by Andre Norton
The cold air seemed to burn in his lungs.
Something—or someone—was coming, and only the faintest squeak of snow being trodden underfoot betrayed that person's approach. Quickly, Harous took refuge behind some rocks in the snow-filled glade, knowing that any sound he made would carry as clearly in the unnatural stillness of the air.
"Harous?" a woman's voice said.
Startled, he drew in a sharp breath.
"I can hear you, you know. The throbbing of your heart is as clear to me as my own. If I can detect your heartbeat, what makes you think I couldn't hear you breathe just now?"
There was, he thought, nothing to be gained by trying to carry on the pretense that this person, whoever she was, did not know he was there. He moved out of his hiding place.
The woman stood there as if she had been waiting for him to arrive. She moved her head so that the hood of her light cloak fell back, to reveal a face so beautiful he caught his breath again. Her fingers moved also, and a few glittering flakes of snow drifted from them.
"Don't you know me, Harous?" she said. Her voice was low and vibrant. "Don't you remember me?"
"I—I don't know."
"You saw me last at the Grand Tourney, when that meddling youngster, Rohan, interfered with my plans."
"You are the Magician—"
"The Sorceress. I am Flavielle."
"Why are you here?"
"For you, Harous. Only for you."
Without conscious volition, he walked forward and took her in his arms. She melted against him, warm and willing.
The scent of her perfume filled his nostrils, at once earthy and sophisticated.
"I can scarcely believe this," he murmured in wonder.
"Believe that I am yours," she said. Her lips parted. They were very red.
"But why? How?"
"So many questions. Let us say that I sensed your anger at the Dowager, and at the betrayal of the unworthy wife you were tricked into marrying. It drew me here, even as it drew you to where I waited."
He cradled her head in his hands and kissed her then, hard enough to break the skin of those red, red lips. She laughed, deep in her throat, and returned his passion in full measure. Then she pulled back far enough to look into his eyes.
"Shall you in turn be mine? Are you the one I have long awaited, come to me at last? Shall I offer you what I have offered but once before, only to be spurned?
You are a man with some Power, though raw and untrained. This I have sensed in you. Shall I increase your talents a hundredfold? I can do this. All you would have to do in return is to join me."
"Join you," he echoed. It was as if he was losing himself in the depths of her eyes. He still held her head, feeling her fine, delicate skull between his hands. Harous was strong enough that he could have crushed it like an egg. She smiled at him, unafraid.
"Shall I show you?"
"Please."
She turned her head in the cradle of his hands, brushing her lips across his palms. Then she slipped out of the circle of his arms and, holding him by the hand, led him to where, in the shelter of an outcropping of rock, an enormous white beast waited. It had a long neck, and sharp spines decorated its back. It raised its head and stared at him out of black, bottomless eyes. Instinctively, he recoiled and reached for his sword.
"Do not be alarmed," she said with a laugh. "He will not harm you, as long as I am with you. You will need to drink this, however, so that you will not freeze where I am taking you."
She drew out a small vial, unstoppered it, and handed it to him. Without question or hesitation, he drank down the contents. It had almost no taste but immediately warmed him to his core. She showed him where and how to mount, in a spot just behind the great head. Then in a graceful bound she was seated behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "UpV she commanded.
Huge wings that he had not noticed before now unfurled from where they had been folded tightly against the creature's body.
"This is an Ice Dragon, isn't it," Harous said.
"Yes."
She nudged the Dragon by digging her heels into its neck. Then in a sound like a clap of thunder they were airborne. Snow scattered in their wake. Harous sensed that the Dragon flew reluctantly, and asked about it.
"They are not fond of flight for in milder climes the effort can warm them too much. Here, though, we are cold enough for them. It will be even colder, the higher we go."
Harous did not feel the chill. A magical warmth envel- oped him. The philter she had given him must be responsible. Even his breath did not puff out white and frosty now and he threw back the wulvine-lined hood of his cloak.
They soared high over the mountaintops. He could see that they were so sharp-edged that he fancied he could cut his fingers on them if he touched. As they cleared the cloud cover into bright sunlight all became brilliant and glittering— the scales of the Ice Dragon he rode, his own garments full of ice crystals, and, behind him, Flavielle. Her hair blew in the wind.
"I wanted to show you this," she said. Her grasp around his waist tightened, and she put her head against his shoulder.
"I have no words for it," he said. He was beginning to feel more at ease on the
Dragon's neck. The seat was not that much different from riding a thick-chested warhorse. He grasped the scaly protuberances on its head the way he would have held reins, to keep his balance.
Flavielle nudged the Dragon again and it banked, gliding majestically on widespread wings. Then it descended once more.
He recognized that they were near the point at which they had first broken through the clouds.
"Look," Flavielle said. "To your right."
He saw that she was referring to a shiny thread of ice high atop one of the mountains guarding the narrow pass. From this distance it looked narrow, though it filled the space it had cut for itself.
"What is it?" Harous asked.
"An ice river. Usually such crawl along the ground until they reach the sea.
There they splinter off great blocks of ice dangerous enough that ships avoid them."
Harous nodded. He had heard tales of such things. "I never knew they formed high on mountains, though."
"Not often. Here, they will drop ice on anything unlucky enough to be under them at the time." She loosed her hold with one arm and pointed in the direction of the flow of ice. "Watch. Observe my power."
As she gestured, the thread of ice became larger, both in width and thickness.
It trembled on the precipice. Even as high as they were, Harous could hear it begin to creak and snap. He was reminded of the crackling of ice when liquid was poured on it. A few glittering shards fell from the lip. Then the noise stopped.
The frozen river was, for the moment at least, at rest.
"It is ready," Flavielle said, pleased. "Now, you must lead the Rendelians into the pass. At the proper time, I will see to it that the river cascades huge blocks of ice onto the vanguard, where all the leaders but you will be. Then the war will be over." She turned him so that he could look at her. "And you will be mine and I will be yours, completely. It is difficult to wait until then."
"Must we?"
"No."
Harous felt that he was drowning in her eyes. He scarcely noticed the Ice Dragon returning to the ground until they had dismounted. A shelter constructed of tree boughs waited nearby. The fragrance of the deep green needles filled his nostrils. Within, such formed a smooth, slippery floor. A small fire burned in a rock-lined pit in the center, and an almost invisible thread of smoke escaped through the place where the sloping walls came close to meeting. On either side of the fire was an open space. In one of these, fur robes had been laid, making a bed. He didn't know if he took her in his arms, or she clasped him in hers.
"I love you," he said, much later. He brushed the hair back from her forehead.
It still sparkled as if filled with crystals of ice, though the interior of the little shelter had grown quite warm.
"You will
never regret this," she said. "I will give you Power such as no human has ever known."
He thought of Ysa, and of Zazar. As if she had read his mind, the Sorceress laughed.
"No human," she repeated. "Those back in Rendel only think they know what Power is. They only sip it. With me, you will drink it deeply, in full measure."
Again, he found himself lost in her as he had not been with any woman before.
Outside, the Ice Dragon's teeth gnashed once, as if it snapped at an insect, and at the sound Flavielle laughed.
Eventually, he let her go with a sigh and reached for his discarded clothing. "I must return to the camp. They will come looking for me."
"Then I will not hinder you."
"But how can I leave? Why can't we fly away on your Ice Dragon, and then I will lead your hosts against those who are now my enemy?"
"No, my Harous. Not yet. You must pretend to be loyal to Rendel until the time is right. Then we will be together, I promise, and Harous the Conqueror will lead us in triumph into our new lands—even into Rendelsham Castle."
With that pledge lingering in his ears and the taste of her mouth on his lips, he reluctantly left her and began to retrace his steps back toward the camp. He wondered, belatedly, at the ease with which he had accepted the philter. A long time ago, it seemed, someone—his wife—had offered a stirrup-cup, possibly poisoned. It should have taught him caution. That long-ago wife was a treacherous bitch to be sure, and not to be considered in the same breath as his radiant, scintillating Flavielle. Far from suffering the effects of any poison,
Harous had never felt so well, so strong, so much in command of himself as at this moment. Indeed, he would trust Flavielle with more than his life.
He had been correct in his surmise about being missed. As he crested a rise, he caught sight of Chevin, leading half a dozen men. There would have been no adequate explanation had they found him in Flavielle's embrace.
He waved to show that he was unharmed.
"We had begun to worry about you, sir," his lieutenant said when they had caught up with each other. "I know you are both wary and cautious, but still, this is enemy country."
"As you can see, your concern was for naught, though I do thank you for it."
Chevin looked at him curiously. "You do seem better for your outing," he said.
"Something about you has changed."
"I found no battleground, but I have discovered what I feel is the best route for us to take when we carry our quarrel to our foes," Harous replied, smiling.
And, he added to himself silently, I have rid myself of a wife I never loved, who wed me falsely. No wife at all. I discard her.
Then Chevin gave him information in return, including the intelligence mission
Rohan had undertaken on Spume-Maiden. Harous nodded.
"That was a good idea on his part." He glanced up. The cloud cover was lower and a dark, slate blue. "It will begin to snow soon and heavily, I think," he said.
"We will be immobilized for a while, as will the enemy. However, this is a boon for we can use the time wisely. Young Rohan should be back soon, with what information he has gathered. While the enemy have not troubled themselves to learn about us, to the best of anybody's knowledge, that has to work to our advantage. We shall have a meeting of our generals and their staff this afternoon so that we can lay out our order of attack."
Three days passed, and Marcala did not leave her bed. Her condition deteriorated steadily though she kept it from Reuta and the rest of the servants. It was a temporary indisposition, she told them, and longing for her absent lord. Reuta cleaned away the mess on the dressing table, and tended Marcala to such degree as her lady would allow.
In the privacy she craved, Marcala could be honest. Must be honest. By this time she could no longer convince herself that she had merely eaten something that disagreed with her. Not only had she failed to kill Harous from a safe distance, but also it seemed she had destroyed herself in the attempt.
Yet, all was not lost. There was still one way she could get a measure of revenge against him. If she hurried.
She got out of bed and dressed herself in her finest, astonished at how weak and thin she had become. It was as if her body was being eaten from within. Calling for a carriage, she had herself conveyed to Rendelsham, and thence to the castle. Ysa would see her unannounced; the Dowager had always done so in the past.
Ysa turned pale when Marcala, leaning heavily on a staff for support, staggered into her private chamber.
"Madame," Marcala said. "Pray let me not stand upon ceremony. In fact, let me not stand at all."
"Marcala! You should be home, in bed. You are ill."
"No, Madame, I am dead."
The Dowager waved her ladies out of the room and with her own hands drew up a chair for Marcala. She dropped into it gratefully and, with equal gratitude, accepted a cup of spiced wine, once heated but now cooled to tepid. The beverage had the effect of restoring her, if only a little.
"Thank you."
"What has happened?"
"Much. Pray, send for Lady Ashen. She is still here in Rendelsham, is she not?
There are matters that concern her and I will not speak until she is with us."
Ysa arose, touched a bell-pull, and Lady Gertrude entered the room. "Go and fetch the Lady Ashen," Ysa ordered. "Her presence is required here."
"Tell her to hurry."
Marcala's voice had become a croak. She patted a few drops of cold perspiration from her forehead with a scented kerchief. She held out her goblet for more wine but the small pitcher was empty except for a few drops.
"And Gertrude," Ysa said, "bring more heated wine."
"A large pitcher," Marcala added.
The Dowager added some other instructions to Lady Gertrude so softly that
Marcala could not hear what was being said. She didn't care; she was beginning to float in and out of reality anyway. The lady-in-waiting hurried off to do
Ysa's bidding.
"Ashen will be here presently," Ysa said. "Would you like to lie down?"
Marcala smiled wanly. "I fear that if I do I shall never rise again."
"You should have come here earlier, the moment you began to feel ill. Well, better late than never. Master Lorgan surely has something to cure you. I've sent for him—"
"He can do nothing," Marcala said. "Pray remember my— my former occupation,
Madame. I know my symptoms. There is no help for me. But if we hurry, I can give you and Ashen such information as is needed to bring a traitor to justice."
"Rest yourself until Ashen gets here."
The hot spiced wine arrived first. With a fresh goblet in her hand, and not having wasted her strength by speaking, Marcala felt a little better by the time
Ashen was shown into the chamber. Lady Gertrude would have lingered, but the
Dowager dismissed her.
"Lady," Ashen said, a shocked look on her face, "they told me you were indisposed, but they did not reveal the half of it."
"Marcala is very ill," Ysa said. "And she says there is something to tell you."
Marcala sipped at the strengthening wine. The process of heating it had eliminated most of that which caused a person to get tipsy; she wondered why she hadn't thought of this herself, then understood that her mind was not functioning as well as it should. The poison, no doubt. She could have slept where she sat, and never awakened. Instead she forced herself to temporary alertness. There was the story she must tell.
"Harous and I had a terrible quarrel. Things were said on both sides, and things were done—" Deliberately, Marcala decided to tell the truth but twist what had happened to put it in its worst possible light. "I am poisoned, Madame Dowager and Lady Ashen. And Harous did it."
"Surely not. Why would he?"
"He has done even more dreadful things, Madame. Dreadful. He is a traitor."
"I cannot believe this."
"You must." In a low, steady voice, saving her strength as
much as possible,
Marcala told the two shocked women what had come out during the great quarrel with Harous. "I see that you wear the necklace he gave you," she said to Ashen.
"The one made from the old brooch pin."
Ashen's hand went to her throat. "Yes. I wear it often, as an heirloom of my house."
"The brooch is something he stole from a Bog-woman, when he killed her."
Marcala's words rocked Ashen back in her chair and she stared at Marcala unbelievingly. "No."