by Andre Norton
There was a wide space here, occupied by ruins. He might have dropped into a city such as Kronengred after some major destruction had struck. Here again, all was silent, though he would normally expect to hear the scuttling of night hunters, the cry of a dire hawk, the many other sounds of life.
Instead, there arose ahead of him somewhere the sound of a thin cry—such as sent his hand to knife hilt. And then that was drowned out with a rustle which grew thicker and thicker as if a giant broom were sweeping back and forth across the land ahead.
The ruins gave way. He smelled a scent of fern heavier than he had ever encountered before, and he could catch in spite of the dim light that there were indeed ferns before him but such as he had never seen elsewhere. These were as tall as well-grown trees and seemingly packed so tightly together that their territory could not be invaded.
Nor had Nicolas any wish to attempt that—at least by night. A swift glance right and left showed him that there was a space of fallen and broken rubble along the wall, and he chose to track a way through that.
He had been listening steadily for that distant wail, but it had not sounded again. Willadene— Firmly he closed his mind against fears he could do nothing now to aid and kept on his slow advance through the debris, the wall he had followed from the other side now arising again to guide him.
The swishing of the ferns died away and he was aware of his own growing fatigue. He could not keep on without rest, without a small sip at least of the flask of cordial Willadene had provided him with as restorative before they had parted.
It was easy enough to find a place into which he could wedge his body so that no one could come at him from behind or either side, facing out at the ferns. He was used to ranger’s sleep, which consisted more of short dozes and quick awakenings. Thus he established himself within what he was well aware was enemy territory—though no outlaws might prowl it this night.
But if Nicolas slept even this lightly, there was that here which had no wish for rest, for further meddling with its plans, which seethed with rage of what was already lost.
24
“Willadene?”
She did not feel as if she had really slept on their shared makeshift bed, but now Mahart’s hand on her wrist brought her fully awake—awake enough to feel wary, as if she faced some task she had unfortunately forgotten.
“What is it?” she asked, trying inwardly to trace the cause of that uneasiness.
Mahart sat up. The scanty rags which had given her some body protection had been exchanged for what extra clothing Willadene had brought, though there were still twigs caught in her hair and she was far from appearing the High Lady of the past.
“Do you not feel it?” There was a quaver in that question. They had talked much together since they had won back to the garden—sharing sometimes thoughts they had never believed they could reveal to another. And Willadene knew at once what she meant.
There was a change in their sanctuary. The misty light which one could hardly term day was surely not as bright. As if drawn by a cord Willadene turned toward the water basin. Mahart was already heading toward it. That ever-flowing water lapping over its sides had stilled; there was no longer any drip from the tip of the crystal.
Yet there was no warning stench of evil. Instead, Willadene breathed deeply, to draw in not only the mingled fragrance of all which grew there but also that of another, far more subtle presence.
Mahart was staring down into the now-quiet bowl. What water remained in it was mirror bright. What did they see there? Neither girl could ever afterward describe it clearly; perhaps the evoked pictures did not even match, altered by their separate natures.
“No,” Mahart voiced in a half whisper, retreating a step back.
“We must!” Willadene answered and knew the touch of fear. For some reason this sanctuary was closing to them; there would be no turning back now.
Willadene reached out and up, daring against instinct to touch the crystal from which the water had trickled, her hand groping as it might for the clasp of a protector.
There was a ringing—a sharp flash of light—as if she had touched the root of a storm. The crystal splintered, its bits falling like hailstones into the basin. But in her fingers remained what she looked upon in amazement, for it might have come out of one of Halwice’s shop drawers—a well-rounded seedpod.
Without conscious thought she held it up between them, and that elusive scent which had tantalized her from her awakening was for a breath or two comfortingly strong.
“Star gift—” Mahart said softly. “Surely Star given.” She reached out as one greatly daring and laid fingertip to the pod. Again that whiff of strengthening fragrance. Then she looked to Willadene.
“So we must serve.” There was that in her voice as strong as any altar-given oath.
They ate, perhaps for the last time, from the bounty of the garden. Willadene shouldered the bag of remedies and they once more climbed over the dip in the wall, rounding along it until they faced the fern forest from which Zuta had crawled.
Their coming seemed a signal—the ferns swayed apart, opened a path, however, one which would wall in any venturing there. The scent of the ferns was very strong but not enough to cover that other—the rising stench of evil. Underfoot were moss-covered blocks of what once might have been a street, and through the fern veil they saw now and then the loom of ruins.
Mahart looked back over her shoulder, closed her eyes for a moment, and then resolutely faced ahead. The fern way had closed behind them as if they moved through a pocket which adjusted itself to their faring.
So they came out of the misty green of the ferns at last into an open space. If all else here had been age bowed to ruin, this structure rising before them had endured untouched.
Three wide steps led up to a portico with roof-supporting pillars, deeply engraved in some language surely long forgotten in the outer world.
There was a single great door on the portico and from that rolled the evil stench so strong as to be almost visible. Yet what lay beyond and within lacked any light.
Willadene’s hand met Mahart’s, and both their palms closed together about the seed of the fountain.
As armswomen might march on order into battle they climbed die steps. Now the interior before them slowly developed a glow. There was a compulsion urging them forward, and still they must yield to accomplish what they came to do.
The long hall they entered might well be an audience chamber of some Prince. As the light about them brightened gems glowed, metals burned, and there were figures which still appeared blurred as if those must remain hidden from their eyes.
“Well come at last!”
She who sat on the throne near the end of that chamber leaned a little forward. Her green robe was heavy with gems and silver lining; in fact, it seemed to weigh on her body, just as the youth she wore as a mask was beginning to crack.
“What do you wish of us, Saylana?” Mahart’s voice did not falter. They had come to a pause a little way from the chair. Willadene could see now that there was a body lying limply on the floor on either side of that chair of state, and she recognized death—but death of a new kind which was more to be feared than any sword thrust or poison cup. Yet still she held, knowing that her strength added to Mahart’s, even as Mahart’s helped to root hers.
“What do I wish of you—?” Saylana cackled. No silvery laughter this time. “Life, my sweet, life—yours—and it seems by the grace of the Dark Old Power, you have also brought with you another—this wench who has been given more than any human should rightfully have. Thus, my feasting shall be doubly sweet—” Once more she cackled and then suddenly she half turned her head as if she had heard her name called.
It was at that moment that Willadene, who had been so overwrought by the pressures on her since her awakening, remembered Ssssaaa whom she had not seen since their awakening. However, it was not the Chancellor’s creature who had attracted Saylana’s attention.
She t
urned back to them, grinning, showing blackened stubs of teeth.
“By Drimon, all things come to them who wait. We shall indeed have a feasting!”
Her right hand moved with a speed Willadene would not have thought possible. Out from her fingers slapped a length of green light. They did not have time to move, but at least this horror was not intended to really bring them down now. Instead, it formed a hoop which grew larger and larger in diameter as it whirled up into the air and then came down to ring them about, while Saylana nodded and grinned. Both girls could understand that for this moment she considered them safely captive.
Nicolas roused before the first streaks of dawn light cut the sky. And he roused alertly as one battle ready, for he well knew that pinch of awareness which had so often saved him in the past, the premonition that danger waited ahead. He already had knife in hand when that dark line of fur came flowing fluidly among the tumbled debris to leap for him.
“Ssssaaa!” He stroked that head which butted against his chin. He never knew where Vazul had found the creature or how the Chancellor had bonded with her. But her utter faithfulness to those she selected—and such were very few—as well as her service to Vazul Nicolas had understood from their first meeting.
However, now Ssssaaa preceded others by only a few minutes, long enough for Nicolas to leave his improvised shelter. It was no surprise that Lorien led the short file of men along the same general trail he had taken. But the company was a small one, some half dozen of the Prince’s own men and three of the rangers. Catching sight of Nicolas, he joined him quickly.
“There is some power,” he burst forth, “which I do not understand. We began the climb, only these—” he waved at his followers “—could make it. The others were as bound when they tried. If this is Ishbi then we deal with old evil awakened.”
“We deal with those who have the High Lady,” Nicolas returned grimly, and then in a slightly different tone of voice, “also Willadene—”
“But she chose—” the Prince began, and Nicolas laughed grimly.
“Your Highness, no man controls such a woman. She has that in her to make her stand free and go the path she has chosen as rightfully hers. Look you"—he stroked Ssssaaa’s head—"here is one to tell us so. And what she seeks lies there"—he nodded toward the stands of fern, scowling, as it seemed to him the very air was rotten with their heavy scent.
Making himself head boldly for that green growing wall was one of the hardest things Nicolas believed he had ever done. Yet there was no visible peril ahead. Only those cursed ferns and beyond them—somewhere—the two girls. For he was oath-certain that Willadene had somehow reached Mahart.
“Lord—down with you!”
That shout had come from one of the men slightly behind. The Prince took cover no more quickly than Nicolas, who was berating himself that another had picked up the danger he had not seen.
Over their heads, as they pulled themselves among the scant protection of the crumbling walls, an arrow sang. But that had not been aimed in their direction, rather from behind, flying toward some mark among the ferns.
For a long moment there was utter silence—no foot stumbled among the scattered stones. The ferns stood tall and untouched by any breeze.
Nicolas put out his hand and touched Lorien’s forearm, nodding toward the wood. He did not doubt that the Prince had indeed a goodly store of woodlore, but this land was his own running place and he was sure no one could put its every advantage to use.
Lorien stared at him fiercely, and Nicolas was sure that the Prince had no wish to surrender any scouting to him. Yet finally Lorien nodded and Nicolas swung to the left, making a bellywise crawl toward the nearest spur of the forest. He tried to shut down all thought, to concentrate only on what he must do. Let Prince Lorien advance as he pleased, he would find Nicolas before him.
He had half expected to be met by a cloud of those tormenting midges which hung thick about normal forests, but there was nothing here. Only—
He flattened himself to the ground, peering through the fingers he held up to shield his face. His black night-fitting suit had been so well grimed that it was the color of the stones about and he could play one of those rocks with ease.
What he was watching was a man or else a body which had slipped down, half supported by the ferns around. The arrow? No, there was no sign of any shaft—still he was certain the man was dead.
Had that stranger been alone—a solitary guard such as the mailed figure at the first valley entrance? This one wore no armor, and he was curiously drawn together, his knees up to his thin chest, as if he had been huddling hopelessly, waiting to be brought down.
No sounds—just that bundle lying there. But they must learn who or what had killed him or they themsleves could go the same route. Nicolas crept on, the cursed fern scent almost stifling about him.
But—he knew this victim! Not for nothing had he himself prowled the nightways and hidden places of Kronengred as well as the open lands beyond the city. The contorted face, expressing both fear and horror intermingled, he had last seen in the city. Willadene had spoken of him—Figis—a bit of refuse washed up by the plague, kinless and masterless— No! The fellow had been with Wyche when Nicolas had last caught a glimpse of the youth. And as far as they had been able to discover Wyche had disappeared out of Kronengred on the same night the High Lady had been abducted.
Where there had been one man there well might be two. Ssssaaa flashed past Nicolas to the body, sniffed, hissed, and was back again. A promise of no danger here?
However, caution had been too deeply bred into him for him to reveal himself more than he possibly had to. The longer he stared at the dead man’s face the more he was aware of a strangeness. Figis had died in great terror, of that Nicolas was sure, but he still could not see either the sign of a wound or of spilled blood.
And the Figis he had seen before had been young, carrying several years fewer than his own. But in spite of the print of fear on that face there were other marks—deep-set wrinkles on either side of the nose, a shrinking about the mouth. And surely he had had a full head of hair then, much more than the scattered locks now covering part of his head. This was Figis, to that Nicolas would swear, but it was a Figis upon whom age had settled in a matter of a few days.
Ssssaaa was weaving a path back and forth before him as if to urge him on. And one of those swings gave him a glimpse of another figure farther beyond. Nicolas froze. He could not control Ssssaaa as the Chancellor was able to, and she now changed course, heading toward that other shadowy blot. With all the precautions he could summon, Nicolas again followed.
It was Wyche this time, caught among the trunks of the ferns. The huge bag of the man’s paunch and body were shrunken—he could have been a famine victim. Even as Figis, he too wore a look of terror. Death had come hard to Wyche, and perhaps not swiftly.
Both men were clearly dead and their killer or killers made this territory theirs. If Prince Lorien were to come marching in unknowingly he would find no familiar outlaw den but a peril they could neither understand nor foresee.
Yet—Willadene and the High Lady—or were those two already reduced to such papery shells as that which confronted him now? He could always remember the bite of anger, but he had learned early to make it serve his purpose and not lead him to open and unthinking action.
Nicolas returned as quickly as he could and squatted down with Prince Lorien and the squad leader. The thought of a death which could suck a man dry was not encouraging, and he could see the shadows of doubt on the faces before him.
Ssssaaa had followed him back and now gained his shoulder. As she so often did with the Chancellor she placed her sharp muzzle close to his ear and began a hissing near as low as a whistle. He was trying to guess what message she brought when Prince Lorien spoke.
“We have already discovered something also, Bat. I alone can advance without danger to the edge of the forest; none of these others can.”
“What hinders them
?” Nicolas found this new item difficult to fit in with what he had seen—that the fern forest had been clearly penetrated.
The Prince’s helm shadowed much of his face but did not hide the square determination of his jaw. “It is like a wall—just such as our larger party met with below. We are being whittled down. And unless you know some forest lore, we are to be deterred by thin air alone—or a wall no man can see.”
He had hardly finished speaking when there came a sound from the forest—a scream of torment and fear. Nicolas was on his feet. The girls! If he were the only one who could enter there, so be it. But as he ran, Ssssaaa clinging to him, he saw that Lorien was drawing even with him and they both crashed through the first rank of ferns together. Nicolas fought for control even as a second cry sounded. To run headlong into the unknown was the mark of a fool—he had learned that lesson many seasons ago.
He paused and caught at the Prince. “That way?” His forefinger pointed straight ahead. Lorien nodded, breathing hard. However, even as Nicolas he slowed his pace.
For the third time that sound reached their ears; now it was hardly above a gurgling moan. It might well be bait in some trap, but they could not turn aside now.
Through the ferns loomed up the remains of a building—roofless so that the green wands grew inside—still giving more light than within the forest itself. The ferns within the wall had recently been scythed after a fashion, so their fallen lengths made an irregular carpet for the place. In the middle of this there remained, still sturdy set on its base, a pillar of the green-veined stone. It had been put to use.
The body roped to the pillar was still alive, twisting and turning, trying to find some small hope of a yielding bond. This was no stranger either as far as Nicolas was concerned. There were old slights and snubs he had taken impassively, taunts which had not drawn him to answer by brawling.
Barbric might be out of the straight line to the throne as far as the law declared, but no one who knew Saylana’s son could think that he did not have some ideas of his own about who was to wear the ducal coronet.