by Andre Norton
By midsummer, when the loquths had flowered and their blossoms dropped. Dairine went often into the fields, fingering the swelling bolls. Sometimes she sang, queer, foreign-tongued words, as if the plants were children (now knee height, and then shoulder height) who must be amused and cherished
Herdrek had changed her loom as the girl suggested might be done. From Ingvarna she learned the mysteries of dyes, experimenting on her own. She had no real friend among the few children of the dying village. Firstly, because she did not range much afield, save with Ingvarna, of whom most were in awe. Secondly, because her actions were strange and she seemed serious and more adult than the years they believed to be hers.
In the sixth year after her coming, a Sulcar ship put in at Rannock, the first strange vessel sighted since the wreck of the slaver. Its captain brought news that the long war was at last over.
The defeat of the Karsten invaders, who so drained the powers of the rulers of Estcarp, had been complete. Koris of Gorm was now Commander of Estcarp, since so many of the Guardians had perished when they turned the full extent of their power upon the enemy. Yet the land was hardly at peace. The sea wolves of the coast had been augmented by ships of the broken and defeated navy of Karsten. As in times of chaos, other wolfheads, without any true lands or allegiance, now ravaged the land wherever they might Though the forces under Captain General Koris sought to protect the boundaries, yet to defeat such hit-and-run raids was well beyond the ability of any defending force.
The Sulcar Captain was impressed by the latest length of Dairine's weaving, offering for it, when he bargained with Ingvarna, a much better price than he had thought to pay out in this forgotten village. He was much interested also in the girl, speaking to her slowly in several tongues. However, she answered him only in the language of Estcarp, saving she knew no other.
Still, he remarked privately to Ingvarna that somewhere in the past he had seen those like unto her, though where and when during his travels be could not bring to mind. Still, be thought that she was not of common stock.
It was a year later that the Wise Woman wrought the best she could for her sea-gift foundling.
No one knew how old Ingvarna was, for the Wise Woman showed no advance of age, as did those less learned in the many uses of herbs and medicants. But it was true that she walked more slowly, and that she no longer went alone when she sought out certain places of Power, taking Dairine ever with her. What the two did there no one knew, for who would spy on any woman with the Witch Talent?
On this day, the few fishing boats had taken to sea before dawn. At moonrise the night before the Wise Woman and her fosterling had gone inland to visit a certain very ancient place. There Ingvarna kindled a fire which burned not naturally red but rather blue. Into those flames she tossed small, tightly bound bundles of dried herbs so that the smoke which arose was heavily scented. But she watched not that fire. Rather, a slab of stone set behind its flowering. That stone had a surface like glass, the color of a fine sword blade.
Dairine stood a little behind the Wise Woman. Though Ingvarna had taught her over the years to make her other senses serve her in place of her missing sight, so that her fingers were ten eyes, her nostrils, her ears could catch scent and sound to an extent far outreaching the skill of ordinary mankind, yet at moments such as this the longing to be as others awoke in her a sense of loss so dire that to her eyes came tears, flowing silently down her cheeks. Much Ingvarna had given her. Still, she was not as the others of Rannock. And ofttimes loneliness settled upon her as a burdensome cloak. Now the girl sensed that Ingvarna planned for her some change. That it would make her see as others saw—that she could not hope for.
She heard clearly the chanting of the Wise Woman. The odor of the burning herbs filled her nose, now and then made her gasp for a less heavy lungful of air. Then came a command, not given in words, nor by some light touch against her arm and shoulder. But into her mind burst an order and Dairine walked ahead, her hands outstretched, until her ten fingers flattened against a throbbing surface. Warm it was, near to a point which would sear her flesh, while its throb was in twin beat to her own heart. Still, Dairine stood firm, while the chant of the Wise Woman came more faintly, as if the girl had been shifted farther away in space from her foster mother.
Then she felt an inward flow from the surface she touched, a warmth which spread along her hands, her wrists, up her arms. Fainter still came the voice of Ingvarna petitioning on her behalf, strange and half-forgotten powers.
Slowly the warmth receded. But how long Dairine had stood so wedded to that surface she could not see, the girl never knew. Except that there came a moment when her hands fell, as if too heavily burdened for her to raise.
“What is done, is done.” Ingvarna's voice at the girl's left sounded as weighted as Dairine's hands felt. “All I have to give, this I have freely shared with you. Though being blind as men see blindness, yet you have sight such as few can own to. Use it well, my fosterling.”
From that day it became known that Dairine did indeed have strange powers of “seeing” through her hands. She could take up a thing which had been made and tell of the maker, of how long since it had been wrought. A shred of fleece from one of the thin-flanked hill sheep put into her fingers would enable her to guide an anxious owner to where the lost flock member had strayed.
There was one foretelling which she would not do, after she came upon its secret by chance only. For she had taken the hand of little Hulde during the Harvest Homing dance. Straightway thereafter, Dairine dropped her grasp upon the child's small fingers, crying out and shrinking away from the villagers, to seek out Ingvarna's house and therein hide herself. Within the month, Hulde had died of a fever. Thereafter, the girl used her new sight sparingly, and always with a fear plain to be seen haunting her.
In the Year of the Weldworm, when Dairine passed into young womanhood, Ingvarna died swiftly. As if foreseeing another possible end, she summoned death as one summons a servant to do one's bidding.
Though Dairine was no true Wise Woman, thereafter she took on many of the duties of her foster mother. Within a month after the Wise Woman's burial, the Sulcar ship returned.
As the Captain told the forgotten village the news of the greater world his eyes turned ever to Dairine, her hands busy with thread she spun as she listened. Among those of the village she was indeed one apart, with her strange silver-fair hair, silver-light eyes.
Sibbald Ortis, Sibbald the Wrong-Handed—thus they had named him after a sea battle had lopped off his hand, and a smith in another land had made him one of metal—was that captain. He was new to command and young—though he had lived near all his life at sea after the manner of his people.
Peace, after a fashion, he told them, had encompassed the land at last. For Koris of Gorm now ruled Estcarp with a steady hand. Alizon had been defeated in some invasion that nation had attempted overseas. And Karsten was in chaos, one prince or lord always rising against another, while the sea wolves were being hunted down, one after another, to a merciless end.
Having made clear that he was in Rannock on lawful business, the captain now turned briskly to the subject of trade. What had they, if anything, which would be worth stowage in his own ship?
Herdrek was loathe to spread their poverty before these strangers. Also, he wanted, with a desire he could hardly conceal, some of the tools and weapons he had seen in casual use among them. Yet what had Rannock? Fish dried to take them through a lean winter, some woven lengths of wool.
The villagers would be hard put even to give these visitors guest-right, with the feast they were entitled to. To fail in that was to deny their own heritage.
Dairine, listening to the Captain, had wished she dared touch his hand to learn what manner of a man he was who had journeyed so far and seen so much. A longing was born in her to be free of the narrow, well-known ways of Rannock, to see what lay beyond in the world. Her fingers steadily twirled her thread, but her thoughts were elsewhere.
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bsp; Then she lifted her head a little, for she knew someone was now standing at her side. There was the tang of sea-salted leather and other odors. This was a stranger, one of the Sulcar men.
“You work that thread with skill, maid.”
She recognized the captain's voice. “It is my skill, Lord Captain.”
“They tell me that fate has served you harshly.” He spoke bluntly then, but she liked him the better for that bluntness.
“Not so, Lord Captain. These of Rannock have been ever kind. And I was fosterling to their Wise Woman. Also, my hands serve well, if my eyes are closed upon this world. Come, you, and see!” She spoke with pride as she arose from her stool, thrusting her spindle into her girdle.
Thus Dairine brought him to her cottage, sweet within for all its scents of herbs. She gestured to where stood the loom Herdrek had made her.
“As you see, Lord Captain, I am not idle, even though I may be blind.”
She knew that there, in the half-done web, there was no mistake.
Ortis was silent for a moment. Then she heard the hiss of his breath expelled in wonder.
“But this is weaving of the finest! There is no fault in color or pattern. . . . How can this be done?”
“With one's two hands, Lord Captain!” She laughed. “Here, give me a possession of yours that I may show you better how fingers can be eyes.”
Within her there was a new excitement for something told her that this was a moment of importance in her life. She heard then a faint swish as if some bit of woven stuff were being shaken free. A clinging length was pressed into the hand she held out.
“Tell me,” he commanded, “from whence came this, and how was it wrought?”
Back and forth between her fingers the girl slipped the ribband of silken stuff.
Woven—yes. But her “seeing” hands built no mind picture of human fingers at the business. No, strangely ill-formed were those members engaged in the weaving. And so swift were they also that they seemed to blur. No woman, as Dairine knew women, had fashioned this. But female—strongly, almost fiercely female.
“Spider silk—” She was not aware that she had spoken aloud until she heard the sound of her own words. “Yet not quite spider. A woman weaving—still, not a woman. . . .”
She raised the ribband to her cheek. There was a wonder in such weaving which brought to life in her a fierce longing to know more and more.
“You are right.” The captain's voice broke her preoccupation with that need to learn. “This comes from Usturt. Had a man but two full bolts of it within his cargo be could count triple profits from such a voyage alone.”
“Where lies Usturt?” Dairine demanded. If she could go there—learn what could be learned. “And who are the weavers? I do not see them as beings like unto our own people.”
She heard his breath hiss again. “To see the weavers,” he said in a low voice, “is death. They hate all mankind—”
“Not so, Lord Captain!” Dairine answered him then. “It is not mankind that they hate—it is all males.” From the strip between her fingers came that knowledge.
For a moment she was silent. Did he doubt her?
“At least no man sails willingly to Usturt,” he replied. “I had that length from one who escaped with his bare life. He died upon our deck shortly after we fished him from a waterlogged raft.”
“Captain,” she stroked the silk, “you have said that this weaving is a true treasure. My people are very poor and grow poorer. If one were to learn the secret of such weaving, might not good come of it?”
With a sharp jerk he took the ribband from her.
“There is no such way.”
“But there is!” Her words came in an eager tumble, one upon the other. “Women—or female things—wove this. They might treat with a woman—one who was already a weaver.”
Great, callused hands closed upon her shoulders.
“Girl, not for all the gold in Karsten would I send any Woman into Usturt! You know not of what you speak. It is true that you have gifts of the Talent. But you are no confirmed Guardian, and you are blind. What you suggest is such a folly—Aye, Vidruth, what is it now?”
Dairine had already sensed that someone had approached.
“The tide rises. For better mooring, captain, we need move beyond the rocks.”
“Aye. Well, girl, may the Right Hand of Lraken be your shield. When a ship calls, no captain lingers,”
Before she could even wish him well, he was gone. Retreating, she sat down on her hard bench by the loom. Her hands trembled, and from her eyes the tears seeped. She felt bereft, as if she had had for a space a treasure and it had been torn from her. She was certain that her instinct had been right, that if any could have learned the secret of Usturt, she was that one.
Now, when she put a hand out to finger her own weaving, the web on the loom seemed coarse, utterly ugly. In her mind, she held a queer vision of a deeply forested place in which great, sparkling webs ran in even strands from tree to tree.
Through the open door puffed a wind from the sea. Dairine lifted her face to it as it tugged at her hair.
“Maid!”
She was startled. Even with her keen ears she had not heard anyone approach, so loud was the wind song.
“Who are you?” she asked quickly.
"I am Vidruth, maid, mate to Captain Ortis.”
She arose swiftly. “He has thought more upon my plan?” She could see no other reason for the seaman to seek her out in this fashion.
“That is so, maid. He awaits us now. Give me your hand—so. . . .”
Fingers grasped hers tightly. She strove to free her hand. This man—there was that in him which was wrong. Then out of nowhere came a great smothering cloak, folded about her so tightly she could not struggle. There were unclean smells to affront her nostrils, but the worst was that this Vidruth had swung her up across his shoulder so that she could have been no more than a bundle of trade goods.
2
So was she brought aboard what was certainly a ship, for in spite of the muffling of the cloak, Dairine used her ears, her nose. However, she could not sort out her thoughts. Why had Captain Ortis so vehemently, and truthfully (for she had read that truth in his touch), refused to bring her? Then this man of his had come to capture her as he might steal a woman during some shore raid?
The Sulcarmen were not slave traders, that was well known. Then why?
Hands pulled away the folds of the cloak at last. The air she drew thankfully into her lungs was not fresh, rather tainted with stinks which made her feel unclean even to sniff. She thought that her prison must lie deep within the belly of the ship.
“Why have you done this?” Dairine asked of the man she could hear breathing heavily near her.
“Captain's orders,” he answered, leaning so close she not only smelt his unclean body but gathered with that a sensation of heat. “He has eyes in his head, has the captain. You be a smooth-skinned, likely wench—”
“Let her be, Wak!” That was Vidruth.
“Aye, captain,” the other answered with a slur of sly contempt. “Here she be, safe and sound—”
“And here she stays, Wak, safe from your kind. Get out!”
There was a growl from Wak, as if he were close to questioning the other's right so to order him. Then Dairine's ears caught a sound which might have been that of a panel door sliding into place.
“You are not the captain,” she spoke into the silence between them.
“There has been a change of command,” he returned. “The captain, he has not brought us much luck in months agone. When we learned that he would not try to better his fortune—he was—”
“Killed!”
“Not so. Think you we want a blood feud with all his clan? The Sulcarmen take not lightly to those who let the red life out of some one of their stock.”
“I do not understand. You are all Sulcar—”
“That we are not, girl. The world has changed since those ruled the waves a
bout the oceans. They were fighters and fighting men get killed. The Kolder they fought, and they blew up Sulcarkeep in that fighting, taking the enemy—but also too many of their own—on into the Great Secret. Karsten they fought, and they were at the taking of Gorm, aye. Then they have patrolled against the sea wolves of Alizon. Men they have lost, many men. Now if they take a ship out of harbor they do it with others besides just their kin to raise sails and set the course. No, we do not kill Sibbald Ortis, we may need him later. But he is safe laid.
“Now let us to the business between us, girl. I heard the words you spoke with Ortis. Also did I learn much about you from those starvelings who live in Rannock. You have some of the Talents of the Wise Women, if you cannot call upon the full Power, blind as you are. You yourself said it—if any can treat with those devil females of Usturt, it must be one such as you.
“Think on that spider silk, girl. You held that rag that Ortis has. And you can do mighty things, unless all those at Rannock are crazed in their wits. Which I do not believe. This is a chance which a man may have offered to him but once in a lifetime.”
She heard the greed in his voice. Perhaps that greed would be her protection. Vidruth would take good care to keep her safe. Just as he held somewhere Sibbald Ortis for a like reason.
“Why did you take me so, if your intentions are good? If you heard my words to the captain, you know I would have gone willingly.”
He laughed. “Do you think those shore-side halflingmen would have let you go? With three quarters of the Guardians dead, their own Wise Woman laid also in her grave shaft, would they willingly have surrendered to us even your small Talent? The whole land is hard pressed now for any who hold even a scrap of the Power.
“No matter. They will welcome you back soon enough after you have learned the secret of Usturt. If it then still be in your mind to go to them.”
“But how do you know that in Usturt I shall work for you?”
“Because you will not want the captain to be given over to them. They do not have a pleasant way with captives.”