by Andre Norton
He kept one hand tangled in her hair. But with the other he snatched from her belt the knife she had borrowed from Nickus and not returned. She screamed, beat against him with her fists and tried to bite. He mastered her roughly, not loosing his grip on that black silk. And then in sweeps of that well whetted blade he did what the Black Hoods had failed in doing, he sawed through those lengths.
“I am leaving you no weapons, Takya. You shall not rule here as you have thought to do.” The exultation he had known when he had won his first victory against the Black Hoods was returning a hundredfold. “For a while I shall pull those pretty claws of yours!” He wondered briefly how long it would take her hair to regrow. At least they would have a breathing spell before her powers returned.
Then, his arm still prisoning her shoulders, the mass of her hair streaming free from his left hand, he turned to face the guardsmen.
“Tell them to go,” he thought, “taking their dead with them.”
“You will go, taking these with you,” she repeated aloud, stony and calm.
One of the men dropped to his knees by Tousuth’s body, then abased himself before Craike.
“We are your hounds, Master.”
Craike found his voice at last. “You are no man’s hounds, for you are a man. Get you gone to Sampur and tell them that the power is no longer to make hind nor hound. If there are those who wish to share the fate of Tousuth, perhaps when they look upon him as dead they will think more of it”
“Lord, do you come also to Sampur to rule?” the other asked timidly.
Craike laughed. “Not until I have established my lordship elsewhere. Get you back to Sampur and trouble us no more.”
He turned his back on the guardsmen and, drawing the silent Takya, still within the circle of his arm, he started back to the tower. The bowmen remained behind, and Craike and the girl were alone as they reached the upper level. He paused then and looked down into her set, expressionless face.
“What shall I do with you?”
You have shamed me and taken my power from me. What does a warrior do with a female slave?” She formed a stark mind picture, hurling it at him as she had hurled the stone on the mesa.
With his left hand he whipped her hair across her face, smarting under that taunt.
“I have taken no slave, nor any woman in that fashion, nor shall I. Go your way, Takya, and fight me again if you wish when your hair has grown.”
She studied him, and her astonishment was plain. Then she laughed and clutched at the hair, tearing it free from his grasp, bundling it into the front of her single garment.
“So be it, Ka-rak. It is war between us. But I am not departing hence yet a while.” She broke away, and he could hear the scuff of her feet on the steps as she climbed to her own chamber in the tower.
“They are on their way, Lord, and they will keep to it.” Jorik came up. He stretched. “It was a battle not altogether to my liking. For the honest giving of blows from one’s hand is better than all this magic, potent as it is.”
Craike sat down beside the fire. He could not have agreed more heartily with any suggestion. Now that it was over he felt drained of energy.
“I do not believe they will return,” he wheezed hoarsely, very conscious of his bruised throat.
Nickus chuckled, and Zackuth barked his own laughter.
“Seeing how you handled the Lady, Lord, they want nothing more than to be out of your grasp and that as speedily as possible. Nor, when those of Sampur see what they bring with them, do I think we shall be sought out by others bearing drawn swords. Now,” Jorik slapped his fat middle, “I could do with meat in my belly. And you, Lord, have taken such handling as needs good food to counter.”
There was no mention of Takya, nor did any go to summon her when the meat was roasted. And Craike was content to have it so. He was too tired for any more heroics.
Nickus hummed a soft tune as he rubbed down his unstrung how before wrapping it away from the river damp. And Craike was aware that the younger man glanced at him slyly when he thought the Esper’s attention elsewhere. Jorik, too, appeared highly amused at some private thoughts, and he had fallen to beating time with one finger to Nickus’ tune. Craike shifted uncomfortably. He was an actor who had forgotten his lines, a novice required to make a ritual move he did not understand. What they wanted of him he could not guess, for he was too tired to mind touch. He only wanted sleep, and that he sought as soon as he painfully swallowed his last bite. But he heard through semistupor, a surprised exclamation from Nickus.
“He goes not to seek her—to take her!”
Jorik’s answer held something of approval in it. “To master such as the Lady Takya he will need full strength of power and limb. His is the wisest way, not to gulp the fruits of battle before the dust of the last charge is laid. She is his by shearing, but she is no meek ewe to come readily under any man’s hand.”
Takya did not appear the next day, nor the next. And Craike made no move to climb to her. His companions elaborately did not notice her absence as they worked together, setting in place fallen stones, bringing the tower into a better state of repair, or killing deer to smoke the meat. For as Jorik pointed out:
“Soon comes the season of cold. We must build us a snug place and have food under our hands before then.” He broke off and gazed thoughtfully down stream. “This is also the fair time when, countrymen bring their wares to market. There are traders in Sampur. We could offer our hides, even though they be newly fleshed, for salt and grain. And a bow—this Kaluf of whom you have spoken, would he not give a good price for a bow?”
Craike raised an eyebrow. “Sampur? But they have little cause to welcome us in Sampur.”
“You and the Lady Takya, Lord, they might take arms against in fear. But if Zackuth and I went in the guise of wandering hunters—and Zackuth is of the Children of Noe, he could trade privately with his kin. We must have supplies, Lord, before the coming of the cold, and this is too fine a fortress to abandon.”
So it was decided that Jorik and Zackuth were to try their luck with the traders. Nickus went to hunt, wrecking havoc among the flocks of migrating fowl, and Craike held the tower alone.
As he turned from seeing them away, he sighted the owl wheel out from the window slit of the upper chamber, its mournful cry sounding loud. On sudden impulse he went inside to climb the stair. There had been enough of her sulking. He sent that thought before him as an order. She did not reply. Craike’s heart beat faster. Was—had she gone? The rough outer wall, was it possible to climb down that?
He flung himself up the last few steps and burst into the room. She was standing there, her shorn head high as if she and not he had been the victor. When he saw her Craike stopped. Then he moved again, faster than he had climbed those stairs. For in that moment the customs of this world were clear, he knew what he must do, what he wanted to do. If this revelation was some spell of Takya's he did not care.
Later he was aroused by the caress of silk on his body, felt her cool fingers as he had felt them drawing the poison from his wounds. It was a black belt, and she was making fast about him, murmuring words softly as she interwove strand with strand about his waist until there was no beginning nor end to be detected.
“My chain on you, man of power.” Her eyes slanted down at him.
He buried both his hands in the ragged crop of hair from which those threads had been severed and so held her quiet for his kiss.
“My seal upon you, witch.”
“What Tousuth would have done, you have accomplished for him,” she observed pensively when he had given her a measure of freedom once again. “Only through you may I now use my power.”
“Which is perhaps well for this land and those who dwell in it,” he laughed. “We are now tied to a common destiny, my lady of river towers.”
She sat up running her hands through her hair with some of her old caress.
“It will grow again,” he consoled.
“To no purpose, exce
pt to pleasure my vanity. Yes, we are tied together. But you do not regret it, Ka-rak—”
“Neither do you, witch.” There was no longer any barrier between their minds, as there was none between their bodies. “What destiny will you now spin for the two of us?”
“A great one. Tousuth knew my power-to-come. I would now realize it.” Her chin went up. “And you with me, Ka-rak. By this.” her hand rested lightly on the belt.
“Doubtless you will set us up as rulers over Sampur?” he said lazily.
“Sampur!” she sniffed. “This world is wide—” Her arms went out as if to encircle all which lay beyond the tower walls.
Craike drew her back to him jealously. “For that there is more than (imp enough. This is an hour for something else, even in a warlock's world.”
THROUGH THE NEEDLE'S EYE
IT WAS NOT her strange reputation which attracted me to old Miss Ruthevan, though there were stories to excite a solitary child's morbid taste. Rather it was what she was able to create, opening a whole new world to the crippled girl I was thirty years ago.
Two years before I made that momentous visit to Cousin Althea I suffered an attack of what was then known as infantile paralysis. In those days, before Salk, there was no cure. I was fourteen when I met Miss Ruthevan, and I had been told for weary months that I was lucky to be able to walk at all, even though I must do so with a heavy brace on my right leg. I might accept that verdict outwardly, but the me imprisoned in the thin adolescent's body was a rebel.
Cousin Althea's house was small, and on the wrong side of the wrong street to claim gentility. (Cramwell did not have a railroad to separate the comfortable, smug sheep from the aspiring goats.) But her straggling back garden ran to a wall of mellow, red brick patterned by green moss, and in one place a section of this barrier had broken down so one could hitch up to look into the tangled mat of vine and brier which now covered most of the Ruthevan domain.
Three-fourths of that garden had reverted to the wild, but around the bulk of the house it was kept in some order. The fat, totally deaf old woman who ruled Miss Ruthevan's domestic concerns could often he seen poking about, snipping off flowers or leaves, after examining each with the care of a cautious shopper or filling a pan with wizened berries. Birds loved the Ruthevan garden and built whole colonies of nests in its unpruned trees. Bees and butterflies were thick in the undisturbed peace. Though I longed to explore, I never quite dared, until the day of the quilt
That had been a day of disappointment. There was a Sunday school picnic to which Ruth. Cousin Althea's daughter, and T were invited. I knew that it was not for one unable to play ball, race or swim. Proudly I refused to go giving the mendacious excuse that my leg ached. Filled with bitter envy, I watched Ruth leave. I refused Cousin Althea's offer to let me make candy, matching off, lurch-push to perch on the wall.
There was something new in the garden beyond. An expanse of color Flapped languidly from a clothes line, giving tantalizing glimpses of it. Before I knew it, I tumbled over the wall, acquiring a goodly number” of scrapes and bruises on the way, and struggled through a straggle of briers to see better.
It was worth my straggle. Cousin Althea had quilts in plenty, mostly made by Grandma Moss, who was considered by the family to be an artist at needlework. But what I viewed now was as clearly above the best efforts of Grandma as a Rembrandt above an inn sign.
This was applique work, each block of a different pattern; though, after some study, I became aware that the whole was to be a panorama of autumn. There were flowers, fruits, berries and nuts, each with their attendant clusters of leaves, while the border was an interwoven wreath of maple and oak foliage in the richest coloring. Not only was the appliqué so perfect one could not detect a single stitch, but the quiltinc over-pattern was as delicate as lace. It was old; its once white background had been time-dyed cream; and it was the most beautiful tiling I had ever seen.
“Well, what do you think of it?”
I lurched as I tried to turn quickly, catching for support at the trunk of a gnarled apple tree. On the brick walk from the house stood old Miss Ruthevan. She was tall and held herself stiffly straight, the masses of her thick, white hair built into a formal coil which, by rights, should have supported a tiara. From throat to instep she was covered by a loose robe in a neutral shade of blue-gray which fully concealed her body.
Ruth had reported Miss Ruthevan to be a terrifying person; her nickname among the children was “old witch.” But after my first flash of panic, I was not alarmed, being too bemused by the quilt.
“T think it's wonderful. All fall things—”
“It's a bride quilt,” she replied shortly, “made for a September bride.”
She moved and lost all her majesty of person, for she limped in an even more ungainly fashion than I, weaving from side to side as if about to lose her balance at any moment. When she halted and put her hand on the quilt, she was once more an uncrowned queen. Her face was paper white, her lips blue lines. But her sunken, very alive eyes probed me.
“Who are you?”
“Ernestine Williams. I'm staying with Cousin Althea.” I pointed to the wall.
Her thin brows, as white as her hair, drew into a small frown. Then she nodded. “Catherine Moss's granddaughter, yes. Do you sew, Ernestine?”
I shook my head, oddly ashamed. There was a vast importance to that question, I felt. Maybe that gave me the courage to add, “I wish I could—like that.” I pointed a finger at the quilt. I surprised myself, for never before had I wished to use a needle.
Miss Ruthevan's clawlike hand fell heavily on my shoulder. She swung her body around awkwardly, using me as a pivot, and then drew me along with her. I strove to match my limp to her wider lurch, up three worn steps into a hallway, which was very dark and cool out of the sun.
Shut doors flanked us, but the one at the far end stood open, and there she brought me, still captive in her strong grasp. Once we were inside she released me, to make her own crab's way to a tall-backed chair standing in the full light of a side window. There she sat enthroned, as was right and proper.
An embroidery frame stood before the chair, covered with a throw of white cloth. At her right hand was a low table bearing a rack of innumerable, small spindles, each wound with colorful thread.
“Look around,” she commanded. “You are a Moss. Catherine Moss had some skill; maybe you have inherited it.”
I was ready to disclaim any of my grandmother's talent; but Miss Ruthevan, drawing off the shield cloth and folding it with small flicks, ignored me. So I began to edge nervously about the room, staring wide-eyed at the display there.
The walls were covered with framed, glass-protected needlework. Those pieces to my left were very old, the colors long faded, the exquisite stitchery almost too dim to see. But, as I made my slow progress, each succeeding picture became brighter and more distinct. Some were the conventional samplers, but the majority were portraits or true pictures. As I skirted needlework chairs and dodged a fire screen, I saw that the art was in use everywhere. I was in a shrine to needle creations which had been brought to the highest peak of perfection and beauty. As I made that journey of discovery, Miss Ruthevan stitched away the minutes, pausing now and then to study a single half-open white rose in a small vase on her table.
“Did you make all these, Miss Ruthevan?” I blurted out at List.
She took two careful stitches before she answered. “No, There have always been Ruthevan women so talented, for three hundred years. It began"—her blue lips curved in a very small shadow of a smile, though she did not rum her attention from her work—"with Grizel Ruthevan, of a family a king chose to outlaw—which was, perhaps, hardly wise of him.” She raised her hand and pointed with the needle she held to the first of the old frames. It seemed to me that a sparkle of sunlight gathered on the needle and lanced through the shadows about the picture she so indicated. “Grizel Ruthevan, aged seventeen—she was the first of us. But there were enough to follow. I am
the last.”
“You mean your—your ancestors-did all this.”
Again she smiled that curious smile. “Not all of them, my dear. Our art requires a certain cast of mind, a talent you may certainly call it. My own aunt, for example did not have it; and, of course, my mother, not being born a Ruthevan, did not. But my great-aunt Vannessa was very able.”
I do not know how it came about, but when I left, I was committed to the study of needlework under Miss Ruthevan's teaching; though she gave me to understand from the first that the perfection I saw about me was not the result of amateur work, and that here, as in all other arts, patience and practice as well as aptitude were needed.
I went home full of the wonders of what I had seen; and when I cut single-mindedly across Ruth's account of her day, she roused to counterattack.
“She's a witch, you know!” She teetered back and forth on the boards of the small front porch. “She makes people disappear; maybe she'll do that to you if you hang around over there.”
“Ruthie!” Cousin Althea, her face flushed from baking, stood behind the patched screen. Her daughter was apprehensively quiet as she came out. But I was more interested in what Ruthie had said than any impending scolding.
“Makes people disappear—how?”
“That's an untruth, Ruthie,” my cousin said firmly. True to her upbringing, Cousin Althea thought the word “lie” coarse. “Never let me hear you say a thing like that about Miss Ruthevan acain. She has had a very sad life—”
“Because she's lame?” I challenged.
Cousin Althea hesitated; truth won over tact “Partly. You'd never think it to look at her now, but when she was just a little older than you girls she was a real beauty. Why, I remember mother telling about how people would go to their windows just to watch her drive by with her father, the Colonel. He had a team of matched grays and a carriage he'd bought in New York.