by Andre Norton
“No,” Eirran said before she could think or stop herself. All eyes turned in her direction. “I mean,” she said nervously, “the lady was a good sort. I hate to see all trace of her disappear.”
“A sourvenir?” Weldyn said. He tossed the Jewel to Eirran and she snatched it out of the air. “Take it, then. The silver is worth something. But I don't want it.”
Carefully, Eirran put the Jewel away in her doublet. Perhaps it had been her imagination, or a trick of the light, but she thought she had seen a faint spark in the Jewel's depths. Perhaps, perhaps— Oh, she didn't know why she had been moved to save the artifact. But some force, possibly the effect of the male disguise that hid her true form, had bidden her act as she had, and she dared not disobey. She moved off to the side, pretending to stir a fire that was burning perfectly. Yareth had come back into camp as well and now he was looking at her in a very puzzled manner, as if wondering why she had bothered to take a lifeless Witch Jewel.
Then he turned to the three bodies waiting burial, two strong men cut down in their strength, and the third a slight form mercifully covered with Loric's cloak. “I am not one who loves the Hags of Estcarp,” Yareth said. “Indeed, I have great cause to feel otherwise. But neither would I willingly see such things done to one of them.”
“Nor I,” Weldyn said. “It has gone hard with me, these past few years, taking orders from a woman. But the times being what they are, one must do the best one can.” He looked at Yareth curiously. “You're the one who is actually married to a woman, aren't you? How does it feel, always to be with one of them, always to be at her beck and call? Always to be in her bed.”
Yareth merely shrugged and made no answer. “We must bury these bodies decently, and start trailing the Hounds,” he said. “We'll have to keep well back, out of sight, sound, and smell of those war-dogs of theirs until we see some chance that we can prevail against them. If we are not careful, they'll kill the fledglings out of hand and not wait to take them back for whatever purpose they stole them.”
Weldyn turned the corners of his mouth down. “Concern about your own fledgling, I can almost understand, even if it is a girl-chick. But why should you care about the others?”
“It was my promise.”
“Promise! To a woman!”
Ranal spoke up. “It's a good thing we're out of earshot of the Witches—or at least you think and hope we are,” he said, and was rewarded by the flash of apprehension that flitted briefly across Weldyn's face. “You warble an entirely different kind of song back in Es Castle, Falconer.”
“We are what we are,” Weldyn said with a shrug. It was no apology. He glanced again at Yareth. “Except when some of us give up what we are to become something else.”
“Let's get about our work,” Yareth said. “The sooner we're finished here, the sooner we'll be on our way.”
II
They carried the bodies away from the ambush site and buried them on a ridge of low mountains overlooking the open gray-green countryside between there and Es City. They built a cairn of rocks, both as a marker and as protection against any prowling wild thing that might be attracted by the scent and further desecrate the dead.
North they rode, and still north, following an ancient route. Once there had been a high road, well-kept and tended, symbol of happier times between the lands north and south. Now, the farther they went, the more the road degenerated until it became something little better than a track through the land. In these perilous times it was used only by those few traders who dared carry their wares from country to country, and by the brave garth-holders who clung to their estates along the edge of the Alizon Ridge. And spies, of course, both Alizon's and Estcarp's. The Tor Fen stood between, feared and hated by Alizon and Estcarp alike. To venture into Tor Marsh was to resign one's self from this life. Those who entered therein did not return and only the darkest rumors circulated as to their fate. The greenish-gray countryside of central Estcarp changed as well as they went, growing darker and less welcoming as the rescue party neared the land of the Tormen, and the swamps and fens and moors of that dismal spot.
Perhaps another people had once dwelt to the north, and had built and used this road in bygone years. But now Alizon's barons lorded it in the northern land, glorying in the horses they bred from Torgian stock, and in the thin-flanked hounds they used for hunting and for war.
All the men—even Weldyn—chafed at the necessity of keeping their distance and not closing with their enemy openly, and as soon as possible. Unspoken among all the pursuers was the question of why the Witch-children had been taken, and what might be happening to them now. To Eirran this last was the hardest of all the difficulties she found herself facing on this most peculiar of journeys.
Their first night on the road, habit almost made her fall to working alongside Yareth, making camp, and she had to restrain herself. The first few days of their acquaintance, when she had virtually been his prisoner, she had flatly refused any assistance in his upkeep. But when they had made a wary peace, they discovered they worked together very well, as if they knew each other's thoughts without either having to speak. Then they had been traveling, seeking a home for them both after their near-disastrous adventure in the Barrier Mountains. She had taught him how to find wild vegetables and edible roots, where before he had been content to eat what game he could take or what birds the falcon, Newbold, could hunt. And she had taught him a finer art of camp cookery than he had known. In turn, he had taught her how to build rabbit-snares, and which ground rodents made good eating and which to avoid. Together, they lived off the land quite well; apart, each missed what the other brought to the partnership.
Following the clear trail the Alizonders left, the eight riders found the campsite chosen by the Hounds for their first night on the road northward. The Falconers searched it thoroughly for whatever information could be gleaned. But all that they could learn with any certainty was that the children were still alive at the time of this camping, and that they had slept close together, as if for comfort. But without a word passing among them, the pursuers decided to bypass this unhappy spot and seek their own night-place elsewhere.
The Falconers sent Newbold and Sharpclaw aloft on the lookout both for enemies and for game fowl. While Weldyn went out of camp and hunted for other meat, Yareth searched the area for edible plants and wild herbs for seasoning. Somewhat to Eirran's surprise, he proved quite good at this homely task; she had taught him better than she thought. Weldyn had given him a hard, sideways glance as he left, but said nothing.
With the other men, Eirran helped prepare the place for the night. They picketed the horses, fed and brushed them, and gave them water. Then they swept the area around the campfire clean so their rest would be untroubled by rocks digging into their backs. By the time they had finished these tasks, Weldyn had returned with a brace of rabbits and the falcons had brought down a bird apiece. Dunnis took them and began preparing them for cooking. The shadows lengthened, turning late afternoon into evening.
“Do I remember correctly, Girvan? You did say you are Alizonder, are you not?” Yareth said. He now sat out of the way, stroking Newbold and feeding him tidbits while Dunnis tended the pot. Weldyn sat opposite, occupied likewise with the feeding of Sharpclaw.
“I was Alizonder,” Girvan said. His tone was, perhaps, a trifle more brusque than it might have been had the eight riders not been pursuing others of Alizon breed. He fiddled with a buckle that had come loose on his horse's harness. “I am of Estcarp now. Of Estcarp.”
“Still, you were once of Alizon and know of Alizon, else the Guardian would not have recommended you as guide. While we are waiting for the meat to cook, I beg you tell us what you know of the place, since it would seem that this path takes us closer with every step.”
Girvan nodded. “You are right, Yareth. From the looks of things, the Hounds—” he spat to one side “—are taking the children straight to Alizon, and us with them. Forgive my short temper. It is hard, knowing that kin
smen of mine might have been involved in—in what we found earlier. Very well. I'll tell you what I know. But you must remember that it's been four months at least since I was last there. Things may have changed in the meantime. And I may be repeating what some of us already know. Still I will tell it once again, so we may know better what we are facing.”
Without a word, the other men settled themselves a little closer to listen, and Girvan began his tale.
III
That Alizon hated Estcarp and all it represented was so well and widely known that nobody even bothered to mention the fact. For many, many years, the Alizonders, under their ruling Baron Facellian, had carried on a war of attrition against Estcarp, barely contenting themselves with raids from time to time, and with capturing the occasional Estcarpian who ventured too near the border. The men were killed immediately; but the women—particularly any Witch who might have gone seeking information about Alizon's activities—were dealt with in much the same harsh and deadly fashion as had been the luckless woman escorting the Witch-children to the Place of Power.
But now there was a fresh reason for enmity, above and beyond all previous reasons Alizon had, or thought it had, for Alizon had come to such a fever of hatred that it blamed Estcarp for its defeat in its attempted invasion of High Hallack.
The reasoning, slanted though it inevitably was, went like this: first, Alizon was barred from invading Estcarp, as it would have had the Council not closed the Alizon Gap with both magical and military means. Second, High Hallack, across the sea, and bound to Estcarp by philosophy and inclination rather than by treaty, could nevertheless be expected to come to Estcarp's aid sooner or later in its struggles against Alizon, and the Dalesmen were fierce, skillful fighters. Therefore, it only stood to reason that Alizon must keep High Hallack out of the conflict while it worked simultaneously on means to break the bottleneck that was the only thing keeping Alizon and Karsten from cracking Estcarp between them, like a nut.
The Kolder, for once in complete agreement with a people of human stock on this world, joined forces with Alizon. The Kolder would contribute support in the form of their awesome machines of war, capable of knocking down any keep's walls with an ease that must be demoralizing to the enemy, and for its part, Alizon would contribute the manpower. And so, thus armed, Alizon invaded High Hallack.
But Simon Tregarth of Estcarp and his Witch wife Jaelithe—both of cursed memory in Alizon where feuds and memories of feuds spanned entire generations—these two meddled and spoiled this most excellent of schemes. Between them, Simon and Jaelithe found the Kolder's island stronghold and destroyed the Gate the Kolder had come through while their Sulcar allies scoured clean the Kolder Nest itself. If it hadn't been for this unforeseen calamity, the Kolder would have been able to keep the supply lines open, and thus maintain the machines operating in High Hallack. But without supplies, the machines failed, and Alizon faltered as well. Unexpectedly, High Hallack's scattered clans united under a single leader and, for the first time, the Alizonder invaders began losing battles. Then the Sulcar, eager for more after that one taste of success against the Kolder, and encouraged by Estcarp, sailed to High Hallack's aid. So successful were they in crushing the Hounds between them and High Hallack's forces that ultimately Alizon was defeated and thrown back into the sea.
The loss of the war brought about Baron Facellian's downfall. It took very little effort for Mallandor, his successor, to convince the country that all of Alizon's ills, past, present and future, could be laid squarely at Estcarp's doorstep.
During Girvan's telling all this, Dunnis had quietly brought each of the eight their food and they ate as they listened, scarcely tasting the savory mixture.
“But what about the children?” Loric asked. “What have the children to do with any of this?”
Eirran leaned forward a little from her place at the far edge of the circle, her plate of stew half-forgotten on her lap. She was the most eager of all to hear this, even more so than Yareth who, she knew, was carefully keeping himself from thinking not so much about the why of it than the how of the rescue itself.
Girvan tipped his plate to his mouth and slurped the broth. “Well,” he said, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “the last time I was in Alizon, I did pick up a rumor or two. Hadn't wanted to mention it before now, not without proof, if you take my meaning.”
“I think we need to know everything you have learned, proved or otherwise, so we can make our plans accordingly,” Yareth said. “Later is soon enough to find out whether it is true or false.”
The other men in the circle of listeners nodded agreement. Girvan raised his hand in acquiescence. “Very well. The rumors boil down to this: I learned that Mallandor has set his scholars to work at trying to find a way to open a new Gate to the Kolder world.”
Every listener uttered a sharp exclamation of protest. Weldyn recoiled and Sharpclaw flung himself, screaming, into the air. “Loose those demons on us again!” the Falconer cried. “Pray that it's only a rumor, Girvan! I've fought them. I know what they're capable of.”
Shudders racked Eirran's body and she tried to control herself as a flood of comprehension washed over her in the wake of Girvan's words. Like the others, she knew of the Kolder; they were, simply, the embodiment of all that was Evil in this world or any other. If there were still Kolder living—That had to be the reason why the children had been kidnapped! As much trouble as she had with the concept of her Jenys being, in Yareth's words, a “fledgling Witch,” she realized that the little girls represented a cumulative source of Power, raw and untrained talent though it might be. Perhaps it was this Power that the Alizon scholars needed, as a last step in fulfilling their quest to open this terrible Gate!
Fresh horror swelled her throat. If using the children in this way doesn't kill them, she thought, they will most certainly be put to death the moment the Gate is opened and their usefulness is at an end. Oh, please, don't let me start hiccupping now! We aren't so far from Es City that Yareth won't send me back, and I can't be left behind, not now, not when my Jenys is in even more terrible danger than we feared!
Something nudged at her mind and she jumped a little, swallowing hard.
Jenys!
It was as if the child were just out of sight a few feet away, calling her.
Jenys?
But there was no response, nor was the fluttering sensation at the edge of her mind repeated. Eirran forced herself to calmness, forced herself to think and remember. Often, back in the cottage at Blagden, she had had this same feeling, and always, she had discovered that Jenys had wanted or needed her. Could this have been a sign of Jenys's burgeoning Power, her talent as a Witch?
If so, then this fleeting contact must surely mean that Jenys was still alive—unless her mind was playing tricks on her. Could she answer? Could she find out whether this half-felt contact was real? Or was this just something that her imagination had supplied under the goad of her frantic worry about her child's welfare. Frowning, she tried to concentrate on returning the feathery touch she had felt, just at the edges of her thought. But she didn't know how to do it. Panic threatened to overwhelm her.
Jenys!
By sheer will power alone she stifled the hiccups that hovered just under her breastbone, threatening to erupt. Grimly, she ordered herself to stop, to quit thinking and feeling, to wrap her emotions in a veil even more impenetrable than her Witch-given disguise. I must not be discovered, she thought. I must not. Her stomach rebelled and she set her plate to one side.
“Not eating, Kernon?” It was Ranal, and he was staring at her quizzically. “What new thing is this?”
Eirran remembered the man she was impersonating and the legendary appetite that had provoked so much good-natured teasing back at the castle. She made herself shrug. “The news about the Kolder Gate has put me off my feed,” she said.
“Thinking about Kolder is enough to make anybody lose appetite,” Ranal said. He stared glumly into his nearly-empty dish.
“An
d anyway,” Eirran continued, “I think I must have eaten something bad this morning at breakfast. I'm going to give my stomach a rest for a while.”
IV
As a woman living as a man among men, Eirran strove to keep to herself as much as possible. Perhaps the real Kernon was a solitary kind of man; after that one inquiry about the false Kernon's lack of appetite, the others let Eirran alone as much as she desired.
She took full shares of the work, and was glad that each man by habit tended his own mount. Long ago Rangin had developed a fondness for her because of the barley-sugar she occasionally brought him as a treat. She had no idea whether the Witch-magic that changed her shape now veiled animals’ eyes the way it did human vision, but she didn't want to risk Rangin giving her away by nudging at her the way he always did when asking for his sweet.
For much the same reason she avoided Newbold as well. The falcon, while never openly affectionate with her, didn't regard her with the same hostility he and Sharpclaw displayed with non-Falconers. The other men carefully kept their distance from the fierce black-and-white birds, allowing Eirran's careful avoidance to go unremarked. Strangely enough, Yareth and Weldyn could, within limits, handle each other's falcons. But an outsider ran a considerable risk if he presumed too far with them.
The only female—in fact, the only other person—Newbold ever really liked, was Jenys. From the time the child had been able to toddle, she treated Newbold with respect and care, and Newbold responded with what might have been called love, if such an emotion could be thought of as coming from a Falconer's bird. But Newbold allowed Jenys to carry him about with her; once in a while, in a rare burst of affection, he even leaned his head against her. It had become a jest between Eirran and Yareth, how Newbold had decided that Jenys was his “pet human.”
Perhaps it was only her fancy, but it seemed to Eirran that Newbold had regained a little of his youthful vigor, which had been lacking of late. Perhaps he even realized that they were going to rescue his beloved Jenys. But that was silly, she told herself. For all that Newbold was an exceptional creature, he was only a bird, with only a bird's limited consciousness.