by Andre Norton
“You?” The Guardian was amused, and allowed herself to show it. “By yourself? Your ardor becomes you, Falconer. I had no idea your kind even cherished your male children, let alone your daughters.”
“There is much you don't know, but more that you do and won't speak about. Again. I demand that my daughter be returned to me.”
“I could call a dozen Guardsmen and have you thrown out into the street,” the Witch said. “Or I could do other things… .” Her hand stole to the blue-gray jewel that glowed on the silver chain around her neck.
“Threaten me if you will, but I will have my daughter back.”
“Enough. You tire me. There is nothing more to be said.” The Guardian turned away and sat down again. Stone-faced, she picked up a packet of papers. With deliberate, unhurried movements she began untying the silver ribbon that bound them.
Eirran knew that she had finished with the interview. But a faint hope remained to her. Witch though she might be, the Guardian was still a woman, wasn't she? Perhaps the pleadings of another woman might touch a responsive spot in the Guardian's heart. Eirran took a step forward but Yareth stopped her, putting his hand heavily on her shoulder.
“No,” he said, his tone harsh. “We'll receive no help here, no consideration. No—no mercy.” He spoke this last word with heavy irony. “We'll have to look elsewhere.”
“I have to try.” Eirran shook off his grasp and moved closer. Despite herself, she had begun to weep. To her mortification she recognized a certain uneasy feeling in her midsection and knew also that she was going to begin hiccuping the way she always did when she got upset. “Oh, Lady,” she said. “Please—hic!—please don't turn us away. Jenys is our only child. I don't think we will ever have another. We have to—hic!—have to know what has become of her!”
She went to her knees, and then, beyond shame, prostrated herself at the Guardian's feet. For a moment there were no sounds in the room except for Eirran's sobs and hiccups. There was a faint rustle of clothing as the Guardian leaned forward in her chair and touched Eirran.
“Get up,” she said. “Stop weeping. Your Falconer is ashamed for you. I can read it in his face.”
“I don't care, I don't care,” Eirran said miserably. “Hic! All I care about is having Jenys back.” She pulled herself up to her knees again, and clasped her hands. “Can't you understand that? My child. That is all either of us wants.”
The Guardian glanced from Eirran's tear-stained face to Yareth's stern one. “I see that you both love your daughter deeply, in your different ways. I am sorry.”
“What does that mean, Lady?” Yareth's tone, it seemed to Eirran, was just a bit less truculent than before.
The Guardian looked up at him. “It is too late,” she said.
She got up and moved away from the table to a nearby window where she moved the curtain aside and stood staring outward. Yareth helped Eirran to her feet and put his arm around her as she clung to him for support.
“Do you mean—” His voice broke a little and he cleared his throat. “Do you mean that she is dead?”
“In a way,” the Guardian said. She turned to face the distraught parents. “It might be easier for you if you thought of it in that way, for in fact, she is dead to you. We all die, as far as the outside world is concerned, when we come here. All ties with family, with friends, with anything but each other, are severed when we become Witches. Yes, Falconer, and you also, Falconer's lady. Your daughter is dead.”
“But you have seen her,” Yareth said stubbornly.
A flash of emotion swept over the Guardian's features, as quickly stifled. “There were some girls here. Your former daughter may have been among them.”
“Six little girls? Accompanied by a woman, and five men?”
“When there is an Ingathering, we always send one of our own under guard.”
“Then you have seen Jenys,” Eirran said. “Hic! Oh, please, you must have.” She moved in Yareth's embrace as if prepared to cast herself at the Guardian's feet again.
The Witch closed her eyes and compressed her lips. Then she looked at them, and the first sign of compassion softened her features. “Yes. She must have been one of the ones I interviewed. She has been here, but is now gone to the Place of Wisdom. I'm afraid it really is too late, Falconer.”
“Place of Wisdom?” he said. “What is that? Where is it? I'll go there at once—”
“And you would perish before you even reached the walls,” the Guardian said. “Believe me. The Place of Wisdom is the academy where Witches are trained. It lies many leagues west, and it is guarded by magic. If, by some miracle, you could win past the outer defenses, and pass the wall, you would then face some of the sternest, most capable of us all. Our young are taught by the best of us, you see.”
“ ‘Your’ young,” Yareth echoed resentfully.
“You must make the best of it,” the Guardian said. “Believe that it is an honor to give up a daughter into Witchdom—”
“It is no honor that I recognize.”
“No,” Eirran said, fearful that Yareth would rouse the Guardian's anger. “Surely there is some other way—hic!—some agreement we can reach—”
“Nothing,” the Guardian said. “The matter is ended.”
A knock sounded at the door and, without waiting for an invitation to enter, a Witch came hurrying in. Her face had gone dead-white and had a pinched look, and her manner was distracted. She went directly to the Guardian and whispered in her ear. As the Witch spoke, the Guardian's features took on some of the worry and concern that the other showed. She clutched at the Jewel at her throat. “Thank you,” she told the Witch. “We will deal with it directly.”
The other woman bowed, then left the room. The Guardian turned to Yareth and Eirran. All at once Eirran realized that the Guardian was a young woman.
But, she thought, the Guardian is supposed to be old, and experienced—Then she remembered the Turning, and how so many of the Witches had died. This one couldn't have held her position then; she must be relatively new-come to it.
“There is great trouble,” the Guardian said without preamble. “Your daughter may truly be dead. Hounds of Alizon caught the six children and the Witch escorting them, on the road between here and the Place of Wisdom. The Witch sent word by mindtouch, but it was—interrupted, before the message came clearly enough for us to know what really happened.”
Yareth began to tremble with rage. “Hounds—” he said in a choked voice. “You let Hounds of Alizon touch my child—”
Hastily, Eirran drew him aside. “No!” she whispered passionately. Unaccountably, her hiccups had vanished. “You can't afford to give in to anger! Think, Yareth, think! There's still a chance. She said the message was interrupted. Right now, she needs us—or she might, if we can persuade her we are the best ones to go searching.”
He stared at her out of his hawk's eyes. Gradually, the eyes became those of a man again as reason began to return to him. “Not ‘we,’ Eirran. This will not be work for a woman.”
She was so relieved to have avoided a fatal outburst of temper on his part that she chose not to argue.
He turned back to the Guardian. “I will go and find your fledgling Witches for you if they still live,” he said. “
The Guardian nodded. “No one else among the Guardsmen could have so strong a desire to recover them as you,” she said.
“There is one thing more,” Yareth said. “When I do find them, and when I return them to you, my child is mine.”
The Guardian's gaze was steady, her expression unfathomable, her voice even. “You will have our everlasting gratitude if you can return the girls to our care.” She pulled a bellcord. “Now go and rest yourself for a little while. You are tired from your journey. You cannot go rushing off into Alizon alone, without knowledge, unprepared, no matter how brave you may be.”
“That is true,” Yareth said. He glanced at Eirran. “My lady wife is tired. Also, she has helped me begin thinking as a warrior aga
in. A good warrior faces facts, unpleasant as they might be, for to do otherwise is to invite disaster. If the children are dead, then they are dead. If they still live, their captors have taken them alive for a purpose. In either case, too much haste accomplishes nothing.”
“Tomorrow you will choose men to accompany you. By then we may know a little more to help you with your search. We will give you what you need to accomplish your mission. For this short while, our goals are identical, Falconer.”
With a nod, she dismissed them. It was not until they were following the servant to the room they had been assigned for the night that Eirran realized the Guardian had not really agreed to Yareth's terms. “Everlasting gratitude” was all that she had promised.
But then, Eirran thought, the everlasting gratitude of the Guardian of the Council of Witches in Estcarp was not something to be dismissed lightly.
The room was not much larger than the Guardian's chamber. Hot water and clean towels waited on a side table and, gratefully, they washed themselves clean of road grime. The bed was fresh, newly warmed, and very inviting. Loose garments of soft blue fabric lay waiting and Eirran realized that they were expected to put them on for sleeping. She had never known such luxury. At home, she slept in an old, castoff shift and Yareth slept in a threadbare shirt long past mending. Selfconsciously, they donned the unfamiliar garments and climbed into bed. Eirran sighed. Exhausted, she settled down beside Yareth and, without expecting to, fell asleep.
III
“No,” Yareth said. “Absolutely not. I will not have you going on this dangerous journey, Eirran. We are likely to be facing Hounds of Alizon! Don't you know what that means?”
Eirran didn't, not really. But these Hounds couldn't be any worse than Karsten soldiers, or the rough-mannered river-bargemen who sometimes frequented her uncle's tavern. “Jenys will be frightened. And the other girls as well. They'll need a woman to comfort them when we find them.”
“They'll be lucky if they're still alive when we find them.” He buckled on the sword a servant had brought him and checked the new, freshly-filled dart gun that had come from the same source. They had new garments as well—blue shirt and leather trousers and jerkin for him, a flowing blue dress with a touch of silver embroidery on the sleeves for her. Yareth looked at her, the frown on his face softening slightly. “You can help choose the men who will go with me. Will that make you feel any better?”
“No.” But as it was the best that Yareth was presently prepared to, allow, Eirran decided to make the best of it. The Witches had been searching all night by magic, trying to learn what had really happened on the road between Es City and the Place of Wisdom before sending out the rescue party. They would not leave until they were armed with as much foreknowledge as possible, and in that time Yareth might yet change his mind.
She followed him through corridors lighted by more globes placed high on the walls, from which a steady, if pale, glow radiated. Her footsteps were soundless; she now wore cloth slippers of the same type as some of the Witches themselves wore indoors. She had begun to think Yareth had lost his way when another man came toward them.
“Ah,” the newcomer said. “You must be Yareth, the Falconer. I'm Girvan. The Guardian has assigned me to be your guide in case we have to go into Alizon itself. Been in and out of there many's the time myself.”
Eirran looked at the man curiously. He had pale green eyes that caught the light oddly and blond hair so light it was almost colorless. His blue Guardsman's uniform looked somehow out of place on him, contrasting wrongly with his green eyes. He noticed her scrutiny.
“And you must be this fellow's, ah, lady. The little girl's mother.” He laughed. “Aye, lady, I was born Alizonder. That's how I can go back and forth so easily without getting caught.”
“I am Yareth. My wife's name is Eirran,” Yareth said. “I told her she could help me pick the men who'll be going with us.”
“Oh?” Girvan said without much interest. “Well, I've already lined up some good men to choose from. Come this way.” He led them past a sentry and into a wider hall where a group of Guardsmen lingered at breakfast. “Have you eaten? No? Ranal, get our guests some food.”
The man addressed as Ranal promptly got up from the table and dipped two bowls of porridge out of a full pot. A second pot, scraped empty and set aside, signified that a large number of men had recently breakfasted from it.
“Here, dip me another spoonful, will you?” another Guardsman said, holding out his bowl. He was a slightly built man, the kind who sometimes shows an astonishing appetite.
“You need more food, Kernon,” Ranal said good-naturedly, “so you can grow big enough to match the rest of us.”
Still, he did as he was asked. Kernon attacked the fresh porridge with a good appetite but Eirran pushed her bowl aside with a sudden pang of nausea. The state of her nerves must be worse than she thought. This stuff … her sense of smell had always been entirely too keen. Yareth also ignored the bowl in front of him, intent on his task.
“You are all volunteers?” he said. The men nodded. “I want to travel with as few as I dare and still have a party strong enough if it comes to a fight. There will be eight of us all told.”
A Guard got up from his place at the table. “Then you'll need me,” he said. “I'm Weldyn.” He held one arm crooked, hand lightly clenched into a fist, as if by habit. Looking at the man's coloring and features, Eirran realized he had been born a Falconer despite the Guardsman's uniform he now wore. “I was with the men who brought the children to Es Castle in the first place.”
Yareth nodded. “Yes,” he said. He glanced at the rest of the Guards. “No Sulcarmen,” he said. “You're too conspicuous.” Two large, light-haired men shrugged at his words. “And none of the Old Race. We'll be going as blank shields, our story that we're sick of the eternal strife and conflict in Estcarp—”
“Not to mention being ordered about by women,” Weldyn said.
Yareth glanced at him and nodded. “Whatever our reasons, we'll be pretending to seek employment in Alizon.”
“Sounds like a good plan,” one of the Sulcarmen said. “You want men who won't stand out in a crowd, then. Hirl's a good man. Ranal.”
“Aye,” a slim, dark-haired man said. “And Loric.”
“Don't overlook me,” Kernon said, looking up from his porridge. “I can out-ride any man twice my size and I'm a demon of a fighter.”
The other Guardsmen laughed. “True enough!” one of them said, slapping Kernon on the shoulder. He was fair-featured, with light brown hair. He glanced up at Yareth good-naturedly. “Got more to prove, you see.”
“That makes seven, including myself,” Yareth said. “I want a company of eight. How about you?”
The guardsman got up and bowed from the waist. “Dunnis of Gorm, at your service,” he said. “When do we leave?”
“As quickly as we can,” Yareth said. He turned to Eirran. “Do you have any objection to my choice in men? Anybody you would prefer to any of them?”
“No, none,” she said.
“Then would you go and find out from the Guardian what she has learned, for I am eager to be on my way.”
“Gladly.” Eirran got up from the table. A fresh whiff of the contents of the bowl assailed her nostrils. She left the mess hall at once, unwilling to stay and have to smell it. Really, she thought, the cooks in the Guardsmen's barracks must be poorly trained, to have burnt the porridge so badly.
IV
An hour later she entered the Guardian's presence. She had gotten lost again, but another of the gray-clad Witches showed her the way. “Is there any news?” Eirran said.
“Some, and not all of it good,” the Guardian replied. “One of our sisterhood is dead. But we believe that the children are still alive.”
Eirran went a little weak, her head spinning. She hoped she would not faint.
“Sit down,” the Guardian said, indicating a footstool nearby. “You are very pale.”
“I am relieved,
that's all. I feared my daughter had perished. And the other children as well,” she added quickly.
“And the other children. It may have been better that they had died, however. From what little we have been able to find out from this distance, the ones who attacked are taking the children northward. Toward Alizon.”
“Toward Ali—” Eirran's breath caught in her throat. “But why?”
“Who knows? But if the Hounds are involved, it can be nothing good, that much is certain.”
Eirran slipped from the footstool onto her knees. She clasped her hands at her breast. “Oh, Lady, please. Help me.”
“What is’ it this time?”
“Yareth is forbidding me to go with him, searching for our daughter. But I can't go back to Blagden alone, to wait! My husband, and my child, both in danger? What if they kill her? What if they kill Yareth?”
“And what if you did go with him and they kill him and the child, and you as well?” the Guardian said with unexpected gentleness.
“Then I'd be with him at the end,” Eirran said. She set her jaw stubbornly. “And my daughter. Please, Lady, I beg of you. Find a way to persuade him to take me along.”
The Guardian sat back in her chair. “That might not be necessary,” she said.
“Lady?”
“I got word only a few minutes ago that one of the men your Falconer picked has fallen ill. Something he ate did not agree with him.”
A sudden memory of the bad-smelling porridge rushed over Eirran. That smell hadn't come from its being burnt and her imagination had not been playing tricks on her at all—the grain must have been spoiled! She was suddenly very glad that neither she nor Yareth had touched a bite. “I am sorry the man is sick,” she said, “but I don't understand. What does this have to do with me?”
“Your husband is a very stubborn man. But now there is a way where there was none before—” the Guardian said.
Suddenly, Eirran realized what the Witch was saying. She blinked in surprise. “Shapechanging?”
“It will be quite easy, really. Keraon is of relatively slight stature.”