by Andre Norton
Irasmus sat at ease in a high-backed chair that was curiously assembled from what seemed the crooked bones of some great animal. But it was also cushioned in scarlet, and certainly the sitter could rest in comfort.
A table stood within reach. Placed for easy touching was a round globe of polished crystal upon a smoke-colored stone that looked almost as if it might be a bowl of sorts, for within it whirled and twisted a whisper of color only a little darker than what held it. There were also two tall candlebranches and, catching sight of those, Yurgy stiffened.
Those lifters-of-light had been made for Year’s End candles and were to be used only for that short hour and after proper ritual; at all other times, they were kept in the great chest of the tenthman of Well-Watered Lea. But, of course, that dun was long since gone; and the boy himself had seen the tenthman torn apart by whooping gobbes. In the holders now were no candles of the finest and clearest beeswax, as was fitting, but rather crooked, greenish stalks of a stuff that burned clearer than any of the candles or lamps Yurgy knew in the clan homesteads.
Flanking the candles at one end of the table was a pile of books—old ones with wooden covers and tarnished metal hinges. There were, in addition, several parchment scrolls. On the other side were more records, and these were also known to Yurgy—they were the tallies submitted each season to the Harvest Assembly. Two copies were always made, one kept with the candles and the other stored in Firthdun.
The candles, that loaded table, and the presence of the master at ease held the valley youth’s attention for longer than anything had done since the mind-drain had caught him. Could Irasmus be in some way releasing that hold? But why?
“Hither—into the light.” Irasmus beckoned. Again the boy felt that warm wash of shame. He could not read anything in the mage’s expression; still, he had a feeling that he was being thrust facedown into the dirt by something that lay at the far back of the other’s yellow eyes.
“Turn—slowly,” came the next command. Yurgy tried to fasten his thoughts on what lay in the room ashe obeyed. There was a richness here, though all the colors were muted. He saw a shelf on which rested bowls and stoppered bottles; another bore books and rolls of such accounts as were done quickly for shorter record-keeping. Two braziers rested on high stands; from them coiled those threads of smoke which he thought changed the scent of this level of the stronghold. Against the far wall stood a luxurious bed (one taken from Gotthley of Sanzondun), piled high with coverlets and a couple of furred rugs. Then the boy had finished his circle and once more faced Irasmus, to discover that the master had opened one of the Styrmir record rolls.
“You are of Firthdun?”
Yurgy shook his head. “I was but fostered there.”
The mage studied him. “Fosterage is given only when there is kinship,” he commented. “Where, then, were you birthed, and why did you come to fosterage?”
“I was son to Yetta of the mill; my sire was Ovan. In my first year, there was a storm, and the river took the mill and most of those within it. My mother was second granddaughter to the Firthdun line, and my father’s kin already had sons in many. It was arranged for me then.”
Again there was a short silence, as if Irasmus were considering something which might or might not be of importance.
“But the truth is,” he said slowly, “that you have in you some kin blood. How well do you know her whom they call Sulerna?”
The youth was astounded at the sudden change insubject. “As well as sister kin. I was fostered, but they believed that the blood held true in me—”
“Blood?” The mage leaned forward, his interest fully caught now. “Blood, or—talent?”
Yurgy shook his head, confused, but the master was smiling again. “You may find your way to being a hand of mine.”
“Like Karsh?” the boy somehow found the freedom—and the boldness—to demand.
“Not so—look around you, slug. Once I was as soft brained and slave intended as you. There are many ways in which the talent can serve, and others by which it may be summoned. Get you down now to the chamber below this; bid the door open, and it will obey. What you find there is yours for a space—perhaps forever, if you are clever enough.”
The head demon was not waiting outside, a fact for which Yurgy was thoroughly grateful. He did as he had been ordered—retraced his steps downward, to pause before the other door, clear his throat, and manage to get out a single word: “Open.”
Surprise stirred in him a little when the portal swung smoothly inward. Here was no heavy curtain of dark but, rather, light which was stronger than any finding its way through the narrow window slits of the tower.
The boy took several steps forward and then glanced down at the soft floor covering which soothed his bare feet. This was no lately mown grass, for all that it was dull yellow and seemed as thickly bladed as turf.
Behind him, the door glided closed again. Yurgyspun around, ready to burst out once more if he could; but, to his startlement, he saw that, though the door itself was a barrier against intrusion, there were also two bars on this side—one near the top and one close to the floor. He guessed shrewdly that any attempt at defiance might well be turned against him to seal the room in some fashion, but still he attempted to push those bars into a defense; however, they were immovable, and, though uneasy, he at last gave up the struggle.
The carpeting, which was so like the browned ground growth of autumn, covered the entire floor except for three places where there stood lamp standards as tall as himself. There was a low trundle bed, which might have been taken from under the rich four-poster in the upper chamber, and a table on which perched a small lamp which appeared so far turned down that its flame did not do much against the gloom. A chair was drawn up to the table. At the far side, opposite the bed, was a curtained niche. The boy advanced warily to this area, only to find that it hid a garderobe, as well as a very small ledge on which stood a jug and an empty basin.
The last of the furnishings that he had been carefully avoiding was a chest so heavily carven that, in the uncertain light, grotesque faces and monstrous forms appeared to shift of their own accord, while bulbous, slit-pupiled eyes leered at him.
The hasp bore no lock. Yurgy hated to touch that wood, which he believed very old and which, though well-polished, was overscored with a multitude of leprous-looking patches, more virulent than any mold designed by nature. However, the chest opened easily enough, and the boy looked down at such clothing asone of the far-traveling traders might have owned, different by far in cut from either the smocks and breeches he had been used to all his life or from the color-flashing garments the master affected.
This chamber possessed no mirror to reveal his nudity, nor did he any longer feel chilled. Yet, Yurgy was very reluctant as he drew forth those garments one by one.
He who once must have owned them had been about Yurgy’s height, but his girth had been greater, so that the boy had to fold in the clothing and make very sure the belt, which was a part of this hoard, was tightly drawn. The chest yielded boots also but, regretfully, Yurgy had to set those aside, since they were at least a size too small for his bare field-worker’s bony feet.
As he fastened the last clasp of the jerkin (which did not hold well because of the width of the garment), he once again gave searching survey to the room and all it held. The wits, which had been so dulled, were surfacing in him again with a keenness he had not known for days.
One thing, Yurgy knew, was clear: this room might have the luxuriousness of a dun leader’s, but he did not think he was going to be able to leave it at his own desire. There were the door bolts, to be sure; however, there was also the matter of food and drink—supplies he had certainly not come across in his exploration. He was as much a captive here as he had been since his first meeting with Irasmus.
Once more, the boy made a circuit of the room, ending to stare down at the chest. That coffer was now empty, save for the useless boots he had dropped back into it before he’d closed
the lid. Save for the lampstandards, which would unfortunately afford only the clumsiest of weapons, no arms were to be found.
It was the book on the table that caught Yurgy’s attention at last. He was aware, from his visit to the master’s quarters, that books were treasures. As were all the dun young, Yurgy had been early taught his letters and simple sums but, beyond that, no book knowledge but only the long-gathered wisdom of his elders.
For lack of any other occupation, he started for the table and the book that lay so close to the source of light, beckoning to him. But he had taken only a few steps when emptiness of mind descended on him once more.
It was not the table and the book that drew the boy so strongly now but rather the trundle bed with its smoothly pulled covers. Not waiting to strip off his new clothing, he stretched out upon it and straightway had the feeling that he was in the soft embrace of something—the Wind? Deep-buried memory stirred even as his eyes closed. The Wind—Where had the Wind gone?
Gifford, Yost, and Harwice sat close together at the table, none of them moving, and stared at the oblong of light hanging at eye level before them.
Pictured there was a crude bed and on it a flush-faced boy lying as stiffly as a statue.
“Seek.” The archmage did not speak aloud, but his lips formed the word. And seek they did. What they wrought then was not a thing forbidden to their kind, but it could only be called upon for service in the direst of perils.
The mages no longer saw the sleeping boy; rather,they viewed the rich and weird new furnishings of the chamber above his. And there, indeed, was Irasmus, busily referring from book to script-roll, then to a second book. The smoke of burning herbs was so thick that they who watched felt they should have been able to pick up the scent themselves.
“He prepares a tool,” Harwice stated. “Should we move?”
“He has already begun his ensorcellment, and to interfere now would be beyond the talents of even all of us assembled in high council,” Yost returned.
“But there must be something we can do!” The artist continued to protest, for he had never ere brushed more than the edge of so potent a dealing with the Dark.
“Death would answer,” his superior said slowly. “We could reach out and stop the heart of that sleeper. Or—what is planned might be turned against the planner. We cannot, perhaps, influence those Irasmus intends to set about his filthy business now; but we may be able to twist his desires to bring him down in the end.”
“But those whom he would make use of—what can we do for them?” Harwice had gripped the edge of the table and was holding it so tightly his nails bit into its substance.
“There is this,” Gifford said. “Death is not an end—do we ourselves not know that also? And the evil born within one which is forced upon another is not wrongdoing that the tool must, in the end, pay for.”
“The—the realization of this thing”—the painter’s voice sank—“that is to be laid upon me.”
“Yes; that will be a heavy burden. However, there is deep strength in this boy, and he shall leave that as heritageto those coming after. He shall die—but to live in the arms of the Wind!”
Yurgy turned his head, and now the mages could see him better. Coursing down his cheeks were silver streaks of tears, tears from closed and dreaming eyes.
8
THOSE WITHIN FIRTHDUN NOW ALWAYS GATHERED AT sundown in the great kitchen, where the rich smells of the even meal still lingered to lighten hearts a little—at least, those of the younglings. But now there was neither telling of tales nor roasting of apples on the hearth; the dunspeople did not know how much longer it might be before the new master struck and all would be gone forever.
The younger men made regular rounds at night. They could not walk the outermost boundaries of the dun, but they made as sure as possible that their animals rested in safety. And since neither man nor beast stepped beyond those boundaries, both seemed to be free from attack, though no one was sure of the reason for that.
Theirs was not the richest dun in the Valley—those had gone easily and early. It was certain—the Firth folk were all sure in their hearts—that their escape sofar was because Haraska was dunmistress here, along with dunsire. He had never spoken much of his past, but it was well known that, in years gone by, both had ventured into the Forest at the Wind’s call, returning to become pillars of strength against evil.
Long days of nursing and nights of careful watching had been needed to return Haraska to the woman she had been on that morning when the sending had brought its warning. She, who had always been joyful of heart, full of stories to keep the children amused, and clever and diligent with her old hands, no longer spoke much, and then only of very common things. The dunmistress laughed no more with the little ones but rather studied them from time to time and sighed until they, sensing that something was wrong, kept their distance from her. Above all, she clung to Sulerna, fretting if the girl were not in her sight and making her promise over and over again that she would venture no farther than the orchard. Yet, Haraska admitted freely when the others questioned her, she had not truly foreseen any especial evil for her granddaughter but only feared for the young woman in her heart.
Most of all, the dunsfolk missed the Wind. Hans brought out his pipe now and then and awoke trills of sound, the tunes they had danced to at the harvest feasting; and there was a vague comfort in those songs, as if a ghost of a breath of the Wind did still reach them.
Time passed as the people lived in this fashion on the edge of darkness. That Yurgy was lost to them they knew, for he had been seen at hard labor with the men and women dispossessed of their duns, but the Firthfolk dared make no attempt to bring him to what now seemed their place of safety.
With the help of Mistress Larlarn and those of the strongest talent, Haraska had twice tried to reach forth for communication with something which was of the Light. However, she struggled to no purpose, and, at last, Mistress Larlarn declared that the oldmother must not use up her precious energy so.
Of an evening, the household had gotten used to sitting in a dimness broken only by the small fire on the hearth. Children rested in their parents’ arms watching the flames, while the elders reported each day the amount of work that had been achieved. None spoke of what all knew—that just beyond their holding lay fields of stunted and fungus-fouled grains, choked by fearsome growths of new weeds that gave off vile odors and left stinging blisters on the flesh of any who touched them.
Their flocks were gone and had been since the day Yurgy had walked down the Valley at the side of the master’s horse. However, they still had two milk cows, a sty of pigs, and a goodly flock of fowls, all of which were kept well within the dun boundaries. Moreover, the kitchen garden, with its wealth of vegetables, throve, and the fruit trees promised a high basket-heaping to come.
But this island of peace and plenty lay only within the borders of Firthdun—and how long would it last?
This night, Haraska sat in her usual chair. A knitting bag lay beside her seat, but she made no effort to reach for needles and wool. Instead, while Sulerna sat on the floor before her, the dunmistress had captured both the girl’s hands and was stroking the smooth flesh. The fireflared suddenly as a new piece of wood caught flame, and Sulerna could see the tears drop from her grandmother’s eyes as the old woman made no attempt to sweep them away.
“Grandmam,” she said hesitatingly, wanting to bring comfort, but how—and for what?
Haraska’s clutch on her tightened, as if she believed she must keep that hold on the girl for the sake of Sulerna’s life. Those who sat about them had begun to watch the two, and it was Mistress Larlarn who rose up behind Haraska’s chair to rest her hands on the old-mother’s bent shoulders.
“Sister,” she said. She spoke softly, yet so quiet was the room that all within it heard her. “Is it a sending again?”
The dunmistress gave a great wrenching sob. “Wind—!” The sob scaled up to a high cry, near a scream, for aid. Leaning fu
rther forward, she caught Sulerna into a tight grip, no longer looking down at the girl but rather into an emptiness beyond, which was being filled by something she fought to escape.
“No!” Again came that shout of denial. “No! Even the Dark cannot move so—”
Slowly her grip on Sulerna loosened, and it was the young woman who had to brace herself to keep the weight of that old body from sliding onto the floor. But Mistress Larlarn and several others moved swiftly to gather their oldmother up. She lay limp, with eyes closed; however, her face on the left was savagely twisted to one side, and her left arm swung as if all control of muscle had gone.
“What—what is it!” Sulerna cried.
Mistress Larlarn shook her head. Fatha put downher young daughter and hastened to open the cupboard bed; her face was also drawn, and her breath came in gusts. Marah tried to hold to her mother’s skirts, only to be shaken loose.
There was a sudden voice from one of the men: “Like the second of Wiftdun! We were just sitting, eating our meat at the Midwinter Feast, and he was taken so—but he was none that dealt in dreams. Four months he was as a babe and could not talk, sit, or stand; only his poor, tired eyes followed any who came near him, asking for aid. And we never knew what or who had struck him down.”
But Haraska looked for no help from those now tending her. Instead, her eyes remained tightly closed, as if all her will centered now in refusing to look.
Fatha drew the quilt up about her mother’s body. All the light and the usual kindliness had fled from her face as she spoke directly to the healing woman.
“Is this some stroke from that death maker who would be our master? Wind Caller she was in her youth, and dreamer for all of us who still held to the old ways. When one would kill a plant past reviving, one destroys a root—”