by Andre Norton
"Mr. Fowke, I met him," Damaris poured into her ear. "He had already heard there was trouble here, he was coming. Oh, Saranna, did you see him? He just grabbed Rufe and jerked him up on the road. Now he's pounding him— really licking him!"
She had pushed up to her knees to watch the struggle beyond.
"There!" she added with great satisfaction. "Rufe is just laying still while Sam Knight is tying him up. Oh, Saranna, I never saw a real fight before—"
Apparently, that very unladylike exploit fascinated her.
"Rufe—I'm so glad that he caught Rufe. What was he going to do with you, Saranna?"
The older girl was gingerly rubbing her throat. When she spoke her voice came out as a croak. "He said," she returned in a half-whisper, "he was going to marry me—"
Suddenly she began to shake with broken laughter. It all seemed wildly insane, like part of a nightmare. Yet she could not wake up. Rufus' big plans which he had poured out with such self-importance and confidence enough to frighten her—all brought to nothing in a moment or two.
"He hurt you!" Damaris cried indignantly. "There's a big red place on your cheek, and marks on your throat. He was trying to choke you when Mr. Fowke caught him."
Saranna laughed until she found herself crying instead. Each gasp she drew hurt her bruised throat.
"Saranna!" Damaris' hand fell on her shoulders, shook her. "Please, Saranna, what is the matter? I know he tried to hurt you, but he's gone now and—"
"It's all right, Damaris," a deeper voice broke in upon hers. "Now you just move out of the way and let me lift her—"
Damaris disappeared. In her place was someone else whose firm grasp swung Saranna up and out of the ditch, but did not restore her to her feet; instead, held her as if her body had no weight at all.
"It's all over," Gerrad Fowke reassured her. "I'll get you to someplace quiet—“
"No!" She still could only half-whisper, but now she remembered the urgency which had brought her into this last near-fatal action. "The men Honora brought—they will overrun the moon garden. The Fox Lady says she cannot hold them off a second time—"
"I know. Damaris told me. We have an answer for that. Don't you worry. I'm going to send you back to Queen's Pleasure with Lorenzo, both of you. I want you safely out of this."
She heard Damaris protest and Gerrad Fowke's authoritative answer. Then she was on a horse, arms about her, trotting down the road. Her head had begun to ache again, the pain running from the place Rufus' fist had landed. She felt queasy and sick, and wanted nothing more than what Gerrad Fowke promised—to be safely out of all action.
There was a confused memory of a big black woman who oh'ed and ah'ed and chattered, but who made her comfortable in a strange bed. And then Saranna thankfully allowed herself to sink into a dark world where, mercifully, there were no dreams this time.
"Now, Mr. Gerrad, don' you go wakin' up this child. Just look at her face—that there big bruise a-turnin' green! I declare, you is got no feelin' 't all—not 't all!"
Saranna moved her head on the pillow. The room was light but this was not her chamber at Tiensin; it was smaller, paneled, gave the feeling of a greater age. She could now see the broad back of a woman whose head was tied up with a yellow turban scarf and who was vigorously protesting, even as she backed into the room, apparently unable to withstand the will of the one who confronted her.
"Now, Aunt Bet, you know I wouldn't be here unless it was out of importance—"
Gerrad Fowke! It seemed to Saranna that she had always known his voice, would know it even if she never saw his face. She pulled herself high among the pillows, holding the quilt to her chin.
"Please," she called. "What is it?"
The big woman turned around. Her dark face was concerned.
"You see?" she snapped over her shoulder. "You done woke her up with your foolishment!"
But Gerrad Fowke pushed around her, came to stand at the foot of the four-poster.
"Saranna, I hate to ask it of you—but—" For the first time, she saw him without his customary air of authority. He ran one hand through his hair, reducing that to even more disorder. "Damaris is too young, and I've sent the Partons to their quarters. I have to have someone to get to Honora. She's—she seems entirely distraught."
"She hates me," Saranna spoke what she believed to be the truth. "What makes you think I can help—"
"I don't know if you can. But there has to be someone —“
His hand again went to his head. Saranna wanted to say "no." The last thing she desired was to set foot within Tiensin again. Surely by now, Gerrad knew what Honora had done. Was he upholding her? Saranna could not believe that was true even at this moment.
"All right," she said flatly. "I'll have to have some clothes—"
She was not going back to Tiensin in the strange apparel provided by the Fox Lady. Tongues would wag enough about this venture anyway.
She saw the relief in Gerrad Fowke's expression and knew a pinch of misery in answer. In spite of everything he did care about Honora. Saranna only hoped that he could control her once they were married.
"That's all right. I brought your things. And I would not ask you to go back except that I cannot get to her. She's locked herself in her room and she's screaming all kinds of nonsense. She's even threatened to destroy herself if I come near her—"
"Give me a chance to get dressed." Saranna could no longer watch his distress. She was so tired—tired of all the intrigue and troubles at Tiensin. Though that she would have any influence with Honora was impossible.
Aunt Bet grumbled but she did help her dress, shaking her head over the creases in the dress which Gerrad had apparently caught up without much care. There was, also, a hasty collection of underthiags, even stockings and slippers. And when Saranna looked into the mirror as Aunt Bet braided her hair and wound it in a coronet fashion on top of her head, she saw the dark bruise discoloring near half of her face. A pretty sight and there was no bonnet nor veil to hide it either. Gerrad had forgotten those.
She was not to go without some food in her. Aunt Bet insisted on that. And produced such a wealth of eatables that Saranna felt it was better sustenance for an army than one thin female. Only, as she looked at the loaded plate, hunger did return and she did justice to as much as she could.
"Where is Damaris?" she asked when she joined Mr. Fowke outside. He had the Tiensin carriage waiting. But the driver of that was a stranger to Saranna.
"At Tiensin. Or rather with someone in the hidden garden. We ran off those toughs, took their leader prisoner. The sheriff is on his way to tidy up. I've given the Partons notice, though I feel sorry for Collis; I don't think he was a party to what has been going on. He's a slow thinker, but a good overseer."
"And Rufus?" Saranna asked as he took his place beside her and the coach rocked down the drive.
"Rufus," his quarterdeck voice was winter-cold, "has been given a choice. Though I would dearly love to break his neck," a certain warmth colored that, "he has too much to say which would hurt other people. He was told to light out here and now for the West, or face the sheriff. It did not take him long to make up his mind."
Hurt other people—Saranna's thoughts seized on that. Gerrad meant Honora, of course. He had to protect her from gossip, and Rufus need only tell the sheriff of her plot to ruin Saranna.
"You need not fear him again," Gerrad Fowke was continuing. "I have sent a couple of my men to make sure he makes it to the state border. But I think he is frightened enough of the consequences of what he had done not to try to double back. There is nothing for him here now anyway and he knows that very well."
Saranna's bruised face ached. She had a strong desire to put her head in her hands and cry. She was not sure why, but the tears pricked behind the eyes she tried to keep uncaring. Just as she hoped that her face did not betray her present state of that unhappiness, the cause of which she dared not explore.
So she stared straight ahead and asked no more question
s. The sooner they reached Tiensin and she did whatever Gerrad Fowke asked of her, the sooner she would be free of all of them. Saranna did not believe he would try to keep her here after what had happened. There were the Sanderses; perhaps they would give her shelter for long enough to let her write Pastor Willis to see if Sussex could present any haven.
The carriage rocked, it was plain that the driver had been given instructions to make as good a pace as he dared. Saranna swayed, held the strap at her side, eluding the arm Mr. Fowke half-advanced as if to steady her.
Then they were in the driveway at Tiensin. There were scars from trampling on the lawn. She knew that the garden which had been breached must show even worse damage. But with Gerrad Fowke she went inside. There was a scared huddle of servants in the hall, John at their head. He turned to Mr. Fowke quickly with an expression of relief on his face.
"Mr. Fowke—Miss Honora, she do act like she ain't right in the head no more—"
Mr. Fowke had taken Saranna's arm, was leading her purposefully to the stairs. As they mounted, he said in a lower voice:
"She will not let me in. But if she will open the door to you, I shall be with you. She has threatened to throw herself from the window if we tried to break in. I do not know what has brought on this terrible wild hysteria."
Saranna remembered that confrontation with the Fox Lady's mirror—could that have been the cause of this? Then what had Honora seen on that polished surface which had driven her to this state?
Honora's maid stood before the closed door. She looked at the two who joined her and, though she was crying, her eyes were also wide with fear. Mr. Fowke motioned her to one side, nodded imperatively to Saranna.
With some hesitation, she stepped forward and knocked at the closed panel.
"Honora—?" Her voice was no longer a hoarse whisper, but neither could she use it without being reminded of Rufus' brutal grip on her throat.
"Honora?" she called again.
"You—!" There was a sharp sound to that single word. Then—again— "You—!"
Through the silence which followed that, Saranna thought she could hear movement on the other side of the door. Mr. Fowke had flattened himself to the right against the wall.
Now Saranna did catch the click of a key in the lock. Mr. Fowke made a small signal with his hand and the girl guessed his purpose. She would be the only one in plain view when that door swung open, but Gerrad Fowke could move in from the side.
The door was opening now—jerked back as if Honora had a purpose which she must accomplish. And Honora did confront her. But this was not an Honora which Saranna had ever seen before. Her dress was wildly disordered, torn lace hanging from the bodice as if she had ripped madly at it with both hands.
Her hair hung down in witchlike, uneven lengths, lank and sweaty. While the face so framed was strange. She constantly worked her lips in grimaces, she might have been chewing on some exceedingly bitter mouthful.
Saranna was transfixed. So startled that for a second or two she did not glimpse the pistol in Honora's hand, the twin to the one she had attempted to use against the Fox Lady.
"YOU — !" Honora's voice shrilled up crazily. Left hand joined right to steady the small gun which wavered as she fought to point it straight at Saranna.
Gerrad sprang. Honora had had eyes for no one but Saranna and he caught her easily, twisting the derringer from her, hurrling the weapon out into the hall. She fought him wildly, crying out with sounds like an aroused animal. But Fowke bore her backward, forced her to sit down on the chair before her dressing table, the nearest seat.
The mirror there was smashed. But as Honora faced where it had been she uttered an inhuman howl.
"No—no—I" Her struggles grew the stronger. He looked to Saranna.
"Get me her robe—over there—!" He pointed with his chin. Saranna at last found the ability to move. She grabbed the garment and took it to him. Somehow he used it to bind Honora's arms to her sides, to keep her captive.
"You kill that she-devil—" Honora looked up at him, a vestige of sanity returning to her face. "See what she has done to me. Monster—I have a monster's face!"
Gerrad looked to Saranna for an explanation. Swiftly she told him of the meeting at which Honora had been shown the mirror.
"So that is it! Some of the Princess' work. Well," he shrugged. "When one is fighting for one's life any weapon will serve. But she," he looked down at Honora, who had her face averted stiffly lest she face the ruined mirror, "is not changed."
"The—the Fox Lady said Honora saw herself as she really is," Saranna repeated. "But when she made their guns, the guns of the men change, she said that was an illusion and she could not do it again."
"There seems to be a more lasting illusion here," he commented. "But for the sake of Honora's sanity, we had better see if matters can be remedied. Come on!"
Muffled as she was in the prisoning garment, he swung Honora up in his arms and headed toward the door, Saranna hurrying after him. Honora buried her face against his shoulder as if she dared not let anyone see her features.
Down the stairs they went, and not one of those in the household followed them. Then outside, to that wreckage of the wall and hedge which had protected the hidden garden. They had pushed on in sight of the terrace before they saw anyone. There Damaris stood in the open, one of the large white foxes on either side.
She viewed their coming first with surprise, and then with an expression which mingled fear and anger.
"Go away!" she shrilled. "Don't you dare bring her here!"
"Not so, younger sister." From the moon door came the Fox Lady. But this time her face was wholly human. In one hand was a thing wrought of fur, and Saranna recognized it for a mask, very realistically made.
"Why do you bring her here?" Now the mistress of the garden addressed Gerrad Fowke.
"Because of your woven illusion, Kung Chu Yiieh," he answered.
"You call me by a name forbidden, a rank no longer acknowledged. How do know you that name and rank?" she asked coldly.
"I have been in the Eastern lands, Kung Chu Yiieh. A story as strange as yours is not easily forgotten. No; rather passing years have already made it a legend oft-times repeated. The tale of the daughter of a Prince of Banners who was stolen by coast pirates, rescued by one of the Western barbarians (as your people name us) to become the First Lady of his inner courts—"
"I am a nameless one. No such woman as you speak of could have returned to her clan after that had happened to her. She would be dead to her house. That I found refuge with one who paid me honor, for that do I thank Kwan Yin. Had I been a worthy daughter of my blood I should have put an end to my own life, so was my face blackened by the act of the tiger ones from the sea. But my mother was of Ping-yang, of a very ancient House whereof the women had the Old Knowledge. And it was given to me in my hour of need that I was more of my mother's clan than of my father's—great lord though he was.
"So I lived, and I found contentment. For my Western lord paid me honor and gave me my wish, though I must come to dwell in a far land and learn an uncouth tongue that I might talk with him. In his way he was kind, and I was another of his treasures which he loved. But with A-Han who had been my mother's nurse, I learned more and more of the ancient wisdom. For it is legend that my mother's clan had many born among them who were blood-kin, heart-kin to the furred ones." She held up the mask.
"It amused my new lord that I could bring the furred ones to me, and he ruled that they should not be harmed." She was silent a moment.
" 'The messenger of death enters and all business stops—'" she quoted. " 'When the waters sink, the stones show.' My lord wove about this place such protection for the future as he could. But with his passing, who cared for rules made by one already Gone Above? This younger sister," she touched Damaris lightly on the shoulder, "was also under threat. The rule of a child means nothing in the eyes of those grown to full stature. So again I sought the Old Knowledge striving to protect her, for sh
e is of the true blood of my lost lord.
"Then came this other—" She glanced at Saranna. "And in her spirit there rests that which is kin. Like knows like upon first meeting. Also, the reading of the wands said that she was the key to my lock. I set upon her the sign of my furred people, that in her hour of need, they would protect her.
"The Old Knowledge may warn, it can foresee, but it is hard to use. Though these younger sisters gave me of the strength in our hour of danger, yet there is only so much that I may do. But she —" now she indicated Honora, "had a blackness in her heart which opened the gates for my magic. She looked upon the Mirror of the Goddess and saw herself as she really is. Now she would hide from that sight, yet the memory of it scars her mind."
"It will drive her mad," Gerrad answered. "If you have any pity, let her go."
"Let her go? But I do not hold her. She has laid the curse upon herself."
"It is an illusion," he repeated stubbornly. "Having woven it, you can also destroy it."
Then the Fox Lady sighed. "Perhaps—perhaps— “
"No," Damaris caught at her sleeve. "If you do, she'll try to get rid of you again—"
"Not at all," Gerrad's voice was clear. "I will promise that!"
For a moment which seemed to spin on and on, the Fox Lady eyed him. Then she nodded, as if she had read something in his expression which answered an unvoiced question.
"Get the mirror, young sister. No, this shall be well. There are other forces at work here, a choice has been made and it is the right choice—one which will lead to the lifting of a cloud."
Reluctantly, Damaris went. When she returned through the moon door she carried the mirror and gave it into the Fox Lady's hands.
"Hold her head high," Kung Chu Yueh ordered. "If Heaven allows, she shall see what is granted her to see."
Gerrad forced Honora's head up. She whimpered, fought against his hold. But at last, she was facing the mirror, her eyes squeezed tightly shut.
"Open your eyes! Look!"
As if that command had stitched threads to Honora's eyelids, and drew them apart, now she stared into the mirror. Her face contorted in horror and then slowly relaxed as she continued to gaze.