by Andre Norton
“What is it?”
I wished I did not need to answer, but there was no way of escaping Jervon's interest.
“This warns of my brother's danger. Before it was only a clouding, now—see this black? As it rises up the cup, so his danger grows. If the cup be all black, he is dead.”
“A third of the way,” he returned. “Have you any way of learning what this danger may be?”
“None—save it is not the chance of war—but bound up in the ways of power. He is caught in some ensorcelment.”
“The Dalesmen do not take to sorcery save as the Wise Women practice it. And the Hounds have their own kind, not rooted in our beliefs at all. So—the Old Ones—”
But I could not think of any way Elyn could so have aroused some ancient evil. He had never had any interest in such matters. I tried to recall my far-seeing—of that bedchamber where the girl had slept while my brother wrenched and levered at bars across a shuttered window.
“Can you far-see?” Jervon asked.
“Not here. I have not the proper things—” Then I wondered.
I had been so schooled by Aufrica that instinctively I thought of all such seeking in patterns she set. But she had always insisted that I had inheritances of stronger powers.
The tie between Elyn and me was close; we were born at one birth; when we looked upon each other we might be looking into a mirror. Therefore—
“Give me the water bottle!”
Jervon passed it over. I took out one of the strips of soft-beaten inner bark which I carried in my pouch for wounds. Into this I rubbed pinches of three of the herbs Aufrica had supplied and then wet it with water from the bottle, washing my hands carefully with the mixture.
Having so purified myself, I took up the cup. Though it held no liquid, I looked into it as I had into the shell basin, striving to shut out of my mind all save Elyn, thus search out where he was and what he did.
Suddenly it was as if I were in the cup, for about me was a silver-white light. Only for a moment did that bedazzle me, Then I was able to see more clearly. Around me stood tall pillars like the trunks of forest trees, save that these were smooth and polished, their slimness unbroken by any branch. Nor did they support any roof; overhead was nothing but moon and star-hung sky.
These pillars stood not in rows, but rather in a spiral so that one entering among them would walk around and around, in and in, to whatever lay at their heart At that moment I knew a vast fear, like none I had known before, so I could not even think. For what waited at the heart of that spiral was something so far from the way of life I knew that it was utter terror.
Then—that changed. It was as if it suddenly put on a mask or shield. The terror was cut off, and in its place—a drawing—a sensation of wonder, of the need to see the source of that wonder. Yet because I had earlier felt that overwhelming aura of what really lurked there I was repelled and not ensorceled.
Out into the open came a figure, mailed, helmed, with sword at hip, riding a war steed. He dismounted, dropping the reins as if he cared not now whether it should wander or not. And he moved toward the opening of the spiral as if he were called.
I tried to cry out, to force myself between Elyn and that gateway to a darkness far worse than death. But I could not move. My brother approached the beginning of the spiral—
“Elys!” Hands on my shoulders, shaking me. I sat hunched over the cup—the empty cup— The moon was light but there were no pillars, no spiral.
I raised the cup hurriedly to eye level, more than half fearing that that black shadow would have crept higher. For if Elyn was in that pillared way—how could he be saved? But the stain was no greater than it had been before.
“What did you see?” Jervon demanded. “You—it was as if you looked upon some great horror and you cried upon your brother's name as if you would pull him out of death's hold by voice alone.”
Jervon knew more of this land than I; surely he would know of the spiraled way—the quickest path! For such a thing of menace would be noted to Dalesmen.
“Listen.” As I covered the cup to stow it away, I told him of that earlier vision—my brother laboring to open the window, then of this later one. “Where lies such a place?”
“Not in Trevamper, or near it,” he returned promptly. “But the barred window—somewhere—sometime I have heard of that.” He rubbed his forehead as if so to summon back a wisp of memory.
“Window—barred window! Yes—the Keep of Coomb Fromel There is an old legend, that from one window in the center tower men can see the far hills. And if they do this at some one hour—they take horse and ride—and from that riding they do not return. Nor can those who seek them thereafter ever find them again. So Coomb Frome was no longer a lord's house but kept only as a garrison and the window in the tower was close shut. But that all happened in my grandfather's time.”
“It could be that Coomb Frome is once more a lord's hold. Did you not say my brother was hand-fasted? By what I have seen he is now wed. Yet he left his lady and went forth to search for that—! I ride to Coomb Frome!”
So we came to that Keep, but our reception there was a surprise. Though when I was first hailed by outpost men as Lord Elyn I did not deny it. It was in my mind to learn what I could of my brother before I asked questions. So I said I had been on scout and they would hear my report in due time. Perhaps a lame explanation, yet they did not protest it, only seemed glad to have me back.
Nor did Jervon deny my story. He looked to me with a question in his eyes, and then away, as if he were willing to accept the role I assumed. I pretended a great desire to see my lady wife, for I had been right, Elyn was wedded to the Lady Brunissende.
Men smiled at that, and some laughed a little and whispered one to the other. I could guess they passed such jests as men do when the newlywed are in their company. Only the eldest, a man of some rank, said my lady had taken hard my going forth and had since kept her chamber. At this I played the role of great concern and set heel to horse rib in urging for speed.
Thus I came into that same chamber I had seen in my vision. And the girl of my dream lay still on the bed, though there was with her now an older woman who had something of the look of Aufrica. So I judged she might be of the Wise company. The girl cried out:
“Elyn!” And started up, running to me, her night-robe all awry, her eyes puffed with past tears, her cheeks tracked by new ones. But the woman stared straight at me; then she raised her hand and made a sign I knew well, so that before I thought, I answered it.
Her eyes went very wide. But Brunissende was upon me, her hands reaching for my shoulders, calling upon my brother's name, demanding to know where I had been and why I had left her. I put up my hands to hold her a little off for this welcome I found difficult to answer.
Then she pulled away, looking into my face wildly, terror growing in her eyes.
“You are—you are changed! My dear lord—what have they done to you?” She began to laugh shrilly and struck out at me, her nails marking my face before I could catch her hand, screaming I was not as I had been.
The woman reached her quickly and, bringing her a little around, slapped her face. So the screaming broke abruptly and Brunissende looked from one to the other of us, rubbing her cheek, yet when she faced me she shivered.
“You are not Elyn.” This time the woman spoke. Then she recited words which I also knew. But before she completed that spell, I interrupted.
“I am Elys. Did he never speak of me?”
“Elys—Elys—” Brunissende repeated the name. “But Elys is his sister! And you are a man with the seeming of my lord—who has come to deceive me evilly.”
“I am Elys. If my brother said aught of me, you also know that I shared his upbringing in part. Sword and shield-work I learned even as he did in his childhood. Though when we were grown we went separate ways. However, there was a bond between us, and when I was warned that he was in peril, I came, even as he would have come had he heard I walked into danger.”
“But—but how did you know he was gone—lost in the hills? No messenger has ridden from here. We have kept it secret lest worse happen if it were known.” Brunissende watched me now with the same side-look I had seen in other women. And I thought that, marriage-sister though she be, the time might well come when she would like my room rather than my company. But if she were Elyn's choice then she had my favor, save that now my first duty lay not with her but with my missing brother.
But her woman drew a step closer to me, all the time studying my face as if I bore there in bright paint some sign of who or what I truly was.
“It is the truth, my lady,” she said slowly. “The Lord Elyn has said little save that his father and mother were dead, and he had a sister who dwelt among the people who sheltered them from childhood. However—I believe now that he might have said far more and yet not told all.” Again she made a certain sign and I answered it with deliberation, but added somewhat that she might know I was of no low level in her learning. Then she nodded as one come to the solving of a problem.
“The far-seeing it must have been then, my lady. So you must also know where he now ventures—”
“It is sorcery of the Old Ones.” I addressed her rather than Brunissende. “And of the Black not the White. It began with this—”
I pushed past the Lady Brunissende who still looked at me with a lack of full understanding to that window at which I had seen my brother labor with bars and bolts long rusted into place. It was close shut now as if he had never worked upon it. But when I laid hand to the lower bar I heard a choked cry and turned my head.
The Lady Brunissende cowered against the bed, both hands to her mouth, with nothing but witless terror in her eyes. She gave another muffled cry and swooned back into the tumbled covers.
5
The Curse of Ingaret
THE WISE WOMAN Went to her quickly, then looked to me again.
“It is but a swoon, and she is better not hearing what you would say, for she is frightened of such things—the learning.”
“Yet you serve her.”
“Ah, but I am her foster mother and she does not reckon what I do. But from her childhood she has feared the Curse, for it has lain heavy on her House.”
“The Curse?”
“What lies beyond that—waiting—” She pointed to the window.
“Tell me, for I am not one who swoons. But, first; Wise Woman, what is your name?”
She smiled and I smiled in return at what we both knew, that she had one name for the world and one for the inner life.
“No, you are not one unable to bear the worst which may be told or shown you. As for my name—here I am Dame Wirtha—I am also Ulrica—”
“Dame?” For the first time I noted she did not Wear the rich-colored robes of a Lord's household, but rather gray, and that the wimple of one of the abbeys covered all but her face. Yet I had heard that the Dames and the Old Knowledge did not meet. Also that those of the abbeys did not go beyond their enclosures after their final vows were taken.
“Dame,” she repeated. “War upsets all. The House of Kantha Twice Born was overrun by the Hounds this year past. And since I escaped I came to Brunissende—as I took vows only after she was handfasted. Also Kantha Twice Born had the Old Learning herself in her time and her daughters are of a different thought than those of other abbeys. But we have shared names —or do you have another?”
I shook my head. There was something of Aufrica in this Dame, but more which was herself alone. And I knew I could trust her.
“I was Blessed at my first naming, given after the custom of my mother's people—”
“The Witches of Estcarp! Would you had now what they can control, for your need will be great if you think to do what brought you here.”
“Tell me of this Curse, for it must be that which has taken Elyn.”
“There is a record that the First of the House of Ingaret, from whom my lady is descended, had a taste for strange knowledge, yet not the patience nor the discipline to follow the known roads. Therefore he took risks such as no prudent men would think on.
“By his lone he went into the places of the Old Ones and from such a journey he brought back a wife. It was in this very chamber that they lay together, but they had no children and the lord began to fret for he would have a son to follow him. He took steps to prove that the fault was not his—siring a son and then a daughter on women he kept in secret. Could any man be greater fool than to think he could hide such matters?
“He came hither one night to take his pleasure with his lady wife and found her sitting in a great chair, like that in which he sat when he gave justice in the hall. Before her on stools sat the women he had used to beget the babes, and they were as if dazed, staring straight before them, while on their knees rested their children.
“When he faced his lady, blustering, demanding to know what she did and why, she smiled at him very sweetly, and said that she but saw to his comfort that he might not have to journey forth in night and ill weather to seek those to satisfy his body—she had brought them under his roof.
“Then she arose and he found he could not move. She put off the fine robes he had given her, and the jewels he had set upon her, all these she tossed to the floor. Straightaway they became torn and tattered rags, broken base metal and glass. Then, with her body bare and beautiful in the moonlight, she walked to this very window and drew herself up on the sill.
“Thereupon she turned to look once more on Ingaret and she said words which down the years have never been forgot:
“'You shall desire, you shall seek, and in the seeking you shall be lost. What you had you threw away, and it shall call through the years to others, and they shall also seek, but that seeking shall avail no one.’
“Then she turned and leaped through the window. But when the Lord Ingaret, released from the spell which had held him, raced to look down—below there was nothing. It was as if her leap had carried her into another world.
“He gathered together then his chief men and he acknowledged on a raised war-shield the boy as his son, gave a daughter's necklet to the girl. Of their mothers—after that night they were ever maze-minded and did not live long. But the lord did not wed again. In the tenth year following he rose at night and rode out of Coomb Frome, nor was he seen again.
“Through the years other men, some lords, some heirs, some husbands of heiresses, all close to the rule of Coomb Frome, looked from this window at full moon, and then rode out—to be seen no more. Until the window was tight-barred and the family would come no more to this Keep. So that in the latter days none vanished so—until your brother.”
“If it had been many years—then perhaps this which waits is the greater hungered. You have the needful for far-seeing?”
“You would try that here? The Dark Powers must have potent rooting within this very room.”
Her warning was apt. I knew what I attempted would be highly dangerous. Yet it was needful.
“Within the moon-star—” I suggested.
She nodded, then hurried into an inner chamber. I turned to the saddlebags I had carried with me and brought out the cup. Almost I feared to drop its wrappings lest I see it black. But, although the dark tide had grown higher on the bright silver, yet there was the space of two fingers’ breadth untouched at the top. Seeing that I had hope.
The Dame came forth with a wide basket in which were small jars and bottles. First she took up a finger of white chalk and, stooping, she drew, in sharp, sure lines, the five-point star on the floor in line with that barred window. At each point she set a white candle.
That done she looked upon the cup I held. And she drew a startled breath.
“Dragon scale—where got you such a thing of power, Lady?”
“It was fashioned by and for my mother before my birth. From it I was named, as was Elyn, from it we drank farewell, so that it now bears the stain of his danger.”
“Power indeed had your mother, Lady, to bring such
as that into being. I have heard that it could be done, but the price is high—”
“One she paid without question.” And I knew pride as I answered.
“Yes, for only one of courage could do so. You are ready? I have given you such protection as I know.”
“I am ready.”
I waited until she poured within the cup a blend of liquids from two of her bottles. Then I stepped within the star while she lit the candles. As they burned brightly, I heard her croon the Summons. But her voice was very faint and far away, as if she were not almost within arm's-length but across a dale ridge.
But my eyes were on the interior of the cup where the liquid began to bubble. A mist from it filled my nostrils, though I did not turn my head aside. The mist drifted away and the liquid was a still, mirror.
It was as if I were suspended in air, perhaps on wings. Below me was the spiral of the pillars. The curve of it wound around and around to a center heart. And in that heart were people. They stood so still—unbreathing. Not people then, but images, so finely wrought they seemed alive. They, too, were in a spiral, one very near the heart, the others curling outward. And the last in that line—
Elyn!
As I recognized him, something knew me, or at least that I spied upon it. Not anger, no, rather contempt, amusement, scorn that so small and weak a thing as I would trouble it. Yet it was also—
I exerted my will, was back again among the steadily burning candles.
“You saw him?”
“Yes. Also I know where to find him. And that must be done swiftly.”
“Steel—weapons—will not save him.”
“Be sure I know that. Yet before she has never taken one tied to such as me. She has grown sure of herself, very sure, and that may work against her.”
Two things only, and small, but in my favor. Certainly no missing lord of Coomb Frome had before been sought by a Wise Woman blood-tied to him. Yet the time was so short. If Elyn stayed too long in that web he would be as those others, an image, not a man.