by Andre Norton
Cilla introduced a subject far from the one that I was ready to present.
“Can this stranger be one we have heard of—the Lost King? That boy—he was seven or eight, was he not? Some swore that he was killed and his body hidden. Maclan meant such a fate for us at the last, I am certain. It’s common enough when a raiding party with a prisoner is hard-pressed. We would not have survived, had we not been found and freed by that beast.”
“A child of seven?” Perhaps Cilla had made a proper guess. I brushed the scaled legging stretched across my knee. “Though this Under Land has surely been used by Breakswords in the past to get rid of victims they must conceal. Let a ransom go unpaid, or their prey be one to be disposed of—what more efficient place? The important thing is that there were legends. But is any account known of one who entered here ever leaving again?”
Tam, who had been oddly silent and had, as I noted, glanced regularly to the right as if expecting our host to return at any moment, seemed to be alerted by my question.
“You must have read the report from the Dackner clan—the one preserved from the fifth year of Queen Marosa’s reign. In that account, a Breaksword swore the Dismals housed monsters that fed upon men. When Black Bourne was taken after the burning of Mackiton Tower, he claimed he would have won free had it not been that near half of his men had been lured away by news of a treasure. He declared that they had descended into the Dismals, even as we were compelled to do—but none returned.”
“This place,” said Cilla slowly, “is neither of South or North—what do we know of it or the Nameless One?”
Tam spoke slowly. “He has Power—it is not of our kind, but it is Power.”
“So—you would grant me that?”
He had appeared behind us as if summoning a body from the shadows to serve him. Even as my thoughts provided this suggestion, he turned toward me.
His Send struck as a strongly thrust sword. Heat—pain—! My hands covered my ears, pressed against my head as if I needs must hold my skull together. This was a mind-casting that could be used as a deadly weapon.
The personal Ward I had trusted all my life was as nothing, and this blow had found me unprepared. But I had not been taken as was planned—taken, or killed. Perhaps what saved me from instant capitulation was the fact that my Talent was not akin to his. In spite of the increasing agony as he continued to feed his Power, I was able to call—not only upon the strength I could muster, but also upon Tam and Cilla.
They speedily found my resistance, building on that. Then—I was not the attacker but Tam, who had always been the strongest among us for a sally, even as she could more skillfully wield a material weapon.
I was no longer aware of anything but the pull of Power—united Power. Before my mind’s eye it was visible, writhing serpent-wise in a place of great darkness. The red-gold of our heraldic badge, a scorpion, tail upraised for a strike, while before it loomed another creature, larger, and much like a lizard, green and black.
So much I saw; then all vision was swept away, as if my mind had indeed been destroyed.
Tamara
HIS HAD BEEN a surprise attack, but we of the Talent cannot be easily taken thus. Our Ward remained, though in Bina’s case the defense had seemed to crumble. However, the foundation of that protection remained: full strength in me and in Cilla. As Bina made a small mewing sound and sank forward, Cilla caught her, held her tightly. I was on my feet facing the Nameless One. Nameless indeed he must be, I thought furiously, and with his feet turned to the dark.
Our triad was gone, an emptiness gaping where Bina had been. But we could spare no time to be concerned for her—not now. We must Send, allow both anger and fear to Send, with all the force we could draw and hurl.
Though my body’s sight was dimmed by that struggle, I was able to see him stagger. So—we had reached him! Fortunately, we did not have to spread our weapon, for he was but one alone. Send—oh, Send!
He crumpled. The attacking Power was gone, blown out as a candle is snuffed. It disappeared so suddenly that I staggered forward; I might have been beating upon a door that was suddenly flung open. One of my feet toed his body as I controlled my Talent, damped it down.
The Nameless One lay on his back. His green eyes gleamed but no life appeared in them. Had we indeed ended him?
I dropped to my knees and fingered the pulse at his throat. His heart was still beating.
“Tam! Oh, Tam!” Cilla summoned me.
Bina was still cradled against her. I ventured a small probe even as I returned to them, but nothing answered, not a mind closed by will or Ward—nothing!
Then—was she dead? Though we had not taken out our attacker, had he vanquished Bina—our level-headed, stouthearted sister, whom I always believed to be the anchor for Cilla and me? Did he for some reason hold us now enemies?
Cilla’s right hand had slipped under the edge of Bina’s jerkin. Now she looked up with relief dawning on her anguished face.
“She is alive?” Swiftly I knelt beside them, my arms striving to hold them both at once.
“Yes. And he—?” Cilla donned a mask of hatred as she looked toward the recumbent man.
“He lives—or his body does.” That was the last great fear of all our kind: use of the Send past the point of safety could end with the destruction of the inner spirit, leaving only an empty human shell. Had we indeed turned that fate upon him?
Cilla slid out of my grasp, leaving Bina to me, and sped behind the screen once more. I watched the Nameless One. Why had he attacked, waiting until now? He could have taken us with ease, I was sure, while we were asleep. Unless he had a need to study us …
Talent of our sort is seldom found here in the North. It was never honed, honored, and made supple as it was in our land where, with very few exceptions down the years, it was most often the gift of women, just as martial genius was of men.
The Power wielded by the Nameless One was, I felt certain, was not our kind but a Gift totally strange to the training we had received. Our attacker was alive, yet did only an emptied body lie before us? But now our task was Bina. By the Great Power, I pleaded silently, let it be my sister, full and whole, who will return to us!
Cilla came back with bedding, and we established Bina as best we could.
“Bina knows the proper herbs better than we do.” Cilla stroked our sister’s hair. “Only Mother knows the Center Call—”
I nodded. We had not been deemed ready for that lessoning. It was rarely used, and then mainly for restoring the Talent to a wielder who had tried to use Power beyond her capacity, only to be immersed in the backwash of force.
“Since we cannot use that, we can only watch and wait.”
I arose and so did Cilla. However, without explaining what she would do, she headed again for the supply shelves. Taking up an extra cover, one not used for Bina’s comfort, I folded it. Holding it so, I moved to the side of our host and raised his head to slip it underneath.
His skin felt warm to the touch, and his eyes were now closed. Could I believe that he was recovering? Perhaps it would be best to bind him while he was helpless. Yet if he relied on Talent as his weapon, we could not render him helpless by mere physical bonds.
Cilla returned from her visit to the shelves with a netted bag in the crook of one arm, two small lidded crocks in one hand and a bottle clutched tightly in the other. She stooped to place her selections on the floor, then sat down between them and Bina.
“Herbs?” We all had special refinements of Talent peculiar to each of us alone. Cilla not only had a strong command over needlework but she had the ability to concoct certain herbal potions. Those creams and scents we used for our needs were always of her distilling and making. Bina had herb-lore also, but dealt rather with healing, sometimes rivaling the skill of Duty, the true greenwife of our household.
Cilla did not look to me but rather stared at her selection. “It is a pitiful assortment, but it is the best here. I had to select by scent, and that is guessing, b
ut there was no other way. Bina always wishes her court fragrances to be of red lilies. Here, smell this—”
She twisted the stopper from one of the clay pots and held it out. I obeyed and lowered my head to draw in a full sniff.
“Essence of red sun lilies,” I pronounced, but she shook her head.
“Not so. Look!”
Look I did. The liquid within was not the watery juice that could be pressed from the proper flowers; I had done such a task myself. This was a turgid, oily substance. Yet, when I sniffed again, it was true attar of red sun lily.
“And the others?”
Cilla pointed to the other stoppered pot. “Gascal sticks, I believe—but I cannot be sure.” Then she dangled the net. It contained five lumps with a greasy glaze upon them.
“Razzel roots, fried. I am more sure of those—and this.” She dropped the net and picked up the bottle. “Vorfay wine—or its close like.”
“You would make a summons?”
“If I can.” Cilla frowned. “One can only try.”
She stepped again to the shelves, selected an empty bowl with a spouted side for the pouring of its contents, and began work. I thought it time again to visit the Nameless One and moved to do so.
He lay as I had left him, though his eyes were once more open. Only—they were lifeless orbs. I shivered. Was the stranger now a spiritless husk? We had fought for our own lives—I quieted my conscience with that. Yet to deliver this worst of fates, than which clean death was far more to be desired, was an act that would burden any wielder of Power with guilt, shadow her throughout life’s length.
Could we fight for him even as Cilla was doing for Bina? One of his hands lay limply along his body, resting on the stone. I knelt and grasped it. The flesh was warm, certainly that of a living man; still he lay totally inert.
Then, into my mind, with such force that my ears might have heard a spoken order, came thought, born of a mind-pattern strangely twisted. To learn its message was akin to dealing with an intricate foreign language.
A part of me obeyed. Still holding his hand, I bent until my lips met his, and I began to suck, as though drawing poison from a wound—why, I could not have told. I knew only that this must be done—that what our Talent had laid low, I must now cherish.
I was extracting nothing tangible from him; however, that I pulled forth something I was sure. Pain struck, its hot irons pressing into my forehead as if I suffered branding.
Sounds began behind me, very faint and far away, but I could spare them no heed for the world had narrowed to what I must do. My agony became a barrier, and I could draw no more remaining Power to me, into me. Raising my head, I looked into those eyes once again. No longer were they shallow, without life.
“Tam! Tam!”
Slowly, moving against a great fatigue, I placed the hand I held back on his breast. I had no energy left; to rise to my feet was beyond my strength.
“Tam!”
I could not move, yet I knew that I had not been raped of spirit. I was still Tamara Scorpy, Wisedaughter.
Cilla was kneeling beside me, her face very close to mine and her eyes shadowed by fear. With a great effort, I reached for her, clung that I might not slump to the stone of the cave.
She looked at the man. Still he had not moved, and his eyes had closed.
“He—he is emptied?” she asked tonelessly.
“No, I think not, but Bina—how fares she?”
“She is ours once more,” Cilia was quick to assure me. “Come—”
Tugging determinedly, she pulled and lifted and got me across to where Bina lay.
Our sister had begun to cry, heavy sobs shaking her whole body. Her hands reached out to me and I kissed her, holding her tightly, doubly aware of what we might all have lost.
Cilla had a hand on each of us, and a thick fragrance wreathed us round. We might be cloistered in a bed of blooms; and indeed our sister began to singsong those old country names of blossoms that had been known to us since we were able to crawl and pull flower-plunder from our mother’s garden:
“By Star-of-glory, Petalbright, Creeping Maids,
Weaving Stems, Better-worth, and Red-Gold Lily!
Great One, to us this treasure of Glory has been given.
In Thy Name shall a garden new be tended—
In this very land of darkness and despair.
This do I swear!”
It seemed as if the perfume that encircled us was spreading out, at the same time growing stronger, richer. Without speech I voiced my thanks to that Greatest of all Powers.
Then I heard a coughing. Bina twisted a little in my hold to look to its source. He was sitting up, one hand pressed to those lips I had met, as again he loosed a cough.
It was not I who spoke but rather Bina, for Cilla’s eyes were closed, and she swayed silently to some chant that she alone could hear.
“Truce?” Bina’s question was loud.
He was sitting up, braced by his arms and hands against the floor. His face wore an odd expression that I could not read, but he answered firmly.
“Truce!”
Bina wriggled free from my hold and stood erect.
“Weapon peace-tied?” came her second question.
He smiled then, and it was as if some mask cracked to show us one of kin.
“Peace-tied indeed, lady. I, Zolan, swear it so.”
His name—of that I was sure, though it was no usual name of the North. So did he give it freely, breaking any usual Ward by imparting it to us.
“I be Sabina of the Scorpys,” she replied.
I must render trust also. “And I am Tamara of the Scorpys.”
Cilla stood up. “I am Drucilla of that line,” she added.
Thus, though questions in many remained unanswered, we believed that we had been given full guesting rights in this stronghold of the Dismals.
Nine
Drucilla
“That is the way of it.” I licked dry lips, having finished the telling of our tale. Bina and Tam had left it to me, and neither they nor Zolan had interrupted.
“And a black way it is!” He turned his head and looked to the seated figures of the unknown beings.
“We must keep watch,” Bina struck in. “If our father traces us this far—”
“I suppose,” Tam said, her attention strictly on him, “no other way is known out of the Dismals?”
“None!” His answer was harshly abrupt.
“You have lived here long?” I asked. “Were you also captive dropped, as we, into this ill-omened place?”
“I have”—he spoke slowly and with an emphasis that signaled importance—“no other memories than this.” His hand moved in a gesture to encompass all that lay about us.
“No others have been left here as we were?”
“Yes—five. But all had been hard-used, and they did not live long.” Zolan was open enough about those facts.
A flash of red kindled behind him. Climber appeared, to stand on his hind legs, both forepaws on the man’s shoulders, his head raised until he could look directly into his companion’s eyes. For a long moment the two held that position; then the beast dropped to four feet again.
Zolan arose. “Tasks must now be done,” he stated. “But first, let me ask something of you—for your own safety. The perils are many in this place, which is apart from your own world. I have hunted through the seasons for a way up, which I have never found, yet still will I search for one for you—this I promise. In the meantime, do not venture forth by yourselves. Now I must go.”
The tone of his voice kept us from any question. Go he did, leaving us with much yet to learn.
“If Father’s forces come, they will have the sleuthhounds in the lead. We have fed Bell and Swiftfoot since they were puppies, and they will know our scent well. To keep a watch where we were lowered—that is only a matter of good sense.” I was on my feet. Then I stooped to take the shallow bowl from which fragrance still rose.
Curling a finger into i
ts depths, I brought out a smearing of the slightly greasy substance. With a gob of this I touched my body, breast, both knees, and last of all my forehead. I could not rebuild our Wards by ceremony, and this anointing was far less potent, but it must serve. Was its worth not so proven when it drew Bina back to us?
I passed on the bowl to Tam and Bina, and they followed my example.
“We were warned,” Bina said. “And we have no weapons.”
“We were warned,” Tam echoed her, then amended, “and we have no weapons of man’s making.”
The plan in their minds was as clear as if it had been scribed in words: they would return to the cliffside from which we had been lowered. The stream gurgling at the other end of the cavern would be a guide.
I had another thought to share. Twice Zolan had come without sound, seeming to materialize out of the shadows. I wanted to know a little better the extent of this stronghold of his, beginning with the seated figures. I was sure that they were of importance to our host. Also, why had he turned his Power upon us?
Tam nodded. “I think you have the right of it.”
I had not put my idea into speech, yet they agreed. I moved forward, not to plunder the supply shelf this time but to approach as closely as I could those alien watchers.
Now that I had fully centered my attention on them, I began to see many more oddities. Though the bodies were stiffly human in shape, they bore no patterns to suggest clothing. However, raised lines that appeared to be ornamental scars crossed shoulders and chests, writhed down arms and legs.
Patterns—patterns had always served me well as far back as I could remember. I began to trace a certain scar-cutting down the nearest arm of the figure directly before me. That line—no, not quite—it should turn here, but it did not. Again I saw a design not unlike the one I had dreamed. And I had seen it still more recently. I caught at the massive brooch, which clipped my jerkin modestly together across my breasts. Yes, here was a plain copy of the motif in the hardened clay above.