Warlock

by Andre Norton

  Ziantha heard a shout, a demand to stand, rasped in the guttural tongue of the city. Men came into the path of the light, one wearing the weather coat of an officer, behind him two armsmen.

  "Who are you?" The three halted warily, weapons at alert. They had hand disruptors, the officer an energy ray. Vintra's memory supplied the information.

  "You see my face," Turan replied. "Name me."

  "You have the seeming—but it must be a trick—" The officer stood his ground, though both the armsmen edged back a little.

  Turan raised his hands to his throat, loosened and turned back the high collar of his tunic. The priests of Vut had closed his death wound, but it was still plain to see.

  "No trick this. Do you mark it?"

  "Whence came you this night?" The officer was shaken but he retained control. Ziantha granted him courage for this.

  "Through that door which the Will of Vut leaves for every man to try," Turan answered promptly. "Now—I would go to Singakok where there is that I am called to do."

  "To the Tower of Vut?"

  "To the House of Turan," he corrected. "Where else would I go at this hour? There are those who await me there. But first, give me your weather coat."

  Dazedly the officer loosed the fastenings and handed the garment over, though he made an effort not to touch Turan's hand in that process.

  Shaking it out, Turan set it about Ziantha's shoulders. "This must do," he said, "until better serves you."

  "That is an error," she thought-flashed to him. "In this world we are enemies to the death! They will not accept such an act from you."

  "To the death," he answered in the same fashion, "but not beyond. All things of this world are weighed now between us. If any ask, that I shall say." Then he spoke aloud:

  "Two of us were left in that place, to abide the mercy of Vut; two return after his fair judgment. Of what happened it is not yet the time to speak."

  One of the armsmen had put down his weapon, was peeling off his coat.

  "Lord Commander, I was at Spetzk when you broke the rebel charge. Honor me by letting that which is mine be of service to you now." He came to Turan holding out the garment.

  "This night I have done a greater thing, comrade. For your good will I give thanks. And now, I—we—must go to the House of Turan—by your aid."

  Ziantha did not know what game he would play; she could only follow his lead. Within the curve of her arm, pressed tightly against her, was the crown with that pendant gem. To her mind they were pushing out into a swamp where at any moment some debatable footing would give way and plunge them both into disaster. But she allowed him to lead her to the car. And, silent, she took her seat in the passenger section, huddling within the weather coat for a warmth she could not find elsewhere. He settled beside her, and the vehicle turned to Singakok and all that might await them there.

  8

  "These," the message flashed to her, "do not have the talent, nor, it seems, any knowledge of it."

  That her companion had dared to probe those with them made Ziantha anxious. It would seem that care was better than audacity now. Yet what he had learned made them free to use mind-touch.

  "Can you then read their minds?" she asked.

  "Not to any extent—emotions rather. They have a different wave pattern. These are disturbed as would be entirely natural. The armsmen accept our appearance as a miracle of return, are in awe. The officer—" He checked, and when he did not continue, Ziantha prompted him:

  "What of the officer?"

  "I see someone, not clearly—someone to whom he feels he must report this as soon as he can. There is a shadow—" Again his thought trailed off.

  Ziantha unleashed her own mind-seek, aimed now not at maintaining communication with her companion, but probing the emotions of those about her. Yes, she could understand Turan's bafflement. It was like trying to keep in steady focus a picture that blurred and changed whenever she strove to distinguish it in detail. But she recognized a woman. And that which was of Vintra awoke with a stormy memory.

  Zuha M'Turan!

  "The one to whom he would report," she relayed, "is the Lady of Turan. I think, Commander, that you—we—go now into a snarl of matters formerly a danger to him whose body you wear. It cannot be clearly read—but there is danger ahead."

  "Which we knew from the first," he replied calmly. "So I am to beware, Lady? It would not be the first time that intrigue brought down a man, intrigue from those whose loyalty he had a right to expect was fully his. Now—we must try to delay any report. Can you bend his will, work upon it? I can sense something of his thoughts but not with the clarity I need for such influencing."

  "I can try. But it is very difficult to keep in touch—this wavering—"

  Ziantha centered her energy fully upon the problem. Though she knew well the theory of such suggestion, had worked it by Ogan's orders, she had done it surrounded by devices to monitor and restrain. To have used it anywhere outside those villa walls on Korwar would have alerted detects instantly. For such interference by a sensitive was so illegal that it would lead to brain-erase if one were caught practicing it. And the force so used was easily traced.

  Delicately she probed, caught the picture of Zuha M'Turan. Drawing on Vintra's memory she built it firmly in her mind. And she felt her companion reach and touch that picture.

  Bit by bit she achieved the affect she wanted to feed to the alien: that Zuha M'Turan already knew of this night's work, that it was part of a deep-laid plan not to be revealed yet, that chance had brought the officer into it, but that his superiors would be grateful in the future if he did nothing to disrupt it.

  "Excellent!" Turan's accolade gave her confidence. "Now—feed it to him, and I shall back you."

  As if she repeated a lesson learned by rote, Ziantha focused now on the mind of the man sitting on the other side of Turan, thrusting her image of Zuha and the message with all the vigor she could muster, feeling the backup force of the other. Twice she was certain she made clear contact, shared mind with the alien. Then, spent, after all this night had demanded of her, she could no longer fight.

  Weariness swept in, a sea wave washing out all her strength of mind and will. As it ebbed she was left dull, uncaring, aware only of emptiness. Whether she had succeeded in what Turan had wanted of her she had no way of knowing.

  They were into the streets of Singakok now. She was aware of lights through the curtain of rain, of people on the move. Vintra was pushing out of confinement within her; the old hates and fears which were a part of her double past surged up. And Ziantha was hard put to retain her own identity. Now she was Vintra, now Ziantha—and she was too tired to hold much longer.

  The vehicle turned into a quieter side avenue where the buildings were farther apart, each separated by walls. This was the Way of the Lords—Turan's palace lay not too far ahead.

  The ground car stopped at a gate; guards stepped out to flash a light into the shadowed interior. There was a gasp as that beam caught Turan.

  "Admit us!" His voice was impatient as if the momentary halt had been an added irritation.

  "Lord Commander—" the voice behind that beam of light was that of a badly shaken man.

  "Am I to be kept waiting at my own door?" demanded Turan. "Open the gates!"

  The guard jumped back, and the gate swung open. They drove between walls of dark vegetation, where rain-heavy foliage cut off any view beyond the borders. Then the car was through that tunnel and out before a sweep of steps leading to the imposing portal of the building.

  Ziantha stumbled as she got out; her fatigue was such that those steps before her seemed insurmountable. But Turan was at her side, his hand slipped under her arm, urging and supporting her. One of the armsmen hurried ahead to make a rattle of noise at the door.

  That opened slowly just as they came to it. Light swept forth.

  "Who comes to disturb the High Consort of the House of Turan? This is the day of third mourning—"

  The man who be
gan that indignant demand was now staring open-mouthed at Turan.

  "Would you keep us out in this storm, Daxter? In my own door am I to be challenged?" Evidently Ziantha's companion would play his role boldly. Whether or not his boldness was a good defense, who could judge at the present moment?

  The doorman retreated, staring. His face was visibly paler as he raised a hand, making a sign as if to ward off some supernatural danger.

  "Lord Commander Turan!"

  "Yes, Turan." He looked on into the hall. "The third day of mourning is over. Let the household be made aware of that."

  "Lord Commander," Daxter retreated yet farther. "You—you are—"

  "Dead? But, no, Daxter, I am not. Do dead men walk, talk, seek out their homes, their kin? And where is the High Consort? Let it be made known to her that there is no need for mourning."

  "Yes. Lord Commander—"

  "And see that this officer, these armsmen, be given the hospitality of the House. They have brought us through a wild night." He slipped off the weather coat and turned to the armsman to whom it belonged.

  "Battle comrade, you named yourself; you now have the right to be comrade-in-arms with me. For I have come from a greater trial than any war, a fiercer battle than you can guess."

  The man brought his hand up before his face, palm out, in salute. "Lord Commander, the honor of being ready to your service is mine. Be sure that when you call, I shall answer!"

  To Ziantha the whole scene was like a tri-dee play, seen when one was half asleep and not too greatly interested in the story. If she could not relax soon, find some energy restorative, she would collapse.

  "To my chambers now." Turan was giving more orders. "And you will bring food, wine. We have a long hunger and thirst, Daxter."

  Ziantha knew they were climbing stairs, or rather, Turan was pulling her up step by step. But the rest was a haze until she was lying down and Turan was forcing between her lips a narrow spout from which came a hot, spicy liquid. Half choking, she swallowed again and again. It warmed her chilled body but also added to her lassitude. She could keep her eyes open no longer; her body was one long ache.

  She was warm—too warm. Slowly she opened her eyes. Above her was a ceiling riotous in color, and, as her eyes focused, that color fitted itself within outlines of forms. But she had never seen those before. Those strange animals—if animals they were—or were they plants? This could not be her room in the villa. It was—

  With effort she turned her head, looked across a wide bed. There were tall posts at each corner, and they provided support for what appeared to be living vines. Cream-colored flowers, touched with rose at petal tip, hung among those vines. And beyond the embowered bed was the wall of a room, its surface covered also with pictures that had the glint of inset metal here and there.

  Ziantha pushed herself up with her hands to brace behind her. This strange room was not the villa. Where then was she, and how had she come here? Her thoughts were sluggish as she strove to remember the immediate past. Then, as if some barrier in her mind gave way suddenly, it all rushed in. Turan—Vintra—the tomb—their escape. This must be the palace in Singakok to which they had come. And Turan—where was Turan?

  She looked about her wildly, needing at that moment the reassurance that she was not trapped here in the past alone. But there was no sign of any other in the chamber. More than a little lightheaded, the girl worked her way to the edge of the bed, slid her feet over to the floor, and tried to stand. The room seemed to dip and sway and she had to hold on to the bed, creeping down to one of those leaf-covered posts and then hang on for support.

  On the wall now facing her was a wide mirror and in that was the reflection of—not Ziantha—but Vintra! For a moment or two the shock of being confronted by a stranger was so great that she would not look, study, learn this new self. And then her need for control, for reasserting her will, dominated, and she made herself give that other a searching survey.

  She saw a slender body hardly veiled by a transparent robe of pale rose to match the petal tips of the flower so near her cheek. No, it was more than slender, that body, it was gaunt. She was heavily browned on the arms to the shoulder, legs to the thigh, face and throat, the rest being a yellowish tint, as if some portions of her had been long exposed to sun and air. Her thick hair was in stringy wisps reaching well below her shoulders, not light, but a strange pale blue. And she believed that was natural, not some exotic tinting.

  The eyes gazing back at her were bordered in lashes of a darker blue, just as the brows above them were, to her Ziantha memory, of that unnatural shade. For the rest, her face as well as her body were humanoid in contour, though both her forearms and lower legs had a very noticeable down or fluff of blue hair, much lighter against the brown skin.

  So this was Vintra—Vintra of the rebels, Chieftainess of the Foewomen of Kark, memory supplied that. But she must not allow that alien personality too much freedom. No, she must be Ziantha, or else there was no future for her.

  The crown—the focus-stone! She looked about her. Where was that key, the only one which would—or could—open the way back? Her sharp anxiety gave her strength. She was able to loose her hold, move around the room in search. Table backed by another mirror, holding various small pots, a comb ready for service, two chests— She was struggling to lift the lid of the nearest when a sound brought her attention elsewhere.

  One section of that painted wall had disappeared and in the opening stood another woman. Vintra's memory supplied a name.

  Zuha M'Turan.

  She held herself with the arrogant assurance of one who from birth had given orders that had never been questioned. But her face now, under its heavy mask of paint, silvery overlay, was without expression, schooled to remoteness.

  Her overrobe was as filmy as Ziantha's present covering and gave only an illusion of cloud over the inner and much shorter tunic. And her dark blue hair was piled into an elaborate coiffure held with pins from which fine wires supported small wide-winged insects of gauzelike filigree constantly in motion. About her waist was a belt from which depended small chiming bells and more encircled the tops of those tight-fitting silver boots showing through the folds of her upper robe.

  She did not speak as she crossed the threshold. Behind her the door slipped shut; they were alone.

  Ziantha was wary. Though she had not tried mind-seek, she could sense that danger had entered with the High Consort. Where was Turan? Had that body failed her companion? Would he now be returned to the tomb, she with him? But she was not Vintra to be easily handled—she had a defense and weapon in her own mind that she would use to the utmost.

  She must learn what had happened to Turan. Delicately, as she might have made the first attempt to pierce the structure of an explosive that could detonate in her face, she used mind-seek.

  The alien wave pattern defeated any open reading. But that this woman hated her, and that there was fear with that hatred, yes, that could be read. Turan—Ziantha tried to bring some feeling for him to Zuha's mind.

  The thought of Turan brought an explosion—seething hatred! With it, a fear near panic. Zuha had both. What she felt for Vintra was as nothing compared to the emotions which ravaged her now, although her outer façade gave no sign of that storm within.

  But Ziantha had gained a little. Turan was alive—and this woman feared that. She had wanted, had believed, her consort dead—and he lived. Not only lived, but she believed him now an ever-present threat whom she must find a way to finish.

  "Sorceress!" Zuha flung that single word as she might have used a flamer to char Ziantha. "You will not gain from this shadow-trickery you have wrought! Be sure that I will see to that!"

  "I have wrought no trickery. There was the choice of Vut, the door given every man. If by Vut's will one comes through it, back to life, how can the right or will of that be questioned?" Vintra's knowledge, to draw upon at her time of need. Ancient beliefs these, long given only lip service by the sophisticated nobles.


  Vut's priests taught of possible resurrection through the spirit door, which could only be opened from within the sealed tomb. Fabled miracles, legendary accounts of such returns kept Vut as a power. His priests now would sustain Turan in his return for the very reason that his appearance was a bolster to belief.

  "Turan is dead. What outland sorcery do you use to make him move and follow your will? You shall tell me and he shall—"

  But before the fury which burned her totally overcame all caution, Zuha was silent. It was plain that she refused to accept any thought of a miracle. Perhaps her questions might bring about discovery. Though the alien had no vestige of talent, Ziantha was certain of that—unless it existed on another range of mind-wave entirely.

  "Turan is not dead. Have you not the evidence of your own eyes?" She must tread very warily. Zuha, the girl believed, was near to that pitch of mingled fear and rage that might lead to some hasty attack.

  "The evidence of my eyes, say you? Yes, and the evidence of the mouthing priests also. Whether they think sorcery or not, they will not say it, lest Vut lose the advantage of this. But Turan was dead, now he lives—or his body walks—" Her hand moved in that same design the armsman had used. "This is not Turan." This last sentence was delivered with an emphasis that made it a declaration of war.

  "And if it is not Turan," the girl countered, "who then is he?"

  "Rather what is he, sorceress? What have you called from the Cold Depths to bring you out of Turan's tomb? Be sure that we shall learn, and in that learning you will have no profit. The death with Turan shall be as nothing compared to the end your dabbling in shadow lore shall bring upon you."

  "So it is sorcery, my High One, my First Companion, which brings me back to you?"

  Ziantha had been so intent upon their confrontation, as apparently had Zuha, that his entrance had gone unmarked. For it was Turan who stood there, his gaunt face seamed with the wound of his last battle. In this full light he was no pleasant sight, for his skin was a pallid gray, and only his eyes were alive. That this body still served its inmate was a wonder to Ziantha.