by Andre Norton
“The Ryft was the garden of Lyr and Her goodness covered it. Fruitful was all life, for when the sun’s warmth touched Lyr’s tower it was drawn and brought down through a channel of the rock hither, to be caught and cupped in the Hands of Lyr, directed up again so that all healing and fruitfulness could be spread. So it was once.”
Dreen raised her head to look upward at that murky ball which seemed now to be casting forth a mist, a thickness which one could not really see but only sense—the smearing of all that was vile across the beauty of the crystals.
“To everything its season,” Dreen began again. “The High King in those days was a man of ambition, but not one, at first, who would war to obtain what he could have. No, he sought other means—through ways which hosted cruelty and death not only of the body but of the essence which is its indweller. What strange learning he could gain for himself he drew upon diligently. But there is this, child, which is the rule of all such delving— dark calls to dark even as light to light.
“When there comes a troubling caused by a new power stirring in the world, to that power inclines such people as won to dominance before it. Thus there came to the High King, in the guise of a seeker in the same ways, a stranger.
“A stranger and a thief, for he had already stolen from rightful Guardians knowledge that they would keep from troubling the world. First this Razkan played the part of a student sitting at the High King’s feet. He had patience, for he wanted to gain much but he did not want to betray himself in the learning. Little by little he let forth, as if he had recently discovered such, bits of the forbidden knowledge he nursed in memory, and the High King was delighted.
“Already the king had driven from him those who had begun to suspect what he did in secret. And in their places of authority he put weak men already under Razkan’s control.
“Too late those of goodwill learned what was being done. Then began the revolts—and when those were put down bloodily, the High King had found a love for battle and so looked about him for a world to bring under his heel.
“Just as dark looks for dark to increase its power, so does it look for light to destroy as a potential enemy. Razkan learned quickly of Lyr and he performed such a piece of magic as was daring even for him. Out of his own thoughts he evoked—that…. ”
Dreen pointed to the globe. “It appeared without warning on a high feast day. Under a great burst of malignant force the Hands were shattered so that those who served Her were stricken. But also they knew that Lyr could not be forever broken. Here goodwill would rest, draw to it knowledge large and small, and they knew that the battle had not ended the conflict.
“Thus those left who had served her—many had died in the attack—each took up one of the fingers and they spoke together for the last time, saying that they would bear their fragments afar—separately—until there would come a talent which would find each in turn and bring them hither again. Once more the Hands would catch the bounty of the sun and return life to the Ryft.
“But Razkan knew well that his opponents might have been beaten in that first attack but their way was not yet finished. He sent fire and sword into the Ryft and Lyr’s fair land ceased to be. And in all the seasons since—and they can be numbered as many more than you are alive, Alnosha, there has been a waiting. I am the last of the blood of those who were Lyr’s birth-named servants. I waited for you, Alnosha, you and the gift of the Goddess. Now comes the time of faring forth, and the way will not be easy, nor the path straight and smooth. Take that again, child.”
She gestured to the broken finger. Warily Nosh obeyed. There was a warmth in it. All at once it seemed right that it should touch her flesh, as if it were a part of her.
“It would seem that Razkan stirs also. The High King who became his puppet is long dead, but he left two sons—one born by law, one by outlawry. His own line prospered, his son by shame founded a House in a border town. And Razkan, he arose to being a God that all must serve—thus keeping the people in thrall through the priests and their guards…. ”
“Those of black and red,” Nosh said in a half whisper.
“Those slayers of men, burners of books, makers of slaves, faithful sons of a false God.” Dreen’s voice had taken on a sharp note as if she might be pronouncing some fate from which there would be no escape.
“He is now old beyond the reckoning of men. Now— able to prolong his life as the seasons pass. The time came, Alnosha, when the dying winds of red war brought you hither—even as She had promised. Search for Finger upon Finger, child. Your gift will lead you true. And when you hold all within your grasp return to the Ryft and what is to be done will be.”
“There are soldiers in the Ryft now,” Nosh said. “I came to warn you…. ”
“A thought must have crossed Razkan’s mind. Or, perhaps,”—she looked up to the globe—“he has left certain safeguards? So we must be away, Alnosha.”
“Out of the Ryft—?” The dead valley had become such a refuge to her, hard though the life was, that she shrank from leaving. In her hand the Finger of crystal was warm, almost like a cover of protection.
“Out of the Ryft, yes, and into the western broken lands. It may be that we shall find there some as will give us aid in our going.”
So began another life for Nosh, the one only of her partial choosing.
CHAPTER 6
It was a harsh life the Heights held for men. The band led by the once heir of Garn had done what they could to survive. There was just such a cave as Kryn in his flight had hoped to find, where there was room not only for the handful of men but six of the surefooted, small, and stocky, hill mounts—though as usual those were not for the taming and must be mastered every time they were put to rider or burden.
Before the snows sheathed them in they made two raids on Templers, slipping down from the hills by ways the maps of which lay only in outlawed heads.
Once they added a smith and carpenter to their band, snagging them out of slave chains. And so Kryn got his blooding in the way of outlawry and he agreed that the only good Templer was a dead one.
They kept well aloof from any garth or fieldman’s hut, having no wish to draw the hatred of the Temple on the innocent, attacking only armed convoys which they could take from the clever ambushes Jarth of Garn planned.
When snow blanketed them one of the armsmen from the north set about the fashioning of queer footgear made as if they were to walk on stiff netting fastened in wide ovals to their feet. And there was some hot language used before they were able to shuffle on the surface of the drifts. But this gave them a freedom the enemy could not hope to obtain—unless in the Templer forces there was also some man from Varsland.
They had stationed a permanent watch—to be changed each day—at a point which overlooked a curve the highway must take because of the nudge of the river. Yet there were but slim pickings after the first snow. Apparently the Templer crews had brought in all the rest of the harvest, the dregs of their looting of sequestered garths. Those who took the trail now were huddles of people, dazed, adrift, ones who had dared to flee the slave rope.
It was Kryn on duty there with Rolf, the very man who had put the snow webs to their use, who sighted that single rider one morning. It was obvious to the watchers the stranger could barely hold himself in the saddle, and his mount plodded as if it were near the end of its strength. The pair reached the point just below where the two were crouched in hiding before the mount came to a stop, spraddled its legs wide as if to hold its body erect and then, with a wailing sound which might have come from the throat of a man, fell, the rider caught with one leg under the kicking animal.
His cloak was torn away in his feeble struggles to free himself and when its hood jerked to show his face, Kryn’s hand shot out to grasp Rolf as the latter rose to his knees ready to launch a bolt at that now hardly moving rider.
“No Templer!”
“He rides—and he wears no House tabard.”
“He wears it on his face,” Kryn returne
d. He made his move before the other could stop him, swinging down to the roadway. The mount stirred again, kicking out, and then screamed as only an animal meeting death can as its head flopped back, an arrow protruding from one eye.
Kryn was at the side of the fallen man. Now that the cloak had been pulled away during its owner’s struggles he could see clearly that brown splotch at the breast, welling blood again centering it. Then Rolf was with him and together they pulled the man free.
His eyelids fluttered, he gave a small groan, and then he was looking up at the youth his gaze one of recognition.
“House Heir…”
“Yes, Ewen—so they did not get you either!” Kryn, having settled the man as comfortably as he could, reached to explore the wound…
“No matter, Heir Hope…” One of the other’s hands closed on his wrist. “I am death called. They caught me outside…. ” he frowned a little as if memory was fleeting—“do… not remember now. They had a sniffer… sniffer Bozi…” Now his features twisted with hate. “Remember, Heir Hope—it—was—Bozi as sniffed me for them!”
Rolf had, with more gentleness than his clumsy-seeming hands suggested, unlatched the stranger’s tunic. The welling pool of blood had become a steady flow. He looked to Kryn and shook his head.
“Heir.” The man on the ground might have seen and understood that gesture of sentence. His eyes were fixed on Kryn and it was plain that he was making a great effort. “Lord—Hafern was magicked—mind magicked! Stand to arms—for him—for your House. But—there is evil behind evil…. ”
Blood bubbled in the corner of his mouth, straggled in a thin line down his chin.
“Gromize… said… ride… warn…”
“Gromize! But he is dead!”
“Not… so… he has power… small power. He sent a searching dream for you. Then… me… this…” His hand slipped from that tight grip he had been keeping on Kryn’s wrist, wavered to his belt pouch. “For… you… get Bozi for me, Heir… I am your man.”
Kryn met his gaze steadily. “You are Qunion House Kin, Ewen. Armsmaster, Banner bearer.” The old titles came easily somehow. “Yes,—there will be a reckoning with Bozi….”
Ewen’s head rolled, turned on Kryn’s shoulder. He gave a shudder and then was quiet. The young man looked to Rolf over that limp body.
“There is now another among the shades to cry me on.”
Rolf nodded and then spoke with a practicality which drove any emotion into heart-hiding. “Best we get him off the road, Kryn. Listen!”
Loud and sharp, as if fate had been running mute and only now gave tongue, came that savage cry—and more than one. Wakwolves—the scent of blood reached far for such as them.
Perhaps the dead mount would delay them for a few helpful moments. Together Kryn and Rolf slung the body between them up into that crevice of their spy hole. And then beyond that to where there was the rubble of a last season’s land slip. They worked fast, covering what they had carried with the largest and heaviest stones they could find, hearing already the snarling battle going on over the dead beast. Taking up bows they returned to their perch. The twilight of the cold season was advancing, but not so much that it veiled the feast below. They could pick their marks with ease and, fortune favored, the pack was a small one—perhaps a single family of dam and sire and this season’s cubs.
With the precision of long-practised marksmen they shot and wakwolves died, several snapping at the arrows which brought them down.
“They’ve hunted far into the lower lands,” Rolf commented.
“There is stock gone wild in the upper garths— perhaps the Templers did not sweep as clear as they would like. Such are easy hunting—better than facing the horns of the laster.”
Kryn left the battle station and went to stand once more beside that grave. It was already beginning to snow and the white flakes would soon drape here a pall.
“He was a man—to ride with such a wound,” Rolf commented in a harsh voice.
“He taught me the sword, the bow. He was closer to me often than my father.” His father—what Ewen had said now echoed—“Magicked…” he repeated softly. “So—someone plays with other power than steel and muscle.”
“Magick,” repeated Rolf and then he spat. “It is of the Dark One.” He drew back a pace or so from the grave as if he feared some taint could issue forth to touch him.
Kryn transferred the small rolled purse Ewen had brought to the second pouch at his own belt.
“This Gromize he spoke of…?” Rolf made a question of that.
“A learned man—for that reason hated, for he would not be one with the Temple. He claimed guest right in our hall from time to time. My—my father in those days was at one mind with him against all Valcur stood forth. A season ago he left, saying he was going on a seeking journey—and the news came by merchant caravan that they found him dead….”
“Dead or not, he seems to have spoken with this armsmaster,” Rolf observed. “I do not altogether like such hearing. The dead should stay safely dead.”
“It may have been only a story—his death,” Kryn commented. “Ewen was no spirit seeker.”
“Do not speak of unchancy things, and come! The snow grows and there will be none to exchange watches with this night.”
They put on their snowshoes and backtrailed, but memory rode on Kryn’s shoulder and whispered in his ears as he went. He saw much of other times and what he saw fed that never-dying fire of anger he kept guarded within.
Back at the cave, which was now the only shelter he knew, Kryn shared the news with Jarth, the Garn lord, and his young brother Hasper. The three hunched close at the fireside which provided their only light as Kryn unfastened the pouch.
What it carried was such a surprise that he sat dumb for a moment or so. There had been no roll for the reading there, nor anything save a palmful of stones, flat discs as if they mimicked the coins any traveler would carry.
“Pattern stones!” Hasper made identification first. “Give!” He held out his hand and Kryn mechanically dropped the discs into it. “Heat!” With his other hand the young Garn lord seized upon what had become a handy fire tool—a section of steel mount from a shield. He now set out the stones in a row on that and thrust it into the reaching flames.
Those strands of fire might have been a scribe’s ink, for there appeared on each stone markings which grew the more visible the longer they were held to the heat. Then Hasper brought back the length of metal, careful not to allow any of its burden to slide into the fire.
The symbols on the stones now revealed were clear enough but Kryn could only pick out one or two in translation.
That one held the scarlet of the Temple but there was a marking slashed across the clear circle—a marking of black. And the next stone to that carried the sign of a sword unsheathed—war….
“That is the High King’s mark,”—the Garn lord pointed to a third stone—“and look what lies across it.”
The same black mark seemed to threaten the clearly inscribed two-tiered crown.
“Temple threatened?” hazarded Kryn. “The High King also? A revolt?”
House Lord Jarth was studying the last two of the stones. One of those had sparks of light such as might mark tiny crystals urged into life by the heat and they were also set in a line, while edging that faint line was a soft green, somehow pleasing to the eyes.
“That—that…” Jarth’s scowl grew knottier. “Old— Nurse Onna!” He ended in triumph as one who brought to the surface some long-buried memory.
“Onna—but she died years ago,” his brother objected, “and never did she meddle in great affairs. What has a nurse of fieldman blood to do with matters here and now?”
“Onna was more than a nurse—you cannot truly remember, being so small the season she died. She had once been something else—no fieldwoman—but a priestess.”
“Priestess!” Kryn was entirely at a loss now. It was very well-known that the Temple allowed no woman within the r
anks of its servers. Valcur was one to fashion more and more restraints for his church to place upon all women.
“Not of the Temple. From another place and time. She had many skills and she was heart-friend to our mother, although there were many years between them. When our mother came by bride right Onna was already at the High Keep and no one spoke against her. When she was dying she called upon one of the maids, for our mother had perished a few days earlier—the coughing death took them both. And she gave her a thing and sent her away. This much I know for I had hidden myself in the wall hangings, wanting to go to Onna with our mother no longer there. I do not know what she gave the maid who was from the borders of the high country save it was something shaped like this and it shone in Onna’s hand but, when the maid took it, it turned dull and seeming of no worth. And Onna in her dying called upon a power I had heard my mother speak to when she thought herself private… LYR…. This power was unknown in temple land. Unless we were spied upon. They did send a priest who had the stench of a sniffer about him at Onna’s death but she had left nothing for the Temple to claim.”
“Lyr—the symbol of another power to rise?” mused Kryn. “And the last—what have you to say for that, Lord Jarth?”
The last stone was dully grey save in its heart there was a spot which seemed less opaque, almost as if this bit of rock had sprouted an eye. And that was the first to fade.
“No,” Jarth said, as stone by stone the pattern faded while they cooled. “I do not think revolt. Perhaps something else—an addition to our troubles, not a diminution of them. Power over Valcur, power over the High King. But in neither place Temple power—if I read this aright. I wish your Gromize’s warning, if warning this collection is meant to be, was plainer. There has been talk for some time of war…. It is a pastime for the High King in his Hearth Keep to sit before a table the top of which is fashioned to copy our own hills and valleys. Through this they say he moves the small figures of an army, trying out this strategy and that—for he believes that he was born to be a commander of armies and he chafes against the Temple-held peace.”