by Andre Norton
“I play the montebank now, mistress. Such skills are not needed—as yet. But take note of what I do, for the time may come when it is necessary for you to use hands and eyes to follow some road and leave a message behind.”
He allowed her rest from riding as the dusk began to close in and she needed that, thinking of a certain cream among her store which would ease chafed and burning skin. The campsite he had selected was not far from a brook, the sound of which was soothing, too.
Here one of the great master trees of this dwindling forest had fallen in some storm, taking with it several lesser brothers and sisters. What fronted them was not unlike the untidy nest along the trail but blown up to accommodate a giant bird. It was into this that Nicolas cut and broke a cunning way. The horses he picketed nearby, explaining that their mounts could well give first alarm if anything came in their direction.
Willadene paced stiff-legged back and forth, trying to release cramped muscles. She went down to the stream where she joyfully found a generous stretch of cress just coming into ripeness. But remembering Nicolas’s caution she put into use one of his lessons. She did not pull the plants raggedly from their bed, leaving full sign that they had been so harvested, rather picked and chose in the twilight, hoping to make sure that the opening left by what she took would be, as far as she was able to arrange it, covered by what remained.
When she had done she was startled to find Nicolas beside her. Those eyes which had always seemed so easily turned into weapons looked different somehow.
“Mistress,” he said slowly, “I welcome you to the trails.”
20
“Picked him up jus’ like we was told in Brown Bessie’s.” The metal-enforced booted toe of the squad leader indicated the object at their feet with a hearty prod which made that bedraggled heap moan and strive to pull himself even tighter into a ball. Prince Lorien regarded their catch with a scornful lift of lip, but the Chancellor leaned forward in his chair to regard their captive with a measuring look.
“Look at me!” he suddenly commanded, and reluctantly that tousled head did lift, so that shifty, watery greenish eyes met the probing ones of the Chancellor.
“You serve—whom?” If those words had been a whiplash they would have bitten that forlorn youth on the floor. “Or is that coat you wear a castoff?”
“Find your tongue, scum!” commanded the squad leader. He grabbed the fellow’s hair in his thickly gloved hand and jerked the captive’s head even higher, near bringing him off the floor.
“I—be—messenger—” But it was plain that he was trying hard not to yield to the concentrated forces of their wish.
The squad leader shook him and he uttered a small, broken cry. Tears slipped from his eyes and runneled the grime on his cheeks.
“We have no time to waste"—the Prince’s voice was as chill as a pail of ice water to douse their prisoner— “and there are many ways to sharpen a man’s memory and loosen his tongue. You have heard the Chancellor—Whose messenger are you?”
The youth on the floor was sniffing, a flow from his nose adding to that from his eyes.
“Hers—”
“And she being?” continued the Lord Chancellor.
“The High Lady. She sent to Wyche—I was his man then—and said she must have someone sly and cunning—”
He was interrupted then by a short bark of laughter from the Prince as he paused to gulp.
“And thus you helped to set traps—” Vazul continued.
“I carried messages to Wyche—he sent me into the burrows,” the prisoner half sobbed. “An’ it was me as was to get the bed wench outta th’ way. But, I swears, by the Horns of Gratch, I only took orders—”
The Prince had been watching him with narrowed eyes and now he pounced with the speed of a hunting cat.
“Took orders—and the High Lady Mahart—is that not so?—is out of the city—in whose hands now?”
The captive cowered as well as he could with that torment of tight hair hold on him. “They said—Ishbi.” His answer was hardly more than a whisper.
“For what reason?” Vazul took up the interrogation. “Give us facts which are the truth and you can hope for a quick death. Keep secrets and learn there are other and long, painful ways of leaving this world.”
“I don’t know!” Now the prisoner’s voice arose to a sheer wail of pure terror. “I got me orders—I weren’t told nothin’ else.”
“Ishbi,” the Prince said slowly. “This High Lady you ran errands for—where did she go?”
“Lord Prince, how do I know? Me an’ Jonas an’ Gorger, we got the other High Lady out as we had been told—an’ we held her—along the north trail till the news came as she was to be sent to Ishbi. But me, I did not go with ’em as took her—I came back here, ’cause I don’t know the land ways. And I was a-waitin’, as I was told, until your squad picked me up.”
“I think,” the Prince remarked, “that we have here a very small fish where we had hoped to enmesh an oar-tooth. He may supply you with a little more knowledge, my Lord Chancellor, but nothing more really pertinent to our search. Meanwhile—” He had been playing with a slender pick of a dagger, such as might enter a full mask helm to find a vulnerable eye. Now he slipped the weapon into its own sheath which was a pocket on the belt of his sword. “We ride north. I have already ordered out the scouts and if there is a trail to be found, be sure they will chance on it. Also, your Bat is playing a part in this and"—he smiled—"Lord Chancellor, I have the greatest respect for the talents of that one.”
“His Highness has asked for an audience at the Abbey; that is where he has just gone. Having come into his holding sidewise as it were, there may be things he should know of the past, so he goes there to discover them.”
Prince Lorien nodded. “Wise enough. Meanwhile, Mattew, remove this offal and release it to my Lord Chancellor’s men. They may have some further use for it.”
In spite of a rise of wailing two of the squad obeyed the wave of their leader’s hand and their captive was dragged away.
Mahart regarded the scanty rags which were all that was left of her night shift. There was the blanket still girded about the silent horse outside this area of safety—but the cloak which was her only possible covering she could not find, and night would soon bring cool breezes to roughen her scratched and begrimed skin.
It would have to be the blanket, she decided, nerving herself into what she was sure was peril in leaving this garden. The gentle peace held her still but also it was as if a part of her mind had awakened from some drugged state and she was able to think as well as feel once more.
She paid a second visit to the basin and once more washed both hands and face from its overflow and then, before she might be cowed into reconsidering, she struck out for that lower place in the wall over which she had fallen.
The sun was gone now and there was a dusky twilight. She had crossed the wall when she heard a splashing from the lake. Those things of the island—and she had not even so much as a belt knife! Yet she needed that blanket before night finally closed in.
Stooping Mahart picked up a short length of stone. It was smooth and rounded, with broken, jagged bits at either end. Plainly it had once been part of a much larger carving. With it in hand she crossed the long tangled moss toward the pier.
Out in the lake it was as if moonshine—though that orb was not overhead—had been caught and held in the broken rubble. Only it was greenish in hue rather than the clear gem beauty she knew. And there was a great deal of movement there now. The creatures were even more difficult to see by that strange radiation, but they were taking to the water which along the shore she could see was splashing, well churned by their entrances.
Setting her jaw and grasping her heavy, improvised club with both hands, she hurried to the horse. For the first time a new emotion awoke in her—pity. It had been as much a captive of those who had sent them here as she, and, though she did not know what killed it, she was angry as well as sad.
/> She knelt by the inert body and, laying her club within reach, she tugged at the buckles which held the blanket fast. Then—Mahart had no idea why she did this, but she found herself edging forward, taking its head on her knees and pressing her palms against the rough hide just above the half-closed eyes.
There was no healer she had ever heard of who could reverse the hold of death, no herb grown which could draw back a thing already departed.
Still there was something rising in her now, a strength she had never felt before. And she found herself crooning, an old, old swinging of words that came out of her own past when once she had had a nurse from the north country who had treated her as the lonesome child she was and not an untouchable High Lady.
There was a huge sigh, ruffling some of the tatters of her nearly vanished shift. Out of her—even as the water curled from the basin—was running energy and the animal was responding. Perhaps not death had claimed it after all but rather overwhelming fatigue.
As its head rose from her knee there came a shrill ear-paining scream which was echoed and reechoed from the water end of the pier. Things were scrambling out of the water, yet in the air they hesitated, bunching together instead of advancing as she expected them to.
Mahart, club in hand, was on her feet, barely aware that the horse was scrambling and kicking its way upright also. Her attention now was for the things from the lake. Though the greenish glow of the island seemed also to cling about them, here she could see them much better.
They were certainly unlike any animal she had ever heard of or seen fancifully pictured in the old books. Each had four long thin limbs. Those at the upper part of then-bodies—for once out of the water they were now actually standing—appeared to have not paws but digits webbed together into hands. Their heads were large and round, I balanced in size by the lower portion of their bellies, and their features resembled those of a toad she had once seen bewilderedly lost in the sorry waste of the castle garden. The eyes were very large, as was the mouth, the nose only a slit in between. They had no covering over slick greasy-looking skin, and she could not guess their sex, though she had an idea that both male and female made up that ever-growing crowd.
Still, to her complete amazement, they made no attempt to approach her closely, though the arrival of more and more from the lake pushed the first comers forward. Yet she was certain that they intended her no good and must be planning an attack.
A place of refuge? The garden? The horse blew and now gave a high whinny. It, too, was facing the water things, the whites of its eyes showing, and it stamped on the mossy stone.
Mahart reached out with one hand and caught at the dangling reins. The mount did not try to elude her, instead shouldered against her as if she supplied some idea of safety.
Slowly Mahart made the trip back to the garden wall. But was the expanse within large enough to hold them both without the horse destroying the wealth of food? It seemed to know what she would do. Pulling the reins from her loosened grasp, it withdrew a little and then leaped the low wall with ease.
Behind them from the lake arose a wailing which appeared to contain the beat of words. Mahart caught at the wall. She was being pulled upon, urged back to where they waited, and it was all she could do to resist. Her grasp on the wall top was anchorage, and she dragged herself toward that one step and then another until she could throw herself over, to lie once again facedown in the thick growth of ground fruit. Instantly that compulsion ceased.
The wailing continued for the space of several breaths and then died away, and she could hear once more a splashing of lake water. The creatures, she hoped, were withdrawing.
Turning she saw that the horse was moving around the inner edge of the wall, seeming to purposefully avoid the plants. Finally it came to a patch where it lowered its head and began to graze with greedy haste lest this somehow be withdrawn beyond reach. She was able to get the bridle off awkwardly, snatching also the blanket having loosed the last of its buckles.
The coarse cloth smelled of horse and dust but it was warm. Drawing it about her she went back to the fountain. She spoke aloud now as if the sound of her voice would bring the answer she needed.
“What am I?” she asked and somehow aimed that question at the crystal from which the water so steadily dripped. “There is that to be done—that I can understand here.” She touched her breast and then her forehead between her eyes. “But what am I—surely not what I always believed myself to be.”
There was no answer out of the niche— No, she must learn the answers in another place—inside herself. That strong sense of waiting which had haunted her so long in dreams of the flowered meadows was upon her. But the time was not yet. She found a place farther along the wall where the damp, diffused flow of the basin did not reach and she pulled the blanket closely about her. The sleep her body demanded came quickly and easily.
There was a face—or rather a pair of compelling eyes fastened on Willadene. Inner power lurked in those eyes even as she had always felt it lay with Halwice. Only, this threatened—it was not just holding her in judgment. Old, old eyes like pits of whirling, ever-burning fires into which one might fall and be consumed—
She fought not with fists but with her will, her thoughts—
Then she was sitting up in the dark and into her ear sounded the soft hissing of Ssssaaa. Warmth, more warmth than such a small body could really hold, seemed to spread from where the creature had fitted itself to the girl’s curve of shoulder. There were no eyes—only the dark, and by her someone stirred so that her hand went to her knife hilt.
There was a hand heavy on her shoulder now and a whisper even lower than Ssssaaa’s hiss to be heard.
“Be quiet!”
But the girl did not need that warning. She had caught those other sounds through the night—from beyond the brushy cave they had fashioned for themselves. Horses—the grasp on her was released and he was gone. Her sight had adjusted a little to the darkness and she reached up a hand too late to stop Ssssaaa, who was also leaving her.
Whoever rode the night took no precautions to muffle their passage and they were farther away than she had first believed. She heard the splashing of water as if their mounts had taken to the stream, but there was no way of telling how many of them there might be.
It was there, also, the stench of evil. She fumbled for her amulet bag and held it to her nose. Fastened to it now was the small packet of the two leaves she had found in the herbal, and twisted around it all the scrap of Mahart’s night rail. She had a strong feeling that each of these drew strength from the other and that they must be kept as one.
The sounds made by the horses faded. They had not approached this brush heap which had been their shelter. But—within her Willadene knew and her grip tightened on the amulet—one at least among that company had sensed the fugitives. Why they had not been rooted out she could not tell—
Nicolas crawled back in beside her. She could see the light blur of his face, but the rest of him melted into the night.
“We have fellow travelers—”
Over the branch arched Ssssaaa and she was once more with her.
“Some one of them knew of us,” she told him and was sure of what she said.
“They are either pressed for time or"—and now that chill which she had so often seen in his eyes seemed transferred to his whisper—"think us so easy prey that we may be gathered up in leisure. Ssssaaa managed to keep our horses quiet—surely Vazul has an excellent ally there. But it was plain that they ride a known path—five men and two women—”
Without understanding why that particular name came into her mind Willadene said, “One the High Lady Saylana.”
Again she felt the pressure of his fingers closing about her upper arm.
“How did you know that?”
She had buried her nose in that untidy bundle which her amulet had become.
“There was the scent of aspicen fern—that and black evil!”
“They did not try to
cover their trail.” His grasp on her eased somewhat. “West—west and north. The Prince broke the Wolf but he did not gather up all his followers. They would scatter until summoned again. West and north—toward Ishbi.”
“What is Ishbi?” she demanded at last. The word appeared to hold some dire power for anyone she had heard say it.
There was a long moment of silence as if Nicolas was considering what he would say, and when he did reply it seemed to her that he was evasive.
“You have looked upon the Star—in the Abbey?”
She remembered well her one trip there with Halwice when she had been left in the place of worship while her mistress had withdrawn to confer with the Abbess. But then she had been filled with such wonder of the place that she could not call to mind any detail of it. Except—except that fragrance—that richness of scent to calm heart and mind and which had rolled upon her, encased her, so that Halwice had actually had to shake her when she’d returned to bring her once more to the here and now. However, it was that wonderful scent which held fast her memory—and she had only a dim mind picture of something shining at the far end of the long room.
“Our world,” Nicolas was continuing slowly, as if he still searched for the proper words, “lies open, even as do we from our birth time. There are ever choices for us and also for the world. Sometimes those choices seem to be governed by a will beyond ours. What would your life have been had the plague not struck?”
Willadene felt the soft fur of Ssssaaa. “I—my mother was a midwife, known to Halwice, my father a border guard. In those days of the old Duke people were pushing north. There was good grazing land for sheep and even talk of building a town to center the guard and their families and provide a trading post for the new settlers. My father had signed for duty, my mother thought it a chance for new service.” Strange, she had not thought about that for years—the slavery in Jacoba’s inn had beaten such hopeful memories out of her.