Flight of Vengeance (Witch World: The Turning)

by Andre Norton

  As Smire absently caressed his earring with his left forefinger, the firelight caught the surface of the flattened ring. Nolar suddenly could see tiny marks cut into the dull metal. For no clear reason, Smire's earring struck a cold dread into Nolar. Her skin crawled at the thought of touching it. She told herself that she was being foolish, indulging in groundless fears … but the abhorrence stubbornly remained.

  To gain time, Nolar busied herself winding a bandage strip around Derren's ankle, then deftly wrapped his cold, bare foot in a soft woolen scarf. She was abruptly aware of the warm, steadying weight of the shard in her pocket. Her decision emerged with utmost certainty: it was not safe to tell Smire the whole truth.

  “The scholars at Lormt were much disturbed by the Turning,” Nolar remarked in as calm a tone as she could manage. “Great parts of their walls have fallen, due to the earthquakes, and their famed records are consequently in much disarray. Still, they were able to find for us one old scroll that directed us upon this journey.” A plausible tale abruptly occurred to her, and she seized it. “A secluded abbey in this area,” she confided to Smire with touching sincerity, “was anciently founded near a healing spring of great virtue. Although we could not know whether it might be affected by the Turning, we determined to seek the place, and Master Derren kindly accompanied us. Of course, the disarrangement of the land has rendered the directions from Lormt most difficult to follow.”

  Smire nodded wisely. “How true thou speakest! I scarcely recognized this very valley from when I last traveled it some long time since. I rejoice that my master is a great sage, and may well know of this abbey thou seekest and its healing spring. If thy escort can be moved, we should hasten to my master's abode as soon as may be.”

  “I must see how Master Derren's leg fares on the morrow,” said Nolar, wondering to herself why Smire should be in such a hurry to move Derren. “As you may know, to move a person with such a leg injury too soon can cause great woe.”

  “I bow to thy obvious wisdom in the matter,” Smire declared. “Wilt thou not rest now, lady? Surely thou are wearied.”

  Nolar realized with a start that she had been perilously close to dozing. She pinched her arm through her sleeve. “I must first see to Elgaret. It has been many hours since I last fed her or gave her drink.”

  Smire's heavy eyebrows rose. “Can she not attend to herself?” he asked.

  Nolar moved to crouch beside the Witch. “No, the injury to her during the Turning concerns her head. I must see to all her needs.”

  Whatever happens, Nolar thought, fighting the leaden weight of exhaustion, I must not let Smire see the Witch jewel. She was relieved to find that it was tucked safely out of sight. Elgaret, her eyes shut, was still breathing quietly and evenly, apparently unaffected by her precipitous tumble down the valley's incline. Nolar forced herself to search out some shattered journeycake from her saddlebag and prepare a mush of it for Elgaret. When she was through attending to the Witch, Nolar checked again on Derren, rousing him to take more knitbone tea, and making sure there was no evidence of bleeding on his bandages. Only then did Nolar pull her own spare cloak from her pony's pack and roll herself in it to lie down by the fire.

  Smire assured her heartily that he would keep watch. “Fear not, lady! Thou canst rest unblenched whilst I stand guard.”

  Nolar murmured her thanks and sank down on the hard ground. Just before sleep's darkness claimed her, she wondered why Smire should speak in such archaic language. Listening to him was like reading some of Ostbor's oldest scrolls. And his clothing was of equally antiquated design. There must be some reason … but her body craved sleep, and she could deny it no longer.

  Nolar awoke abruptly the next morning, unsure at first where she was, or what had roused her. An echo lingered in her memory—the ponies’ harness—that was it. Cautiously, she eased her eyes open. Smire was bent over Elgaret's pony, pawing through their baggage. I did not like that man on sight, Nolar thought with a certain grim satisfaction. I see now at least one clear reason why. She yawned loudly, and flung back her cloak. Instantly, Smire stepped away from the pony. By the time Nolar sat up and turned toward him, Smire was busily feeding the fire under the kettle.

  “Awake, lady?” he inquired. “I hope that thou art well restored from yestereve's sad happenings.”

  “Thank you, Master Smire, I slept quite well,” Nolar replied. “Your timely preparations are most welcome. I shall need to change Master Derren's poultice, and if possible, he should drink some warm broth.”

  Smire beamed, but Nolar noticed that the smile did not touch his eyes.

  “I had thought, lady, that broth might be required, so I have stewed a fine rabbit to supply both meat and juice,” he said.

  Nolar felt Derren's forehead. It was warmer than normal, but wounds like his were often accompanied by fever. If the need arose, she had seen hyssop packed in the satchel. One of Ostbor's old scrolls on healing had suggested that fever could be a positive sign, so long as it did not exceed a moderate heat. Nolar turned her attention to Derren's right leg. Some blood had penetrated the bandages overnight, but it had dried, and seemed not of an alarming quantity. Nolar hastened to brew more knitbone tea.

  The sun was well up in the sky by the time she had changed the poultice, applied more healing salve to the deep cut, and divided the rabbit stock between Derren and Elgaret. Nolar ate a little of the rabbit meat herself, together with some journeycake, and allowed herself a bracing cup of herb tea to which she added angelica as a tonic.

  Derren's mild fever persisted, but did not seem to have worsened. He had not suffered a night sweat or chills, he assured her when she asked. Nolar was glad to see him alert, his eyes and speech unclouded by the delirium that could attend high fevers.

  “It is fortunate, Master Derren,” Nolar said, “that you are a strong forester and guide. In our mountains I have seen bones broken in this way with grave consequences. I believe we may hope that your leg will not produce such, not with the healing powers of Master Pruett's knitbone. Should you require an easement for pain, however, I have some syrup of blue poppies, which is effective, although it does induce sleep. Allow me now to present to you our most helpful rescuer, Master Smire, who was hunting nearby when he heard me whistling for the ponies after the landslide.”

  Smire favored both of them with his insincere smile. “ ‘Twas fair fortune indeed that wended my path near to thine. My master will be pleased to see thee when we travel to him.”

  “Who is your master?” asked Nolar idly, wondering if she might have heard the name or seen it in Ostbor's records.

  Smire hesitated, looking momentarily flustered. “I doubt thou wouldst recognize the name,” he said, smoothly regaining his composure. “My master's work, while keenly pursued and of great worth, has been in so narrow an area that few have heard aught of it. Then, too, we have been so long shut away in enforced idleness due to our debilitation that what little notice he had earned has likely been quite forgotten.”

  Instead of satisfying Nolar's curiosity, Smire had succeeded in sharpening it. “My late master, Ostbor the Scholar, had a wide correspondence over many years,” Nolar observed. “I merely thought that I might have heard or seen your master's name mentioned in Ostbor's archives.”

  “Tull,” said Smire abruptly. “My master is Tull, a puissant scholar whose work should have been praised instead of …” He paused, obviously altering what he had been about to say. “Allowed to fall into obscurity,” he went on, “for I see from thy face that his name is unknown to thee.”

  “I fear so, Master Smire,” Nolar admitted, “but I cannot claim to be a scholar myself, only the assistant to one.”

  “As I also labor, dear lady.” Smire bent in an extravagant bow. “My days are devoted to dispatching the tedious aspects of life so that my master may be freed for his far more important work.”

  “No doubt he is well justified in his reliance upon you,” Nolar responded, striving not to reveal her unreasonable aversion t
o Smire. Talking with him, she thought, was rather like fencing with words instead of with swords. She felt that each word she uttered had to be guarded, and wished fervently that Smire would take his unsettling wild boar eyes elsewhere.

  Eyes—Nolar's memory suddenly disgorged the missing connection. That expression on Smire's face when he had first gazed on her disfigurement—she realized now what it had been. It was a gloating satisfaction, a smug kind of glee. Smire enjoyed other people's pain and discomfiture.

  Nolar remembered where she had previously seen that same expression. Long ago, when she was a child, one of the city boys had deliberately beaten a stray dog nearly to death. She could still picture the look on the boy's face, a glint just like Smire's glowing in his eyes. Nolar had to force herself to relax, to refrain from shrinking away.

  A possibly useful idea occurred to Nolar, and she turned to Derren. “We must be grateful, Master Derren, for the good that may issue from unexpected adversity. Although the landslide did injure your leg, your necessary immobility provides us with an opportunity to pursue our discussion of herbs.” She smiled brightly at Smire. “During our journey, Master Derren proposed a most useful exchange of knowledge with me. He has been telling me the lore of plants and wildlife of his southern forests, and I have been instructing him in all I have learned of the herbs of my mountains. You are welcome to listen, if you care to. Perhaps in your travels and from your master, you have also learned much that you might share with us.”

  Without waiting for Smire's comment, and ignoring the initial blank surprise on Derren's face, Nolar plunged ahead, extracting a spray of dried flowers from Pruett's satchel. “I do not believe that I have mentioned this one before, Master Derren. It comes from a shrub or small tree called ‘Fringe Hazel.’ I have heard the farm folk term it ‘Double Seed-spit,’ since in season, the two seeds from each pod fly forth with great vigor at the slightest touch, or even by themselves.”

  Still looking slightly puzzled, Derren nonetheless followed her lead. Easing himself into a more bearable position, he said, “I have seen such shrubs, lady, in our southern mountains. The flowers are bright yellow, are they not, and cling close to the bare twigs?”

  “Just so. The bark is what we seek for healing,” Nolar went on, handing Derren a neat packet of dried bark strips. “Extract from the bark is used as an astringent to stop bleeding, and in salves for soothing sprains, such as that swelling of your ankle. I chose to try the knitbone together with oil of garlic on your ankle, however, for such a salve is recommended for more severe injuries.”

  She glanced surreptitiously at Smire, who was fidgeting with his earring. As Nolar had hoped, a dry discourse on herbs was apparently not Smire's idea of an absorbing pastime. Encouraged, she resumed, “If one stews the knitbone leaves and a bit of root with sugar and blue poppy seedpod sap, one has a highly regarded remedy for cough and chest disorders. I recall that Ostbor once told me of a hill farmer whose wife's old mother had the most distressing cough.” The prospect of a long and tedious tale of sick hill folk with multitudinous relatives achieved her aim. Smire suddenly rose to his feet.

  “Thy pardon, lady, but I must hie me away to seek more rabbits for thy invalids’ broth,” Smire declared. “Unless,” he added hopefully, “yon forester can be moved this day?”

  “No.” Nolar shook her head decisively. “I have seldom seen so severe a leg wound. It would be unwise to attempt travel today. Let us see how stands the torn flesh by the morrow.”

  Smire looked disgruntled. “It is not far to my master's abode. I think I should hasten there upon my way and tell him of thy tribulation. He will want to prepare for thy coming, I am certain. I shall return before night, if I may borrow a pony.”

  “By all means,” said Nolar warmly. “We shall be quite safe here. I have noted the spring yonder whence you have brought water, so I may fetch more as it is needful.”

  As soon as Smire was well out of view, Nolar knelt beside Derren and pretended to be examining his bandages.

  “Why …” Derren began to ask, but Nolar cut him short.

  “Is there some bleeding on the cloth? Oh, I do hope not. Let me see it more closely.” She bent nearer, and whispered urgently, “We must not be overheard by Smire!”

  Derren frowned, but did lower his voice. “Why? Is he not well away by now?”

  “He may be, and he may not be,” Nolar muttered, then said loudly, “It seems to be only a stain from the leaves in the poultice. Let me see how your ankle has fared since last night.”

  Derren obligingly bent forward as if anxious to see for himself. “What is the matter, lady?” he asked quietly. “Why do you so fear this Smire?”

  Nolar spared him a brief, but genuine smile. “How quick you are. Yes, I do fear Master Smire, and perhaps we should be equally apprehensive of Tull, his master. I freely admit that I have but scant evidence for my misgivings. I saw Smire searching through our baggage when he thought we were all asleep. As soon as I made a deliberate sound, he hastened to busy himself with an innocent task. Other than his evasiveness in telling us his master's name, I confess that I rely upon my inner feelings of disquiet.” Nolar hesitated, twisting a strip of spare bandage. “There is something about Smire that repels me. I fear to tell him the whole truth of our situation, especially that we know aught of the Stone of Konnard or that Elgaret is a Witch. I have instead told Smire that a scroll at Lormt cited a healing spring around which an abbey was built in olden times somewhere in these mountains. I said that you were endeavoring to guide us thither to seek aid for Elgaret's head injury, but our travel had been made difficult by the Turning. Smire appeared to accept this tale, but we must guard our tongues whenever he is near.”

  Derren received her warning without immediate comment. He lay back, his face drawn. Nolar wondered whether she should have confided in him, but decided that she had little choice. Should she have to try to defend herself against Smire, Nolar knew that she would need any additional help she could call upon. If only Derren's legs weren't injured. … Nolar clamped down on that line of thought. Until Derren could move about, they would have to adjust their plans to what he could do, limited though that might be.

  Similar thoughts must also have been occurring to Derren, for he said, “So long as I cannot stand or walk, lady, I shall be an extra burden to you. But if you are right in suspecting Smire, perhaps I can still be of some use. I shall try to draw him out in talk, which should not be difficult, for he seems to like hearing himself prattle.”

  Nolar nodded. “That seems a reasonable plan. In the morning, I can take Elgaret to the spring to bathe, thus leaving the two of you alone. Have you noticed Smire's speech? It may mean naught, but his style of address is oddly antiquated.”

  Derren didn't seem impressed by that point. “Perchance he comes from an isolated place where current speech is seldom heard. I will talk to Smire … carefully,” Derren added, before Nolar could object. “It can do no harm to listen to him. We have great need just now of his strength, however we may mislike him or his way of speaking.”

  Nolar turned away to see to Elgaret, fearing that she had not properly convinced Derren, but hoping that he would be at least cautious in his dealings with Smire.

  It was nearly dusk when Smire returned. He saluted Nolar, and showed his teeth in a predatory grin.

  “Good fortune for us that I did seek my master,” he announced. “He has opened our stores to send thee wine and better viands than yon trail food. He bade me tell thee that he awaits thy arrival with much anticipation, and hopes that the forester's wounds be swiftly healed.”

  As he talked, Smire unpacked a bountiful store of food: several varieties of dried and sugared fruits, pots of jam, nutmeats, salted fish, dried venison, and flasks of red wine.

  “You have provided us with a feast, Master Smire,” Nolar said. “We thank you and your master.” She hoped that she had successfully masked her sharp prick of suspicion. Where was the bread? All of the things that Smire had brought could
have been long stored away; none were truly fresh foods. Nolar didn't know why, but this niggling point bothered her.

  Smire did open a leather bag of ground grain to make some griddlecakes on a flat rock by the fire, but Nolar found the one she tasted to be dry and musty, as if the grain were well more than a season old. As she continued to exclaim over and praise the food, she noted that Smire appeared to be savoring a private joke.

  Smire was in an expansive mood after their repast, and prompted Nolar and Derren to talk about Lormt and all they had seen there. Curiously, Smire seemed ignorant of Lormt's scholarly reputation. Nolar supposed that Tull would surely be aware of it, if his credentials at all equalled Smire's laudatory estimation of them. She was relieved that throughout the conversation, Derren weighed his words carefully, and gave out little real information. He rambled on about the Turning's damage to Lormt and the many repairs that he had helped to make, but prudently said nothing about Nolar's finding the stone shard. Nolar, in her turn, babbled about Pruett's herbarium and Morfew's fine collection of scrolls from the old times. Smire seemed keenly interested in that latter topic, so Nolar hastened to say that she had been unable to read many scrolls because their antique script was so difficult to decipher.

  “My master will be cheered to hear of it, nonetheless,” Smire declared, “for the lore of ancient days attracts him mightily.” He startled them both with a loud guffaw. “I doubt not that he would make himself the principal scholar at this Lormt of thine, should he travel thither.” The thought seemed to amuse Smire hugely, for he chuckled to himself afterwards for some time.

  Nolar had thought Smire dreadful enough while he was being serious; seeing him now amused, she decided that he was even more frightening.

  “By the by,” Smire observed slyly as Nolar cleaned the trenchers, “Master Tull instructed me to bring thee along on the morrow.” He held up a hand to forestall Nolar's objections. “I can sling a litter between two of the ponies so that the forester can sit propped with legs outstretched. I shall walk, leading the fore animal, whilst thou dost lead thy companion's pony. We have not far to go, and the way is chiefly clear.”