by Andre Norton
They were roused early, and Ziantha, fearful of some snooper, decided to wait until they were away from the ship before she relayed her news. Iuban had suited up too, plainly prepared to go with them. And she must be most careful about awakening any suspicion.
The Jack captain eyed her while she buckled on belt with ration pouch and water carrier as if he would like to have added a leash to keep her to his hand. And she noted at once that he wore a stunner, but neither she nor Yasa had been offered such a weapon.
They came out on the ramp, to stand for a moment just beyond the lock, looking about them at the wild desolation of this broken country. Her vision of a city—how could she have seen it here?
This earth was scored by deep crevices, blasted into a land which had repudiated life before they set foot on it. Ziantha's hands, without conscious willing, went to the bag she had fashioned, the cord of which hung about her neck, so that the lump rested against her breast. If she were to have any guide, that would be it.
Yasa moved up beside her.
"Singakok," the Salarika said softly. "Is this your city?"
She had good reason to question. In all that mass of tortured rock that lay about them there was no resemblance to anything wrought by the work of intelligent beings—unless the destruction itself could be taken for such evidence.
"I—I do not know!" Ziantha turned her head from side to side. Where were the tower, the great avenues—all the rest? Or had that vision been hallucination, born from some quirk of her own imagination and fed into her mind as a "seeing"?
"Which way do we cast?" Iuban, two of his men, armed and ready, caught up with them. "I do not see any signs of a city here. Are you playing games then?"
Yasa turned on him. "Know you nothing of the art of a sensitive, sky rover? The talent cannot be forced. It comes and goes, and sometimes not to any bidding. Let the girl alone; in her own time and way she shall pick our path."
There was little expression on his face, nor did his dead eyes show life. But Ziantha was aware of his emotions none the less, impatience and disbelief being well to the fore. And she did not think he would take kindly to any evasion he could detect. Also she was sure she was not clever enough to play the delaying role Yasa wanted. If she found any hint of what they sought she must use it to satisfy him.
It seemed that they were leaving the leadership of this expedition to her. And, with no way of escape, she walked slowly down the ramp, stepped out on the barren rock below. There she fumbled with the bag, unwrapped the lump, held it in her hands.
Ziantha closed her eyes. The answer came with the force of a blow which nearly beat her to the ground. There was the sensation that she stood in a city street amid a press of people, with the passing of strange machines. The force of life feelings, of random thoughts she could not understand, was so great it made her giddy.
"Ziantha!" A hand tightened on her arm. She opened her eyes. Yasa half supported her, the Salarika's eyes intent upon her.
"This—is—was a city," the girl answered.
Iuban had come to face them. "Well enough, but one we cannot search now—unless we can turn back time. Where do we go to look for anything that remains? Can you tell us that, dreamer?" He made a scoffing challenge of his demand.
There had been no selectivity to that impression of the city. Ziantha's hold on the artifact tightened. Suppose she were to open the crude outer casing, release the jewel inside, would that lead them to what they sought? But she shrank from that act. Let her try as long as she could to use it as it was.
"Let me try—" she said in a low voice, twisting loose from Yasa's hold. There was a ledge of rock nearby, and she reached that, to sit down, hunched over the lump. Wetting her lips, she forced herself to touch it to her forehead.
It was like being whirled through a vast flow of faces, voices. They shouted, they whispered, they grew large, dwindled, they spoke in tongues she had never heard, they laughed, wept, howled, screamed— She made herself try to steady upon one among the many, concentrate on learning what she could.
Singakok—Turan! The second name she held to, using it as an anchor that she might not be carried away in the sea of faces, deafened by the voices, the clamor of the long-vanished city.
"Turan!" she used the name to demand an answer.
The faces withdrew, formed two lines melting into one another, their cries stilled. Between the lines moved a shadow procession. That was Turan, and behind him was her place, her own place. She must follow—for there was no escape—
"What is she doing?" Very faint, that question.
"Be still! She seeks—" came in answer.
But that exchange had nothing to do with Turan. She must follow him. The shadows grew no denser, but they remained, a little ahead. No longer were there faces on either side—only Turan and her tie to him.
Now and then that scene shimmered, tore, as if it were fashioned of the thinnest gauze, shredded by a breeze. Then she saw only distorted rocks and a barren land that was not Singakok. When that happened she had to stop, call upon Turan, rebuild the vision.
Very dimly she heard chanting, sweet and high, like the caroling of birds released from captivity, or the thud of drums which were of the earth, the earth reluctant to lose Turan. Turan—
The shadows were gone, whipped away. Ziantha could not again summon them. She stood with the artifact before a great rise of bare red rock, a wall of cliff. But she knew that what she had sought lay behind it, that the artifact had led her to a place from which it had once come.
The girl looked back over her shoulder. Yasa, Iuban, his men, all were watching her.
"What you seek—" she said, the energy fast draining from her as it always did when she had made such an effort, "lies there." She pointed ahead at the rock, staggering then to an outcrop where she might sit, for she feared her trembling legs would no longer support her.
Yasa came to her quickly. "You are sure, cubling?"
"I am sure." Ziantha's voice was close to a whisper. She was so spent in her struggle to hold the vision that she longed only for rest and quiet, for no more urging to push her talent.
The Salarika held out two revive capsules, and Ziantha took them with a shaking hand, put them in her mouth to dissolve slowly. Iuban had gone to the face of the cliff, was examining it intently, and at a signal his men split to search left and right.
"I can see nothing—" he was beginning when the crewman to his right gave a hail. The Jack captain hurried toward him.
Yasa bent over Ziantha. "I told you—be slow—do not reveal anything before Ogan comes—"
"He is here, or near." Ziantha felt the aid of the revive. "In the early morning I had a message—"
"Ahhhh—" A purr of satisfaction. "It goes well, very well, then. And you play no game with Iuban; this is the place?"
Ziantha regarded the wall. "Turan lies there," she said flatly.
But who was Turan—or what? Why should this artifact bind her to him? She looked at the cliff, and now her fatigue was tinged with fear. Behind that—behind that lay— She wanted to scream, to run. But there was no escape, never any escape from Turan; she might have known that.
Only who was Turan? There seemed to be two identities within her now. One she knew; it was the Ziantha she had always been. But another was struggling for life—the one—the thing that knew Turan—Singakok—the one to whom she must never yield!
Iuban had been conferring with his crewmen, and one now headed back toward the ship while the Jack captain came to them.
"There are marks of a sealed way there. We shall have to laser our way in."
"With care," Yasa warned swiftly. "Or do you have a depth detect for such purposes?"
"With care, and a detect," he replied. Now he glanced past the Salarika to Ziantha. "What more can she tell us? Is this a tomb?"
"Turan lies there," the girl answered.
"And who is Turan?" he prodded her. "A king, an emperor, a stellar lord? Is this a Forerunner of a star empire, or
only an ancient of some earthbound planet? What can you tell us?"
Yasa swept in between them fiercely. "She is tired—such reading weakens a sensitive. Get that storehouse open and let her psychometrize some artifact from within and she can tell you. But she must rest now."
"At least she brought us here," he conceded. And with that he tramped back to the walled-in door. But Yasa sat down beside Ziantha, putting her arm about the girl's shoulders, drawing her close, as she asked in a very low voice:
"Have you contact now with Ogan? It is now he must come."
Ogan? Summoning up what strength she had Ziantha formed a mind picture of the parapsychologist, sent forth mind-search. Harath had cut communication so summarily earlier she did not try him. The alien could be capricious on occasion, better aim directly for Ogan. Only she had no—
Answer? A flash of contact, as instantly gone. Ogan? It was not Harath, because even so light a touch would have revealed the alien. This had been wholly human. Ogan, then—but for some reason unwilling to accept a message. She said as much.
"Do not seek then. There may be a detect he has reason to fear. But as he did make contact, he will know where we are and the urgency of the matter. You have done well in this matter, cubling. Be sure I shall not forget what I owe you."
The crewman returned, another with him. Between them they carried a box and a portable laser—of the type used for asteroid mining. But it was the detect which Iuban first put into action.
Yasa and Ziantha joined him as he crouched over the box, studying the small visa-tape on its top.
"An open space, three cycles within," he reported. "The tomb chamber perhaps. Low frequency setting to bore us a door without any side flare."
He set the laser with care, aiming it twice at nearby rocks to mark the results before he tried it on the wall. Then he moved the finger of the beam up and down within the faint lines of the ancient opening, cutting out a space no wider than a man. The brilliant beam of a belt torch thrust into the space beyond.
"Let us go to Turan!" Iuban laughed.
Ziantha raised one hand to her throat, the other still cradled the artifact against her breast. She was choking, she could not breathe. For a second or two the sensation was so severe she felt that death itself was a single flicker of an eyelid away. Then the sensation faded, and she could not fight as Yasa pushed her along hard on Iuban's heels through the break in the wall.
The Jack captain's lamp flooded the space into which they had come. But it showed dire destruction. This had been a tomb once, yes, and a richly furnished one. But other grave robbers had preceded them. There was a wreckage of plundered chests, now crumbling into dust, objects which had lost their meaning and value when they had been mishandled by those in search of precious and portable loot.
"An abort!" Iuban swung the torch back and forth. "A thrice-damned abort!"
"Be careful!" Yasa cried and caught his arm as he would have moved forward. "We will not know that until after a careful, and I mean a very careful, search is made of what is still here. Tomb robbers often leave what seems of little value to them, but is worth much to others. So do not disturb anything—but widen the passage in that we may shift and hunt—"
"You think anything of value still lies in this muck?" But he did retreat a step or two. "Well, I think it is an abort. But if you can make something out of it—"
Ziantha leaned back against the wall. How could she fight this terrible fear that came upon her in waves, left her weak and sick? Did not the others feel it? They must! It penetrated all through this foul chamber, born not of the wreckage which filled three-quarters of it, but of something else—something beyond—
She turned and pushed through the crack of door, feeling as if that fear were reaching forth great black claws to drag her back. There was a shout behind, words she could not hear, for the beat of her own pounding heart seemed to deafen her. Then there were hands on her, holding her prisoner though she still struggled feebly to flee that place of black horror.
"Tried to run for it—" Iuban's voice over her head. But Yasa touched her, even as the iron grip of the captain held her.
"What is it?" demanded the Salarika. There was a note in her hissing voice which Ziantha had to obey.
"Death—beyond the far wall—death!" And then she screamed for the horror had her in its hold as if that formless evil rather than the captain kept her from flight, screamed and screamed again.
A slap across her face, hard enough to shock her. She whimpered in pain, at the fact that they would not understand, that they held her captive so close to—to— She would close her mind! She must close her mind!
And with the last bit of strength she could summon, Ziantha hurled the artifact from her desperately, as if in that act alone could she find any safety of body or mind.
"Ziantha!" Yasa's voice was a summons to attention, a demand.
The girl whimpered again, wanting to fall on the ground, to dig into the earth and stone as a cover, to hide—from what? She did not know now, only that it was terror incarnate, and it had almost swallowed her up.
"Ziantha—beyond the wall is what?"
"No—and no—and no!" She cried that into Yasa's face. They could not use her to destroy herself; she would not let them.
Perhaps Yasa could read her resolution, for she spoke now to Iuban. "Loose her! She is at the breaking point; any more will snap either her talent or her mind. Loose her to me!"
"What trick is she trying?" Iuban demanded.
"No trick, Captain. But there is something in there—we had better move with caution."
"Captain—look here!" One of the crewmen had knelt beside a rock to the right. He had picked up a shard in which was nested a glitter of spun silver. The artifact had broken open, the focus-gem must now be revealed. Iuban took that half of the figurine, pulled apart the protecting fiber. The gem blazed forth as if there were a fire lighted in it at this exposure to the open air. Ziantha heard the crewman give a low whistle. As Iuban was about to pick out the gem, Yasa spoke:
"Care with that. If it is what I think it may be, then much is now clear—"
"What it may be—" he echoed. "And what is that? An emperor's toy, perhaps?"
"A focus-stone," she replied. And Ziantha wondered at how Yasa had so quickly guessed.
"A stone," The Salarika continued, "used continually by some sensitive as a focus for power. Such things build up vast psychic energy over the years. If this is such a one and Ziantha can use it—why, no secret on this world pertaining to the race of the one who used it can be hidden from her. We may have found the key to more riches than a single plundered tomb!"
"And we may have listened to a likely tale," he countered. "I would see this proved."
"You shall. But not now; she is too spent. Let her rest while we make certain of what lies within here. And if this does prove an abort, we can try elsewhere with the stone."
Yasa would help her, Yasa must help her! Once they were alone she could explain, let the Salarika know that deadly peril waited any further dealings with Turan—or this world—or the focus-stone! If Ogan came, he would know the danger. She could make him understand best of all that there were doors one must not open, for behind those lay— Ziantha would not let herself think of that! She must not!
The girl concentrated on holding that barrier within her so much that she was no longer entirely aware of what went on about her. Somehow she had got back to the ship, was lying on a bunk, shivering with reaction while Yasa gave her reassurance.
"Ogan—" Ziantha whispered. "Ogan must know—it is very dangerous."
Yasa nodded. "That I can believe. A stone of power—able to work through such a disguise. Perhaps only a linkage dares use it. Now rest, cubling, rest well. I shall keep these Jacks busy until Ogan comes and we are able to do as we would about the whole matter."
That Yasa had given her a sedating drug she knew and was thankful for. That would push her so deeply into sleep that dreams would not trouble her.
And she carried with her that last reassurance. A linkage, yes—she, Ogan and Harath working together might be able to use the focus-stone. But not alone, she must not do it alone!
She was cold—so cold— She was lost in the dark. This was a dream—
"—another shot, Captain?"
"Try it. She's no use to us this way. And when that she-cat comes out of the one we used on her she'll be after us. Give it to this one now."
Pain and cold. Ziantha opened her eyes. There was a bright light showing broken things covered with dust, a wall beyond. She was held upright facing that wall in a grip she could not resist.
Iuban reached out, caught at her hair in a painful hold, for it was so short his nails scraped her scalp as his fingers tightened. So he held her to face him.
"Wake up, you witch!" He shook her head viciously. "Wake up!"
A dream—it must be a dream. This was Turan's place; they had no right here. The guards would come and then what would happen to them would be very painful, prolonged, while they cried aloud for the death which was not allowed them. To disturb the rest of Turan was to bring full vengeance.
"She's awake," Iuban, still holding her hair with that painful pull, looked straight into her eyes. "You will do this," he spoke slowly, spacing his words as if he feared she might not understand. "You will take this thing, and you will look into it and tell us what is hidden here. Do you understand?"
Ziantha could not find the words to answer him. This was a dream, it must be. If it was not— No, she could not! She could not use the stone where Turan lay! There was the gate to something—
"Ogan," cried her mind in rising terror. "Ogan, Harath!"
She met—Harath—and through him, with him, not Ogan—a new mind, one which greeted her search with a surge of power. Hold for us, it ordered.
"She has to handle the thing, I think," someone behind her said.
"Take it then!" Iuban set the weight of his will against hers.
She would not! But those behind her, those who held her upright here were forcing her arm up though she fought. Her strength was nothing compared to theirs.