The Monster's Legacy

by Andre Norton

  There was an exultation in that thought, Sarita found. But one could not live on such a high plane. She blinked and blinked again, as if waking from sleep. Still, she knew well that there did rest within her now strengths she had never known she would have or could carry.

  The audience was finished, if their confrontation with the dais and what stood there could be called that. Sarita found herself making as low a courtesy as she would to the High King, while Rhys brought his sword up in formal salute. They passed quickly out of the chamber, as if they now intruded.

  However, they were not yet done exploring, and they went through each of those doors in the outer hall. What they discovered must have once been the living quarters of those chosen to serve the Great Ones. And here Sarita did not feel that they intruded, rather they they were being offered what they needed the most: safe and secure shelter.

  Thus they moved from their rough camp into chambers which had not known the fall of human feet in more generations than Sarita believed could be counted. Nor were their new quarters mere stone-walled barrows. Rather, cunningly set into the rock cliff in which they were contained were slits of that substance which resembled stone and yet let through the light of day. There were also hoops in the wall where torches might be placed.

  Valoris took to his new home with the same absorbing interest he had shown when drawn to the Loden skin. Yet he made no move to enter the great hall. Sarita wondered once if the child might be open to that which still clung about the destroyed throne and had some geas laid upon him not to go near it.

  Nor did either Sarita or Rhys seek out the chamber of the egg again. By instinct they knew that the time was not yet right for that. Though, as they talked together of an evening, they often compared the vast, broken lines of thought which they remembered and felt the need to make sense of.

  It was plain to them now that there had once been a mighty struggle —one that had ended first in the Loden cavern, and then — without the aid of humankind —in the Audience Chamber. Three powers had ruled until one sought to stand alone. Man had been drawn into that tangle, and a bitter war had been fought which had turned a good and fertile earth to a wasteland. But the dark power had assumed too much, building upon the energy of human servants until he was so thinned that he was open to what waited —and struck.

  That which was the inner core of his being, just as that which was also the inner core of his former companions, could not be totally destroyed. It withdrew to another place. Those of the Light were also worn by the struggle, and they were lost to men's memories save as legends of good forces to be called upon.

  The evil which had tried to slay the Loden had cast its image into human minds as a monster. And in one fashion that ancient fear had kept safe what lay there.

  They had been a number of days in that strange temple of the Three —for a temple it was, holding treasures they discovered during their explorations. Valoris played with an armload of small animals fashioned of gold and gems; Sarita might have gone bejeweled as an empress, if she wished. The beauty of the stones drew her, but she was not tempted to wear them. Instead she awoke one morning with the full knowledge that she had been summoned for another duty.

  Strange, she thought as she fingered the tools at her belt one by one. Why? No, that was not to be asked now —rather how and when. And when came first. Once they had eaten and Rhys had prepared to go out for a hunt, she stopped him.

  "There is something I must do, and for it I need your help."

  "That being?"

  "The Loden skin —it must be brought forth —there is a use for it."

  He stared at her in surprise. "What use — ?"

  She shook her head impatiently. "I know it only in part, but it is in here," she struck the palm of her hand against her forehead, "and it will come, but first I must have the skin."

  So once more they made the journey to where he had closed the fissure, and she helped him pull away the rocks he had so carefully piled there. Valoris was with them, suddenly impatient, trying to squirm between their hands and slip in as soon as the hole was uncovered. Sarita had to stop and restrain him during the last moments of work.

  They made a careful way through the place of the dead and came once more into the Loden's hall. Sarita looked around, noting now the stains which dulled some of the crystal veining—signs of ancient fire. They had drawn fire to their use, those last dark fighters. This had once been a place of glory and light. She would do what she must do, and then they would leave it to the shadows of the past forever.

  She went directly to where the skin lay, Valoris running a little ahead. Once more he stroked the scaled length, but she pushed him back, brushing it over with a bunch of leafed twigs, freeing it from the dust of ages. Its glorious colors appeared to shine nearly as brightly as the wall veins of crystals.

  When Sarita had cleaned it as best she could, she began to roll it—but this was a task in which she did need help. While the skin was as thin and supple as silk, there was so much of it that Rhys stepped in to aid her. In the end it took the two of them to balance the roll across their shoulders and bring it out of the place of death into the bright morning.

  The three of them had no more than won free when there was a rumble behind them. Startled, Sarita loosed her hold on the skin and half turned. Those stones which had hidden the doorway were being added to by a shower of rocks from above. Rhys' hand closed upon her arm. He, too, dropped his portion of the skin to drag both the girl and the child away from the avalanche. That his was some whim of nature neither of them believed. So had the past of the Dark been sealed from the eyes of humankind.

  Only the large hall before the Audience Chamber was large enough to again unroll the skin and stretch it flat. Sarita crawled along its length on her hands and knees, inspecting it with the critical attention which had been trained into her. The underparts were smoother, the scales more tightly interlocked. They were also paler in color, darkening on the back ridges. It was most deeply shaded about the head, which now lay outspread like a carnival mask. Having made as sure as she could of her materials, Sarita went for the measuring rod, which she had never set aside and forgotten during their wanderings.

  "Valoris!” Her voice was a sharp summons, for the child who was patting the far end of the strong tail, which must have been part of a support for the Loden, as the forelimbs were unnaturally short in comparison. "Come here."

  When he had obeyed, she used the measure first for height and then for breadth, noting the markings down on a small ivory tablet from her pouch. In addition to the rigid measure, she had a series of small cords knotted together, and now she shook these free and began to take the sizing of the boy's arms and legs.

  Rhys had watched her in silence, but now he asked:

  "What would you do?"

  Sarita knotted the final cord to the proper size. She pushed hair back from her face.

  "My art is called for now, Rhys. Now you!" With an impatient gesture she beckoned him to stand in Valoris' place and lifted the measuring rod once more.

  "This skin—you would fashion — clothing—" He took a step away and there was a shadow of repulsion on his face.

  "This was set on me, ranger!" she retorted. "Yes —I fashion body coverings for all of us, but it is more than clothing. Do guardsmen not wear armor? I have seen the earl go forth in full iron armor—"

  "This skin is tissue —far from any armor!"

  "Do not be sure of that. Stand still now —let me see."

  Perhaps it was her certainty of tone which reduced him to obedience. He stood still and let her take measurements even as she had done for Valoris. When she had the notes inscribed on her tablet, she gave new orders:

  "Now do this for me also."

  He was awkward about the business, needing instructions to knot the sleeve strings correctly and be sure of the measures she could not make for herself.

  At last they were done and she had two leaves of her ivory slip inscribed with the smallest wri
ting she had been able to use in order to have it all recorded.

  Then she drew a deep breath and began moving the measure along the skin itself, being careful of the rents and holes left when it had been shed. It would take expert cutting—she stopped to consult her notes several times —but she was certain it could be done. Except . . . She had never thought of that. Thread! Where was a thread tough enough and yet supple enough?

  Something in her expression must have given away the sudden realization of what was lacking, for Rhys spoke again:

  "What is your need?"

  Sarita answered without turning to look at him. "Thread —there is no thread!"

  He dropped down beside where she was crouched. "What kind of thread, seamstress?"

  "Stout cording perhaps such as is used in horse trappings. I have the needle right enough." She pulled out her horn box and unrolled the length of material into which each of her treasures had been so carefully fitted.

  "This I use for leather." She twirled the long, bone needle between her fingers. "I am sure it will serve, but with no thread it is useless."

  "Wait." He scrambled to his feet and left her frowning at the skin and her tools, wondering what she could use to do what her night's dreaming had planted in her mind.

  When he came back, he had a coil in his hands. "Bowstrings," he told her.

  Amazement broke through Sarita's self-absorption. She knew what those strings meant to him and how much he depended upon them. But excellent as they were, they were not enough.

  Then her hands flew to her hair and she clawed loose the ragged braid she had bound it into. Her fingers had served as a comb for many days, and now she jerked at tangles. But her hair was long, over her shoulders, nearly touching the pavement on which she now sat.

  It would be like the old task—the one which had occupied her on that morning when she had seen the countess ride out of Var-The-Outer. Only this time she would not be dealing with gold leaf and a silken core but rather with hair and —

  She picked up the bowstrings and nearly shook them in Rhys' face. "Can these be split?"

  He took them from her. "Perhaps, Sarita, but what would waste such strength as they have."

  "No!" She shook her head vigorously so that her hair flapped on the air. "Those — " She nodded at the bowstrings " — they will be the core. This — " she grabbed up a handful of what straggled about her shoulders and shook it " — will be the outer winding. It is my craft, Rhys. I know the fashioning of thread and this I can do!" Now she held up her head and brushed the loose hair back from her shoulders. "Cut—cut it all, as close to my head as you can."

  He took her scissors and long strings of hair fell to the floor and across her knees while she held very still. She would need a spool frame, but somehow she did not doubt that she could find that also.

  17

  Rhys slipped out of the way to the bowl valley and stood on the outer slopes of LodenKail. Though he kept to cover, he felt the kind of freedom which possessed him whenever he was out in the wilderness. He had not brought one of the donkeys this time.

  Instead he had no thought of hunting ... for meat.

  Though Sarita's compulsion to get the Loden skin and her apparent desire to work her craft upon it had taken up much of the morning, he had been plagued all along with that sense of danger to come. Now he lifted his head and drew in a deep breath as if

  he were some predator trying for a promising scent.

  There it was— He moved cautiously from one bit of cover to the next. There was a stirring— nothing he could hear or see, but which only could be felt. Once in awhile he shook his head violently, trying to put into order fragments of that knowledge he had

  gained from the egg.

  Yes—the Dark walked—rode—or crawled. Not here—not yet, but it was abroad. He had no idea what drove Sarita to her needlecraft; it seemed to him a vain employment for the here and now.

  And had she really understood when he told her that he might be gone for more than a day— that he was driven by the need for a long scout?

  It was already well into the afternoon; they had spent so much time with the retrieval of the skin and Sarita's measuring and planning.

  He had thought to be on his way a little after first light. Again he paused to listen, not only with his wilderness-trained ears but with his talent.

  There! His head swung abruptly north as if pulled by a noose. North —he looked to landmarks he knew from earlier days and those he had learned later. There was the pass —and there were other ways, hidden and known mainly to lurking wolfheads. The Lookout—he had evidence enough that it had fallen into enemy hands. Yet it was north he was drawn, and he did not try to evade that pull.

  The tantalizing thread which drew him brought him down LodenKail and into thick woods. At once he was aware of the curious silence. If anything feathered, four-footed, or two-footed walked there, it was done in stealth.

  These trees were very old, their trunks mossy. He slipped among them, not even coming across a game path. Instead his boots sank a little into the mass of long fallen leaves and ferns.

  The warning suddenly blazed high, as if it had been shouted in his ear. Rhys stopped short. There was more light than forest gloom ahead; he might well be coming to clearing or glade. Now he set himself to become a shadow among shadows, creeping forward with all the guile he had learned from childhood.

  A tall stand of brush was a curtain before him. It was so thick and matted he knew he could not work his way through without considerable noise. But he was right, there was an open space ahead. Now he picked up the scent of a camp: fire, horses, the general rank odor left by humankind when they took no care of their surroundings.

  Still the silence held. Rhys was emboldened to creep closer, so that at last he had an open view of the clearing. There were indeed men there —at one side a party of six wearing surcoats bearing Sang-hail's badge. Before them was a motley gathering of what could only be wolfheads.

  He could also dimly see a horse line far to one side. But there was no stir from either man or beast. They stood as if some winter storm had wrapped them around and frozen them into place —the eeriness of the scene heightened Rhys' sensation of the Dark at work.

  Among the party, which must have come from the conquered keep, there was another—with no sign of armor or weapon about him. Rhys' full attention was drawn to the stark gray figure who was holding both hands high. Between their united fingertips balanced something black which seemed to swell and throb even as Rhys caught a glimpse of it.

  No! His jumble of past knowledge brought an instant warning. Do not look. Somehow his eyes had already flinched away from that foul object.

  However, these others . . . Glancing from man to man, the ranger was sure that all were held spellbound by what the gray one held aloft. Mind binding!

  Through that blanket of silence he began to hear a sound, more a rhythm carried by the air about him rather than any words.

  Rhys stiffened as the pattern began to make sense. This gray horror was binding men, making them merely extensions of his own foulness. The ranger kept his eyes carefully away from the mind speaker, and he quickly shut out what he could of that distant pattern of a ritual once well forgotten in this land. However, when he looked from man to man again, he could see that some of their humanity had gone out of them, that they had been changed —

  Without thinking why, his hands moved to the breast of his jerkin and his fingers closed about the silver coin he wore on a neck thong. It seemed to him that when he held it tightly in his fist, the undercurrent of sound-that-was-not-sound dwindled, dulled.

  Or perhaps it was that the Gray One had come to the end of what he could do here. His bony hands flipped the blackness down and it disappeared into one of his wide sleeves.

  The tall gray form appeared to shimmer, to lose substance, and was gone, while those gathered there in the clearing came to life as men awakened from a deep sleep. Though at first they moved sluggishly, they l
ost that bemused concentration which had changed each face into a mask.

  One of the soldiers came forward. He wore a twist of red about his right arm and Rhys took him for the leader—at least of those from the castle. His voice rang out sharply:

  "That thrice-damned Florian rides to war—upon us. We shall give him a hot welcome to throw him and his kind into the depths."

  There was a murmur from those listening. Then one of the outlaws spoke up. He was a giant of a man, furred on his bared arms like a quadbear, yet there was no suggestion in his face that he was one slow of wit.

  'There was a bargain, liegeman. Does that still hold?"

  Among his own fellows there was now a louder murmur and one man, smaller, with a rat's sharp features and cunning well written about him, dared to catch at the giant's arm.

  "We are not minded," his voice was as shrill as a rat's squeak, "to go against what had been ordered. Marken, no one spits in the eye with—that!" He was now looking beyond the other to where the Gray One had stood. "Do you seek to draw the black fire upon us?"

  The murmur arose to a chorus of fierce assent. If Marken had not completely bowed to the will of the one giving the orders, then at least his fellow had. Yet the giant, with a sharp twist of his arm, sent the rat man sprawling away from him and half turned to face those behind him.

  "Dark gods demand blood." His voice was a roar now. "How do we know that we have not been signed as sacrifices? Open fighting—that is for a man, yes. But to deal with demons —that is a chancy thing. I say we keep to our bargain made with your lord." Now he addressed the soldier. "We shall be paid as we were before, and we shall not be driven like bulls to the slaughter because some power your lord bows to will have it so. This land — " he flung out his arm in a gesture to encompass what stretched around him " — be ours by rights of holding, even as your lordling sits in his hall and looks upon his fields. This much I say now: give yourself to the Dark and there will be — "