by Andre Norton
That she would remain here in this peaceful yet alien valley—No! There was too much wary restlessness in her. Better to be away—on her own—seeking to answer that nebulous compulsion which had plucked at the edge of her consciousness for days. That she was part of some pattern she no longer doubted, but the manner of the weaving—no, it was not to be found here.
Sara did not return. When Thora had finished the food—well cooked, more tempting then she had eaten in months—she looked to Elsana.
“Who is your chief speaker? If you do not own the rule of Three-In-One, then whose orders carry weight?”
“There are the Silent Ones—” Elsana seemed confused. “But they do not rule within the household. They give orders for the Windriders—the outgoers—”
“They are men,” Thora finished for her sharply. “Very well, I would speak with those who give orders. This is not my place—I do not abide with you—therefore I would go to seek my own way.”
Fatigue weighed upon her. Inwardly she wanted nothing more than to curl up among these cushions and seek sleep. Still she distrusted this scented room which was so disturbing. Let her go with Kort—camp out in the meadow lands as she had done for so long.
Arising, she reached for the pack which she had laid to hand, and made sure her weapon sling was adjusted. Elsana, hand to mouth, watched her with troubled eyes.
“But—you must rest—this—” she waved at the room about them, “is for your guesting—”
Thora shook her head resolutely. She motioned to Kort.
“I am not of your people, your ways are not mine. I do not think that your mistress and I can deal well together.”
Before the girl could answer, Thora turned and pushed past the screen—making for the outer chamber of the house. She heard a low murmur of voices and then she was into the lamplight of that first chamber. On the matted floors her hide boots made little sound. She had been so accustomed to walking with care that she was well into the room before Makil paused in mid-word to stare at her.
Malkin was still curled against him, by the look of her in deep sleep. His face was drawn into harsh lines but there was still about him an air of determination and purpose. Martan was gone, but a much older man leaned forward in a second chair, his closed fists on his knees, his position tense, urgent.
Upon Makil’s sudden silence this one turned to look at Thora, a frown fast forming on his broad face. But he got to his feet, asking in impatient voice:
“How may we serve you, Lady?”
She eyed him for a moment before she answered. This was one who held authority. She had seen men with this air among the traders—or even among her own people when the Hunter ruled. Plainly he was just such as she sought.
“I am not the Lady,” she returned coldly, “but one of Her Chosen. As to how you may serve me—let me go on my way. This is no land for me.”
He looked surprised, more surprised than Makil who also watched her intently. The elder man’s hand moved in a swift sign Thora knew—or it resembled one she knew. In turn she gave the recognition, one which a Chosen would use to an equal. Full belief or not, these people still held to some remnants of the Faith and thus must be recognized as distant kin.
Now the stranger spoke. What he said was garbled to Thora, the wrong inflection here and there on one of the sacred names—still it was understandable enough that she could make the required answer of ceremony.
“She is the beauty of the green earth, the white moon among the stars.
“To Her hand lies the mysteries of the waters, of the earth’s growth, of the wind which caresses, of that which drives the storm.
“From Her all things proceed, to Her keeping all things return.
“Let there be beauty and strength, power and compassion, honor and humility, mirth and reverence, where She walks!”
Thora narrowed her small power, honed it to sharpness, stared into the open air between them, then hurled all the force she could summon. For she must show this one who and what she truly was.
There was a trembling in the air, as if something invisible fluttered there. Then there formed, for only a short instant, the sign which she wore on her inner girdle. It flickered into life and was gone again at the wink of an eye, leaving her weak and trembling with expended effort.
The valley chief gave a sharp-drawn breath. Malkin stirred, uttered one of her hissing cries, her red eyes opened, to shine coal bright.
“It would seem,” Makil broke the silence first, “that there are others, who do walk the same Way. Do you accept this now, Borkin?”
The man was still staring at the place where the sign had appeared and vanished. Now he nodded slowly.
“One must accept the evidence of one’s eyes. Who are you who can summon that?”
“I serve Her, being born into that service—though I am not a full initiate. There was an end to my people before I could become a vessel of full power. But She has favored me since so that I can call upon what little I know and it does not fail me.” Let him at once understand that she had limits, Thora decided. She must make no claims, which in days to come might be proven false.
Again Borkin spoke, some words clearly, some so twisted she did not know them for sure. Only what he voiced were sacred things. Though to say such thus openly—before Makil—she wondered at this desecration of what was to her private matters, only to be spoken of in the shrine, and there at the proper time. When he had finished she replied firmly:
“I know nothing of your customs. If you are the Hunter for your people then it is true you should know this. But it is not fitting that you speak openly—out of proper place and time.”
Borkin looked startled. “This is,” he swung back to Makil, “the ancient learning! These people have followed the pattern as it once was!”
Malkin slid down from Makil’s lap and came pattering across to Thora, reaching up to catch the girl’s hand which she held close to her own down-covered cheek.
“Do you doubt now?” Makil asked. “The sister-blood can tell—”
“But it is against—”
Thora carried the battle into his own territory. “Is it against your custom that a woman should know such things? Well, to me, it is against propriety that any man should say certain of the words you have just uttered. Hunter you may be, but in our Shrine even the Horn-Crowned does not summon without due ritual, deferring always to the Three-In-One.”
Borkin gave an impatient wave of the hand. “It is enough for now that we do understand the same power. That you have it at your call is good. For this is a time when every road which leads to the Light must converge and our strengths added to strength, lest we be found wanting when the Dark rises—and rising it is! Do not mistake that!”
“You have already seen some of their handiwork,” Makil’s tone might not be so vehement but it was none the less insistent. “You found the body of Samkin—”
Malkin gave a small cry which might be one of mourning. While Borkin took an impatient stride down the room, then back again.
“Samkin, yes—but what of Karn?”
Makil shifted in his cushioned chair. “He is not dead. That we would have known—”
“Where he is perhaps death would be better! We can trace his life force—yes, that still burns. But where have they hidden him? What use will they make of him? That we cannot tell—”
“Unless,” Makil leaned forward, his eyes on Thora, capturing her gaze and holding it as if he summoned will to bend her to some service.
“Unless,” he said again after a pause which seemed to stretch uncomfortably long, “your power, Chosen, being different in some ways from ours, can provide some answer—”
“What would you have me do?” She had no mind to be drawn into any affair of theirs.
“Our comrade Karn, with Samkin, his blood-brother, was sent on a scouting mission. In some way they were both entrapped. You found Samkin, my blood-sister has told me that. We have Karn’s candle burning in the sanctuary. It has n
ot gone out, thus he still lives. But in the direction he went there is now a wall of the Dark. Therefore we know he is held by the sons of Set. They can learn from him what we seek—”
Borkin took up the argument now. “And perhaps that is what you have already discovered, Chosen—that storage place of the past. Those of Set sought it once. But their leader died in the seeking. Malkin has told of the body you found; therefore we may surmise that either he and his people came upon that place by accident—or all those knowing of it died with him. That such places exist are old tales. The Elder Ones made safe holds against the coming of Days of Wrath. Two we have already located. But one was partly destroyed and what it contained was beyond claiming. We must have more—enough so we can bring against the Dark great force. For our numbers are few and we cannot stand against their hordes hand to hand, weapon to weapon.
“This hidden place which Malkin believes you and she can find again—perhaps that which lies within cannot be mastered by us. But in any event it must not be left to the enemy. Just as Karn, living, must not remain in their hands. For they have ways of binding the spirit, and it may be, having wrung him dry, they could fill that emptiness with an evil brew of their own devising and send him against us—his kin! They have done such things—”
9
Thora stood very still. It was as if a wind from those snows still salting the peaks above had curled about her. What he had said was part of ancient and terrible legend—a story at the Craigs. Whether such a monstrous crime could indeed be, Thora did not know—but that Borkin believed it fully made an impression she was unable to push aside.
Only neither was she ready to be drawn so easily into the affairs of the valley people. That one of their blood had been taken, yes, that was a dreadful thing. But it was they who were kin-bound to the missing. She had taken no vengeance on those who had plundered the Craigs—for that was not the Lady’s way. SHE punished in her own time. To use power as a weapon—no! No wonder these two had traveled so far from the true beliefs!
They must have read a part of her thought in her expression for Borkin’s scowl grew darker while Makil—with him it was as if the natural warmth of the man had withdrawn. She had a fleeting memory of him as she had seen him in her vision—the master of the sword’s flame. That was not this man.
“I cannot use any talent I have,” she said slowly, “to summon power, save as the Lady works through me—and never to my own use. I do not think that you truly know HER as She is—”
“So—what will you do now?” Makil asked, his voice remote, coming to her across some chasm.
“Go forth from this valley and be about my own concerns.”
Borkin smiled, no pleasant smile. “That we cannot let you do.”
She was so startled by that for a moment she simply eyed him unbelievingly. A Chosen could not be so ordered—certainly not by a man!
“What then would you do to keep me—bind me with cords?”
“If the need be—yes.”
Her hand fell to knife hilt. She could not accept that he would dare any such thing.
“Do you not understand?” Makil asked. “We have good reason to believe that we are under the eyes of the Dark. If you go forth from here on your lone now you would be easy meat for those who serve the Shadow. Karn was guarded, not only by a warrior’s skills, but by armor of spirit—still he was taken. You have already crossed the land they claim. Who can tell what you have roused there? Traces of Power passing can be read by those trained in such trailing. They would come seeking you—”
Her hand dropped from the knife hilt to seek the gem beneath her clothing, pressing that into her flesh, as if to make it a part of her. It was true that one with Power, even as little as she believed hers to be, could sense it elsewhere. Just as she had found it in the forgotten oak wood. Had she left traces of her passing so—to be picked up by the Dark? Had perhaps that shameful cloak they had hung upon the dead tree served as a beacon?
There was a touch on her hand. Thora started, looked down at Malkin. Then she remembered that some of the furred one’s blood had also passed her lips, making her free of that strange barrier in the wood.
“Just so,” Makil said deliberately. “You say you are apart from us—yet the Blood Sister made pact with you. You are one of us after all.”
Thora raised her other hand to rub it furiously across her lips, trying so to banish memory—the certainty that perhaps what he said was unfortunately true. She could not walk away as she wished—
Makil’s face was very strained, deep shadows lay beneath his eyes. He slumped among the cushions bracing him in the chair as if he had come to the end of his strength. Borkin uttered an exclamation and went to him, while Malkin whirled away from Thora, leaping to capture both of the young man’s hands, hold them tightly to her small breasts. He appeared to rouse, speaking wearily to Borkin:
“Let her rest within the outer Sanctuary. She must be with us in spirit or she cannot stand with us at all.”
Borkin glanced over his shoulder to the girl. There was very little softness in that look—rather it measured her, put her on the defensive. Then he said only one word:
“Come!”
Sara appeared in the doorway to the inner rooms, hurried to Makil even as Borkin pushed open the outer portal, sweeping Thora with him. She found she could not protest as she went, Kort close beside her.
Through the edge of the village they passed, then turned into a path which was marked at intervals with standing stones. These were studded with crystals which gave a faint light like that of distant stars.
Borkin strode so swiftly that Thora’s strength was further taxed. Still pride would not allow her to lag in such company. The road of the stones curved upward through the fields, still it did not draw too far from the lake—and now those stones were set closer and closer together.
She was aware that they were treading into what must be the heart of a great spiral. Farther and faster Borkin went and she followed with Kort. About this place hung a heavy silence. The night birds, the insects, of which she had been aware when they left the village, were now silent, or else all kept their distance.
Her jewel was warming. Power—yes, here was power—as yet unawakened, slumbering—but still to be sensed. And she was attuned, in spite of her denials concerning these men. There was a kinship between what she carried and a greater force abiding here.
They reached the heart of the spiral, entered from between what was now solid stone walls into an open space. This was circular and the stones guarding it gave off an even greater light. Borkin beckoned the girl forward. Reaching forth his hand he brushed fingertips across the front of her jerkin at heart level. She did not, could not, deny that he was truly an adept of the Mysteries, certainly with more power than the Hunter. Though she told herself fiercely—not the equal of the Three-In-One after they had called down the power. He sing-songed words of ritual, and to those she made her own answers.
He was, she sensed, striving to introduce her to some force outside her own time and space—to powers which she had never dared call upon, nor would she know how. For such was granted to the Chosen only when the Lady ordained. Thora fought receiving at the hands of this stranger what she held to be the rights of her own kind.
Yet from that slight touch of his there came an inflowing of energy—which, resent it though she might, Thora could build no defense against. Borkin pointed to the pavement which was now glowing silver-white and from which a haze was rising, as might the traces of smoke from a fire of well-dried wood.
“You may try—” she removed her hand from her hidden gem. “but my power—the Lady—” She paused. No, she would offer this man no argument. Why should she? Let him see that she could not be bent in any fashion—that within herself she held defenses against what he strove to bring to life.
He did not answer, only turned from her as if his part in this act was completed. Thora watched him go. Then, because she was so tired that she could no longer pretend
strength where it was not, she sank to her knees, settling cross-legged. While Kort paced slowly about the circle, his head up. Though there was something of uneasiness in his movements, he gave no direct warning, only his tail swung steadily from side to side, his lips drew back to show fangs, his eyes gleamed.
The haze about her was deepening, growing thicker. There was a pulsing surge in its rising—ebbing, flowing. She discovered that she was breathing in time to that, deep breaths which carried air into every crevice of her lungs.
Now the moon gem was so warm that it was too hot against her skin. She brought it forth, held it cupped in her hand, looking down into the surface. There also the radiance flowed. The jewel itself appeared to grow larger and larger. She was no longer aware of holding it in her hand—rather it was a vast bowl of light.
Thora sought to speak the rituals she knew, to divorce and defend herself against the ensorcellment happening. She MUST stand apart—not be encompassed by the power here. If it were meant to fill the one who sought this shrine she was not prepared to give it room. Rash assumption of power could blast the reckless. Still she was caught, and from this trap there was now no escape.
Under her feet stretched a narrow trace of way. In the dark gloom of this place it shone with the silver bright of the Lady’s touch. On either hand walls stood tall, dead black as a clouded night when not even a star gleamed. From those walls came a steady beat which was like the regular pulsing of a giant heart. The earth where she now walked might itself be a living creature, lying in wait—for what Thora could not tell.
The girl looked up, setting her head far back to catch a gleam of sky with star, if there was such here. But all she could tell was that the walls did end—well above. A wind blew about her, and that was like a puffing of breath—though it was both sharp and chill.