by Andre Norton
Instead of any planting of flowers, or pots of shrubs as Nosh had seen in the rooftop gardens, here were a number of stones and rocks—but not of the dull common sort one might expect. Each was veined with crystal or ore traces which showed color even in this subdued light, and some had clusters of fire-shooting crystals, taking light from the lamp Lathia carried, which appeared almost as if they grew out of the rocks themselves as leaves might enrobe a tree.
It was a wondrous sight, such as Nosh had never seen since she left the Shrine of Lyr, and she drew a soft breath of astonishment and delight.
Lathia spoke: “Now I must ask blinding of you for a space.”
Obediently Nosh closed her eyes and knew that Kryn was also accepting this. There came, after a breath or two of waiting, a queer grating sound. Then Lathia said:
“You may look to see your road out.”
One of those rocks, nearly the tallest in the collection, had somehow swung about to reveal a dark, irregular hole. Lathia went down on one knee and held her lamp closer so that Nosh plainly saw the beginning of a ladder.
“Down this,” the guild woman told them. “Below, there is a road torch with a striker close beside it. Use that for light. The passage does not run straight but there is no other way to confuse you. Go, Talented One, armsman, with the blessing of Lyr, and may success be yours.”
“How can we thank you?” Nosh asked almost shyly. That Lathia, nearly a stranger, had been willing to do so much for them now seemed difficult to believe.
“Have you not already repaid anything I can give you with your hands’ reading, Sister in Lyr? My house is cleansed of evil, and I am aware of what may be planned against me, if Markus is not yet undone by this new threat. When the Hands reach again, Talented One, think of me.”
“I will, oh, I will!” the girl answered breathlessly.
Kryn had already swung over onto the ladder and was descending, and she followed clumsily, aware of the backward pull of her pack. Then she felt her feet touch the ground and there was the grating again and the fresh air of the open was shut off.
The click of a striker was loud in this dark place. Kryn held the spark of fire to ignite the travel torch and Nosh saw that they were standing in a very small hollow from which the ladder climbed, while before them was a dark passage. With Kryn in the lead, his light stretched out a little to show them what lay ahead, they started into that way. The walls were stone and in some places they had to nearly bend double to get by sections where the ceiling dipped down. There were few signs of any usage. Here and there walls dripped with water and there was a blanched white weed growing, to net over the stone.
As Lathia had promised there were no side passages to mislead them. How long had this bolt hole existed? Perhaps it dated back to the foundation of Kasgar as a trading city.
At last there was a gradual upswing of the rock under their feet and Kryn drew back the torch, having no wish to break through into unknown territory with that alight. They had no idea how far they would exit beyond the city walls and how keen-eyed the guards there would be to unusual happenings outside. Since the city was so aroused over the toll the death stones had taken, suspicion might lead to instant perilous reaction to the unexpected.
They came up against what looked like a solid wall of stone. Kryn shone the light across it foot by foot, hunting some sign of a door. Then Nosh thought she understood.
“A ward!” She shouldered by him and set her hands to that rough surface.
Not exactly a ward but a hidden lock, and her fingers found it and probed for the latching within.
“I have it!”
Kryn extinguished the torch and pushed by her to set his strength against the portal and it must have moved, for in the dark Nosh felt the freshness of air, a vast difference from the dead air of the tunnel through which they had come. They climbed up and out into the night and let the door close behind them.
INTERLUDE
There was light aplenty; the man sitting there had to see the results of his labors. Facing him was that telltale mirror. He stared into it as if he could command what he wished to see.
The face he beheld was again free of wrinkles—there was no telltale falling away of flesh. While the hairs showing in a few locks from under the rolled brim of his black cap were no longer white, but again had the hue of dark brown, nor were they so sparse.
His attention dropped from the mirror to the hands which rested on the tabletop. Firm youthful flesh, no enlarged veins, none of the dark spotting of age. So— for the time being he was safe again.
For the time being. His satisfaction was whipped away by a twisted scowl which held a hint in it of that loathed reflection he had viewed before he had begun this night’s labors. He had paid for this change—that price was a threat in itself. Almost he dared not reckon how much had been drained from those he had drawn to him unknowing.
His minions had been chosen well, the draught of energy and intelligence he had drunk this night was as rich as the finest wine, and more lasting for savoring.
But…
The scowl was black now. The losses—he could no longer ignore the reckoning of those.
There would be a new High King—a drooling idiot could not cling to the high seat. Luckily his heir…
The hand, which had been tapping the tabletop as if beginning the scoring of losses, froze. He would not admit he had been a fool. At the time it seemed wise that the heir should also answer to the subtle influence of the stones. So… no heir. Well, perhaps he had not been so wrong after all. There would be a period of chaos. With no direct heir a scramble for the high throne would ensue. Unfortunately again, several of the candidates who would be best for his purpose were already eliminated by this night’s work.
His shoulders hunched a little as if some unseen burden had come to rest there. Well, neither High King, heir, or those mind-struck lords would have been of use to a man about to molder into aged death. He was in his prime again and there was always a stew into which one could profitably dip in times of chaos. Too many ambitions would flare and not be appeased and one could work easily through the losers while the winner would find the throne a most uncomfortable seat. He thought that, great as his losses were in that direction, he could pull together and reweave his net for the east.
The Voice…
His lips shaped a snarl. Now that was indeed a deprivation. This Valcur had been a very worthy tool, being naturally twisted of mind. He had accepted direction from afar without ever realizing that he was but that tool. It was seldom Razkan had ever had such a useful one. If there could have been a way to protect the priest from the indraw… that was something to be considered in the future. He was not sure it could be done. Once unleashed, the power was not selective—it homed on those attuned to it. Perhaps there was a way about that difficulty—he would take it under consideration when he had the time.
However, Valcur—and his closest associates—they must all be written off. The brooding mage wondered what strange things were happening in the Temple now. Would any of those Valcur had held under his influence and so reduced to slavery be freed? Chaos again.
His right hand became a fist and he brought it down with force on the tabletop.
Those… those…
His lips worked and there was the blaze of rage near madness in his eyes. To be so faced down—forced into this temporary defeat by such as those!
Before today he could have unleashed, through his chain, death on them. There was no rock big enough to conceal such slimy worms from him! But it had to be summoned all or none. And for the time he could not detach any of what had once been his servants to handle them.
If he could have only found those stupid fragments of crystal himself! But in that much Lyr had defeated him. Even if he looked straight upon one, to his eyes it would have no existence.
He must wait—and waiting did not come easy to him. And—there was this—he had drawn upon all but his last reserves to keep his own life flame burning hi
gh. Would it dwindle again? If so… Again his fist pounded the table, and then he leaned forward to stare very closely at his reflection.
Youth—what he saw there was strong youth. He might age again, but he would have more years to assume and the process might be longer. Then—when they would return to that place where he could confront them… They were nothing—no more than the human animals he had dealt with over and over again—stupid, seeing nothing beyond their own petty concerns. He would have no trouble at that final challenge, and he had time before they would make it. They still had the quest to finish.
Now—the matter of the High King—there was Ingram, the Duke. He was perhaps the best stationed of those to attempt the throne. Ingram…
He recalled easily all he knew of the man. A hard fortress of a fellow to be breached, but every man had his weak point—he would also.
Valcur—there was little hope that he could find another as easy to mold and use as the Voice. And with the major priests struck down with their commander… The rule of the One had been an excellent idea for getting the country into a choking prison. He grimaced—dwelling on the losses of the past night was getting him nowhere at all.
Most of his newly acquired stolen energy and mental powers must be applied to one thing—the building of the final weapon with which once and for all he would smash Lyr forever.
CHAPTER 24
At least they were out of the city. Kryn gave a half shrug to settle his pack a little easier. But the sooner they got away from even the outskirts of Kasgar, the better it would be.
There were cultivated fields here, where some of the foodstuffs were raised by the Food Dealers’ guild, and a wide stretch of pastureland where the caravaners wintered their beasts until the next season for faring off. Kryn thought wistfully of mounts. But to steal those could well bring trackers behind. Though the way to Dast was long, he was willing to slough it afoot and remain uncaught.
The advice the guild mistress had given them was good—to keep from the road was only a matter of sense, so he looked searchingly overhead at the stars for a guide. There was Varge-With-Cloud, the Twin Arrows, the Racer. From his childhood he had known them all well, and the lore of steering a course by them was part of the knowledge of all outland warders such as he had always joined whenever he could.
They were well past the caravan road, lurking along the hedges which marked off fields and pastures. The sooner they were totally out of this settled country the better.
He fell into step with Nosh and pointed, not knowing if she could really see that gesture in this darkness, for the moon had not yet risen fully.
“That way.”
He noticed that she cradled against her with one hand that larger bag she had made during the day, in which the crystal Fingers were safely bestowed, each lapped in protective cloth. Did she believe that they would furnish a guide? He had seen too much in the last few days to question anything his unchosen companion might do.
“How far west?” she asked in return.
That presented a puzzle. To steer by the stars one could do by night, still those were not completely accurate guides and he had no wish to strike out into the plains wilderness where the barbarians and the Vors roamed. The sooner he got back to Dast the better, and their only true guide to that was the road.
“We must keep near to the road,” he spoke his thought aloud. “The plains can swallow up the unwary.”
“You head for Dast?” There was an odd note in her voice.
“Even though I have failed Lord Jarth, he must know of it,” he replied.
“You go to Dast with my good wishes, Kryn, for…”
She hesitated as if she were lost for words with which to clothe her thoughts.
“We both go to Dast!” he answered firmly. What man would allow a woman, even if she were a priestess, a talented one, whatever they deemed her, venture into the unknown alone?
“I have but six of the Fingers, Kryn. There are four to come. In this I do have an aid, for what I carry,”— she held out the bag a fraction, an only half-seen gesture in the dark—“call upon their kind. When I sense that I must go. If it draws me near to Dast, well enough, but if I am summoned into another path, that one I must take.”
He did not allow himself to answer until he had subdued that flash of anger. To let her go roaming by herself at the guidance of some bits of crystal was folly. But there was Jarth waiting for the weapons Kryn had promised and which he could not deliver. The sooner Jarth knew of his failure the better.
The cold season was already breathing down from the Heights. Without the shelter of the caves they had only the rough buildings of the well compound. As for supplies… Unless the hunters had been very lucky, those—in spite of what he had tried to send from Kasgar, and he certainly hoped those had reached the well—would be very lean before spring.
What if one of those greatly feared sleet storms should hit at them when Nosh went hunting crystals in some unknown area? People died within an hour or less if they had no shelter. She would be far better off at Dast, hard as the living would be there, than roaming a winter-shrouded countryside.
There was no use in arguing out the situation until some time when her will would match his. In the meantime, to get as far as possible from the city before dawn and then lie up for most of the day to rest was the task immediately before them.
Kryn had not heard of any predators such as the wakwolves to be feared here. The city dwellers through generations of guardianship had patrolled and cleared these lands and the fields and pasture stretched much farther west than he would first have deemed possible. Twice they had to avoid herders. Luckily varges were not easily stampeded—their huge bulk, horns, and sharp hooves made them formidable opponents for any except expert archers or a good-sized pack of wakwolves.
The herders riding bonds here were not on duty for the protection of the draft animals but rather to make sure the massive beasts did not drift from their accustomed range. If a varge scented the two who skulked along the hedgerows the beast gave no sign of it.
A large part of the night had passed when they came at last to the end of the fields. They had kept to a steady pace which the outlaws had learned long ago and Nosh had picked up during her time at the refuge. But Kryn knew that they must find some type of shelter and lie up. Though they had had good resting in Lathia’s house, still they could not keep to the trail much longer.
There were night sounds, even discounting the moan of the chill wind which had made them unroll their cloaks and go huddled within those shortly after they left the opening from the city. Squeaks arose now and then from the pasture grass, and the zark began to squirm in his prisoning bag. Nosh announced that they must soon let the creature out to go hunting.
At last they came upon an unexpected dip in the surface of the open lands. Whereas grass grew high on the surface circling that, the dip itself was a mat of brush, hard to see in the dark even by the now-present moon except as a mass of shadows. Kryn shed his pack and cloak and slipped down the side of the drop, coming to a stinging halt against a needle-boughed bush which greeted him with such an assault as to bring some forceful words from him.
But he drew his long knife and began hacking at the tough growth, throwing aside the cut boughs. Nosh, seeing what he was doing, quickly joined him in spite of his urging to stay off. There was no arguing with her, he decided sourly. Very well, let her collect her own toll of scratches and rips.
What he suspected proved to be the truth. Once they had cut their way through the brush hedge they came to a small pool. This was an ancient varge wallow— hollowed by the use of the beasts over a countless number of seasons. When the hot of midsummer came, those were drawn to such small sinkholes where they could lie near-totally plastered with that mud which defeated the attacks of the vicious warm weather flies.
Once no longer in use, such pools would provide moisture for more ambitious growths than the prairie grasses—as it had here. Their knives keeping at a steady s
wing they cleared out a space by the side of the pool. That they dared to use the water was a question. It could have been standing in the hollow entrapped from the last storm and so befouled enough to be dangerous. Kryn thought it safer that they drink sparingly from the water bottles and Nosh accepted his warning.
They had settled in, nearly shoulder to shoulder, and now he left the girl, for this hollow was far too shadowed now to give him a clear sight. Then he heard the chitter of the zark, which she had apparently freed from its traveling pouch. There was a rustle behind him: the zark was off on the hunt.
There was no room to stretch out at full length unless they would cut more of the brush away, but Kryn reclimbed the slope and came back with a heavy armload of grass he hacked from close by, pushing it down against the ground. It gave them some protection against the roots and they discovered that they could best rest in a jackknife fashion, Nosh fitting herself as well as she could to the curve of his body, drawing both their cloaks over them.
Perhaps the girl was asleep almost as soon as she closed her eyes. He could feel every even breath she drew. But somehow, though fatigue gnawed at him, he could not go so serenely to sleep. He had left above a few small traps intended to sound if their shelter was approached, and somehow he was certain that they need not set sentry. Nosh sighed and moved a little. He felt a strange tingle in his hand where he had put out his arm to draw the cloak down again. Slowly he turned his fingers to explore. The bag—that bag of the Fingers!
Everything which made her so alien to all he believed in was now tied within that bag. That she believed implicity in what she was doing—yes, that he accepted. And he could not say either that those who trusted in Lyr were like the priests of the One. But this was not for him. Moving very gently so that he might not awaken her, Kryn pulled back his hand and arm.