by James Enge
So it was now, as she swept east from the Healing Wood over the Hunting Wood, she saw the swift forms of horses struggling slowly through heavy still underbrush. Over one was the dim deliberate shape of a hunting cat lying along a bough. Its thoughts (which, in the instant of her overflight, were clear to her) precisely matched its motions as it stretched its limbs in preparation for the kill. Not far off, sweeping through the underbrush like a vagrant breeze, were the swift, contradictory thoughts/motions of Jordel. She read as heat his bright but fading satisfaction at having freed seven horses from their dangerous predicament.
Killing, by a law that predated human occupancy in the Westhold, was permitted in the Hunting Wood, but not in the Healing Wood. The horses, though, were creatures of the plain; they knew nothing of the forest’s laws. So it was not unusual for one of the half-wild band of horses that belonged to Three Hills to become trapped in a romp through the Hunting Wood and have several of its members killed. Most often it was because they were pursuing a unicorn that had come down from the mountains.
Noreê instantly understood that Jordel (and Illion, whom she perceived close at hand) were involved in a struggle to free the horses after just such a venture. She understood, but (circling over the scene) she felt no impulse to conclude her vision and go to aid them. She was not even conscious of making a choice. Understanding and volition were strangely altered in the rapture of vision. The flight, as the seer’s axiom had it, must take its course. Noreê’s awareness vaulted over Illion as he sprang between the hunting cat and its prey. She arced east and north and upward, facing the mountains that thrust through the broken roof of clouds.
She perceived the exquisite stillness of the mountains, for stillness itself is a relation of motions. She ascended beyond them and prepared to perceive the Northhold.
An awareness brushed against hers. It was a gentle motion, but shudderingly powerful. Noreê had no time to decide what this meant. Suddenly she ceased moving and also fell endlessly downward. The contradiction of motion/stillness was profoundly painful to embrace. She recognized in it the cruelly abrupt end of her vision. As flames leapt up around her awareness, she realized she was a prisoner.
Aloê was watching the night sky from the window-ledge of her room when Naevros entered. She knew, without turning, that it was him: by the rhythm of his footfalls, the fact that he did not knock, a certain feeling she had had before he entered . . . a number of things. She said, without turning, “The sky is marvelously clear.”
He came up and leaned against the window frame opposite her. “Yes,” he said. “More than likely it will be cloudy again tomorrow. That’s a familiar pattern up here.”
Naevros fit in everywhere, but it was hard to think of him as a Northholder, used to weather even colder than this, a mountaineer, a mushroom, speaking a vocabulary thick with Dwarvish slang—when he bothered to speak. No, he did not fit the image. Perhaps that was why he had come south and joined the Graith, so many years ago. His parents were Westholders who settled in the north after it came under the Guard. That much Aloê knew, but she knew little else. Naevros seldom visited them and never spoke of them.
“Have you met your peers before?” Naevros asked.
“You mean Baran and Thea?” They were the thains-attendant on Jordel and Noreê respectively. “Yes, we know each other well. I’ve been wondering . . .”
“Yes?”
Aloê said slowly, “Since he became a vocate, Jordel has never chosen Baran as attendant.”
“They’re brothers. There would be difficulties—that hint of patronage.”
“Yes. But he has chosen him now, to come here.”
Naevros nodded. “There is a chance, Aloê, that we may face danger here in the north. Illion thinks so, at any rate, and he is a fair judge. And this is bad news, of course. But for thains every danger is an opportunity.”
“So you have all brought your particular protégés,” Aloê observed. “Except Illion.”
Naevros smiled briefly in turn. “In a sense, Illion’s protégé is far north of here already.”
“You don’t mean Earno?”
There was no light except starlight in the room; the window faced south, away from the major moons. But, turning to look at Naevros as they talked, she could see his face harden at the mention of the summoner. “No,” he said. “But Earno’s attendant was commended to him by Illion. You bore him the message, you know.”
“Was that it? I didn’t read it, you know.”
“Oh. Well, Earno’s attendant is young Ambrosius.”
“Young Ambrosius,” Aloê repeated. She could not imagine Earno having an Ambrosius as his attendant. And Merlin was supposed to have been the last of them, anyway.
“The one they call Morlock syr Theorn.”
“That mushroom.”
Naevros laughed, understanding her private slang without trouble.
“But,” said Aloê, “I made my first tour of A Thousand Towers with him. He never said a word as the senior thain took us by Ambrose. Surely it belongs to him now.”
“Ah, so you were particular friends.”
“Oh, no. But we were stationed at A Thousand Towers at the same time a few years ago.”
“I remember. I almost thought to sponsor him at one time.”
“You’re joking?”
“By no means. It would have given Earno something to think about. But he never had . . . your subtlety, your instinct for situations. He will never be a great swordsman, either.”
“Neither will I.”
“For different reasons. He . . . well, you knew him.”
“They call him Crookback.”
“Not you, I hope.”
“No. Why does Illion favor him?”
“Oh, he’s by no means stupid. They say he is already a gifted maker. I suppose we both remember a few times when he displayed power as a seer. And . . . the very thing I mentioned, that may look different to some. Such an inability resembles a kind of integrity.”
That gave her something to think about. If the absence of an ability resembled integrity, then the presence of the ability might indicate lack of integrity . . . at least to “some.” Was Naevros warning her that Illion had reservations about her character? Or . . . Naevros’ statements, however simple in themselves, often carried implications that were intolerably complex.
As she thought, she twisted her fingers idly in her hair. She was about to turn and look back out into the night when she noticed that he was unnaturally still. With her intense understanding of his nature, she realized that he was giving rapt and unguarded attention to her fingers moving in her hair. In turn, of course, he recognized that she had noted his attention. But he went on watching as if he could not help it.
Her breathing quickened. She knew, of course, that Naevros thought she was beautiful, nor was he the only one. She, in turn, found him attractive: he was tall, dark-haired, deliberate and graceful. She supposed he knew how she felt. The mutual attraction was a powerful element—perhaps the essential element, the sustaining one—in their rapport.
But one of the reasons that Naevros appealed to her so strongly was that he could recognize and acknowledge her beauty with a certain subtlety. He noticed everything and she knew it, but he did not clutter his conversation with compliments. He had the courage not to express the inexpressible, knowing she would understand. This implicit understanding was precious to her.
Still . . . love (was this love?) had to move from implicit understanding to explicit acts. And she hated men like that, the way they looked at you, their faces greasy with anticipation. If Naevros turned to her that way, what would she do? Then again, he might never turn to her. What would she do then? Would it make a difference? Did she need a man to become who she was meant to be? She didn’t see why. But need and want were different things. . . .
The silence, the stillness, had gone on too long. No one was turning toward or away from anyone here. Abruptly, Aloê realized that she was tense, angry and bored. But
something was about to happen, or had been about to happen. In deference to that she felt she could not move. She could not be the one to spoil things, to make things impossible. But things were already impossible. When a knock came at the door she rolled off the window ledge and moved readily toward the door.
But suddenly Naevros reached out and touched her arm, restraining her for a moment. “Meet me in the entryway after supper,” he said. “We will talk.”
She nodded, a little disturbed by the explicitness of the request. She went to answer the door. A housekeeper was standing in the corridor outside; he had come to tell them that supper was ready.
The vocate Jordel was almost a parody of the typical Westholder. He was improbably tall, lightly built, and his hair was a tangled mop of fair brown curls. He moved with a wiry comic grace and he was always in motion. And: he talked.
His brother Baran was almost as tall, but very different. His light brown hair was close-cropped, and he was of a heavier build and a quieter demeanor than Jordel. He moved slowly when he moved, but “strong as Baran” was already a proverb in the village where he had grown up. Jordel, in his opinion, never had grown up.
“Stop bleeding on me,” he growled as Jordel’s bandaged hand swung out in a grand sweeping gesture. Jordel took no more notice of his brother’s modest exaggeration than a river does of the occasional raindrop.
“So I leapt through the screen of branches,” cried Jordel, his every limb starting at the word leapt. “On the other side, what should I—”
“You should—” Baran tried to interrupt.
“—should I see but Illion wrestling with a snarling bloodcat—”
“Mountain cat,” Illion observed.
“—(a mewling mounting cat, then) to the ground with the horse in question rearing and screaming over both their heads!”
“What was the question?” Thea asked.
“Thinking quickly, actually not thinking at all if you can believe it of me, I handsprung over the friendly pair (yon cat and Mount Illion there) and snatched the horse by one ear. I shouted . . . but I won’t mention it here, you get the idea, and so did he. I braced him as he staggered in a quarter circle on his hind feet, letting his feet fall—”
“Feet? And feet again?” cried Thea. “What sort of monster was this? Did it wear shoes or sandals, now?”
“—letting its front feet fall to the ground when he was facing away from Illion and his catamite. Then I whacked him on the rump and told him the way to the safe path.
”Then I heard this scream, and the next thing I knew I was halfway up an oak tree and fighting to get higher. I heard something rustling in the foliage near me and, assuming it to be Illion, said, ‘Was that the cat? What did you do to it?’
“Away down below me I hear Illion’s voice say, ‘No, it was me. Been experimenting with some of the Silent Words.’ At about this time, the leaves part like a curtain, and the cat, with whom I am sharing the tree, says—” and Jordel threw back his head and roared, in inaccurate but spirited mimicry of a mountain cat. “I snatched my left hand from the branch just after the cat’s claws had landed atop it. My hand I mean. It amounts to the same thing, hand or branch, and—Thea must you make those faces? To make matters worse, my other hand was holding air at the moment and my feet were swinging free—”
“As usual,” Baran muttered.
“—but I caught a branch with my legs before I had fallen too far. Then I heard Illion squeak, ‘There’s a few more horses in the wood, Jordel, I—I’m just sure of it. You take care of that monster and I’ll go find them!’ And then the victor of Kaen runs like a rabbit for home!”
Baran grunted. “With the horse out of danger and you hanging upside down in front of a cat in heat, everything had obviously returned to normal.”
“Normal—” Jordel began.
“The word seems inapt, I grant you,” agreed Thea. “Now Baran, admit Jordel is not normal.”
“Normal—” Jordel repeated, then paused.
“We seem to have run aground,” said Illion. “But here are Naevros and Aloê to give us a tow.”
Those Guardians had indeed entered the room, just as Jordel had last begun to speak.
“Have you noticed,” Thea said to Baran, “how everyone in Jordel’s stories talks exactly like Jordel? Can you imagine Illion screaming ‘that monster’—?”
“Baran’s imagination is not an inexhaustible resource,” Jordel observed, with a shade too much force. “Ah, hello Aloê. How was your ride north?”
After the round of greetings Thea deliberately led Aloê away from the group. It was, perhaps, not so deftly done. It was clear to Aloê that Thea was acting with some sort of purpose in mind. From the expression on Baran’s and Jordel’s faces Aloê guessed that they knew what the purpose was. She herself had no idea, and the matter did not become clearer as Thea engaged her in drifting conversation.
Thea was tall and pale, with long strong limbs and dark hair. Like Jordel, Baran, and Illion, she was a Westholder. She was a great favorite of Jordel’s; they were often together, laughing and joking. But when Aloê asked her how things were between them, Thea looked puzzled.
“What a memory you have, Aloê!” she said, smiling and frowning at once.
“Memory?” said Aloê. “But you were always together, during the Station.”
“What a memory you have,” Thea repeated, and Aloê could not but understand. She became a little angry on Thea’s behalf. She hated the sort of man who chose and discarded women like cut flowers, and Jordel was just that sort of man.
By way of changing the subject she asked when Noreê would be joining them.
“She went to the Healing Wood this morning,” Thea replied. “She didn’t know when she’d be back. ‘The flight must take its course.’”
“So they say,” Aloê agreed. “Is it true? I’ve rarely ascended to rapture, never in solitary flight.”
Thea looked troubled. “It’s difficult to know, much less explain. I’ve only flown through solitary rapture once, and I am still remembering and forgetting things about the experience.”
Soon they were deep in conversation, sharing what they knew about visionary flight and tal. Presently Aloê sensed that Thea was distracted, in the middle of a remark she was making. Glancing around she saw why. Jordel was standing next to them. An expression of earnest intellectual interest lay across his features like a mask.
“You’ll forgive me for saying so, Thain Aloê,” he interposed smoothly, “but I disagree with you. Tal is not wholly nonphysical. It is a metaphysical medium with physical effect. Therefore it is, in some sense, as physical as it is nonphysical. It exists as an instrument for awareness in the physical world.”
“I seem to remember the vocate Noreê saying the same thing,” Aloê remarked, “in somewhat fewer words.” Why had he come over here? Simply to annoy Thea? It irked her.
“Oh, indeed, I learned all I know from Noreê,” conceded Jordel, smiling. “I was her thain-attendant when she and Illion walked against the Dark Seven of Kaen, as you may remember.”
This was the equivalent of a maker modestly admitting that he had been tutored by Merlin Ambrosius, or a swordsman reluctantly conceding he had been trained by Naevros syr Tol. The man was strutting like a rooster. Aloê opened her mouth to speak, but hardly knew what she would say.
Then Naevros himself was there—dark, graceful, somber. His very presence lit up Jordel’s new seriousness as an outrageous affectation. “Yes, Jordel, perhaps,” he allowed. “But your point of view had certain teleological difficulties.”
Jordel’s smile did not change. But in him, the ever-changeable, this was a sign of deep distress. “I don’t see what you mean,” he admitted, finally.
“You imply, when you say ‘instrument,’ that tal is a deliberate creation, an instrument, of awareness—like an idea, or a volitional act, rather than a necessary consequence of, I should have said a necessary condition for, self-aware physical beings. You see the distinct
ion, I’m sure.”
“Not quite.”
“Then. Uncounted beings have lived and died without the knowledge of tal, the link between physical and spiritual planes. They never used tal to experience visionary flight outside the body, as we do. Neither did they exploit a knowledge of it to sustain physical life beyond its natural term, as the Dead Corain are said to do. But tal itself, without their knowledge of it, made possible their lives as physical beings who could think, feel, and know.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” said Jordel, unquestionably irritated. “Is anyone else hungry? I’m hungry. I’m a physical being.”
“Champion Naevros!” Aloê whispered, as they followed the others to the dining hall. “Imagine him trying to inflate himself like a frog in front of Thea!”
Naevros glanced at her and, a measurable moment later, smiled. “Yes. What will irritate him most, when he rethinks the conversation, is that he will find the objection to be trivial.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t actually disagree with the substance of what he said. I simply made an argument out of one of the possible implications of one of the words he used.”
Aloê smiled in turn. “If the objection had been more substantial—”
“He might have answered it more easily. Yes. He will be very irritated.”
“You speak as if you know.”
“I do. I once quoted Noreê on tal to Morlock, using much the same words as Jordel did just now. He gave me the argument that I just gave Jordel. It was three days before I realized what bothered me about Morlock’s objection; by that time your mushroom had left the city.”
“He’s not my mushroom,” Aloê protested, and laughing, they went into supper.
Noreê was imprisoned in a sheath of flames. There was fire all about her. Yet—she sensed a presence, and spoke to it.
Who are you? The words fell dead, without sound.
But a response came, of a kind. It had no more sound than her own words, yet she could hear it. That does not matter. Listen—
It matters! she said, and exerted her will, the will of Noreê. The flames began to dim.