by Andre Norton
In the course of my sorting, I chanced upon a parcel tightly wrapped in dark blue leather. The instant I touched it, I knew that my betrothal gift lay within. It had never been listed among the family treasures, and no other person in the family had ever mentioned it. I assumed that Mother must have acquired it in her trading, instead of inheriting it.
Curious to view Mother’s secret gift, I pried loose the lacings and uncovered a pendant jewel set in silver. The stone was an unusual blue-gray color, the size of a hen’s small egg, cunningly polished to sparkle and flash as the light fell upon it. When I reached to pluck it out of its soft leather nest, my fingers were jolted as if I had plunged them into snow melt. Had I possessed a voice, I am sure I would have cried out. As it was, I snatched back my hand without picking up the stone. After a breathless moment, I folded the leather around the necklace and retied the lacings.
On previous occasions, I had welcomed opportunities to handle fine brooches or belt buckles because I could somehow sense, often in later dreams, images associated with the objects’ former owners. On this day, however, I wanted no more contact with Mother’s pendant. I remember thinking that if I should hold the jewel in my hand, I would be unbearably reminded of our separation. I did not want to be any more forcefully linked to nightly visions of her than I already was in unguarded waking moments. In haste, I packed the leather roll away with other precious items to be stored in our protected treasure room, and fled outside as if pursued by demons.
I never had the opportunity to show you that jewel. You were busily traveling between Ulmsport and Vennesport, and I was frequently away from our main Vennesport storehouse. It never occurred to me to retrieve that particular locked casket until nearly twenty years later when you raised the subject of marriage. You were so deferential, so shy about asserting yourself, that I wonder you managed to utter the word “wedding.” Had we been left in peace, I would surely and gladly have shown you the pendant. Any bride would have been proud to bring such a jewel to her lord-to-be. Yet those days were fated to be far from peaceful.
You had been concerned for some time by rumors of trouble stirring across the sea, and tried to convince Mother’s brothers that our trade links were being affected. You expressed alarm when strangers from far Alizon arrived at several Dales’ ports in the guise of traders, skulking about, asking too many questions. I listened to you, and shared your disquiet. I wrote Uncle Parand several times, warning him of the danger, but in those days of willful blindness, seemingly no words could be found to rouse the Dales.
We suffered sorely from our lack of leadership—the separate Clan lords refused to recognize the threat to all, and would not cooperate or plan together until it was too late. When Alizon’s invasion broke upon us from the sea, just as you had warned it would, all that we had built in Vennesport was destroyed. When next I saw our storehouse years later, only a burned-out shell remained. Thus Alizon robbed me of both my betrothal and the gift that should have graced me as a bride. You had been killed, and the jewel—there was no way to discover what fate had befallen it.
The more I thought about the jewel, the more convinced I became that it had to be an object of Power. How else could I explain my immediate aversion to its touch? I thought at the time I was distressed because of its association with Mother, but I was even then touching items she had used regularly—her tally sticks, her hair brush, her favorite writing quills. My dreams were undisturbed by any painful intrusions linked to those objects.
I knew little then about Power, except that Dalesfolk have always been deeply uneasy discussing it, and even more averse to experiencing the use of it. Our Wise Women possess knowledge of the uses of Power, but their own exercise of it is of the personal kind, tending ills or sensing would-be outcomes by consulting their rune-boards. We prize our Wise Women’s herb lore and healing skills, but any Dalesman recoils from the thought of the raw Power wielded by the Witches of Estcarp across the sea, or the storied mages of ancient Arvon.
When Mother died, I still thought of myself as wholly of the Dales—although I had only to glance at my image reflected from burnished metal or water to observe my marked outward variance from my fellow Dalesmen, including my parents. Not for me their red-brown hair that bleached in the sun, or their green or blue-green eyes. From my youth, my hair was dark gray-brown, like rare lamantine wood, you used to say, and my eyes a very pale clear blue. My skin, too, was pale, and refused to darken during the hot summer months. My appearance, as well as my muteness, set me apart as a child.
Some of the Rishdale Dames muttered about me until Dame Gwersa made plain that I was under her special protection. Only once I heard a kitchen maid hiss at me, “Spawn of Arvon,” but I had no idea what she meant. When I wrote the evident insult for Dame Gwersa, she pursed her lips and said that some folk preferred to invent troubles when there were quite enough under foot to deal with day to day. I subsequently searched the abbey archives for lore on Arvon, but could find few references to that daunting land beyond the mountains bordering the northernmost Dales. Dame Gwersa would say only that no Dalesmen traveled there because the Arvon folk were close-knit and preferred their own company. She also conceded that there were Powers and Forces in Arvon that were best avoided by prudent men. Many years later, I attempted to trace vague rumors of rare weddings between folk from Arvon and the Dales. The suspected children of such unions were shunned in the Dales, as if they were somehow different from us. I suspect I began then to wonder whether my own strangeness could be ascribed to a blood-tie to Arvon. I had, after all, been born in a remote Dale near the borders of both Arvon and the shunned Waste.
I made a list of my peculiarities: my muteness from birth, my un-Daleslike appearance, my strange dreams (possibly similar to the odd dreams experienced by my mother), my ability to find lost objects. It occurred to me that Mother’s betrothal gift might have originated in Arvon. I could no longer ignore the inference that my real father might not have been Dwyn of the House of Ekkor.
One other piece of evidence had to be included in my list. When I was sixteen, Uncle Parand borrowed me from Mother to accompany him on coastal trading voyages. He said I should be able to learn much, while keeping his records for him. After those first short trips, he pronounced me useful and trustworthy (and also happily not subject to illness due to the motion of our trading vessels). He then invited me on the much longer voyage across the sea to the eastern lands, whose great ports I had only heard about—Verlaine, Sulcarkeep, and Estcarp’s inland river port, Es City.
While I was walking alone near Es Castle, I encountered a solitary Witch of Estcarp. I was eighteen then; Uncle Parand had warned me to defer to any lady of the Old Race garbed in the distinctive gray robes of the Witches. I drew well to one side of the path to allow her ample room to pass by. She seemed not to have noticed me at all initially, but as soon as she passed me, she stopped abruptly, turned, and made a sign in the air with her right hand. To my amazement, the very lines her moving fingers sketched flared with a blue light (I have since been told that this indicated I was not tainted by the Dark). The Witch shook her head dismissively, and walked away without speaking a word to me. She therefore failed to see the delayed secondary glowing of her sign in the air—first red, then orange, then yellow—before it faded away entirely. I did not report this incident to my uncle, nor did I write any account of it for anyone else until now, as I marshal my arguments to persuade . . . I suppose I seek to persuade myself. My stalwart Doubt—if you were here, I believe you would accept my reasoning.
When I arrive at Lormt, I intend to request leave to search their archives for any records concerning jewels of Power. Captain Halbec has described for me the appearance of the Witch Jewels of Estcarp; they are cloudy, smooth-cut gems, not at all like my betrothal gift. Surely, however, Power can reside in different kinds of stones. I shall also search for lore about Arvon and whether any other folk like me have been described in kin lists.
If only the winds would rage this forc
efully on a steady tack, we should complete our passage in far less than a month. But I must strive to be patient, and hope that the vessel holds together amid the storm waves. It will be good to see the sun again—and to be able to stand still, and get dry!
CHAPTER 2
Kasarian of Krevonel–his account of the Baronial Assembly, Alizon City (Alizonian calendar: 5th Day, Moon of the Knife, the 1052nd Year Since the Betrayal)
I first saw the magic-cursed jewel when it was placed upon a silver chain around the neck of my sire’s murderer. It was the fifth day of the Moon of the Knife, in the One Thousand Fifty-second Year Since the Betrayal. All land barons of Alizon were required to attend the New Year’s Assembly for Presentation to the Lord Baron of that year’s noble whelps come-of-age.
I was standing not two spear lengths from the throne when Lord Baron Norandor raised his sword to amend the customary order of procedure. Except for his eyes, his face was concealed by the white-furred Lord Hound’s mask. He was a thinner man than the previous Lord Baron Mallandor, his dead littermate, so his voice echoed within the mask as he summoned Baron Gurborian to approach the throne.
Any matter concerning the murderer of my sire demanded my most wary attention. Gurborian’s schemes had for years permeated all of Alizon. Only the slowest-witted barons were unaware of his ambition to seize the Lord Hound’s mask for himself. Four moons before, I had received a private letter from Volorian, my sire’s elder littermate, complaining that Gurborian’s hirelings were prowling near our northeasterly estates. Could yet more threats against our Line be straining at Gurborian’s leashes?
When Gurborian had knelt before the throne, Norandor arose, sheathing his sword. “Worthy Gurborian of the Line Sired by Reptur,” the Lord Baron proclaimed, “my unfortunate littermate esteemed your counsel, as do I. For your able warfare in the Dales across the sea, as well as for other valued services, he allowed you to bear this singular token of Alizon’s approval.”
The torchlight in the Great Hall seemed to ignite a coal of blue fire in the Lord Baron’s outstretched hand. I edged forward to secure a better view. The light glittered from a jewel the size of a moor hen’s egg, and flared between Norandor’s fingers as he stooped to attach the stone to Gurborian’s baronial neck chain. “Now I, Norandor, Lord Baron of Alizon,” he continued, “reaffirm that approval by conferring upon you his notable prize, to be borne by you during your lifetime.”
A muffled snort erupted from the elderly baron standing next to me. “As soon as Gurborian’s dead,” he muttered, “Reptur’s pack had best hasten to return that bauble before the Lord Baron’s guard break in to claim it.”
I was the only one near enough to hear the remark, but I gave no sign that I had. I was fairly certain that old Baron Moragian was not a member of Gurborian’s current faction, but it was unwise to acknowledge such a comment where an unfriendly witness might notice. My outward detachment, I must admit, was also partly due to my attention’s being so closely focused on the jewel; never before had I seen such a stone. It continued to draw my eye even after Gurborian rejoined his coterie.
Our Line had no whelps to be presented that year. When Sherek, the new Master of Hounds, called for our pack’s representative, I strode forward to kneel before the throne. “In the stead of Baron Volorian,” I asserted, “I, Kasarian, appear for the Line Sired by Krevonel.” Norandor acknowledged me with a wave of his hand, and I withdrew to one side.
The Great Hall’s air seemed suddenly stifling, the torches far too bright. Within my head, the nagging pain that for some nights had frustrated my efforts to sleep redoubled its thumping. Desiring a temporary refuge away from the noisy throng, I slipped out into the corridor leading to the oldest part of Alizon Castle.
I knew of one particular room where I was unlikely to be disturbed. The ancient mosaic designs on its walls and floor were similar to those in one room in my own castle here in the City. I plucked a torch from a hall sconce to carry with me, but torches within the mosaic room had already been kindled by the servants.
Behind the pierced stone screen along one side of the chamber was a long bench probably used by serving slaves in times past when the room was more frequented. Due to winter drafts, a large tapestry had been hung across the room side of the screen, but it was threadbare in spots. If a person behind the screen chose his vantage point with care, he could see quite well into the main chamber. I had not intended to spy unseen, but I had only just sat down on the bench when I heard the scrape of boots entering the main room.
There were two intruders—one whose voice I did not recognize, but the other voice was Gurborian’s. I moved very quietly to obtain a glimpse of them through the tapestry fabric. The second man was Gratch of Gorm, Gurborian’s prime henchman. He had been named in Volorian’s letter as one of those prying and poking about in the mountains near our estates. From their first words, I could draw two immediate conclusions: they mistakenly assumed that the mosaic chamber was empty, and they plotted treason against Lord Baron Norandor.
Keeping his voice low, as befitted a devoted conspirator, Gratch said, “We are safe here from interference, my lord. No one followed us. I commented openly that we were going to the Kennels to survey the breeding bitches.”
Gurborian scowled. “Lord Baron Fool has named Sherek to be Master of Hounds. I had hoped to influence the choice from among our faction, but my bribes were evidently insufficient. That naming is done, and of less import than your news. How stands Bolduk’s faction—for us or against us?”
Reluctant to answer, Gratch toyed for a moment with his belt dagger. “I tried both the strategies we had discussed, my lord—hinting at dire costs for rejection, while promising fair rewards for alliance. Despite my best efforts, old Baron Bolduk continues obstinate, clinging to the senseless notion that only the Kolder are strong enough to vanquish Estcarp. I told him that the last Kolder within our borders have been dead for seven moons. The late Hound Master’s misguided foray into Estcarp should have convinced the very doorposts that Alizon can no longer expect any aid from the Kolder.”
“Bolduk is very like a doorpost,” mused Gurborian. “Perhaps a brisk fire at his base might melt his stubbornness. His blood feud with Ferlikian could always be revived by a word or two in the proper ears. Still, I would prefer Bolduk’s Line to be with us or neutral. Was he not impressed by your mention of our planned Escorian alliance?”
Gratch shook his head. “It is a delicate matter, my lord,” he said dourly, “to speak of any magical matter to Bolduk. Even though by our hoped-for alliance we should control the lash of spells, and for a welcome change, Estcarp’s crones would suffer the effects, Bolduk persists in abhorring any recourse to the weapons of our sworn enemies.”
Gurborian paced back and forth, his impatience evident in every stride. “Why can he not see—any weapon that might succeed must be employed? The Witches have thwarted us far too long with their foul containment spells woven from the Forbidden Hills across the Alizon Gap. It would be rare sport for them to be scourged by magic stronger than their own. If only we had an Escorian mage to exhibit . . . even an apt apprentice could persuade the undecided among the barons to join with us.”
Eager to placate his master, Gratch leaned toward Gurborian. “My lord, I am certain that I shall be successful in my latest negotiations. Today I received a message from my most reliable source near the Escorian border. If his information is correct, he should soon be able to arrange a meeting for me with a lower level student who has traveled in Escore and—”
Gurborian seized Gratch’s neck chain and jerked him so that his teeth rattled. “If—should—lower level student,” he scoffed. “I have heard such weasel words too often with nothing tangible to show for them. Norandor is already suspicious of our comings and goings. So far, I have mollified him.” He thrust Gratch away, and flourished the jewel on his own neck chain. “He awards me this to assure my loyal allegiance. Fool—it was mine thirteen years ago as Mallandor’s reward for my aid in deposi
ng Facellian. Once our new plans are firmly forged my faction will feed Norandor to the hounds just as we earlier served his littermate. But I need more backing! I dare not move too soon without sufficient preparation.”
“There is one definite word of cheer, my lord.” Gratch had prudently stepped beyond Gurborian’s reach. “I was able to hire the poisoner we spoke of. The supply of smother root that you required will be delivered by tonight.”
“I shall make good use of it.” Gurborian smiled. “Bolduk’s younger whelp—is he not in the Castle with his sire? Should he suddenly fall ill or worse, Ferlikian would be blamed, and my quiet offer of sympathetic alliance could be well received.”
“I shall see to it, my lord,” said Gratch briskly. “Would it not be wise if we were seen at the Kennels, in case anyone should seek us there?”
Gurborian started for the door, then paused. “Indeed . . . although I do not care to encounter Volorian’s fosterling in the Kennels. I hear that he is as tediously keen a houndsman as that troublesome border lord himself.”
“While I was in the mountains during the Second Whelping Moon, I saw Baron Volorian from a fair distance,” Gratch remarked, as he followed his master out into the corridor. “He was wading through his pack, choosing new breeders. They say he’s too old and too involved in the breeding to leave his estates nowadays. As you saw, he did not come for this year’s Assembly.”
“Volorian may be old,” Gurborian replied with a laugh, “but he’s wily. He well remembers how I disposed of his younger littermate, so he keeps his distance from me.” Their voices receded, trailing off into a murmur, then silence.
I sat half dazed, my thoughts racing. A murder plot against Baron Bolduk’s younger whelp—Bolduk’s Line currently harbored no active animosity toward the Line Sired by Krevonel, but neither were we obligated to dispatch a warning. I judged that an admonitory word to Ferlikian would be more potentially useful. Such commonplace baronial machinations, however, were thoroughly dwarfed by Gurborian’s threat to forge a treasonous alliance with the magic-wielding fiends of Escore. Should Gurborian ever suspect that I had overheard his plotting, he would move swiftly to send me after my murdered sire.