Five Senses Box Set

by Andre Norton

  A moment or so later Darsia opened her eyes. Now there was a faint emotion on her face, a glimmer of frown.

  “The dirt diggers have come to the river,” she reported. “Our illusions cannot hold there. But what they do I cannot understand—they wade out into the water, scoop up the sand and gravel and shake it back and forth in pans—”

  “What do they do, Moon Daughter?” Karla demanded directly of Twilla and once more she was the center of their attention.

  She must accept that in a manner of her own Darsia was seeing some new threat of invasion. But—scooping up gravel, wading in the river—at least they were not threatening the trees—but what were they about?

  “This is something of which I know nothing—” she was beginning and then interrupted herself. Last year she and Hulde were up in the rolling hills to the north of Varslaad herb hunting, and they had seen a man and woman—wearing the rough clothing of the miners. But they had not been digging—they had been squatting to shift through the sands of a small stream which wore its way down from the mountains.

  “They hunt gold!” She could not be absolutely sure of that answer, but it was close enough to what she had seen with Hulde that day. “The mountain waters bear down with them much which has been loosened up above where men have not gone. The heavier pieces of such—stone and the like—sink to the bottom of the stream,” she was recalling, trying to make clear what Hulde had told her. “And in some streambeds there are uneven places which catch and hold rolling bits. If one delves therein and shifts well, there is gold—even rough gems to be found.”

  “Gold!” Karla fingered the stuff of one of her own heavy bracelets. “In these from over mountain, these delvers in the dirt, is there also such a hunger?”

  “A great hunger,” Twilla nodded. “Gold is highly prized. The King claims all such finds for the crown, but those finding are given also awards—so they seek the farther always.”

  “And illusions cannot abide over running water,” Darsia said sharply. “The guards watch but how can a barrier be set up across the river? This is a matter for the Council—perhaps the greater assembly. Moon daughter, it would appear that the greed which eats at your people will never end. They would assault the forest, now they would break our lands in another way.”

  “I am Varslaad born,” Twilla answered steadily. “But I was apprenticed to a Wisewoman, and I have no liking for what is being done here over mountain. There are others of like mind, but I fear they are few—”

  “We want none such here where we have fought for our peace and freedom!” snapped Darsia. She closed her book with a sharp crack.

  What she might have added was never to be said—though Twilla wondered if her fragile standing with these women might not have been speedily broken by some heated words classing her with those in the open lands.

  Oxyle appeared on the castle bridge and something in the speed with which he strode toward them caught their full attention.

  “Darsia,” he came straight to the seated woman still holding her book, “there is a shadowing—where and why?”

  13

  DARSIA FINGERED THE right-side edge of the closed volume she held, there might have been some mark there for her guidance for she opened it and once more held it flat with palm pressure while she hunched above it, eyes closed.

  “Spelling—” she said.

  “Who and why?” demanded the forest lord.

  “Lotis, but she has barriers. I cannot read beyond those settings.”

  “She has the outlander with her?” again that came swift and sharp.

  Darsia took longer to answer this time. “I think not. There is no feel of him.”

  “Where?” Oxyle added a third question.

  “Far ash, broad oak, three pines—” Her eyes remained closed, yet she might well have been reading that off the pages her hands covered.

  He stood, looking beyond her now. “That is border land,” he said slowly. “Has her bondman made it to freedom again? Well, we shall see!”

  He passed Darsia in two long strides to stand over Twilla. “Blood can call to blood,” he said. “If she plays tricks with this lordling then perhaps you can sniff out which ones.”

  And the mist came at some unuttered call to encircle and enwrap them both.

  Once more they were in the forest of her own time and world. And on the very fringe of it. She saw that the trees were not so set in threatening barricade and immediately before them, beyond a thin curtain of brush, was indeed the open land.

  Twilla had become so used to the dimmer light which was a part of the true forest, and of the hidden land it concealed, that the full blast of a midday sun half blinded her for the moment.

  Of Ylon there was certainly no sign, and if Lotis was near she kept in concealment. But out in the open there was something moving.

  The grass was tall but it wavered and fell before the determined forward push of a child. A girl child with a reddish braid bouncing on her thin shoulders. Her face was freckled and she stared before her intently as if she searched for something of great importance.

  Then she leaned forward and Twilla saw her straighten up in triumph again, clasped in her hand a brilliantly scarlet flower of gem brightness in the light. The child laughed and held tight to her trophy, then advanced some steps to pluck out of the concealing grass another such find, this as golden as the other was red.

  The third time she found a flower Twilla realized that this path was bringing her straight into the woods and she understood the meaning of that—a trap—Lotis had baited a trap and was drawing the small girl in.

  “Stop her!” She caught at Oxyle's sleeve, gave it an imperative tug.

  “I cannot.” His eyes were ablaze. “Lotis has set the spell, only she can break it. Like to that laid on your lordling this is of her weaving and only she can stop it. Long ago this was decided so and the law holds—”

  The child had another trophy, she had thrown out her freckled arm to push aside the bush. Already the shadow of the forest touched her.

  Something arose in the air among the trees, twisting as might a frond of the mist. As that passed out into the sun it appeared formed of flashing motes. It passed well above the child's head as she stooped to retrieve another flower, then dropped down behind her and was gone.

  However, of Lotis there was no sign, though Twilla was sure that that shining thread of cloud had been of her weaving. Nor did the child seem aware of what had happened. Only Twilla, watching so closely, saw that shimmer a short way out in the open and she guessed that it formed a barrier—either against the child's retreat or for any who would come in search.

  Suddenly the child stopped short. She was already into the shadow of the trees, and she looked up and around her as if she had awakened from some sleep. Her small face became a mask of fear. She must have realized that she had entered a place which had long been forbidden to her.

  Lotis was not going to entrap this one! Blind her—twist her wits—Anger was hot in Twilla, sending her out into within touching distance of the child.

  “Little one—”

  Her voice must have broken through the paralysis of fear. The small girl dropped her flowers, turned toward Twilla. Then her eyes went even wider, she shrank back away from the healer.

  “No—no!” Her voice shrilled up into a scream. “I will be good—no!”

  Before Twilla could grasp her she threw herself to one side and into the edge of the brush, her arms out as she frantically pawed at branches which left red scratches on her sunburnt skin as she fought her way in the other direction.

  Mist swirled—she was caught up—gone! Lotis had gathered in her prey.

  Twilla turned upon Oxyle. “What will she do with that child?”

  “Bind her to what she wishes. It seems that the lordling is no longer so tightly tied to her, he has shown signs of rebellion. She wants a more pliable servant—”

  “Do you not realize,” Twilla spoke then in a tone which she hoped would make a
deeper impression than any of the threats and demands she longed to throw at him, “that by entrapping a child she has stirred up far more rage against you all? Even an animal will fight to the death for its cub. Lotis has brought down on you now what may be your doom.

  “Let me go—tell me where to track her—the child must be freed—returned—as quickly as possible.”

  “True—all of what you say is the truth. However, you know nothing of our ways, Moon Daughter. We have a geas set upon us so that only when the full Council meets and there is an accusation brought and answered, can any one of us interfere with another's spelling. That Lotis has passed the border of good judgment—that is so. And she will be made to answer—”

  “When?” demanded Twilla. “After she has blinded that child, twisted her wits as they have told me you are able to do with those who invade your land? Time—”

  “Time—” He nodded and there was a shadow on his face. “Time is both a friend and an enemy—and can serve either for good or ill.”

  “If she had only not run—”

  “She looked at you and saw what she thought to see here—a monster.”

  “What?” Twilla stared at him, open mouthed, so astounded that for a moment she could not find any words.

  “Have you forgotten your own powers, Moon Daughter? What face do you wear?”

  “My face—?” Her hands flew to her cheeks. Ugly—the ugliness she had drawn upon herself. She had thought to make herself repulsive enough to disgust—perhaps it also was such as to frighten.

  Slowly she felt for the mirror, drew it forth and looked into its again shining surface—and saw. Yes, she had wrought well, very well. Though she had not the rampant horror of that boundary monster illusion she did not—even to herself now—look human. It was as if her visioned face had, during the days and nights she had worn it, developed stronger and rougher lines—truly a child afeared to begin with would flee from her.

  And if she were to be able to confront Lotis, find her with her prey, Twilla did not doubt that the forest woman could use her own beauty to deepen the ensorcellment which was a part of the binding of those so stolen.

  The need for that near beastly mask was gone. She did not really know why she had still clung to it. Or rather she did—because the inner fear pricked at her that she had not the power to undo what she had so swiftly and ignorantly done.

  Twilla was lashed by the need to follow Lotis, but what good would that do if the child still feared her.

  Oxyle had taken a step or two away. He was frowning, but his attention was no longer for Twilla, rather upon some churning of his own thoughts.

  “Come—” he said as if he suddenly remembered that she was there. “The Council must know—”

  “Wait—” she said quickly. “Where has Lotis gone?” She must have some direction, for certainly she was not going to leave the child in those hands.

  Oxyle shrugged. “To any number of places,” he returned. “She has what she wants and she will see that it is prepared for the use she wishes. Come!” That last was an abrupt order.

  She was well used now to the swirling of the mist, that momentary journey through any space. And she had no choice but to take it.

  The castle hall. After the brightness of the sun brightened meadow the light seemed dim. Oxyle had left her, going swiftly to that table where they had feasted. He sketched a gesture in the air and there sounded a rustling as of breeze-swept leaves.

  Let him to his council if that is all he was empowered to do. Twilla was not bound by these Laws of theirs though she was certainly not sure how much she had to call upon in the way of attack and defense.

  She swung up the mirror again, stared deeply into it. Not to see her mask of ugliness but something else—that cave-like chamber in which she had caught the moon's splendor. She might not be able to summon mists to waft her hither and thither but perhaps she had a guide of use.

  There was a flicker across the silver expanse. She was already walking toward the far door of the room, out into the hall of treasures. As she went the flicker deepened, took on more substance. Setting all her dependence on it, Twilla passed from one corridor to another, twice going down unembellished passages which had those sealed and symboled doors.

  Time ceased to have any meaning, she might have paced so for hours—perhaps even longer—there seemed to be no end to the inner maze of the castle ways. As Hulde's room, the inside was far greater than it might at first seeing be.

  The mirror flashed as a lash of lightning, blindingly brilliant. Then Twilla rubbed at smarting eyes before she could make out that she stood again in the moon chamber. Though the orb must be missing from the reflecting pool now since it was day without.

  Missing in its entirety, no, she saw as she drew near. But it was a moon on the wane—diminished from its full splendor. A waning moon—she had used such to set the pattern that she wore. Could that also release it?

  Twilla crouched beside the pool. This time she did not hold forth the mirror to reflect what lay in the still water, rather she held it before her face. With all the strength she could summon she strove to look upon the mask she had wrought and destroy it.

  But there was no change—ugliness—it held. Twilla began to shiver. Indeed she had sealed herself into a trap with her recklessness.

  Her eyes—they were not small, red-rimmed, near hairless of lash; her nose—it was straight not swollen into a sow's upturned snout—there were no pock marks on her cheeks. What she saw was—NOT!

  "Time will sever, time does wait

  She who dares can question fate.

  Let all be as once it seemed,

  This I see only dream.”

  She pulled the words out of hiding in her memory, raised her voice and sang them imperatively as she would have given orders to some companion ready for battle.

  Twilla heard the ripple of water as if the pool was rising to answer her. But her eyes clung to the mirror.

  "Ill done, well begun

  Born under moon, worn under sun,

  Break the mask that cloaks me

  Let moon charm answer me!"

  Was there a troubling of that reflection? Twilla's breath caught in what was close to a sob. Yes—oh, yes!

  The pock marks were gone, her nose—her eyes—she lacked the beauty of the forest women but she was no longer one a child would run from. A child—Lotis—and the child—!

  As she lowered her trembling arms Twilla caught sight of the pool. There was no moon! She might have wiped it through its waning into nothingness. For a moment she felt a coldness in her. So much—so much she did not know! Had she once more taken a reckless stride without thought?

  But there was a need—the child—

  Twilla got to her feet clumsily. Even as it had been when she had treated Fanna so now that exhaustion weighed upon her. Still she could not stay here.

  When she turned slowly around examining the walls of the moon chamber she could see no doors. Karla had brought them here and taken them out in the mist. She had entered somehow with the aid of the mirror. Therefore—surely the mirror would take her out!

  That was the side—she must have come through somewhere there. Twilla walked purposefully toward the blank expanse of stone, the mirror outheld with its reflecting side toward what seemed solid rock.

  And she walked through.

  Once back in the corridor she leaned against the nearest wall panting, the mirror sliding from her grasp to hang dangling from its cord looped now around her wrist. It was even darker here—there were no traces of the light mist which fought shadows elsewhere. But she remembered the way she had come and now she forced herself to stand free from the wall and retrace her path.

  She had transversed several of the maze passages when she lost that trace of memory. Slowly she brought up the mirror, tried to focus on it a mental picture of the great hall. But the mirror remained obstinately blank—not even her own features showed there now.

  There was nothing to be done b
ut to try her luck at guessing and that she set to. It was at a cross passage where she was offered three ways that she finally realized she could go no farther and slumped, to sit with her back against the wall, her head resting on her hunched knees.

  A sound disturbed the half stupor she had fallen into. Steps, slow ones, almost as uncertain in their rhythm as she herself felt. Twilla raised her head.

  Ylon! He was edging along, his hand out against the wall as a guide, the strained look about his sightless eyes which she remembered only too well. Twilla scrambled up.

  “Ylon!”

  He stopped, his head came up as he faced her.

  “Twilla—Twilla!” He moved outward from the sustaining wall his hands outheld as if to feel for her. She hastened to grasp the nearest.

  “I am here—though I do not know where ‘here’ may be,” she said with a shaky little laugh.

  “These are the twist ways,” he told her. His hand had turned in hers so that now he grasped her wrist in a tight hold.

  Now it was his turn to laugh, though his was a harsh, rusty sound. “Lotis makes good use of these upon occasion.”

  “Lotis! Ylon—she has taken a child, a little girl, drawn her by ensorcellment here. Oxyle will do nothing. He says that it is some law of theirs. But. can they not understand that the taking of a child makes matters worse? I do not think that that will not be followed up.”

  “A child! She dared—that!” Certainly he was no longer the blank faced bondman she had seen obeying Lotis, subject to her whims. This was the man with whom she had come out of the town.

  “We've got to get her free—that child! Ylon, where can we find them? Oxyle would not tell me.”

  “No!” His wrist grip was enough to bruise her. “She would use you—she has power—greater power than she allows even her kin to believe.”

  “Ylon, I have power also,” Twilla spoke with a careful spacing of words, determined to impress what she said upon him. “I saved Fanna—remember? His own people could not do that. I am a healer—and there are many kinds of power.”