by Andre Norton
The horror of it made her sick. With the band at her breast she rocked back and forth, crying aloud. Entombed—alive—no escape— This was death—death—
Not death—not death—that stranger in her mind was awakening, taking over. Out—get out—not death—get out! But it was not D'Eyree who thought so—it was—
The clamor of the sea—she could breathe—she was out! And in her hands—
Ziantha sat up dazedly looking down at what she held. In one hand was the focus-stone, in the other a circle of shining metal with two settings in it—one held the twin to the stone, the other was empty! D'Eyree's Eyes!
But how—she looked along her body, half expecting to see the scaled skin, the alien form. No, she was in Vintra's body. And she—somehow she had not only found the twin stone, but had apported it from the past. But how long had she been in Nornoch? Turan—was he dead?
Lurching to her feet, she started back to the flyer. The sun was no longer high—instead it was nearly setting, sending a brilliant path across the waves. And the island was a dark and awesome blot. Ziantha shuddered away from the memory of those last moments before she had been able to tear away from D'Eyree. Never could she face that again. She must have won her freedom the very moment that the other had died. And if she had not—
Turan!
She tore open the cabin door to look within. He lay in his seat, his eyes closed. He looked dead.
"Turan!" She caught him by the shoulders, exerted her strength to draw him up, to make him open his eyes and see her.
13
Ziantha leaned over him, so filled with fear she could not immediately use mind-search to explore for any spark of life in Turan's body. But slowly those eyes opened; she saw them focus upon her, know her—
"Not dead." His slack lips tightened to shape the words. "You—got—out—"
"You knew that I was dying—back there?"
He did not seem to have even strength left to nod, but she could read his faint assent. Then she knew in turn—
"You helped me!"
"Trapped—needed—" His voice trailed away. Those eyes closed again, and his head rolled limply on his shoulders.
"No! Not now, Turan—we have won! See!" Before his closed eyes she held the two stones, one free, one in its setting. But perhaps it was too late, or was it?
She thought of the way D'Eyree had used the Eyes. Could she do likewise now? Could she give to Turan through them some of her own life force?
She tried to fit the band on her head, but its shape was too different. It had been fashioned for another species. At length she cupped the stones in her hands, held them to her forehead, and thought—thought life, energy, being, into Turan, seeking that spark almost driven out by death. And in that seeking she found it, united with it, fed it with her will, her belief, and confidence. As D'Eyree had driven the Lurla, so did she now in fact drive Turan, feeding him all she had to give.
He stirred. Once more his eyes opened; he pulled himself up in the seat.
"No." His voice was stronger. "I can hold, but do not exhaust what you have to give. The time is not yet when it may be that all you can offer will be needed. We must get back—back to the beginning—Turan's tomb. And you must pilot this flyer."
Ziantha could not protest. In her mind he had earlier set the proper information. But in what direction? Where would she find a guide?
He might have picked that question out of her mind as he answered:
"I have set it—" Once more he lapsed into that state of nonbeing, hoarding his energy, she knew. Now it was her doing, all of it.
Ziantha pushed into the sea, fronted the controls. His instructions were clear in her mind. One did this and this. But could she lift the flyer off this stretch of rock, or would it crash into the sea, taking them both to a swift ending? There was no way to make sure but to try.
Her hands shaking a little, she brought the motor to life; the flyer moved forward. Now one did this and this. Frantically she worked at the controls, nor could she believe that she had succeeded until they were indeed airborne, climbing into the dusk of evening. She circled the rock that was all that was left of Nornoch, her eyes on the direction dial. The needle swung, steadied, and held. If he had been right that would take them back.
As they winged over the sea she tried to plan. That she had brought the second stone out of the past was still difficult for her to believe, unless the drawing power of its twin already in her hands and in use had been the deciding factor. But she was convinced that without careful study, her contemporaries would not be able to understand the psychic power locked in these gems.
The stones had been ancient in Nornoch, put to psychic uses by generations of sensitives. This in turn had built up in them reserves of energy. Reawakened by her use, that power had, in a manner, exploded. Would it now be as quickly dispersed, or could she harness it to return them to their own time?
Night came and still the flyer was airborne; the needle on the guide held steady. Turan moved once or twice, sighed. But she had not tried to reach him either by speech or mind-send. He was not to be disturbed. He needed all the strength he had to hold on. That he had given her of his last reserves in that moment of D'Eyree's death was a debt she must repay.
It was in the first dawn that she saw the coast lights, and, with those, lights moving in the sky as well, marking at least two other flyers. She could not maneuver this machine off course, nor did she know any way of defending it. She could only hope—
Locked on course, the flyer held steady, and she did not have to constantly monitor the controls. Now Ziantha drew from the breast of her robe the band of the Eyes and the loose gem. If she were taken, she must do all she could to keep the focus-stones. She set herself to pry the second of them from the band. A girdle clasp proved to be a useful tool for this, and a few minutes later she had it out.
The other flyers were boxing them in now, one on either side. Ziantha tensed. How soon would they fire upon them? Vintra's memory could not supply her with information. The rebels did not have many flyers, and Vintra had not used one. Would it be better to try to land? One glance at Turan told her of the impossibility of trying to cross country on foot.
Before her on the instrument board a light flashed on and off in a pattern of several colors. Code—but one she could not read, much less answer. They were helpless until the flyer reached the goal Turan had set.
When no attack came, Ziantha breathed a little easier. Zuha had ordered them shot down on sight, but that had not happened. Therefore it might be that other orders had been issued since. How long had they been on the island? She did not know whether it was only part of a day or much longer.
The flyer bored steadily on into the morning. Ziantha was very hungry, thirsty, and her sensitive's control could no longer banish those needs. She found a compartment in which emergency rations were carried. The contents of the tube were not appetizing but she gulped them down. Turan? She drew forth a second tube, prepared to uncap it.
"No." His word was hardly more than a whisper. He was looking beyond her to the flyer that was their escort—or guard.
"They have not attacked," she told him the obvious. "For a while they tried to communicate by code. Now they do nothing."
"The focus-stones—" He made such a visible effort to get out those words that her anxiety grew.
"Here," she held out her hand so he could see them lying on her palm.
"Must keep—"
"I know." She had not yet thought of a hiding place. If they were taken, she, at least, would be searched. She had no doubt of that. She ran one hand through her hair. Its thick sweep was a temptation, but there was no safe way of anchoring them in those locks. There remained her mouth. Experimentally she fitted the stones, one within each cheek. They were about the same size as the pits of dried umpa fruit, and she believed she could carry them so.
With them so close, she could draw upon their energy. Somehow, as her tongue moved back and forth touching first on
e and then the other, Ziantha felt a little cheered. They had had such amazing good fortune in their quest so far; they were still free, with both stones. Yet, she knew that there was danger in any building of confidence. And no sane person depended upon fortune to last.
There was a faint beeping sound from the controls. She had set the flyer on maximum speed when they had left the island, recklessly intent only on reaching their goal as quickly as possible. What fueled the machine she did not know, pushing away that worry when she had so much else to concern her. Was this a signal that that energy was failing them?
But it was the guide dial that made that sound. They must be near to the tomb. Where could she land—and how?
The flyer shook, broke out of its forward sweep. Ziantha caught at the controls. But they were locked against her attempt to free them!
"Turan!"
He turned his head with painful effort.
"They have us—in—a—traction pull—" he whispered.
A pull that was taking them earthward. They would crash! She sat with her hands on those useless controls and sent out mind-seek. The in-and-out reception of alien thought was blighting, but that they were captive she understood. And they were being brought down to their captor's desire almost within sight of their goal.
"They—want—us—secretly—" Turan was rousing, pulling himself higher in the seat. "No one to know what happens—"
Ziantha probed, fought to reach and hold one of those mind waves. Perhaps it was the Eyes that gave her the skill to seize and hold.
Zuha!
The thoughts were blurred. It was like hearing only a few words of a whispered conversation. But the girl learned something. Yes, Turan was right; they were being brought in for a landing at a small private field, away from Singakok. Zuha wanted no interference while she dealt with them. Had they been of her own world and time, Ziantha could have used the power to control, to alter their memories for long enough to escape.
"Ride with them—not—against," Turan said. "Zuha wants us dead."
Ziantha caught his suggestion. Could they use the hate and fear of the alien woman to take them where they must go? Could she feed Zuha's desires?
"I shall be dead," Turan answered her chain of thought. "You must project to the High Consort a great fear of your own—one she will understand."
"The fear of being once more buried with you," Ziantha agreed. But it would be true, painfully true. All the horror she had known as D'Eyree entombed in that sealed crevice flooded back to make her sick. Could she face such an ordeal again? For it might well prove to be the truth, that, returned to Turan's tomb, they would remain there.
"There is no other way. Our door lies there."
Of course she had always known that in the back of her mind, but she had pushed it from her, refusing to face it squarely. This was the pattern they must follow to the end. Once again the tomb and the hope of return through it.
"I am dead," he said. "Your fear must be fed to her. In this I cannot help you."
"I know."
With the same concentration she had used to learn the method for that invasion of Jucundus's apartment which had begun this whole mad foray, Ziantha began to build her one chance. The irregular wave length meant that Zuha would not have clear reception. And so she could not be sure she had succeeded until some action of the other revealed it.
But she summoned fear, which was easy to do, fear of the dark, of imprisonment in that dark, of death, though she dared not allow panic to disrupt the careful marshaling of thought. Not that—not the tomb again! To die entombed beside the dead. Not that! She built up the strength of her broadcast in vivid mind pictures. Ziantha was shivering now, her hands locked about the useless controls.
The flyer was spiraling down. She saw trees rising to meet them, wondered for a moment if they would crash. But no, Zuha wanted more than any quick death, she wanted vengeance on Turan, and more on the woman she believed responsible for Turan's return. Feed her the thought of death in the tomb. Ziantha held to her mind-send as the flyer bounced along the rough ground.
Turan had been shaken against her in that landing. His body was an inert weight. To her eyes he was dead. Dare she test now? No, she must continue to concentrate on that suggestion—the return of the dead—and the living—to the tomb.
She made no move to escape from the flyer. Let them believe she was cowering here in fear. And they would not be far wrong. The dark passion she had touched in Zuha's mind was enough to promise the worst. But, if only the High Consort believed the worst to be what Ziantha tried to suggest to her!
The door was wrenched open with force, and she saw the face of an armsman. He stared at her, at Turan lying limply against her shoulder; then he was ordered aside by an officer.
"Lord Commander!" The man caught at Turan to draw him away from the girl. The body sprawled forward in his grasp. With an exclamation, the officer involuntarily jerked back, Turan falling, to dangle head and shoulders over the edge of the door.
"Dead!" the officer cried out. "The Lord Commander is dead!!
"As he has been!" There was triumph in the High Consort's reply. "There was only the sorcery of this witch to keep him seemingly alive. But he has eluded her at last." She stood wrapped in a heavy cloak against the snow-laden wind. Her eyes hot as she looked beyond the body to Ziantha. Now she leaned forward, her pose almost reptilian as she hissed:
"He is safely dead. But you still live, witch! And now you are under my hand."
The armsman and the officer had drawn Turan's body out of the flyer, laid it upon the ground. Ziantha did not move; only with her last spurt of mind-send she tried to reach, to implant in the High Consort what must be done.
"Your Grace," the officer looked up from where he knelt by Turan, "what are your orders?"
"What should they be—that my lord be returned to his place of rest where we laid him in honor and respect. And let this be done without further delay before such witnesses as will bear the proper news to the people and put an end to this wild tale of returns and miracles. Let the Priest-Lord of Vut be summoned to reseal the spirit door with Vut's own seal, which no witchery can break."
She spoke swiftly as one who had planned for this moment and intended to see her orders carried out with all dispatch. Turan, dead, must vanish again, and as speedily as possible. But was he dead? Ziantha could only hope that the spark of that other still clung to life so he could win out in the end.
"And the witch, Your Grace?" The officer arose to his feet, came over to the cabin to draw her forth.
"Ah, yes, the witch. Bring her forth!"
The grasp upon her hurt as he pulled her out roughly. She hoped that her concealment of the Eyes would serve. The armsman twisted her arms behind her back, holding her so to face Zuha.
"The priests would have you," the High Consort said slowly, "to tear forth the secret of your witchery. But priests are men before their vows are taken. I would blast you with the flamer where you stand, save that that is too quick a death. You have companied with my lord and brought him back to life—for your purposes. What purposes?"
"Ask of him," Ziantha said. "I moved by his will, not by my own."
Her head rocked from the blow Zuha struck with lightning speed then. Ziantha feared the most that she might have revealed the presence of the Eyes, for the inside of her mouth was cut by the edges of one of the stones.
But as she stood, dazed a little from the force and pain of that blow, the High Consort stepped back a pace.
"It does not matter. Whatever he, or you, attempted has failed. Turan is dead and will go to the tomb. As for you—"
Ziantha braced herself. This was the crucial moment. Would her attempts to influence Zuha succeed?
"Since my lord saw fit, as you tell me, to use you, then it would seem he found you well suited for his tomb service. Thus you shall return with him. Only this time there shall be no escape, through the spirit door or otherwise! There shall be measures taken to make sure of that, abov
e all else do I swear it so!"
She turned to the officer. "You will take charge of my lord's body and bear it to the lodge. I shall send those to prepare him for sleep, which this time will not be disturbed. You will take this witch also, and her you will keep under strict guard until the time comes that she also be returned whence she came. And your life will answer for hers."
"So be it, Your Grace."
Ziantha was so full of relief, for that moment, that she was hardly aware of the rough handling that stowed her into one of the ground cars, brought her forth again at a building among trees. She was bound and dumped on the floor of a room, left under the eyes of two armsmen who watched her with such an intensity of concentration that it was clear they thought she might disappear before their very eyes.
Lying there, her first relief ebbed as she considered the ordeal before her. Even though she had escaped D'Eyree's death, she was not certain she could make the second transfer to her own time. She had drawn so heavily on her powers, that even with the Eyes she could not be sure she had enough energy left. And she would also have the need to draw "Turan" with her.
Rest was what she needed. And in spite of her present discomfort of body, she set herself to relaxing by sensitive techniques, withdrawing into the inner part of herself to renew and store all the force she could generate.
Ziantha submerged herself now in memory, summoning to mind each detail of that plundered outer room of the tomb. If she was to have a point to focus upon it must be that. Her last memory of it had been when she was in the hands of the Jack captain, being forced to gaze into the focus-stone. But she pushed aside her mind-picture of that action, concentrated instead upon the chamber itself—the walls, the crumbling debris of what long ago thieves had smashed. Bit by bit she built up her mental picture of it as she had seen it the moment they had broken their way in.