by Andre Norton
I gestured for my hand slate. Jonja read the words aloud as swiftly as I could write them. “I have just seen my betrothal jewel being worn by an Alizonder baron at their New Year’s Assembly. He is the Baron Gurborian of the Line Sired by Reptur, murderer of this man’s father, and his archenemy.”
Duratan’s exclamation was lost in the general astonished babble. I remained seated on the stone floor, trembling from its physical chill as well as my sensing experience. Previously, my visions of lost articles or places to search for them had come to me in fragmentary dreams. I could not recall so vivid and coherent an impression as this, and certainly never before while I was awake.
Ouen began to speak, but Jonja interrupted. “Look!” she said sharply. “Our uninvited visitor is stirring.”
“And feeling for his weapons,” Duratan observed. “He will be disappointed to find them missing.”
I reached for my staff, and with Jonja’s assistance, rose to my feet. I did not want to be at a disadvantage to any Alizonder, whether he was armed or disarmed.
CHAPTER 6
Kasarian–his account requested for Lormt’s archives, following his sudden transport to Lormt (7th Day, Moon of the Knife/Month of the Ice Dragon)
Muffled voices intruded into the darkness enfolding me . . . I could hear people talking, but their words were unintelligible. As I became increasingly aware, I struggled to move my limbs. Hard, cold . . . stone beneath me—why should I be lying on a stone floor? My left hand was empty—where was my dagger? I felt for my throwing knives, but my belt loops were stripped bare of all weapons. Worse still, the elder’s key was no longer in my right hand. Had I been robbed as well as disarmed? I strove to deal with a daunting rush to memories. I had stepped through that eldritch oval of light deep beneath Krevonel Castle, and by some foul magic, I had evidently been spirited elsewhere. Estcarpian enemies—just before the darkness had claimed me, I had seen Estcarpians.
I opened my eyes, and sat up cautiously to survey my situation. I was indeed outnumbered by foes, but so far, they had only disarmed me, not actively attacked me—nor had they stolen my baron’s chain or belt wallet. As soon as I moved, they had stopped speaking. The five of us sat—or stood—in silence, peering tensely at one another. I wondered if more enemies could be lurking beyond the flickering, limited lantern light. The portal through which I had come had disappeared, depriving us of its additional illumination.
This chamber was vast—distant walls and ceilings receded into impenetrable darkness. Unsettling as my surroundings were, I was more immediately concerned with the presence of my adversaries. The four figures before me were formidable: two males of Estcarp’s witchly Old Race, one Old Race female garbed like the spell-casting hags of the Dales, and one other startling female. For a heart-stopping instant, due to her properly white hair, pale eyes, and fair skin, I almost mistook her for an Alizonder, but her obvious comradeship with these Witch folk and her inappropriate stance quickly altered my opinion. She was grasping a sturdy staff as if she knew how to wield it; quite impossible for an Alizonder female. When I stood up to attain a better vantage, she was the closest to me. Her hands betrayed her advanced age. Why should an elderly female, clearly not an Estcarpian, join in company with Old Race fighters and a spell-casting hag?
Although he bore no sword, the old male appeared to be the sire of the group. He gestured toward some wooden benches nearby, and said in slowly, carefully-pronounced Estcarpian, “Let us sit down and talk together peacefully.”
It had been some time since I had heard the enemy’s speech. A few of my fellow barons with scholarly talents had learned the rudiments of Estcarpian in order to be able to question the rare live prisoners that we seized within our borders, but I had not participated in an interrogation for several years. I judged it prudent at this point to conceal my understanding until I had a better assessment of my position. I therefore feigned ignorance of his words, and countered in Alizonian, “May I be told where I am and who you are?”
The younger male held a serviceable knife in his right hand, but he did not flourish it. His easy familiarity with the weapon and his erect bearing suggested soldierly experience. Furthermore, he limped when he moved, as if maimed from an injury to his left leg. As soon as I spoke, he faced the old male, and said impatiently, “Surely Morfew has been roused by now! As you predicted, we do require his skill with Alizonian speech.”
Morfew—the name almost caused me to betray myself, but I disguised my reaction by taking a step to one side. There had once been a certain noble Line in Alizon, before my sire’s Presentation. I had seen its breeding lists among the baronial records, and the males’ names took that form. I was searching my memory for the name of the Line Sire when a spark of light pricked the distant darkness.
As the light grew closer, I could see two slowly moving figures. An Old Race female led the way, carrying the lantern, which disclosed a garish birth stain across her face. I suppressed a shudder. We of Alizon do not allow deformed whelps to live. Far better for each Line to breed only the strong and the fit. The female stretched back her free hand to steady a thin, elderly man with long white hair. Surely, I thought, he could not be an Alizonder . . . but when he sat down on a bench near to me, he peered at me with pale blue eyes and addressed me in halting Alizonian.
“You have nothing to fear in this place, young man,” he said. “We intend you no harm. I am Morfew. . . .”
“Not of the Line Sired by Ternak!” I interrupted him, for the name had come to my mind.
He blinked at me, rather like an owl disturbed from its daytime slumber. “My sire was bred of that Line, yes,” he replied, “but it has been sixty years since I have received any word of our pack. You will excuse my rough speech—I am the sole Alizonder resident here, so my tongue’s facility has declined from lack of practice.”
“I must relate hard news of your Line from a time before my whelping,” I said. “The Line Sired by Ternak has been considered dead these many years since the last known males perished in the blood feud.”
Morfew grasped the edge of the bench, his face drained of all color. “Blood feud. . . .” he whispered, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Wait. Matters concerning my pack can be discussed later. I must convey your words to my friends. This man knows my family,” he told the others in Estcarpian. “He bears ill tidings from long ago; they have been destroyed.”
“I sorrow that you must receive such dire word from the past,” the Old Race sire responded, “yet we need to know now who this man is and for what purpose he has come here.”
Morfew bowed his head for a moment, then stared straight at me. “You wear a baron’s chain,” he noted. “Who sired your Line? Why have you come to us?”
I thought quickly. All the extensive Ternak lands had been seized by the Lord Baron of that day. Half had been awarded to the survivors of the blood feud, but it could be possible that this old baron might mount a valid claim for his land rights. It was advisable to speak him fair. I saluted him properly, touching first my Hound badge, then my Line badge. “I hail you, Morfew, revealed restored Baron of the Line Sired by Ternak. I am Kasarian, of the Line Sired by Krevonel. I know not how I come to stand before you in this strange place. I stepped through a curious portal in Alizon, and must assume that I have been delivered here by magic. Is this place near to our common border?”
Morfew held up a restraining hand. “You have indeed been transported a great distance, young man. These vaults lie beneath the citadel of Lormt, far to Alizon’s south.”
I could not believe him. I had of course heard of Lormt. In Alizon, it was dismissed as an isolated Estcarpian castle not worth assaulting, a distant gathering place for useless, doddering scholars who scrabbled among dusty writings. Even Estcarp’s Witches scorned the old males who laired at Lormt. I had certainly never expected to travel thither.
The soldierly Estcarpian sheathed his knife and stooped to pick up a lantern. “Can we not find a more comfortable place than this
for our conversation?” he asked the old sire.
Morfew rose slowly from his bench. “By all means,” he agreed fervently. “My bones do not find these cellars hospitable.” Turning to me, he added in Alizonian, “Come along, young man. Let us seek a warmer, softer place to sit and talk.”
I noticed that they arranged for me to walk in their midst, for the spell-casting hag beckoned for me to follow her, and the soldierly male walked closely behind me.
As we picked our way around and over cracked and displaced stonework, I wondered what catastrophe had befallen this place. The massive blocks and style of the joinery implied an enormous edifice above us, perhaps as old as my own castle. We passed through winding corridors and up many stairs, then suddenly an icy wind gushed through an outer door as we emerged onto the snow-covered stones of a night-shadowed courtyard.
Never had I beheld such a space enclosed by towered walls. Moonlight reflected on the snow revealed severe damage to parts of the rectangular enclosure. Teeth chattering in the chill, I clasped my arms tightly across my chest and glanced upward. I halted so abruptly that the soldier following behind collided with me. “The stars!” I exclaimed, jarred into speech. “Beyond the walls—mountains!”
Morfew touched my arm, evidently for reassurance. “This is Lormt,” he said. “The skies here are somewhat different from those above Alizon City, and we are truly tucked away among the high peaks. At least we have our cloaks to shield us from the wind. Hurry along—we have not much farther to go to reach a sheltered fire-side.”
A tall stone building reared before us, and the spell hag plunged into a recessed doorway at its base. We climbed yet more stairs, then the hag opened a heavy door into a snug study lined with scroll-stacked shelves. Kneeling by the hearth, she coaxed a fire from coals banked for the night.
Morfew settled himself on a cushioned chair at the head of a long table, and offered me the chair to his left. The soldier withdrew briefly, then returned with a tray of pewter goblets and a flask of ale, which he poured into a pannikin to warm over the fire. I let the others sip their brew before I tasted my portion. I had noticed that the goblet I chose was empty before the pouring; it seemed unlikely that they would try to poison me at this juncture. Morfew must have observed my brief hesitation, for he smiled and said, “We keep no poisons here, only old documents.”
The soldier drew a leather bag from his belt and spilled from it a scattering of crystals upon the table surface. At the same time, the spell hag placed in front of her a carved wooden board ornamented with red, black, and gold markings.
I felt the hair rise on the back of my neck. Was I to be subjected to Estcarpian magic? “Morfew,” I demanded, “What means this display?”
“Do not be disturbed,” he replied in a soothing tone. “My friends are merely testing whether any Power of the Dark presently threatens us.” Morfew repeated his remark in Estcarpian.
The soldier frowned as he scooped up his crystals and tossed them a second time. “I see no taint of the Dark about him,” he said, glancing dubiously at me. “There are, however, strong indications of pending danger.”
“My rune-board confirms your crystals,” said the spell hag, as she returned the wooden strip to her belt fastening.
Stung by their remarks, I held my tongue until Morfew had repeated their words in Alizonian, then I asserted, “My Line has ever rejected any resort to magework. What taint of the Dark do you have reason to associate with me?”
I paused, struck by a tantalizing thought. Could it be possible that these folk might oppose Gurborian’s plotting? If they reviled Dark magic, would they not despise any Escorian alliance proposed by Alizon? I decided to take a calculated risk. “How stand you anent any traffic with the Dark Ones of Escore?” I inquired. “In my studies of ancient lore, I have read that Estcarp once warred mightily with those from the east, but we have heard naught further in Alizon for many years. Is there still enmity between Estcarp’s rulers and Escore’s mages?”
Morfew seemed intrigued. “What a curious question,” he observed. After he had relayed my words to the others, he resumed in Alizonian. “As I try to recall how matters were viewed in Alizon, my counter question to you would be, ‘Why do you ask that? On which side does your interest lie?’ But pray contain your reply for a moment, for I perceive an opportunity to explain to you our somewhat different ways of thinking here at Lormt. More than fifty years ago, I was prevented from pursuing knowledge in Alizon, so I journeyed here, where all scholars are welcome to reside.
“You must understand, young man, that Lormt has no rulers like Alizon’s Lord Baron and his Baronial Council. As a community of scholars, our sole purpose is to seek and organize lost lore from the past. The Council of Estcarp’s Witches scorns us for our predominant maleness, but tends chiefly to ignore us. We thus rarely affect one another—still, two years ago we suffered from their great Turning of the land, which caused the damage you observed to our walls and foundations. For our part, we prefer to be left undisturbed, each of us working as he chooses.
“As for Escore,” Morfew continued, “we have had scant word of it until relatively recent years, when some of the Old Race have ventured there. Puissant powers still abide in that land, some pledging homage to the Light, but others serving the Dark. I am certain that I speak for Ouen, our chief scholar (he gestured at the old sire), when I say that Lormt stands firmly for the Light.”
The others around the table hearkened closely to his translation, their expressions grave.
“But would you fight against Escore’s Dark mages?” I persisted. “Would you defend this place against them?”
Appearing alarmed, Morfew repeated my questions. The soldierly Estcarpian frowned at me, and snapped, “Do you warn us or threaten us?”
A sudden loud thump made us all start in our chairs. The white-haired old female had pounded her staff on the floor. She appeared to be unable to speak—yet another maimed foe!—since she scribbled on a slate and handed it to the old sire so that he could voice her message. “Enough questions,” he read aloud. “Answers must now be offered.”
CHAPTER 7
Mereth–events at Lormt (early 7th Day, Month of the Ice Dragon/Moon of the Knife)
As we plodded back toward Lormt’s upper levels, I labored under a double burden: the physical exertion of retracing our way through all those corridors and staircases, added to the internal exertion of controlling my seething feelings. I could scarcely suppress my sense of dread and revulsion at being within actual touching distance of an Alizonder.
It was true that Morfew was also of that cursed race, but from the moment I had met him, I discerned that his spirit was distinctly different from those of his rapacious countrymen. Like Dame Gwersa, Morfew was a true scholar. In recent years, he had been immersed in kinship studies. A quantity of documents had been sent to Lormt from the collection of Ostbor, an elderly Estcarpian famed for his kinship knowledge, who had died some months before the Turning. The lady Nolar had been Ostbor’s student, Morfew told me, and upon her settling at Lormt, she had assisted him greatly in bringing some order to her former master’s scrolls. Vast quantities of additional kinship records had been disclosed when Lormt’s hidden cellars were revealed by the Turning. I had just begun to work with Morfew and Nolar on that section of Lormt’s archives dealing with the Dales when this genuinely threatening Alizonder shattered our peace.
I told myself that this young Alizonder baron could have been no more than a child at the time of the invasion. It was unreasonable of me to hold Kasarian personally responsible for the injuries that I and other Dalesfolk had suffered . . . and yet he was an Alizonder baron, and thus represented our direst foes. Countering my aversion was my burning curiosity. He had to know something about my betrothal jewel, for it was by his remembered vision that I had seen it worn by his family’s enemy. I realized that I would have to curb my natural loathing and seek to learn more from Kasarian of Krevonel . . . if he, in turn, would deign to talk to me.
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br /> We settled ourselves at last in Ouen’s study, where Duratan served us a most welcome measure of warmed ale. Kasarian markedly refrained from tasting his share until after we had sampled ours.
Duratan’s and Jonja’s employment of their magical foreseeing tools evoked a forceful rejection by Kasarian for any form of what he branded “magework.” After a pause to deliberate, he pressed us to state whether Lormt would defend itself against the Dark mages, who were rumored to hold parts of Escore, the magic-haunted land beyond the mountains bordering Estcarp to the east.
When Duratan sharply demanded whether the baron was warning us or threatening us, I judged that it was time to interrupt before anger—however well-justified—flared into actual violence. I thumped my staff on the floor, and was gratified when all eyes immediately focused on me. Ouen read aloud my message: “Enough questions. Answers must be offered.”
An impish smile brightened Morfew’s face. “Dear lady,” he began, “how helpful of you to direct us to an essential point. Each side in this discussion possesses information desired by the other. Young man . . .” Morfew peered keenly at the Alizonder and asked in Estcarpian, “Am I not correct in believing that you can understand most of what we say? The time required for our exchanges could be halved if I did not have to repeat every statement in both tongues.”
The Alizonder smiled—an unpleasant grimace, disclosing his hound-sharp teeth. “You said your Alizonian was slack from disuse,” he responded in halting but intelligible Estcarpian. “I also find my Estcarpian similarly rust-bound. If you would speak slowly and assist me as needed. . . .”
“I thought as much,” said Morfew. “Let us try, then, to be as simple and clear as we can, for all our sakes. Since you have given us your name, you should know the names of my colleagues. This is Ouen, our chief scholar, as I just mentioned. Next to him is Duratan, a former Borderer and now our able chronicler; his lady wife Nolar, healer and scholar; Jonja, our resident Wise Woman; and Mereth, who has recently voyaged here from the Dales to pursue kinship queries.”