On Wings of Magic

by Andre Norton

  Raula Mylenesdaughter took Arona by the arms. “We have had just about enough of your spite, young lady. Whatever you have against the new recorder, pursue your feud elsewhere.”

  “Eldest,” the Witch said softly, “he who altered one record, and wants his way at all costs, may alter another. You asked me here as Truthsayer; I say now, Arona is to be trusted; Egil is not.”

  The eldest released the girl and glared at the Witch with a hard, suspicious look. “Who can be trusted and who can not? You said you know the language and customs of these strangers, but do you know as much as you claim? Are you above the loves and hates of common women? I think not!”

  The eldest turned and scowled at Arona. “Since the strangers came here, Arona has changed out of measure. Three times she has interrupted meetings. She has made one scroll with nothing but corrections upon it. She dabbles in magic instead of doing her work, and cannot see clearly where Egil's kind are concerned any more than you, Dame Witch, see clearly where Arona is concerned. Did you not come between those at Records House against the will of their mistress? Arona's hatred of Egil has caused strife among us which cannot be endured, and I fear, will continue to cause strife unless they are reconciled. As for the sort of recorder she'd be, we have the dying words of Mistress Maris herself on the matter! Can anyone here dispute a deathbed wish?”

  The Witch started to speak, looked at the set faces around her, and fell silent.

  Eldest Raula held out her spindle. “Egil Elyshabetsdaughter!” The boy stood suddenly tall and straight; she looked him in the eye. “Do you swear by your mother and your foremothers, by the Good Goddess, and in fear of the wrath of Jonkara, if you are made recorder, to copy the scrolls faithfully as written? To never alter any of them in the least, but to correct your own errors? To faithfully record all that happens in this village as it happens, omitting nothing and changing nothing?”

  “I do.”

  The eldest stepped back. “Egil Elyshabetsdaughter has sworn an oath of great power to do these deeds no more. Arona, will you join him in this work as two sisters of one mother?”

  The sky seemed like a crystal wherever Arona looked, and all sounds were sharp and clear. No remnant of feeling, whether fear or outrage, was left to her, only her mind, which saw all things plain. “Only as I said before, if he confines himself to his records and I to ours,” she answered, drawing her shawl around her.

  The eldest sighed again as Egil shook his head slightly. “Is there no hope of reconciling you two?” she asked then.

  “Yes.” Arona had thought of this, one last-ditch measure, two nights before. She had hoped never to have to use it. “I will cook you one last meal before,” her voice shook, “before I move back to my mother's house. In exchange, I want my private writings, pen and ink, half the parchment I bought from the traders, and the little red cat you pay no heed to.”

  Egil smiled and shook his head. “No, indeed, my little Myrrha Foxlady. Those vicious old tales have put too many wild ideas in your charming little head. The cat and the writings are yours for the asking; the writing materials are not mine to give away.”

  “Accept the meal and end the feud,” The Dissident said suddenly, “and I will eat it with you, to prove there is nothing lethal in it. Elders, for the sake of peace in the village, can we not spare Arona pen, ink, and a few scraps of parchment? It is hard, not to practice the only trade you know.”

  The eldest looked at Arona's stricken face, and wondered if she had been too unkind to the girl. “Done,” she said promptly. Egil nodded acceptance.

  Twelve

  Long Gone

  The fireplace at Records House burned high, and bright, with colors of the sunset in its flames, and the faint aroma of incense coming from the evergreen logs. Egil leaned back in the room's best chair and sipped his ale slowly, half an eye on Arona. The girl smiled nervously back at him, and sipped her own ale even more slowly. A lifetime of training kept The Dissident from peals of unbecoming laughter.

  By Egil's feet, Fang gnawed a good half of the meat Arona had nearly beggared herself to provide. The dog was having more pleasure in the steak than was the boy, growling and tugging and wagging her rear end until Egil had to laugh and scratch her ears. “But don't call him a her, Arona,” he said with a grin. “There's but one she-pup in this room, and that's by your own choice. Where was the poison, in the sweet cakes? Or in the bread?”

  “In the greens,” she retorted, knowing how he hated them. Covering her mouth inadequately with one small hand, she stretched and yawned mightily. The dog's growls grew softer as she settled down to chew her meat in earnest. Little Red Pest jumped into Arona's lap and began purring softly. Arona,tickled the cat's ears; the cat twitched the end of her tail. Arona took the rest of Egil's plate without a by-your-leave and set it on the floor; Little Red Pest jumped down and began licking it happily.

  Egil raised his eyebrows and took a long draught of his ale. “You would gladly poison any man who got in your way,” he conceded, “but not that stupid cat.” He poured out a little into a small bowl and set it on the floor. The cat sniffed at it and lapped it experimentally. Arona seemed utterly unconcerned. The Witch grinned openly, and yawned and stretched herself.

  “I could use some fresh air,” she remarked. “Arona, could you show me the way to the, uh, the little house?”

  “I guess,” Arona mumbled ungraciously, rising and fetching her shawl. Egil watched both women intently as they left. As soon as the door closed behind them! he was down on the floor examining the dog and the cat. The puppy, her legs stretched out in front of her, growled softly in a digestive stupor. Her tiny tail moved back and forth. The cat passed under his chin, turned around, and backed up so that her tail was in his face. He stood up suddenly and sneezed, his nose full of cat hairs. He took his seat again and sipped his ale, musing.

  Arona was up to something. He could tell that by watching her. The Witch knew it, too, and was forestalling whatever crazy scheme that silly girl had dreamed up. From the front of the house came a soft, low humming, as gentle as a lullaby. Somewhere in the distance, someone was singing a gentle old ballad of peace and love. Egil breathed deeply of the sweet-smelling, fire-warmed air. The cat jumped onto his lap; idly he petted her, then, one hand still on her fur, closed his eyes. Slowly his head fell to one side. Then he began to snore.

  The huge, heavy knife Arona had borrowed from the butcher moved back and forth through the rope binding the records room door. Silently the Witch moved through the tall weeds surrounding the cellar, and laid an axe in her hand. Arona nodded thanks, looked around, and drove the axe into the rope—once, twice, three times. The rope parted under each blow, until only a few strands remained. The Witch held forth her jewel, which shone with a dim blue light invisible a finger's length away, brought out a pair of Great-aunt Lorin's scissors and snipped the last of the rope.

  The huge wooden cellar door creaked loudly enough to wake the dead as Arona and the Witch pulled on it. Arona stopped short. The Witch kept pulling. “He'll sleep deeply at least till morning. More, if the fire keeps burning,” she said softly. Hearing no sound from above, Arona put her back into the job. Egil had hung this door after the storm; did he know it would take two women to move it? He had been very proud of its sturdiness.

  The door gave way, and the two women tiptoed down into the darkened cellar, their way lighted only by The Dissident's jewel. Arona went unerringly to the scroll shelves, chose a double handful of the records, unrolled them to remove the roller sticks, and rolled them back up inside each other. When three or four were rolled together as tightly as possible, she eased them into tight leather cylinders. “He won't bother with the ‘who bore whom’ scrolls or the quarrels and lawsuits,” Arona whispered grimly. “Only the hero tales and the First Times tales.”

  One of their running arguments was Egil's insistence that someone must have taught the women to build houses, tame sheep and horses, and spear wolves. “Could you have done this?” he prodded he
r. “Could anyone you know? Well! There you have it! So, who taught them? I mean to discover this.”

  There was a quick dove call from the woods. Arona answered briefly and returned to her scrolls, until four cases were loaded. She popped out of the cellar, the Witch close behind. Leatrice Huanasdaughter waited with two saddled mules and another laden with bundles. The moon began rising in the west over the ruins of Falcon Crag. One of the mules hee-hawed. The Witch laid a hand on her head and the noise ceased.

  Darann Mulemistress, leading a string of mules laden with all the contents of Witch House—the price of three mules—stopped beside them. “Something havey-cavey going on here,” she let them know. “If it were anybody but Dame Witch, I'd call the elders.”

  “She wants a B-R-I-B-E,” Leatrice translated cynically in her own tongue.

  The Witch laughed softly. “Go home, good woman; you saw nothing. I told you and many others it was time for me to go back to Witch Place.”

  Darann Mulemistress's eyes turned inward and her face grew abstracted. Then she clucked to her mules and slashed the lead animal with a tree branch. The mule train moved on.

  Arona moved softly and carefully to the door of Records House. “Kitty? Little Red Pest? Kitty, kitty, kitty.” The cat did not move. She started to slip through the door; her foot did not move. The cat will not go, the Witch's mindvoice told her firmly.

  No! Arona cried silently, and mentally called the cat again. It stretched thoroughly and moved on into the back room.

  Let her go, the Witch ordered. She's her own mistress. Arona had to accept that, and with one backward glance and Farewell, kitty, she slipped back out and found her mule. A bundle of sheepherders’ trousers, jerkin, and poncho was tied to the saddle with a pair of boots on top. Quickly she slipped them on under and over her gown and cloak. She slid the butcher's biggest knife, now somewhat rope-scored, into her sash, and a smaller eating knife into her boot. She clucked to her mule and both women were off.

  It was eerie, riding at night through the eastward trail. Her only light was the full moon, which gave no depth to the eternal shadows, and the stars. Dame Witch had extinguished the blue light from her jewel, saying it tired her as much as a long ride. “Why are you doing this?” Arona asked when they were well into the woods.

  “You were telling the truth,” The Dissident said simply. “I am sworn not to interfere, but, in for a lamb, in for a ewe.” She fell silent.

  The sounds of the forest at night fell soft and strange on the girl's ears. She listened for the howl of Jonkara's Dogs, but they were silent that night. The mules plodded softly over the spring-damp ground. Arona, busy with her own thoughts, said little; neither did the Witch. It was hard to stay awake, even in the saddle, and soon she yawned and dozed off. Her mule put its head down to graze; only when it was full did they start again.

  Near dawnlight they passed a tiny, rustic shrine with a painted wooden image of the good goddess. Under the rooftree was carved a ripened stalk of wheat and the richly laden branch of a fruit tree, interlaced. There the Witch called a halt, and tied their mules on the far side. The weary Arona unloaded her saddlebags and fetched water for the mules from the tiny stream behind the shrine. The two women wiped down the mules and entered the shrine with a prayer, the Witch with a spell also. The air inside smelled of fresh herbs and flowers; an enormous welcome awaited them.

  Arona lifted her head. “Did you know? This was built by two of our own, Freyis Ingneldasdaughter and Ylsa Dorinesdaughter, and a Daughter of Gunnora, Ragny Grethirsdaughter, and thus was trade opened between our village and the outside world, only with the Daughters of Gunnora, until you came.”

  The Dissident laughed. “Arona, Arona, sleep first and history second.” She yawned and stretched. “Good night, child.”

  Arona wrapped herself in her saddle blanket and lay down with her head on her saddle. “Good night,” she said sleepily.

  The path wound slowly upward, between two gently sloping mountainsides covered with forest, towards the rising sun. Arona, hopeless with spear or arrow because of her short sight, laid snares for small game when they camped the next night, catching an unwary coney. A day and a night they had slept in Gunnora's shrine, rising refreshed and strong. There was no pursuit.

  “I thought so,” said the Witch. “It takes much to move your people from their village.”

  “The stolen records are not ‘much'?” Arona asked, aghast. The Witch shook her head compassionately.

  They came to a fork in the road; the Witch unhesitatingly chose the northward road, deeper into the mountains. That evening, just before sunset, they passed a ruined village. Charred stones and an occasional doorframe, a fireplace and chimney standing alone in a field of rubble, spoke eloquently of fire and destruction. “The Turning?” Arona asked, awed.

  “War, more likely,” the Witch answered somberly. “This must be the village your new neighbors fled.”

  Arona's eyes searched the ruins and grew wide as she contemplated such anger. “Who could hate them so, Dame Witch?”

  The Dissident found she had to explain nations and armies to the girl, scribe and chronicler though she was. The people across the sea, from whom she was descended, had been no nation, but a loose alliance of Great Houses on the edge of the Waste, linked by blood and common language and customs. They had not been peaceful: every spring after planting time, their men banded together for forays deep into other lands, returning just before harvest with treasures for their ladies, their mothers, and their sisters.

  For each man rode under the banner of his mother's house, and bore her name. “As mothers are to daughters,” Arona told The Dissident around the campfire that night, “so each he-defender was to his sister's he-child, and each he-child to his mother's he-sister. We, the women, owned and worked the land, and carried on all necessary trades and crafts, saving only weaponscraft.”

  And these raiding bands and loosely-linked houses had proven sadly easy, if brave and gallant, prey for the first invading nation with an army. The remnants of this once-noble people had fled the Waste, across the mountains and over the sea, under the leadership of the Falconlord, their customs altered out of recognition by long warfare and defeat. Arona closed her eyes in silent tribute to their fall, then said, “It comes to me, Dame Witch, that their many-times great-grandchildren still roam the wastes, riding to foray on the backs of their great tame horses, with the guardian spirit of their houses—whether lion or mountain cat, bear or boar or badger, wolf or fox or eagle or falcon, still painted on their shields, still defending them at need.”

  The Witch had a sudden vision of a young-old man riding across the plains, a mountain lion painted on his shield, his man's form shadowed by the form of a great cat. Beside him rode a woman of her own pallid, dark-haired race, wearing an embroidered tabard of her own design, his companion and his wife. “I think they do,” she said. “But their sisters are no more.”

  “I know,” Arona answered, abstracted. “We are here.”

  For six days and more they rode, higher and higher along the winding path that broadened into a track holding two mules abreast. Among the sweet-smelling evergreens that lined the road appeared tall, slender white-skinned trees whose tiny new leaves quivered in every wind. Deep snow still lingered in the shaded places, and where the sun shone daily, they rode hoof-deep in mud. There began to be houses along the roadside, and there they would stop and ask the farmers’ hospitality. Arona saw how the Witch was treated with deference, like an Elder; but she watched the men and women of the farmsteads together more.

  She wore the clothing of a sheepherder, for they were on muleback, and tucked her hair up under a cap as they did. The fanners, men and women, would call her “lad” and speak to her one way; when she removed the cap, they called her “lass” and spoke to her another. As a “lad,” she saw the daughters of the farms stare upwards at her through half-closed eyes, and speak in the tones of a dove to her; as a “lass,” she heard their sons speak in the persuas
ive voices of Egil at his most charming. The Dissident did her best to explain love, marriage, and courtship to her, but hers was a virginal calling, and Arona's soul had been too early hardened by Falconer rape and Egil's charming, foul deceit. The girl's only concession to these things was, “I'll leave them to those that like them.”

  The road started to descend through the hills again, and The Dissident stared off into the distance, to the west. “I will have to leave you soon,” she said. “Arona, you have not yet learned how to read people, and there are all sorts on the roads. Yet, most are kind and decent. Go armed, and if you sense wrongness, do not stay to find out.” She seemed to confer with folk at a great distance, as in a trance. Then she pulled an amulet from her neck.

  “Take this to Lormt. It is of great antiquity, but of no use to me. The runes upon it speak of caverns of the Old Ones. I found it years ago in the hills east of Es, but am neither scholar. Nor do I want any dealings with the elder races.” She grinned, crookedly. “Our own is trouble enough! But it might be they will protect you from human evil. They, and your own wits and strength.” She hugged the girl, and was suddenly gone.

  Arona stared at where she had been. Or had she been illusion? She felt more alone than she had ever felt before, and it came to her then that she was hopelessly exiled from her family, her village, Records House, and all the dear, familiar things she had always known. A great bitterness then rose up in her against Egil and all his kind, and the elders who heeded him above her, and the outsiders who had taught him from the cradle that he was as a princess, to have his way over all other women.

  “May he starve and freeze and be eaten by wolves,” she repeated Brithis's curse against Huana, “and Falconers find him and take him to Falcon Crag to feed their birds. May everyone else he meets deal with him as he dealt with me and my mistress, and may he weep in the night for what he has lost.” Then she gave way to weeping.

  Egil, now recorder of Riveredge Village, awoke with the thick headache and sticky eyes of one who had been drugged. The sun was low in the western sky, and the fire had long since burned out. Fang was whining to go out, and had made a mess by the door. The remains of last night's supper stood sticky on floor and tabletop, flies swarming around it. They seemed to take no harm from it. Had he drunk that much?