by Andre Norton
“Pray inquire of him for us,” Ouen requested, and Nolar rose from her chair.
Jonja also stood. “By your leave, I can alert Mistress Bethalie to assemble her most skilled glovemakers.” At Ouen’s gesture of approval, she followed Nolar from the room.
Ouen pushed back his own chair. “Your study of Alizonian should be as undisturbed as possible,” he said. “I shall arrange for food and drink to be brought here, as we did for our work in Morfew’s rooms. We will rejoin you presently, after you have had time to progress. Despite the gravity of the threat from the north, we cannot neglect Lormt’s necessary activities.”
Duratan smiled ruefully. “Master Wessell has been chasing after me through every corridor, waving his provisioning lists. I had hoped to elude him in here, but this would be a good opportunity to confer with him.”
Once they had departed, Morfew gathered together several blank sheets of parchment, and invited me to take the chair beside his. Kasarian retained his place across the table from us.
As the hours passed, I was exceedingly relieved that I could not physically speak the wretched tongue. The more I listened to Morfew and Kasarian growl and snarl at one another, the more they sounded like a brace of quarrelsome hounds. Spoken Alizonian grated upon my ear . . . and my memory. I had thought that I had buried those memories, but jagged shards from the past stabbed my mind, unbidden, no doubt prompted by the hateful speech of our Dales’ bitterest enemies.
I thumped my staff, and gestured toward the flask of ale. Kasarian leaped up to pour me a measure. I shut my eyes for a moment, then forced myself to copy yet again the shapes of the script letters that I had to master. I was gradually achieving some facility, but my hand was again aching from the intensive exercise.
Nolar returned first, bearing a welcome tray of porridge, cheese, bread, and fruit. Jonja arrived soon afterward, noting that Mistress Bethalie herself insisted upon coming to measure my hands for the baronial gloves.
Nolar briskly swept aside our parchments to make room for the food. “I described to Master Pruett our need for some means to match the Alizonder hair color,” she reported. “He regretted that he could not attend to you personally, Mereth, but he is engaged in a most delicate extraction of essences that he cannot abandon. He assured me, however, that this decoction of silver nettles should produce most satisfying results.” She withdrew from her skirt pocket a flask of murky liquid that exuded a sharp scent even though its stopper was tightly wrapped with dried grass.
Jonja eyed it dubiously. “I should not care to apply that to my hair,” she stated firmly. “Common nettles I know well enough, and how they will restore hair color, but these silver nettles from the high mountain meadows are far harsher in their juice and in their stings! Surely such an extract would be too strong to apply to the scalp.”
Nolar nodded. “From my own herbal experience, I raised that very objection, but Master Pruett vows that his regimen for purifying and cooling the decoction quite diminishes the more noxious elements of the plant. Still. . . .” She glanced at me, and smiled. “If Mereth will allow us, I would feel easier if we cut off a lock of hair and tested that first.”
Jonja plucked from her belt scrip a sturdy wooden comb and a small knife. I let down my hair, curious to see whether its already white hue could be bleached by Lormt’s herbs to the singular silver-white shade characteristic for Alizonders.
We duly peered at the lock Jonja placed on a saucer, while Nolar dampened it with water, then added a few drops from Master Pruett’s flask. Jonja stirred the strands with her knife, and rinsed them in a second saucer.
“Master Pruett advises that we apply the nettle extract in a solution with mild soap,” Nolar said. “The lightening process will take somewhat longer, but will be gentler to the skin.”
“I would not have believed it,” Jonja admitted, “but this extract of Pruett’s does produce the desired hue. If you agree,” she added, turning to me, “I can trim your hair to the length and style worn by this Volorian.”
Kasarian had been watching us with great interest. “The last time I saw Volorian,” he remarked, “his hair was trimmed much like mine. He wears his perhaps a trifle shorter at the back of the neck, since he seldom fights in a helmet. I practice frequently with blade and spear,” Kasarian explained, “in order to maintain my speed of thrust. Some fighters must pad their helmets, but since my hair is dense, I require no padding.”
“I welcome your attentions and advice,” I wrote for Nolar to read aloud. “At your convenience, I place my hair at your disposal.”
That afternoon sped past in a blur of activity. Just as we were completing our hasty luncheon, an energetic woman of middle age rapped at the door. Nolar introduced her as Bethalie, Lormt’s mistress for all forms of needlework. She spread a square of thin cloth on the table before me, and with a stick of charcoal, deftly marked around my outstretched fingers. From a capacious pocket in her smock, she produced a well-worn strip of linen barred with evenly spaced lines of stitching, which she stretched around and along every possible dimension of my hands. Having carefully noted each measurement on a corner of the cloth, she bobbed her head, gathered up her materials, and promised to bring me a pair of cloth test-gloves as soon as her seamstresses could cut and stitch them.
Jonja was lighting the candles and Nolar was about to serve our evening meal delivered by one of Morfew’s assistants when Mistress Bethalie bustled through the door. She explained that these relatively flimsy cloth gloves would be unstitched to provide patterns for cutting the leather versions. Humming a quiet tune to herself, Mistress Bethalie tightened a tuck here and loosened a seam there. “It may take two days,” she announced at last. “The final gloves must be appropriate for a baron of Alizon. I have three embroiderers marking out the ornamental designs for the gauntlets.”
True to her word, two days later at midmorning, Mistress Bethalie appeared at Ouen’s study door looking highly gratified. Walking directly to the table, she extended to me a pair of hideous red-purple leather gloves, their gauntlets encrusted with tortuous swirls of silver thread so closely stitched that I expected the surface to be as stiff as a turtle shell. When I thrust in my fingers, however, I discovered that the leather was as soft and supple as fine wool. I had never in all my years possessed finer made—or more garish—gloves. I removed one for Kasarian’s inspection. He examined it with every appearance of genuine approbation.
Bowing gracefully to Mistress Bethalie, Kasarian said, “I have seldom touched a finer prepared piece of leather, or seen more elegant decoration. Baron Volorian himself would wear these gloves with pride.”
He turned away to exclaim to Morfew about the stitching, and I heard Mistress Bethalie murmur to Nolar, “I promised our chief tanner last year that someday I would rid him of that vile mistake he made in dyeing. He wagered with me that no man in Lormt would endure such an appalling shade of leather. I believe that I can now honestly claim my wager, for these gloves have been worn, albeit briefly, at Lormt. It seems that their appearance appeals solely to Alizonders.”
In the past, I had prided myself upon my ability to juggle several tasks, compressing into one stretch of time a number of trading activities that had to be accomplished simultaneously. The next several days at Lormt reminded me most forcefully of the strenuous trials for both mind and body that had assailed us during the time of fighting in the Dales, and to an even greater degree in the awful years following the war. I had been aided then by others who shared my burdens; now I also had supportive assistance, but so much depended upon my personal exertions. I raced through the crowded hours, listening to and writing Alizonian, sitting for my hair to be cut and bleached silver-white, trying on piece after piece of clothing that Kasarian selected from Mistress Bethalie’s stores to outfit me as Baron Volorian.
Kasarian himself brought up the subject of weaponry. One morning when I had finally been fitted with matching breeches, tunic, and boots that would serve until we could substitute the distinctiv
e high-sided Alizonian style, he declared, “Volorian must be properly armed.”
Without saying a word, Duratan crossed the study to unlock the small cabinet mounted above Ouen’s desk near the window. He took from its shelves all of the weapons he had removed from Kasarian’s body, and placed them on the table.
The Alizonder instantly arose to restore each item to its designated place on his belt or up his sleeve or tucked inside his boot tops. He preserved a deliberately impassive facial expression, but when he wriggled slightly to settle his gear in place, I suddenly recalled a similar motion. Doubt’s old dog had given just such a gleeful squirm whenever his master buckled on his favorite cart harness. I realized that except when he slept (and indeed, I suspected that Kasarian slept with his knives within close reach), he probably had never before been deprived of his personal weapons for so many days as his current visitation to Lormt. I knew that I should have felt ill at ease had someone taken away my slate, chalk, or tally sticks—how much more vital to an Alizonder’s sense of well-being must be his constant awareness of his personal weapons? Possibly the only time they would consider going unarmed would be in a place they knew to be utterly secure . . . if such a place could exist in Alizon, where treachery could be confidently expected from one’s own closest family members.
As I watched Kasarian, I could not avoid noticing the stark contrast between him and Duratan. Duratan’s body, too, had obviously grown accustomed to the weights of sword and dagger, and had been hardened in their use . . . yet during my observations of him at Lormt, Duratan had seemed most serenely content while wielding a quill or searching through old documents. By comparison, for all the pallor of his coloration, Kasarian called to mind the shadows of the night rather than the light of day. He was like a lean, sharp-toothed hound trained to lunge for an enemy’s throat, I thought, then decided that he embodied elements of wildness beyond those of even a war hound. With his uncanny agility and quickness of balance, Kasarian more closely resembled a prowling wolf, always poised to spring, always deadly.
Kasarian had noticed that I was watching him. He touched his belt and said, “As Volorian, lady, you will also have to wear such weapons. In recent years, however, he has exchanged most of his daggers for training gear with which he works his hounds. For our would-be meeting with Gurborian, he would definitely equip himself with full armament, If we do emerge in Krevonel Castle, I have there ample stores of weapons for you, as well as a proper pair of boots.” He walked around me, scrutinizing me from all sides. “I commend you, lady,” he said. “Did I not know better, I would vow that you were a true baron of the blood.”
“And one who regrettably still requires more practice in understanding the quickness of spoken Alizonian,” warned Morfew. “It is vital that you be prepared to respond to sudden queries, Mereth, with no suspicious hesitation. Let us rehearse again the kinds of phrases that you are likely to hear.”
For what seemed endless hours, I feared that I would never grasp what they were saying, but finally my ears discerned the important words which I could not dare mistake. We frequently labored far into the nights. We were constantly aware that at any moment, Gurborian might be succeeding in locating a Dark mage from Escore.
I was both deeply relieved and keenly daunted when on the twentieth day of the Month of the Ice Dragon, after nine days of furious effort, Morfew pronounced me sufficiently prepared for our purposes to deal with both spoken and written Alizonian. Ouen received Morfew’s report with evident gratification. “I believe that we can risk no further delay,” Ouen declared. “We have accomplished all that we can here at Lormt. Let us now discover whether Elsenar’s postern will accept these two would-be travelers. May the Light favor our enterprise!”
CHAPTER 17
Kasarian–events at Lormt (19th Day, Moon of the Knife/ 20th Day, Month of the Ice Dragon)
I had to concede privately that these Lormt folk were formidable plotters. Although they clearly disliked my proposal that Mereth should impersonate Volorian, once they had weighed our perilous situation, they began to offer inspired suggestions for implementing my plan. Initially, they appeared to be repelled by my various strategies to kill Gurborian if he could be lured to Krevonel Castle; then Duratan acknowledged that violence, however repugnant it was to them, might have to be employed. I wondered to myself how else they expected to acquire Elsenar’s jewel except by violence, but I did not utter the comment. We Alizonders knew to our sore cost that Estcarp’s male fighters were deadly in open warfare. I had to trust that they could be depended upon to wield a blade in defense of their own bodies, even if they shrank from planned assassination. Besides, if Mereth alone could accompany me, I could not rely too heavily upon her prowess with weapons. I should have to dispose of Gurborian myself.
I was considerably relieved to be allowed to resume my confiscated armaments. My uninvited residence at Lormt had been distinctly uncomfortable without their familiar weights and shapes close to hand. I informed Mereth that once we reached Krevonel Castle, I would provide the proper boots and arms to make her fully presentable.
The three of us—Morfew, Mereth, and I—toiled diligently for days until we felt reasonably certain that Mereth could pose as Volorian and not be swiftly exposed as an enemy pretender.
On the Nineteenth Day of the Moon of the Knife, Ouen judged that we must delay no longer, and led our party to the same vault into which I had been so abruptly thrust only thirteen days before. Duratan strewed his uncanny crystals on the stone paving. The blue gems among them fell into a tight oval pattern, as if they had been deliberately set in a cluster. I beheld no significance in the array, but he and the others evidently viewed the display as some sort of positive omen.
Morfew voiced the question that had also occurred to me. “Can we expect Elsenar’s postern to function only at that same hour of the night? It may be that the activating spell is time-linked. I was not present when the magical opening was visible, but Ouen pointed out for me the stone over which the access area formed, and we marked that stone for any future reference. I understand that all of you observed a disturbance in the air—a glowing light suspended above the floor. My eyes are not as keen as they once were, but I currently see nothing out of the ordinary about this space above the marked stone.”
The Wise Woman frowned at her rune-board. “Nor can I sense the flare of raw Power that initially drew us here before the postern opened. Do you feel aught, Nolar?” Duratan’s mate shook her head, and the Wise Woman turned to Mereth. “Perhaps if you touched Morfew’s marked stone,” she requested, “you might detect some information beyond our sensing.”
Mereth stooped and ran her fingers lightly over the expanse of paving that Morfew had indicated, but her witchly insight failed her on that occasion. She wrote on her slate that the stone produced no images in her mind.
Ouen reached in his belt scrip and withdrew . . . the elder’s key! “It may be that this key is needed as part of the spell,” he observed, extending it to me. “Were you holding the key in your hand at Krevonel Castle when you first became aware of the postern’s opening?”
I hesitated, reviewing my recollections. “Yes,” I confirmed, “I was holding the key, but my back was turned away from the center of the room. My eye was attracted by the strange light suddenly waxing behind me.”
“If only we knew more about how the ancient mages set their spells,” Duratan’s mate fretted. “No doubt they could conjure the opening whenever they required it, using special words or gestures.”
“I certainly employed no words or gestures,” I retorted, “nor did I know whither I was going.”
Morfew had been staring at the marked stone. “Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “if Kasarian stood upon this spot and envisioned the postern-linked chamber in Krevonel Castle, then the force of his mental focus might summon the access point.”
The Wise Woman nodded. “Assuming that the postern will accept more than one transient at a time,” she cautioned, “we dare not risk an
y physical separation of the two travelers. If Mereth and Kasarian clasp hands, surely that contact would keep them together during the journey.”
Remembering the unsettling disorientation of my passage, I judged it wise to warn Mereth beforehand. “My initial transit was tumultuous,” I said to her, “rather like being severely buffeted by a winter gale. The Wise Woman speaks reasonably, but a mere handclasp alone could be dangerously inadequate. I had best lock my arms around you, lady, while bearing the elder’s key as I did before, should that be a necessary element for the working of the spell. Come, let us stand close together, and fix our minds upon our urgently required terminus.”
Mereth tucked her staff through her belt, and after some slight hesitation, placed her arms around my waist. Taking the elder’s key in my right hand, I reached around her cloaked shoulders, grasping her body firmly against my chest.
“The chamber which we would enter,” I declared aloud, “is that magic-secured lower vault beneath Krevonel Castle.” I closed my eyes to concentrate upon the bare stonewalled space as I had last seen it . . . the age-roughened wooden door with its bronze-silver lock. . . .
“It’s coming!” The Wise Woman’s abrupt cry startled me. When I opened my eyes, an eldritch oval of curdled light was soundlessly expanding only an arm’s length away from our position.
“Hold fast, lady!” I ordered, then lifted her off her feet, and plunged both of us through the shimmering expanse.
CHAPTER 18