by Andre Norton
Thotharn was growing angry. He disliked that his power should be resisted by two contemptible mortals. She read that and gloried in it but knew their defense could not hold forever, nay, nor hold very much longer. His strength was as near to infinite as mattered, and theirs must all too soon fail. She hoped that when it did, they would fall together, for she found she did not want to see Rural brought down.
At least the woman could be certain their defeat would be into death only. Their souls were their own, and those could not be taken from them. So much of the victory, they would deny Thotharn.
If only they could have a little more! She wished that they might at least score him, but they had no strength even to break through the guards he had set about himself.
I hope you are watching, Mother, her mind hissed. Two of your creatures are fighting here in a battle beyond our strength, a battle that should by rights be yours, because no shielding
was given when your kinsman persecuted this good and innocent human being.
She laughed aloud, and such was the contempt revealed in it that the battle for an instant halted between god and man.
Aye, your kinsman I name him, and your liege lord, perhaps, since he pulls down what you claim to build and love, yet you do naught even .when it is impossible for lesser things to resist him, though they fight your war for you!
Something filled her, thought, knowledge, as she had been given knowledge before the pavilion of Thotharn’s priest.
This being was not death. His canker stronghold was not death. They were something far less. Death was part of life, and life was so infinitely stronger than their mere negation that it would rend and cleanse this place utterly were it ever to gain entrance here.
They were life! She and Rural were life and the storehouse of life! They—they were the focus, the channel, for life’s power in the realm into which they and their kind had been set!
The dark god caught her thought and literally flung himself at her.
He could not reach her. A wall, a burning light, seemed to have risen up around her.
It was about Rural as well. His mind was feeding hers. They were life’s channel, aye, but they were not life itself, not wholly. All their realm had claim to that.
The sea was life, and her waves could cleanse. The wind was life, wind that swept mists away. The soil was life, supporting and feeding. The sun was life, with its light that cheered and warmed and quickened every living thing beneath its care.
She named them, and Rural echoed the naming, and as she spoke, it seemed that each force came to them, and other forces subservient to these greater ones with them, and a vast, vast wailing filled their minds and then their very souls until they fell numb with the depth of its terror, and a merciful and caressing darkness came around them to give them release.
Roma awakened with an aching head and a body as sore as if it had been beaten.
Her night clothing was clammy with sweat, and she was glad to strip it off and wash, wash the last remnants of the horror from her.
She dressed, then suddenly her knees threatened to give beneath her, and she staggered to a stool fortunately near to hand.
Full memory was hers again. Rural? How was he? Where was he? She recalled how he had stood, pitting his man’s strength against that of the dark god, striving as much to shield her as to cover himself. If he had not returned, or had returned blasted . . .
She heard him, not his mind-call, but his voice. He was waiting outside the stall.
“Roma! Will you sleep the day away?”
The woman darted from the resting area.
He was clad in his fair-ward’s uniform and, except for a pallor and strain still on him, seemed none the worse for their dire night.
He looked better than ever before. The clouds were gone from his eyes now. They laughed and were glad, as she knew they were meant to be.
“I am pleased to find you well, lady artist,” he said gravely. “There was apparently some great upheaval last night while we slept.”
“Sit. Tell me what’s happened here while you examine the portrait doll. I finished the outfitting of it yesterday after the paint dried.”
He obeyed, lowering his voice when he spoke again. “The temple is like to a hive. Vast amounts of power exploded suddenly over the whole fair area. The priests cannot find the source of it but are blaming Thotharn’s followers since the whole of it seemed to settle upon them. The chief priest is dead. His two foremost assistants would be better so, for no remnant at all of a mind remains to either of them. The lesser followers have all fled.”
He nodded when her eyes closed. “They were evil and espoused an evil cause, but aye, it was hard seeing what they have become.”
“Does anyone suspect us?”
“No one. All the fair-wards are conducting searches and asking questions, but no one saw or sensed anything, not even your kin, whom you may be sure I have read. Their rest was not troubled.”
“What—what of—him?”
“‘Thotharn is hardly dead, but rest assured that we shall be free from his attentions from now on, and I think he will walk far more carefully in his efforts against humankind from this time forth.”
He stopped speaking for a moment, then looked at her steadily. “We wrought well together, you and I.”
The woman’s eyes turned downward. “We did,” she agreed softly.
“Could you leave your kin to dwell with me amongst mine? Your arts would be thrice welcome, this of your hands and the other. You will find our bards are more open of mind than are those of the mainland.”
She flushed, but there had been much unavoidable sharing between their minds last night. . . .
Roma loved the people of Clan Lorekin, loved the place she held amongst them, the place her talent had earned. Her eyes met his, however, and she knew her heart’s answer.
If it were truly possible and not only a dream of no hope. He caught her hands as his mind read her doubt.
“I am no lord or lord’s son. My mother-brother is indeed chieftain, but I am nothing more than captain of his forces. My bride will of a certainty be well served, but if she chooses to follow her art as a profession and no mere whim and to bring her work to Ithkar Fair each year, it will be no mark on my house but a blessing to it. I have said that my folk value the gods’ great gifts and those bearing them.”
She came into his arms then, although strangers were nigh and her kin looked on.
Aye, she would go with him, and she would be his wife in all the fullness of that state.
Her eyes flew skyward for a moment, as they had always done when she had formally addressed the great Lady.
The Mother had fulfilled her pledge in the end, in the opening of the knowledge Roma had needed and used, even in the fostering of the bitterness that had given her the strength to wield it, to act as she had during all her grim adventure. There was, in truth, a covenant between them, and she would hold to her part of it while life and the power to do so were in her.
What Little Girls Are Made Of
T. S. Huff
The two oxen stopped in front of the gates of Ithkar Fair wearing what could almost be termed relieved expressions. The brightly colored wagon they pulled was not that large, but the old woman who held the reins was immense. Great swooping curves of flesh wrapped her about. From the thick gray braid around her head to the red sandals on her feet, there wasn’t an angle of any kind left on the woman’s body. The yards of red-and-yellow cloth she wore did nothing to minimize her size.
She looked down at the fair-ward approaching the wagon and chuckled, a sound that involved her whole body. “So, Font, once again you manage to be at the gate when I come to the fair. How do you do it?”
Font, a giant in his. own right, although his size owed nothing to fat, returned her smile with a slow one of his own. “Morron owed me a favor, Aunt Arra. I used it.” She was not his aunt, but for years the children of Ithkar Fair had used the title, and Font had grown up at the fair.
“Hello, Elaina.” This to the girl who had peered around her grandmother’s bulk to see what was going on.
“Good morning, Font.” Violet eyes looked down at him through long, dark lashes. “You look very nice in your uniform.”
The fair-ward stammered something unintelligible, and a red flush rose from his collar to the edge of his brass helm.
“Tease,” her grandmother admonished, and tugged gently on a golden braid.
“She reminds me,” called a voice from the table beside the gate, “of someone I knew, oh, many, many years ago.”
“Cortaynous?” Gray eyes widened within the folds of fat. “Cortaynous, you old coot, I thought you shriveled up and blew away years ago.”
The old wizard laughed. He was so thin and wrinkled it did indeed look as though a good blast of wind would be the end of him. “And I thought you had decided to end your days in some backwater village. You’d better search her, fair-ward. It looks to me like there’s smuggling being done under that tent she’s wearing.”
“Oh, no, sir,” Font protested, “that’s all Aunt Arra.”
Elaina muffled a shriek of laughter, and Arra buried her head in her hands and shook. Which was something to see.
Font turned from the two women to the wizard, his pleasant features drawn in puzzlement. “What did I say? Did I say something wrong?”
Arra wiped her streaming eyes and patted the young man comfortingly on the shoulder. Font was one of the best fighters and most good-hearted people she’d ever met, but even his own mother admitted he wasn’t very bright. “Never mind, lad, we all know what you meant.”
“It seems to me,” Cortaynous pointed out, getting his own mirth under control, “that he meant what he said.”
“I’d come down there and deal with you, you ancient fake, but we’re holding up the line as it is.” She handed Font a small box, which he carried to the table, and a cloth bag, which he slipped into a pocket of his leather coat. “Anyone can tell you where I am, so I’ll expect to see you before the end of the fair.”
The old wizard nodded. “I’ll be there, if only to further my acquaintance with the lovely young lady at your side.”
“If he comes by, Elaina, you are not to sit on his knee.”
“Oh, Grandmother!”
“And,” Cortaynous continued, ignoring the interruption, “to see how one such as you could leave the path.”
“Me leave the path? Pah! You’re confusing removal with a change of direction.” Arra winked at him and slapped the reins against the oxen’s backs. “If you don’t believe me, just ask the children.”
The wagon moved slowly forward, the beasts pulling with a will, for they knew the end of the journey was near. With a creaking, and swaying, and fluttering of red-and-yellow cloth, Arra and Elaina passed through the gate and into Ithkar Fair.
“The candymaker is here!” The call rang out over the fair-grounds, for the children had placed a watch on the gate to let them know when Arra’s wagon arrived. Faster than should have been possible, the wagon was surrounded by what could only be termed a horde of screaming children.
“Aunt Arra! Aunt Arra! What took you so long?”
“We’ve guarded your booth for you, Aunt Arra!”
“Do you have the red ones again, Aunt Arra?”
“I’ve grown two inches, Aunt Arra. Can you tell?”
“Aunt Arra, Mother wants you to come to supper tonight.”
“Kurtis got married, Aunt Arra, and Papa says it’s a good thing he’s fond of dogs ‘cause his wife looks like one.”
“Christa!”
“Well, he did!”
“Uncle Alvin has the berries you wanted, Aunt Arra, but he says you’d better hurry or they’ll be past it.”
“Can I help pull the taffy this year, Aunt Arra? I’m big enough now, truly I am. Truly.”
Arra answered questions, admired growth and lost teeth, and passed out handfuls of barley sugars in hopes of dulling the din. Elaina greeted old friends and made plans to meet and compare notes on the year that had passed since the last fair.
Adults, parents and the childless, smiled indulgently as the noisy cavalcade made its way to the large and permanent booths near the temple. For as long as any of them could remember, the candymaker had been at Ithkar Fair, and more than one of them had grown up knowing both her candy and her kindness. To the casual visitor, she was a fat old lady who held a certain skill with sugar. To the merchants and traders who came back year after year, she was Aunt Arra.
With a deft hand the old woman backed her wagon into-the space beside her booth and heaved herself down off the box. Elaina leapt lightly to the ground and began to unhitch the oxen. A boy, Elaina’s age or a little older, came forward, took the heavy harness from her, and finished the job. He’d been leaning on the booth when they arrived, trying not to look like he was waiting.
“Shall I take them to the usual place, Aunt Arra?” he asked, looking everywhere but at Elaina.
“Thank you, Tap,” Arra replied just as seriously. “I’d appreciate that.”
The young man, for he could not really be called a boy any longer, nodded and began to lead the oxen away. He took three steps, looked back, and finally met Elaina’s eyes. She tossed her head and looked away. He shrugged and walked on.
“He’s grown some over the last year,” Arra observed in a neutral tone. “Got good-looking, too.”
“I hadn’t noticed.”
Arra snorted. “Not the sort I’d have turned down in my day.”
“Oh, Grandmother!”
“He’s walking slowly enough; you could probably catch up.”
“You need me here.”
“Doing what?” The wagon seethed with children, the older, more experienced ones instructing the others in the proper unloading of the candymaker’s equipment and supplies.
Elaina hesitated a moment, then with a graceful flash of shapely legs darted down the lane.
“Have to lengthen her skirts again,” Arra observed. With astonishing speed in one so large, she dove forward to save one of her favorite molds from an overly enthusiastic youngster.
Arra was not a deeply religious woman. She worshiped the Three Lordly Ones with the same matter-of-fact practicality that she brought to everything else. She would no more have denied them their yearly offering of her best than she would have denied the children who ran her errands their sweets.
She entered the gates of the temple followed by two of the older children, who carried a wooden box between them. They placed it on the tribute table, bowed—with their mothers’ warning to be polite showing on their well-scrubbed faces—turned, and tried not to run as they left.
“So, Sefon,” Arra greeted the middle-aged priest with a nod and a smile, “how has life and the temple treated you this last year?”
“Life and the temple have treated me well,” the priest replied solemnly. “I am truly blessed to serve the Three Lordly Ones.”
Arra suppressed a snort. Even as a child Sefon had taken himself too seriously. His religion was one of pomp and ceremony and little joy. She spotted a priest and a priestess heading toward the table and waited until they arrived before twisting the brass clasp on the top of the box. She didn’t consider herself to be a vain woman, but she was especially pleased with her offering this year and wanted a more appreciative audience than Sefon.
As the sides of the box folded away, the gasps of delight were all she could have hoped for. Even Sefon forgot his self-importance long enough to stand and sigh with the rest.
In the box was the Shrine of the Three Lordly Ones in perfect miniaturization. No more than two feet high, each layer was an exact replica right down to the sculptured heads and dancing asparas. The colors used made the shrine appear to be bathed in sunlight, and so marvelous was the illusion that, for an instant, the prayers of the priests and priestesses could almost be heard coming up through the hollow pinnacle.
“Magic,” breathed the priestess.
“Skill,
” corrected Arra gently, well pleased with the sensation her offering had caused.
“But what is it made of?” asked the junior priest, not quite putting out his hand to touch.
“Candy,” Sefon told him with wonder in his voice. “It’s made of candy.”
Dragging her gaze from the sculpture, the priestess turned to Arra, recognition in her eyes. “You’re the candymaker.” Arra regally inclined her head.
“Last year you brought the floral wreath. I thought at the time that you could do nothing better or more beautiful.” She turned back to the replica. “I was wrong.”
“One does what one can.” Arra beamed like a benevolent mountain on the three servants of the temple and pulled a small cloth bag from her voluminous robes. “I must be getting back but would be honored if you would accept this small offering as well.” She winked at the astounded priestess. “Don’t let Sefon eat all the green ones.”
“Aunt Arra!” Sefon so far forgot himself to exclaim in protest.
It was the second ten-day of the fair before the man in black approached the candymaker’s booth. Arra had expected the visit. She’d been watching him watching Elaina since the day the fair opened, hovering about the child like a storm cloud dodging the sun. When Elaina was helping in the booth, he leaned against the wall of the tavern across the way. When she ran an errand or ran off with her friends, he followed. When she went to see one of the many traveling acts that played the fair, he was also in the crowd. When she went to check on the oxen, he was there.
“As long as he only watches,” Arra told herself, “I will wait and see.”
And now the waiting was over as the watcher threaded his way through the crowd and stopped at the candymaker’s counter.
Arra continued serving her other customers, bantering and teasing as she always did, but took the opportunity to get a closer look at this potential threat. Attractive, in a petulant sort of way, she decided. Thick brown, almost black hair, clipped shorter than was usual, dark eyes with long lashes, and good cheekbones; but he had a weak chin and a sneer that said he was used to getting his own way. The pale skin and the way the flesh was beginning to sag indicated his most strenuous exercise took place in taverns and wineshops. He was younger than he looked from a distance, and Arra tsked over a paunch on one of that age. His clothes were expensive and well made, and he wore a tiny gold mask in his left ear.