Tales From High Hallack, Volume 3

by Andre Norton

  The door in the upper reaches of the castle had protested when we used it, but no sound came now. Before us, an opening expanded, its air illumined only by a dull gleam as of twilight. Silent ourselves, we passed within.

  There was resistance—a power-ward of some sort had certainly been set here. My charge hesitated, but I caught the hem of her now-bedraggled gown between my teeth and used a force she could not resist to draw her on. She raised her chin determinedly and gathered her strength to advance.

  It was a strange place we had entered. What we had reached was a bowl of stone held deep in the earth, but at first glance it seemed that we stood in a night-drowned forest. Trunks of trees arose on either side of a path leading forward, their branches interlaced to form a roof well above the princess’s head. Strange rock formations with the look of plants ordered the trail; yet even they showed no color but the unbroken dusk gray—

  —until my mistress moved forward. As she stepped through the futile defense of the ward, an awakening began around us. A spotting of rainbow-hued dots came alive on tree trunks, and on bone-pale branches and dead-looking leaves on ground-growth. Faintly at first, but swiftly becoming stronger, sound followed—a flowing chant, both solemn and inspiring. We were surely approaching a shrine of power. As we set feet (and paws) on the path, the disks of rainbow radiance on the trees began to run together, melding into each other until they became so dazzlingly bright that we dared no longer raise our eyes to watch.

  Time ceased to have meaning, and distance did the same; we seemed to cross a wide plain and to patiently keep to the track for a very long time. The end came suddenly as we halted at the foot of a second barrier that framed another stair—one so narrow that any castle dwellers who sought to use it must needs go in single file. Our eyes had adjusted to the light by then, for we could clearly make out the head of that staircase. But at the sight of what was displayed there, Charlita stood still, her hands braced rigidly right and left against the stone that walled the climb.

  “The Scepter of Margalee,” she said.

  So—some portion of what was now legend but had once been history did remain. The House of Lud had given kings to Fallona, ten of them in direct descent. However, before those had come (it was rumored) rulers of a different bloodline, each of whom had, in turn, been greater than the humans over whom he or she had reigned.

  But with the passing of years both the power and knowledge of the First Lineage had declined, and at length the House of Lud had triumphed after a red slaughter. The talents of the Firstborn had dwindled, then began to be viewed with suspicion. Archives were looted, and any information that might have restored tales to the status of truths was sought out and destroyed.

  The handful of seers who had stood against the last Ludish ruler had withdrawn—

  —until the casting of the Sleep-Spell! I had guessed that more than one of the old Great Ones had come forth again when I had been made the tool of good Lady Ulava, whose quick action had softened the malison against Charlita; now I knew my suspicion to be true. When is a curse not a curse . . .

  A small bead of blood appeared on the princess’ lower lip as she spoke, and her words, too, were bitten and spat out in anger:

  “So—are we still to be pieces in a game played against our wills? We shall see!” Her body taut with rage, she began to climb the stairs, keeping her arms braced against the walls to move her upward the more swiftly. I followed as closely as I could.

  And I in turn was pursued. The ink my charge had hurled at the library interloper had dried upon it but not faded. Whoever—or whatever—wore the sinlike stain was coming after us slowly; it did not begin its own ascent until we were near the head of the steps.

  The princess used the momentum from her push against the walls to propel herself onto a platform that spread across a landing much wider than the stairs. At mid-point of that level space rested a block of un-worked stone over whose surface curled thick lines of some pure metal. Thrust deep into the rock by its point was the ancient symbol of the rulers of Fallona: the Scepter of Margalee.

  Charlita stood gazing up at the length of chased and bejeweled silver; and, as she contemplated the rod that bespoke authority over her kind, I was aware of the presence of my own queen. With a leap, I sprang past the princess, voicing the claim-cry of the cat, and landed atop the stone that held the Scepter. Lowering my head, I set my mouth around a section of the rod where the wood was exposed, bit down hard, and held on.

  Charlita reached forward to grasp the huge rock, intending to climb it, but a moment later she backed away with a gasp to stare upward. Immediately overhead, the Golden Key of Bast, by men called the Ankh, had sprung into being and now hung in midair above the scepter-bearing stone. In that moment, we were all frozen into place as surely as if chains had been cast about our limbs.

  “NO!”

  In the space of a single breath, the same word was shouted by three different voices; at the same moment, two different Powers struck at me. No, the attacking wills belonged neither to the princess nor to the one who appeared to be shaping himself from the very air as he stepped up next to her, his tattered left sleeve fluttering in crude pennons from the standard of his arm.

  I could feel the air to both sides of me curdling into other shapes, but the blaze of the Sacred Key so dazzled my eyes that I could see only the princess and the young man beside her. He stood arrow-straight, and his dark hair was cropped as though he were prepared to don a helm of war, yet his belt did not even hold the sheath for a sword. A prince, it would seem, had come at last—and doubtless when he was needed least.

  The youth had been studying my mistress closely, and the frown that had earlier bent his brows was fading. When he saw that he had caught Charlita’s attention, he swept her the bow of the finished courtier, his left hand held before his heart but not quite touching the betraying blot. He smiled, and as he did so I judged that, though he was young, he already knew the worth of the policy “wait and see.”

  My princess, however, was not so ready to agree to what was certainly an offer of truce. She returned his smile, but with a meaningful glance at the stain.

  “Your Highness . . .” The ingathering of mist to the prince’s left had become solid, and the voice that spoke belonged to the serene and stately figure now revealed. This was Ulava of Fallona, so mighty a servant of Light with the ancient Gifts once common in her land that her very name was a title. Now she looked beyond the youth to me, holding her hand forth in respect and welcome—

  —as another also hailed me, but with clawed fingers that raked the air in a gesture of contempt and dismissal. “Cat!” cried Urgal of Morh, the Great One of Dark power who had been born from the mist to the prince’s right. “Think not to hold that—” she indicated the scepter, “—which is for your betters.”

  I did not relinquish the rod of rule to the Shadow-wielder, nor did I, in any way, deign to acknowledge her presence. Her skin, which sagged with age, flushed. Whatever power she had gathered down the years, she had never gained the ability to stop the ravages of time on her person. Neither had the Lady on her other side—Ulava, who had once been both sorceress and queen; but time had enhanced and not diminished her.

  The Dark One set palms together, and her fingers began to move as though she would weave something from the air. With that action she also moved her lips, though nothing she uttered could be heard.

  Ulava spared Urgal not a glance as she stepped forward to join the princess and prince. Join them she did, in more than one way. Placing a hand on the shoulder of each, she turned them so the youth faced the maid.

  “Once done, ill done,” she intoned, “twice done, well done. Finished!”

  The pair might no longer have had any wills of their own. Prince No-Name-Nor-Nation and Princess Charlita of Fallona made not a move toward one another, but their lips met as if they were dreaming.

  All about, the massive stone walls seemed to draw a deep breath; the castle itself was waking, as well as th
e people and creatures it held.

  The palace might indeed have shaken off its sorcerous sleep, but Urgal, she who had called down the curse, was not yet defeated. I rocked back and forth, holding onto the scepter with all the strength in me and striving to work it loose from its free-standing position. I obeyed no actual order from the Lady of the Key, but Her will was at work. The gemmed rod shifted in my mouth-grip, tilted, and pointed at the enemy.

  Suddenly I became a channel, as power that was neither mine nor native to my kind coursed through me. Shooting through my body up the scepter, it poured out the head of the rod and down, rained in a molten-gold flood over the last Priestess of Night, puddled, and rose about her twitching body. Urgal’s wrinkle-wrung mouth opened in a soundless scream. Still further I turn-mouthed the scepter until its heavy ornate head swung floorward; and then a Force I did know made Herself felt. Down from My Lady’s Life-Promise above shot a beam of white light to touch the rod. I could not choke back a cry of pain as Her lightning blazed through me up the scepter’s length. The blast struck Urgal full on, and the Dark One staggered, fell, and vanished in a pillar of fire.

  Thus ended what has doubtless become an oft-told tale: the story of a princess placed under an evil enchantment of sleep until a kiss awakened her and her ensorcelled folk, of a reckoning between Darkness and Light such as will occur many times again.

  It was not given to me to know what happened—to learn whether my princess wedded her prince, then reigned with him wisely and well until Fallona rose to greatness once more in a “happily ever after.”

  No, my destiny lay in another direction and a different realm; for so great had been the demand of both the Powers of Light on my body that it could no longer remain in the mortal plane. But as I still held, exhausted, to the Scepter of the Great Ones, my eyes, which were closing to this world, opened to another. Above me, the glowing ankh became the figure of a Lady robed in light, a human woman with the countenance of a cat. Bending down, She gathered me into Her arms, murmuring to me of a new land and new life to come in Her service. And together, in joyous anticipation, we passed through that door to which Her symbol was, indeed, the Key.

  Faire Likeness

  Renaissance Faire (2005) DAW

  The Renaissance Faire at Ridgewood had, within the past few years, become a national tourist attraction. The center of the festival was the castle that Margaret and Douglas Magin had made the focus of their retirement; and, though the fortress was somewhat modest in mass, it was, nonetheless, a castle. Leading to the pile was a lane, lightly graveled, that was lined on either hand by the “town”: a collection of three-room cottages, each with a display area for handicrafts on the side facing the “street.” Beyond the booths to lay and right lay wild land, where a growth of brush quickly gave way to woods. On the far side of the fortress was the famous Rose Garden—often put to service these days for weddings—and the tourney field.

  Deb Wilson, my friend and sponsor at the Ridgewood Faire, was well used to these romantic surroundings. She not only displayed and sold articles made by herself and her classes in fine needlework, but also held seminars here. I had felt truly honored this year when she had asked for my help at her shop-booth during such times as she had to be elsewhere.

  At that moment, though, I was beginning to regret my enthusiastic assent to be part of this year’s faire, of which I was not a member. The heat clung to me like yet another layer of the archaic clothing in which I was already wrapped. Irritably, I pulled at the tight bodice-lacings of my “authentic” period dress, pushed at the heavy folds of the skirt. Deb was wearing a twin to my garment, save that she was allowed a touch of embroidery to enliven it, since her persona was that of a leading guildswoman. In addition, she was also a judge of correctly-chosen and constructed clothing, as Margaret Magin was a stickler for historical accuracy.

  “Good day, me bonny wench! ‘Tis a fine sight for the eyes that ye are.”

  Attempting to respond to this strange salute, I turned too fast and cracked an elbow painfully against a screen. Then I realized that the greeting had been meant for my booth mate.

  The man standing by the supports for the counter we had not yet set into place was short—no taller than Deb, at least. He was also certainly no paladin come riding. His faire garb was the drab stuff of a very common commoner and looked as though it needed a good washing. Beside him stood two train cases lashed together so that one handle served both.

  “Sterling! I thought you were banished!” My friend’s jaw tightened in a set that suggested she wished her statement were truth.

  The shabby newcomer grinned. “Well, now, Deb m’dear—let’s just say that fickle Fortune beamed upon me again. And she continues to smile, for behold! She has given me a roost beside the beauteous needle wielder herself.” He nodded to the right, where indeed another booth-cabin stood unclaimed. “And,” he continued conspiratorially, indicating his double bundle, “you’re lucky, too. I’ve a little something here that’ll pull visitors aplenty in this direction.”

  Deb was flushing; this encounter was obviously no meeting of friends, as far as she was concerned. From a woman of usually even temper, such an attitude was puzzling. The needleworker turned a little toward me.

  “This is Sterling Winterhue,” she sated, as one person might call an unpleasant mistake to the attention of another. Then she gave a single curt nod at me. “Miss Gleason.” The cold voice and bare-bones introduction were extremely unlike my friend.

  “Yes sirree, ol’ Winterhue hisself.” The man pulled off his peaked cap, bowed awkwardly, and patted the top case. “Come with a real treasure. Gimme ‘bout an hour to get set up; and then, Deb m’girl, you bring Miss Gleason over and get a preview.”

  “Lemme alone, Mark! Hey, mister—got any monsters this year?” The interrupting voice, shrill and willful, was that of a boy. Winterhue scowled, but only for an instant.

  “So you like to see monsters, do you? Well . . .”

  “Sir, I beg your pardon. Roddy—”

  “ ‘Rod-dy, Rod-dy Rod-dy!’ “ the boy singsonged mockingly. “I don’t hafta listen to you, you—cop! You been no-ing me all morning, and I’m gonna tell Nana!”

  I had managed to push aside the embroidered screen that would shield one corner of the sales area and was now able to see the speaker. Very few Ridgewood residents would have failed to recognize that ten year old in spite of his page’s dress: Roddy Magin, the pride of, and heir to, the castle.

  The youth’s companion was an archer, bearing an unstrung bow and a quiver of arrows across his back, but wearing on the breast of his jerkin a pendant in the form of a massive shield embossed with the royal arms of the court. A member of the security force, then. Just as I caught sight of the man’s charge, Roddy threw a piece of pastry at him. The boy edged backward; however, he did not escape the hand that closed on his velvet-clad shoulder. He yelled and tried to twist free, but his guardian’s hold failed to loosen.

  As if the pair did not exist, Winterhue repeated to my partner, “Give it an hour, Deb, an’ come along.” With no further word he headed toward his booth, twin cases in tow.

  Deb scowled openly after him. “I thought that man had been—” she began, then set her lips in a locking line.

  The Magin boy now swung a kick at the archer. “Lemme go, lemme—” His protest cut off with a squawk as he was picked up and held fast by his much-tried chaperone, who growled: “Be quiet, you brat!”

  For a wonder, the child obeyed, giving Deb the chance to finish what she had begun to say a moment before. “Doesn’t court banishment still hold?”

  “Not if it doesn’t please the Magins.” Mark’s tone was dry.

  Roddy turned his head sharply and snapped at the hand still restraining him. The security officer looked to Deb, shaking his head as the boy mouthed an obscenity and spat: “Nana’ll get rid of you! Wait’ll I tell her—”

  “Wait till WE tell her,” the archer corrected, controlling his temper heroically. “And we
’re going to do it right now. Sorry, ladies—” Giving a last nod, Mark set off down the lane, steering the pugnacious page before him.

  Deb dropped onto a box, pushed a wandering strand of hair back under the edge of her frilled cap, and pulled her wristwatch out of the pouch at her belt. “Look at that—it’s already eleven. I have to meet with Cathy and get the seminar leaflets. Don’t wait lunch on me, ‘Manda—I’ll grab a burger or something on the way back.”

  I did not wish to make Deb late for her appointment, but I felt I must have some answers. “What was all that ‘monster’ business?”

  Deb shook her head and picked up a tote that stood propped against the cabin door. “I’ll tell you when I come back,” she promised, adding grimly, “I do hope Mark can get Margaret to put a tight rein on that little pest.”

  She was out of the shop before I had a chance to protest. I knew there was no use in simply sitting and thinking up more questions, but I was determined to see that my booth mate answered those that had already occurred to me when I could get her alone again.

  I fetched a Coke from the cooler. My head ached, and I wanted noting more than to lie down on one of the cots. But rest, I knew, would not be sufficient to banish the disturbing thoughts that crowded into my mind; if I tried to relax, those would torment me even more. It was best to keep busy.

  Regiments of thread packets had to be mustered out according to color, needles and other tools placed in plain sight. Books of tempting patterns required arranging, and some needed to be opened to a particularly intriguing design. As the display grew, I began to feel pride in my artistic ability.

  When I broke off at last for a sandwich and another Coke, I glanced over to Winterhue’s hut, but no sign of life was to be seen. Scents aplenty filled the air, however, chief among them the smell of barbecue from a cookshop down the street. The savory odor made me take an extra-large bite of my chicken salad.

  “And where’s the lovesome Deb, m’lady?”