Tales From High Hallack, Volume 2

by Andre Norton

  There was a single circular room within, stone walled with nothing to soften or veil those gaunt walls. A bench was part of one wall and opposite that, placed higher so that a person of ordinary height could just see out of it, was a square opening, beyond which was darkness.

  Before the bench, facing the wall without an opening, knelt Alexia. There was a string of beads, clasped between her hands, and one by one they slid through her fingers. As each was held in turn she whispered. Her voice was like the hiss of something which was not human. Her eyes were closed and her head was flung up and a little back so that her face was fully exposed. The hood of her parka lay back on her thin shoulders, pulling with it her hair so that there was no softening to her set features. Marta gave a small gasp — Alexia — Alexia was praying!

  Ilse motioned a command and Marta hurriedly followed the orders she had been given. She set down her candle on the bench before which the girl knelt. Ilse was placing hers at the same time at Alexia’s right. The girl made no move. Now the hissing had stopped, but her lips still moved, as if her prayer was inaudible.

  Ilse made one more preparation. She swung the brazier directly before Alexia and that trail of smoke arising from it bent directly outward toward the girl’s face.

  Then Ilse spoke, and the words she used were not German, nor in any other language that Marta could understand. They were uttered with a note of command, of demand — as if forming a question which must be answered.

  Alexia’s facial muscles seemed to twist, to form for an instant the features of a stranger. But her eyes did not open. Instead, from the grimace of her mouth, there came a screech which no one could not mistake as rage.

  So threatening was that voice which was not Alexia’s (could never be Alexia’s, Marta protested inwardly) that she herself shrank back against the wall of the tower, while the feeling of cold increased, laying an icy touch upon her flesh.

  Again Ilse spoke. Then her right hand rose and she pointed first to the right hand candle and then to the left. The flames at their crests elongated, thinned out, and crossed, directly before Alexia’s face. Back and forth Ilse led other shining threads from the candles all the time speaking with authority, her words somehow rising and outreaching the screech which continued to break from the girl.

  Now Alexia’s head and shoulders were enmeshed in a web of the candle beams. For the first time she moved. The string of beads flailed out as she tried to use it as a weapon against those ties of light. She twisted and turned, once half arising from her knees only to fall back again. Her face was a mask of hate and anger, all of what had been Alexia seemed to have utterly vanished.

  Still chanting Ilse unstoppered the bottle and she poured from it a liquid which was as colorless as water, catching it in the palm of her right hand.

  She was standing directly behind Alexia now, and the girl was twisting wildly, crying out sounds which might have been uttered by a trapped animal.

  Ilse’s hand went out, passing easily through the network woven from the candle beams. She tipped her palm so that the liquid it contained fell directly on Alexia’s head.

  “Alexia Hartmann you are.” For the first time Ilse used words Marta could understand. “Annarhilde you are not. Go, you who are not, to the place awaiting you. For I name this child rightfully by her name, Alexia, and I do so by that Power of Light in which no darkness can abide!”

  There was one last shriek from Alexia and her body crumpled to the floor. The candle weaving vanished, but the scent from the brazier puffed out, seeming thin as the smoke was, feeble as the flame within, to drive away the cold. For that was gone, and with it the wan light, so that only the candles remained.

  Marta flung herself forward, her arms about Alexia, enwrapping her with the same determination that the candle beams had shown. The girl stirred and her eyes opened for the first time.

  “Gran?” She spoke as she had as a small child when some nightmare had released its grip on her at the coming of loving care.

  “Alexia, dear heart, it’s all right.”

  “I — there was someone —” the girl said uncertainly.

  “That one is gone, nor shall she return.” Ilse picked up the brazier chain. With it she also took up the candle which appeared to blaze high enough to light the room. Now it caught and held on one block in the wall, one immediately above that square which opened on the outer world. There had been a carving there, a deep one, and it had been crudely defaced, the stone chipped and gouged as if done by poor tools over a period of time.

  “The All Seeing Eye,” Ilse said. “She could not bear its watching. Hatred brought her here, and because that she had been taught to revere had failed her, she sought other powers. She faces other judgment now, but there will be remembered what she once was and what unrightful punishment was dealt her then. Alexia —”

  “Yes.”

  “In days to come pray for one who suffered much and who took then a wrong path. Die Schweigende.”

  “The Silent One —” the girl repeated softly.

  “It — it is all over?” Marta found her voice.

  “Here and now it is over, dear friend. I would say that this place which has seen so much despair, sorrow, and darkness of soul should be destroyed. Though I do not believe that it will ever harbor again that which sheltered in it.”

  “Yes — oh, yes.”

  Ilse stooped and picked up the chain of beads which had fallen out of Alexia’s hold. She put it with the two others she had carried from the house. Placing them together on the cloth in which she had wound them, she set the packet on the bench and put the flame of her candle to the edge. Fire flashed as if it was tinder or soaked in oil. She opened the brazier now and let what remained of its smoldering contents fall on the small blaze.

  The sweet odor of herbs and spices flowed about them, leaving ashes as powdery as dust. Ilse regarded those approvingly.

  “Such things are not for our world. Better so.”

  She blew out the candles and Marta switched on the torch to lead them out into the autumn night where all shadows were harmless.

  The Nabob’s Gift

  Hallows Eve: Tales of Love and the Supernatural (1992) Walker

  “It makes me feel as if I am a lobster patty passed around on a tray at a ball supper!”

  The Honorable Sara Langston gave a vicious jerk to the fringe of her heaviest wool shawl. She had spoken aloud, though there was no one to hear her.

  There was no flame on the hearth of the state drawing room, making it as dull and cold as the world beyond the terrace windows, where a boisterous wind plastered damp leaves to the balustrade. But within her, rage was hot enough to balance the chill.

  Not a “suitable alliance,” rather an odious connection. So she had not “taken” during her first Season, nor the second, nor the third. So she was a gawk of a female with no pretense to presence nor style, as Mama had not scrupled to declare for these three years past. She had long ago accepted the difficulties of her position, eldest daughter but not Mama’s own child—Louisa was that. And Papa being well into dun territory.

  Now, when there seemed a chance that Lord Mortlake would come up to scratch and offer for Louisa, as Sara had been forcibly told this hour past, Sara must be agreeably surprised, everlastingly grateful that a tolerable soul was ready to take her.

  She had been faced with this for more than a year, but time and distance had been welcome barriers; now both had been swept away. Even in the beginning it had been gothic—betrothed to a man she had never seen. Then, six months past, the respite which had sent Mama into a spasm—that her promised groom had been removed by a tiger—a tiger no less!

  Sara bit her lip. There was something so out of reason in all this that she could believe she had fallen into some utterly nonsensical novel. Though Jasper Rowland had been removed from her life before he had ever entered it, now her parents did not scruple to agree with Amos Rowland, the returning Nabob—so deep in the pocket as to rival a duke, or so they reported�
��that she wed his second son Julian.

  The two of them, Mama had announced, were on their way from London with Papa this very moment. It was insufferable, barbarous, and there was nothing she could do about it. Amos Rowland wanted a quality bride, and Papa wanted a bride-price to pull him out of dun territory.

  Sara knew that instead of a dowry (any such funds would be passed along to Louisa now) favors and cash would flow the other way. The Rowlands were mushrooms. Little better than cits. It was a ramshackle part she was to play, and there was no way of squeaking out of it. A female really had no other shift with the whole of the family against her.

  “Sara! Sara! Mama wants you. You’d better not show her that Friday face. Only fancy you will be setting us all in a stare—such a tale for the town!” Louisa teetered in the doorway. She was small, a mere twit of a girl, but her hair was lustrous and dark and she was pretty in a fashion designed to fade early. She had had two offers last Season, and now Mama was sure she had young Mortlake firmly attached.

  Also she was spiteful, small-minded, suffered easily from an irritation of the nerves if denied her own way. Mama doted on her, and she had known almost from her cradle how to work Papa.

  Sara did not risk the luxury of a reply; she could not trust her tongue. Louisa was wearing that sly smile which suggested it would be ill-advised to show any temper.

  Mama, the second Lady Beners, was ensconced in her sitting room by a well-tended fire. She was as small as Louisa and might once have been considered passably pretty. Her situation through the years, as she had to witness the squandering of her fortune by a profligate husband she had never found likable, and those countless incivilities and many reproaches over the nonarrival of a male heir, had stiffened her temper and soured her with grievances. Her forehead, well ridged with wrinkles, showed under the wide ruffles of an elaborate cap, for Lady Beners did not believe in surrendering any town bronze to country living: her wardrobe was kept as much to the first start of fashion as she was able to hold it.

  “I trust, girl”—her voice was both deep and ominous—”you have come to your proper senses, and we shall not be assaulted by any more rubbishy notions. This is a highly suitable alliance. Young Rowland is heir to a goodly estate, and we have it on excellent authority that his father is prepared to settle a sizeable sum on him at his marriage. You shall certainly not want for anything. Since Mr. Rowland wishes you both to move in the first society, everything will be done hamdsomely.

  “He has already informed your father that he is bringing some fine jewelry from India for his son’s bride. Beners has agreed that we may go to London and select bride clothes convenable with your station. I have already sent word to Madam Estelle that she is to look out for all that is fitting. It is plain that Mr. Rowland quite dotes on Julian, and since he is now the only son you may expect a very superior establishment.”

  Sara let the words flow. Did her misery show in her face? Lady Beners’s eyes narrowed.

  “I will not abide impertinence from you. Any young female who has shown herself to be such a loss during three Seasons must welcome with joy this exceedingly fortunate turn of affairs! Is that not true, Sara?”

  She must get away soon or betray feelings that would lead Lady Beners to the pleasure of a thundering scold.

  “Oh, there is no dealing with you, you wretched, ungrateful girl! Go to your room and recollect well when you get there that such a manner is highly ill-advised. We expect our guests to arrive at dusk. I told Martha to lay out the lilac crepe—mind you—do not come down with that mulish face. You will be all that is amiable and genteel.”

  “Yes, Mama,” Sara responded colorlessly. Louisa, standing behind her mother’s shoulder, smiled maliciously as Sara went out.

  At least she had her own bedchamber to be private in. In the dusk two candles stood aflame on the dressing table. Across the bed lay the lilac gown considered suitable for the sacrifice about to be offered up.

  Sara dropped on the bench to survey her reflection. No pretense to any beauty. Far from a diamond of the first water or an Incomparable. She had a clear skin, but it was not pink and white, more like dark ivory. Her hair had been tortured by Martha into the closest imitation of a modish coiffure as could be achieved. It was dark brown, and the frizzing and stiffening it had received left it lusterless. The strands were so fine that the ends loosened easily, and she was apt to look windblown within a half hour of reaching a ballroom. Her jawline was too firm for a female, her mouth certainly too large. The nose was passable in that it was straight and not obtrusive. Her eyes were large, seemed sometimes brown and sometimes green.

  She lacked presence, which allowed her to sink quickly into the mass of any gathering, even though, for a female, she was overtall. The style of dress Lady Beners deemed suitable for the occasion never became her—she cast a baneful eye now at the lilac.

  Even though this proposed parti had been in India all his life and this was his first venture into Society, it would not take him long to realize that his father was set to match him to an antidote. For all the material advantages her stepmother insisted on, Sara could see nothing ahead but everything that was evil—she faced a very dismal future.

  “Miss Sara.” Martha bustled in. She was a comfortable woman of country origin who had come to Highmount with Sara’s mother upon her marriage and had taken charge of the child when her mother had died at her daughter’s birth. “Now don’t you be downhearted. The pie ain’t made ‘til the hen is caught.” Her fingers were busy with the small buttons of Sara’s frock.

  Sara laughed hollowly. “This hen is caught, Martha, and the pie is waiting.” She moved in chemise and petticoat to the window. The drapes had been drawn across what was really a door onto a balcony running along this side of the house. Sara pulled the flower-patterned folds apart to look out.

  Below stretched the formal garden reaching to a line of limes. Behind that arose abruptly the feature of the landscape that gave the estate its name—a steep hill. In spite of the fast-failing light she could sight, crowning that, those queer old stones that the country people disliked. There were stories about those—

  “Miss Sara.” Martha took the curtain out of her grasp. “’Tis unchancy to go a-lookin’ at th’ Tall Men—’specially at this time o’ the year.”

  Sara laughed a little more strongly this time. “Martha, I have just seen something more unchancy than those old stones—our guests arriving.”

  They had formed a procession, her father’s curricle, followed by two coaches, all stirring up the gravel of the drive. Sara surrendered to Martha’s ministrations, already sure that no amount of use of the curling iron could do anything for her hair, and regarding the lilac with increasing loathing as the maid got her into it, tugging laces and ribbons to their best showing.

  “Might be latest fashion,” Martha mumbled as she stood back to survey the result of her labors, “but that ain’t your color, Miss Sara. It just don’t—”

  “Suit,” returned Sara flatly. Even by the soft candlelight her skin looked more yellowish, and her figure gaunter because of the cut of the skirt. “It’s not the dress, Martha. I’m just not meant to be the fine lady. Well, I might as well get on with this idiotish affair.”

  She allowed Martha to drape an embroidered shawl about her shoulders, and picked up a silver filigreed fan. Once in the chilly corridor she was thankful that in this weather one was allowed the meager comfort of a flannel petticoat and long sleeves with an evening toilet.

  A murmur of voices issued from the drawing room where a fire had been laid, and a sufficient number of candles gave clear view of the assembled company.

  Lady Beners, in imperial glory of deep-purple velvet, displaying diamonds at wrists and throat and from pins set in her befeathered turban, looked better clad for a London dine out. Her back was board stiff, and she was smiling with well-lessoned pleasure at a gentleman before her.

  He still wore traveling dress, all superfine to be sure. However, though his tail
or must have wrought with anxious care, he was not a credit to those endeavors. The skin of his face was sun darkened and his hair had retreated to a last stand in a fringe at ear level. His nose was more akin to a snout turning up at the tip, and small eyes added to his porcine aspect.

  Lord Beners had taken position by the hearth. But Louisa, standing behind her mother, was engaged in a rapt contemplation of the last member of their company—a young man who was a tribute to his tailor.

  Sara was as near struck as Louisa. She had met during her unproductive three Seasons many of the Nonpareils. Here was one who could even have fixed female attention had he appeared arm in arm with Lord Byron.

  True, he was browned as might be expected from his years in India, but his features had none of the coarseness betrayed by those of his sire. He possessed a straight nose that accorded perfectly with a well-defined mouth, and eyes almost large and lustrous enough to be those of a female.

  Sara’s uneasiness became a heavier burden; the difficulty of the situation seemed nearly past bearing. That such a paragon would welcome their alliance could not be accepted unless one was completely crackbrained.

  Still, he was all correct when they were made known to each other. His father’s survey of her person was far more measuring. There was little past greetings said, and then the gentlemen withdrew to array themselves for dinner. No sooner had the door closed behind them than Lady Beners attacked.

  “No more whims out of you, miss. The young man is all which is presentable. We are well on our way. My lord has settled matters and there is to be no dillydallying on the wedding date. We shall give a ball on the thirty-first to introduce them properly to the county. The old man is not quite the thing, but he will buy Harewood and restore that—which will be all that is proper. The son is pretty mannered—”

  “He’s wonderful!” Louisa interrupted. “The handsomest man I’ve ever seen.”