twist and turn, escape what was climbing. Grimly Twilla held. Was she now stilling forever any power which might hold therein—pushing the power she did not understand past what it could control? She could not tell but her stubborn will held her to this.
The greenish roots were being absorbed back into the surface. That no longer shone. It was smeared, filmed. Twilla cried out. The fingers which held the mirror, there was a burning—Whether she had succeeded or not—she could no longer hold. Out of her grasp skidded the mirror and, with its going, she was so utterly drained that she wilted as might a plant pulled from its rooting.
Strong arms around her, a body behind hers holding her steady. She could see only dimly, as if the brightness of the mirror had affected her sight.
But the body supported across her knees stirred and was drawn away from her. Twilla blinked and blinked again, somewhat clearing her sight. However, she was too weak to move, though she forced out a shaking hand toward the mirror now so dulled, as if centuries had worn across its surface. It was heavy, so heavy she could barely lift it, and—dead—dead—
Weakness, the knowledge of her loss, brought tears. She was crying. A hand raised to touch her cheeks, coming over her shoulder, leaving its hold about her. Fingers calloused from sword play drew down her skin.
“She has given much. What have you taken, forest born?”
Ylon's voice, no longer that of Lotis's hound—now that of the man who had shared peril and river death with her.
“We give her our blessing for Fanna—Fanna has not died the iron death!”
Once more Twilla blinked, forced the last of those foolish tears from her eyes. Facing her, holding the boy much as Ylon was holding her, was the forest lord. And those hands which had been seared into crooked claws, were clear, unblemished, though the boy was limp against Oxyle's shoulder.
With shaking hands Twilla brought the mirror close to her once more. She found her wide spread fingers stroking its surface even as they had done for so long, once more polishing, smoothing what appeared wholly without light.
Laying the boy down upon the leaf carpet Oxyle got to his feet. Now he spoke to Ylon.
“Iron is yours. Take it out of our land so that no more may be so entrapped.”
When the young man would have moved Twilla caught at him. “NO!” And then she looked up at Oxyle. “If that ax be poisoned, you shall not ask that of this man.”
“It is not poison for one of his kind. They deal in iron and it does not turn on them. Only for us it is suffering and death. Lotis claimed the life of this one so that he might serve us so—taking away that which would be death.”
“Yes.” That was Lotis, though she was not in the line of Twilla's sight and the girl was too wearied to turn her head to look at the other. “Get you to the iron, bondman, and see it out of our wood! Let the so-gifted one see to herself, she has done well enough before.” There was raw spite in that.
“Let me,” Oxyle had come to their side and now knelt, steadying Twilla. She felt Ylon move away. But she caught at the Forest Lord and drew herself up to her knees, turning so that she could see Ylon now on his feet, his hands outstretched. The tree where the ax head had sliced was to his right as he blundered forward.
“To your right.” Twilla's spurt of anger gave her a remnant of strength. She clawed at Oxyle bringing herself wavering to her feet.
“He cannot see!” She pounded one fist against the Forest Lord's arm. “May the Blight of Pagorn be upon you—he cannot see!”
“For me he will.” Lotis had glided up behind Ylon. Now she thrust him forward until he brought up heavily against the gouged tree. His hands ran down the trunk until they fell upon the ax head. As he lifted something else came with it, a brown dagger, its hilt a mass of green stones, the gleaming blade snapped across.
Ylon had the iron free. Lotis moved again giving him another shove. “Out with it!” she ordered. “Out of our land!”
Twilla strove to free herself from Oxyle's hold and then she turned on the Forest Lord.
“He cannot see—he serves you and you allow this?”
Oxyle looked at her strangely—almost as if he knew a pinch of shame and then he gave another order:
“Vestel, lead him to the fringe. See he has a clear path.”
As the man who had summoned them to the site hurried to obey, Lotis fronted Oxyle and Twilla.
“He is mine! By custom I claim him, and would you question the rites and elders, Oxyle? Leave me my bondman or else you will need to go up against the Five Laws yourself.”
“Will he not serve you better,” demanded Twilla, “if you give him back his sight?”
Lotis's beautiful mask of a face drew into a haggish grimace.
“Look to yourself, dirt slut! What I do with my property is none of your concern. Also—” Now her scowl smoothed into a sly, evil smile. “I think you are no longer armed against—me!”
She raised her hand so swiftly Twilla could hardly mark its motion and throw. There came a sparkling dart seemingly born out of the very air itself.
The mirror—the mirror lay now at her feet, still dull, diminished. She had no shield—if the mirror had been her shield before.
She was whirled aside, Oxyle's hold sending her out of the path of that bolt so fast that she stumbled and fell to her knees. She groped out, found the mirror and drew it toward her.
“This one,” the chill was back in the forest lord's voice, “is kin-saver. Hold that in your mind, Lotis—there is to be no spelling raised against her.”
Lotis laughed. “Ah, so the swine-faced beauty is for you, Oxyle? A perverted taste. But—since you have claimed her, take the slut into your service.”
“Not so—she has taken all of us into hers!” he countered. “Fanna lives because of her powers. Can you match that?”
“Faugh!” she whirled, the full skirts of her robe flying out as she turned away. However, Twilla thought dully, she had not admitted any defeat. Why the woman was so set against her—Ylon? Could it actually be, in spite of what Oxyle had told her, Lotis's hold on Ylon was not as secure as she had thought it to be? He had come to her—the mirror turned in Twilla's hands as she sought the cord to restore it to its place about her neck again—he had come to her, sustained her with the strength of his body as she fought that battle with death. And certainly Lotis had not wished that.
There was a murmur which was not the wind in the tree leaves, that mimic of faraway voices which the forest held. Twilla looked around. Behind her were gathered others from that company which had sat at the feast table. One of them, a woman wearing a robe the silver of frost-touched wood, her gems crystal, knelt now by the still unconscious boy, her arms about him, his head against her shoulder.
She was singing in a voice so low Twilla could catch only the quaver of the tune—no words. And as she so sang she rocked her body back and forth a little as if she held in her arms some child she would soothe.
Oxyle had gone to the gouged tree. He stooped and picked up the broken dagger.
“The boy drew his own peril upon him. He strove to master iron with this. He has paid dearly for his foolishness—let none remember it against him. Musseline,” he came to the woman with Fanna, “call him into wakefulness—we would know if the poison has left him unmarked. As a mother summons, do.”
<
br /> For a moment she looked mutinous and then she nodded. The tune she had crooned became louder with a faster beat. Fanna's eyelids fluttered, opened wide. He was staring up into the face of the woman who held him.
“Mother—?” He made a question of that word. Then suddenly he raised both hands and stared at them.
“I was caught—” The shadow of fear still was on him. “The tree cried out in pain and I would have helped—but—I still live.”
“You still live,” she answered gravely. “It was because Moon daughter drew out the poison of those from away.”
He shifted a little in her hold and looked wonderingly at Twilla where she still sat limply; the mirror was on its cord but still within the grasp of her hands.
“It—it is a thing unknown—” he said. Again he shifted in those arms which cradled him. “Moon daughter, there is blood debt between us. Mighty is the power you summon—great are you in its service.”
Twilla shook her head slowly. “I did what was to be done. I am a healer, and a healer turns not away from those needing her.”
There was a crackling of brush behind to their left and all of them looked to where Ylon came back at his slow and cautious pace, Vestel at his elbow. Lotis also pushed forward. However, he seemed, in spite of his set stare, to look beyond her to where Oxyle stood as if he could truly see the forest lord.
“But,” one of the other men of that company pushed forward now, “who set the iron to our boughed brother? The wound is fresh. Did you not sight them beyond the trees?”
“Only marks of their going,” returned Ylon's escort. “The tracks of one of their carts.”
“You hold this border, Vestel,” Oxyle said to the man. “What barrier was set here?”
“A monger.” Vestel clicked his fingers even as Lotis had done to summon Ylon. But what came lumbering out of a twist of mist a little beyond was such a thing as might inhabit a nightmare.
It was taller than any man of that company and yet it did not stand fully erect. Rather it stooped a little, its demon mask of a head clamped against shaggy pelted shoulders, its long arms a-swing ready to seize. Its barrel of a body and thick legs suggested strength enough to crush such prey as it would choose. Reddish wild eyes showed in the caverns of its skull sockets.