by Andre Norton
“Willadene!” Somehow he got enough air back into his lungs to shout. He struggled to his feet, but the impact of that force with which his body had met the obstruction made him unsteady.
Obstruction? He could see nothing but that dark entrance. Nor did any guardian stand there, ready to hurl him back again. But the Prince was still on his feet. His hands outstretched, he was running them back and forth through the air as if he fingered some surface. A moment later Nicolas had joined him. It was there! A wall not to be seen, not to be breached by any means they knew, as they proved during the next frantic moment, throwing rocks heavy enough that two men had to lift them, bringing up a tree from below to use as a ram like to burst the strong gate of a keep.
They could see nothing, only feel—locked out and helpless to follow.
“It seems,” Nicolas said bleakly at last, “that we are now left only with your hope, Highness: that we come into this cursed place from another point.”
“Cursed, double cursed.” Lorien wiped sweat from his smarting cheeks with the back of his hand. “Ishbi has secrets—we have only the minds and wills of men. But"—he looked to Nicolas—"once before men cleansed this place and there are no walls before our will. We shall see what the map can do for us.”
Why had she been possessed by such folly? Nicolas’s hands curled into fists. In that moment if Willadene stood before him he would have had a hard time restraining himself from striking out at her. They said there was witchery in herb lore—certainly what she called her talent had brought them here. And it was witchery of an evil kind she might be facing now beyond that barrier, while there was nothing for them to do but strive to find a forgotten path which might bring them too late to what she had gone to confront.
But they rode out. Nicolas took the lead, for he knew best these forest ways, always gnawing at him within the memory of that green crawling thing in the Black Tower and the growing fear that even worse might be ahead.
Mahart cupped her hands and drank deeply of the water in the basin. It seemed not only to fill her mouth and throat but somehow seep into an inner part of her so that it washed the fear away.
She turned away from the small fountain to face the garden. It seemed as it had always been since she first had had the good fortune to stumble into it. The horse had ventured out of the corner and was grazing quietly again.
The girl forced herself back to the wall and once more began a slow circle of it, intent not on what lay within but what stood without. She stopped several times and rubbed her eyes, for there appeared strange shafts of haze between her and those stands of ferns. It was almost as if, for an instant or so, she could see the outlines of buildings, that she could be caught in some fancy of Kronengred or Bresta. But always the ferns gleamed a brilliant green again, and those flashes of other sights grew less until they disappeared.
At last she settled herself in a nest she had made on the horse blanket and handfuls of grass from near the wall, but she had been careful not to pluck too much of the plants flourishing in that untended garden. A need to relax, to sink into the warmth of sleep, settled on her and at last she could no longer withstand it.
Crying, crying which hurt the ear, even as might that of a brokenhearted, forsaken child. It filled the darkness, filled her with the need to answer. Mahart opened her eyes and found she was already sitting up, straining forward. That crying was no part of some dream—it was real—heart tearing.
She was on her feet, stumbling a little, as they were so bruised by going unshod and she had not yet taken time to devise footwear. But that was no matter now—only the crying.
“Where are you?” she called. “Where are you?” But not even a rustle from the ferns answered her. She had reached the lower part of the wall and scrambled over.
The lake? Could it be that others—not only those toad things—lived here and that some child had fallen into their hands? There was pain now in the desolate voice.
However, the sound drew her past the end of the pier. She looked to the lake. Its surface was untroubled and she saw no movement among the rocks there. No, it was in the other direction. Limping a little, she rounded an end of the garden wall and suddenly realized that she was now facing that place where the ferns had parted to show her a road into darkness. Mahart half expected to find them parted again. But their wall was not broken; only the crying continued.
“Where are you?” she called helplessly. She could not just plunge blindly into that jungle without any guide.
There was no weapon left to her save that length of stone she had chanced upon—and her hopes of using that effectively against any real attack were very thin.
“Your—Your Grace—” Mahart was startled by movement at the very edge of the ferns. A black blot appeared to be crawling, breaking a way through that barrier into the open. The voice was harsh, cracked, that which might come from an aged throat.
Mahart edged back until her shoulders rasped against the surface of the wall which was too high here for her to attempt to climb.
The crawler moved slowly with obvious difficulty, and though that piteous crying had ceased there was almost a similar note of heartbroken appeal in the voice which came again.
“High Lady—pity— From your heart give me pity—”
The hunched form had stopped its advance, was huddled together so that she could not make much of it. Then a stick-thin arm showed, sweeping back what appeared to be the edge of a muffling cloak, to uncover head and shoulders.
About that half-revealed body was an eerie greenish glow, as if some of the substance of the ferns was formed of light particles and had rubbed off against it as it fought its way through their clutch.
Mahart gasped and her hands flew out to form the ancient ward-off sign of evil.
“Star Shine!” Her own voice was thin and ragged, and she began to edge along the wall, still facing that—that thing—as if constant watch could keep it away from her.
“Lady—” The word ended in a piteous wail. That skin-and-bone arm fell beside the bundle of body.
What she saw crouched there must certainly be part of a dark dream. Because, in spite of the skin pouched and wrinkled beyond belief, the white streaks in the matted hair—Mahart did know! And knowing— She swallowed. This was in its way like confronting one of the toadlike creatures out of the lake—only worse—far, far worse.
She had to try twice before she could shape the name she knew so well.
“Zuta—” Only this could not be her companion from girlhood. This was a wizened, age-sapped threat of what years could bring.
There came an incoherent cry from the thing. Now both arms had freed themselves from their covering and were huddled about a body still covered by a shapeless cloak or robe.
The plague—that one terrible misfortune Mahart had heard of for what seemed most of her life. Had it somehow lingered here to fasten greedily upon a fresh body again? But Zuta—had they taken Zuta also—though who had taken her?
Mahart forced herself away from the support of the wall. Zuta was too much of her past, she must—
“High Lady!” That call was swallowed by a loud hissing such as was challenge. Ssssaaa brushed past her ankles and slipped out into the open to face the thing out of the ferns. Zuta—but how could this be Zuta?
Mahart’s own arm was grasped firmly and she was held away from the crawler.
She looked around and there was no mistaking that other—the Herbmistress’s girl. Willa—"Willadene—” Triumphantly she produced that name aloud.
Mahart waved helplessly toward the crawler. There sounded weeping again, the hopeless cry of a child—or the very old—the abandoned and lost.
“Zuta—” She looked hopefully toward Willadene. “Is it—the plague?”
“It is utter evil,” the other replied. “Stay you here. If it is well that you come I shall call—”
The other girl had released Mahart and now she advanced toward the hunched body. Around it, forming a circle, Ssssaaa was run
ning. However, when the furred one reached Willadene she leaped and climbed, claws catching in the girl’s clothing, to once more ride her shoulder.
Willadene had allowed her healer’s bag to slip from her shoulder; her hands were busied in holding out the amulet she wore about her neck.
The thing who might be Zuta gave forth a loud scream and sank forward until the head touched the ground not too far from where Willadene stood.
“It is not the plague we have known, Your Grace,” the herb apprentice said steadily, “but keep your distance for now.” She still made no attempt to approach Zuta any closer—rather she was opening her bag to bring forth something which seemed to catch from nowhere a clear bright light. This she held out but no closer than the circle Ssssaaa had drawn.
She was so ignorant—Willadene felt like spitting her frustration aloud. This was evil, the stench of it was sick-eningly strong, but a new evil—or was it so new? That which had caught in her nostrils when Wyche had been her bane—here it was also but to a far greater extent. What she was trying now was again another old wives’ tale which she had never heard of being put into practice. Yet Halwice had packed this bag, and Willadene trusted the instincts of the Herbmistress above all else.
What she held was a mirror of sorts—not burnished metal as was usual, but rather clear crystal. The backing was a slip of night-sky blue. Willadene no longer watched Zuta; rather she concentrated on that scrap of mirror.
What it caught and held first was that shrunken, aged body—a body so old it might have risen lych fashion from a forgotten grave. Then—the greenish tinge about it grew stronger. She actually saw only a shadow, but what seemed like a coverlet or netting had been draped over Zuta. That was feasting—feasting!
Ssssaaa’s hissing arose to an almost deafening crescendo. What she faced, Willadene could not have put name to, but she used the only weapon she could think of—that she had prepared against the green serpent of Prince Lorien’s venture.
Holding tightly to the mirror with one hand so that its crystal was still turned to Zuta, Willadene cried out with all the force she could summon—enough to drown out the hissing.
“By the Star, for the Star, against the Dark that devours and waits, let there be light, let there be life—let there come an ending!”
Reaching forward, over the edge of the circle she touched Zuta’s contorted body. In her other hand the crystal of the mirror appeared to burst into a flame, but there was no heat within it to threaten her hold. Where the stick with its soaked rag had touched there sprang up light.
For a long moment Willadene could smell the fragrance which was part of that which answered her, something not of this world—something that evil could neither taint nor touch.
Zuta had stopped moaning. Suddenly her contorted body stretched out as if she had sought her own bed to rest. They could no longer see through the haze, but below it something liquid spread, smoking, and the flashing of the mirror, although Willadene did not move her hand, caught at that and it was gone.
They heard it go—a blast of air, of smell, of power which bent the ferns before it as it withdrew. Then for a long moment out of the time they knew they saw Zuta, Zuta in all her languorous beauty, lying at her ease. And there was peace about her. Until the haze balled together and when it was gone there was nothing left.
“What—what was it?” Mahart somehow found voice enough to ask.
“By some chance"—Willadene was seeking her own explanation, fitting one scrap of knowledge to another—“your lady lost her youth, her life energy to something—which still waits there.” She nodded toward the fern forest. “Your Grace, we seem to have fallen into a world of legend and ensorcellment which it has been said for generations does not exist.”
Mahart dropped down beside Willadene. “I am Mahart, and you are Willadene. In this strange world you speak of let there be no birth rank, for perhaps with your knowledge you are the stronger of us both. Zuta—” She found it hard to talk now. “She was my own friend for years. Yet there was a part of her, I always felt I never knew, and perhaps she had the same to say of me. That she is in peace, Willadene, I thank you. The Star Shine grants us much, and more than that final peace we cannot ask for.”
“That you were not also such prey—” Willadene found her hands were shaking now. The rag she had tied about her stick for defense flaked away, burnt so that it was already breeze borne ahead, while the crystal of the mirror was dull and quenched.
“It—it tried. But—come—please come—there is safety here!”
Thus Willadene found herself brought into the garden. Mahart was right—the feeling of safety, of warm and loving enfolding, closed about her. But that did not mean, she was sure, that any battle had been securely won—it was only a skirmish they had survived.
Prince Lorien eyed the rugged escarpment before them now. Unlike the oddly green-veined rock of the other side of this stretch of country, they were facing normal grayish stone as might form a jutting prominence of any normal height. Yet their path had led along the rise of wall ever since they had left the ill-omened and guarded gate.
Their party had grown, as Lorien’s own men drew in to be briefed on what they faced, and with them a handful or so of border rangers who turned to Nicolas for enlightenment. The main difficulty now was the need to know the true nature of the enemy. Twice during the day they had wiped out handfuls of men—badly armed and yet ferociously determined to die if they could take with them at least one of the enemy. Some of them used weapons awkwardly, as if they were more used to the stealthy knife in the back rather than strike of sword blade on sword blade. These, Nicolas was sure, were slinkers from the city who had somehow made common cause with the few outlaws who fought frantically. Their own party took no prisoners, for the enemy refused to either surrender or be taken even when badly wounded. And Nicolas, used to the wolf-barking cries of the outlaws, was disturbed by the utter silence in which they fought.
Now that wall they had followed all day had taken a sharp angle to the north and its rough surface promised for the first time a chance to climb. They had consulted over and over the leaves, and at last Nicolas and the Prince had agreed that they had appeared to reach a point which was marked as the end of the chart they had followed.
However, a climb in coming dark was not indicated—at least for their troop. But Nicolas considered himself free of any allegiance to the Prince’s orders and he had already paced along, spotting this handhold and that toe crevice which could be used.
Somehow he knew well that Willadene had not won to any safe place. This was the end of the second day since she had made her own reckless choice and there was nothing he could do about it—yet.
The Prince moved up beside him, his metal-reinforced glove striking against a knob of rock.
“To go alone—”
“To go alone,” Nicolas answered without turning his head to look at the Prince, “is what I am trained for, Highness. Because I know a little of these powers which Halwice and Willadene appear to be able to summon from what seed, roots, and growth, I believe that the High Lady is here. And for no good purpose. There are forces we have not seen before—”
“Against which steel is no weapon. But then, our schooling has been different, my friend. Nor are you liege man sworn to me. If it is your choice—” He hesitated. “Leave a trail—with morn’s light we shall not be far behind you.”
Nicolas’s choice of weapons were few and certainly not cumbersome. He carried his favorite long belt knife, together with a slightly smaller blade sharing a double sheath, and around his waist was a loop of tough cord, knotted expertly here and there—a silent killer and a deadly one.
For the rest he depended upon his years of skulking, and those had never been wasted. His body, toughened as well as he could exercise muscles most men did not even guess they might possess, served him well. His side was still tender from the healing wound, but that had united well under Halwice’s tending—in fact so well he found himself bel
ieving that the Herbmistress had brought more than the lore of her trade to his aid.
Impatiently he shared the scant rations of the troop, and the dusk was near night when he began his climb. As he had hoped, the surface of the cliff was rough enough to give him good holds and he soon pulled himself over the top, his side aching a little but still able to move with his old agility.
He found a place between two spurs of rock and tried to see what now lay before him. There were stars and a rising moon tonight, and he had always had the gift of keen night sight, even as his namesake, for much of his prying and scouting had always been kept for the dark hours.
Below him was another drop into this mysteriously guarded land. However, surveying as carefully as he could he began to realize that he had not reached the top of a cliff but actually the top of a wall—designed and firmly set by sentient beings for protection.
The crag beside which he had paused was not an out-cropping but the remains of what must have been a watch-tower. So—if there had once been guards here then there must have been a way for them to come and go. Guards—ones such as the man of metal who had held the other approach? He hefted a good-sized rock in one hand and hoped that his tender side would not prevent him from making one of those well-aimed throws he had so often practiced. Then he moved out.
It was the extraordinary silence of the space below which impressed him first—no drone of insect nor even the sound of a breeze rustling. He might be moving through a place of the long dead. But it was an excellent warning for him to make his progress as silent as possible.
Find the way down to the lower land he did. It lay in the core of the second sentry post he chanced upon—a stair which was hardly more than a ladder of sorts, and which he used with the utmost care though the narrow treads were firm enough. Then he came through an opening in that confining wall into the open of the night.