by Andre Norton
Whether fatigue had caught up with him she did not know, but he obeyed her more meekly than Valoris. To her eyes the wound seemed to be healing well, and he admitted the pain was less and he could move the arm more freely. But he was not easily steered to rest until Sarita evoked what they had spoken of earlier.
If Rhys believed in such a thing as mind blinding, and in his own ability to sense danger ahead, then he must trust that she could also do the same. At last he gave way to her urging.
As the afternoon advanced, Sarita faced west, that mountain with its dark reputation very much in her thoughts. They might be heading into danger. However, Rhys was also right: they could not remain here where at any moment they might be discovered.
Mind blinding. Something in her shuddered away from the thought. How could it be done? She tried to remember those she had known in Var-The-Outer: Halda, her charge, the wench responsible for bringing their meals to the work chamber, the countess, the earl, the housekeeper, various other maids and servingmen.
Janine had seemed, as a nursery maid under the most formidable Halda, a meek and retiring mouse of a girl. She was young, around Sarita's own age, she guessed. And to believe that she had this mysterious power Rhys had spoken of was impossible for Sarita. No, there was no one she had known in the keep who could have done such a thing. Yet, looking back now, she could see things which might have made one suspicious that all was not as usual. When the earl had left for Raganfors he had, unaccountably it now seemed, taken with him the most experienced officers of the guards —which had never happened before. And the countess had had that sudden desire to ride out.
Sarita shivered. Was her mind giving life to shadows?
She had little time for such profitless musing once they started that night's trek. The girl, with a querulous Valoris in the back sling and leading Berry on a rope, thought by the time she caught a glimpse of dawn she could not take another step.
Rhys led them to crude shelter where there was a standing of tall rocks with an open space in the center. In spite of her weariness, Sarita wondered at that formation, which seemed unlikely to be found in the woods.
"Old Ones' cage," Rhys returned when she commented on it.
"Cage?"
"So we call them. There are a number to be found nearer the mountains. They were certainly raised for some purpose, but those who did so were long gone before our people came here. It may even be some kind of temple."
Sarita stared from one of the upright rocks to another. Were they set so to keep something out—or something in?
To one brought up in the city, the countryside was full of surprises and puzzles. Now, tramping through this wilderness, she felt lonely, even with Valoris whining for attention and Rhys staking Berry on the other side of the largest rock. He had carried the kid on his shoulders for much of the night. Now released, Briar rushed to Berry's side.
She was not alone. Though she could see and hear those others, she felt as if she wandered through some maze to which there was no end.
Sarita was sure Rhys would refuse them a fire, so she sorted out of the bag of provisions that which could be eaten cold. Rhys had taken their bowl and was now endeavoring to get a portion of Berry's milk into it.
It had become such an effort to do anything. After she fed the child the softest of the food, Sarita leaned back against one of the rocks and just sat, too tired even to gnaw at the strip of jerky she held.
Rhys took only a small portion of what she had spread out and then, laying his sword and bow beside her, said he must take a look around. Valoris was no longer the stout and sturdy child she had known days earlier. He was content today to snuggle against her, one of his hands clutching her torn shirt. She could not keep her eyes open.
Rhys found a narrow game trail. They needed water—the leather bottle he had added to his belt was nearly empty—so he followed it.
The hoof-printed, thready path brought him to a stream. Before he knelt to rinse and refill the bottle, he surveyed what lay about closely. Water would draw more than just animals. He had been very cautious, using a stand of water-wash bush to reach the bank. On the other side there was a clearing, which was rare in the woods.
He squatted—there was movement over there. Two grazers. Too small to be of either the two species of deer he knew. Then one of the brown lumps turned a little sideways and he had a good look at its head.
He knew that donkey! The lop ear made it memorable to any who had ever seen it. But at his last sight of it, it had been leading a pack train taking supplies to the lookout on Hawksknob!
Now he could see a broken hackamore dangling. Lopear's fellow was belly-banded with a broad strip meant to secure packs. Plainly the animals were free wanderers. Another massacre somewhere on the Knob's trail which these two had survived? Or perhaps they had been looted of their loads and turned loose.
The donkeys were forest bred and sure-footed in the heights, and he knew that Lopear answered well to commands. If the looters had had them, why had they not kept animals which could be of service?
He sat very still and tried to open his mind (if it were his mind that controlled that warning talent) to pick up any hints that the two grazing beasts could be bait in a trap.
A newcomer moved out of the woods hedging in three-quarters of the meadow, and Rhys froze until he saw the rise of a curved antlered head. That was an osbuck; and those horns could be vicious weapons. There was no creature more alert to danger than one of these free-wandering males in the season just prior to herd mating.
The osbuck was within an arrow flight, if he could only shoot. But it would be gone the moment he showed himself. He thought of what those donkeys would mean to ease their own journey and knew he had to get them.
Rhys worked his way through the water-wash patch down the bank to where there seemed to be a clutter of water-lapped stone which reached nearly to the opposite bank. Swiftly he shed most of his clothing and lowered himself into the icy flow of water.
With the aid of the stones he won across, though he tripped at the last and sprawled forward, his knees rasping on river gravel as he clawed at the bank. Reaching the top, he lay gasping. His injured arm ached fiercely, and for a moment he feared he had again torn open the wound, but examination proved that fear to be false.
There came a snort loud enough to carry over even the sound of the stream as the osbuck departed in haste. Lopear stopped grazing to stare at Rhys, though his companion continued to eat the newly grown grass.
Would the donkeys take to their heels as had the osbuck?
Rhys stood where he was. Lopear advanced several steps, his head up, ear flipping as he suddenly shook his head and uttered a loud bray. That aroused his companion, who also turned to regard the man.
Then, to Rhys' joy, Lopear trotted confidently toward him as if answering some summons he was well used to obeying, and his companion fell in behind him.
Lopear arrived directly before Rhys, uttering a second bray. The ranger ventured to catch at the dangle of hackamore. Remembering what he had seen the train captain do days ago, Rhys lifted his aching arm so he could scratch Lopear at the tuft of upstanding mane between his ears.
The donkey bumped his head against the man and once more brayed, his companion standing a little away as if he were not quite sure about such meetings.
Rhys, keeping a tight hold on the short rope, gave the starting call of the packers: "Ooooheee — push!"
Lopear followed easily and his companion fell in behind. Rhys half expected him to balk at the stream. He gave a strong pull to the rope and slipped back down the bank. Lopear followed in an ungainly fashion, striking the water with a great splash. They made their way along the line of stones which slowed the force of the water until they managed to pull out again. Once on land Lopear swung around, jerking the rope out of the ranger's hand to look back at the water with what seemed to Rhys to be a look of complete disgust. Rhys found himself laughing as he had not done since that morning of death and disasters.<
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Lopear and his companion —whom Rhys named Mouse, as his color was that of that creature and he was slighter and smaller than Lopear—made no effort to move away as Rhys wiped himself with handfuls of grass and then redressed.
They squeezed back along the game trail, the ranger more hopeful now of the future than he had dared to be before. Here was the answer to their creeping pace. Valoris could ride one of the donkeys and they could put their supply pack, and any game he was able to find, on the other. Perhaps fortune was turning a fair face upon them.
Thus at nightfall they did journey at far more than the crawl of the previous night. That the donkeys were docile and biddable was great good luck.
Sarita walked beside Valoris, who was mounted on Lopear, with one hand out to steady him. Though they stopped several times during the night, she herself felt far more able to keep going. However, they were very close to the end of the supplies they had brought and Rhys knew that he must turn to hunting. They could set some snares when they camped, but day-set traps were never as productive as those set at nightfall. He constantly exercised his arm. Oddly enough, in spite of the strain he had put upon it at the river, he was better able to use it now.
Three such nights of travel brought them to landmarks Rhys knew well. Again he scouted ahead, as the lodge was closer to the mountains. He was more than half convinced he would find it had been looted, or was in the possession of the enemy. Yet all was peaceful and quiet, as it had been the last time he was there.
He scouted very carefully before he brought them to the large cabin. Berry, Briar, and the donkeys were turned into a small, fenced pasture. Rhys unfastened the intricately knotted latchstring of the door. They came into a dark room with shuttered windows. He made no move to open them.
"Stay!" he ordered Sarita as she stood behind him with Valoris in her arms. She could hear him moving and then saw a spark of light flare up, flame being held to a candle inside a lantern.
After their all-night trek the light seemed bright enough as Rhys bore the lantern about. There was more than one room, he showed Sarita: two behind the large one, one containing a single large bed and the other with bunks against the wall.
A large stone basin was mounted beneath the end of a pipe in the wall. Rhys held the lantern closer and used his knife to wedge out some plug there. A slow trickle of water splashed into the basin and found its way through another pipe in the floor. Sarita expressed amazement at such a nicety.
Now Rhys opened cupboards. Inside were rows of sealed jars. No meager storehouse here. He at last put the lantern down on the table and brought out an armload of wood from a hearthside box, laying a fire.
"Dare we?" Sarita broke the silence which had held her since she had entered.
"For now—yes," he answered without turning his head.
She placed the weary child on a settle by the fire and went to investigate the contents of some of those jars, her mouth watering at the thought of food enough to satisfy them all.
10
One day slid into another, so that it was difficult for Sarita to keep track of time. The keep seemed very far behind as she worked to make the most of the supplies in the lodge, hoping to be better prepared if they must take to the road again.
She discarded her tattered clothing for ranger dress, feeling a bit shy when she first drew on breeches and a jerkin, but rapidly becoming used to and enjoying the freedom they gave her. For Valoris, since the weather was now summer indeed, she fashioned tunics which left his arms and legs bare to the sun. She also produced a small harness which could be attached to a leash of sorts so that he might enjoy the outside with the animals while she was busy, and yet not stray too far.
Rhys insisted that she learn the use of one of the spare bows, but she showed very little skill. Oddly enough she did much better with a sling, being able to bring down a leaper, or even meadow fowl on the wing, four times out of five. Sarita also gathered any
plant which had use, as well as berries as they ripened, but she never went too far from the lodge.
Sometimes when she had a very brief idle moment she would study her hands. Her fingers were so rough now Dame Argalas would never let her touch any fabric of value. Would she ever return to the old life? Her doubt concerning that grew stronger each day.
Rhys went off on scouting and hunting trips, but he discovered no sign that there was any interest in the lodge. Still he always insisted that she go armed. Her days were spent at such labor that she slept heavily at night, wearied by all she had done and what
would face her in the morning.
Valoris was flourishing. His dimpled baby roundness was gone and he was growing fast. The light curls, which Sarita had cut so that they would not get entangled in a bush during his exploring, faded to a very pale yellow. Watching him as he played beside Briar and walked with Lopear, Sarita wondered if a living Halda would have recognized her charge.
He no longer screamed with temper when his will was crossed, eagerly following Rhys whenever the ranger was there. But at dusk he was quick to find Sarita so that she could hold him and sing some of the nonsense songs she dredged out of her memory, or tell made-up stories about Berry and Briar, and even the grass-dwelling insects which always interested him.
It grew too hot by midday to stay outside. Sarita had to retreat within the shade of the cabin to work on the canvas bags she was stitching together for the donkeys. Sometimes she brought in some meadow flowers—their color was a pleasure to the eye, and she longed for a pen and a scrap of parchment to set down their delicate shapes. Once Rhys found her busied with a piece of stripped bark and a charred stick. Having watched her efforts for a minute or so, he went to one of the cupboards to return with a packet of thin strips, which he spread out on the table. There were no brightly colored pictures on these —just lines and dots.
"What-?"
"Maps. See?" He leaned across the table. "We are here." He stabbed down a finger. "These were left by the sage scholar when he returned to the city. "I know, mistress, you can put down the likeness of a flower. I know you wrought needle magic for the countess' green cloak. Now —there are marks on this," he touched the edge of the first sheet, "which the sage did not explain. Nor did our captain understand why these were left with us. If there is any meaningful pattern here, perhaps you can read it. For if time brings danger, this is the direction in which we must go."
The shutters were open and a band of sunlight crossed the strip. Sarita squinted down at the markings.
At first glance there were only scattered dots and two kinds of wavering lines. She traced both and found nothing in them she could understand. Then she lifted her head to view the strip from another angle.
"What is this?" She pointed to a circle of much finer dots, hardly more than pinpricks.
'The stone cage,” he identified.
But already a pattern was beginning to appear. She pulled her awl from her belt and used it to leave a faint indentation on the parchment. "See—you have a triangle!"
"Or an arrow! And it points straight to LodenKail. Therefore there is more importance in the circle than we knew."
"Or at least your scribe scholar thought so," she answered.
She had been holding the awl point down over the strip. Now she gave a small cry. It was as if some giant, invisible fist had closed about her hand and was forcing it beyond her own will, while in her that suggestion of distant danger stirred.
The awl point did not follow the triangle of the stones, rather it was being jerked, until she could no longer fight it, toward the other side of the map. She heard a deep breath, almost a gasp, from Rhys.
"East—east to the keep!"
"Not—not by my will," Sarita protested. "Stop it! Rhys —hold me — "
He eyed her narrowly. "Mistress . . ." He raised his own hand from the tabletop and his fingers swept through the air, but not toward her.
Sarita was shaking. The awl no longer moved, but was rather poised above one point on the map. S
he could not withdraw it. "It is —it is bewitched!"
"No." Rhys spoke slowly, with a note of awe in his voice. "Mistress, of what breeding are you?"
Sarita was still struggling against the immovable awl. She answered impatiently: "What matters my line, ranger? Family blood has nothing to do with this!" She was very close to tears, her fear so very strong.
Suddenly the awl dropped, stuck deep through the parchment and into the table. She was free and grabbed back her hand, nursing it against her breast as if it carried some dripping wound.
"But it does." He had both fists planted on the table and was leaning over her. "They say that the old gifts have long gone, yet perhaps that is wrong. Time does not erase everything. My mother had the Sight—to a much greater degree than I have. She could talk to plants and they grew the better. And she was a healer. What of your kin, mistress?"
Sarita tensed; some of what he said she did not understand at all. 'The guildswomen —they do not marry by life oath. If they do, they lose their standing. My mother was a noted embroideress. She did the great banner of the High King and she died of the winter fever the year after I was apprenticed. I never saw much of her, for I was fostered by the house. I know very little save she was honored for her work. She grew only the plants needed for dyes and certainly she never talked to them —nor was she a healer. I do not know what you mean."
"Were there no tales in the city of the Old Learning?" He appeared utterly surprised.
"We had no time for tale-telling—though there were stories of the great houses and their jealousies and of the court, yes. But of Old Learning I have never heard."
"Perhaps then it is only in the country that such lingered. We both know that we can foretell danger. And I have heard of other things — "
"Such as mind blinding?"
"Your awl, mistress, the handle gleams. Of what is it made?"
"Silver," she returned a little proudly. "It was my mother's, given her in honor of her work when she was not much older than I am now."