Scanned by Highroller.

  Proofed more or less by Highroller.

  Made prettier by use of EBook Design Group Stylesheet.



 Lore of the Witch World by
       Andre Norton

                         Introduction
                        by C. J. Cherryh
   Writing an introduction for one of Andre Norton's books is rather like
applying gilt to a lily, superfluity to be sure. When I was offered the chance
to do it, I first thought it was impossible and then sat down to try, and
then began to think of thousands of readers who would love to get a line
in… to say some things that want saying; things I don't think can be said
too often, ever.

   About the Witch World stories: For all of us who've ever created a
world to dream about, for those of us who write and for those who keep
theirs in their hearts...the Witch World stories hold a special place. It's a
land, a world, a place of dark shadows and alien powers and human beings
touched with strangeness, a place where men and women find
extraordinary things within them, and match themselves against an
environment at once marvelously detailed and full of mysteries. The Witch
World is never explored. The smallest valley holds strange happenings and
a past which reaches into things stranger still. The traveler finds the
unexpected, the ancient, the bizarre at every turn. Nature is powerful here
and those who open their hearts to it and to living things find themselves
capable of marvels and involved in an old, old warfare. One meets old
friends here, and hears of them; finds remnants of eldritch powers and
visitants; finds… if one looks… ancient truths about courage and honesty
and duty that involve the highborn and the ordinary, the young and the
old, humans and the four-footed kind all in one fabric of magic and
mystery.
   The Witch World both lies within a tradition and generates a tradition
of its own. It comes of that mythic tradition out of which comes Homer's
wine-dark and fantastically mapped Mediterranean, peopled with gods
and strange powers, which other heroes went on to sail in their turn,
because it was a Place and a Time which had to exist; and which made
heroes out of men and women of unlikely sort, because they met the
unknown with why? and what if? and why not? The Witch World is one
of those places a reader lives in, and some of those readers have.become
writers, and writers who never quite forget their journey in that
ever-surprising and yet strangely familiar terrain. A lot of us who create
worlds, whether we write them or dream them secretly, owe a great deal to
this place, for its completeness, its way of underlaying daily life with the
fantastical, its way of seeing vast forces implicit in the smallest and
humblest things.

   If the Witch World had never been written, so many other worlds would
be the poorer.

  And that brings me to Andre Norton herself.

    There's been a great deal of fuss about women entering the science
fiction field lately. Oh, no. Not lately. Andre Norton has been there, long
before, doing things her way. I did some checking on publication dates
and I was stunned to realize that Andre was publishing in this field the
year this writer was a knobby-kneed kid in the third grade, struggling to
get a bicycle home in what (to that third-grader) was the blizzard of the
century… and I was too young to read the stories then, myself not one of
the youngest of this crop who keeps getting asked about "women breaking
into the field."… Andre's been there, writing her stories.

   That skinned-knee kid with the pigtails didn't meet Andre Norton until
1977, although we'd corresponded a bit, because Andre out of the
goodness of her heart did the introduction for my first book, which is one
reason why I'd fight tigers to get the chance at this introduction. She
asked me, me, the stranger from Oklahoma, to drop in on her to visit after
Worldcon; and when that occasion turned into the chance for me to bring
her the Gandalf Award she'd won from the World Convention for Life's
Achievement in Fantasy—oh, I was delighted! For one thing, I figured that
had to at least win me a welcome at the door. When I showed up at
Andre's door and had a time to catch my breath I found myself with one of
those people who do kindnesses as if it were nature's most logical process,
who is on the side of good books and living things, who has the kind of
definite ideas about what's right and what's just that might be expected of
the creator of worlds where people stand by each other.

   I like Andre Norton. I knew that from the start.

   And when people sit down and start talking about how they got into
this field in the first place, what writers were responsible for leading them
deeper and deeper into that attitude we call sense of wonder, and which
has to do with being really alive to this universe and all the possibilities of
it—that most precious gift of learning how to see what we look at— Andre
Norton's name is one that always comes to the front.

   What has Andre Norton done for this field? She's written for all ages;
she's been the gateway through which so, so many of us have come into
this field in the first place. She created women who did things, such as
Jaelithe, and she sparked imagination in a host of young minds who had
rarely seen such a thing; she created heroes who were more than strong,
and touched the hearts of countless young people who could never be quite
the same afterward. There's a special look that comes into the eyes of
these folk when they talk about Andre Norton, and you know full well that
she has a very special place in their hearts, forever; that Andre's books are
the ones they're going to put into the hands of their own sons and
daughters and say with that special, waited-for hope: "I think you might
like this. It's good." There's hardly a gift one can give another so precious
as something that wakes us to what we call sense of wonder. That's what
Andre's work has done for so very many of us. She's special. She's one of
those talents without which this field would be inestimably the poorer.
She reminds me curiously enough of John Wayne: a quiet person with
strong convictions, who never much goes with fads but does things her
way, whose style is her own, and who has shot straight and told the truth
and given a lot of readers, young and old, a marvelous sense of heroism
possible in their own lives, because it's right there pointed out to us what
great possibilities there are, what great hearts in unlikely frames, what
grand adventures likely for those who see their world with sense of
wonder!

   She writes. And the thing she does for this field has woven itself
through so many lives that that influence keeps traveling. She's vexingly
modest and deprecates such notions, but they're true, Andre! And I'm glad
to have gotten the chance to say them. Thank you. Andre, for being there,
for making worlds, for opening up so much of wonder to us… I get to say
it; but I say it for so many others. Thank you.




                   SPIDER SILK
                                    1
   The Big Storm in the Year of the Kobold came late, long past the month
when such fury was to be expected. This was all part of that evil which the
Guardians had drawn upon Estcarp when they summoned up their
greatest power to blast and twist the mountain lands, seal off passes
through which had come the invasion from Karsten.

   Rannock lay open to that storm. Only the warning dream-sending to
the Wise Woman, Ingvarna, drew a portion of the women and children to
the higher lands, there to watch with fear and trembling the sea's fierce
assault upon the coast So high dashed those waves that water covered and
boiled about the Serpent Teeth of the upper ledges. Only here, in pockets
among the Tor rocks, could a fugitive crouch in almost mindless terror,
awaiting the end.

   Of the fishing fleet which had set out yesterday morn, who had any
hopes now of its return save perhaps a scattering of wreckage, playthings
of the storm waves?

   There were left only a handful of old men and boys, and one or two such
as Herdrek, the Twist-Leg, the village smith. For Rannock was as poor in
men as it was in all else since the war years had ravaged Estcarp. To the
north perched Alizon, a hawk ready to be unleashed upon its neighbor;
from the south Karsten boiled and bubbled, if aught was still left alive
beyond the wrecked mountain passages.

   Men who had marched with the Borderers under Lord Simon Tregarth
or served beneath the Banners of the Witch Women of Es—where were
they? Long since, their kin had given up any hope of their return. There
had been no true peace in this land since old Nabor (who could count his
years at more than a hundred) had been in his green youth.

  It was Nabor now who battled the strength of the wind to the Tor,
dragged himself up to stand, hunched shoulder to shoulder, with
Ingvarna. As she, he looked to the sea uneasily. That she expected still
their own fleet he could not believe, foresighted as all knew her to be.

   Waves mounted, to pound giant fists against the rock. Nabor caught
sight of a ship rising and falling near the Serpent's dread fangs. Then a
huge swell whirled it over those sharp threats into the comparative calm
beyond. Nabor sighed with the relief of a seaman who had witnessed a
miracle, life won from the very teeth of rock death. Also, Rannock had the
right of storm wrack. If that ship survived so far, its cargo was forfeit now
to any who could bring it to shore. He half-turned to seek the shelter of the
Tor hollows, rouse Herdrek and the others with this promise of fortune.

   However, Ingvarna turned her head. Through the drifts of rain her eyes
held his. There was a warning in her steady gaze. "One comes—" He saw
her lips shape the words but did not hear her voice them above the roar of
wind and wave.

   At the same moment, there was such a crash as equaled the drum of
thunder, the lash of lightning. The strange ship might have beaten the
menace of the reefs fangs, but now had been driven halfway up the beach,
where it was fast breaking up under the hammer blows of the surf.

  Herdrek stumped out to join them. "It is a raider," he commented
during a lull of the wind. "Perhaps one of the Sea Wolves of Alizon." He
spat at the wreck below.

   Ingvarna was already scrambling over the rocks toward the shore, as if
what lay there were of vast importance. Herdrek shouted after her a
warning, but she did not even turn her head. With a curse at the folly of
females, which a second later he devoutly hoped the Wise Woman had not
been able to pick out of the air, the smith followed her, two of the lads
venturing in his wake.

   At least when they reached the shore level, the worst of the storm was
spent. Waves drew a torn seaweed veil around the broken vessel. Herdrek
made fast a rope about his waist, gave dire warnings to his followers to
keep a tight hold upon it. Then he ventured into the surf, using that
cordage from wind-rent sails, hanging in loops down the shattered sides,
to climb aboard.

  There was a hatch well tamped down, roped shut. He drew belt knife to
slash the fastening.

   "Ho!" His voice rolled hollowly into the dark beneath him. "Anyone
below?"

   A thin cry answered, one which might issue from the throat of a
seabird such as already coasted over the subsiding surface of the sea on
hunt for the bounty of the storm. Yet he thought not. Gingerly, favoring
his stiff leg, the smith lowered himself into the stinking hold. What he
found there made him retch, and then heated in him dull anger against
those who had mastered this vessel. She had been a slaver, such as
Rannock's men had heard tell of—dealing in live cargo.

   Of that cargo, only one survived. Her, Herdrek carried gently from the
horror of that prison. A little maid, her small arms no more than skin
slipped glovelike on bones, her eyes great, gray and blankly open. Ingvarna
took the strange child from the smith as one who had the authority of clan
and home hearth, wrapping the little one's thin, shivering body in her own
warm cloak.

   From whence Dairine came those of Rannock never learned. That
slavers raided far was no secret Also, the villagers soon discovered the
child was blind. Ingvarna, though she was a Wise One, greatly learned in
herbs and spells, the setting of bones, the curing of wounds, shook her
head sadly over that discovery, saying that the child's blindness came from
no hurt of body. Rather, she must have looked upon some things so
horrible that thereafter her mind closed and refused all sight.

   Though she might have been six or seven winters old, yet speech also
seemed riven from her, and only fear was left to be her portion. The
women of Rannock would have tried to comfort her, but secretly in their
hearts they were willing that she bide with Ingvarna, who treated her
oddly, they thought For the Wise Woman did not strive to make life easier
in any way for the child. Rather, from the first, Ingvarna treated the sea
waif not as one maimed in body, and perhaps in mind, but rather as she
might some daughter of the village whom she had chosen to be her
apprentice in the harsh school of her own learning.

   These years were bleak for Rannock. Full half the fleet did not return
from out of the maw of that storm. Nor did any of the coastwise traders
come. The following winter was a lean one. But in those dark days, Dairine
showed first her skill. Her eyes might not see what her fingers wrought yet
she could mend fishing nets with such cleverness that even the
experienced women marveled.

   And in the following spring, when the villagers husked the loquth balls
to free their seeds for new plantings, Dairine busied herself with the silken
inner fibers, twisting and turning those. Ingvarna had Herdrek make a
small spindle and showed the child how this tool might be best put to
work.

   Good use did Dairine make of it, too. Her small, birdclaw fingers drew
out finer thread than any had achieved before, freer from knotting than
any the villagers had seen. Yet never seemed she satisfied, but strove ever
to make her spinning still finer, more smooth.

   The Wise Woman continued her fosterling's education in other ways,
teaching her to use her fingers, her nose, in the herb garden. Dairine
learnt easily the spelling which was part of a Wise Woman's knowledge.
She absorbed that very quickly, yet always there was about her an
impatience. When she made mistakes, then her anger against herself was
great The greatest when she tried to explain some tool or need which she
seemed unable to describe but for which she evinced a need.

   Ingvarna spoke to Herdrek (who was now village elder), saying that
perhaps the craft of the Wise Woman might aid in regaining a portion of
Dairine's lost memory. When he demanded why she had not voiced such a
matter before, Ingvarna answered gravely: "This child is not blood of our
blood, and she was captive to the sea wolves. Have we the right to recall to
her past horrors? Perhaps Gunnore, who watches over all womankind, has
taken away her memory of the past in pity. If so—"

   He bit his thumb, watching Dairine as she paced back and forth before
the loom which he had caused to be set up for her, now and then halting
to slap her hand upon the frame in frustration. It seemed as if she longed
to force the heavy wood into another pattern which would serve her better.

   "I think that she grows more and more unhappy," he agreed slowly. "At
first she seemed content. Now there are times when she acts as a snow cat
encaged against her will. I do not like to see her so.

  The Wise Woman nodded. "Well enough. In my mind this is a right
choice."
   Ingvarna went to the girl, taking both her hands, drawing her around
so that she might look directly into those blind eyes. At Ingvarna's touch,
Dairine stood still. "Leave us!" the Wise Woman commanded the smith.

   Early that evening as Herdrek stood at his forge Dairine walked into the
light of his fire. She came to him unhesitatingly. So acute was her hearing
that she often startled the villagers by her recognition of another presence.
Now she held out her hands to him as she might to a father she loved. And
he knew all was well.

   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, saying 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 he
could not bring to mind. Still, he 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 Rannock7
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.
   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 he 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 me 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, Vidrath, 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 about 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."

   There was fear behind his words, a fear born of horror, which he fought
to control.

  "Also, if you do not do as we wish we can merely sail and leave you on
Usturt for the rest of your life. No ship goes there willingly. A long life for
you perhaps, girl, alone with none of your own kind—think of that."

   He was silent for a moment before he added, "It is a bargain, girl, one
we swear to keep. You deal with the weavers, we take you back to
Rannock, or anywhere else you name. The captain, he can be set ashore
with you even. No more harm done. And a portion of the silk for your own.
Why, you can buy all of Rannock and make yourself a Keep lady!"

   "There is one thing—" She was remembering Wak. "I am not such a one
as any of your men can take at his will. Know you not what happens then
to any Talent I may possess?"

   When Vidruth answered her there was a deep note of menace in his
voice, though it was not aimed at her.

   "All men know well that the Talent departs from a woman who lies with
a man. None shall trouble you."
   "So be it," she returned, with an outward calm it was hard for her to
assume. "Have you the bit of silk? Let me learn from it what I can."

   She heard him move away the grate of whatever door kept snug her
prison. As that sound ceased she put out her hands to explore. The cubby
was small; there was a shelflike bunk against the wall, a stool which
seemed bolted to the deck, nought else. Did they have Captain Ortis pent
in such a hole also? And how had this Vidruth managed so well the
takeover of the Captain's command? What she had read of Sib-bald Ortis
during their brief meeting did not lead her to think he was one easily
overcome by an enemy.

   But she was sitting quietly on the stool when Vidruth returned to drop
the length of ribband across her quiet hands.

   "Learn all you can," he urged her. "We have two days of sail if this wind
continues to favor us, then we shall raise Usturt. Food, water, what you
wish, shall be brought to you, and there is a guard without so that you
need not be troubled."

   With the silk between her hands, Dairine concentrated upon what it
could tell her. She had no illusions concerning Vidruth. To him and the
others she was only a tool in their hands. Because she was sightless, he
might undervalue her, for all his talk of Talent and Power. She had
discovered many times in the past that such was so.

    Deliberately, Dairine closed out the world about her, shut her ears to
creak of timber, wash of wave, her nose to the many smells which offended
it. Once more her "sight" turned inward. She could "see" the blue of those
hands (which were not quite hands) engaged in weaving. Colors she had
no words to describe were clear and bright. For the material she saw so
was not one straight length of color, but shimmered from one shade to
another.

  Dairine tried now to probe beyond that shift of color to the loom from
which it had come. She had an impression of tall, dark shafts. Those were
not of well-planed and smooth wood; no, they had the crooked surface
of—trees—standing trees!

  The hands—concentrate now upon the moving hands of the weaver.

  But the girl had only reached that point of recognition when there was
a knock to distract her concentration. Exasperated, she turned her head to
the door of the cubby.

  "Come!"

   Again the squeak of hinge, the sound of boots, the smell of sea-wet
leather and man-skin. The newcomer cleared his throat as if ill at ease.

  "Lady, here is food."

  She swirled the ribband about her wrist, put out her hands, for
suddenly she was hungry and athirst.

   "By your leave, lady." He fitted the handle of a mug into her right hand,
placed a bowl on the palm of the other. There is a spoon. It is only ship's
ale, lady, and stew."

  "My thanks," she said in return. "And what name do you go by, ship's
man?"

   "Rothar, lady. I am a blank shield and no real seaman. But since I know
no trade but war, one venture is nigh as good as another."

   "Yet of this venture you have some doubts." She had set the mug on the
deck, kept upright between her worn sandals. Now she seized his hand,
held it to read. It seemed to Dairine that she must not let this opportunity
of learning more of Vidruth's followers go, and she sensed that this Rothar
was not of the same ilk as Wak.

   "Lady"—his voice was very low and swift—"they say that you have
knowledge of herb craft. Why then has Vidruth not taken you to the
captain that you may learn what strange, swift illness struck him down?"

  There was youth in the hand Dairine held and not, she believed, any
desire to deceive.

    "Where lies the captain?" she asked in as low a voice. "In his cabin. He
is fevered and raves. It is as if he has come under some ensorcelment
and—"

   "Rothar!" From the door, another voice sharp as an order. The hand
she held jerked free from hers. But not before she had felt the spring of
fear.

   "I promised no man shall trouble you. Has this cub been at such
tricks?" Vidruth demanded.

  "Not so," Dairine was surprised her voice remained so steady. "He has
been most kind in bringing me food and drink, both of which I needed."

   "And having done so—out!" Vidruth commanded. "Now"—she heard
the door close behind the other—"what have you learned, girl, from this
piece of silk?"

   "I have had but a little time, lord. Give me more. I must study it."

   "See that you do" was his order as he also departed. He did not come
again, nor did Rothar ever once more bring her food. She thought, though,
of what the young man had said concerning the captain. Vidruth's tale
made her believe that the whole ship's company had been behind the
mate's scheme to take command and sail to Usturt. There were herbs
which, put in a man's food or drink, could plunge him into the depths of
fever. If she could only reach the captain, she would know. But there was
no faring forth from this cubby.

   Now and again Vidruth would suddenly appear to demand what more
she had learned from the ribband. There was such an avid greediness in
his questions that sometimes rising uneasiness nearly broke through her
control. At last she answered with what she believed to be the truth.

   "Have you never heard, Captain, that the Talent cannot be forced? I
have tried to read from this all which I might. But this scrap was not
fashioned by a race such as ours. An alien nature cannot be so easily
discovered. For all my attempts, I cannot build a mind picture of these
people. What I see clearly is only the weaving."

   When he made no answer, Dairine continued:

   "This is a thing not of the body, but the mind. Along such a road one
creeps as a babe, one does not race as one full grown."

   "You have less than a day now. Before sundown, Usturt shall rise before
us. I know only what I have heard tell of witch powers, and that may well
be changed by the telling and retelling. Remember, girl, your life can well
ride on your 'seeing'!"

    She heard him go. The ribband no longer felt so light and soft. Rather,
it had taken on the heaviness of a slave chain binding her to his will. She
ate ship's biscuits from the plate he had brought her. It was true time was
passing, and she had done nothing of importance.

   Oh, she could now firmly visualize the loom and see the silk come into
being beneath the flying fingers. But the body behind those hands, that
she could not see. Nor did any of the personality of the weavers who had
made that which she held come clear to her, for all her striving.

   Captain Ortis—he came in the reading, for he had held this. And
Vidruth also. There was a third who was more distant, lying hid under a
black cloud of fear. Was this day or night? She had lost track of time. That
the ship still ran before the wind, she sensed.

    Then—she was not alone in the cubby! Yet she had not heard the
warning creak of the door. Fear kept her tense, hunched upon the stool,
listening with all her might.

   "Lady?"

   Rothar! But how had he come?

   "Why are you here?" Dairine had to wet her lips with her tongue before
she could shape those words.

   They move now to put you ashore on Usturt, lady! Captain Ortis, he
came up leaning on Vidruth's arm, his body all atremble. He gives no
orders, only Vidruth. Lady, there is some great wrong here—for we are at
Usturt. And Vidruth commands. Such is not right."

   "I knew that I must go to Usturt," she returned. "Rothar, if you have
any allegiance to your captain, know he is a prisoner to Vidruth in some
manner, even as I have been. And if I do not do as Vidruth says, there will
be greater trouble—death—"

  "You do not understand." His voice was very husky. "There are
monsters on this land. To see them even, they say, makes a man go mad!"

   "But I shall not see them," Dairine reminded him. "How long do I
have?"

  "Some moments yet."

  "Where am I and how did you get here?"

   "You are in the treasure hold, below the Captain's own cabin. I have
used the secret opening to reach you as this is the first time Vidruth and
the captain have been out of it. Now they must watch carefully for the
entrance to the inner reef."

  "Can you get me into the captain's cabin?" If in those moments she
might discover what hold Vidruth had over Captain Ortis, she perhaps
would be able to help a man she trusted.

  "Give me your hands, then, lady. I fear we have very little time."

   She reached out, and her wrists were instantly caught in a hold tight
enough to be painful, but she made no sound of complaint. Then she
found herself pulled upward with a vast heave as if Rothar must do this all
in a single effort. When he set her on her feet once more, she sensed she
was in a much larger space. And there was the fresh air from the sea
blowing in as if through some open port.

   But the air was not enough to hide from her that telltale scent—a scent
of evil.

  "Let me go, touch me not now," she told Rothar. "I seek that which
must be found, and your slightest touch will confuse my course."

  Slowly she turned away from the wind, facing to her right.

  "What lies before me?"

  "The captain's bed, lady."

   Step by step she approached in that direction. The sniff of evil was
stronger. What it might be she had no idea, for though Ingvarna had
taught her to distinguish that which was of the shadow, she knew little
more. The fetid odor of some black sorcery was rank.

  "The bed," she ordered now, "do you strip off its coverings. If you find
aught which is strange, be sure you do not touch it with your hand.
Rather, use something of iron, if you can, to pluck it forth. And then throw
it quickly into the sea."

  He asked no questions, but she could hear his hurried movements. And
men—

  "There is a—a root, most misshapen. It lies under the pillow, lady."

   "Wait!" Perhaps the whole of that bed place was now impregnated by
what evil had been introduced. To destroy its source might not be enough.
"Bundle all—pillow, coverings—give them to the sea!" she ordered. "Let me
back then into the treasure cubby, and if there be time, make the bed
anew. I do not know what manner of ensorcelment has been wrought here.
But it is of the Shadow, not of the Power. Take care that you keep yourself
also from contact with it."

  "That will I do of a certainty, lady!" His answer was fervent. "Stand well
back, I will get rid of this."

  She retreated, hearing the click of his sea boots on the planking as he
passed her toward the source of the sea wind.

  "Now"—he was back at her side—"I shall see you safe, lady. Or as safe as
you can be until the captain comes to his mind once more and Vidruth be
removed from command."

    His hands closed upon her, lowered her back down into the cubby. She
listened intently. But if he closed that trap door, and she was sure that he
had, it had fallen into place without a sound.


                                     3
  She had not long to wait, for the opening on the floor level of the cubby
was opened and she recognized Vidruth's step.

   "Listen well, girl," he commanded. "Usturt is an island, one of a string
of islands, reaching from the shore. At one time, they may all have been a
part of the coast. But now some are only bare rock with such a wash of sea
around them as no man can pass. So think not that you have any way of
leaving save by our favor. We shall set you ashore and keep down-sea
thereafter. But when you have learned what we wish, then return to the
shore and there leave three stones piled one upon another…"

   To Dairine, his arrangements seemed to be not well thought out. But
she questioned nothing. What small hopes she had she could only pin on
Rothar and the Captain. Vidruth's hand tightened about her arm. He drew
her to a ladder, set her hands upon its rungs.

   "Climb, girl. And you had better play well your part. There are those
among us who fear witchcraft and say there is only one certain way to
disarm a witch. That, you have heard____"

  She shivered. Yes, there was a way to destroy a witch—by enjoying the
woman. All men were well versed in that outrage.

   "Rothar shall set you ashore," Vidruth continued. "And we shall watch
your going. Think not to talk him out of his orders, for there is no place
elsewhere…"

   Dairine was on the deck now, heard the murmur of voices. Where stood
Captain Ortis? Vidruth gave her no time to try to sort out the sounds.
Under his compelling, the girl came up against the rail. Then Vidruth
caught her up as if she were a small child and lowered her until other
hands steadied her, easing her down upon a plank seat.

   Around her was the close murmur of the sea, and she could hear the
grate of oars within their locks.

  "Do you believe me witch, Rothar?" she asked.

  "Lady, I do not know what you are. But that you are in danger with
Vidruth, that I can swear to. If the captain comes into his own mind
again—"

   He broke off and then continued. "Through the war, I have come to
hate any act which makes man or woman unwillingly serve another. There
is no future before me, for I am wastage of war, having no trade save that
of killing. Therefore, I will do what I may to help you and the captain."

  "You are young to speak so, of being without a future."

   "I am old in killing." he told her bleakly. "And of such men as Vidruth
leads, I have seen many. Lady, we are near the shore. And those on the
ship watch us well. When I set you on the beach, take forth carefully what
you find in my belt, hide it from all. It is a knife made of the best
star-steel, fashioned by the hand of Hamraker himself. Not mine in truth,
but the Captain's."

   Dairine did as he ordered when he carried her from the
sand-smoothing waves to the drier reach beyond. Memory stirred in her.
Once there had been such a knife and—firelight had glinted on it—

  "No!" she cried aloud to deny memory. Yet her fingers remained curled
about that hilt.

   "Yes!" He might not understand her inner turmoil, but his hold on her
tightened. "You must keep it.

   "Walk straight ahead," he told her. "Those on the ship have the great
dart caster trained on you. There are trees ahead—within those, there the
spiders are said to be. But, lady, though I dare not move openly in your aid
now, for that would bring me quick death to no purpose, yet what I can
do, that I shall."

   Uncertainty held Dairine. She felt naked in this open which she did not
know. Yet she must not appear concerned to those now watching her. She
had the ribband of silk looped about her wrist. And within the folds of her
skirt, she held also the knife. Turning her head slightly from one side to
another, she listened with full concentration, walking slowly forward
against the drag of the sand.

   Coolness ahead—she must be entering the shade of the trees. She put
out her hand, felt rough bark, slid around it, setting the trunk as a barrier
between that dart thrower of which Rothar had warned, and her back.

   Then she knew, as well as if her eyes could tell her, that it was not alone
the ship's company who watched. She was moving under observation of
someone—or something—else. Dairine used her sense of perception,
groping as she did physically with her hands, seeking what that might be.

   A moment later she gasped with shock. A strong mental force burst
through the mind door she had opened. She felt as if she had been caught
in a giant hand, raised to the level of huge eyes which surveyed her
outwardly and inwardly.
   Dairine swayed, shaken by that nonphysical touch, search. It was
nonhuman. Yet she realized, as she fought to recover her calm, it was not
inimical—yet.

  "Why come you here, female?"

   In Dairine's mind, the word shaped clearly. Still, she could build up no
mental picture of her questioner. She faced a little to the right, held out
the hand about which she had bound the ribband.

    "I seek those able to weave such beauty," she replied aloud, wondering
if they could hear, or understand, her words.

   Again that sensation of being examined, weighed. But this time she
stood quiet, unshaken under it.

  "You think this thing beautiful?" Again the mind question.

  "Yes."

   "But you have not eyes to see it." Harshly that came, as if to deny her
claim.

   "I have not eyes, that is the truth. But my fingers have been taught to
serve me in their place. I, too, weave, but only after the manner of my own
people."

  Silence, then a touch on the back of her hand, so light and fleeting
Dairine was not even sure she had really felt it. The girl waited, for she
understood this was a place with its own manner of barriers, and she
might continue only if those here allowed it.

   Again a touch on her hand, but this time it lingered. Dairine made no
attempt to grasp, though she tried to read through that contact. And saw
only bright whirls.

   "Female, you may play with threads after the crude fashion of your
kind. But call yourself not a weaver!" There was arrogance in that.

  "Can one such as I learn the craft as your people know it?"

  "With hands as clumsy as this?" There came a hard rap across her
knuckles. "Not possible. Still, you may come, see with your fingers what
you cannot hope to equal."

   The touch slid across her hand, became a sinewy band about her wrist
as tight as the cuff of a slave chain. Dairine knew now there was no escape.
She was being drawn forward. Oddly, though she could not read the
nature of the creature who guided her, there flowed from its contact a
sharp mental picture of the way ahead.

   This was a twisted path. Sometimes she brushed against the trunks of
trees; again she sensed they crossed clear areas— until she was no longer
sure in what direction the beach now lay.

   At last they came into an open space where there was some protection
other than branches and leaves overhead to ward off the sun. Her ears
picked up small, scuttling sounds.

   "Put out your hand!" commanded her guide. "Describe what you find
before you."

   Dairine obeyed, moving slowly and with caution. Her fingers found a
solid substance, not unlike the barked tree trunk. Only, looped about it,
warp lines of thread were stretched taut. She transferred her touch to
those lines, tracing them to another bar. Then she knelt, fingering the
length of cloth. This was smooth as the ribband. A single thread led
away—that must be fastened to the shuttle of the weaver.

  "So beautiful!"

   For the first time since Ingvarna had trained her, Dairine longed for
actual sight. The need to see burned in her. Color—somehow as she
touched the woven strip, the fact of color came to her. Yet all she could
"read" of the weaver was a blur of narrow, nonhuman hands.

  "Can you do such, you who claim to be a weaver?"

  "Not this fine." Dairine answered with the truth. "This is beyond
anything I have ever touched."

  "Hold out your hands!" This time Dairine sensed that the order had not
come from her guide, but another.

  The girl spread out her fingers, palms up. There followed a feather-light
tracing on her skin along each finger, gliding across her palm.

   "It is true. You are a weaver—after a fashion. Why do you come to us,
female?"

  "Because I would learn." Dairine drew a deep breath. What did
Vidruth's idea of trade matter now? This was of greater importance. "I
would learn from those who can do this."

   She continued to kneel, waiting. There was communication going on
about her, but none she could catch and hold with either eye or mind. If
these weavers would shelter her, what need had she to return to Vidruth?
Rothar's plans? Those were too uncertain. If she won the good will of
these, she had shelter against the evil of her own kind.

   "Your hands are clumsy, you have no eyes." That was like a whiplash.
"Let us see what you can do, female."

   A shuttle was thrust into her hand. She examined it carefully by touch.
Its shape was slightly different from those she had always known, but she
could use it. Then she surveyed, the same way, the web on the loom. The
threads of both warp and woof were very fine, but she concentrated until
she could indeed "see" what hung there. Slowly she began to weave, but it
took a long time and what she produced in her half inch of fabric was
noticeably unlike that of the beginning.

   Her hands shaking, the girl sat back on her heels, frustrated. All her
pride in her past work was wiped out. Before these, she was a child
beginning a first halting attempt to create cloth.

  Yet when she had relaxed from concentrating on her task and was
aware once more of those about her, she did not meet the contempt she
had expected. Rather, a sensation of surprise.

   "You are one perhaps who can be taught, female," came that mind
voice of authority. "If you wish."

   Dairine turned her face eagerly in the direction from which she
believed that message had come. "I do wish, Great One!"

  "So be it. But you will begin even as our hatchlings, for you are not yet a
weaver."
   "That I agree." The girl ran her fingers ruefully across the fabric before
her.

    If Vidruth expected her return into his power now—she shrugged. And
let Rothar concentrate upon the captain and his own plight. What seemed
of greatest importance to her was that she must be able to satisfy these
weavers.

   They seemed to have no real dwelling except this area about their
looms. Nor were there any furnishings save the looms themselves. And
those stood in no regular pattern. Dairine moved cautiously about,
memorizing her surroundings by touch.

  Though she sensed a number of beings around her, none touched her,
mind or body. And she made no advances in turn, somehow knowing such
would be useless.

   Food they did bring her, fresh fruit. And there were some finger lengths
of what she deemed dried meat. Perhaps it was better she did not know
the origin of that.

   She slept when she tired on a pile of woven stuff, not quite as silky as
that on the looms, yet so tightly fashioned she thought it might pass the
legendary test of carrying water within its folds. Her sleep was dreamless.
When she awoke, she found it harder to remember the men or the ship,
even Rothar or the captain. Rather, they were like some persons she had
known once in distant childhood, for the place of the weavers was more
and more hers. And she must learn. To do that was a fever burning in her.

  There was a scuttling sound and then a single order: "Eat!"

  Dairine groped before her, found more of the fruit. Even before she was
quite finished, there came a twitch on her skirt.

   "This ugly thing covering your body, you cannot wear it for thread
gathering."

   Thread gathering? She did not know the meaning of that. But it was
true that her skirt, if she moved out of the open space about the looms,
caught on branches. She arose and unfastened her girdle, the lacing of her
bodice, allowed the dress to slip away into a puddle about her feet.
Wearing only her brief chemise, Dairine felt oddly free. But she sought out
her girdle again, wrapped it around her slim waist, putting there within
the knife.

  There came one of those light touches, and she faced about.

   "Thread hangs between the trees"—her guide gave a small tug—"touch
it with care. Shaken, it will become a trap. Prove that you have the
lightness of fingers to be able to learn from us."

   No more instructions came. Dairine realized they must be again testing
her. She must prove she was able to gather this thread. Gather it how?
Just as she questioned that, something was pushed into her hand. She
discovered she held a smooth rod, the length of her lower arm. This must
be a winder for the thread.

   Now there was a grasp again on her wrist, drawing her away from the
looms, on under the trees. Even as her left hand brushed a tree trunk came
the order: "Thread!"

  There would be no profit in blind rushing. She must concentrate her
well-trained perceptive sense to aid her to find thread here.

   Into her mind slid a very dim picture. Perhaps that came from the very
far past which she never tried to remember. A green field lay open under
the morning sun and on it were webs pearled with dew. Was what she
sought allied to the material of such webs?

   Who could possibly harvest the fine threads of such webs? A dark
depression weighed upon Dairine. She wanted to hurl the collecting rod
from her, to cry aloud that no one could do such a thing.

   Then she had a vision of Ingvarna standing there. That lack of self-pity,
that belief in herself which the Wise Woman had fostered, revived. To say
that one could not do a thing before one ever tried was folly.

   In the past her sense of perception had only located for her things more
solid than a tree-hung thread. But now it must serve her better.

   Under her bare feet, for she had left her sandals with her dress, lay a
soft mass of long-fallen leaves. Around here there appeared to be no
ground growth—only the trees.
  Dairine paused, advancing her hand until her fingertips rested on bark.
With caution, she slid that touch up and around the trunk. A faint
impression was growing in her. Here was what she sought.

   Then—she found the end of a thread. The rest of it was stretched out
and away from the tree. With infinite care, Dairine broke the thread,
putting the freed end to the rod. To her vast relief, it adhered there as
truly as it had to the tree trunk. Now… She did not try to touch the thread,
but she wound slowly, with great care, moving to keep the strand taut
before her, evenly spread on the rod.

   Round and round—then her hand scraped another tree trunk. Dairine
gave a sigh of relief, hardly daring to believe she had been successful in
harvesting her first thread. But one was little enough, and she must not
grow overconfident. Think only of the thread! She found another end and,
with the same slow care, began once more to wind.

   To those without sight, day is as night, night is as day. Dairine no
longer lived within the time measure of her own kind. She went forth
between intervals of sleep and food to search for the tree-looped thread,
wondering if she so collected something manufactured by the weavers
themselves or a product of some other species.

   Twice she made the error she had been warned against, had moved too
hastily, with overconfidence, shaken the thread. Thus she found herself
entrapped in a sticky liquid which flowed along the line, remaining fast
caught until freed by a weaver.

   Though she was never scolded, each time her rescuer projected an aura
of such disdain for this clumsiness that Dairine cringed inwardly.

   The girl had early learned that the weavers were all females. What they
did with the cloth they loomed she had not yet discovered. They certainly
did not use it all, nor had she any hint that they traded it elsewhere.
Perhaps the very fact of creation satisfied some need in them.

  Those who, like her, hunted threads were the youngest of this
nonhuman community. Yet she was able to establish no closer
communication with them than she did with the senior weavers.

   Once or twice there was an uneasy hint of entrapment about her life in
the loom place. Why did everything which had happened before she
arrived now seem so distant and of such negligible account?

   If the weavers did not speak to her save through mind speech—and that
rarely—they were not devoid of voices, for those at the looms hummed.
Though the weird melody they so evoked bore little resemblance to human
song, it became a part of one. Even Dairine's hand moved to its measure
and by it her thoughts were lulled. In all the world, there were only the
looms, the thread to be sought for them—only this was of any importance.

   There came a day when they gave her an empty loom and left her to
thread it. Even in the days of her life in the village, this had been a matter
which required her greatest dexterity and concentration. Now, as she
worked with unfamiliar bars, it was even worse. She threaded until her
fingertips were sore, her head aching from such single-minded using of
perception, while all about her the humming of the weavers urged her on
and on.

  When fatigue closed in upon her, she slept. And she paused to eat only
because she knew that her body must have fuel. At last she knew that she
had finished, for good or ill.

   Now her fingers, as she rubbed her aching head, were stiff. It was
difficult to flex them. Still, the hum set her body swaying in answer to its
odd rhythm.

   To Dairine's surprise, no weaver came to inspect her work, to say
whether it was adequately or poorly done. When she had rested so that she
could once more control her fingers, she began to weave. As she did so, she
discovered that she too hummed, echoing the soft sound about her.

   As she worked, there was a renewal of energy within her. Maybe her
hands did not move as swiftly as the blur of elongated fingers she had seen
in her mind, but they followed the rhythm of the hum and they seemed
sure and knowing, not as if her own will but some other force controlled
them. She was weaving—well or ill she did not know or care. It was enough
that she kept to the beat of the quiet song.

   Only when she reached the end of her thread supply, and sat with an
empty shuttle in her hand, did Dairine rouse, as one from a dream. Her
whole body ached, her hand fell limply on her knee. In her was the
sharpness of hunger. There was no longer to be heard the hum of the
others.
  The girl arose stiffly, stumbled to her sleeping place. There was food
which she ate before she lay down on the cloth, her face turned up to
whatever roof was between her and the sky, feeling drained, exhausted—all
energy gone from her body, as was logical thought from her mind.


                                     4
   Dairine awoke into fear, her hands were clenched, long shivers shook
her body. The dream which had driven her into consciousness abruptly
faded, leaving only a sense of terror behind. However, it had broken the
spell of the weavers, her memory was once more sharp and clear.

   How long had she been here? What had happened when she had not
returned to the shore? Had the ship under Vidruth's control left, thinking
her lost? And Rothar? the Captain? .

  Slowly she turned her head from side to side, aware of something else.
Though she could not see them, she knew that the looms ringing her in
were vacant, the weavers were gone!

  Now Dairine believed she must have been caught in some invisible web,
and had only this moment broken free. Why had she chosen to come here?
Why had she remained? The ribband of stuff was gone from her
wrist—had that set some ensorcelment upon her?

   Fool! She could not see as the rest of the world saw. Now it appeared
that even her carefully fostered sense of perception had, in some manner,
deceived her. As Dairine arose, her hand brushed the loom where she had
labored for so long. Curiosity made her stoop to finger the width her
efforts had created. Not quite as smooth as the ribband, but far, far better
than her first attempt.

   Only—where were the weavers? The shadow of terror lingering from her
dream sent her moving purposefully about the clearing. Each loom was
empty, the woven cloth gone. She kicked against something—groped to
find it. A collecting rod for thread.

  "Where—where are you?" she dared to call aloud. The quiet seemed so
menacing she longed to set her back to some tree, to raise a defense.
Against whom—or what?
   Dairine did not believe that Vidruth and his men would dare to
penetrate the wood. But did the weavers have other enemies, and had fled
those, not taking the trouble to warn her?

  Breathing faster, she set hand on the hilt of the knife at her girdle.
Where were they? Her call had echoed so oddly that she dared not try
again. Only her fear grew as she tried to listen.

   There was the rustle of tree leaves. Nothing else. Nor could she pick up
by mind touch any suggestion of another life form nearby. Should she
believe that the cloth missing from each loom meant her co-workers had
left for an ordered purpose, not in flight? Would she be able to track
them?

   Never before had she put to such a use that sense Ingvarna had trained
in her. Also, that the weavers had their own guards Dairine was well
aware. She was not sure that she herself mattered enough in their eyes for
them to set any defense against her seeking their company. Suppose, with
a collecting rod in her hand, she were to leave the loom place as if on the
regular mission of hunting thread?

   First she must have food. That she located, by scent, in two bins. The
fruit was too soft, overripe, and there were none of the dried sticks left.
But she ate all she could.

   Then, rod conspicuously in hand, the girl ventured into the woods. All
the nearby threads must have been harvested, her questing fingers could
find none as she played out her game for any who might watch.

   And there were watchers! Not the weavers, for the impression these
gave her was totally different—more feeble sparks as compared to a
well-set fire. As she moved, so did they, hovering near, yet making no
attempt to come in contact with her.

   She discovered a thread on a tree. Skillfully, she wound it on her rod,
took a second and third. However, at the next, she flinched away. Any
thread anchored here must have been disturbed, for she smelled the acrid
odor of the sticky coating.

    The next two trees supported similarly gummed threads. Did that
mean these had been prepared to keep her prisoner? Dairine turned a
little. Already, she was out of familiar territory. Thus she expected to meet
at any moment opposition, either from the threads or those watchers.

   Next was a tree free of thread. Trusting to her sense of smell, she
sought another opening, hoping that the unthreaded trees would mark a
trail. Though she moved a little faster, she kept to her pretense of seeking
threads from each tree she encountered. The watchers had not left her,
though she picked up no betraying sound, only knew they were there.

   Another free tree—this path was a zigzag puzzle. And she had to go so
slowly. One more free tree, and then, from her left, a sound at last—a faint
moaning.

    It was human, that sound, enough to feed her fear. This— somehow this
all seemed a shadow out of her now-forgotten dream. In her dream she
had known the sufferer—

   Dairine halted. The watchers were drawing in. She could tell they had
amassed between her and the direction from which the moan came. Thus
she had a choice—to ignore the sound or to try to circle around.

   No sign, make no sign that she heard. Keep on hunting for threads,
strive to deceive the watchers. All her nature rebelled against abandoning
one who might be in trouble, even if he were one of Vidruth's men.

   She put out her hand as if searching for thread, more than half
expecting to touch a sticky web. From those watchers she believed she
picked up an answering sensation of uncertainty. This might be her only
chance.

   Her fingers closed about a thick band of woven stuff. That led in turn
downward to a bag, the flap of the top turned over and stuck to the fabric
so tightly she could not open it. The bag was very large, pulling down the
branch from which it was suspended. And within it—something had been
imprisoned!

   Dairine jerked back. She did not know if she had cried out. What was
sealed within that bag, her perception told her, had been alive, was now
only newly dead. She forced herself to run fingers once more along the
surface of the dangling thing. Too small—surely too small to be a man!

   Now that the girl knew no human was so encased, she wanted no
greater knowledge of the contents. As she stepped away, her shoulder
grazed a second bag. She realized that she moved among a collection of
them, and all they held was death.

   Only, she could still hear that moaning. And it was human. Also, at last
the watchers had dropped behind. As if this place were one they dared not
enter.

   Those bags—Dairine hated to brush against them. Some seemed far
lighter than others and twirled about dizzily as she inadvertently touched
them. Others dipped heavily with their burdens.

  The moans—

   The girl made herself seek what hung before her now. Her collecting
rod was in her girdle. In its place, she held the knife. When she touched
this last bag feeble movement answered. There was a muffled cry which
Dairine was sure was a cry for help.

   She ripped at the silk with knife point. The tightly woven fabric gave
reluctantly, this was no easily torn material. She hacked and pulled until
she heard a half-stifled cry!

  "For Sul's sake—"

  Dairine dragged away the slashed silk. There was indeed a man
ensnared. However, about him now was sticky web, for its acrid scent was
heavy on the air. Against that, her knife was of no avail. To touch such
would only make her prisoner, too.

   She gathered up the folds of the torn bag and, using pieces to shield her
fingers, tore and worried at the web. To her relief, she was succeeding. She
could feel that his own struggles to throw off his bonds were more
successful.

  Also, she knew whom she fought to free—Rothar! It was as if he had
been a part of that dream she could not remember.

  Dairine spoke his name, asking him if he were near free.

  "Yes. Though I still hang. But that now is a small matter—"

  Dairine heard a threshing movement, then the sound of his weight
touching the ground. His breath hissed heavily in and out.

   "Lady, in nowise could you have come at a better time." His hand
closed about her arm. She felt him sway and then recover balance.

  "You are hurt?"

  "Not so. Hungry and needful of a drink. I do not know how long I have
hung in that larder. The captain—he will think us both dead."

  "Larder!" That one grim word struck her like a blow.

   "Did you not know? Yes. this is the spider females' larder, where they
preserve their males—"

   Dairine fought rising nausea. Those bags of silk, the beautifully woven
silk! And to be used so.

  "There is someone—something—out there," he said.

   The watchers, her protective sense, alerted her. They were now moving
in again.

  "Can you see them?" Dairine asked.

  "Not clearly." Then he changed that to "Yes!"

   "They have throwing cords of web, such as they used on me before. No
blade can cut those—"

  "The bag!"

  "What do you mean?"

   Covered with the bag's rent material, she had been able to pull loose his
bindings. Those sticky cords could not find purchase against the woven
silk. As she explained that, her knife was wrenched from her hold and she
heard sounds of ripping.

   The watchers—as Rothar worked to empty other bags, Dairine strove to
perceive them by mind. They had neared, but once more had halted, as if
this were a place which they feared to enter even if ordered to do so to
hold the humans captive.
  "They spin their lines now," Rothar told her. "They plan to wall us in."

  "Let them believe us helpless," she commanded.

  "But you think we are not?"

  "With the bags, perhaps not."

   If she could only see! Dairine could have cried aloud in her frustration.
Who were the watchers? She was sure they were not the weavers
themselves. Perhaps these were the ones who supplied the thread she had
harvested so carefully in the past.

  Rothar once more was back at her side, a bundle of silk from plundered
bags. The girl dared not let herself remember what had been in those
bags.

  "Tell me," she said, "what is the nature of those spinning out there?"

  She could sense his deep aversion, revulsion. "Spiders. Giant spiders.
They are furred and the size of hounds."

  "What are they doing?"

   "They are enwebbing an opening. Beyond that on either side are
already nets. Now they are disappearing. Only one is left, hanging in the
center of the fresh web."

   Through her grasp on his wrist, Dairine could read his thoughts, his
mind picture, even more clearly, to add to the scene his words had built
for her.

   "Those others may have gone to summon the weavers"— she made an
alarming guess. "So for the present, we have only that one guard to deal
with."

  "And the web—"

   She loosed her hold upon him, clutched a length of the raggedly cut silk.
"This we must bind about our bodies. Do not touch the web save with this
between your flesh and it."

  "I understand."
  Dairine moved forward. "I must loose the web," she told him. "The
guard will be your matter. Lead me to a tree where the web is anchored."

   His hand was on her shoulders. Under his gentle urging, she was guided
to the left, was moved forward step by cautious step.

  "The tree is directly before you now, lady. Have no fear of the guard."
His promise was grim.

  "Remember, let nothing of the web touch your flesh."

  "Be sure I am well shielded," he said.

   She fingered rough bark, around her hand and arm the silk was well
and tightly anchored. There—she had discovered the end of an anchoring
thread far stronger and thicker than any she had harvested before.

  "Ha!" Rothar gave a cry—was no longer beside her.

   Dairine found a second thread, felt vibrations along it. The guard must
be making ready to defend its web. However, she must concentrate on the
finding of each thread, of breaking them loose from the tree.

  There was no way for her to know how many threads she must snap so.
From her right came the sound of scuffling, heavy breathing.

  "Ah!" Rothar's voice fiercely triumphant. "The thing is safely dead, lady.
You are right, the cords it threw at me were well warded by the cloth."

  "Keep watch. Those which were with it may still return," she warned.

  "That I know!" he agreed.

   The girl moved as swiftly as she could, discovering thread ends,
snapping them. Not only might the spiders return, but the weavers, and
them she feared even more.

  "The web is down," he told her.

  However, she felt little relief at what might be a small victory.

   "'Lady, now it would be well to wrap our feet and legs with this silk,
they could well lay ground webs for our undoing."
   "Yes!" She had not thought of that, only of the threading cords from
tree to tree.

  "Let me get more silk."

   Dairine stood waiting, her whole body tense as she strained to use ears
and inner senses to assess what might lie in wait beyond. Then he was
back and, with no by-your-leave, busied himself wrapping her feet and
legs with lengths of silk, tying the strips tightly in places.

   She, who had once so loved the ribband Captain Ortis had shown her,
wanted to shrink from any touch of that stuff. Save now it might be their
salvation.

  "That is the best I can do." He released her foot after tying a last knot
about her ankle. "Do you hear aught, lady?"

  "Not yet. But they will come."

  "Who—what are the weavers?" he asked. "I know not. But they do not
hold our kind high in esteem."

  He laughed shortly. "How well do I know that! Yet they did you no
harm."

    "Because, I think, I am without sight, and also a female who knows a
little of their own trade. They are proud of their skill and wished to
impress me."

  "Shall we go then?"

  "We must watch for trees bare of threads."

    "Those I can see, lady. Perhaps trusting in my kind of sight, we can go
the quicker. There has been much happened. The captain, though he is
still weak, again commands his ship. Vidruth is dead. But the captain
could not get that scum which his mate has signed to come ashore. And
only he can hold mem in control."

  "Thus you alone are here?"

   He did not answer her directly. "Set your hand to my belt, and I shall
take heed in my going, I promise," was all he said.
   Such a journey was humiliating for Dairine. So long had it been since
she must turn to one of her kind as a guide. But she knew that he was
right.

   So Captain Ortis, released from the evil spell, had taken command. She
wondered briefly how Vidruth had died, there had been a queer little
hesitancy in Rothar's telling of that. For now she must put her mind on
what lay immediately before them. That the weavers would allow them to
escape easily she did not believe.

  A moment later she knew she was right. They were once more under
observation, she sensed. This new, stronger contact was not that of the
watchers. "They come!" she warned.

   "We must reach the shore! It is among the trees that they set their
traps. I have a signal fire built there, ready to be lighted, which will bring
in the Sea Raven."

   "Can you see any such traps?" She could feel his impatience and doubt
in the slight contact of her fingers against his body where they were
hooked about his belt.

  "No. But there are no straight trails among the tress. Webs bang here
and there; one can only dodge back and forth between them."

   Dairine was given no warning, had no time to loose her hold. Rothar
suddenly fell forward and down, bearing her with him. Her side scraped
painfully against a broken end of branch. It was as if the very earth under
them had opened.


                                      5
   The smell of freshly turned soil was thick in her nostrils. She lay against
Rothar, and he was moving. In spite of her bruises, the jarring shock of
that fall, Dairine sat up. Where they had landed she did not know, but she
guessed they were now under the surface of the ground.

   "Are you hurt?" asked her companion.

   "No. And you?"
  "My arm caught under me when I landed. I hope it is only a bad
bruising and no break. We are in one of their traps. They had it coated
over." There was a note of self-disgust bleak in his voice.

   Dairine was glad he had told her the bald truth. Rising to her feet, the
girl put out her hands to explore the pit. Freshly dug, the earth of its sides
was moist and sticky. Here and there a bit of root projected. Could they
use such to pull themselves out? Before she could ask that of Rothar,
words shot harshly into her mind.

   "Female, why have you stolen this meat from us?"

   Dairine turned her head toward the opening which must be above. So
close that voice, she could believe that a head bobbed there, eyes watched
them gloatingly.

   "I know not your meaning," she returned with all the spirit she could
summon. "This is a man of my people, one who came seeking me because
he felt concern."

   "That with you is our meat!"

   Cold menace in that message brought not fear, but a growing anger to
Dairine. She would not accept that any man was—meat. These
weavers—she had considered them creatures greater than herself because
of the beauty they created, because of their skill. She had accepted their
arrogance because she also accepted that she was inferior in that skill.

   Yet to what purpose did they put their fine creations? Degrading and
loathsome usage, by her own belief. With a flash of true understanding,
she was now certain that she had not been free here, never so until she had
awakened in the deserted loom place. They had woven about her thoughts
a web of ensorcelment which had bound her to them and their ways, just
as at this moment they had entrapped her body.

   "No man is your meat," she returned.

  What answered her then was no mind words, rather a blast of
uncontrolled fury. She swayed under that mental blow, but she did not fall.
Rothar called out her name, his arm was about her, holding her steady.

   "Do not fear for me," she said and tried to loosen her grip. This was her
battle. Her foot slipped in the soft earth of the pit and she stumbled. She
flung out her arms to keep herself off the wall. There was a sharp pain just
above her eyes, and then only blackness in which she was totally lost.

   Heat—heat of blazing fire. And through it screaming—terrible
screaming—which tortured her ears. There was no safety left in the world.
She had curled herself into a small space of blessed dark, hiding. But she
could still see—see with her eyes! No, she would not look, she dared not
look— at the swords in the firelight—at the thing streaming with blood
which hung whimpering from two knives driven like hooks into the wall to
hold it upright. She willed herself fiercely not to see.

  "Dairine! Lady!"

  "No—" She screamed her denial. "I will not look!"

  "Lady!"

  "I will not—"

   There were flashes of color about her. No mind pictures these—the fire,
the blood, the swords—

  "Dairine!"

  A face, wavery, as if she saw it mirrored in troubled water, a man's face.
His sword—he would lift the sword and then—

  "No!" she screamed again.

   A sharp blow rocked her head from side to side. Oddly enough, that
steadied her sight. A man's face near hers, yes, but no fire, no sword
dripping blood, no wall against which a thing hung whimpering.

  He held her gently, his eyes searching hers.

  They—they were not—not in the Keep of Trin. Dairine shuddered;
memory clung about her as a foul cloak. Trin was long, long ago. There
had been the sea, and then Ingvarna and Rannock. And now—now they
were on Usturt. She was not sure what had happened.

  But she saw.
   Had Ingvarna believed that some day this sight would return to her?
Not sight totally destroyed, but sight denied by a child who had been
forced to look upon such horrors that she would not let herself face the
true world openly again.

   Her sight had returned. But that was not what the weavers had
intended. No, their burst of mind fury had been sent to cut her down. Not
death had they given her, but new life.

  Then she, who had sent that thrust of mind power, looked over and
down upon the prey.

   Dairine battled her fear. No retreat this time. She must make herself
face this new horror. Ingvarna's teachings went deep, had strengthened
her for this very moment of her life, as if the Wise Woman had been
enabled to trace the years ahead and know what would aid her fosterling.

   The girl did not raise her hand but she struck back, her newfound sight
centering upon that horror of a countenance. Human it was in dreadful
part, arachnoid in another, such as to send one witless with terror. And
the thought strength of the weaver was gathering to blast Dairine.

  Those large, many-faceted eyes blinked. Dairine's did not.

  "Be ready," the girl said to Rothar, "they are preparing to take us."

   Down into the pit whirled sticky web lines hurled by the weavers' spider
servants. Those caught and clung to root ends and then fell upon the two.

  "Let them think for this moment," Dairine said, "that we are helpless."

   He did not question her as more and more of the lines dropped upon
them, lying over their arms, legs. Dull gray was the cloth which they had
wound about them. That had none of the shimmering quality her mind
had given to it. Perhaps the evil use to which this had been put had killed
that opalescence.

  While the cords fell, the girl did not shift her gaze, but met straight the
huge, alien eyes, those cold and deadly eyes, of the weaver. In and in,
Dairine aimed her power, that power Ingvarna had fostered in her, boring
deep to reach the brain behind the eyes. Untrained in most of the Wise
Woman's skills, she intuitively knew that this was her only form of attack,
an attack which must also serve as defense.

  Were those giant eyes dulling a little? The girl could not be sure, she
could not depend upon her newly restored sight.

  About them, the web lengths had ceased to fall. But there was new
movement around the lip of the pit above.

    Now! Gathering all her strength, pulling on every reserve she believed
she might have, Dairine launched a direct thought blow at the weaver.
That weird figure writhed, uttered a cry which held no note of human in
it. For a moment, it hunched so. Then that misshapen, nightmare body fell
back, out of Dairine's range of sight. She was aware of no more mental
pressure. No, instead came a weak panic, a fear which wiped away all the
weaver's strength.

  "They—they are going!" Rothar cried out.

    "For a while, perhaps." Dairine still held the creatures of the loom in
wary respect. They had not thought her a worthy foe, so perhaps they had
not unleashed against her all that they might. But while the weavers were
still bewildered, shaken, at least she and Rothar had gained time.

   The young man beside her was already shaking off the cords. Those
curled limply away from his fabric-covered body, just as they fell from hers
as he jerked at them. She blinked. Now that the necessity for focusing her
eyes on the weaver was past, Dairine found it hard to see. It was a distinct
effort for her to fasten on any one object, bring that into clear shape. This
was something she must learn, even as she had learned to make her
fingers see for her.

   Though he winced as he tried to use his left arm, Rothar won out of the
pit by drawing on the root ends embedded in the soil. Then he unbuckled
his belt and lowered it for her aid.

   Out of the earth prison, Dairine stood still for a long moment, turning
her head right and left. She could not see them in the dusky shadows
among the trees, yet they were there, weavers, spinners, both. But she
sensed also that they were still shaken, as if all their strength of purpose
had lain only in the will of the one she had temporarily bested.

  All were that weaver's own brood—the arachnoid-human, the
arachnoid complete. They were subject to the Great One's will, her
thoughts controlled them, and they were her tools, the projections of
herself. Until the Great Weaver regained her own balance, these would be
no menace. But how long could such a respite last for those she would
make her prey?

   Dairine saw mistily a brighter patch ahead, sunlight fighting the dusk
of this now-sinister wood.

    "Come!" Rothar reached for her hand, clasped it tight The shore must
lie there!"

  The girl allowed him to draw her forward, away from the leaderless
ones.

   "The signal fire," he was saying. "But let me give light to that and the
captain will bring in the ship."

   "Why did you come—alone from that ship?" Dairine asked suddenly, as
they broke out of the shade of the forest into a hard brilliance of the sun
upon the sand. So hurting was that light that she needs must shade her
eyes with her hand.

   Peering between her fingers, Dairine saw him shrug. "What does it
matter how a man who is already dead dies? There was a chance to reach
you. The captain could not take it, for that rogue's spell left him too weak,
though he raged against it. None other could he trust—"

  "Except you. You speak of yourself as a man already dead, yet you are
not. I was blind—now I see. I think Usturt has given us both that which we
dare not throw lightly away."

  His somber face, in which his eyes were far too old and shadowed,
became a little lighter as he smiled.

   "Lady, well do they speak of your powers. You are of the breed who may
make a man believe in anything, even perhaps himself. And there lies our
signal waiting."

   He gestured to a tall heap of driftwood. In spite of the slippage of the
sand under his enwrapped feet, he left her side and ran toward it.
    Dairine followed at a slower pace. There was the captain and there was
this Rothar who risked his life, even though he professed to find that of
little matter. Perhaps now there would be others to touch upon her life,
mayhap even her heart in years to come. She had these years to weave,
and she must do so with care, matching each strand to another in
brightness, as all had heretofore been wrought in darkness. The past was
behind her. There was no need to glance back over her shoulder unto the
dusk of the woods. Rather must she search seaward whence would come
the next strand to add to her pattern of weaving.




                   SAND SISTER
                                      1
   The moment of birth came in the early dawning when the mists of
Tormarsh night still curled thick and rank about the walls of Kelva's hall.
This in itself was an ill thing, for, as all well knew, a child who is to have
the foresight and the forereach must come into the world at that time: the
last moment of one day and the first of the next; while under a full moon
of the Shining One is indeed the best time to welcome a new Voice among
the People.

    Also this was no lusty child who entered the world crying a demand for
life and the fullness thereof. Rather the wrinkled skin on its undersized
body was dusky, and it lay across the two hands of the healer limply. Nor
did it seek to draw a breath. But because all children were necessary for
the Tor-folk and each new life was a barrier against the twilight of their
kind, they labored to save this one.

   The healer set lips upon the cold flaccid ones of the baby and strove to
breathe air into its lungs. They warmed it and nursed it, until at last it
cried feebly—not to welcome life but to protest that it must receive it. At
the sound of that cry Mafra's head inclined to one side as she listened to
that plaint which was more like the cry of a luckless bird trapped in a net
than that of any true child of Tor.

   Though her eyes were long since blind to what the Folk could see, being
covered with a film which no light could hope now to pierce, Mafra had
the other sight. When they brought the child to her for the blessing of the
Clan and House Mother, she did not hold out her hands to receive the
small body. Rather she shook her head and spoke:

  "Not of the kindred is this one. The spirit who was chosen to fill this
body came not. What you have drawn to life in it is—"

   She fell silent then. While the women who had brought the child drew
away from the Healer, now staring at the baby she held as if the wrap
cloth of the clan birthing enfolded some slimy thing out of the encroaching
bog land.

  Mafra turned her head slowly so that her blind eyes faced each for the
space of a breath.

   "Let no one think of the Dark Death for this one." She spoke sharply.
"The body is blood of our blood, bone of our bone. This much I also say to
you: what now dwells within that body we must bind to us, for there is a
strength indwelling in it which the child must learn to use for herself.
Then when she uses it for those she favors it will be both a mighty tool and
a weapon."

   "But you have not named her, Clan Mother. How can she dwell in the
clan house if she bears not our name freely given?" ventured then the
boldest of those who had faced Mafra.

  "It is not in my gift to name her," Mafra said slowly. "Ask that of the
Shining One."

   It was now morning and the mist was curtain heavy, blanking out the
sky. However, as if her very words had summoned the creature out of the
air, there swooped across the women there gathered one of the large
silver-gray moths that were dancers in the night air. This settled for an
instant on the wrapping of the child, fanning gently its palm-wide wings.
Thus the healer spoke:

  "Tursla—" Which was a name of the Moth-maid in the very ancient
song-tale of Tursla and the Toad Devil. Thus it was that the child
who-was-not-of-the-clan spirit was given a name which was in itself
uncanny and even a little tinged with ill-fortune.

  Tursla lived among the Torpeople. After the fashion of their ways she
who had borne the child was never known to her as "mother" for that was
not the custom. Rather all the children of one clan were held in love by the
elders of their House and all were equal. Since Mafra had spoken for her,
and the Tormarsh itself had sent her a name, there was no difference
made between Tursla and the other children—who were very few now.

   For the Torfolk were very old indeed. They spoke in their Remember
Chants of a day when they had been near unthinking beasts (even less
than some of the beasts of this old land) and how Volt, The Old One (he
who was not human at all but the last of a much older and greater race
than man dared to aspire to equal) had come to be their guide and leader.
For he was lonely and found in them some spark of near thought which
intrigued him so he would see what he might make of them.

   Volt's half-avian face still was one they carved on the guard totems set
about the fields of loquths and in their dwelling places. To his memory
they offered the first fruits of their fields, the claws and teeth of the dire
wak-lizard, if they were lucky enough to slay such. By Volt's name they
swore such oaths as they must say for weighty reasons.

   Thus Tursla grew in body, and in knowledge of Tormarsh. What lay
across its borders was of no consequence to the Torfolk, though there was
land and sea and many strange peoples beyond. Not as old naturally as
Torfolk, nor with the same powers, for they had not been blessed by Volt
and his learning in the days their clans were first shaped.

  But Tursla was different in that she dreamed. Even before she knew the
words with which she might tell those dreams they caught her up and
gave her another life. So that many times the worlds which encased her
periods of sleep were far more vivid and real than Tormarsh itself.

   She discovered as she grew older that the telling of her dreams to those
of her own age made them uncomfortable and they left her much to
herself. She was hurt, and then angered. Later, perhaps out of the dreams,
there came to her a newer thought that these were for her alone and could
not be shared. This brought a measure of loneliness until she discovered
that Tormarsh itself (though it might not be the worlds through which her
dreams led her) was a place of mystery and delight.

   Such opinion, however, could only be that of one who wore a Tor body
and was reared in a Tor Clan; for Tormarsh was a murky land in which
there were great stretches of noisome bog from which reared the twisted
skeletons of long-dead trees—and those were oftentimes leprous seeming
with growths of slimy substances.

   There were the remnants of very ancient roads, which tied together in a
network the islands raised from these marshy lands, and age-old stone
walls enclosed the fields of the Tor-folk, rearing also to form the clan halls.
Always the mists gathered at night and early morning and wreathed
around the crumbling stones.

   But to Tursla the mists were silver veiling, and in the many sounds of
the hidden boglands she could single out and name the cries of birds, the
toads, frogs, and lizards, though even those were not like their distant kin
to be found other places.

   Best of all she loved the moths which had given her her own name. She
discovered they were drawn to the scent of certain pale flowers which
bloomed only at night This scent she came to love also and would place the
blossoms in the silvery fluff of her shoulder-length hair, weave garlands of
them to wear about her neck. Also she learned to dance, swaying as did
the marsh reeds under the winds, and as she danced the moths gathered
about her, brushing against her body, flying back and forth in their own
measures about her upheld, outstretched arms.

  But this was not the way of the other Tormaidens, and when Tursla
danced she did so apart and for her own pleasure.

   The years are all the same in Tormarsh and they pass with a slow and
measured beat. Nor do the Torfolk reckon them in any listing. For when
Volt left his people they no longer cared to reckon time. They knew that
there was war and much trouble in the outer world. Tursla had heard that
before she had been born a war leader of that other land had been brought
into Tormarsh by treachery and had been taken away again by his
enemies with whom the Torfolk had made an uneasy and quickly broken
pact.

   Also there was still an older story—but that was whispered and could
only be learned if one plucked a hint there, added a word here. Even
further back in time there had been a man from outside whose ship had
floundered on the strip of shore where Tormarsh actually came down in a
point to the sea. And there he had been found by one who was a clan
mother.

   She had taken pity on the man, who had been sore hurt, and had,
against all custom, brought him to the healers. But the end to that had
been sadness, for he had laid a spell of caring on the First Maiden of that
clan and she had chosen, against all custom, to go forth with him when he
was healed.

   There had come a time, when she returned—alone. Though to her clan
she had said the name of a child. Later she had died. Yet the name of the
child remained in the chant of the Rememberer. Now it was said that he,
too, was a great warrior and a ruler in a land no Torfolk would ever see.

   Tursla often wondered about that story. To her it had more meaning
(though why she could not have said) than any of the other legends of her
people. She wondered about the ruler who was half Tor. Did he ever feel
the pull of his part blood? Did the moon at night and perhaps one of the
lesser mists which might lay in his land awake in him some dream as real
as the strange ones which haunted her? Sometimes she said his name as
she danced.

   "Koris! Koris!" She wondered if his mate among the stranger people
held his heart in truth and if so, what was she like? Did he feel divided in
his heart as Tursla did? She was by all the rights of blood fully of Tor and
yet had this ache in her spirit which would never be stilled and which
waxed stronger with every year of her life.

   She grew out of childhood and she set herself obediently to the learning
which she should have. Her fingers were clever at the loom and her
weaving was smooth, with delicate pale patterns quite new among the
Torfolk. Yet no one remarked upon any strangeness in those designs and
she had long since ceased to mention her dreams. Lately she had indeed
come to feel that there was a certain danger in allowing herself to become
too deeply immersed in such. For sometimes they filled her with an odd
feeling that if she were not careful she would lose herself in that other
world, unable to return.

   There was an urgency in those dreams, which plucked at her, wishing
her to do this or that. The Torfolk themselves had strange powers. Among
them such talent was not accounted in any way alien. Not all of them
could use these— but that, too, was natural. Was it not true that all had
each his or her own gift? That one could work in wood, another weave, a
third prove a hunter or huntress skilled in tracking the quarry. Just so
could Mafra, or Elkin, or Unnanna, transport a thing here or there by will
alone. The range of such talents was limited, and the use of them drew
upon the inner strength of the user to a high degree so that they were not
for common employment.

   In her dreams lately Tursla had not roamed afar in those strange
landscapes. Rather she had come always to stand beside a pool of water,
not murky or half overgrown with reed and plant as were the pools of
Tormarsh, but rather a clear green blue.

   More important, what she had felt in each of those recurring dreams
was that the reddish sand which rimmed it around, as the old soft gold the
Torfolk used would rim a gem, had great meaning. It was the sand which
drew her—always the sand.

   Twice with the coming of the Shining One in full sighting, she had
awakened suddenly, not in Kelva's House but in the open, awakened and
was afraid for she knew not how she had come there. So mused that she
might have wandered into one of the sucking bogs and been trapped
forever. She came to be afraid of the night and sleep, although she did not
share with any the burden she bore. It was as if one of the geas set by Volt
himself bound her thoughts, laid a silencing finger across her lips. She
grew unhappy and restless. The isle of the clan houses began to feel like a
prison.

   It was on the night of the highest and brightest coming of the Shining
One that the women of the Torfolk must gather and bathe in the radiance
of the One's lamp (for so was the body quickened and made ready that
children might come forth) and there were too few children. But Tursla
had never come to the Shining One's place of blessing, nor had this been
urged upon her. This night when the others arose to go she stirred,
meaning to follow. But out of the darkness there came a quiet voice:
'Tursla—"

   She turned and saw now that some of the light insects had crawled
from their crevices to form a circle on the wall, giving the light of their
bodies to illuminate the woman sitting on the bed place there. Tursla
bowed her head even though that woman could not see her.

   "Clan Mother—I am here."

   "It is not for you—"

   Tursla did not need Mafra to tell her what was not for her. But in her
was the heat of shame, and also a little anger. For she had not chosen to be
what she was; that fate had instead been thrust upon her from the hour of
her birthing.

  "What then is for me, Clan Mother? Am I to go unfulfilled and give no
new life to this House?"

  "You must seek your own fulfillment, moth-child. It lies not among us.
Yet there is a purpose in what you are and a greater purpose in what
awaits you—out there." Mafra's hand pointed to the open door of the
House.

   "Where do I find it, Clan Mother?"

  "Seek and it will find you, moth-child. Part of it already lies within you.
When that awakes you will learn and learning—know."

   "That is all yon will tell me then, Clan Mother?"

   "It is all I can tell you. I can foresee for the rest. But between your spirit
and mine rolls a.mist thicker and darker than any Tormarsh gives birth to
in the night. There is this—" She hesitated a long time before she spoke
again.

   "Darkness lies before us all, moth-child. We who foresee can see, in
truth, only one of many paths. From every action there issue at least two
ways, one in which one decision is followed, one in opposition to that. I
can see that such a decision now lies before the folk. Ill, great ill may come
from it. There is one among us who chooses even now to ask for the
Greater Power."

   Tursla gasped. "Clan Mother, how can this thing be? The Greater
Power comes not by a single asking. It is called only when there is danger
to all whom Volt taught."

   "True enough in the past, moth-child. But time changes all things and
even a geas may fade to a dried reed easily snapped between the fingers.
Such a calling needs blood to feed it. This I say to you now, moth-child. Go
you out this night—not to seek the place of the Shining One—there are
those there who tend strange thoughts within. Rather go where your
dreams point you and do what you have learned within those dreams."
  "My dreams!" Tursla wondered. "Are they of use, Clan Mother?"

  "Dreams are born of thought—ours—or another's. AH thought is of
some use. That which entered into you at your birthing cannot be denied,
moth-daughter. You are now ripe to seek it out and deal with it. Go.
Now!"

   Her last word had the force of an order. Tursla still hesitated however.
"Clan Mother, have I your blessing, the good will of this House?"

   When Mafra did not reply at once Tursla shivered. This was like being
before the House and seeing the door barred, shutting one out of all touch
with kin and heart-ties.

  But Mafra was raising her hand.

   "Moth-daughter, for what it may be worth to you as you go to fulfill the
future laid before you, you have the good-willing of this House. In return
you must open your mind to patience and to understanding. No, I will not
tell this foreseeing, for you must be guided not by any words of mine but
by what comes from your own heart and mind when you are put to the
test. Now, go. Trust to what the dreams have laid in your mind and go!"

   Tursla went into the moonlight, into a world which was the black of
bog-buried wood, the silver of mist and the pallid moonlight. But where
was she to go? She flung out her arms. This night no moths came to dance
with her.

   Trust to what the dreams had laid in her mind. Would such point her
in the direction she must take? Following the discipline of those who used
the talent, she strove to clear her mind of all conscious thought.

   Tursla began to walk, steadily, as one who has a purpose and a definite
goal. She did not turn to the east, but faced westward, her feet on the
blocks of one of the lesser roads. Though her eyes were open, she was not
aware of what she saw, or even of her moving body. Somewhere before her
lay the pool of her dreams and about it the all important sand.

   The mist clung about her like a veiling, now concealing what lay ahead,
what she had left behind. She crossed one of the islands and another. The
road failed at last but unerringly her feet found tussocks and hillocks of
solid land to support her. At last the mist itself was tattered by a wind,
strong, carrying in it a scent which was not that of the Tormarsh.

   That wind awoke Tursla from her trance. She slowed to a halt at the
highest point of a hillock covered with grass, shaped like the finger of a
giant, pointing due west The girl used both hands to keep the silk soft
strands of her hair out of her eyes. Now the moon was bright enough to
show her that this ridge of land ran on to farther rises beyond.

   Then, she began to run—lightly. In her some barrier had broken and
she was swallowed up by this great need to find what lay ahead; that
which had waited for her so long—so very long!

   Nor was she surprised to come at last into that very place of her
dreams. Here was the clear pool, and the sand. Though in the moonlight
the colors of her dream had been leached away, the sand was dark and so
was the pool.

  She tore off her robe, letting the length of cloth, spattered with the mud
and slime of her marsh journey, fall from her. But she did not allow it to
drop onto the sand. It was as if nothing must sully or mark that sand.

   Nor did Tursla step upon its smooth surface. Rather she climbed a
small rock just beyond its edge and from that sprang out, to dive into the
waiting water. That closed about her body, neither cold nor hot, but
rather silken smooth, caressing. It held her as might a giant hand cupped
about her, soothing, gentle. She surrendered to the water, floating on the
surface of the pool.

   Did she sleep then, or was she entranced by some magic beyond the
knowledge of those who had bred her? Tursla was never quite sure. But
she was aware that there came a change within her. Doors opened and
would never close again. What lay behind those doors she was not yet sure,
but she was free to explore, to use. Only the first thing—

   As she lay floating on the soft cushion of the water Tursla began to
hum, and then to sing. There were no words in her song, rather she trilled
as might a bird, first gently, quietly, then with a rising—call? Yes, a call!

   Though she lay with her face turned up to the sky, the moon, the stars,
those far-off night jewels, she was aware that about her was a stirring; not
in the water which cradled her, but in the sand. It was arising, partly to
her will, or rather her call, partly to the need of—of—someone.
   Still Tursla sang. Now she dared to turn her head a little. There was a
pillar of sand from which came a tinkling, a faint chiming, caused as one
grain of its substance rubbed against the other in a whirl so fast it would
seem that there was no sand but only a solid column of the dark grit.
Louder grew Tursla's song, more and more the pillar thickened. It no
longer reached skyward, rather kept to a height no greater than her own.

   The contours of the pillar began to alter, to thin here, thicken there. It
took on the appearance of a statue—crude at first, a head which was a
ball, a body with no grace or shape to it. But still the sand changed, the
figure it formed became more and more human-like.

   At last the sense of movement was gone. A figure stood there on rock
from which her birth had drawn all the sleeping sand. Tursla trod water,
drew into the shore and climbed out to front this being for whom her song
had opened the door and wrought a shaping.

   Into her mind there came the name she must now speak— the name
which would anchor this other, make sure and safe the bridge between her
world and another one that she could not even imagine, so alien was its
existence.

   "Xactol!"

   The sand woman's eyelids quivered, raised. Eyes which were like small
red-gold coals of fire regarded Tursla. The girl saw the rise and fall of the
stranger's breasts, the moonlight was reflected from a dark skin as smooth
seeming as her own.

   "Sister—"

    The word from the other was hardly more than a whisper. It held in it
still some of the sound of sand slipping over sand. But neither woman nor
voice wrought any fear in Tursla. Her open hands went out, offering
kinship to the sand woman. Hands as firm to the touch as her own caught
and held, in a clasp which welcomed her in return.

   "I have hungered—" Tursla said, realizing in this moment that she
spoke the truth. Until those hands closed about hers there had been this
deep lack, this hunger in her which she had not even truly known she
carried until it was so assuaged.
  "You have hungered," Xactol repeated. "Hunger no more, sister. You
have come—you will have what you seek. You shall do thereafter what
must be done."

  "So be it."

  Tursla took another step forward. Their hands fell apart, but their arms
were wide. They embraced as indeed close kin welcomed one another after
some long time apart. Tursla found tears on her cheeks.


                                     2
   "What is asked of me?" The girl drew back from that embrace, studied
the face so close to her own. It was calm and still as the sand had been
before her power had troubled it.

   "Only what you yourself choose," came the murmured reply. "Open your
mind, and your heart, sister-one, and it shall be shown to you in the
appointed time. Now—" The right hand of the sand woman arose, and the
slightly rough fingertips touched Tursla's forehead, held so for the space of
several heartbeats. Then they slid down, over the eyelids the girl
instinctively closed and again held so, before going on to her lips. The
touch withdrew, came again to her breast over the faster beating of her
heart.

   From each of those touches there issued an inflowing of strength so
that Tursla's breathing quickened; she felt a kind of impatience, of a need
to be busy, though with what task she could not have said. This inflow of
energy made her flesh tinkle, alive in a way she had never experienced.

  "Yes—" her voice was swift, her words a little slurred. "Yes, yes! But
how—and when? Oh, how and when, sand sister?"

  "The how you shall know. The when is shortly."

   "Then—then I shall find the door? I shall be free in the place of my
dreaming?"

   "Not so. For each her own place, sister-one. Seek not any gate until the
time. There is that for you to do here and now. The future is the threaded
loom upon which there is not yet any weaving. Sit before it, sister-kin, and
fix the pattern you desire in your mind, then take up the shuttle and begin
your task. In one sense we, in turn, are shuttles in the service of a greater
purpose and we are moved to form a pattern we cannot see, for to its
weaving we are too close. We can know the knotting and the breakage and
perhaps even mend and reweave a little—but we are not that Great One
who views it all. The time has come for you to set your portion of the
pattern into the unseen design."

  "But with you—"

   "Younger sister, my bridging of the space between us cannot be held for
long. We must hasten to the task set upon us both. Your mind is open,
your eyes can now see, your lips are ready for the words, and your heart is
prepared for what must come. Listen!"

   So there by the dream pool Tursla listened. It was as if her mind was as
porous and empty as one of those leaves of the draw-well, a sponge ready
to be filled when one dipped it into water. She drew in strange words, and
heard stranger sounds which she must shape her lips to form. Though that
was a difficult thing, for it would seem that some of those sounds were
never meant for her to utter. Her hands moved to pattern designs in the
air. While following the movements of her fingers there remained for an
instant thereafter a faint tracing of color—that which was red-brown like
the sand which had formed the body of her teacher, or else green-blue as
the pool beside which they sat.

   Again she got to her feet and moved her body in the measures of a
dance—to no music save that which seemed to be locked into her own
mind. All this had a meaning, though she was not sure what that might
be, save that what she learned now was her true birthright and also both a
weapon and a tool.

    At last her companion was silent and Tursla, now slumped upon the
sand, felt as if that energy which had filled her had seeped away little by
little, driven out of her again by the learning which she had so eagerly
grasped.

   "Sand-sister, you have given me much. To what purpose? I cannot set
aside Volt's ways and be ruler here."

  "That was never intended. In what manner you can serve these
people—that you will see from time to time. Give them what is best for
their needs, but not openly, not claiming for yourself any powers. Give it
only when such giving shall not be marked. There will be a time when your
giving will set another part of the design to work—then, oh, younger sister,
give with all your heart!"

   She who answered to the name Xactol and whose true form and kind
Tursla only dimly could perceive (and then only in her mind) arose. She
began to turn, and that turning became faster and faster, a blur of
movement. Just as she had put on the substance of the sand so now she
lost it. Tursla covered her face with her hands, protecting her eyes against
the trails of grit which spun out and away from what was becoming once
more only a pillar.

   The girl sank forward, feeling the drift of the sand over her. She was so
tired, so very tired. Let her sleep now dreamlessly, she asked something
beyond, the nature of which she recognized no more than she did the real
form of Xactol. As the sand arose about her body, covered her lightly as
might a soft cloth of spider silk, she indeed slept without dreams, even as
she had petitioned to do.

   It was the warmth of the midday sun beaming down upon her which
roused her at last. She sat up, sand cascading from her. The colors of her
dream were here, bright—green of pool, red of sand. But last night had not
been a dream. It could not be. Tursla gathered up a palmful of the sand
and allowed it to sift between her fingers. It was very fine, more like
powder ash than the grit she expected.

    She brushed it from her body and then she knelt by the pool, troubling
its mirror-smooth surface to wash the sand from her hand, her arms, her
face, splashing the water over her body. The wind blew steadily and, after
she had retrieved the robe she had discarded, she went on, past the rocks
which rimmed the pool site.

   So she came to the sea and for the first time looked out onto that part
of the outside world which she had heard spoken of but had never seen.
The play of the waves as they crashed in shore and broke, leaving that
which had formed them to drain away, enchanted her. She ventured out
upon the water-smoothed sand. The wind, so much stronger here,
whipped her robe and tugged at her hair. She flung her arms wide to
welcome the wind which had none of the marsh scent.

  It was good to be in the open. Tursla settled down on the sand to watch
the breaking waves, singing softly to herself in wordless sounds which
were not meant to evoke any answer but which were an attempt to match
the music of wind and wave.

   She saw shells in the sand and picked them up in wonder and delight.
Like and yet unlike they were for, seeing them closely, she could perceive
that each had some small difference to set it apart from its kind. Not
unlike those of her own species—each with some part of him or her which
was only his or hers.

   At last she reluctantly turned her face from the sea to the Tormarsh.
The sun was already westering. For the first time Tursla wondered if any
had sought her and what she must say when she returned which might
cloak this thing which had happened to her.

   Slowly she dropped her harvest of shells. There was no need to advertise
her visit to a place which custom forbade any to see. But that was no
reason why she might not come this way again. No rule of Volt said
definitely that the sea was forbidden to those who followed his ancient
rules of living.

   Tursla found the marsh oddly confining as she passed swiftly along the
trail toward the House island. So as she went she plucked certain leaves
which were for dyeing, glad that fortune favored her in that several plants
were of the Corfil—a rarity much prized as it produced a scarlet dye which
was mainly used for the curtains of Volt's own shrine, thus was always
eagerly sought.

   As Tursla came along the westward road she had her skirt upheld into a
bag, a goodly harvest in that. But one moved out to intercept her before
she gained Kelva's House.

  "So, moth-sister—you have thought to return to us? Did the winged
ones tire of you so soon, night walker?"

   Tursla tensed. Of all those she wished the least to meet Affric was the
one. He leaned now on his spear, his eyes regarding her mockingly. There
was a belt with a fringe of wak-lizard teeth about his middle, attesting to
both his courage and skill. For only a man with both nearly supernormal
reflex and cunning dared hunt those great lizards.

  "Fair day to you, Affric." She did not warm her words. He flouted
custom in his familiar greeting. The very fact he did so was disturbing.

  "Fair day—" he repeated. "And what of the night, moth-sister? Others
danced with the moon."

  She was more than startled. For any Torman to speak of the Calling,
and to such as her who had not named any man before Volt for a
choosing!

   He laughed. "Send me no spears from your eyes, moth-sister. Only
daughters of Volt—true daughters—need make a man watch his tongue by
custom." He took a step nearer. "No, you did not seek the moon last night,
so then whom did you seek, moth-sister?" There was an ugly set to his
mouth.

   She did not make any answer. To do so would be indeed lessening
herself in the eyes of all. For there were those who listened, if from a
distance. What Affric said and did was a raw affront.

    Tursla looked away and walked forward. He would not dare, she was
sure, attempt to stop her. And he did not. But the fact that he could
publicly address her in that manner was frightening. Also, not one of those
listening had spoken up in rebuke. It was almost as if this had been
deliberately arranged to insult her. Her hands tightened on her
improvised bag of leaves. Why—?

  None stood before the door of Kelva's House and she walked head high,
back straight, from the day into the dusk.

   "Back at last, are you, then?" Parua, who tended the store cupboards
and served as eyes for Mafra, regarded her sourly. "What have you there
which needed to be cropped by night? A night when your duty lay
elsewhere?"

  Tursla shook out the leaves to fall upon a mat.

  "Parua—do you really think that such as I should dance for the Shining
One's favor?" she asked in a voice from which she was able to keep all
emotion.

   "What do you mean? You are woman grown. It is your duty to bring
forth children—if you can!"
    "If I can—you yourself say that, Mother-one. Have I not heard otherwise
all my life? That I am one who is not true Tor born, and therefore I must
not give life to a child because of the strangeness which is a part of me?"

  "We grow too few—" Parua began.

   "So thus the clan will welcome even the flawed? But that is not custom,
Parua. And when custom is broke it must be done openly before Volt's
shrine, with all his People assenting."

   "If we grow few enough," Parua countered, "Volt will have none here to
raise his name. There are to be changes, even in custom. There will be a
Calling, a Great Calling. So it has been decided."

   Tursla was astounded. Great Callings she had heard talked of; the last
had been years ago when the Torfolk had allowed their stronghold to be
invaded for a short time by strangers. It was then that the war leader of
the outside lands had been prisoner here—together with her who, it was
whispered, had been Koris' chosen lady. There had come no great ill from
that, save that it had reached them later that, even as they had closed the
marsh, so was now the outer world closed to them in turn. But even then
there had been two minds about the right and the wrong of what they did.

   It was true that births grew fewer each year. She had heard that Mafra
and one or two of the other Clan Mothers speculated as to the reason for
that. Perhaps even that their race was too old, had taken mates only
among themselves too long so that their blood thinned, their creative
powers were dimming. Thus it might be a fact that they would try to force
her to their purposes. For it would only be by force that she would come to
a Choosing—there was no Torman she had ever looked upon with favor.
And now, she was not conscious she was pressing her hands against her
breast; even less was she a daughter of Volt!

  "So, moth-one," Parua continued, looking at her, Tursla thought, slyly
and near maliciously, "your body being Tor-born, that might well serve
Volt's purposes. Consider that."

   Tursla turned quickly toward that wall alcove which was Mafra's. The
Clan Mother seldom left her private niche nowadays. She had hands whose
skill had outrun her vanished sight, and, by touch alone, she made those
useful to her people, shaping small pots to be fired, or spinning fibers
more smoothly than any of her house descendants could.
    Now Tursla saw that those hands lay strangely still, loosely clasped in
the old woman's lap. Her head was held up, just slightly a-tip as if she
listened. As the girl stood hesitantly before her, uncertain if she dared
break into that trance-like state, Mafra spoke: "Fair day, moth-child. Fair
be your going, fair be your coming, firm your steps upon the crossing
places, full your hands with good labor, your heart with warmth, your
mind with thoughts which will serve you."

   Tursla sank to her knees. That was no common greeting! It was—it was
that given to any clan daughter who knew she was at last with child!
But—why—

   Mafra raised one hand, stretched it forth. Tursla quickly bent her head
to kiss those long, age-thinned fingers.

  "Clan Mother—I am not—not as you have welcomed me," she said
hurriedly.

    "You are filled," Mafra said. "Not all filling is with a life which will
separate itself in time from yours and become all in all to itself. There is
life within you now and, in due time, it will come forth. If it does so in a
different fashion, then that is the will of Volt, or of what power stood
behind him when he came to lead our people up out of savagery. It shall be
with you as with the Filled. So shall it be said in this House and Clan. And
if it is said so among those who are your own, then it will be the same
elsewhere among the Folk."

   "But, Clan Mother, if my body does not contain a life they will
understand, and the time passes when I should bear the fruit which House
and Clan need, then will there not be a reckoning? What can be said then
for one who had misled House and Clan?"

   "There will be no misleading. There is set before you a task that you
shall do by virtue of the life you hold. What will follow from that will lead
to the two roads of which I told you—one this way—" Her hand swept to
the right. "One that way." She indicated the left. "I cannot foresee past
that choice which shall be yours. But I think what you will choose shall be
of wisdom. Parua—" she raised her voice and the other woman came near,
going to her knees as did Tursla.

   "Parua, this Tursla, moth-daughter, is Filled and so let House and Clan
be guarded according to custom."
  "But she—there was no Choosing, no moon dance," Parua protested.

   "She was sent out by my wisdom, Parua. Do you question that?"
Mafra's tone was chill. "Into the night she went with my blessing. What
she sought—and found—was by the will of Volt as revealed to me in
foresight. She has returned, filled. I recognize it so, and, by my Volt-given
gift, I proclaim that now."

   Parua's mouth opened again as if she would protest and then it closed.
Clan Mother had spoken, she had said that Tursla was Filled. And, if she
who had the farsight for her own said this, then no one dared question the
truth of it. Parua bowed her head submissively and kissed the hand held
out to her. She backed away, her gaze still on Tursla, and the girl sensed
that she might have to admit openly Mafra's judgment was right, but her
own reservations were still stubbornly alive.

  "Clan Mother," the girl said quickly, as soon as she was sure Parua
must be beyond hearing the murmur of a voice she held to the edge of a
whisper, "I do not know what is expected of me."

   "This much I can tell you, moth-child. There will soon come one whom
Unnanna will summon—not with voice or message—but by the Calling
itself. He has such blood ties that this calling can catch and hold him as
one snared in a net. But the purpose for which they would bring him—"
There was a new note in Mafra's voice. "That is, in the end, death. If his
blood is spilt upon the ground before Volt's shrine, that blood shall call
aloud. And its calling will bring the forces of the outer world upon us with
fire and steel. Volt's people will die and Tormarsh shall be a barren and
cursed place.

   "We count our children as the fruit of all of us together. No one claims
any child as his or hers alone. But this is not the way of the Outside. There
they hold not to House Clans, but are split into smaller gatherings. There a
child has but two on which to call in trouble—she who gave him birth and
he who filled her at some time of choosing. This seems strange and wrong
to us, a breaking up of the bonds which are our strength. But it is their
way of life.

  "However, this different way also gives other bonds which we do not
understand. Strange indeed are these bonds. Let anyone there raise hand
against a child—and the mother-one and he who filled her will take up the
hunt with the fury of a wak-lizard who sights man. The one whom
Unnanna would summon for her purposes is son to a man who is perhaps
the greatest threat the Outside can raise against us. I fear for our people,
moth-child.

   "It is true that we grow fewer, that only a hand-finger count of children
may be born after any choosing. But that is our sorrow and perhaps the
will of life itself. To bring in blood-giving—no."

   "And my part in this, Clan Mother?" Tursla asked. "Do you wish me to
stand against Unnanna then? But even though you have named me Filled,
who would listen to my words? She is a Clan Mother, and, since you go no
more to the moon dance, it is she who leads."

  "That is so. No, I lay no task on you, moth-daughter. When the time
comes for you to do as you must, you yourself will know it, for that
knowledge will be inside you. Give me now your hands."

   Mafra held out both of her own palms up, and Tursla placed hers
thereupon, palms down. Again, just as it had been when she and Xactol
had communed with one another, there was a feeling of quickening within
her, a stirring of energy she longed to use but did not yet know how to put
to any testing.

   "So—" Mafra's voice was but a whisper, as if this were a very secret
thing. "I knew that you were from elsewhere at your birthing, but this is
indeed a strange thing."

   "Why did this happen to me, dan Mother?" Tursla voiced her old
protest.

   "Why do many things happen—those for which we can see no meaning
or root? Somewhere there is a master pattern of which we must all be a
part."

  "So did she say also—"

  "She? Ah, think of her, picture her in your mind, moth-child!" There
was an eagerness in Mafra now. "See her for me!" she ordered.

  Obediently Tursla pictured the spinning pillar of sand, and she who had
been formed by that.
   "Indeed you have been Filled, moth-child," sighed Mafra after a long
moment. "Filled with such knowledge that perhaps you alone in this world
can begin to comprehend. I wish we might talk of this and of your
learning, but that cannot be. For it was not meant for me to gain any
other than I have. Do not share it, moth-daughter, even if you are so
moved. A basket woven to hold loquth seeds, no matter how skillfully
made, cannot carry water which is intended to fill a fired clay jar. Go you
now and rest. And live after the manner of the Filled until the time comes
and you know it."

   So dismissed, Tursla went to her own portion of the clan house—that
small section given to her when she was judged more girl than child. She
pulled close the woven reed mats which made it into a private place and
sat upon her double cushion to think.

   Mafra's pronouncement would not only excuse her from any Moon
dancing, but would speedily put to punishment any speeches such as
Affric had made to her, any gesture even from any man of any House. She
would be excused also from certain kinds of work. The only difficulty she
might face at first would be that she could not leave the settlement island
alone from now on. The Filled were ever under guard for their own
protection.

   She ran her hands down her own slender body. How long before the fact
that her belly did not swell would be noted? The women were sharp-eyed
about such matters, since birth was their great mystery and they were
jealous of the keeping of it. Perhaps she could devise some sort of padding
within her robe. Also the Filled often had unusual desires for different
food, altered their habits of living. Maybe she could turn such fancies to
her account.

   But eventually the time would come when she would be found out. Then
what? To her knowledge no one among the Folk had ever made a false
statement concerning such a thing. It would strike at the very root of all of
their long held beliefs. What punishment could be harsh enough for that?
Why had Mafra done this?

   No one of the Torfolk, Tursla was sure, would accept the idea of a
Filling with knowledge. And Mafra—she, Tursla, had not made the
claim—it had been the Clan Mother. Such a deliberate flouting of custom,
just so that she would be left to hold herself ready for this other action of
which Mafra had only given her hints.
   A Calling for the purpose of blood. Tursla drew a deep breath. If Mafra
meant by that what Tursla could guess, then that was a great breaking of
custom also. Sacrifice—of a— man? But there were no such sacrifices ever
made to Volt; a man whose killing might bring down a doom of ending on
Tormarsh and Torfolk. What part would she have?

   She could—no, something within Tursla forbade that for now. This was
no time to open that door in her mind which guarded what she had
learned from Xactol.

   Patience must be hers and this role must be played well. The girl drew
aside her private curtain and arose. What she wanted most was food and
drink. Suddenly she was very hungry and thirst made her mouth dry. She
started for the supply jars, intent only on tending her body, sternly closing
down the whirl of thoughts in her mind.


                                     3
   Three days went by; Tursla spent the time quietly at work with her
spindle in her hands, but, more to her own desires, also with her thoughts.
Mafra's word had been accepted by the House clan—how could it not be?
She was given the deference accorded the Filled, served first with the
choicest of foods, left to her own thoughts since she seemed to wish it so.

   But on the third day the girl aroused from the half trance in which she
had allowed herself to drift as she attempted to sort out and store what
she had learned. Most of what she discovered lay only in hints. Yet she was
sure that such hints were only way markers to deeper knowledge that she
must have and that she still could not now remember. The struggle to do
so only made her tense and restless, her head ache, and sleep hard to come
by.

   Nor could she summon up any of her dreams. When she slept now it
was fitfully, more like a light doze from which she could be awakened by
such a small thing as a sleeper in the next mat place turning over.

   Knowledge was of no help if one could not tap it, Tursla believed with
an ever growing distress. What lay before her?

    Wishing to be alone with that spark of fear which was fast growing into
a flame, she arose from her stool before the loom and went from the
Kelva's House. She neared the group of women before she noted them, so
entangled was she in her thoughts.

   Unnanna stood there, the others facing her as if she were laying upon
them some duty. Now her gaze rested on Tursla, and a small smile—a
smile which held no kindness in it— lifted the corners of her thin-lipped
mouth.

   "Fair be the day—" She raised her voice a little, plainly to address the
girl. "Fair be your going. Fair be the end of the waiting for you."

  "I give thanks for your good wishing, Clan Mother," Tursla replied.

  "You have not spoken before Volt the name of your Choosing—"
Unnanna's smile grew wider. "Are you not proud enough for that, Filled
One?"

   "If I choose to spread Volt's cloak about me and am challenged for so
doing," Tursla returned, hoping to hold her pretense of serenity, "then
there must be a changing of custom."

   Unnanna nodded. Her outer pose was one of good will. It was not
unheard of that some maid at her first Filling chose not to announce the
name of her partner in the moon ritual. Though generally it was a matter
of common knowledge as soon as her Clan Mother proclaimed the fact to
the satisfaction of the clan.

   "Wear Volt's cloak then, moth-daughter. In days to come you will have
sisters in aplenty." There was an assenting murmur from the women
about her, an eager assenting.

  But Unnanna was not yet through with Tursla.

  "Do not go a-roaming, moth-daughter. You are precious to us all now."

   "I go only to the fields, Clan Mother. To Volt's shrine that I may give
thanks."

   That was a worthy enough reason for leaving the place of Houses and
no one could deny her such a small journey. She passed Unnanna and
started down the moss-greened pavement of the ancient road. Nor did any
follow her there, for again custom decreed that one who so sought Volt's
shrine should be granted privacy for any petition or thanks the worshipper
desired to raise.

   Volt's shrine—time had not dealt well with it. Walls had sunk into the
ever hungry softer ground of the marsh, or else tumbled the stone of their
making across pavement, because no man could put hand to any
rebuilding here.

   For these were the very stones which Volt himself had laid hands upon
in the very long ago, set up to make his shelter. It had been a large hall,
Tursla guessed, as she traced the lines of those crumbling walls. But by all
legend Volt himself was larger in body than any of the Torfolk.

   Now she wove a way between those crumbling walls. Under her feet the
earth and stone were beaten hard into a path during the countless years
Torfolk had sought comfort here. Thus she came into the inner room.
Though the roof was gone, and the light of sun shone down upon what was
the very heart of Volt's domain—a massive chair seemingly carved of wood
(but such a wood—strange to Tormarsh-r-which no damp could rot). On
either side of the chair stood tall vases wrought of stone and set in them,
ready for any call to Volt, the quick firing pith of those trees waterlogged
in the marsh whose spongy outer bark could be flaked away, leaving an
inner hardness which burned so brightly. Here were no light insects, but
fire which destroyed and yet was so brilliant in its death.

   For a long moment Tursla hesitated. What she would do now was
allowed by custom, yes, but only if one were greatly moved by some
happening which could not be understood and from which there seemed
to be no answer in any human mind. Was that her case now? She believed
she could claim it Was.

   Tursla put out her hand, setting her palm flat on the petrified wood of
the chair's wide arm. Then she drew herself up the one shallow step which
raised the seat about the flooring of that near destroyed hall, and seated
herself upon the chair of Volt.

   It was as if she were a small child settling herself into the chair of some
large-boned adult. Tall as she was among the Torfolk, here her feet did not
meet the pavement as she wriggled back until her shoulders touched the
wood behind her. To lay her hands out upon the arms was a strain but this
she did before she closed her eyes.
   Did Volt indeed listen from wherever he had gone when he withdrew
from Tormarsh? Did that essence of Volt which might just still exist
somewhere in the world care now what happened to those he had once
protected and cherished? She had no answer to those questions, nor could
any within the bounds of Tor give her more than such guesses as she
herself might make.

   "Volt—" her thought shaped words as she did not speak aloud—"we give
you honor and call upon your good will in times of need. If you still look
upon us— No, I do not cry now for help as a helpless child calls upon those
of the clan house. I wish only to know who or what I am, and how I must
or may use what has Filled me as Mafra swears I have been Filled. It is no
child that I carry in truth; perhaps it is more—or less. But I would know!"

   She had closed her eyes, and her head rested now upon the back of the
chair. There was the faint scent of the tree candles from either hand, less
than they would give off at their igniting. She had seen the Clan Mothers
hold such before them and the smoke had wreathed them around while
they chanted.

  She—

   Where was she? Green grass grew out before her, a fan which stretched
to the feet of rises of gray rock. Scattered in the grass, as if someone had
carelessly flung wide a handful of bright and shining stones, were flowers,
their petals wide, their shapes and colors differing as the shells on the
shore had differed. Above the flowers fluttered moths—or winged things
which resembled moths. Those were also brightly colored, sometimes
bearing more than one shade or hue on their wings.

   There was nothing of Tormarsh in this place. Nor was it, she was sure,
another sighting of her dream land. She willed to move forward and her
will gave birth to action for she passed, not on her feet step by step, but
rather drifted in the air, as might those flying things.

   So Tursla was wafted by her will to those rocks which rose above the
grass. Again her desire lifted her higher, to the topmost pinnacle of the
rocks. Now she gazed down into a greater valley wherein there ran a river.
Across that wide ribbon of water spanned a bridge of stone, and the
bridge served a road which ran across the green of the land.

  While on the road, approaching the bridge, there was—
   Horse—that was a horse. Though Tursla had never seen such an animal,
she knew it. And on the horse—a man.

   Her will to see drew him to her sight in a strange way, though in truth
she had not moved from her place on the hill, nor had he yet come upon
the bridge. Still she saw him as clearly as if he and his mount were within
such distance that she could put forth a hand and lay it on the horse's
shoulder.

   He wore metal like a silken shirt, for it had been fashioned of small
rings linked one upon the other. Above that a cloak dropped down his
shoulders, fastened at his throat with a large brooch set with dull green
and gray stones. There was a belt with like stones about his waist and
from that hung a sheathed sword.

   His head was covered with a cap also of metal, but this was a solid
piece, not chained rings. It had a ridge beginning above the wearer's
forehead and running back to a little below the crown of his head. This
ridge possessed sockets into which were fastened upstanding feathers of a
green color.

   But Tursla's attention only marked that in passing, for it was the man
himself she would see. So she studied the face beneath the shadow of the
cap.

   He was young, his skin was fair, hardly darker than a Tor-man's. There
was strength in his face, as well as comeliness. He would make a good
friend or clan brother, she decided, and a worse enemy.

   As he rode he had been looking ahead, not truly as if he saw the road,
but rather as if he were busied with his thoughts, and those not pleasant
ones. Now, suddenly, his head jerked up a fraction and his eyes were
aware—and they looked upon her! While a quick frown marked a sharp
line between his brows.

   Tursla saw his lips move, but she heard nothing, if he had spoken. Then
one hand lifted, was held out toward her. At that same moment all was
gone. She whirled away in a dizzy, giddy retreat. When she opened her
eyes she sat once more in Volt's chair, and she saw nothing save the
time-breached walls of his shine. But now—now she knew! Volt had indeed
answered her wish! She was linked with the horseman and in no easy way.
Their meeting lay before her and from it would come danger and such a
trial of strength as she could not now measure.

   Slowly the girl arose, drawing a deep breath, as one preparing for a
struggle, though she knew that the time for that was not yet. He had been
aware of her, that horseman, nor did he in the mind's eye grow blurred
with the passing of moments. No, somewhere he rode and was real!

   In the later afternoon she sought out Mafra again. Perhaps the Clan
Mother could or would give her no answers, yet she must share Volt's
vision with someone. And in all this place only Mafra did she trust without
reservation.

  "Moth-child—" Though Mafra turned sightless eyes in her direction
never was she mistaken concerning the identity of those who came to her.
"You are a seeker—"

   "True, Clan Mother. I have sought in other places and other ways, and I
do not understand. But this I have seen; from Volt's own chair did I
venture out in a strange way beyond explaining." Swiftly she told Mafra of
the rider.

  For a long moment the Clan Mother sat silent. Then she gave a quick
nod as if she affirmed some thought of her own.

  "So it begins. How will it then end? The foreseeing reaches not to that.
He whom you saw, moth-child, is one tied to us by part blood—"

  "Koris!"

   Mafra's hand, where it rested upon her knee, tightened, her head jerked
a fraction as if she strove to avoid a blow.

   "So that old tale still holds meaning," she said. "But Koris was not your
rider. This is he whom I told you about—the child of those who would
move mountains with spells, slay men with steel, that naught comes to
harm him. He is Koris's son, and his name is Simond, which in part was
given by that outlander who fought so valiantly beside his father to free
Estcarp of the Kolder."

   Mafra paused and then continued. "If you wonder how these things are
known: when I was younger, strong in my powers, I sometimes visited in
thought beyond the edge of Tormarsh, even as this day you have done. It
was Koris's friend Simon Tregarth who was brought hither through
strangers' magic and delivered to his enemies. Also with him was she who
was Koris's choice of mate after the manner of the outlanders. Then we
chose ill, so that in turn the outlands set their own barriers against us. We
cannot go, even if we wish, outside the Marsh, nor can anyone come to
us."

  "Is the seashore also barred, Clan Mother?"

   "Most of the shore, yes. One may look at it, but the mist which rises
between is a wall as firm as the stone ones about us now."

   "But, Clan Mother. I have trod the sand beside the sea, found shells
within it—"

   "Be silent!" Mafra's voice was a whisper. "If this much was given you let
no other know it. The time may come when it will be of worth to you."

  Tursla allowed her voice to drop also. "Is that a foreseeing, Clan
Mother?"

   "Not a clear one, I only know that you will have need for all your
strength and wit. This I can tell you, Unnanna calls tonight and, if she is
answered, then—" Mafra lifted her hands and let them fall again to her
lap. "Then I leave it to your wit, moth-daughter. To your wit and that
which is in you from that other place."

   She gave the sign of dismissal and Tursla went to her own place and
took up her spindle, but if any watched her for long they would know that
she had little profit from her labors.

   Night came and around her the women of the clan stirred and spoke to
one another in whispers. None addressed her; being Filled she was
carefully set apart that nothing might threaten that which she was
supposed now to carry. Nor did they approach Mafra either, rather ranged
themselves with Parua and slipped quietly away.

  There were no guards set about the House isle, save on the two
approaches by which a wak-lizard might come. No one would watch those
bound for the Shrine in any case, so that Tursla, pulling a drab cloak
about her, even over the soft silver of her hair, thought she could follow
behind without note.
   Once more she crept along the same path she had taken earlier that
day. Those ahead carried no lighted torches; there was no gleam save the
moonlight, but she saw that every house must be represented. This could
not be a complete Calling after all for there were no men. Or so she had
thought until she caught sight of moon gleam on a spear head and noted
those cloaked men, ten of them, standing in a line facing the Chair. While
in that seat huddled a figure who raised her face to the light even as
Tursla found a hiding place back behind a pile of fallen rock.

   Unnanna sat in the place of Seeking. Her eyes were closed, her head
turned slowly from side to side. Those standing below began to croon, first
so softly that it was hardly to be heard over the lap of water, the wing
rustle of some flying thing. Then that hum grew stronger—no words, but
rather a sound which made Tursla's skin tingle, her hair move against her
neck. She found that her head was swinging also in the same way as
Unnanna's and, at that moment, realized the danger which lay in being
trapped into becoming a part of what they would do here.

   She raised her hands and covered her eyes so that she might not see
that swaying, while she thought, as one catches a line of safety thrown
wide, of the sand sister, or the racing sea waves. Though a pulse now beat
within her, Tursla also fought her own body; and, without being fully
conscious of what she did, she rose to her full height and began to move
her feet, not in the pattern Unnanna's head had set, but in another
fashion, to break for herself the spell the Clan Mother was rising.

   There was power building here; her body answered to it. Force pressed
in upon her like a burden, trying to crush her. Still Tursla countered that,
her lips moving in words which sprang from behind those doors in her
mind which she had earlier tried to open and could not. Only such danger
as this would free them for her.

   She opened her eyes. All was as before—save that Unnanna had moved
forward on the chair of Volt. One after another those waiting men came to
her. She touched them on the forehead, on the eyes. Then each made way
for his fellow. From the tips of those fingers which she used to touch them
came small cones of light, and those who stepped back from her anointing
carried now a mark on the forehead of the same eerie radiance.

   When all had been so marked they turned and made their way from the
hall, the women giving back to open their path. As they passed by Tursla
she saw that their eyes were set and they stared as men entranced. Their
leader was Affric; and those who followed him were all young, the most
skilled of the hunters.

   When they had gone from her sight, Tursla looked back to the hall.
Once more Unnanna sat with closed eyes. Power surged; it came from
each of them there. Unnanna, in some manner, drew that unseen energy
from them, consolidated it, shaped from it a weapon, aimed that weapon,
and sent out on course.

   Tursla was not one of them. Now she stood tense, seeking within herself
something she sensed must be ready to answer her call. She used her
thought to mold it, thinking of what she would hurl—not as the spear
Unnanna's wish had fostered—no, what then? A shield? She did not hold
strength enough in herself to interpose any lasting barrier. But perhaps
there was something else she could mind-fashion. She thought of the
likenesses of all the weapons known to the Torfolk, and fastened in the
space of a breath upon—a net!

   Clenching her hands until her nails cut into her own flesh, the girl
centered all of her unknown energies, untested to their full extent since
that night by the pool, and thought of a net—a net to entangle feet, to
impede those who marched by night, those who would set a trap. They
themselves would be now entrapped.

    As blood draining from a grievous mortal wound, the energy Tursla
summoned seeped from her. If she could only call upon that greater well of
strength which Unnanna could tap for herself! But a net—surely a net! Let
it catch about the feet of Affric; let it ensnare him where he would go. Let
it be!

    The girl stumbled back against the wall, weakness in her legs, her arms
hanging heavily by her sides, as she had neither the will nor strength now
to raise them. With her back against the rough stone she slipped
downward, the ruins rising around her like a protective shield. Her head
fell forward on her breast as she made her last attempt to send what
remained in her to reinforce the net her vivid mind picture had set about
Affric's stumbling feet.

   It was cold and she was shivering. Dark lay about her, and she no
longer heard that sound which had built up the energy for Unnanna's
mind dart. Rather what came was the whisper of wings. Lifting her head,
Tursla looked upward to the night sky above the pocket in the ruins where
she rested.

   There were two moths a-dance, their beautiful shadowy wings outlined
with the faint night shine which was theirs when they flew in the deep
dark. Back and forth they wove their meetings and partings. Then the
large spiraled down, and for just a moment it clung to the dew-wet robe
on her breast, fanning its wings, tiny eyes which were alight looking into
hers… or so it seemed to the bemused girl.

   "Sister," Tursla whispered. "I give you greeting. Fair flying for your
night. May the blessing of Volt himself be with you!"

   The moth clung for another instant and then flew away. Stiffly Tursla
pulled herself up. Her body ached as if she had done a full day's stooping
at the loom, or at harvest in the fields. She felt stupid, also, when she tried
to think clearly.

   She tottered along, one hand against the wall to support her. There was
no one here—Volt's chair was empty. For a moment she wavered as she
gazed upon that seat. Should she try again? There was a longing in her, a
strange longing. She wanted to see how the rider fared. What had Mafra
named him? Simond, an odd name. Tursla repeated it in a whisper as if a
name could be tasted, said to be either sweet or sour.

   "Simond!"

   But there was no answer. And she knew that, even if she mounted Volt's
chair again, this time there would be no answer. What she had done or
tried to do here this night had exhausted for a time her power. She had
nothing to aid her to reach out.

   Walking slowly, catching now and then on some half-broken wall or pile
of stones, she won out of Volt's hall. But she needed to sit and rest several
times before she got back to the clan house.

   Then it took all the skill she had to be able to make her way through
Mafra's house to her own corner. Should she tell the Clan Mother what
had been done this night? Perhaps— but not in this hour. To rouse any of
the nearby sleepers would be the last thing she wished.

  She lowered herself onto the sleeping mat. In her mind then there was
only one picture, already becoming fuzzed with sleep—the image of Affric
fighting a web about his feet, his sneering mouth open as if he shouted
aloud in fear. Though she was not conscious of it, Tursla smiled as she fell
asleep.


                                     4
  Mist was heavy about the island where the ancient clan houses stood,
hanging curtains between house and house, turning those who went
outside into barely seen shadows moving in and around through the fog.
The moisture in it pearled on every surface in large drops which gathered
substance and then trickled downward. That same damp clung to skin,
matted hair, made clammy all garments.

   Such fen mists had been known to Tursla all her life. Still this one was
far thicker than any she could remember; and it would seem her
uneasiness was matched within the clan house for no hunters went forth,
while those within stirred higher the fires, drawing in closer for the light
and heat. Perhaps they did this not for any warmth to send their garments
steaming but because the very brightness of the flames themselves had a
kind of cheer.

  Tursla had sought out Mafra again. But the Clan Mother appeared
unwilling to talk. Rather she sat very still, her blind eyes staring
unwinking at the fire and those about it, though she made no move to add
herself to the circle of company there. At length Tursla's foreboding of a
shadow to come made her greatly daring and she touched timidly one of
Mafra's hands where it lay palm up on the woman's lap.

  "Clan Mother—?"

  Mafra's head did not turn, yet Tursla was sure she knew that the girl
was beside her. Then she spoke, in so low a voice Tursla was sure it could
not carry beyond her own ears.

  "Moth-child, it comes close now—"

   What—the fog? Or that other thing which Tursla felt, though she had
no part of Mafra's powers.

  "What may be done, Clan Mother?" The girl shifted her body restlessly.
   "Nothing to stop these witless ones. Not now." There was a bitter note
in that. "You cannot trust in anything or anyone save yourself, moth-child.
The ill act has been begun."

    At that moment there sounded, through the doorway of the clan house
(like the bellow of some great beast), a call which brought Tursla and all
the rest sheltering within to their feet. Never before had the girl heard
such a sound.

   Then the cries of those by the fire, who were now all turning to the
mist-hidden doorway, running toward that, made her understand. That
had been the Great Alarm, which had never been sounded in her lifetime,
perhaps even in the lifetimes of all now here. Only some action of
overpowering peril could have brought the sentries on the outer road to
give that alert.

  "Girl!" Mafra was also standing. Her hand tightened about Tursla's
arm. "Give me your strength, daughter. Ill, thrice ill, has been this thing!
Dark the ending thereof!"

   Then she, who so seldom left her own alcove nowadays, tottered beside
Tursla. At first her slight body bore heavily upon the girl's support. Then
she straightened, and it appeared that strength returned to her limbs as
she took one step and then another.

  They came into the open but there the mist was very thick. Figures
could only be half seen and that just when close by. Mafra's pressure on
her arm drew Tursla in a way which it would seem the blind woman knew
well.

  "Where—?

   "To Volt's Hall," Mafra answered her. 'They would carry this through to
the end—profane the very place which is the heart of all we are, have ever
been. They will slay, in the name of Volt. And, if such a slaying comes,
why, then their own deaths must follow! They have decided upon their
road—and evil is the end of it!"

  "To stop—" Tursla got out no more than those two words when her
companion interrupted her.

  "Stop—yes. Girl, open now your inner thoughts, give yourself freely to
what may lie within you. That is the only way! But it must be quick."

   She had never believed that Mafra's strength might still be such as to
send the Clan Mother at so fast a pace. There were others around them, all
were heading in the same direction. The stones of the ancient road under
their feet were slimed with water, yet Mafra, for all her lack of sight, made
no missteps.

   About them loomed the broken walls of Volt's Hall. Still on they
pressed, until they were in the place of the chair. Here through some trick
perhaps of emanations from the ancient stones themselves, the mist
thinned, raised, to lie above their heads like a ceiling, yet allow them full
sight of all which was below.

   Those torches set upright in the vases to either side of the chair were
ablaze. Other brands were in the hands of those standing along the walls.
In Volt's chair sat Unnanna once again. Braced with a hand on either arm
of the giant seat she leaned forward, an eager, avid expression on her face.

   Those she so eyed were gathered immediately below. Affric stood there;
but he had not the arrogant pride which he had worn so confidently when
he had strode forth from this place at the Clan Mother's bidding. He was
pale of countenance, and his clothing was smeared with swamp slime,
while one arm was bound to his side with vine fiber, as if bones had been
broken that must be straightened and protected for healing.

   Seeing him so brought a picture into Tursla's mind: that of Affric
unsure of foot as if he had been caught in some snare, stumbling and
falling, falling against one of the upright pillars which bore Volt's own face
deep carven. Her wish— dream! Had that indeed left Affric like this?

   If so, she had not done all that she had wished. For between two of
Affric's followers was the stranger she had seen mounted on the road, the
one Mafra had named Simond.

   His helm was gone, so his fair hair, near as bleached as her own, shown
in the torch light. But his head rolled limply forward on his breast. It was
plain his legs would not support him and he had to be kept on his feet by
the help of his guards. There was a matting of blood in his hair.

   "Done!" Unnanna's voice rang out, silencing the murmurs of those
gathered there, producing a quiet through which the sounds of the marsh
life without could be heard. "Done, well done! Here is that which shall give
us new life! Did I not say it? Into our hands has Volt brought this one that
we may drink of his strength and—"

   Tursla did not know if she had made some signal but the guards
suddenly released their hold upon Simond and he fell forward. There must
have remained some spark of awareness in him, for he put out his hands,
though he was on his knees, to catch at the edge of the step on which the
chair stood. Now he raised his head by visible effort and lurched forward
and up, for he grasped at the chair itself, and dragged himself to his feet.

   The girl could not see his face. Without knowing she had done so, she
broke from Mafra's side and edged along, pushing by others, seeing none
of them, coming closer to where the captive stood.

   "What do you want of me?" he asked as he edged around, so that he
half faced the Torfolk.

  Affric took a step forward and spat. His mouth was a vicious slit.

  "Half-blood! We want from you what you have no right to—that part
which is of Tormarsh!"

   There was a sound like the far-off squall of a wak-lizard. Unnanna
laughed.

   "They are right, half-blood. You are part of Tor. Let that part now give
us what we need." Her tongue curled over her lower lip, swept from side to
side as if she licked moss-honey and savored the sweetness of that
delicacy.

    "We need life," she leaned closer to the arm of the chair where Simond
still had his hand, using that hold to support him. "Blood is life,
half-breed. By Volt's word we dare not take it from our own kind, and we
cannot take from one who is full outlander, for between the twain of us
there is no common heritage. You are neither one nor the other; therefore
you are ripe for our purpose."

   "You know of what House I am." Simond held his head high and now
his eyes caught the Clan Mother's in a compelling stare. "I am the son of
him who took Volt's axe—by Volt's own wishing. Do you think then that
Volt will look with approval on the fate you would give me?"
    "Where is the axe now?" Unnanna demanded. "Yes, Koris of Gorm took
it; but is it not now gone from him? Volt's favor follows the axe. With it
destroyed, he has lost interest in you."

  The murmur which had begun at Simond's words died away. Tursla
pushed closer. She had done as Mafra had urged, laid her mind open to
whatever power lay in her. But she felt no swelling of force, no new
warmth within. How then could she stop this thing which was of dark evil
and which would indeed bring an end to the Torfolk?

   "Take him—" Unnanna was on her feet, her arms spread wide. In her
pale face there was exultation.

   Tursla moved. Those about her were so intent upon the scene before
them that they were not aware of her until she was through their line and
had shoved past one of Affric's followers to reach Simond. Once there she
stationed herself before him, facing the man moving in to obey Unnanna's
order.

  "Touch me if you dare," she said. "I am one Filled. And this one I take
under my protection."

   The nearest man had raised his hands to sweep her aside. Now he stood
as rooted as one of the dead trees, while those behind him retreated a step
or two. Unnanna leaned closer from her perch upon the chair.

   "Take him!" She lifted her hand as if to strike Tursla in the face, so
drive her away. The girl did not flinch.

  "I am one Filled," she repeated.

   The Clan Mother's face twisted with stark rage. "Stand aside," she
hissed as might one of the pallid vipers of the deep muck. "In Volfs name, I
order, stand aside! And if you are truly Filled—"

  "Ask it of Mafra!" challenged the girl. "She has said it—"

   "Shall it be needful then—" Mafra's voice rang out from the gathering of
the Torfolk, "for a Clan Mother to state this again? Do you aver that on
such a thing there can be a false swearing, Unnanna?"

  The crowd stirred, fell away to form a lane. Along that Mafra advanced.
She did not totter now, but walked as firmly as if she could indeed see
what lay before her, bumping into no one, but keeping straight course
down that open way until she, too, came to stand before the chair of Volt.

  "You take much upon you, Unnanna, very much."

   "You take more!" Unnanna shrilled. "Yes, once you sat here and spoke
for Volt, but that day is past. Rule your own clan house as you may until
the messenger of Volt comes to call you. But do not try to speak for all in
this time."

   "I say no more than is my right, Unnanna. If I say this house daughter
is Filled, then do you deny it?"

   Unnanna's mouth worked. "It is your word before Volt, then? You take
on you much in that, Mafra. This one came not to the moon dancing—who
then filled her?"

   "Unnanna—" Mafra raised her right hand. Her fingers moved in the air
as if gathering threads of mist and rolling them into a ball. In the silence
which now fell between them, she made a tossing motion, as if what she
had pulled out of invisibility had indeed substance. Unnanna shrank back
until her shoulders touched the high back of the chair.

   Suddenly she flung both hands up before her face. From behind that
slight defense she sputtered words which had no meaning as far as Tursla
was concerned. But that Unnanna was, for the moment, at bay, the girl
understood. Turning a little she caught at Simond's arm which was closest
to her.

  "Come!" she ordered.

   Whether they could win from Volfs Hall, and if so what she might do
then, Tursla had no idea. For the moment all she could think of was to get
away from this place where only the slender thread spun by custom had so
far protected her.

   She did not even look to Simond. But he apparently yielded to her
urging, for when she stepped away from Volt's chair he did in truth come
with her. Hoping that he would continue to be able to stay on his feet,
Tursla led him forward.
   Affric moved into their path. His good arm raised, he balanced a short
stabbing spear. Tursla met his gaze squarely and moved closer to Simond.
She said no word but her intention was plain. Any attack upon the
stranger would be met by her. To raise a weapon against a Filled
One—Affric snarled, but he gave way when she did not, just as those
others made a path for her, even as they had for Mafra.

   Somehow they reached the outer wards of the Hall. Tursla was
breathing as fast as if she had run all the way. Where now—? They could
not return to the clan houses. Not even Mafra could hold back the weight
of outraged custom long enough for Simond to escape. And the trails out
from here would be speedily covered.

   The trail to the pool, the sea! That flashed into her mind even as if some
voice out of the mist had reminded her. For the first time she spoke to her
companion:

  "We dare not stay here. I do not think even Mafra can long hold
Unnanna. We must go on. Can you do it?"

   She had noted that he staggered though he kept his feet. Now she could
only hope.

  "Lady—by the Death of the Kolder—I shall try!"

   So they went into the boiling of that strange, heavy mist. She could not
even see beyond the length of an out-held hand before her. This was the
strongest folly. If they missed the road, the step-tussocks farther on, the
marsh itself might claim them and no one would ever know how they
passed.

   Still she walked, and brought him with her. After a space they went side
by side, as she drew his arm about her shoulders, took a measure of his
weight. He muttered now and then—broken words without any meaning.

   They were well away from the clan-house isle when once again the
deep-throated alarm trumpet of the Torfolk aroused echoes across the
marsh. Now they could expect pursuit. Would this mist which enclosed
them work as well to delay the hunters? She feared because such as Affric
knew the outer ways of the Tormarsh far better than she.

  On and on, Tursla fought a desire to hurry. For he whom she now half
supported could never step up the pace. The surface of the road was still
under them. She was, she realized, trusting in an inner guide which was
an instinct and something she had never called upon before. Unless it was
that same feeling of lightness which had led her this way when she had
met Xactol under the moon. Always she listened, after the echoes of the
alarm died away, for any sounds which might mean they were closely
followed.

   There were ploppings from swamp sloughs where small creatures,
disturbed by their passing, leapt into hiding; and the hoarse cries and
calls of other life. They did not move out of the mist, nor did that grow any
thinner.

   Time lost any measurement. From one moment to the next Tursla
could only hope that they were still well ahead of any pursuers. That she
had been proclaimed Filled would save her, for a space, until her false
claims would be proven. But she could not hope to protect Simond.

   Why did she risk all for this stranger? Tursla could not have answered
that. But when she had seen him in that vision which had visited her in
Volt's Hall she had known that, in some way, they were linked. It was as if
some geas of power had been laid upon her; there was no avoiding what
must be done.

   They were nearly to the end of the pavement now. Though she could see
nothing, the girl could sense that in an odd way as if the knowledge came
to her by a talent which had nothing to do with sight, hearing or touch.
She halted and spoke sharply to her companion, striving to bring him, by
the very force of her will, out of the daze of mind in which he walked.

   "Simond!" Names had power; the use of his might well awaken him to
reality. "Simond!"

   His head raised, turned a little so he could eye her. Like the Tormarsh
men he was of a height such that they could see each other on a level. His
mouth hung a little open; there was a runnel of blood from one temple
clotting on his cheek. But in his eyes there was also the look of intelligence.

   "We must take to the swamp itself here." She spoke slowly, pausing
between words as one might do with a small child or a person gravely ill.
"I cannot hold you—"
  He closed his mouth and his jaw line firmed. Then he tried to nod,
winced and his eyes blinked in pain.

   "What I can do—that I shall," he promised.

   She looked on into the mist. Folly to venture so blindly. But this mist
might lie for hours. With the Torfolk aroused they had no hours; they
might not even have more than the space of a dozen breaths. She had as
yet heard no sounds of pursuit, for Torfolk were wily and had learned long
since to move with practiced silence through their territory.

   "You must come directly behind me," Tursla bit her lip. That they could
do this at all she was dubious. But there was no other choice.

   He drew himself straight. "Go—I'll follow," he told her quietly.

   With a last glance at him the girl stepped out into the mist. That inner
guide had led her aright; her foot came down on the firmness of the
hassocks he could not see. She went slowly, lingering before she took each
step to make sure that he saw her, though for him this blind journey must
be much worse, for he did not have the same certainty which was hers.

   Step by step she wove a way, trying hard to remember how long this
most perilous part of their flight must last. Still he did not call to her, and
each time she turned her head she could see him well upright, safely
balanced on a foothold.

   Then she stumbled out on firm ground, the tenseness of her body
leading to pain in her back and shoulders, a warning tremble in her legs.
This was, at last, that island like a finger which marked the last part of the
way to the pool. With her feet firmly planted she waited once more for him
to draw close to her. When he gained that solid stretch of land he fell to
his knees and his body swayed from side to side. Swiftly she knelt beside
him, steadied him.

  There was the sheen of sweat across his face and the clotting blood
melted under that. He breathed heavily through his mouth, and his eyes,
when he looked at her, were dull. He frowned as if she were difficult to see
and he must expend much effort to hold her within his range of vision.

   "I—am—near—done—Lady—" he gasped, word by painful word.
  "There is no more. From here the footing is good. It is only a little way."

   His mouth stretched in a stark shadow of a smile. "I
can—crawl—if—it—not—be—too far—"

   "You can walk!" she said firmly. Rising, she stooped and locked both
her hands under his nearer armpit. Exerting the full of her remaining
strength, Tursla indeed brought him to his feet. Then, pulling his arm
once more about her shoulders, she led him on, until they were on the
rocks above the silent pool encircled in sand.

   Her hands fumbled first with the fastenings of her robe. She moved
now in answer to her knowledge of what must be done. The answer slipped
into her mind as the maker of dye might measure and add a handful of
this, a counter of that, while intent on boiling some fire-cradled mixture.
There was custom to be faced here also. Only by a certain ritual might
that which she must summon be approached.

   Tursla's robe fell about her feet. Now she stooped once more above the
recumbent man, her fingers seeking buckles, the fastening of mail. His
eyes opened and he looked up to her, puzzled.

  "What—do—?"

   "These—" She tugged at the mail where it lay across his shoulders, her
other hand picking at the stuff of his breeches. "'Off—we must go where
these cannot be worn."

  He blinked. "One of the Old Powers?" he asked.

   Tursla shrugged. "I know not of your Old Powers. But I know a little of
what we can summon here. If—" She put her forefinger to her mouth and
bit upon that as she considered a point which had only that moment
occurred to her. This place would welcome her, had welcomed her,
because she was what she was (and what in truth was she? one small part
of her now asked. But the time for any such questioning was not now).
Would he also be accepted? There was no way of proving that except to
try.

   "We must—" She made the decision firm—"do this thing. For I have no
other way of escape for you."
   She helped his fumbling hands with the fastenings, the clasps, and
belting, until his body with the wide powerful shoulders, the long arms
which marked him as of Torblood, was bare. Then she pointed to the rock
from which she had leaped that other time.

  "Do not tread upon the sand," she cautioned. "Not while it lays thus.
We must leap from there—into the pool."

  "If I can—" but he pulled himself along as she mounted the rock.

   Out she leapt and down. Once more that water closed about her. But
she moved swiftly away toward the farther side of the pool, clearing the
spot where he should land. The she looked up as she trod water.

  "Come!"

   His body looked as white as the mist curling behind him. He had
climbed onto the stone she had just quitted, and she saw his muscles
tense. Then he stretched out his arms and dove, cleaving the water with a
loud splash.

   Tursla turned on her back and floated as she had before. He was no
longer her charge for she had brought him to what safety her instinct told
her was all they could hope for, and the pool had not repelled him.

   Tursla, her eyes up to the sky which she could see through ragged
patches of mist which was being tattered by the sea wind, began to
sing—without words—the notes rising and falling like the call of some
bird.


                                      5
   As before at her call that sand stirred. The girl could feel no wind, yet
the grains of powdery stuff arose, began to twirl as she had seen them on
that night. A pillar was born, now moving faster and faster, each turn
making it more solid to the eye. Now came the rounding of a head, the
modeling of the body below that.

  Still Tursla sang her hymn without words as the vessel was formed to
hold that which she summoned. She had half forgotten Simond. If he
watched in astonishment he made no sound to disturb the voice spell she
wove with the same certainty as her hands could follow a design upon her
loom.

  At last Xactol stood there. Seeing her waiting, Tursla came from the
pool, standing erect on stone from which the forming of that other had
swept the last minute grain of sand.

   "Sand-sister—" The girl raised her arms, but did not quite embrace the
other.

  "Sister—" echoed the other, in her hissing, sand-sliding voice. "What is
your need?" Now her hands came forth also and Tursla's lay palm down
upon them, flesh meeting sand.

   "There is this one." Tursla did not turn her head to look upon Simond
in the water still. "He is hunted. They must not find him."

   "This is your choice, sister?" inquired that other. 'Think well, for from
such a choice may come many things you could have reason to look upon
as ills in the future."

  "Ills alone, Xactol?" asked the girl slowly.

  "Nothing is altogether ill, sister. But you must think of this—you are
now of Tor. If you go forth there will be no return. And those of Tor are not
well looked upon by the Outlanders."

  "Of Tor," Tursla repeated. "Only part of me, Sand sister. Only part of
me. Even as it is with him. I have the body of Tor but the—"

    "Do not say it!" commanded Xactol, interrupting her sharply. "But even
if it be so, Tor body may betray you. There is a spell set upon the Marsh
boundaries. Torfolk cannot go forth—and live."

  "And this one?"

   "He is divided. He was drawn in by the spelling of Tor, for there was
that in him which answered to such a call. But his outland blood will help
him to win forth again. Do you try to go with him—" Now it was the
woman of sand who left unfinished a warning.

  "What will happen to me?"
  "I do not know. This spelling is none of ours. The Outlanders have their
own witcheries and their learning in such is very old and very deep. You
would go at your own peril."

   "I stay at even more, sand sister. You know what cloak of safety Mafra
dared to throw over me; and, in the way they understand that claim, it is
false."

   "The decision is yours. What now would you have of me?"

   "Can you buy us time, sand sister? There are those who will trail us to
the death."

   "That is so. Their rage and fear reaches out even to this place. It is like
the mists which they love." The woman withdrew her right hand from
where it rested under Tursla's. Now she raised that so that her finger
touched the girl's forehead between and just above her eyes.

  "This I give you. Use it as you will," she said in a soft voice. "I must
go—"

   "Will I see you again?" Tursla asked.

  "Not if this choice is yours, sister, this choice I read in your thoughts.
My door between the worlds is here alone."

   "Then I can't—" Tursla cried out.

   "But you have already chosen, sister. In your spirit's innermost place
that choice lies. Go with peace. Accept what may lie before you with the
courage of your spirit. There is a meaning behind what has happened to
you. If we don't see it now, all will be made clear in time. Do as you know
how to do."

   Her arms dropped to her sides and Tursla fell once more to her knees,
and veiled her eyes with one hand. But the other she rested on one knee,
palm up and slightly cupped.

   Xactol began to turn, her spin grew ever faster. The fine sand which
had formed her whirled out and away as the body became a pillar, and the
pillar, in turn, sand falling to the rock. But in Tursla's hand there
remained a small pile of the sand.
   When the rest of that substance was once more spread out upon the
rim of pool she arose, cupping her fingers tightly about what she held.
Now she hailed Simond.

   "You may come forth. We must go on."

   Her head jerked around. There was a sound behind. The hunters may
have been questing, at last they had the trail. Like Xactol, she could now
sense the rage and fear which drove them. Not even her claim of being
Filled would be a protection against what moved them now. She shivered.
Never before had emotions other than her own been fed to her in this way.
The alienness of this was frightening. But there was no time to hesitate, to
learn fear fostered by that hate.

   Simond came ashore. He walked more steadily, his head was up, but
his attention was not for her, rather on their back trail as if he, too, had
picked up some emanation from their pursuers.

  Tursla climbed the rock to where she had left her robe. She held it up in
one hand and spoke:

  "Can you tear from this a portion of cloth? What I carry—" she showed
him the fist which grasped the sand-dust—"must be safe until we have
need for it."

   He caught the cloth from her and tore a portion from the mud-stained
hem. Into this she emptied the sand, making a packet of it. Then she drew
on her robe. But though he had breeches and boots on now, he fastened on
only the leather undershirt, left his mail lying.

   When he caught her attention he stirred the mail with his boot. "It will
slow me. Where do we go?"

   "To the sea." Already she was on her way.

  The stay in the pool might have refreshed Simond's body, brought
beginning healing to his wound, for he kept pace with her as she climbed
and slipped among the rocks. She could hear the come and go of the
waves, the wind sweeping mist and marsh air away from her.

   They came to the shore. Simond looked north and then south, finally
standing to face south. "That is the way for Estcarp. Let us go—"
  If I can, she thought. How strong is that spell laid upon the Torfolk?
Does it rule body only, or body and spirit both? Can my spirit break a
bond laid upon the body? But she asked none of this aloud.

  So they sped along the sand just beyond the reach of the waves. From
behind came a shout, and a spear flashed over the wash of the water. A
warning, Tursla guessed. The hunters wanted them not dead but captive.
Perhaps Unnanna still would have her sacrifice.

   Suddenly the girl gasped and cried out, stumbling back. It was as if she
had run into a wall and rebounded, her body bruised from the force of
that encounter. Simond was already several strides farther on. He whirled
about at her cry and started back.

   Tursla put out her hands. There was a surface there—invisible—but as
tight as the stone side of her place in the clan house. She could feel its
substance.

   The wall the outlanders had set about the Tormarsh! It would seem
that it was indeed a barrier she could not pierce.

  "Come!" Simond was back at her side, apparently what was the wall for
her did not exist for him. He caught at her, tried to drag her on.

  The force of his attempt again brought her hard against that barrier.

   "No—I cannot! The spells of your people—" she gasped. "Go—they
cannot follow you through this!"

   "Not without you!" His face was grim as he stood beside her. "Try by
sea. Can you swim?"

  "Not well enough." She had splashed now and then in some of the
marsh pools, but to entrust herself to the sea was another matter. Yet
what choice had she? That heat of hate behind was warning enough of
what might happen!

  "Come—"

   "Stand!" That shout was from behind. Affric— She did not even have to
look around to know who led the hunters.
  "Go—" Tursla tried to push her companion on, through that wall which
was no wall for him.

  "The sea!" he repeated.

   But it would seem they were too late. Another spear expertly thrown,
flashed between them, struck the unseen wall and rebounded. Tursla faced
around, her hand going to the breast of her robe, closing upon what she
had brought from the pool side.

   Affric, yes, and Brunwol, and Gawan. Behind them a score of others,
closing in, their eyes avid with a lust of hatred such as she had never met
before. Consciously or unconsciously they were using that hatred as a
weapon, beating at her; and the hurtful blows of it made her sway, sick
and spirit wounded.

    But Tursla still had strength enough to bring out the packet she had
made. With one hand she tore that open as she balanced the fold of cloth
upon the palm of the other. Now that the sand was uncovered, she raised
it level with her lips and gathered a great breath to blow it outward. As it
swirled she cried aloud. Not a word, for such spelling as this was not
summoned by the words of this world. Rather she shaped a sound which
seemed to roar, even as the alarm trumpet of the Torfolk had done.

   There was no sighting the disappearance of the sand that her breath
had dispersed. From the shore itself there uprose small curlings of the
white grit. Those began to whirl, even as Xactol had formed her body.
Higher they grew by the instant, drawing more and more of the shore's
substance into them. But they remained pillars, not taking on any other
form. Far taller they were now than any of those who stood there.

   Affric and his men backed away a little, eyeing the pillars with the
uncertainty of men who face a hitherto-unknown menace. Yet they did not
retreat far, and Tursla knew well that they still held to their deadly
purpose.

   The top of the tallest pillar began to nod—toward the Tor-men. Tursla
caught at Simond's shoulder. The strength that moved the pillars was
draining from her. That she could order them much longer she doubted.

  "The sea!"
   Had she cried that aloud, or had he read it in her mind? She was not
sure. But Simond's arm was about her and he was striding toward the
wash of the waves, bearing her with him.

  As the waves struck against her, the water rising from knee to waist,
Tursla strove still to keep her mind upon the columns of sand. But she did
not turn her head to watch how effectively her energy wrought.

   There was shouting there, not now aimed at the fugitives. Some of the
voices were muffled or ceased abruptly. The water was high about her
now. Simond, sparing no glance for what might be happening on the
shore, gave an order:

  "Turn on your back. Float! Leave it to me!"

   She tried to do as he wanted. So far there had been no barrier. Now as
she splashed she could see the shoreline again. There was a mist. No, not a
mist—that must be a whirl of sand thick enough to half hide the figures
struggling in it as if they could not win forth from its embrace, rather
were caught fast held in the storm of grit.

   Then she was on her back and Simond was swimming, towing her with
him. No longer did he head out to sea, but rather altered course to parallel
the shore. Tursla had held the sand, sent it raging as long as she could.
She was drained now, not able to move to aid herself even if she had
known how to swim.

  That shouting grew louder. Then—

   Force—force pushing her back, sending her under the water. She
gasped, and the salt flood was in her mouth, drawn chokingly into her
lungs. She fought for breath. The barrier! This was the barrier. She
wanted to shout to Simond, tell him that all his efforts were useless. There
was no escape for her.

   No escape! Her body, her body was sealed into Tormarsh by the spells
of the outlanders! No—hope—

   Aroused to a frenzy by the danger of drowning, Tursla tried to get free
of the hold upon her, to strike at Simond and make him let go before she
was pushed completely under the water.
  "—go! Let me go!" Her mind shrieked and water once more flooded into
her mouth and nose.

  Out of nowhere came a blow. She felt a flash of pain as it landed. Then,
nothing at all.

   Slowly she came back from that place of darkness. Water—she was
drowning! Simond must let her go.

   But there was no water. She lay on a surface which was steady, which
did not swing as did the waves. And she could breathe. No water filled her
nose, covered her head. For a long moment it was enough to know that she
was indeed safe from being drawn under. But—

  They must be back on the shore then. With her releasing of mind
control the sand would have gone. Perhaps Affric was—

   Tursla opened her eyes. Above her the sky arched—clear except for a
drifting cloud or two. There was no hint of the Tormarsh mist about. She
raised her head—though that small action seemed very hard—she was
weak, drained.

  Sand, white, marked with the ripples of waves which curled in, drained
away again. And rocks. And the sea. But no Affric, no Torman standing
over her. She was— Tursla sat up, bracing herself by her hands.

   Her wet robe was plastered thick with sand. She could even taste the
grit between her teeth. There was no one—no one at all. Yet a few
moments of study showed her that this was not that tongue of beach to
which the Tormarsh reached.

    She inched around to face inland. To her left now, a goodly distance
away, rising into the air as if a hundred—no, a thousand fires burned (for
it stretched along there inland as far as she could see) the mists of the
marsh arose like smoke, cloaking well what might lie on the other side.

  They had passed the barrier! This was the Outland.

   Tursla wavered to her knees, striving to see more of this unknown
world. The sand of the beach stretched for a space. Then there was a
sparse growth of tough grass; beyond that, bushes. But there was no smell
of the swamp.
  Where was Simond?

   Her loneliness, which had been good when she feared Affric and the
others, now was a source of uneasiness. Where had he gone—and why?

   His desertion, for her, was frightening. Was it that she was of the
Torfolk? Could it be that the Outlanders' hatred for the marsh dwellers
was so great, that having saved her life, he felt he had paid any debts
between them and had wished no more of her company?

   Bleakly Tursla settled on that fact. Perhaps in the Outlands Koris
himself hated his Tor blood and his son had been raised to find it a matter
of shame. Just as a Torman might, in turn, look upon half Outland blood
as something to lessen him among his fellows.

  She was Tor—as much as Simond knew. And as Tor—

   Tursla supported her head upon her hands and tried to think. It might
well be that, having made one of those decisions she had been told to
consider seriously, she had cut herself totally adrift from all people now.
Xactol had warned her fairly. When she left the country of the pool she
would no longer have communication with that one mind?—
spirit?—entity?—who could understand what she was.

   Mafra—for the first time Tursla wondered, with a little catch of breath,
how had it gone with the Clan Mother who had faced Unnanna and
worked some magic of her own to cover their escape; though what manner
of Torfolk would dare to raise either hand or voice against Mafra? The girl
wished passionately at that moment that she could reverse all that had
happened to her, be once more in the clan house— as it had been on the
night before she had gone to keep her meeting with the sand-sister.

  To look back, Tursla shook her head, that was only a waste of effort. No
man or woman might ever turn again and decide upon some other path
once their feet were firm set on one of their choice. She had made her
decision, now by that she must live—or perhaps die.

   Bleakly she looked landward. The sea was empty and she expected no
help to arise out of that. Now she was hungry. Already the sun was well
down in the western sky. She had not even a knife at her belt; and who
knew what manner of danger might prowl the Outland at the coming of
true darkness?
    But if she tried to go hence it must be on hands and knees. When she
attempted to rise to her feet she found herself so weak and giddy that she
tottered and fell. Hunger and thirst—both were an emptiness crying to be
filled.

  Filled! At least now the clan would never discover her deception. If she
had been filled with something else as Mafra had averred, what was it?

   She brought her knees up against her breast, put her arms about them,
huddling in upon herself, for the wind was growing colder and had a bite
to it which the winds of Tor-marsh never held. Now she tried to think.
What was good fortune for her now? What was ill? The latter seemed a
longer list. But the good—she had escaped Affric and the rest— the anger
of the Torfolk which would have been dire when they discovered she would
bring forth no child to swell their dwindling numbers. She had certain
knowledge which she as yet did not know how to use, that which Xactol
had granted her.

   But if the sand-sister was forever barred from her, when and how could
she ever learn?

   And where might she go for shelter? Where was there food? Water?
Would the hands of all dwellers in this land be raised against her when
they knew her for Tor?

  She—

  "Holla!"

  Tursla's head came up instantly.

   There was a mounted man—riding through the inland brush! His
head—bare head—Simond! Somehow she wobbled to her feet, called out in
return though her voice sounded very thin and weak in answer to that
shout of his:

  "Simond!"

   Now, it was as if something tight and hurting inside her had suddenly
broken apart. She wavered to her feet, staggered, one foot before the
other. She was not alone! He had not left her here!
   The horse was coming at a trot. She could sight a second animal
following; Simond had it on lead. He came in a shower of sand sent up by
the pounding feet of his mount. Then he was out of the saddle and to her,
his arms around her.

   Tursla could only repeat his name in a witless fashion, letting him take
the weight of her worn out and aching body.

  "Simond! Simond!"

  "It is well. All is well." He held her steady, letting the very fact that he
was there, that she was not alone, seep into her mind and bring her peace.

  "I had to go," he told her. "We needed horses. There is a watchtower
only a little away. I came back as soon as I could."

  Now she gained a measure of control.

   "Simond." She made herself look directly into his eyes, sure that he
would in no way try to soothe her with any false promise. "Simond, I am of
Tormarsh. I do not know how you brought me past that spell your people
used as a barrier to keep us from the Outland. But I remain Tor. Will your
people give me any welcome?"

  His hands now cupped her face, and his eyes did not shift.

   "Tor chose to stand our enemy, but in return we have never sought that
enmity. Also, I am partly Tor. And Koris has made Torblood a blessing not
a curse in Estcarp, as all men know. He held the Axe of Volt which would
come only to him. And he intended that Estcarp not be meat for those who
were worse than any winter wolf! Tor holds no stigma here."

   Then he laughed, and the lightness of his smile made his whole face
different.

  "This is an odd thing. You know my name, but I do not know yours.
Will you trust me with that much to show your belief in my good will?"

   She found that her face, sticky with sea water and rough with sand,
stretched an answering smile.

  "I am Tursla of— No, I am no longer of any clan house. Just what I am
now—or whom—that I must learn."

   "It will not be hard that learning. There will be those to help," he
promised her.

  Tursla's smile grew wider. "That I do not doubt," she replied with
conviction.




                FALCON BLOOD
   Tanree sucked at the torn ends of her fingers, tasted the sea salt
stinging them. Her hair hung in sticky loops across her sand-abraded face,
too heavy with sea water to stir in the wind.

   For the moment it was enough that she had won out of the waves, was
alive. Sea was life for the Sulcar, yes, but it could also be death. In spite of
the trained resignation of her people, other forces within her had kept her
fighting ashore.

   Gulls screamed overhead, sharp, piercing cries. So frantic those cries
Tanree looked up into the gray sky of the after storm. The birds were
under attack. Wider dark wings spread away from a body on the breast of
which a white vee of feathers set an unmistakable seal. A falcon soared,
swooped, clutched in cruel talons one of the gulls, bearing its prey to the
top of the cliff, where it perched still within sight.

   It ate, tearing flesh with a vicious beak. Cords flailed from its feet, the
sign of its service.

   Falcon. The girl spat gritty sand from between her teeth, her hands
resting on scraped knees barely covered by her undersmock. She had
thrown aside kilt, all other clothing, when she had dived from the ship
pounding against a foam-crowned reef.

   The ship!

   She got to her feet, stared seaward. Storm anger still drove waves high.
Broken-backed upon rock fangs hung the Kast-Boar. Her masts were but
jaggered stumps. Even as Tanree watched, the waters raised the ship once
more, to slam her down on the reef. She was breaking apart fast.

   Tanree shuddered, looked along the scrap of narrow beach. Who else
had won to shore? The Sulcar were sea born and bred; surely she could not
be the only survivor.

   Wedged between two rocks so that the retreating waves could not drag
him back, a man lay face down. Tanree raised her broken-nailed, scraped
fingers and made the Sign of Wottin, uttering the age-old plea:

  "Wind and wave, Mother Sea, Lead us home.

  Far the harbor, Wild thy waves—

  Still, by thy Power, Sulcar saved!"

  Had the man moved then? Or was it only the water washing about him
which had made it seem so?

   He was—This was no Sulcar crewman! His body was covered from neck
to mid thigh by leather, dark breeches twisted with seaweed on his legs.

  "Falconer!"

   She spat again with salt-scoured lips. Though the Falconers had an old
pact with her people, sailed on Sulcar ships as marines, they had always
been a race apart—dour, silent men who kept to themselves. Good in
battle, yes, so much one must grant them. But who really knew the
thoughts in their heads, always hidden by their bird-shaped helms?
Though this one appeared to have shucked all his fighting gear, to appear
oddly naked.

   There came a sharp scream. The falcon, full fed, now beat its way down
to the body. There the bird settled on the sand just beyond the reach of the
waves, squatted crying as if to arouse its master.

   Tanree sighed. She knew what she must do. Trudging across the sand
she started for the man. Now the falcon screamed again, its whole body
expressing defiance. The girl halted, eyed the bird warily. These creatures
were trained to attack in battle, to go for the eyes or the exposed face of an
enemy. They were very much a part of the armament of their masters.
  She spoke aloud as she might to one of her own kind: "No harm to your
master, flying one." She held out sore hands in the oldest peace gesture.

  Those bird eyes were small reddish coals, fast upon her. Tanree had an
odd flash of feeling that this one had more understanding than other birds
possessed. It ceased to scream, but the eyes continued to stare, sparks of
menace, as she edged around it to stand beside the unconscious man.

   Tanree was no weakling. As all her race she stood tall and strong, able
to lift and carry, to haul on sail lines, or move cargo, should an extra hand
be needed. Sulcarfolk lived aboard their ships and both sexes were trained
alike to that service.

  Now she stooped and set hands in the armpits of the mercenary,
pulling him farther inland, and then rolling him over so he lay face up
under the sky.

   Though they had shipped a dozen Falconers on this last voyage (since
the Kast-Boar intended to strike south into waters reputed to give sea
room to the shark boats of outlaws) Tanree could not have told one of the
bird fighters from another. They wore their masking helms constantly and
kept to themselves, only their leader speaking when necessary to the ship
people.

   The face of the man was encrusted with sand, but he was breathing, as
the slight rise and fall of his breast under the soaked leather testified. She
brushed grit away from his nostrils, his thin-lipped mouth. There were
deep frown lines between his sand-dusted brows, a mask-like sternness in
his face.

    Tanree sat back on her heels. What did she know about this fellow
survivor? First of all, the Falconers lived by harsh and narrow laws no
other race would accept Where their original home had been no outsider
knew. Generations ago something had set them wandering, and then the
tie with her own people had been formed. For the Falconers had wanted
passage out of the south from a land only Sulcar ships touched.

   They had sought ship room for all of them, perhaps some two
thousand—two-thirds of those fighting men, each with a trained hawk.
But it was their custom which made them utterly strange. For, though
they had women and children with them, yet there was no clan or family
feeling. To Falconers women were born for only one purpose: to bear
children. They were made to live in villages apart, visited once a year by
men selected by their officers. Such temporary unions were the only
meetings between the sexes.

   First they had gone to Estcarp, learning that the ancient land was
hemmed in by enemies. But there had been an unbreachable barrier to
their taking service there.

   For in ancient Estcarp the Witches ruled, and to them a race who so
degraded their females was cursed. Thus the Falconers had made their
way into the no-man's-land of the southern mountains, building there
their aerie on the border between Estcarp and Karsten. They had fought
shoulder to shoulder with the Borderers of Estcarp in the great war. But
when, at last, a near exhausted Estcarp had faced the overpowering might
of Karsten, and the Witches concentrated all their power (many of them
dying from it) to change the earth itself, the Falconers, warned in time,
had reluctantly returned to the lowlands.

   Their numbers were few by then, and the men took service as fighters
where they could. For at the end of the great war, chaos and anarchy
followed. Some men, nurtured all their lives on fighting, became outlaws;
so that, though in Estcarp itself some measure of order prevailed, much of
the rest of the continent was beset.

   Tanree thought that this Falconer, lacking helm, mail shirt, weapons,
resembled any man of the Old Race. His dark hair looked black beneath
the clinging sand, his skin was paler than her own sun-browned flesh. He
had a sharp nose, rather like the jutting beak of his bird, and his eyes were
green. For now they had opened to stare at her. His frown grew more
forbidding.

   He tried to sit up, fell back, his mouth twisting in pain. Tanree was no
reader of thoughts, but she was sure his weakness before her was like a
lash laid across his face.

  Once more he attempted to lever himself up, away from her. Tanree
saw one arm lay limp. She moved closer, sure of a broken bone.

   "No! You—you female!" There was such a note of loathing in his voice
that anger flared in her in answer.

  "As you wish—" She stood up, deliberately turned her back on him,
moving away along the narrow beach, half encircled by cliff and walls of
water-torn, weed-festooned rocks.

   Here was the usual storm bounty brought ashore, wood— some new
torn from the Kast-Boar, some the wrack of earlier storms. She made
herself concentrate on finding anything which might be of use.

   Where they might now be in relation to the lands she knew, Tanree had
no idea. They had been beaten so far south by the storm that surely they
were no longer within the boundaries of Karsten. And the unknown, in
these days, was enough to make one wary.

   There was a glint in a half ball of weed. Tanree leaped to jerk that away
just as the waves strove to carry it off. A knife—no, longer than just a
knife—by some freak driven point deep into a hunk of splintered wood.
She had to exert some strength to pull it out. No rust spotted the ten-inch
blade yet.

   Such a piece of good fortune! She sat her jaw firmly and faced around,
striding back to the Falconer. He had flung his sound arm across his eyes
as if to shut out the world. Beside him crouched the bird uttering small
guttural cries. Tanree stood over them both, knife in hand.

   "Listen," she said coldly. It was not in her to desert a helpless man no
matter how he might spurn her aid. "Listen, Falconer, think of me as you
will. I offer no friendship cup to you either. But the sea has spat us out,
therefore this is not our hour to seek the Final Gate. We cannot throw
away our lives heedlessly. That being so—" she knelt by him, reaching out
also for a straight piece of drift lying near, "you will accept from me the
aid of what healcraft I know. Which," she admitted frankly, "is not much."

   He did not move that arm hiding his eyes. But neither did he try now to
evade as she slashed open the sleeve of his tunic and the padded lining
beneath to bare his arm. There was no gentleness in this—to prolong
handling would only cause greater pain. He uttered no sound as she set
the break (thank the Power it was a simple one) and lashed his forearm
against the wood with strips slashed from his own clothing. Only when she
had finished did he look to her.

  "How bad?"

  "A clean break," she assured him. "But—" she frowned at the cliff, "how
you can climb from here one-handed—"

   He struggled to sit up; she knew better than to offer support. With his
good arm as a brace, he was high enough to gaze at the cliff and then the
sea. He shrugged.

  "No matter—"

   "It matters!" Tanree flared. She could not yet see a way out of this
pocket, not for them both. But she would not surrender to imprisonment
by rock or wave.

    She fingered the dagger-knife and turned once more to examine the
cliffs. To venture back into the water would only sweep them against the
reef. But the surface of the wall behind them was pitted and worn enough
to offer toe and hand holds. She paced along the short beach, inspecting
that surface. Sulcarfolk had good heads for heights, and the Falconers
were mountaineers. It was a pity this one could not sprout wings like his
comrade in arms.

   Wings! She tapped her teeth with the point of the knife. An idea flitted
to her mind and she pinned it fast.

  Now she returned to the man quickly.

  "This bird of yours—" she pointed to the red-eyed hawk at his shoulder,
"what powers does it have?"

  "Powers!" he repeated and for the first time showed surprise. "What do
you mean?"

   She was impatient. "They have powers; all know that. Are they not your
eyes and ears, scouts for you? What else can they do beside that, and fight
in battle?"

  "What have you in mind?" he countered.

  "There are spires of rock up there." Tanree indicated the top of the cliff.
"Your bird has already been aloft. I saw him kill a gull and feast upon it
while above."

  "So there are rock spires and—"
   "Just this, bird warrior," she dropped on her heels again. "No rope can
be tougher than loops of some of this weed. If you had the aid of a rope to
steady you, could you climb?"

   He looked at her for an instant as if she had lost even that small store of
wit his people credited to females. Then his eyes narrowed as he gazed
once more, measuringly, at the cliff.

   "I would not have to ask that of any of my clan," she told him
deliberately. "Such a feat would be play as our children delight in."

  The red stain of anger arose on his pale face.

   "How would you get the rope up there?" He had not lashed out in fury
to answer her taunt as she had half expected.

   "If your bird can carry up a finer strand, loop that about one of the
spires there, then a thicker rope can be drawn in its wake and that double
rope looped for your ladder. I would climb and do it myself, but we must
go together since you have the use of but one hand."

   She thought he might refuse. But instead he turned his head and
uttered a crooning sound to the bird.

  "We can but try," he said a moment later.

   The seaweed yielded to her knife and, though he could use but the one
hand, the Falconer helped twist and hold strands to her order as she
fashioned her ropes. At last she had the first thin cord, one end safe
knotted to a heavier one, the other in her hands.

   Again the Falconer made his bird sounds and the hawk seized upon the
thin cord at near midpoint. With swift, sure beat of wings it soared up, as
Tanree played out the cord swiftly hoping she had judged the length
aright.

   Now the bird spiraled down and the cord was suddenly loose in
Tanree's grasp. Slowly and steadily she began to pull, bring upward from
the sand the heavier strand to dangle along the cliff wall.

  One moment at a time, think only that, Tanree warned herself as they
began their ordeal. The heavier part of the rope was twisted around her
companion, made as fast as she could set it. His right arm was splinted,
but his fingers were as swift to seek out holds as hers. He had kicked off
his boots and slung those about his neck, leaving his toes bare.

   Tanree made her way beside him, within touching distance, one glance
for the cliff face, a second for the man. They were aided unexpectedly
when they came upon a ledge, not to be seen from below. There they
crouched together, breathing heavily. Tanree estimated they had covered
two thirds of their journey but the Falconer's face was wet with sweat and
trickled down, to drip from his chin.

   "Let us get to it!" he broke the silence between them, inching up to his
feet again, his sound arm a brace against the wall.

  "Wait!"

  Tanree drew away, was already climbing. "Let me get aloft now. And do
you keep well hold of the rope."

   He protested but she did not listen, any more than she paid attention to
the pain in her fingers. But, when she pulled herself over the lip of the
height, she lay for a moment, her breath coming in deep, rib-shaking sobs.
She wanted to do no more than lie where she was, for it seemed that
strength drained steadily from her as blood flowing from an open wound.

   Instead she got to her knees and crawled to that outcrop of higher rock
around which the noose of the weed rope strained and frayed. She set her
teeth grimly, laid hold of the taut strand they had woven. Then she called,
her voice sounding in her own ears as high as the scream of the hawk that
now hovered overhead.

  "Come!"

   She drew upon the rope with muscles tested and trained to handle
ships' cordage, felt a responding jerk. He was indeed climbing. Bit by bit
the rope passed between her torn palms.

   Then she saw his hand rise, grope inward over the cliff edge. Tanree
made a last great effort, heaving with a reviving force she had not believed
she could summon, falling backward, but still keeping a grasp on the rope.

  The girl was dizzy and spent, aware only for a moment or two that the
rope was loose in her hands. Had—had he fallen? Tanree smeared the back
of her fist across her eyes to clear them from a mist.

   No, he lay head pointing toward her, though his feet still projected over
the cliff. He must be drawn away from that, even as she had brought him
earlier out of the grasp of the sea. Only now she could not summon up the
strength to move.

   Once more the falcon descended, to perch beside its master's head.
Three times it screamed harshly. He was moving, drawing himself along
on his belly away from the danger point, by himself.

  Seeing that, Tanree clawed her way to her feet, leaning back against
one of the rocky spires, needing its support. For it seemed that the rock
under her feet was like the deck of the Kast-Boar, rising and falling, so she
needs must summon sea legs to deal with its swing.

   On crawled the Falconer. Then, he, too, used his good arm for a brace
and raised himself, his head coming high enough to look around. That he
was valiantly fighting to get to his feet she was sure. A second later his
eyes went wide as they swept past her to rest upon something at her own
back.

   Tanree's hand curved about the hilt of the dagger. She pushed against
the rock which had supported her, but she could not stand away from it as
yet.

  Then she, too, saw—

   These spires and outcrops of rock were not the work of nature after all.
Stones were purposefully piled upon huge stones. There were archways,
farther back what looked like an intact wall—somber, without a break
until, farther above her head than the cliff had earlier reached, there
showed openings, thin and narrow such as a giant axe might have cleft.
They had climbed into some ruin.

   A thrust of ice chill struck Tanree. The world she had known had many
such ancient places and most were ill-omened, perilous for travelers. This
was an old, old land and there had been countless races rise to rule and
disappear once more into dust. Not all of those peoples had been human,
as Tanree reckoned it. The Sulcar knew many such remains, and wisely
avoided them—unless fortified by some power spell set by a Wise One.
   "Salzarat!"

   The surprise on the Falconer's face had become something else as
Tanree turned her head to stare. What was that faint expression? Awe—or
fear? But that he knew this place, she had no doubt.

  He made an effort, pulling himself up to his feet, though he clung for
support to a jumble of blocks even as she did.

   "Salzarat—" His voice was the hiss of a warning serpent, or that of a
disturbed war bird.

   Once more Tanree glanced from him to the ruins. Perhaps a lighting of
the leaden clouds overhead was revealing. She saw—saw enough to make
her gasp.

  That farther wall, the one which appeared more intact, took on new
contours. She could trace—

   Was it illusion, or some cunning art practiced by the unknowns who
had laid those stones? There was no wall; it was the head of a giant falcon,
the fierce eyes marked by slitted holes above an out-thrust beak.

   While the beak—

  That closed on a mass which was too worn to do more than hint that it
might once have been intended to represent a man.

   The more Tanree studied the stone head, the plainer it grew. It was
reaching out—out—ready to drop the prey it had already taken, to snap at
her…

   "No!" Had she shouted that aloud or was the denial only in her mind?
Those were stones (artfully fitted together, to be sure) but still only old, old
stones. She shut her eyes, held them firmly shut, and then, after a few deep
breaths, opened them again. No head, only stones.

   But in those moments while she had fought to defeat illusion her
companion had lurched forward. He pulled himself from one outcrop of
ruin to the next and his Falcon had settled on his shoulder, though he did
not appear aware of the weight of the bird. There was bemusement on his
face, smoothing away his habitual frown. He was like a man ensorcelled,
and Tanree drew away from him as he staggered past her, his gaze only for
the wall.

   Stones only, she continued to tell herself firmly. There was no reason for
her to remain here. Shelter, food (she realized then that hunger did bite at
her), what they needed to keep life in them could only lie in this land.
Purposefully she followed the Falconer, but she carried her blade ready in
her hand.

   He stumbled along until he was under the overhang of that giant beak.
The shadow of whatever it held fell on him. Now he halted, drew himself
up as a man might face his officer on some occasion of import—or—a
priest might begin a rite.

   His voice rang out hollowly among the ruins, repeating words—or
sounds (for some held the tones of those he had used in addressing his
hawk). They came as wild beating cadence. Tanree shivered. She had a
queer feeling that he might just be answered—by whom—or what?

   Up near to the range of a falcon's cry rose his voice. Now the bird on his
shoulder took wing. It screamed its own challenge, or greeting—so that
man-voice and bird-voice mingled until Tanree could not distinguish one
from the other.

  Both fell into silence; once more the Falconer was moving on. He
walked more steadily, not reaching out for any support, as if new strength
had filled him. Passing under the beak he was—gone!

   Tanree pressed one fist against her teeth. There was no doorway there!
Her eyes could not deceive her that much. She wanted to ran, anywhere,
but as she looked wildly about her she perceived that the ruins funneled
forward toward that one place and there only led the path.

   This was a path of the Old Ones; evil lurked here. She could feel the
crawl of it as if a slug passed, befouling her skin. Only—Tanree's chin came
up, her jaw set stubbornly. She was Sulcar. If there were no other road,
then this one she would take.

   Forward she went, forcing herself to walk with confidence, though she
was ever alert. Now the shadow of the beak enveloped her, and, though
there was no warmth of sunlight to be shut out, still she was chilled.
   Also—there was a door. Some trick of the stone setting and the beak
shadow had concealed it from sight until one was near touching distance.
With a deep breath which was more than half protest against her own
action, Tanree advanced.

   Through darkness within, she could see a gray of light. This wall must
be thick enough to provide not just a door or gate but a tunnel way. And
she could see movement between her and that light; the Falconer.

  She quickened step so that she was only a little behind him when they
came out in what was a mighty courtyard. Walls towered all about, but it
was what was within the courtyard itself which stopped Tanree near in
mid-step.

  Men! Horses!

   Then she saw the breakage, here a headless body, there only the shards
of a mount. They had been painted once and the color in some way had
sunk far into the substance which formed them, for it remained, if faded.

   The motionless company was drawn up in good order, all facing to her
left. Men stood, the reins of their mounts in their hands, and on the forks
of their saddles falcons perched. A regiment of fighting men awaiting
orders.

   Her companion skirted that array of the ancient soldiers, almost as if
he had not seen them, or, if he had, they were of no matter. He headed in
the direction toward which they faced.

    There were two wide steps there, and beyond the cavern of another
door, wide as a monster mouth ready to suck them in. Up one step he
pulled, now the second… He knew what lay beyond; this was Falconer
past, not of her people. But Tanree could not remain behind. She studied
the faces of the warriors as she passed by. They each held their masking
helm upon one hip as if it were needful to bare their faces, as they did not
generally do. So she noted that each of the company differed from his
fellows in some degree, though they were all plainly of the same race.
These had been modeled from life.

   As she came also into the doorway, Tanree heard again the mingled call
of bird and man. At least the two she followed were still unharmed, though
her sense of lurking evil was strong.
   What lay beyond the door was a dim twilight. She stood at the end of a
great hall, stretching into shadows right and left. Nor was the chamber
empty. Rather here were more statues; and some were robed and coiffed.
Women! Women in an Aerie? She studied the nearest to make sure.

   The weathering which had eroded that company in the courtyard had
not done any damage here. Dust lay heavy on the shoulders of the life-size
image to be sure, but that was all. The face was frozen into immobility.
But the expression. Sly exultation, an avid… hunger? Those eyes staring
straight ahead, did they indeed hold a spark of knowledge deep within?

   Tanree pushed aside imagination. These were not alive. But their
faces—she looked to another, studied a third—all held that gloating, that
hunger-about-to-be-assuaged; while the male images were as blank of any
emotion as if they had never been meant to suggest life at all.

   The Falconer had already reached the other end of the hall. Now he was
silent, facing a dais on which were four figures. These were not in solemn
array, rather frozen into a tableau of action. Deadly action, Tanree saw as
she trotted forward, puffs of dust rising from the floor underfoot.

   A man sat, or rather sprawled, in a throne-chair. His head had fallen
forward, and both hands were clenched on the hilt of a dagger driven into
him at heart level. Another and younger man lunged, sword in his hand,
aiming at the image of a woman who cowered away, such an expression of
rage and hate intermingled on her features as made Tanree shiver.

   But the fourth of that company stood a little apart, no fear to be read
on her countenance. Her robe was plainer than that of the other woman,
with no glint of jewels at wrist, throat or waist. Her unbound hair fell over
her shoulders, cascading down, nearly sweeping the floor.

   In spite of the twilight here that wealth of hair appeared to gleam. Her
eyes—they, too, were dark red—unhuman, knowing, exulting, cruel—alive!

  Tanree found she could not turn her gaze from those eyes.

   Perhaps she cried out then, or perhaps only some inner defense quailed
in answer to invasion. Snake-like, slug-like, it crawled, oozed into her
mind, forging a link between them.

  This was no stone image, man-wrought. Tanree swayed against the pull
of that which gnawed and plucked, seeking to control her.

   "She-devil!" The Falconer spat, the bead of moisture striking the breast
of the red-haired woman. Tanree almost expected to see the other turn her
attention to the man whose face was twisted with half-insane rage. But his
cry had weakened the spell laid upon her. She was now able to look away
from the compelling eyes.

   The Falconer swung around. His good hand closed upon the sword
which the image of the young man held. He jerked at that impotently.
There was a curious wavering, as if the chamber and all in it were but part
of a wind-riffled painted banner.

  "Kill!"

  Tanree herself wavered under that command in her mind. Kill this one
who would dare threaten her, Jonkara, Opener of Gates, Commander of
Shadows.

   Rage took fire. Through the blaze she marched, knowing what must be
done to this man who dared to challenge. She was the hand of Jonkara, a
tool of force.

   Deep within Tanree something else stirred, could not be totally
battered into submission.

  I am a weapon to serve. I am—

  "I am Tanree" cried that other part of her. This is no quarrel of mine. I
am Sulcar, of the seas—of another blood and breed!"

   She blinked and that insane rippling ceased for an instant of clear
sight. The Falconer still struggled to gain the sword.

   "Now!" Once more that wave of compulsion beat against her, heart
high, as might a shore wave. "Now—slay! Blood—give me blood that I may
live again. We are women. Nay, you shall be more than woman when this
blood flows and my door is opened by it. Kill—strike behind the shoulder.
Or, better still, draw your steel across his throat. He is but a man! He is
the enemy—kill!"

  Tanree swayed, her body might be answering to the flow of a current.
Without her will her hand arose, blade ready, the distance between her
and the Falconer closed. She could easily do this, blood would indeed flow.
Jonkara would be free of the bonds laid upon her by the meddling of fools.

  "Strike!"

   Tanree saw her hand move. Then that other will within her flared for a
last valiant effort.

  "I am Tanree!" A feeble cry against a potent spell. "There is no power
here before whom Sulcar bows!"

   The Falconer whirled, looked to her. No fear in his eyes, only cold hate.
The bird on his shoulder spread wings, screamed. Tanree could not be
sure—was there indeed a curl of red about its feet, anchoring it to its
human perch?

   "She-devil!" He flung at her. Abandoning his fight for the sword, he
raised his hand as if to strike Tanree across the face. Out of the air came a
curl of tenuous red, to catch about his upraised wrist, so even though he
fought furiously, he was held prisoner.

  "Strike quickly!" The demand came with mind-bruising force.

   "I do not kill!" Finger by finger Tanree forced her hand to open. The
blade fell, to clang on the stone floor.

   "Fool!" The power sent swift punishing pain into her head. Crying out,
Tanree staggered. Her outflung hand fell upon that same sword the
Falconer had sought to loosen. It turned, came into her hold swiftly and
easily.

  "Kill!"

  That current of hate and power filled her. Her flesh tingled, there was
heat within her as if she blazed like an oil-dipped feast torch.

  "Kill!"

    She could not control the stone sword. Both of her hands closed about
its cold hilt. She raised it. The man before her did not move or seek in any
way to dodge the threat she offered. Only his eyes were alive now—no fear
in them, only a hate as hot as what filled her.

   Fight—she must fight as she had the waves of the storm-lashed sea. She
was herself, Tanree—Sulcar—no tool for something evil which should long
since have gone into the Middle Dark.

  "Kill!"

   With the greatest effort she made her body move, drawing upon that
will within her which the other could not master. The sword fell.

  Stone struck stone—or was that true? Once more the air rippled; life
overrode ancient death for a fraction of time between two beats of the
heart, two breaths. The sword had jarred against Jonkara.

  "Fool—" a fading cry.

   There was no sword hilt in her hands, only powder sifting between her
fingers. And no sparks of life in those red eyes either. From where the
stone sword had struck full on the image's shoulder cracks opened. The
figure crumbled, fell. Nor did what Jonkara had been vanish alone. All
those others were breaking too, becoming dust which set Tanree
coughing, raising her hands to protect her eyes.

   Evil had ebbed. The chamber was cold, empty of what had waited here.
A hand caught her shoulder, pulling at her.

  "Out!" This voice was human. "Out—Salzarat falls!"

  Rubbing at her smarting eyes, Tanree allowed him to lead her. There
were crashing sounds, a rumbling. She cringed as a huge block landed
nearby. They fled, dodging and twisting. Until at last they were under the
open sky, still coughing, tears streaming from their eyes, their faces
smeared with gray grit.

   Fresh wind, carrying with it the clean savor of the sea, lapped about
them. Tanree crouched on a mat of dead grass through which the first
green spears of spring pushed. So close to her that their shoulders
touched, was the Falconer. His bird was gone.

   They shared a small rise Tanree did not remember climbing. What lay
below, between them and the sea cliffs edge, was a tumble of stone so
shattered no one now could define wall or passage. Her companion turned
his head to look directly into her face. His expression was one of wonder.

   "It is all gone! The curse is gone. So she is beaten at last! But you are a
woman, and Jonkara could always work her will through any woman—that
was her power and our undoing. She held every woman within her grasp.
Knowing that, we raised what defenses we could. For we could never trust
those who might again open Jonkara's dread door. Why in truth did you
not slay me? My blood would have freed her, and she would have given you
a measure of her power—as always she had done."

   "She was no one to command me!" Tanree's self-confidence returned
with every breath she drew. "I am Sulcar, not one of your women.
"So—this Jonkara—she was why you hate and fear women?"

   "Perhaps. She ruled us so. Her curse held us until the death of
Langward, who dying, as you saw, from the steel of his own Queen,
somehow freed a portion of us. He had been seeking long for a key to
imprison Jonkara. He succeeded in part. Those of us still free fled, so our
legends say, making sure no woman would ever again hold us in bond."

   He rubbed his hands across his face, streaking the dust of vanished
Salzarat.

   "This is an old land. I think though that none walk it now. We must
remain here—unless your people come seeking you. So upon us the shadow
of another curse falls."

   Tanree shrugged. "I am Sulcar but there was none left to call me clan
sister. I worked on the Kast-Boar without kin-tie. There will be no one to
come hunting because of me." She stood up, her hands resting on her hips,
and turned her back deliberately upon the sea.

   "Falconer, if we be cursed, then that we live with. And, while one lives,
the future may still hold much, both good and ill. We need only face
squarely what comes."

   There was a scream from the sky above them. The clouds parted, and
through weak sunlight wheeled the falcon. Tanree threw back her head to
watch it.

  "This is your land, as the sea is mine. What make you of it, Falconer?"
    He also got to his feet. "My name is Rivery. And your words have merit.
It is a time for curses to slink back into shadows, allowing us to walk in
the light, to see what lies ahead."

  Shoulder to shoulder they went down from the hillock, the falcon
swooping and soaring above their heads.




  LEGACY FROM SORN FEN
   By the western wall of Klavenport on the Sea of Autumn Mists—but you
do not want a bard's beginning to my tale, Goodmen? Well enough, I have
no speak-harp to twang at all the proper times. And this is not altogether
a tale for lords-in-their-halls. Though the beginning did lie in Klavenport
right enough.

   It began with one Higbold. It was after the Invaders' War and those
were times when small men, if they had their wits sharpened, could rise in
the world—swiftly, if fortune favored them. Which is a bard's way of
saying they knew when to use the knife point, when to swear falsely, when
to put hands on what was not rightfully theirs.

   Higbold had his rats running to his whistle, and then his hounds to his
horn. Finally no one spoke (save behind a shielding hand, glancing now
and then over his shoulder) about his beginnings. He settled in the Gate
Keep of Klavenport, took command there, married a wife who was
hall-born. (There were such to be given to landless and shieldless men
then, their kin so harried by war, or dead in it, that they went gladly to
any one who offered a roof over their heads, meat in the dish and mead in
the cup before them). Higbold's lady was no more nor less than her sisters
in following expediency.

   Save that from the harsh days before her marriage she held memories.
Perhaps it was those which made her face down Higbold himself in
offering charity to those begging from door to door.

   Among those came Caleb. He lacked an eye and walked with a lurch
which nigh spilled him sprawling every time he took a full stride. What
age he was no one could say; cruel mauling puts years on a man.
    It might have been that the Lady Isbel knew him from the old days, but
if so neither spoke of that. He became one of the household, working
mainly in the small walled garden. They say that he was one with the
power of growing things, that herbs stood straight and sweet-smelling for
him, flowers bloomed richly under his tending.

   Higbold had nothing to interest him in the garden. Save that now and
then he met someone there where they could stand well in the open, walls
too often having ears. For Higbold's ambition did not end in the
keepership of the Klavenport Gate. Ah, no, such a man's ambition never
ceases to grow. But you can gain only so much by showing a doubled fist
or a bared . After a certain point you must accomplish your means more
subtly, by influencing men's minds, not enslaving their bodies. Higbold
studied well.

   What was said and done in the garden one night in early midsummer
was never known. But Higbold had a witness he did not learn about until
too late. Servants gossip as always about their masters, and there is a
rumor that Caleb went to the Lady Isbel to talk privately. Then he took his
small bundle of worldly goods and went forth, not only from the gate keep,
but out of Klavenport as well, heading west on the highway.

   Near the port there had been repairing, rebuilding, and the marks of
the Invaders' War had faded from the land. But Caleb did not keep long to
the highway. He was a prudent man, and knew that roads made for swift
travel can lead hunters on a man's tracks.

   Cross-country was hard, doubly so for his twisted body. He came to the
fringes of the Fen of Sorn. Ah, I see you shake your heads and draw faces
at that! Rightly do you so, Good-men, rightly. We all know that there are
parts of High Hallack which belong to the Old Ones, where men with sense
in their thick skulls do not walk.

   But it was there Caleb found that others had been before him. They
were herdsmen who had been driving the wild hill cattle (those which
ranged free during the war) to market. Something had frightened the
beasts and sent them running. Now the herders, half-mad with the
thought of losing all reward of their hard labor, tracked them into the fen.

   However, in so doing, they came upon something else. No, I shall not
try to describe what they startled out of its lair. You all know that there
are secrets upon secrets in places like the fen. Enough to say that this had
the appearance of a woman, enough to incite the lust of the drovers who
had been kept long from the lifting of any skirt. Having cornered the
creature, they were having their sport.

  Caleb had not left Klavenport unarmed. In spite of his twisted body he
was an expert with crossbow. Now he again proved his skill. Twice he fired
and men howled like beasts—or worse than beasts seeing what they had
been doing—beasts do not so use their females.

  Caleb shouted as if he were leading a group of men-at-arms. The
herders floundered away. Then he went down to what they had left broken
behind them.

  No man knows what happened thereafter, for Caleb spoke of it to no
one. In time he went on alone, though his face was white and his
work-hardened hands shook.

   He did not venture into the fen, but traveled, almost as one with a set
purpose, along its edge. Two nights did he camp so. What he did and with
whom he spoke, why those came—who can tell? On the morning of the
third day he turned his back on Sorn Fen and started toward the highway.

   It was odd but as he walked his lurching skip-step was not so evident,
as if, with every stride he took, his twisted body seemed straighter. By the
night of the fourth day he walked near as well as any man who was tired
and footsore. It was then that he came to the burned-out shell of the Inn of
the Forks.

    Once that had been a prosperous house. Much silver had spun across
its tables into the hands of the keeper and his family. It was built at a spot
where two roads, one angling north, one south, met, to continue thereon
into Klavenport. But the day of its glory passed before the Battle of Falcon
Cut. For five winter seasons or more its charred timbers had been a
dismal monument to the ravages of war, offering no cheer for the traveler.

  Now Caleb stood looking at its sad state and—

   Believe this or not as you will, Goodmen. But suddenly here was no
burned-out ruin. Rather stood an inn. Caleb, showing no surprise, crossed
the road to enter. Enter it as master, for as such he was hailed by those
about their business within its courtyard.
   Now there were more travelers up and down the western roads, for this
was the season of trade with Klavenport. So it was not long before the tale
of the restored inn reached the city. There were those unable to believe
such a report, who rode out, curious, to prove it true.

   They found it much as the earlier inn had been, though those who had
known it before the war claimed there were certain differences. However,
when they were challenged to name these, they were vague. All united in
the information that Caleb was host there and that he had changed with
the coming of prosperity, for prosperous he certainly now was.

   Higbold heard those reports. He did not frown, but he rubbed his
forefinger back and forth under his thick lower lip—which was a habit of
his when he thought deeply, considering this point and that. Then he
summoned to him a flaunty, saucy piece in skirts. She had long thrown
herself in his direction whenever she could. It was common knowledge
that, while Higbold had indeed bedded his lady in the early days of their
marriage, to make sure that none could break the tie binding them, he
was no longer to be found in her chamber, taking his pleasures elsewhere.
Though as yet with none under his own roof.

   Now he spoke privately with Elfra, and set in her hands a slip of
parchment. Then openly he berated her loudly, had her bustled roughly,
thrown into the street without so much as a cloak about her shoulders.
She wept and wailed, and took off along the western road.

   In time she reached the Inn at the Forks. Her journey had not been an
easy one so she crept into the courtyard as much a beggar in looks as any
of the stinking, shuffling crowd who hung around a merchant's door in the
city. Save that when she spoke to Caleb she gave him a bit of parchment
with on it a message which might have been writ in my lady's hand. Caleb
welcomed her and at length he made her waiting maid in the tap room.
She did briskly well, such employment suiting her nature.

   The days passed. Time slid from summer into autumn. At length the
Ice Dragon sent his frost breath over the land. It was then that Elfra stole
away with a merchant bound for Klavenport. Caleb, hearing of her going,
shrugged and said that if she thought so to better her life the choice was
hers.

  But Elfra stayed with the merchant only long enough to reach the gate.
From there she went directly to Higbold's own chamber. At first, as he
listened, there was that in his face which was not good to see. But she did
not take warning, sure that he looked so only because her tale was so wild.
To prove the truth of her words she held her hand over the table.

   About her thumb (so large it was that she could not wear it elsewhere
on her woman's hand) was a ring of green stone curiously patterned with
faint red lines as if veined with blood. Holding it directly in Higbold's
sight, Elfra made a wish.

   Below on the table there appeared a necklace of gems, such a necklace
as might well be the ransom for a whole city.

   In the days of the war. Higbold sucked in his breath, his face gone
blank, his eyes half hooded by their lids.

   Then his hand shot out and imprisoned her wrist in a grim grip and he
had that ring. She looked into his face and began to whimper, learning too
late that she was only a tool, and one which had served its purpose now,
and having served its purpose—

  She was gone!

  But Higbold cupped the ring between his palms and smiled evilly.

   Shortly thereafter at the Inn flames burst out No man could fight their
fierce heat as they ate away what the magic of the Old Ones had brought
into being. Once more Caleb stood in the cold owning nothing. Nothing,
that is, except his iron will.

   He wasted no time in regrets or in bewailing that lack of caution which
had lost him his treasure. Rather he turned and began to stride along the
road. When he came to a certain place he cut away from the path of men.
Though snow blew about him, and a knife-edged wind cut like a lash at his
back, he headed for the fen.

   Again time passed. No one rebuilt, by magic or otherwise, the Inn. Only
with Higbold things happened. Those who had once been firm against him
became his supporters or else suffered various kinds of chastening
misfortune. His lady kept to her chamber. It was rumored that she ailed
and perhaps would not live out the year.

  There had never been a king of High Hallack, for the great lords held
themselves all equal, one to another. None would have given support to a
fellow to set him over the rest. But Higbold was not of their company, and
so it might be a matter of either unite against him, or acknowledge his
ruler-ship. Still those men expected to be foremost in opposition to his
rise seemed oddly hesitant to take any step to prevent it.

   In the meantime there were rumors concerning a man who lived on the
fringe of Sorn Fen and who was a tamer of beasts, even a seller of them. A
merchant, enterprising and on the search for something unique, was
enough intrigued by such tales to make a detour. He came into Klavenport
from that side venture with three strange animals.

   They were small, yet they had the look of the fierce snow cats of the
high range. Only these were obviously tame, so tame that they quickly
enchanted the merchants' wives and the ladies of the city into wanting
them for pets. Twice the merchant returned to the fen fringe and bought
more of the cats—well pleased each time with his bargain.

   Then he needed an export permit and had to go to Higbold. So he came
to the Keep bringing a "sweetener" for dealing after the custom—that
being one of the cats. Higbold was not one with a liking for animals. His
horses were tools to be used, and no hound ever lay in his hall or chamber.
But he had the cat carried on to his lady's bower. Perhaps he thought that
he would not have to consider her for long and this gift might give some
coating of pretense.

   Shortly after, he began to dream. Now there was certainly enough in his
past to provide ill dreams for not one man but a troop. However, it was
not of the past that he dreamed, but rather of the present, and perhaps a
dark future. For in each of these dreams (and they were real enough to
bring him starting up in bed calling for candles as he woke out of them),
he had lost the ring Elfra had brought him—the ring now the core of all his
schemes.

  He had worn it secretly on a cord around his neck under his clothing.
However, all his dreams were of it slipping from that security. So now
when he slept he grasped it within his hand.

   Then one morning he awoke to find it gone. Fear rode him hard until
he found it among the covers on his bed. At last his night terrors drove
him to putting it under his tongue as he slept. His tempers were such that
those in close contact with him went in fear of their lives.
    At last came the night when he dreamed again and this time the dream
seemed very real. Something crouched first at the foot of his bed, and then
it began a slow, slinking advance, stalking up the length of it. He could not
move, but had to lie sweating, awaiting its coming.

   Suddenly he roused out of that nightmare, sneezing. The ring lay where
he had coughed it forth. By it crouched the strange cat, its eyes glowing so
that he would swear it was no cat, but something else, more intelligent
and malignant, which had poured its being into the cat's small body. It
watched him with cold measurement and he was frozen, unable to put
forth his hand to the ring. Then, calmly, it took up that circlet of green
and red in its mouth, leaped from the bed and was gone.

   Higbold cried out and grabbed. But the creature was already at the
door of the chamber, streaking through as the guard came in answer to
his lord's call. Higbold thrust the man aside as he raced to follow.

  "The cat!" His shouts alarmed the whole keep. "Where is the cat?"

   But it was the hour before daybreak when men were asleep. Those
aroused by his shouting blinked and were amazed for a moment or two.

   Higbold well knew that there were a hundred, no, a thousand places
within that pile where such a small animal might hide, or drop to eternal
loss that which it carried. That thought created frenzy in his brain, so that
at first he was like one mad, racing to and fro, shouting to watch, to catch
the cat.

   Then came a messenger from the gate saying that the cat had been seen
to leap the wall and run from the keep, and the city, out into the country.
Deep in him Higbold knew a growing cold which was like the chill of
death, since it heralded the end of all his plans. For if the keep provided
such a wealth of hiding places, then what of the countryside?

  He returned, struck silent now with the fullness of his loss, to his
chamber. There he battered his bare fists against the stone of the wall,
until the pain of his self-bruising broke through the torment in his mind
and he could think clearly again.

   Animals could be hunted. He had hounds in his kennels, though he had
never wasted time in the forms of the chase in which the high-born
delighted. He would hunt that cat as no beast in High Hallack had ever
been hunted before. Having come to his senses, he gave orders in a tone of
voice that made those about him flinch and look sideways, keeping as
distant as they dared.

   In the hour before dawn the hunt was up, though it was a small party
riding out of the keep. Higbold had ordered with him only the master of
hounds with a brace of the best trail keepers, and his squire.

   The trail was so fresh and clear the hounds ran eagerly. But they did
not pad along the highway, taking at once to open ground. This speedily
grew more difficult for the riders, until the dogs far outstripped the men.
Only their belling voices, raised now and then, told those laboring after
that they still held the track. Higbold now had his fear under tight control,
he did not push his horse, but there was a tenseness in the lines of his
body which suggested that, if he could have grown wings, he would have
soared ahead in an instant.

   Wilder and rougher grew the country. The laboring squire's horse was
lamed and had to drop behind. Higbold did not even spare him a glance.
The sun was up and ahead was that smooth green of the fen country. In
Higbold that frozen cold was nigh his heart. If the fleeing cat took into
that there would be no following.

   When they reached the outer fringe of that dire land the trail turned at
an angle and ran along the edge, as if the creature had willfully decided
not to trust to the promised safety beyond.

   At length they came upon a small hut, built of the very material of this
forsaken land, boulders and stones set together for its walls, a thatch of
rough branches for roof. As they approached the hounds were suddenly
thrown back as if they had run into an invisible wall. They yapped and
leaped, and were again hurled to earth, their clamor wild.

    Their master dismounted from his blowing horse and ran forward.
Then he, too, met resistance. He stumbled and almost fell, putting out his
hands and running them from right to left. He might have been stroking
some surface. Higbold came out of the saddle and strode forward. "What
is it?" For the first time in hours he spoke, his words grating on the ear.

  "There—there is a wall, Lord—" quavered the master, and he shrank
back from both the place and Higbold.
   Higbold continued to tramp on. He passed the master and the
slavering, whining hounds. The man, the dogs, were mad. There was no
wall, there was only the hut and what he sought in it.

   He set hand on the warped surface of the door and slammed it open
with the full force of his frustration.

   Before him was a rough table, a stool. On the stool sat Caleb. On the
tabletop crouched the cat, purring under the measured stroking of the
man's gentle hand. By the animal lay the ring.

   Higbold strove to put out his hand, to snatch up that treasure. From
the moment he sighted it, that had his full attention. The animal, the man,
meant nothing to him. But now Caleb's other hand dropped loosely over
the circlet. Higbold was powerless to move.

   "Higbold," Caleb addressed him directly, using no polite forms or title,
"you are an evil man, but one of power—too much power. In the past year
you have used that very cleverly. A crown is nigh within your grasp—is
that not so?"

   Soft and smooth he spoke as one entirely without fear. He had no
weapon, only lounged at his ease. Higbold's hatred now outweighed his
fear, so that he wanted nothing so much as to smash the other's face into
crimson ruin. Yet he could not stir so much as a finger.

   "You have, I think," Caleb continued, "greatly enjoyed your possession
of this." He raised his hand a little to show the ring.

  "Mine—!" Higbold's throat hurt as he shaped that thick word.

    "No." Caleb shook his head, still gently, as one might to a child who
demanded what was not and never could be his. "I shall tell you a tale,
Higbold. This ring was a gift, freely given to me. I was able to ease
somewhat the dying of one who was not of our kind, but had been
death-dealt by those like you in spirit. Had she not been taken unawares
she would have had her defenses, defenses such as you now taste. But she
was tricked, and then used with such cruelty as would shame any one
daring to call himself one of us. Because I tried to aid, though there was
little I could do, I was left this token—and my keeping it was confirmed by
her people. It can only be used for a limited time, however. I intended to
use it for good. That is a thought to make you smile, isn't it, Higbold?
   "Then you used your lady's name to beg of me aid for one I thought
badly treated. So, in my blindness, I brought about my own betrayal. I am
a simple man, but there are things even the simple can do. To have
Higbold for High King over this land—that is wrong—beyond one's own
wishes or fears.

   "So I spoke again to those of the fen, and with their aid I set a trap—to
bring you hither. And you came, easily enough. Now." He lifted his hand
and let the ring lie. It seemed there was a glow about it and again
Higbold's eyes were drawn to it and he saw nothing else. Out of sight,
beyond the gleaming green and red of the ring, a voice spoke.

  "Take up the ring you wish so much, Higbold. Set it on your finger once
again. Then go and claim your kingdom!"

   Higbold found that now he could stretch forth his hand. His fingers
closed about the ring. Hurriedly, lest it be rift from him once more, he
pushed it on his finger.

   He did not look again at Caleb, instead he turned and went out of the
hut, as if the other man had ceased to exist. The hounds lay on their
muddied bellies, whimpering a little as they licked at paws sore from their
long run. Their master squatted on his heels watching for his lord's return.
Their two horses stood with drooping heads, foam roping their bits.

   Higbold did not move toward his mount, nor did he speak to the
waiting hound master. Instead he faced west and south a little. As one
who marches toward a visible and long desired goal, paying no heed to
that about him, he strode toward the fen. His hound master did not move
to stop him. Staring drop-jawed, he watched him go, until he was
swallowed up in the mists.

   Caleb came forth from the hut, the cat riding on his shoulder, and
stood at ease. It was he who broke silence first.

   "Return to your lady, my friend, and say to her that Higbold has gone to
seek his kingdom. He shall not return."

  Then he, also, went to where the mists of the fen wreathed him around
and he could no longer be seen.

  When the master came again to Klavenport he told the Lady Isbel what
he had seen and heard. Thereafter, she seemed to gather strength (as if
some poison drained or shadow lifted from her) and came forth from her
chamber. She set about making arrangements to give gifts from the
wealth of Higbold.

   When summer reached its height she rode forth before dawn, taking
only one waiting maid (one who had come with her from her father's
house and was tied with long bonds of loyalty). They were seen to follow
the highway for a space as the guards watched. Thereafter no man marked
where they went, and they were not seen again.

   Whether she went to seek her lord, or another, who knows? For the Fen
of Sorn renders not to our blood its many secrets.




        SWORD of UNBELIEF
                               1
                          Fury Driven
   My eyes ached as I forced them to study the hard ground. From them a
dull pain spread into the bony sockets that were their frames. The tough,
mountain-bred mount I had saved from our desperate encounter with the
wolf-ravagers stumbled. I caught at the saddle horn as vertigo struck with
the sharp thrust of an unparried sword.

   I could taste death, death and old blood, as I ran my tongue over lips
where the salt of my own sweat plastered the dull gray dust of this land to
my unwashed skin. Again I wavered. But this time my pony's stumble was
greater. Strong as he was, and war trained, he had come near to the end of
endurance.

   Before me the Waste was a long tongue of gray rock, giving rootage only
to sparse and twisted brush, so misshapen in its growing that it might
well have been attacked by some creeping evil. For there was evil in this
country, every sense of mine warned that, as I urged Fallon on at a slow
walk.

   That wind which whipped at my cloak was bitter, carrying the breath
of the Ice Dragon. It raised fine grains of gray sand to scour my face
beneath the half shading of my helm. I must find some shelter, and soon,
or the fury of a Dune Moving Storm would catch me and provide a grave
place which might exist for a day, a week, or centuries—depending upon
the caprice of that same wind and sand.

   An outcrop of angular rock stood to my left. Toward that I sent Fallon,
his head hanging low as he went. In the lee of that tall fang I slipped from
the saddle, keeping my feet only by a quick grasp of the rock itself. The
ache in my head struck downwards through my shoulders and back.

   I loosed my cloak a little and, crouching by the pony, flung it over both
his head and mine. Little enough shelter against the drive of the punishing
grains, but it was the best I had. However, another fear gnawed at me.
This flurry would wipe out the trail I had followed these two days past.
With that gone, I must depend upon myself, and in myself I had less
confidence.

   Had I been fully trained as those of my Talent and blood had always
been—then I could have accomplished what must be done with far less
effort. But, though my mother was a Witch of Estcarp, and I was learned
in the powers of a Wise Woman, (and had indeed done battle using those
powers in the past), yet at this moment I knew fear as an ever-present
pain within me, stronger than any ache of body or fatigue of mind.

   As I crouched beside Fallon, this dread arose like a flood of bile into my
throat, the which I would have vomited forth if I could. Yet, it was too
great a part of me to allow itself to be so sundered. Feverishly I drew upon
those lesser arts I had learned, striving so to still the fast beating of my
heart, the clouding of my thoughts by panic. I must think rather of him
whom I sought, and of those who had taken him, for what purpose I could
not imagine. For it is the way of the wolf-heads to kill; torment, yes, if they
were undisturbed, but kill at the end of their play. Yet they had drawn
back into this forbidden and forbidding land taking with them a prisoner,
one worth no ransom. And the reason for that taking I could not guess.

   I set a bridle of calmness upon my thoughts. Only so might I use that
other Talent which was mine from birth. So now I set my mind-picture
upon him whom I sought—Jervon, fighting man, and more, far more to
me.

  I could see him, yes, even as I had sighted him last by the fire of our
small camp, his hands stretched out to warm themselves at the flames. If
only I had not—! No, regret was only weakening. I must not think of what I
had not done, but what I must now be prepared to do.

   There had been blood on the snow-shifted ground when I had returned,
the fire stamped into cold charred brands. Two outlaws' bodies hideously
ripped—but Jervon… no. So they had taken him for some purpose I could
not understand.

   The dead wolfheads I left to the woods beasts. Fallon I had discovered,
shivering and wet with sweat, within the brush and brought him to me by
the summoning power. I had waited no longer, knowing that my desire to
look upon the shrine of the Old Ones, which I had turned aside to do,
might well mean Jervon's death, and no pleasant death either.

  Now, crouching here, I cupped one hand across my closed eyes.

    "Jervon!" My mind call went out even as I had brought Fallon to me.
But I failed. There arose a cloud between me and the man I would find.
Yet I was as certain that behind that shadow he still lived. For when one's
life is entwined with another's and death comes, the knowledge of that
passing through the Last Gate is also clear—to one trained in even the
simplest of the Great Mysteries.

   This Waste was a grim and much hated place. Many were the remains
of the Old Ones here, and men of true human blood did not enter it
willingly. I am not of High Hallack, though I was born in the Dales. My
parents came from storied Estcarp overseas, a land where much of the Old
Knowledge has been preserved. And my mother was one of those who used
that knowledge—even though she had wed, and so, by their laws, put
herself apart.

   What I knew I had of Aufrica out of Wark, a mistress of minor magic
and a Wise Woman. Herbs I knew, both harmful and healing, and I could
call upon certain lesser powers—even upon a great one, as once I had done
to save him who was born at the same birth with me. But there were
powers beyond powers here that I knew not. Only I must take this way and
do what I could for Jervon who was more to me than Elyn, my brother,
had ever been, and who had once, without any of the Talent to aid him,
come with me into battle with a very ancient and strong evil, which battle
we had mercifully won.

  "Jervon!" I called his name aloud, but my voice was only a faint
whisper. For the wind shrieked like a legion of disembodied demons
around me. Fallon near jerked his head from my hold on his bridle, and I
speedily set myself to calming him, setting over his beast mind a
safeguard against panic.

   It seemed to last for hours, that perilous sheltering by the fang rock.
Then the wind died and we pulled out of sand drifted near to my knees. I
took one of my precious flasks of water and wet the corner of my cloak,
using that to wash out Fallon's nostrils, the sand away from his eyes. He
nudged at my shoulder, stretching his head toward the water bottle in a
voiceless plea for a drink. That I did not dare give him until I knew what
manner of country we would cross and whether there would be any
streams or tarns along the way.

    Night was very near. But that strangeness of the Waste banished some
of the dark. For here and there were scattered rock spires which gave off a
flickering radiance, enough to travel by.

   I did not mount as yet, knowing that Fallon must have a rest from
carrying a rider. Though I am slender of body, I am no lightweight with
mail about me, a sword and helm. So I plowed through the sand, leading
Fallon. And heard him snort and blow his dislike of what I would have him
do— venture farther into this desolation.

   Again, I sent forth a searching thought. I could not reach Jervon.
No—that muddling cloud still hung between us. But I could tell in what
direction they had gone. Though the constant concentration to hold that
thread made my head throb with renewed pain.

   Also there were strange shadows in this place. It would seem that
nothing threw across the land a clear dark definition of itself, as was
normal. Rather those shadows took on shapes which made the
imagination quicken with vague hints of things invisible which still could
be seen in this way, monstrous forms and unnatural blendings. And, if one
allowed fear the upper hand, those appeared ripely ready to detach
themselves and move unfettered by any trick of light or dark.

   I wondered at those I followed. War had been the harsh life of this land
now for so many years it was hard to remember what peace had been like.
High Hallack had been overrun by invaders whose superior arms and
organization had devastated more than half the Dales before men were
able to erect their defense. There had been no central overlord among us;
it was not the custom of the men of High Hallack to give deference beyond
the lord in whose holding they had been born and bred. So, until the Four
of the north had sunk their differences and made a pact, there had been
no rallying point. Men had fought separately for their own lands, and died,
to lie in the earth there.

   Then had come the final effort. Not only did the Dale lords unite for the
first time in history to make a common cause, but they had also treated
with others—out of this same Waste—the Wereriders of legend. Together
what was left of High Hallack arose with all the might it could summon to
smash the Hounds of Alizon, driving them back to the sea, mainly to their
own deaths therein. But a land so rent produces in turn those with a
natural bent toward evil, scavengers and outlaws, ready to plunder both
sides if the chance offered. Now such were the bane of our exhausted and
warworn country.

   These were such that I followed. It could well be that, since they were
hardy enough to lair within the Waste, they might not be wholly human
either. Rather be possessed by some emanation of the Dark which had
long lurked here.

   For the Old Ones, when they withdrew from the Daleland, had left
behind them pools of energy. Some of these granted peace and well being,
so that one could enter therein timorously, to come forth again renewed in
spirit and body. But others were wholly of the Dark. And if he was
destroyed at once the intruder was lucky. It was worse, far worse, to live as
a creature of a shadow's bidding.

   The ghostly light streamed on before me. I lifted my head, turned this
way and that, as might a hound seeking scent. All traces of trail had been
wiped away by the wind. However I was sure that I followed the right
path. So we came to two stelae which fronted each other as if they might
once have formed part of an ancient gate. Yet there was no wall, just these
pillars, from the tip of which streamed cloudward thin ribbons of a
greenish light. They had been formed by men, or some agency with
intelligence, for they had the likenesses of heavy-bladed sabers. Yet on
their sides I could see, half eroded by time, pits and hollows which, when
the eye fastened straight upon them, took on the semblance of faces—
strange faces—long and narrow, with large noses overhanging pointed
chins. Also it seemed that the eyes (which were pits) turned upon me, not
in interest or in warning, but as if in deep, age-old despair.
   Though I felt no emanation of evil, neither did I like to pass between
those sword pillars. Still it was that way my road ran. Quickly I sketched
with my hand certain symbols before I stepped forward, drawing Fallon on
rein-hold behind me.

   These pillars stood at the entrance of a narrow gash of valley which led
downward, the steep sides rising ever higher. Here the dark had full sway
for there were no more of the luminous stones, so that I went with that
slow caution I had learned in the years I had ridden to war.

   I listened. Outside this valley I had heard the murmur of the wind, but
here was a deep quiet, until my straining ears caught a sound which could
only be that of running water. There was a dampness now in the air, for
which I was momentarily grateful. Fallon pushed against me, eager to
slake his thirst.

   But where there was water in this desert land there could also well be a
camp of those I pursued. So I did not hasten, and I held back the pony. He
snorted and the sound echoed hollowly. I froze, listening for any answer
which might mean my coming was marked. If the wolves I followed were
human, certainly their sight here would be no better than mine, even more
limited for they did not have—or so I hoped—the Talent to aid it.

   On we went step by hesitant step. Then my boot, slipping across the
ground, struck against some obstruction. I stooped, to feel about with my
hands. Here was a cluster of small rocks, and beyond that, not too far, the
water. I felt a path as clear as I could. As far as I could tell, a spring broke
ground on my left, some way up the wall of the valley, and the water
poured from that into a basin which in turn must have some outlet on the
other side.

   I scooped up a handful of the liquid, smelled it. There was no stench of
minerals or of other deadliness. I splashed it over my face below the edge
of my helm, washing away storm grit. Then I drank from my cupped
hands, and squeezed aside to let Fallon have his way. The noise of his
gulping was loud enough, but I no longer feared detection. Those I sought
had come this way, yes. My refreshed mind assured me of that. But there
was no camp hereabout.

   "Jervon!" I pressed both hands over my eyes, pushing back my helm,
reaching out in mind-search again. For a moment it was as if my touch
found a weakness in that mist I had encountered before. I touched—He
was alive, mauled yet not badly injured! But when I tried to deepen
contact, that I might read through him the numbers and nature of the
force which held him, there was once more a cutting off of
communication, as suddenly as a sword might descend between us.

   The nature of that interference I could judge. There was that ahead
which was aware of me, but only when I tried to reach Jervon. For as I
hunkered there, my mind barrier up, I did not sense any testing of that. In
me now fear was lessened; instead another emotion woke to life. Once
before I had fought against very ancient evil—with love—for the body and
soul of a man. Then I had sought my brother Elyn trapped in a cursed
place, though what I felt for Elyn, of my own blood and birth, was but a
pale shadow to that which filled me when Jervon looked upon me. I am
not one who speaks easily of what she thinks the deepest upon, but in that
moment I knew how completely Jervon's fate and mine were rooted
together. And I experienced fury against that which had cut the cord
between us.

   Recognizing that fury, I drew deep upon it, used the hot emotion to fill
me with new strength. Even as fear weakened that which was my own, so
could anger give it sword and shield, providing I might control that anger.
There in the dark, by that unseen pool, I fashioned my invisible armor,
sharpened those weapons which no one but myself could ever wield. For
they were forged out of my wit and my emotion even as a smith beats a
true edged sword out of clean metal.


                            2
                    The Shadow Hunter
   It was folly to advance farther into the dark. I dared not risk a fall and
perhaps a broken bone for me or for Fallon. Though every surge of
emotion urged me on, I held to logic and reason. Here dark was so thick it
was as if the ground about generated some blackness. Above hung clouds
to veil even the stars.

   I fumbled in my saddlebag and brought out a handspan of journey
bread, hard enough perhaps to crack teeth gnawing it unwarily. This I
soaked in water and fed the greatest portion to Fallon, whose lips nuzzled
my hand to search out the smallest crumb. Then I used my will and forced
upon his mind the order that he was not to stray, before I settled in
between two rocks and drew my cloak about me as poor protection
against this damp chill.

   Though I had not thought to sleep, the fatigue of my body overcame the
discipline of my mind and I dropped into a dark even deeper than that
which enfolded me here. In that dark, presences moved and I was aware of
them, only not clearly enough to draw any meaning from such fleetings.

    I woke suddenly, into the gray of early dawn; I had been summoned as
if someone had clearly called my name, or a battle trumpet had blown
nearby. Now I could see the dim pool with the runnel of water leaping
down the rocks to feed it. On the other side of that Fallon grazed on
clumps of tough grass, which were not green but sickly ashen, withered by
the chill of the season.

   There was indeed an outlet for the pool basin, a kind of trough which
ran on into the morning fog beyond. I moved stiffly, but, now that my
mind was once more alert, I cast ahead for that blankness which hid
Jervon and his captors.

    It was there and this time I did not make the mistake of trying to pierce
it, and so alert whatever I had touched the night before. At any rate, for
the present, there was only one road, that walled by rises of stone on which
I could not even see finger holds. Yet there were markings there—eroded
and time worn as those upon the stelae guardians—too regular to be
nature's work, too strange to be read by me. Save that I misliked the
general outlines of some of those symbols, for with their very shape they
aroused misgivings.

   As I broke my fast with another small portion of water-soaked bread, I
kept my eyes resolutely turned away from those shadowy scrawls. Rather
did I strive to see into the mist which filled this cut in the earth. And
again I listened—but there was nothing to hear save the water.

  Having filled my two saddle bottles, I mounted, but I let Fallon for the
moment take his own pace. The way was much cluttered with rocks, with
here and there a landslip over or around which we crept with care.

   The sense of new danger came slowly upon me, so intent was I on
keeping contact with that peculiar blankness which I believed imprisoned
Jervon. This was first like a foul smell which is but a suggestion of
rottenness, but which gradually grows the stronger as one approaches the
source of corruption. Fallon snorted, tossing his head, only kept to the
path by my will.

   Oddly enough I could not sense any of the ancient evil in this thing,
though I bent my mind and my Talent to test it by all which I had learned
from Aufrica and the use of my own power. It was not of any source I
knew—for the taint was that of human not of the Old Ones. Yet also during
our hunting of the Waste outlaws I had not met the Old Ones either.

  Now my flesh roughed as if more than the chill of the fog struck at me.
Fear battled for release from the iron guard I had set upon my emotions.
With that fear came a disgust and anger.

    I found myself riding with hand upon sword hilt. Listening—ever
listening—though my ears caught nothing but the thud of Fallon's hooves,
now and again the ring of an iron shoe against an edge of rock.

   The fog closed about, beads of moisture dripped from my helm, shone
oily wet upon my mail, dampened Fallon's heavier winter coat into points.

   Then—

   Movement!

   Fallon threw up his head to voice a shrill squeal of fear. At the same
instant that which I had sensed struck and lapped me round.

   Through the rim of the fog came horror unleashed. The thing was
mounted even as I, and some trick of the fog made it loom larger than it
was. But that which it rode was no horse of flesh and blood—rather a rack
of bones held together by a lacing of rotted and dried flesh. It was, like its
mount, a thing long dead and yet given a terrible life.

   Its weapon was terror, not any sword. As I stiffened and drew deeply
upon my power I realized it for what it was—a thoughtform born out of
ancient fear and hatred. So did it continue to feed upon such emotions,
drawing into it at each feeding a greater substance.

   My fear, my anger, must have both summoned and fed it. But it was
real. That I could swear to, as much as if I laid hand upon that
outstretched arm of bone. Fallon's wide-eyed terror was meat to it also.
While it trailed behind it, like a cloak, a deep depression of the spirit.
   Fallon reared, screamed. That mount of bone opened wide its jaws in
answer. I struggled with the panic-mad horse under me, glad for a
moment that I had this to fight, for it awoke my mind from the blast of
fear the specter brought with it.

   I raised my voice and shouted, as I would a battle cry, certain Words.
Yet the rider did not waver, nor did the mount. I summoned my will to
master my own senses. This thing needed terror and despair to live, let me
clamp tight upon my own and it would have no power—

   Fallon sweated so that the smell was rank in the narrow defile of that
way. My will had clamped upon him also, held him steady. He no longer
screamed, but from his throat issued a sound not unlike the moaning of a
man stricken close to death.

   It was a thing fashioned of fear, and, without fear… I made myself into
a bulwark, once more spoke my defiance. I did not shout this time, rather
I schooled my voice into obedience, even as I held Fallon.

    The thing was within arm's length, the stench of it thick in my nostrils,
the glare of its eyeless skull turned upon me. Then… it faded into the mist.
Fallon still gave forth that unanimal-like moaning and great shudders ran
through his body. I urged him forward, and he went one unsteady step at
a time, while the fog coiled and spun around as if to entrap us.

   It was enough for a moment that the horror had been vanquished. I
hoped dimly that what I knew of such was the truth, that they were tied to
certain places on earth where raw emotions had first given them birth.

   As we paced along beside the small stream I heard sounds, not from
ahead, but from behind. Faint they were at first, but growing
stronger—there was the beat of hooves in such a loud tattoo that I thought
some rider came at a speed far too reckless for the stony way. I heard also
voices calling with the mist, though never could I make out the words, for
the sounds came muffled and distorted. Still there reached me the
impression of a hunt behind. A strange picture flashed into my mind of
one crouched low on a wild-eyed horse, behind him, unseen, the terror
which drove him.

   So keen and clear was this picture that I swung around when I reached
a pile of rocks against which I could set my back. I drew my sword. There
was a rushing past where I crouched, my left hand tangled within Fallon's
reins for he was like to bolt. But nothing material cleared the mist. Again
ancient shadows had deceived me.

   Though I waited tensely for whatever pursued that lone rider of the
distant past, there was nothing. Nothing save the uneasy sense that here
were remnants of ancient terror caught forever in the mist. Then,
ashamed at my own lack of self-control, I started on again, this time
leading Fallon, stroking his head and talking softly to him, urging into his
mind a confidence I did not wholly feel.

   The walls about us began to widen out. Also that mist was tattered and
driven by a wind which whistled down the valley, buffeting us with the
frost it carried. But also it brought me something else, the scent of wood
smoke, of a fire which has been recently dampened out.

   We came to a curve in the near wall which served as a guide through
the now disappearing mist. I dropped Fallon's reins and ordered him to
stand so, cautiously crept forward; though the probe of my Talent picked
up no whisper of a human mind. Still so strange was the Waste that I
could believe those who harbored here might well have some defense
against my power.

   There had been a camp there right enough. A drowned fire still gave off
a strong odor. And there were horse droppings along one side. I could see
tracks crossing and recrossing each other, though the sand and gravel did
not hold them clearly. But plainest of all was what had been painted on
one massive rock which jutted forth from the wall. That was no work of
years before; the symbols must have been freshly drawn for they were
hardly weathered or scoured by sand.

  One was a crudely drawn head of some animal—a wolf or hound—it
could have been either. It interlaced the edge of the other, a far more
complex and better executed symbol. I found myself standing before that,
my forefinger almost of itself following its curves by tracing the air.

   When I realized what I was doing I snatched my hand back to my side,
my fingers balled into a fist. This was not of my learning, though it was a
potent thing. And dangerous… There was an unpleasant otherness about
the symbol which aroused wariness. However, I believed, though I did not
understand its complete meaning, I did pick up the reason for those
mated drawings. For among the Dales there was an old custom that, when
a lasting truce or alliance was made, the lords of both parties chose a
place on the boundaries of their domains and there carved the signs of
their two houses so twined in just the same fashion.

   So here I had come upon a notice that the outlaws I bunted had indeed
made common cause with some dweller of the Waste who was not of their
blood or kind. Though I had suspected no less, having trailed them
through the haunted valley, yet I could wish it otherwise.

   To have some knowledge but not enough is a thing which eats upon
one. If I might have read that other symbol I could be warned as to
what—or who—I had to face. As I began a careful search about the
deserted camp I alerted the Talent to sniff out any clue to the non-human.
But the impressions my mind gathered were only of the same wolfish
breed as we had hunted—desperate and dangerous enough.

   Jervon had been there and he still lived. I had half steeled my mind to
find him dead, for the Waste wolves did not take captives. What did they
want with him? Or were they but the servants and hands of another force?
The impression grew on me that the latter was so. That they had some
purpose in bringing him hither could not be denied.

   My years with Aufrica had taught me well that there are two kinds of
what the untalented term "magic" or "witchery." It was contagious magic
which I used to track Jervon, for about my throat I wore the amulet of a
strange stone shaped not unlike an eye, which he had found and carried
for a luck piece since he was a boy, and then had put into my keeping
upon our handfasting, having in those years of war no other bride-jewel to
offer.

   I knew there was also sympathic magic which works according to the
laws of correspondence and now I prepared to call upon that. From my
healer's bag I brought forth a length of ash stick, peeled, blessed by the
moon, bound with a small ring of silver wire, which is moon metal. Now I
faced that symbol on the rock, pointed to it with ash rod which was no
longer than my palm and fingers together.

   Immediately the wand came to life in my hold, not to trace the
characters, rather turning and twisting in a manner to suggest it would
leap from my grasp rather than face what was so carven there. So I knew
what I suspected was true, that this was a thing of the Dark from which
the Light recoiled.
   Now I touched the wand with the eye-stone which I drew forth from
beneath my mail, rubbing the stone down one side and up the other. Then
I held out my hand with the lightest hold upon the ash. Again it twisted,
pointing ahead.

    My battle with fear in the mist had drawn too heavily upon my inner
resources; I could no longer depend upon mind search to follow those
whom I sought. However, with the wand I had a sure pointer, in which I
could trust. So I continued to hold it as I mounted Fallon and rode out of
that camp, turning my back upon the entwined symbols of an unholy
alliance.

  The valley widened even farther, as if it had been but a narrow throat to
open country beyond. I saw trees now, as misshapen as the brush, and
monoliths, as well as tumbles of stone, which suggested ruins so old they
could not be dated by my own species.

   There were tracks again. But within a very short time we came to a
place where those turned to the right at an abrupt swing. Only, in my
hand, the wand did not alter course, but still pointed straight ahead.
There was only one solution to accept: Jervon was no longer with the wolf
pack which had pulled him down.

   Had there been some monstrous meeting beneath those symbols and he
who I sought been given to that Other whose sign was set boldly on the
rock? I dismounted to search the ground with a scout's patience. At last I
was rewarded with faint traces. The main body I hunted had indeed
turned here, but two mounts had kept to the straight track. One of those
must carry Jervon.

   If he rode with only one outlaw as guard—I drew a sharp swift breath…
This might well herald a chance for rescue with the odds much in my
favor. I mounted again and urged Fallon to a faster pace than he had kept
during that day's travel, watching keenly the country ahead.


                              3
                      The Frozen Flame
   Here in the open the mist was tattered by the wind and one could see
farther. So my eyes caught a flash of light. Yet it was plain that this did
not rise from any fire but rather sparked into the sky, perhaps as a
beacon.

   Now the stones of the forgotten ruins drew together, formed tumbled
walls, with here or there some uprise of worked rock which might have
once been a stela, or even a statue. These were now so worn away by
erosion that such shapes remained only vaguely unpleasant ones, hinting
of ancient monstrous beings. Gods or guardians? What man now living
could say?

    The sun broke through, yet here it had not even the pallid light of
mid-winter, rather a drained, bespoiled radiance, with nothing to warm
either body or heart. And still shadows clung to the rocks, though I
resolutely refused more than to glance at them. I knew the power of
illusion, for much of that lies within the Talent.

   Before me rose a wall, massive in its blocks, some larger than myself,
even when mounted on Fallon. This time had not used so harshly. The pale
sun struck points of icy fire from gray-white crystals embedded in its
surface. The way I followed led to the single break in that wall, a gateway
so narrow that it would seem no more than one had ever been meant to
pass through at a time.

   Now the wand in my hand flipped so that I barely prevented it from
slipping through my ringers. Its silver-bound tip pointed to a dark stain
smeared on that wall near the height of my thigh, riding as I was.
Blood—and that of him whom I now sought!

   I could only draw hope because the smear was so small a one. Jervon
had not been overborne without a fight, that I was already sure of. He was
too seasoned in war to be easily taken, and the bodies I had found at our
last camp had testified to his skill in defense. Yet this was the first sign I
had seen that he had been wounded. Now I glanced at the pavement under
foot, expecting to sight more splotches.

   The wall was the first of three such. And they varied in color, for the
outer one, in spite of its clusters of crystals, was as gray as the rest of this
Waste. The second, some twenty paces beyond, was dull green. Yet it was
not any growing thing which had clothed it, but part of the blocks
themselves.

   The third was the rusty-brown-red of dried blood and in it the stones
were smaller. The entrance through to it was still narrower; so that,
despite my misgivings, I was forced to dismount and essay that on foot.

   If there were any blood smears here to mark Jervon's passing, those
were hidden by the natural coloring of the stone. Before me stood a squat
building, only a fraction higher than the wall, windowless and dour, the
stone of its making a lusterless, thick black, as if it had been fashioned
from shadows. From the roof of this issued, straight up to defy the sullen
sun, the beam of light that had shone across the land.

   Now that I drew nearer I could see that beam pulsated in waves, almost
like the ever-changing and moving flames of a fire. Yet I was sure it was
not born from any honest burning of wood.

   Windowless the place might be, but there existed a deeply recessed
doorway; so deep and dark a portal I could not be sure if any barrier stood
within. I paused, using my senses to test what lay about me, for to go
blindly into danger would not serve either Jervon's cause or my own.

   Hearing? There was no sound, not even the sigh of wind across twisted
shrub and sliding sand. Smell? I could not pick up any of the faint
rottenness which had alerted me to the coming of the phantom in the
valley. Sight? The deep door, the pulsing flame, unmarked ground between
me and that doorway. Touch... ?

   I held up my hand, the wand lying across the palm. That moved again,
wavering from side to side with a growing speed until it had switched
around and the wire-wound tip pointed to me, or back of me to the wall
entrance through which I had just squeezed. There was warning enough in
that What lay ahead was highly inimical to such forces as I dared call
upon. And I was somehow certain if I took these last few strides, passed
within that portal, I would be facing danger worse than any wolf blade or
phantom hunter.

   If only I knew more! Once before I had gone to battle with one of the
evil Old Ones in ignorance and using only my few poor weapons. Jervon, at
that hour (having far more to fear than I, for he possessed none of the
safeguards of the Talent), had come with me, trusting only in the power of
cold iron and his own courage.

   Could I do less now? As I stood there, the fluttering wand in my hand, I
thought of what Jervon was to me. First, an unwanted road companion
through a hostile land, one who made me impatient for I feared that he
might in some way turn me from my purpose. Then—

   My life was bound to Jervon's. I could not deny that Whatever force had
brought him here, it was for no purpose except his destruction—and
perhaps also mine. Yet I accepted that and walked toward the doorway.

   There was no door to face me. Only, once I had stepped under the
shadow of that overhang, there was a cloud of darkness so thick it seemed
one might gather together folds of it in one's fingers as one could a curtain
woven on a Dale loom. I raised the hand I could no longer see until I
thought the wand was level with my lips. Then I breathed upon it and
spoke three words.

   So tiny a light, as if a candle no thicker than my own little finger, shone
feebly. But as that sparked into being I drew a deep breath. There was not
yet any pressure on me. In so little had I won a token victory.

   That other time I had had an advantage because what dwelt anciently
in such a place had been all powerful for so long that it had not seen in me
a worthy opponent. Therefore it had not unleashed its full strength against
me until too late. I did not know what lay ahead, nor could I hold any hope
that it would be the same here.

  Time is often distorted and altered in those places of the Old Ones. All
human memory is filled with legends of men who consorted with Those of
Power for what seemed a day or year, and returned to find that their own
world had swept on far faster. Now it appeared otherwise to me.

   The very darkness, which was hardly troubled by the light on which my
spirit fed, was like a flood of sticky clay or quicksand catching at my feet,
so that it was a physical effort to fight against it in order to advance. As
yet there had been no other assault upon me. Slowly, I gained the
impression that what intelligence had raised this place for its shell of
protection was otherwise occupied, so intent upon that concentration that
it was not yet aware of me.

   Even as the pinpoint of flame I held before me, that thought
strengthened my courage. Yet I dared not depend upon such
concentration holding. At any moment it might be broken, by some
unknown, unseen system of alarm, to turn the force of Its interest in my
direction.
   I fought against the sticky dark, one step, two. It seemed to me that this
journey had consumed hours of time. My body ached once more with the
effort I must exert in order to advance. One more stride—

   Thus I passed from complete dark into light so suddenly that, for two
breaths, three, I was blinded. Then, blinking, I was able to see. The space
in which I stood was round, with two great chairs, by their dimensions
made for bodies larger than humankind, facing each other across a
dazzling pillar which formed the innermost core.

    Then I saw that it was not really a pillar, but rather a rounded shaft of
ceaseless rolling radiance. No heat radiated from it; only an inner
flickering suggested the flames it mimicked.

   My inner warning sounded an alarm. Instantly I averted my eyes. There
stood the force and purpose of this place. I had come out behind the
nearer chair, its back a barrier, but I could see the other. Something had
fallen from its wide seat to lie like a pile of wrung out rags on the floor.

   Jervon—?

   But even as I took a step toward that body, for dead that man must be
by the very limpness of his form, I saw more clearly the face turned toward
the light, the eyes wide in horror. And a stubby beard pointed outward
from the chin. One of the outlaws!

   Then Jervon—?

   Carefully averting my gaze from that challenging, beckoning fire, I
edged around the chair before me. Yes, he whom I sought sat there. There
were bonds about his arms, loops bringing together his booted ankles. His
helm was gone and there was a gash on his forehead which had been only
roughly bandaged so that congealed red drops lay on the cheek beneath.

   He was—alive?

   I reached forth my hand. The wand trembled. Yes, there still was a
spark of life in him, held so by the stubbornness of his own will and
courage. But his eyes were locked on the pillar of fire and I knew that the
substance of the man I knew was being rift out of him into that flame,

   I could do two things. Recklessly, I first tried mind-seek. No, his
consciousness was too depleted to respond. If I attempted to break the
binding of the flame I could overturn the result of his own courage, loose
him and lose him. There was a great strength in Jervon. I had seen it in
action many times over during the seasons we had ridden together as
comrades and lovers (seldom can those two be made one, but so it was
with us).

   So—I must follow him—into the flame. Front that Power on its own
ground.

   If only I knew more! I beat my hands together in my impotent
frustration. This was a great force, and one I had no knowledge of. I did
not know if I could face it with any Talent of my own. It might be
invincible in its own stronghold.

    I moved slowly on to look at the dead outlaw. He had been emptied of
life force, easier prey by far than Jervon. The way he had fallen made it
seem he had been contemptuously thrown aside.

   But I knew Jervon. And upon that knowledge I could build now. It
would do me no good to take his body from this place, even if the flame
power would allow that. For then he could never regain what he had
already lost—what must be returned to him…

  Returned—how?

   Desperate I was, for I might lose all, his life, mine, and perhaps more
than just the lives of our bodies. But I could see no other way.

   Deliberately I went to that other throne, careful not to touch the wasted
body as I stepped over it. I am glad I did not hesitate now, that my inner
strength carried me up unflinchingly to where that dead man had sat. I
settled myself within the curve of the arms, under the shadow of the high
back. My wand I took in both hands, forcing it up against the power which
tried to forestall me, until the point wa» aimed at Jervon's breast.

   I did not believe that the power I would confront was of my plane of
existence at all. Rather I thought that the frozen flames were but a small
manifestation visible to our world. I must seek it on its own ground if I
were to have a chance.

  The outlaw had been its creature already. Doubtless he had lain under
its spell even before he had entered here, perhaps sent by it to find such
strong meat as Jervon. And Jervon it had not completely taken. Also it
might never have tried to absorb one learned in the Talent.

   Such a hope was very thin; I could count on nothing save my own small
learning and my determination. But it was not in me to leave this place
without Jervon. We would win or lose together.

   So—the battlefield lay within the flame.

   My grip on the wand was iron tight. Now I deliberately raised my eyes,
stared straight into that play of curbed fire. I need only release my will for
a very little.


                           4
                Elsewhere and Elsewhen
   I was—elsewhere. How can one summon words to describe what is so
wholly alien to all one's experience? Colors rippled here that had no names
I knew, sensations wrenched at the inner core of my determination and
Talent as if they would pull me apart while I yet lived. Or did I live now? I
was aware of no body in this place, five senses no longer served me, for I
realized I did not "see" but rather depended upon a different form of
perception.

  Only seconds, breaths long, was I given; then a compelling force swept
up the consciousness which was all that remained of my identity and drew
me forward across a fantastic and awesome country.

   For country it was—! Though it was subtly wrong, my human instinct
told me. There were growing things, which did not in the least resemble
any I had ever seen, of eye-searing yellow, threatening red. These writhed
and beat upon the air as if they fought against their rooting, would be free
to do their will, and yet were anchored by another's ordering. Branches
tip-clawed the earth or swept high into the air in ceaseless movement.

   Then I was beyond them, carried so by the force which I had
momentarily surrendered to. And I put aside my preoccupation with the
strangeness of this place, to fasten inwardly, nurse my Talent with all my
strength.
   Yet must I also conceal from that which summoned me that I had that
hard core of defiance within me. For I was sure that I must not dissipate
that before I fronted the Power which ruled here.

   I had heard legends through Aufrica (though from whom she had
gained them she never said) that when the Old Ones held the Dales they
had meddled with the very stuff of life itself, and that the adepts among
them had opened "gates" which led to other dominions in which the
human was as unnatural as that which passed swiftly below me now. That
this might be such a "gate" I have begun to believe. But its guardianship
was alien.

   Here was a stretch of yellow ground unbroken by any of the monstrous
growths. Patterned deeply on its surface were many tracks and trails,
some deep-worn as well-used roads. Yet my own feet, if I still possessed
those appendages, did not seek to tread there. Rather I had the sensation
of being wafted well above that broken surface.

   Those tracks and ways converged, angling toward some point ahead.
And, as I passed on, I began to see moving figures, ones which pressed
forward step by reluctant step. Yet none was clear, but rather cloaked in
ever shifting color so that one could not define their true outlines. Some
were dully grey, one or two a deep black that reminded me of the dark
through which I had passed to reach the chamber of the flame. Others
showed as sickly green, or a sullen, blood/rust red. As I swept over them I
longed to shriek aloud my pain, for it seemed that from each there came
some thrust of despair and horror which was like the cut of a sword one
could not guard against. Thus I realized that these were victims of this
place even as I might be.

   Why I winged my way rather than trode theirs I could not guess. Unless
that which ruled here knew me for what I was and would have me quickly
within its grasp! And it was not good to think of that. I had made my
choice, and must hold firmly to my resolution.

   Thicker became the figures plodding so slowly. Now I began to believe
that their doom was deliberately prolonged by purpose, that their helpless
suffering was meat and drink to something—

  Was Jervon one of those?

  I tried to delay my own passage, hover above those misty lights which
were still substantial enough to leave tracks on the plain. But then a
second thought came to me, that in allowing myself to show interest in
any of those tormented wayfarers I could in turn betray the more plainly
what I was and why I had come.

   So I turned my new sense of perception from those travelers, and
allowed the compulsion full rein to draw me in. I came at last to where
that yellow plain gave way abruptly to a chasm.

   The walls of that were the dull red of the final wall which had guarded
the flame building, and in shape it was round. Down its sides the lights
which tracked the plain made a painful descent, now so thronged together
that their colors seemed to blend and mingle. Though I thought in truth
no entity was aware of its fellows, but only of its own sore fate.

   Down I was drawn, past those toiling victims. Once more into a pool of
dead blackness and loss of all perception. Here I began to exercise those
safeguards I had learned, seeds of which had been mine from birth. I was
myself, me, Elys—a woman, a seer, a fighter. And I must remain me and
not allow that Other to take away my oneness with myself and my past.

  Still I raised no opposition save that belief in myself which I kept within
me. At this moment I must put even Jervon from my conscious mind and
concentrate on my own personality. Instinct told me this, and for a Wise
Woman such instinct is a command.

   The dark began to thin and I could see light again. But in that sickly
yellowish glow there was nothing to be marked, save directly under me, or
that part of me which had come seeking this grim venture, a throne.

  It was fashioned of the black, the dark itself, and on it there wavered a
ruddy mist in which whirled gem-like particles.

  "Welcome."

  It was not sound which reached me, rather a vibration which
shuddered through whatever form I now wore.

  Slowly I settled down, until I fronted that towering throne and the
unstable form it contained. Very small was I, so that this was like looking
up at the face of some high Dale hill.
  "Good—"

   Again the word vibrated through me, bringing with it both pain
and—may the Power I serve forgive me—also a kind of pleasure which
defiled that which I held to be the innermost core of my being.

  "It has been long and long since this happened—"

   The glittering mist of the throne was melting, developing more of a
form.

  "Are there then again those to summon for the Gate?"

   That form leaned forward on its throne. The glitter points flowed
together, formed two discs which might serve the alien for eyes. Now those
centered upon me.

   "Where is the gift then, servant of—" The name the thing mouthed was
like a flame lapping about me, so strong was the Power that carried, even
though I was no follower of It.

  Before I could frame an answer, its shadowy head bobbed in what
might be a nod.

   "So the gift comes—yet I think it not of your devising. Think you I can
be so easily deceived?" And the form shook with what might be silent and
horrible laughter. The contempt in which it held me and all my species
was like a loathesome stench in the air of that place.

   "Your kind has served me," the vibration which was speech continued.
"Long and well have they served me. Nor have I ever withheld their
rewards. For when I feed, those feed. Behold!"

   It stretched forth an extension of the upper body which might well
serve it for arm, and then I could perceive indeed that all it had fed upon
was a part of it. But not in peace. For the torment of those it consumed
and yet nourished within its own substance was that they were conscious
of what had "happened to them, and that consciousness lasted throughout
ages without respite. While as a part of this Thing they were also forced to
feed in turn, damning themselves to further torture which was endless.

  Even as I watched one of those long appendages flickered even farther
out and returned, grasped in it a writhing core of grayness which was one
with those shapes I had watched on the plain above. This it clasped to its
body so that the gray sank into its mass and another life force was
sentenced to an existence of terror and despair.

   Seeing that, my mind stirred. Even as that rider I had seen in the valley
was a thought-form fed into life by the terror of those whose emotions
strengthened it, so was this Thing a product of similar forces.

   I had heard it said that men are apt to make their gods in their own
images, attributing to those gods their own emotions, save that those
emotions are deemed far greater than any human mind and heart can
generate. Thus this Thing might once have been born—to serve a people
whose god it was, who fed it for generations. So that at last it was no
longer dependent upon their willingly brought sacrifices, but could indeed
control mankind and so exert its own dominion.

   If that were indeed the truth, then the weapon against it was… unbelief.
Arid, in spite of the evidence of my senses, here I must bring that weapon
into being.

   The glittering eyes that were set so on me did not change and the
despair and horror which it exuded in waves wrapped me around with all
the force long generations of worship could generate within it.

   "Small creature—" again it shook with that unvoiced demonic laughter.
"I am, I exist—no matter from what small seed of thought I was born.
Look upon me!"

   Now its substance grew even thicker and it indeed formed a body. This
unclothed body was godlike in its beauty—its tainted beauty—brazenly
male. And the eyes shrank, to become normal-sized in a face whose
features were those truly of some super being without a flaw.

   Except the flaw of knowledge of what it was and from what it had
come. And that knowledge I clung to. It did not show bones and rotting
flesh, but that was its true state.

   "Look upon me!" Once more the command rang out. "Females of your
kind found me good to look upon in the old days before I grew tired of
your world, and that which closed Gates swept across the land. Look—and
come!"
    And that vile pleasure, which had troubled me before, again assailed
me. Against that I set the training of my Talent—the austerity in which we
learn to master all that which is of the body. Though I felt myself waver a
little forward, yet my determination held me fast.

  Then those perfect lips smiled—evilly.

    "You are more than I have tasted for a long time. This shall indeed be a
dainty feasting." Now it raised a fine muscled arm, beckoned to me with
its long fingers. "Come— you cannot withstand me. Come willingly and the
reward will be very great indeed."

   My thought arose in answer and I shaped the name it had given me and
with that name certain words. It was a forlorn hope. As that head tossed
back and it laughed openly, I knew how vain that hope was.

   "Names! You think that you can lay upon me your will by names! Ah,
but that which I gave you is but the name men—some men—called me. It
is not the name by which I know myself. And without that—you have no
weapon. However, this is exciting—that you dare to stand against me! I
have fed, and I have gathered strength, and I have waited for those who
closed the Gates perhaps to hunt me. But they have not come, and you,
worm thing who dares to face me—you are of such as they would not
trouble themselves to look upon, far less do you stand equal to them.

   "Only you shall give me sport, and that will be pleasant. You have come
seeking one, have you not? Others have been led by pride and kinship to
do so. They were fitly rewarded as you shall see when you join them. But
name me no names which have not power!"

   This time I did not try to answer. But feverishly I went seeking in my
memory for the smallest trace of knowledge I had. Aufrica's learning had
been shared with me to the best of her ability. We had visited certain
forgotten shrines in the old days and sometimes dared to summon
influences, long weakened by the years, which had once been dwelling in
them. Spells I knew, but before this creature such were but as the rhyming
games small children play.

   No—I would not allow room to that despair which insidiously nibbled
at my mind! What I could do I would!

  The creature on the throne laughed for the third time.
  "Very well. Struggle if you wish, worm one. It amuses me. Now—look
what comes—"

   It pointed to the left and I dared to look. There had come, very slowly,
plainly fighting the compulsion which drew it, one of those columns of
light. This one was not black, not gray, nor yet red, but a yellow which was
clear and bright. In that moment I knew that this was what this world
would see of Jervon.

   Nor did it crawl abjectly as had the one the false god had claimed in my
sight, but stood erect, as it fought against the power of the thing on the
throne.

   "Jervon!" I dared at that moment to send forth a thought-call. And
instantly and valiantly was it answered:

  "Elys!"

  But the thing who commanded here looked from one of us to the other
and smiled its evil smile.


                             5
                     Together We Stand
   "So sweet a feasting—" A tongue tip appeared between the lips of the
handsome face, swept back and forth as if indeed savoring some pleasant
taste. "You give me much, small ones—much!"

   "But not all!" I made answer. And that yellow flame which was Jervon
no longer advanced, but stood with me, as we had stood together through
the years when there was a blooding of swords and a need for defense. For
I knew that this was not all of Jervon, that still in his ensorcelled body he
held stubbornly to his identity even as I went armed behind the wall of
mine.

   That which sat enthroned leaned forward a little, its beautiful and vile
face turned to us.

  "I hunger—and I feed—so simple is it."

  It stretched out one of those seeming arms to an unnatural length,
gathering to its bosom another crawling blob. In my mind there was a
shriek of despair.

  "You see how easy it is?"

   Rather did I in turn reach with the Power for Jervon. And it was indeed
as if we now stood hand-linked before this thing that should never have
been. All the clean strength of Jervon's manhood was at war with what
abode here. And to that I joined my Power, limited as it might be. I
formed symbols and perceived them glow in the air, as if written in fire.

   But the Thing laughed and stretched out a hand of mist to sweep those
easily away.

   "Small are your gifts, female. Do you think I cannot wipe them from
sight? So and so and so—" That hand of mist moved back and forth.

  "Jervon," I sent my own message, "it feeds upon fear."

   "Yes, Elys, and upon the souls of men also." It seemed to me that his
reply was so steady it was as if I had indeed found an anchorage which I
needed.

   Twice more the creature fed upon those blobs which crawled about the
base of its throne. But always its eyes were on us. For what it waited, save
that it must have our greater fear to season its feasting, I could not guess.

  But that pause gave me time to draw in all which I knew, suspected, or
hoped might aid us. How does one kill a god?

  With unbelief, my logic told me. But here and now unbelief was nigh
impossible to summon.

   We who have been burdened with the Talent must believe, yes. For we
know well that there are presences beyond our comprehension, both good
and evil, who may be summoned by man. Though we cannot begin to
understand their true nature, limited as we are by the instincts and
emotions of our corporal bodies. I seek certain of these intangible
presences every time I exercise the Power which is mine, small that it is.
And in Jervon also there is belief—though his presences might not be
mine. For we do not all walk the same roads, though in the end those
roads must meet at a certain Gate which is the greatest of all, and beyond
which lies what we cannot begin to imagine with our earthbound minds
and hearts.

  Only to this Thing I owed no belief. I was not one who had bowed in the
courts of its temple nor sought its evil aid in any undertaking.
Therefore—for me—it was no god!

   "So do you think, female," flashed its thought back in answer. "Yet you
are of a like kind to those who gave me creation. Therefore in you lie
certain matters which I can touch."

  It was as if a slimy, rotting finger sleeked across my shrinking flesh.
And in its wake—yes—there was that in me ready to respond to that
nauseating touch. I have weaknesses as inborn as my Talent, those it could
summon into battle against me. Once more it laughed.

   "Elys———" The thought that was Jervon's overrang that laughter.
"Elys!"

   It was no more than my name, but it broke through that feeling of
abasement that anything in me could respond to this horror. I drew once
more upon logic. No man or woman is perfect. There is much lying within
us which we must look upon with cold, measuring eyes and hate. But if we
do not yield to that hatred, nor to what gave it birth, but stand aside to let
one balance the other, then we do what those trained in the Way can do to
fight that which is base. Yes, I had in me the force that could quicken
from this thing of the utter dark. But it was how I met that weakness, not
the weakness itself which counted.

   I was Elys, a Wise woman, even as Jervon had reminded me by the
speaking of my name. Therefore I was no tool of that which had led me to
this throne. I had come of my own free will in order to face it, not been
dragged by dark forces overcoming my spirit.

   "Elys—" It was the enthroned creature that uttered my name now, and
there was enticement in that naming.

   But I stood fast, summoning up all which was born of my long training
to armor me. And the beautiful head so far above me shifted a little. Now,
though keeping me still in its gaze, it also could see Jervon. It raised its
hand to beckon.
   The yellow flame which was my fulfillment in this life wavered toward
the throne. Yet it was not muddied as were those others which crawled
about us. Nor did Jervon ask aught of me in that moment, but made the
struggle his own, for I knew, without his telling, that he feared I would be
depleted should I undertake his defense as well as mine.

   Then I moved whatever form this world had left me, standing between
Jervon and the thing which reached now with its shadow hand to grasp
him.

   Once more I pronounced the name men had given him in their fear and
horror of this baneful worship. But I sent no symbols into the air for him
to sweep aside. Rather I did send a thought picture and this was of an
empty throne crumbling in long decay.

  Fear I fought, and anger I reined in, making both feed and serve me in
what I would do. This was—not!

   I could not close off that perception which assured me that it was. But I
held valiantly to the small weapon I had. I did not worship, I did not
believe, nor did Jervon. Therefore: this thing was NOT!

  Yet it was growing more and more solid even as I so denied it.
Beckoning—BEING!

  The imagination of countless generations of men had fashioned it; how
could I hope to dismantle it with only a denial?

  An empty throne—a non-being—!

   I threw all that was me, all which I sensed I drew now from Jervon with
his willing consent, into that picture. This was no god of mine, I did not
feed it—it could not exist!

   Torment indeed was that denial, for ever it called to a part of me, to
force homage and worship. Yet that I held out against. No god of mine!
There must be faith to bring a god alive, to perform deeds in his name.
Without faith there was no existence.

   I knew better than to summon the Powers I did kneel before. In this
place all worship the enthroned thing would take to itself, whether given
in its filthy name or not. No, this was the bareness of my spirit and my
belief in myself, and Jervon's belief in himself—(the which he was loosing
to me)—that mattered. I did not accept, and I refused homage because it
was—NOT!

   The thing lost its lazy assurance, its evil smile and laughter, even the
quasi-human form it had assumed to tempt me. There was nothing in the
throne place now but a ravening flame touched with the deep black of its
evil. That swept back and forth as might the head of a great serpent
elevated above a coiled body, waiting to strike.

   Its rage was that of madness. The long years it had existed had not
prepared it for this. It was here, it could seize my kind, absorb into it their
spirits.

   But could it?

   Humans contain many layers of consciousness, many emotions. Any
who deal with the Talent—and many who do not—know this. The throned
thing fed upon fear and those viler parts of us. The miserable blobs it drew
to it, which were now packed tightly around me, swaying in time to the
swaying of that flame on the throne, were dominated by the worst that
had Iain in the humanity they had once been, not the best. They had been
held prisoner by their fears and their belief, until they had been
summoned here to be delivered helplessly to their master.

  A master who could in turn not hold them unless they surrendered,
whom they had created and could now destroy—if they so willed it!

   I threw that thought afield as I might whirl about me an unsheathed
sword. If they were all lost in the depths of their foul belief then it would
avail me nothing. But if only a few could join us—only a few!

   The thing on the throne was quick. It lapped out and down, and took
with that lapping the first row of the blob things, swelling in power as it
absorbed their energy.

   "Elys—Elys—"

    Only my name, but into it Jervon put all he could to hearten and
sustain me. I was aware of a brighter burst of the clear golden flame to my
left.
    Again the false god pounced to feast. There was something too hasty in
its movements, as if time was no longer its servant, but might speedily be
its enemy. It wanted to cram itself with life force, swell its power.

   But it could not feed on unbelief. That logic I held to as one holds to a
rope which is one's only hope of aid.

  An empty throne—

   Now that rusted and diseased flame uttered a kind of shriek, or
perhaps that was not any cry but a vibration meant to shake me, loose me
from my rope of hope. It flickered out and out toward me, toward the light
which was Jervon.

  We did not believe, therefore we could not be its prey.

   I was in the dark; my perception was totally gone. I was—in… No, I
could not be within something which did not exist. I was me, Elys, and
Jervon. We were no meat for a false god whose creators were long since
dust, its temple forgotten.

   It was as if my bare body were seared by a cold so intense that it had
the same effect as fire. I was one with—no, I was not! I was Elys. And
Jervon was Jervon! I would feel him through the torture of the cold,
holding as I did to his own identity. We were ourselves and no
servants—victims—of this thing which had no place in the world. We had
no fear for it to batten on now, and those parts of us which it could
awaken, those we could control.

  There was an empty throne—there was nothingness. Nothing but Elys
and Jervon who did not believe—

   Pain, cold, pain, and still I held and now Jervon called to me and
somehow I found the strength to give to him even as earlier he had loosed
his for me. Together we stood, and because of that both of us were the
stronger, for in our union was the best part of us both—mind and spirit.

  Darkness, cold, pain—and then a sense of change, of being lost. But I
would not allow fear to stir. A god who was naught could not slay.

   I opened my eyes—for I saw with them now and not with that special
sense I had had in that other place. Before me was a column of light, but it
was wan, sinking, growing paler even in the space of a blink or two. I
moved; my body was stiff, cold, my hands and feet had no feeling in them
as I slid forward on the wide seat where I had awakened, looking about me
for something familiar and known.

  This—this was the round chamber where I had found Jervon.

  Jervon!

  Stumbling, weaving, I staggered to that other chair, fumbling with my
dagger so that I might cut the ropes which bound his stiff body. His eyes
were closed, but he had not tumbled flaccidly down as had the outlaw who
had been drained. I sawed at his hide bonds with my numb and fumbling
hands, twice dropping the blade so I had to grope for it in the half light.
For the flaming pillar in the center gave forth but little radiance
now—more like the dread glow which sometimes gathers on dead bodies.

  "Jervon!" I called to him, shook him as best I could with those blockish
hands. His body fell forward so his head rested on my shoulder and his
weight nearly bore me tumbling backward. "Jervon!"

   It seemed in that moment that I had lost. For if I alone had won out of
that evil place then there was no further hope for me.

  "Jervon!"

   There was a breath against my cheek, expelled by a moan. I gathered
him to me in a hold, which even the false god could not have broken, until
his voice came, low and with a stammering catch in it:

   "My dear lady, would you break my ribs for me—" and there was a
thread of weak laughter in that which set me laughing too, until I near
shook with the force of that reaction.

   I almost could not believe our battle won. But before us, where we
crouched together on the wide seat of that throne, the last glimmer of
light died. There was no gateway now into elsewhere. Outside the outlaws
of the Waste might be waiting, but we two had battled something greater
than any malice of theirs, and for the moment we were content.
                THE TOADS of
               GRIMMERDALE
                                    1
   The drifts of ice-crusted snow were growing both taller and wider.
Hertha stopped to catch her breath, ramming the butt of the hunting
spear she had been using as a staff into the one before her, the smooth
shaft breaking through the crust with difficulty. She frowned at the
broken hole without seeing it.

   There was a long dagger at her belt, the short hafted spear in her
mittened hand. Under her cloak she hugged to her the all too small bundle
which she had brought with her out of Horla's Hold. The other burden
which she carried lay within her, and she forced herself to face squarely
the fate that had been brought upon her.

   Now her lips finned into a line, her chin went up. Suddenly she spat
with a hiss of breath. Shame—why should she feel shame? Had Kuno
expected her to whine and wail, perhaps crawl before him so he could
"forgive" her, prove thus to his followers his greatness of spirit?

   She showed her teeth as might a cornered vixen, and aimed a harder
blow at the drift. There was no reason for her to feel shame, the burden in
her was not of wanton seeking. Such things happened in times of war. She
guessed that when matters worked so Kuno had not been backward
himself in taking a woman of the enemy.

   It remained that her noble brother had sent her forth from Horla's Hold
because she had not allowed his kitchen hags to brew some foul potion to
perhaps poison her, as well as what she bore. Had she so died he could
have piously crossed hands at the Thunderer's Altar and spoken of Fate's
will, and all would have ended neatly. In fact she might believe that
perhaps that had been his true intention.

   For a moment Hertha was startled at the grim march of her thoughts.
Kuno—Kuno was her brother! Two years ago she could not have thought
so of him or any man! When yet the war had not neared the Hold. But that
was long before she set out the Landendale. Before she knew the world as
it was and not as she had believed it.

   Hertha was glad she had been able to learn her lesson quickly. The
thin-skinned maid she had once been could not have fronted Kuno, could
not have taken this road—

   She felt the warmth of anger, a sullen, glowing anger, as heating as if
she carried a small brazier of coals under her cloak's edge. So she went on,
setting her rough boots firmly to crunch across the drift edge. Nor did she
turn to look back down at that stone-walled keep which had sheltered
those of her blood for five generations. The sun was well westward; she
must not linger on the trail. Few paths were broken now; times in number
she must halt and use the spear to sound out the footing. But it was easy
to keep in eye her landmarks of Mulma's Needle and the Wyvern's Wing.

   Hertha was sure Kuno expected her to come creeping woefully back to
accept his conditions. She smiled wryly. Kuno was so very certain of
everything. And since he had beaten off the attack of a straggling band of
the enemy trying to fight their way to the dubious safety of the coast, he
had been insufferable.

   The Dales were free in truth. But for Kuno to act as if the victories hard
won there were his alone—! It had required all the might of High Hallack,
together with strange allies from the Waste, to break the invaders, to hunt
and harry them back to the sea from which they had come. And that had
taken a score of years to do it.

   Trewsdale had escaped, not because of any virtue, but by chance.
Because fire and sword had not riven, there was no reason to cry upon
unbroken walls as gamecocks. Kuno had harried men already
three-quarters beaten.

   She reached the divide, to plod steadily on. The wind had been at work
here, and her path was free of snow. It was very old, that road, one of the
reminders to be found all across the dale land that her own people were
latecomers. Who had cut these ways for their own treading?

   The well-weathered carvings at the foot of the Wyvern's Wing could be
seen easily now. So eroded they were by time that none could trace their
meaning. But men—or intelligent beings—had shaped them to a purpose,
and that task must have been long in the doing. Hertha reached out her
mittened fingers to stroke one of the now vague curves. She did not believe
they had arty virtue in themselves, though the field workers did. But they
marked well her road.

   Down slope again from this point, and now the wind's lash did not cut
at her. Though again, snow drifted. Two tens of days yet to the feast of
Year Turn. This was the last of the Year of the Hornet, next lay the Year of
the Unicorn, which was a more fortunate sign.

   With the increase of snow, Hertha once more found the footing
dangerous. Bits of broken crust worked in over the tops of her boots, even
though she had drawn tight their top straps, and melted soddenly against
her foot sacks. She plodded on as the track entered a fringe of scrub trees.

   Evergreens, the foliage was dark in the dwindling light. But they arose
to roof over a road, keeping off the drifts. She came to a stream where ice
had bridged from one stony bank to the other. There she turned east to
gain Gunnora's Shrine.

  About its walls was a tangle of winter-killed garden. It was a low
building, and an archway faced her. No gate or door barred that and she
walked boldly in.

   Once inside the outer wall she could see windows, round as the eyes of
some great feline regarding her sleepily, flanking a door by which hung a
heavy bell-pull of wrought metal in the form of Gunnora's symbol of a
ripened grain stalk entwined with a fruit-laden branch.

   Hertha leaned her spear against the wall that her hand might be free
for a summons pull. What answered was not any peal of bell, rather an
odd, muted sound as if some one called in words she did not understand.
That, too, she accepted, though she had not been this way before, and had
only a few whispered words to send her here.

   The leaves of the door parted. Though no one stood there to give her
house greeting, Hertha took that for an invitation to enter. She moved into
gentle warmth, a fragrance of herbs and flowers, as if she had, in that
single step, passed from the sure death of midwinter into the life of spring.

   With the warmth and fragrance came a lightening of heart, so that the
taut lines in her face smoothed a little, and her aching shoulders and back
lost some of the stiffening tension.
   What light there was issued from two lamps, set on columns, one right,
one left. She was in a narrow entry, its walls painted with such colors as to
make her believe that she had truly entered a garden. Before her those
ranks of flowers rippled and she realized that there hung a curtain,
fashioned to repeat the wall design. Since there still came no greeting, she
put out her hand to the folds of the curtain.

    Before she could finger it, the length looped a side of itself, and she
came into a large room. There was a table there with a chair drawn up to
it. Before that place was set out dishes, some covered as if they held viands
which were to be kept warm, a goblet of crystal filled with a green liquid.

  "Eat—drink—" a voice sighed through the chamber.

   Startled, Hertha looked about the room, over her shoulder. No one. And
now that hunger of which she had hardly been aware awoke full force. She
dropped the spear to the floor, laid her bundle beside it, let her cloak fall
over both and sat down in the chair.

  Though she could see no one, she spoke:

   "To the giver of the feast, fair thanks. For the welcome of the gate,
gratitude. To the ruler of this house, fair fortune and bright sun on the
morrow—" The formal words rang a little hollow here. Hertha smiled at a
sudden thought.

   This was Gunnora's shrine. Would the Great Lady need the well wishing
of any mortal? Yet it seemed fitting that she make the guest speech.

   There was no answer, though she hoped for one. At last, a little
hesitatingly, she sampled the food spread before her and found it such fare
as might be on the feast table of a Dales Lord. The green drink was
refreshing, yet warming, with a subtle taste of herbs. She held it in her
mouth, trying to guess which gave it that flavor.

   When she had finished, she found that the last and largest covered
basin held warm water on the surface of which floated petals of flowers.
Flowers in the dead of winter! And beside it was a towel, so she washed
her hands, and leaned back in the chair, wondering what came next in
Gunnora's hall.

  The silence in the room seemed to grow the greater. Hertha stirred.
Surely there were priestesses at the Shrine? Some one had prepared that
meal, offered it to her with those two words. She had come here for a
purpose, and the need for action roused in her again.

   "Great Lady." Hertha arose. Since she could see no one, she would
speak to the empty room. There was a door at the other end of the
chamber but it was closed.

    "Great Lady," she began again. She had never been deeply religious,
though she kept Light Day, made the harvest sacrifices, listened
respectfully to the Mount of Astron at Morn Service. When she had been a
little maid, her foster mother had given her Gunnora's amulet and later,
according to custom, that had been laid on the house altar when: she
came to marriageable age. Of Gunnora's mysteries she knew only what she
had heard repeated woman to woman when they sat apart from the men.
For Gunnora was only for womankind and when one was carrying
ripening seed within one, then she listened—

  For the second time her words echoed. Now her feeling of impatience
changed to something else—awe, perhaps, or fear? Yet Gunnora did not
hold by the petty rules of men. It did not matter when you sought her if
you be lawful wife or not.

   As Hertha's distrust grew, the second door swung silently
open—another invitation. Leaving her cloak, bundle, spear where they lay,
the girl went on. Here the smell of flowers and herbs was stronger. Lazy
curls of scented smoke arose from two braziers standing at the head and
foot of a couch. That was set as an altar at the foot of a pillar carved with
the ripened grain, the fruited branch.

   "Rest—" the sighing voice bade. Hertha, the need for sleep suddenly as
great as her hunger had been, moved to that waiting bed, stretched out
her wearied and aching body. The curls of smoke thickened, spread over
her like a coverlet. She closed her eyes.

   She was in a place of half light in which she sensed others coming and
going, busied about tasks. But she felt alone, lost. Then one moved to her
and she saw a face she knew, though a barrier of years had half dimmed it
in her mind.

   "Elfreda!" Hertha believed she had not called that name aloud, only
thought it. But her foster mother smiled, holding out her arms in the old,
old welcome.

   "Little dove, little love—" The old words were as soothing as healing
salve laid on an angry wound.

  Tears came for Hertha had not allowed them to flow before. She wept
out sore hurt and was comforted. Then that shade who was Elfreda drew
her on, past all those about their work, into a place of light in which there
was Another. And that one Hertha could not look upon directly. But she
heard a question asked, and to that she made truthful answer.

   "No," she pressed her hands to her body, "what I carry I do not want to
lose."

  Then that brightness which was the Other grew. But there was another
question and again Hertha answered:

   "I hold two desires—that this child be mine alone, taking of no other
heritage from the manner of its begetting, and of him who forced me so.
And, second, I wish to bring to account the one who will not stand as its
father—"

   There was a long moment before the reply came. Then a spear of light
shot from the center core of the radiance traced a symbol before Hertha.
Though she had no training in the Mysteries, yet this was plain for her
reading.

  Her first prayer would be answered. The coming child would be only of
her, taking naught from her ravisher. The destiny for it was auspicious.
Then, though she waited, there was no second answer. The great One—was
gone! Elfreda was still with her, and Hertha turned to her quickly:

   "What of my need for justice?"

    "Vengeance is not of the Lady." Elfreda shook her veiled head. "She is
life, not death. Since you have chosen to give life, she will aid you in that.
For the rest—you must walk another road. But—do not take it, my
love—for out of darkness comes even greater dark."

   Then Hertha lost Elfreda also and there was nothing, only the memory
of what happened in that place. So she fell into deeper slumber where no
dreams walked.
   She awoke, how much later she never knew. She was renewed in mind
and body, feeling as if some leachcraft had been at work during her rest,
banishing all ills. There was no more smoke rising from the braziers; the
scent of flowers was faint.

   When she arose from the couch, she knelt before the pillar, bowing her
head, giving thanks. Yet still in her worked her second desire, in nowise
lessened by Elfreda's warning.

   In the outer room there was again food and drink waiting. And she ate
and drank before she went forth from Gunnora's house. There was no kin
far or near she might take refuge with. Kuno had made loud her shame
when he sent her forth. She had a few bits of jewelry, none of worth, sewn
into her girdle, some pieces of trade money. Beyond that she had only a
housewife's skills, and those not of the common sort, rather the distilling
of herbs, the making of ointments, the fine sewing of a lady's teaching. She
could read, write, sing a stave— none of these arts conducive to the
earning of one's bread.

   Yet her spirit refused to be darkened by hard facts. From her waking
that sense of things about to come right held, and she thought it best that
she limit the future to one day ahead at a time.

   In the direction she now faced lay two holdings. Nordendale was the
first. It was small and perhaps in a state of disorder. The lord of the dale
and his heir had both fallen at the battle of Ruther's Pass two years gone.
Who kept order there now, if there were any who ruled, she did not know.
Beyond that lay Grimmerdale.

   Grimmerdale! Hertha set down the goblet from which she had drained
the last drop. Grimmerdale—

   Just as the shrine of Gunnora was among the heights near the ancient
road, so did Grimmerdale have a place of mystery. But no kind and
welcoming one if rumor spoke true. Not of her race at all, but one as old as
the ridge road. In fact, perhaps that road had first been cut to run there.

   Hertha tried to recall all she had heard of Grimmerdale. Somewhere in
the heights lay the Circle of the Toads. Men had gone there, asked for
certain things. By report they had received all they asked for. What had
Elfreda warned? That Gunnora did not grant death—that one must follow
another path to find that. Grimmerdale might be the answer.
  She looked about her, almost in challenge, half expecting to feel
condemnation in the air of the room. But there was nothing.

  "For the feast, my thanks," she spoke the guesting words, "for the roof,
my blessing, for the future all good, as I take my road again."

   She fastened her cloak, drew the hood over her head. Then with bundle
in one hand and spear in the other, went out into the light of day, her face
to the ridges behind which lay Grimmerdale.

   On the final slope above Nordendale, she paused in the afternoon to
study the small settlement below. It was inhabited, there was a curl of
smoke from more than: one chimney, the marks of sleds, of footprints in
the snow. But the tower keep showed no such signs of life.

   How far ahead still lay Grimmerdale she had no knowledge, and night
came early in the winter. One of those cottages below was larger than the
rest. Nordendale had once been a regular halt for herdsmen! with wool
from mountain sheep on their way to the market at Komm High. That
market was of the past, but the inn might still abide, at least be willing to
give her shelter.

    She was breathing hard by the time she trudged into the slush of the
road below. But she had been right, over the door of the largest cottage
hung a wind-battered board, its painted device long weathered away, but
still proclaiming this an inn. She made for that, passing a couple of men
on the way. They stared at her as if she were a fire-drake or wyvern.
Strangers must be few in Nordendale.

   The smell of food, sour village ale and too many people too long in an
unaired space was like a smothering fog as she came into the common
room. There was a wide hearth at one end, large enough to take a
good-sized log, and fire burned there, giving off a goodly heat.

   A trestle table with flanking benches, and a smaller one stacked with
tankards, settles by the hearth, were the only furnishings. As Hertha
entered, a wench in a stained smock and kirtle, two men on a hearth settle
turned and stared with the same astonishment she had seen without.

  She pushed back her hood and looked back at them with that belief in
herself which was her heritage.
  "Good fortune to this house."

   For a moment they made no answer at all, seemingly too taken back at
seeing a stranger to speak. Then the maid servant came forward, wiping
her hands on her already well bespattered apron.

   "Good fortune—" Her eyes were busy taking in the fine material of
Hertha's cloak, her air of ease. She added quickly—"Lady. How may we
serve you?"

  "With food—a bed—if such you have."

   "Food—food we have, but it be plain, coarse feeding, lady," the girl
stammered. "Let me but call mistress—"

   She ran to an inner door, bolting through it as if Hertha were minded
to pursue her.

   She rather laid aside her spear and bundle, threw back the edges of her
cloak and went to stand before the hearth, pulling with her teeth at mitten
fastenings, to bare her chilled hands. The men hunched away along the
settle, mum-mouthed and still staring.

   Hertha had thought her clothing plain. She wore one of the divided
riding skirts, cut shorter for scrambling up and down hills—and it was
now shabby and much worn, yet very serviceable. There was an
embroidered edge on her jerkin, but no wider than some farm daughter
might have. And her hair was tight braided, with no band of ribbon or
silver to hold it so. Yet she might be clad in some festival finery the way
they looked upon her. She stood as impassive as she could under their
stares.

  A woman wearing the close coif of a matron, a loose shawl about her
bent shoulders, a kirtle, but little cleaner than the maid's, looped up about
her wide hips and thick thighs, bustled in.

   "Welcome, my lady. Thrice welcome! Up you, Henkin, Fim, let the lady
to the fire!" The men pushed away in a hurry at her ordering.

  "Malka says you would bide the night. This roof is honored."

  "I give thanks."
  "Your man—outside? We have stabling—"

  Hertha shook her head, "I journey alone and on foot." At the look on the
woman's face she added, "In these days we take what fortune offers, we do
not always please ourselves."

  "Alas, lady, that is true speaking if such ever came to ear! Sit you
down!" She jerked off her shawl and used it to dust along the settle.

   Later, in a bed spread with coverings fire warmed, in a room which
manifestly had been shut up for some time, Hertha lay in what comfort
such a place could offer and mused over what she had learned from her
hostess.

   As she had heard, Nordendale had fallen on dreary times. Along with
their lord and his heir, most of their able-bodied men had been slain.
Those who survived and drifted back lacked leadership and had done little
to restore what had been a prosperous village. There were very few
travelers along the road; she had been the first since winter closed in.
Things were supposed to be somewhat better in the east and south and
her tale of going to kinsmen there had seemed plausible to those below.

   Better still she had news of Grimmerdale. There was another inn there,
a larger place, with more patronage, which the mistress here spoke of
wistfully. An east-west road, now seeing much travel with levies going
home, ran there. But the innkeeper had a wife who could not keep serving
maids, being of jealous nature.

   Of the Toads she dared not ask, and no one had volunteered such
information, save that the mistress here had warned against the taking
farther of the Old Road, saying it was better to keep to the highway,
though she admitted that was also dangerous and it was well to be ready
to take to the brush at the sighting of some travelers.

  As yet Hertha had no more than the faint stirrings of a plan. But she
was content to wait before she shaped it more firmly.


                                     2
  The inn room was long but low, the crossbeams of its ceiling not far
above the crown of a tall man's head. There were smoking oil lamps
hanging on chains from those beams. But the light those gave was both
murky and limited. Only at the far corner where a carven screen afforded
some privacy were there tallow candles set out on a table. The odor of
their burning added to the general smell of the room.

   The room was crowded enough to loosen the thin-lipped mouth of
Uletka Rory as her small eyes darted hither and yon, missing no detail of
service or lack of service, as her two laboring slaves limped and scuttled
between benches and stools. She herself waited upon the candlelit table, a
mark of favor. She knew high blood when she saw it.

   Not that in this case she was altogether right, in spite of her years of
dealing with travelers. One of the men there, yes, was the younger son of a
dale lord. But his family holding had long since vanished in the red tide of
war, and no one was left in Corriedale to name him master. One had been
Master of Archers for another lord, promoted hurriedly after three better
men had been killed. The third, well, he was not one who talked, and
neither of his present companions knew his past.

   Of the three he was the middle in age. Though that, too, could not be
easily guessed, since he was one of those lean, spare-framed men who once
they begin to sprout beard hair can be any age from youth to middle
years. Not that he went bearded now—his chin and jaws were as smooth
as if he had scraped them within the hour, displaying along the jawline
the seam of a scar which drew a little at one lip corner.

  He wore his hair cropped closer than most, also, perhaps because of the
heavy helm now planted on the table at his right hand. That was battered
enough to have served through the war. The crest it had once mounted
was splintered down to a meaningless knob, though the protective bowl
was unbreached.

   His mail shirt, under a scuffed and worn tabbard, was whole. The plain
hilted sword in his belt sheath, the war bow now resting against the wall
at his back, were the well kept tools of a professional. But if he was
mercenary he had not been successful lately. He wore none of those fine
buckles or studs which could be easily snapped off to pay for food or
lodging. Only when he put out his hand to take up his tankard did the
candlelight glint on something which was not dull steel or leather. For the
bowguard on his wrist was true treasure, a wide band of cunningly
wrought gold set with small colored stones, though the pattern of that
design was so complicated that to make anything of it required close
study.

   He sat now sober faced, as if he were deep in thought, his eyes half
veiled by heavy lids. But he was in truth listening, not so much to the
half-drunken mumblings of his companions, but to words arising here and
there in the common room.

   Most of those gathered there were either workers on the land come in
to nurse an earthen mug of home-brewed barley beer and exchange
grumbles with their fellows or else drifting men-at-arms seeking
employment, with their lords dead or ruined so that they had to release
the men of their levies. The war was over, these were the victors. But the
land they turned to was barren, largely devastated, and it would,take
much time and energy to win back prosperity for High Hallack.

   What the invaders from overseas had not early raped, looted for
shiploads sent back to their own lands, they had destroyed in a frenzy
when the tide of war began to wash them away. He had been with the war
bands in the smoking port, sent to mop up desperate enemies who had
fallen back too late to find their companions had taken off in the last
ships, leaving them to be ground between the men of the dales and the
sullen sea itself.

   The smoke of the port had risen from piles of supplies set burning, oil
poured over them and torches applied to the spoilage. The stench of it had
been near enough to kill a man. Having stripped the country bare, and
this being the midwinter, the enemy had made a last defiant gesture with
that great fire. It would be a long cold line of days before the coming of
summer, and even then men would go pinched of belly until harvest
time—if they could find enough grain to plant, if sheep still roamed the
upper dales, or cattle, wild now, found forage in the edges of the Waste—to
make a beginning of new flocks and herds.

   There were many dales swept clean of people. The men were dead in
battle, the women either fled inland if they were lucky, or else slaved for
the invaders overseas—or were dead also. Perhaps those were the luckiest
of all. Yes, there had been a great shaking and leveling, sorting and
spilling.

   He had put down the tankard. Now his other hand went to that
bowguard, turning it about, though he did not look down at it, but rather
stared at the screen and listened.
   In such a time a man with boldness, and a plan, could begin' a new life.
That was what had brought him inland, kept him from taking service with
Fritigen of Summersdale. Who would be Master of Archers when he could
be more, much more?

    The invaders had not reached this Grimmerdale, but there were other
lands beyond with darker luck. He was going to find one of those—one
where there was no lord left to sound the war horn. If there were a lady
trying to hold a heritage, well, that might even fit well with his ambitions.
Now his tongue showed for an instant on his lower lip, flicking across as if
he savored in anticipation some dish which pleased him. He did not
altogether believe in an override of good or ill fortune. In his calculations a
man mostly made his own luck by knowing what he wanted and bending
all his actions toward that end. But he had a feeling that this was the time
when he must move if he were ever to bring to truth the dream which had
lain in him since early boyhood.

   He, Trystan out of nowhere, was going to end Lord Trystan of some not
inconsiderable stretch of land—with a keep for his home and a dale under
his rule. And the time to move was here and now.

   "Fill!" His near companion, young Urre, pounded his tankard on the
tabletop so that one of the candles shook, spattering hot grease. He
bellowed an oath and threw his empty pot beyond the screen to clatter
across the flagstones.

   The lame pot boy stooped to pick it up, casting a frightened look at
Urre and a second at his scowling mistress who was already on her way
with a tray of freshly filled tankards. Trystan pushed back from the table.
They were following a path he had seen too many nights. Urre would drink
himself sodden, sick not only with the rank stuff they called drink back
here in the hills, but also with his life, wherein he could only bewail what
he had lost, taking no thought of what might be gained.

   Onsway would listen attentively to his mumbling, willing to play liege
mart as long as Urre's money lasted or he could use his kin ties to win
them food and lodging at some keep. When Urre made a final sot of
himself, Onsway would no longer wallow in the sty beside him. While he,
himself, thought it time now to cut the thread which had brought them
this far in uneasy company. Neither had anything to give, and he knew
now that traveling longer with them he would not do.
   But he was not minded to quit this inn soon. Its position on the
highway was such that a man could pick up a wealth of information by
just sitting and listening. Also—here he had already picked out two likely
prospects for his own purposes. The money pouch at his belt was flat
enough, he could not afford to spin a coin before the dazzled eyes of an
archer or pike man and offer employment.

   However, there were men like himself to be found, rootless man who
wanted roots in better circumstances than they had known, men who
could see the advantage of service under a rising man with opportunities
for rising, too, in his wake. One did not need a large war band to overawe
masterless peasants. Half a dozen well armed and experienced fighting
men at his back, a dale without a lord, and he would be in!

   Excitement awoke in him as it did every time his plan reached that
place in his thoughts. But he had learned long since to keep a tight rein on
his emotions. He was a controlled man, abstemious to a degree
astounding among his fellows, though he did what he could to conceal that
difference. He could loot, he could whore, he could kill—and he had—but
always calculatingly.

   I'm for bed." He arose and reached for his bow. "The road this day was
long—"

   Urre might not have heard him at all; his attention was fixed on the
tray of tankards. Onsway nodded absently; he was watching Urre as he
always did. But the mistress was alert to the hint of more profit.

  "Bed, good master? Three bits—and a fire on the hearth, too."

   "Good enough." He nodded, and she screeched for the pot boy who
came at a limping waddle, wiping his grimed hands on the black rags of
an apron knotted about him.

   It seemed that while the inn gave the impression of space below, on the
second floor it was much more cramped. At least the room into which
Trystan tramped was a narrow slit of space with a single window covered
by a shutter heavily barred. There was a litter of dried rushes on the floor
and a rough bed frame on which lay a pile of bedding as if tossed. The
hearth fire promised did not exist. But there was a legged brazier with
some glowing coals which gave off a little heat, and a stool beside a
warp-sided chest which did service as a table. The pot boy set the candle
down on that and was ready to scuttle away when Trystan, who had gone
to the window, hailed him.

   "What manner of siege have you had here, boy? This shutter has been
so long barred it is rusted tight."

   The boy cringed back against the edge of the door, his slack mouth
hanging open. He was an ugly lout, and looked half-witted into the
bargain, Trystan thought, surely there was something more than just
stupidity in his face, when he looked to the window there was surely fear
also.

   "Thhheee tooods—" His speech was thick. He had lifted his hands
breast high, was clasping them so tightly together that his knuckles stood
out as bony knobs.

  Trystan had heard the enemy called many things, but never toads, nor
had he believed they had raided Grimmerdale.

   "Toads?" He made a question of the word. The boy turned his head
away so that he looked neither to the window nor Trystan. It was very
evident he planned escape. The man crossed the narrow room with an
effortless and noiseless stride, caught him by the shoulder. "What manner
of toads?" He shook the boy slightly. "Toodss—Thhheee toods—" The boy
seemed to think Trystan should know of what he spoke. "They—that sit
'mong the Standing Stones—that what do men evil." His voice, while thick
no longer sputtered so. "All men know the Toods o' Grimmerdale!" Then,
with a twist which showed he had had long experience in escaping, he
broke from Trystan's hold and was gone. The man did not pursue him.

  Rather he stood frowning in the light of the single candle. Toads—and
Grimmerdale—together they had a faintly familiar sound. Now he set
memory to work. Toads and Grimmerdale—what did he know of either?

   The dale was of importance, more so now than in the days before the
war when men favored a more southern route to the port. That highway
had fallen almost at once into invader hands, and they had kept it fortified
and patrolled. The answer then had been this secondary road, which
heretofore had been used mainly by shepherds and herdsmen. Three
different trails from up country united at the western mouth of
Grimmerdale.
   However had he not once heard of yet a fourth way, one which ran the
ridges, yet was mainly shunned, a very old way, antedating the coming of
his own people? Now—he nodded as memory supplied answers. The Toads
of Grimmerdale! One of the many stories about the remnants of those
other people, or things, which had already mostly faded from this land so
that the coming of man did not dislodge them, for the land had been
largely deserted before the first settlement ship arrived.

   Still there were places in plenty where certain powers and presences
were felt this day, where things could be invoked—by men who were
crazed enough to summon them. Had the lords of High Hallack not been
driven at the last to make such a bargain with the unknown when they
signed the solemn treaty with the Were Riders? All men knew that it had
been the aid of those strange outlanders which had broken the invaders at
the last.

  Some of the presences were beneficial, others neutral, the third
dangerous. Perhaps not actively so in these days. Men were not hunted,
harried or attacked by them. But they had their own places, and the man
who was rash enough to trespass there did so at risk.

  Among such were the Standing Stones of the Toads of Grimmerdale.
The story went that they would answer appeals, but that the manner of
answer sometimes did not please the petitioner. For years now men had
avoided their place.

   But why a shuttered window? If, as according to legend the toads
(people were not sure now if they really were toads) did not roam from
their portion of the Dale, had they once? Making it necessary to bolt and
bar against them? And why a second-story window in this fusty room?

    Moved by a curiosity he did not wholly understand, Trystan drew his
belt knife, pried at the fastenings. They were deeply bitten with rust, and
he was sure that this had not been opened night or day for years. At last
they yielded to his efforts; he was now stubborn about it, somehow even a
little angry.

   Even though he was at last able to withdraw the bar, he had a second
struggle with the warped wood, finally using sword point to lever it. The
shutters grated open, the chill of the night entered, making him aware at
once of how very odorous and sour was the fog within.
   Trystan looked out upon snow and a straggle of dark trees, with the
upslope of the dale wall beyond. There were no other buildings set between
the inn and that rise. And the thick vegetation showing dark above the
sweep of white on the ground suggested that the land was uncultivated.
The trees there were not tall, it was mainly brush alone, and he did not
like it.

   His war-trained instincts saw there a menace. Any enemy could creep
in its cover to within a spear cast of the inn. Yet perhaps those of
Grimmerdale did not have such fears and so saw no reason to grub out
and burn bare.

   The slope began gradually and shortly the tangled growth thinned out,
as if someone had there taken the precautions Trystan thought right.
Above was smooth snow, very white and unbroken in the moonlight. Then
came outcrops of rock. But after he had studied those with an eye taught
to take quick inventory of a countryside, he was sure they were not natural
formations but had been set with a purpose.

    They did not form a connected wall. There were wide spaces between as
if they had served as posts for some stringing of fence. Yet for that purpose
they were extra thick.

   And that first row led to a series of five such lines, though more
distantly they were close together. Trystan was aware of two things. One,
bright as the moon was, it did not, he was sure, account for all the light
among the stones. There was a radiance which seemed to rise either from
them, or the ground about them. Second, no snow lay on the land from the
point where the lines of rock pillar began. Above the stones also there was
a misting, as if something there bewildered or hindered clear sight.

   Trystan blinked, rubbed his hand across his eyes, looked again. The
clouding was more pronounced when he did so, as if whatever lay there
increased the longer he watched it.

   That this was not of human Grimmerdale he was certain. It had all
signs of being one of those strange places where old powers lingered. And
that this was the refuge or stronghold of the "toads" he was now sure. That
the shutter had been bolted against the weird sight he could also
understand, and he rammed and pounded the warped wood back into
place, though he could not reset the bar he had levered out.
   Slowly he put aside mail and outer clothing, laying it across the chest.
He spread out the bedding over the hide webbing. Surprisingly the rough
sheets and the two woven covers were clean. They even (now that he had
drawn lungfuls of fresh air to awaken his sense of smell) were fragrant
with some kind of herb.

  Trystan stretched out, pulled the covers about his ears, drowsy and
content, willing himself to sleep.

   He awoke to a clatter at the door. At first he frowned up at the
cobwebbed rafters above. What had he dreamed? Deep in his mind there
was a troubled feeling, a sense that a message of some importance had
been lost. He shook his head against such fancies and padded to the door,
opened it for the entrance of the elder serving man, a dour-faced,
skeleton-thin fellow who was more cleanly of person than the pot boy. He
carried a covered kettle which he put down oil the chest before he spoke.

   "Water for washing, master. There be grain-mush, pig cheek and ale
below."

   "Well enough." Trystan slid the lid off the pot. Steam curled up. He had
not expected this small luxury and he took its arrival as an omen of
fortune for the day.

   Below, the long room was empty. The lame boy was washing off
tabletops, splashing water on the floor in great scummy drollops. His
mistress stood, hands on her hips, her elbows outspread like crooked
wings, her sharp chin with its two haired warts outthrust as a spear to
threaten the other woman before her, well cloaked against the outside
winter, but with her hood thrown back to expose her face.

   That face was thin with sharp features which were lacking in any claim
to comeliness since the stretched skin was mottled with unsightly brown
patches. But her cloak, Trystan saw, was good wool, certainly not that of a
peasant wench. She carried a bundle in one hand, and in the other was a
short-hafted hunting spear, its butt scarred as if it had served her more as
a journey staff than a weapon.

   "Well enough, wench. But here you work for the food in your mouth, the
clothing on your back." The mistress shot a single glance at Trystan before
she centered her attention once more on the girl.
   Girl, Trystan thought she was. Though by the Favor of Likerwolf
certainly her face was not that of a dewy maid, being rather enough to
turn a man's thoughts more quickly to other things when he looked upon
her.

  "Put your gear on the shelf yonder," the mistress said. 'Then to work, if
you speak the truth on wanting that."

  She did not watch to see her orders obeyed, but came to the table
where Trystan had seated himself.

   "Grain-mush, master. And a slicing of pig jowl—ale fresh drawn—"

  He nodded, sitting much as he had the night before, fingering the finely
wrought guard about his wrist, his eyes hall closed as if he were still
wearied, or else turned his thoughts on things not about him.

    The mistress stumped away. But he was not aware she had returned,
until someone slid a tray onto the tabletop. It was the girl. Her shrouding
of cloak was gone, so that the tight bodices, the pleated skirt could be
seen. And he was right, she did not wear peasant clothes. That was a skirt
divided for riding, though it had now been shortened enough to show
boots, scuffed and worn, straw protruding from their tops. Her figure was
thin, yet shapely enough to make a man wonder at the fate which wedded
it to that horror of a face. She did not need her spear for protection, all she
need do was show her face to any would-be ravisher and she would be as
safe as the statue of Gunnora the farmers carried through their fields at
first sowing.

   "Your food, master." She was deft, far more so than the mistress, as she
slid the platter of crisp browned mush, the pink sliced thin meat, onto the
board.

   "Thanks given," Trystan found himself making civil answer as he might
in some keep were one of the damsels there noticing him in courtesy.

   He reached for the tankard and at that moment saw her head sway, her
eyes wide open rested on his hand. He thought, with a start of surprise,
that her interest was no slight one. But when he looked again, she was
moving away, her eyes downcast as any proper serving wench.

   "There will be more, master?" she asked Vol a colorless voice. But her
voice also betrayed her. No girl save one hold bred would have such an
accent.

   There had been many upsets in the dales. What was it to him if some
keep woman had been flung out of her soft nest to tramp the roads, serve
in an inn for bread and a roof? With her face she could not hope to catch a
man to fend for her—unless he be struck blind before their meeting.

   "No," he told her. She walked away with the light and soundless step
which might have equaled a forest hunter's, the grace of one who sat at
high tables by right of blood.

   Well, he, too, would sit at a high table come next year's end. Of that he
was certain as if it had been laid upon him by some Power Master as an
unbreakable geas. But it would be because of his own two hands, the
cunning of his mind. As such his rise would be worth more than blood
right. She had come down, he would go up. Seeing her made him just
more confident of the need for moving on with his plan.


                                     3
   The road along the ridges was even harder footing after Nordendale,
Hertha discovered. There were gaps where landslides had cut away
sections, making the going very slow. However she kept on, certain this
was the only way to approach what she sought.

   As she climbed and slid, with caution, even in places had to leap
recklessly with her spear as a vaulting pole, she considered what might lie
ahead. In seeking Gunnora she had kept to the beliefs of her people. But if
she continued to the shrine of the Toads she turned her back on what
safety she knew.

   Around her neck was hung a small bag of grain and dried herbs,
Gunnora's talisman for home and hearth. Another such was sewn into the
breast of her undersmock. And in the straw which lined each boot were
other leaves with their protection for the wayfarer. Before she had set out
on this journey she had marshaled all she knew of protective charms. But
whether such held against alien powers, she could not tell. To each race its
own magic. The Old Ones were not men and their beliefs and customs
must have been far different. That being so, did she now tempt great evil?
   Always when she reached that point she remembered. And memory was
as sharp as any spur on a rider's heel. She had been going to the abbey in
Lethendale, Kuno having suggested it. Perhaps that was why he had
turned from her, feeling guilt in the matter.

   Going to Lethendale, she must ever remember how that journey was,
every dark part of it. For if she did not hold that in mind, then she would
lose the booster of anger for her courage. A small party because Kuno was
sure there was naught to fear from the fleeing invaders. But after all it was
not the invaders she had had to fear.

   There had come a rain of arrows out of nowhere. She could hear yet the
bubbling cry of young Jannesk as he fell from the saddle with one through
his throat. They had not even seen the attackers, and all the men had been
shot down in moments. She had urged her mount on, only to have him
entangle feet in a trip rope. She could remember only flying over his head
thereafter—

    She awoke in the dark, her hands tied, looking out into a clearing where
a fire burned between rocks. Men sat about it tearing at chunks of
half-roasted meat. Those had been the invaders. And she had lain cold,
knowing well what they meant for her when they had satisfied one
appetite and were ready—

   They had come to her at last. Even with tied hands she had fought. So
they had laughed and cuffed her among them, tearing at her garments
and handling her shamefully, though they did not have time for the last
insult and degradation of all. No, that was left for some—some man of her
own people!

  Thinking on it now made rage rise to warm her even though the sun
had withdrawn from this slope and there was a chill rising wind.

   For the ambushers had been attacked in turn, fell under spear and
arrow out of the dark. Half conscious, she had been left lying until a harsh
weight on her, hard, bruising hands brought her back to terror and pain.

   She had never seen his face, but she had seen (and it was branded on
her memory for all time) the bowguard encircling the wrist tightened as a
bar across her throat to choke her unconscious. When she had once more
stirred she was alone.
   Someone had thrown a cloak over her nakedness. There was a horse
nearby. There was for the rest only dead men under a falling snow. She
never understood why they had not killed her and been done with it.
Perhaps in that little skirmish her attacker had been overridden by his
companions. But at the time she had been sorely tempted to lie where she
was and let the cold put an end to her. Only the return of that temper
which was her heritage roused her. Somewhere living was the man who
should have been her savior and instead had rift from her what was to be
given only as a free gift. To bring him down, for that she would live.

   Later, when she found she carried new life, yes, she had been! tempted
again—to do as they urged, rid herself of that. In the end she could not.
For though part of the child was of evil, yet a part was hers. Then she
recalled Gunnora and the magic which could aid. So she had withstood
Kuno's urging, even his brutal anger.

   She held to two things with all the stubborn strength she could
muster—that she would bear this child which must be hers only, and that
she would have justice on the man who would never in truth be its father.
The first part of her desire Gunnora had given, now she went for answer to
the second.

   At last night came and she found a place among the rocks where she
could creep in, the stone walls giving refuge from the wind, a carpet of
dried leaves to blanket her. She must have slept, for when she roused she
was not sure where she was. Then she was aware of the influence which
must have brought her awake. There was an uneasiness in the very air
about her, a tension as if she stood on the verge of some great event.

   With the spear as her staff, Hertha came farther into the open. The
moon showed her unmarked snow ahead, made dark pits of her own
tracks leading here. With it for a light she started on.

   A wan radiance, having no light of fire, shone in the distance. It came
from no torch either, she was sure. But it might well mark what she
sought.

  Here the Old Road was unbroken, though narrow. She prodded the
snow ahead, lest there be some hidden crevice. But she hurried as if to
some important meeting.

  Tall shapes arose, stones set on end in rows. For the outer lines there
were wide spaces between, but the inner ones were placed closer and
closer together. She followed a road cut straight between these pillars.

   On the crest of each rested a small cone of light, as if these were not
rocks but giant candles to light her way. And the light was cold instead of
warm, blue instead of orange-red as true flame. Also here the moonlight
was gone, so that even though there was no roof she could see, yet it was
shut away.

   Three stone rows she passed, then four more, each with the stones
closer together, so that the seventh brought them touching to form a wall.
The road dwindled to a path which led through a gate therein.

    Hertha knew that even had she wanted to retreat, now she could not. It
was as if her feet were held to the path and that moved, bearing her with
it.

   So she came into a hexagon-shaped space within the wall. There was a
low curbing of stone to fence off the centermost portion and in each angle
blazed a flame at ground level. But she could go no farther, just as she
could not draw away.

   Within the walled area were five blocks of green stone. Those glistened
in the weird light as if they were carved of polished gems. Their tops had
been squared off to give seating for those who awaited her.

   What she had expected Hertha was not sure. But what she saw was so
alien to all she knew that she did not even! feel fear, but rather wonder
that such could exist in a world where men also walked. Now she could
understand why these bore the name of toads, for that was the closest
mankind could come in descriptive comparison.

   Whether they went on two limbs or four, she could not be sure the way
they hunched upon their blocks. But they were no toads in spite of their
resemblance. Their bodies were bloated of paunch, the four limbs
seemingly too slender beside that heaviness. Their heads sat upon narrow
shoulders with no division of neck. And those heads were massive, with
large golden eyes high on their hairless skulls, noses which were slits only,
and wide mouths stretching above only a vestige of chin.

  "Welcome, Seeker—"
   The words rang in her head, not her ears. Nor could she tell which of
the creatures spoke then.

  Now that Hertha had reached her goal she found no words, she was too
bemused by the sight of those she had sought. Yet it seemed that she did
not have to explain, for the mind speech continued:

   "You have come seeking our aid. What would you, daughter of men,
lose that which weighs your body?"

  At that Hertha found her tongue to speak.

   "Not so. Though the seed in me was planted not by lawful custom, but
in pain and torment of mind and body, yet will I retain it. I shall bear a
child who shall be mine alone, as Gunnora has answered my prayers."

  "Then what seek you here?"

  "Justice! Justice upon him who took me by force and in shame!"

   "Why think you, daughter of men, that you and your matters mean
aught to us who were great in this land before your feeble kind came, and
who will continue to abide even after man is again gone? What have we to
do with you?"

  "I do not know. Only I have listened to old tales, and I have come."

   She had an! odd sensation then. If one could sense laughter, she was
feeling it. They were amused, and, knowing that, she lost some of her
assurance.

   Again a surge of amusement, and then a feeling as if they had
withdrawn, conferred among themselves. Hertha would have fled but she
could not. And she was afraid as she had not been since she faced horror
on the road to Lethendale.

  "Upon whom ask you justice, daughter of men? What is his name,
where lies he this night?"

   She answered with the truth. "I know neither. I have not even seen his
face. Yet—" she forgot her fear, knew only that hate which goaded her on,
"I have that which shall make him known to me. And I may find him here
in Grimmerdale since many men now pass along this road, the war being
ended."

  Again that withdrawal. Then another question.

  "Do you not know that services such as ours do not come without
payment? What have you to offer us in return, daughter of men?"

  Hertha was startled. She had never really thought past making her plea
here. That she had been so stupid amazed her. Of course there would be
payment! Instinctively she dropped her bundle, clasped her hands in
guard over where the child lay.

  Amusement once more.

   "Nay, daughter of men. From Gunnora you have claimed that life, nor
do we want it. But justice can serve us, too. We will give you the key to
that which you wish, and the end will be ours. To this do you agree?"

  "I do." Though she did not quite understand.

   "Look you—there!" One of the beings raised a forefoot and pointed over
her shoulder. Hertha turned her head. There was a small glowing spot on
the surface of the stone pillar. She put out her hand and at her touch a bit
of stone loosened so she held a small pebble.

   "Take that, daughter of men. When you find him you seek, see it lies in
his bed at the coming of night. Then your justice will fall upon him—here!
And so you will not forget, nor think again and change your mind, we shall
set a reminder where you will see it each time you look into your mirror."

   Again the being pointed, this time at Hertha. From the forelimb curled
a thin line of vapor. That curdled to form a ball which flew at her. Though
she flinched and tried to duck, it broke against her face with a tingling
feeling which lasted only for a second.

  "You will wear that until he comes hither, daughter of men. So will you
remember your bargain."

   What happened then she was not sure, it was all confused. When she
was clearheaded again dawn was breaking and she clawed her way out of
the leaf-carpeted crevice. Was it all a dream? No, her fingers were tight
about something, cramped and in pain from that hold. She looked down
at a pebble of green-gray stone. So in truth she had met the Toads of
Grimmerdale.

   Grimmerdale itself lay spread before her, easy to see in the gathering
light. The lord's castle was on the farther slope, the village and inn by the
highway. And it was the inn she must reach.

   Early as it was there were signs of life about the place. A man went to
the stable without noticing her as she entered the courtyard. She
advanced to the half-open door, determined to strike some bargain for
work with the mistress, no matter how difficult the woman was reputed to
be.

  The great room was empty when she entered. But moments later a
woman with a forbidding face stumped in. Hertha went directly to her.
The woman stared at her and then grinned, maliciously.

    "You've no face to make trouble, wench, one can be certain of that," she
said when Hertha asked for work. "And it is true that an extra pair of
hands is wanted. Not that we have a purse so fat we can toss away
silver—"

   As she spoke a man came down the steep inner stair, crossed to sit at a
table half screened from the rest. It was almost as if his arrival turned the
scales in Hertha's favor. For she was told to put aside her bundle and get
to work. So it was she who took the food tray to where he sat.

   He was tall, taller than Kuno, with well set, wide shoulders. And there
was a sword by his side, plain hiked, in a worn scabbard. His features
were sharp, his face thin, as if he might have gone on short rations too
often in the past. Black hair peaked on his forehead and she could not
guess his age, though she thought he might be young.

  But it was when she put down her tray and he reached out for an eating
knife that it seemed the world stopped for an instant. She saw the
bowguard on his wrist. And her whole existence narrowed to that metal
band. Some primitive instinct of safety closed about her, she was sure she
had not betrayed herself.

   As she turned from the table she wondered if this was by the power of
the Toads, that they had brought her prey to her hand so. What had they
bade her—to see that the pebble was in his bed. This was early morn, and
he had just risen; what if he meant not to stay another night, but would
push on? How could she then carry out their orders? Unless she followed
after, somehow crept upon him at nightfall.

   At any rate he seemed in no hurry to be up and off if that was his
purpose. Finally, with relief, she heard him bargain with the mistress for a
second night's stay. She found an excuse to go above, carrying fresh
bedding for a second room to be made ready. And as she went down the
narrow hall she wondered how best she could discover which room was
his.

  So intent was she upon this problem that she was not aware of someone
behind her, until an ungentle hand fell on her shoulder and she was jerked
about.

   "Now here's a new one—" The voice was brash and young. Hertha
looked at a man with something of the unformed boy still in his face. His
thick yellow hair was uncombed, and his jaw beard stubbled, his eyes
red-rimmed.

  As he saw her clearly he made a grimace of distaste, shoved her from
him with force, so she lost her balance and fell to the floor.

   "As leave kiss a toad!" He spat. But the trail of spittle never struck her.
Instead hands fell on him, slammed him against the other wall. While the
man of the bowguard surveyed him steadily.

    "What's to do?" The younger man struggled. 'Take your hands off me,
fellow!"

   "Fellow, is it?" observed the other. "I am no liege man of yours, Urre.
Nor are you in Roxdale now. As for the wench, she's not to blame for her
face. Perhaps she should thank what ever Powers she lights a candle to
that she has it. With such as you ready to lift every skirt they meet."

   "Toad! He is a toad-face—" Urre worked his mouth as if he wished to
spit again, then something in the other's eyes must have warned him.
"Hands off me!" He twisted and the other stepped back. With an oath
Urre lurched away, heading "unsteadily for the stair.

   Hertha got to her feet, stooped to gather up the draggle of covers she
had dropped.

  "Has he hurt you?"

   She shook her head dumbly. It had all been so sudden, and that he
—this one—had lifted hand in her defense dazed her. She moved away as
fast as she could, but before she reached the end of the passage she looked
back. He was going through a door a pace away from where the one called
Urre had stopped her. So—she had learned his room. But toad face? That
wet ball which had struck her last night—what had it done to her?

  Hertha used her fingers to trace any alteration in her features. But to
her touch she was as she had always been. A mirror—she must find a
mirror! Not that the inn was likely to house such a luxury.

   In the end she found one in the kitchen, in" a tray which she had been
set to polishing. Though her reflection was cloudy, there was no mistaking
the ugly brown patches on her skin. Would they be so forever, a brand set
by her trafficking with dark powers, or would they vanish with the task
done? Something she had remembered from that strange voiceless
conversation made her hope the latter was true.

   If so, the quicker she moved to the end, the better. But she did not soon
get another chance to slip aloft. The man's name was Trystan. The lame
pot boy had taken an interest in him and was full of information. Trystan
had been a Marshal, and Master of Archers—he was now out of
employment, moving inland probably to seek a new lord. But perhaps he
was thinking of raising a war band on his own, he had talked already with
other veterans staying here. He did not drink much, though those others
with him, Urre, who was son to a dale lord, and his liege man ordered
enough to sail a ship.

   Crumbs, yes, but she listened eagerly for them, determined to learn all
she could of this Trystan she must enmesh in her web. She watched him,
too, given occasion when she might do so without note. It gave her a queer
feeling so to look upon the man who had used her and did not guess now
she was near.

   Had it not been for the evidence of the bowguard, she would have
picked him last of those she saw beneath this roof. Urre, yes, and two or
three others, willing to make free with her until they saw her face clearly.
But when she had reason to pass by this Trystan he showed her small
courtesies, as if her lack of comeliness meant nothing. He presented a
puzzle which was disturbing.

   But that did not change her plan. So, at last, when she managed close
to dusk to slip up the stairway quickly, she sped down the hall to his room.
There was a huddle of coverings on the bed. She could not straighten
those, but she thrust the pebble deep into the bag-pillow and hurried back
to the common room where men were gathering. There she obeyed a
stream of orders, fetching and carrying tankards of drink, platters of food.

    The fatigue of her long day of unaccustomed labor was beginning to
tell. There were those among the patrons who used cruel humor to
enlighten the evening. She had to be keenwitted and clear-eyed to avoid a
foot slyly thrust forth to trip her, a sudden grab at her arm to dump a
filled platter or tray of tankards. Twice she suffered defeat and was paid
by a ringing buffet from the mistress's hand for the wasting of food.

   But at length she was freed from their persecution by the mistress (not
out of any feeling for her, but as a matter of saving spillage and spoilage)
and set to the cleaning of plates in a noisome hole where the stench of old
food and greasy slops turned her stomach and made her so ill she was
afraid she could not last. Somehow she held out until finally the mistress
sourly shoved her to one of the fireside settles and told her that was the
best bed she could hope for. Hertha curled up, so tired she ached, while
the rest of the inn people drifted off to their holes and comers—chambers
were for guests alone.

   The fire had been banked for the night, but the hearth was warm. Now
that she had the great room to herself, though her body was tired, her
mind was alert, and she rested as best she could while she waited. If all
went well, surely the stone would act this night, and she determined to
witness the action. Beyond that she had not planned.

  Hertha waited for what seemed a long time, shifting now and then on
her hard bed. Near to hand were both her cloak and the spear staff, her
boots new filled with fresh straw were on her feet.

   She was aware of a shadow at the head of the stairs, of steps. She
watched and listened. Yes, she had been right—this was the man Trystan,
and he was walking toward the door. Whirling her cloak about her, Hertha
rose to follow.
                                     4
  She clung to the shadow of the inn wall for fear he might look behind.
But he strode on with the sure step of a man on a mission of such
importance his present surroundings had little meaning, rounding the
back of the inn, tramping up .the slope.

   Though a moon hung overhead, there was also a veiling of cloud.
Hertha dropped farther and farther behind, for the brambles of the scrub
caught at her cloak, the snow weighted her skirt, and the fatigue of her
long day's labor was heavy on her. Yet she felt that she must be near to
Trystan when he reached his goal. Was it that she must witness the justice
of the Toads? She was not sure any more, concentrating all her effort on
the going.

   Now she could see the stones stark above. They bore no candles on their
crests this night, were only grim blots of darkness. Toward them Trystan
headed on as straight a line as the growth would allow.

   He reached the first line of stones, not once had he looked around. Long
since Hertha abandoned caution. He was almost out of sight! She
gathered up her skirts, panting heavily as she plunged and skidded to
where he had disappeared.

   Yes, now she could see him, though he was well ahead. But when he
reached that final row, the one forming a real wall, he would have to move
along it to the entrance of the Old Road. While she, already knowing the
way, might gain a few precious moments by seeking the road now. And
she did that, coming to better footing with her breath whistling through
her lips in gasps.

    She had no spear to lean on and she nursed a sharp pain in her side.
But she set her teeth and wavered on, between- those rows of stones,
seeing the gate ahead and framed in it a dark figure. Trystan was still a
little before.

    There came a glow of light, the cold flames were back on pillar top. In
its blue radiance her hands looked diseased and foul when she put them
out to steady herself as she went.

   Trystan was just within the gate of the hexagon. He had not moved, but
rather stared straight ahead at whatever awaited him. His sword was
belted at his side, the curve of his bow was a pointing finger behind his
shoulder. He had come fully armed, yet he made no move to draw weapon
now.

   Hertha stumbled on. That struggle up the slope had taken much of her
strength. Yet in her was the knowledge that she must be there. Before her
now, just beyond her touching even if she reached forth her arm, was
Trystan. His head was uncovered, the loose hood of his surcoat lay back on
his shoulders. His arms dangled loosely at his sides. Hertha's gaze followed
to the source of his staring concentration.

  There were the green blocks. But no toad forms humped upon them.
Rather lights played there, weaving in and out in a flickering dance of
shades of blue, from a wan blight which might have emanated from some
decaying bit on a forest floor, to a brilliant sapphire.

    Hertha felt the pull of those weaving patterns, until she forced herself
(literally forced her heavy hands to cover her eyes) not to look upon the
play of color. When she did so there was a sensation of release. But it was
plain her companion was fast caught.

   Cupping her hands to shut out all she could of the lights, she watched
Trystan. He made no move to step across the low curbing and approach
the blocks. He might have been turned into stone himself, rapt in a spell
which had made of him ageless rock. He did not blink an eye, nor could
she even detect the rise and fall of his chest in breathing.

   Was this their judgment then, the making of a man into a motionless
statue? Somehow Hertha was sure that whatever use the Toads intended
to make of the man they had entrapped through her aid it was more than
this. Down inside her something stirred. Angrily she fought against that
awakening of an unbidden thought, or was it merely emotion? She drew
memory to her, lashed herself with all shameful, degrading detail. This
had he done to her, and this, and this! By his act she was homeless,
landless, a nothing, wearing even a toad face. Whatever came now to him,
he richly deserved it. She would wait and watch, and then she would go
hence, and in time as Gunnora had promised, she would bear a son or
daughter who had none of this father—none!

   Still watching him, her hands veiling against the play of the
ensorcelling light, Hertha saw his lax fingers move, clench into a fist. And
then she witnessed the great effort of that gesture, and she knew that he
was in battle, silent though he stood. That he fought with all his strength
against what held him fast.

   That part of her which had stirred and awakened grew stronger. She
battled it. He deserved nothing but what would come to him here; he
deserved nothing from her but the justice she had asked from the Toads.

   His hand-fist arose, so slowly that it might have been chained to some
great weight. When Hertha looked from it to his face, she saw the agony
that was causing him. She set her shoulders to the rock wall; had she but a
rope she would have bound herself there, that no weakness might betray
her plan.

   Strange light before him and something else, formless as yet but with a
cold menace greater than any fear born of battle heat. For this terror was
rooted not in any ordinary danger, but grew from a horror belonging by
rights far back in the beginnings of his race. How he had come here,
whether this be a dream or not. Trystan was not sure. And he had no time
to waste on confused memory.

  What energy he possessed must be used to front that which was
keeping him captive. It strove to fill him with its own life, and that he
would not allow, not while he could summon will to withstand it.

   Somehow he thought that if he broke the hold upon his body, he could
also shatter its would-be mastery of his mind and will. Could he act
against its desires, he might regain control. So he set full concentration on
his hand—his fingers. It was as if his flesh were nerveless, numb—But he
formed a list. Then he brought up his arm, so slowly that, had he allowed
himself to waver, he might have despaired. He knew that he must not
relax his intense drive of will centered in that simple move.
Weapons—what good would his bow, his sword, be against what dwelt
here? He sensed dimly that this menace could well laugh at weapons
forged and carried by those of his kind.

   Weapons—sword—steel—there was something hovering just at the
fringe of memory. Then for an instant he saw a small, sharp mind picture.
Steel! That man from the Waste side dale who had set his sword as a
barrier at the head of his sleeping roll, his dagger, plunged point deep in
the soil at his feet the night they had left him on the edge of very ancient
ruins with their mounts. Between cold iron a man lay safe, he said. Some
scoffed at his superstition, others had nodded agreement. Iron—cold
iron—which certain old Powers feared.

   He had a sword at his belt now, a long dagger at his
hip—iron—talisman? But the struggle for possession of his fist, his arm,
was so hard he feared he would never have a chance to put the old belief to
the proof.

   What did they want of him, those who abode here? For he was aware
that there was more than one will bent on him. Why had they brought
him? Trystan shied away from questions. He must concentrate on his
hand—his arm!

   With agonizing slowness he brought his hand to his belt, forced his
fingers to touch the hilt of his sword.

   That was no lord's proud weapon with a silvered, jeweled hilt, but a
serviceable blade nicked and scratched by long use. So that the hilt itself
was metal, wound with thick wire to make a good grip which would not
turn in a sweating hand. His fingertips touched that and—his hand was
free!

   He tightened hold instantly, drew the blade with a practiced sweep, and
held it up between him and that riot of blending and weaving blue lights.
Relief came, but it was only minor, he knew after a moment or two of
swelling hope. What coiled here could not be so easily defeated. Always
that other will weighted and plucked at his hand. The sword blade swung
back and forth, he was unable to hold it steady. Soon he might not be able
to continue to hold it at all!

   Trystan tried to retreat even a single step. But his feet were as if set in a
bog, entrapped against any move. He had only his failing hand and the
sword, growing heavier every second. Now he was not holding it erect as if
on guard, but doubled back as if aimed at his own body!

   Out of the blue lights arose a tendril of wan, phosphorescent stuff
which looped into the air and remained there, its tip pointed in his
direction. Another weaved up to join it, swell its substance. A third came,
a fourth was growing—

   The tip, which had been narrow as a finger, was now thickening. From
that smaller tips rounded and swelled into being. Suddenly Trystan was
looking at a thing of active evil, a grotesque copy of a human hand, four
fingers, a thumb too long and thin.

    When it was fully formed it began to lower toward him. Trystan, with
all his strength, brought up the sword, held its point as steady as he could
against that reaching hand.

   Again he knew a fleeting triumph. For at the threat of the sword, the
hand's advance was stayed. Then it moved right, left, as if to strike as a
foeman's point past his guard. But he was able by some miracle of last
reserves to counter each attack.

   Hertha watched the strange duel wide-eyed. The face of her enemy was
wet; great trickles of sweat ran from his forehead to drip from his chin.
His mouth was a tight snarl, lips flattened against his teeth. Yet he held
that sword and the emanation of the Toads could not pass it.

  "You!"

  The word rang in her head with a cold arrogance which hurt.

  "Take from him the sword!"

   An order she must obey if she was to witness her triumph. Her
triumph? Hertha crouched against the rock watching that weird
battle—sword point swinging with such painful slowness, but ever just
reaching the right point in time so that the blue hand did not close. The
man was moving so slowly, why could the Toads not beat him by a swift
dart past his guard? Unless their formation of the hand, their use of it,
was as great an effort for them as his defense seemed to be for him.

   "The sword!" That demand in her mind hurt. Hertha did not stir. "I
cannot!" Did she cry that aloud, whisper it. Or only think it? She was not
sure. Nor why she could not carry through to the end that which had
brought her here—that she did not understand either.

  Dark—and her hands were bound. There were men struggling. One
went down with an arrow through him. Then cries of triumph. Someone
came to her through shadows. She could see only mail—a sword—

   Then she was pinned down by a heavy hand. She heard laughter, evil
laughter which scorched her, though her body shivered as the last of her
clothing was ripped away. Once more—
  NO! She would riot remember it all! She would not! They could not
make her—but they did. Then she was back in the here and now. And she
saw Trystan fighting his stumbling, hopeless battle, knew him again for
what he was. "The sword—take from him the sword!" Hertha lurched to
her feet. The sword—she must get the sword. Then he, too would learn
what it meant to be helpless and shamed and—and what? Dead? Did the
Toads intend to kill him?"

   "Will you kill him?" she asked them. She had never foreseen the
reckoning to be like this. "The sword!"

   They did not answer, merely spurred her to their will. Death? No, she
was certain they did not mean his death. At least not death such as her
kind knew it. And—but— "The sword!"

   In her mind that order was a painful lash, meant to send her
unthinking to their service. But it acted otherwise, alerting her to a new
sense of peril. She had evoked that which had no common meeting with
her kind. Now she realized she had loosed that which not even the most
powerful man or woman she knew might meddle with. Trystan could
deserve the worst she was able to pull upon him. But that must be the
worst by men's standards—not this!

   Her left hand went to the bag of Gunnora's herbs where it rested
between her swelling breasts. Her right groped on the ground, closed
about a stone. Since she touched the herb bag that voice was no longer a
pain in her head. It faded like a far-off calling. She readied the stone—

   Trystan watched that swinging hand. His sword arm ached up into his
shoulder. He was sure every moment he would lose control. Hertha bent,
tore at the lacing of her bodice so that herb bag swung free. Fiercely she
rubbed it back and forth on the stone. What so pitiful an effort might do—

   She threw the rock through the murky air, struck against that blue
hand. It changed direction, made a dart past him. Knowing that this
might be his one chance, Trystan brought down the sword with all the
force he could muster on' the tentacle which supported the hand.

  The blade passed through as if what he saw had no substance, had been
woven of his own fears. There was a burst of pallid light. Then the lumpish
hand which supported it was gone.
   In the same moment he discovered he could move and staggered back.
Then a hand fell upon his arm, jerking him in the same direction. He
flailed out wildly at what could only be an enemy's hold, broke it. There
was a cry and he turned his head.

   A dark huddle lay at the foot of the door frame stone. Trystan advanced
the sword point, ready, as strength flowed once more into him, to meet
this new attack. The bundle moved; a white hand clutched at the pillar,
pulled.

  His bemused mind cleared. This was a woman! Not only that, but what
had passed him through the air had been flung not at him, but at the
hand. She had been a friend and not an enemy in that moment.

   Now from behind he heard a new sound like the hiss of a disturbed
serpent. Or there might be more than one snake voicing hate. He gained
the side of the woman, with the standing rocks at his back, looked once
more at the center space.

   That tentacle which had vanished at the sword stroke might be gone,
but there were others rising. This time those did not unite to form hands,
but rather each produced something like unto a serpent head. They arose
in such numbers that no one man could hope to front them all. Though he
must try.

   Once more he felt a light weight upon his shoulder, he glanced to the
side. The woman was standing, one hand tight to her breast, the other
resting on his upper arm now. Her hood overshadowed her face so he
could not see that. But he could hear the murmur of her voice even
through the hissing of the pseudo-serpents. Though he could not
understand the words, there was a rhythmic flow as if she chanted a battle
song for his encouragement.

   One of the serpent lengths swung at them; he used the sword. At its
touch the thing vanished. But one out of dozens, what was that? Again his
arm grew heavy, he found movement difficult.

   Trystan tried to shake off the woman's hold, not daring to take hand
from his sword to repel her.

  "Loose me!" he demanded, twisting his body.
   She did not obey, or answer. He heard only that murmur of sound.
There was a pleading note in it, a frantic pleading. He could feel her
urgency, as if she begged of someone aid for them both.

   Then from here her fingers dug into his shoulder muscles, there spread
downward along his arm, across his back and chest, a warmth, a
loosing—riot of her hold, but of the bonds laid on him here. And within
the center space the snake heads darted with greater vigor. Now and then
two met in midair, and when they did they instantly united, becoming
larger.

   These darted forth, striking at the two by the gate, while Trystan cut
and parried. They moved with greater speed so he was hard put to keep
them off. They showed no poison fangs, nor did they even seem to have
teeth within their open jaws. Yet he sensed that if those mouths closed
upon him or the woman they would be utterly done.

   He half turned to beat off one which had come at him from an angle.
His foot slipped and he went to one knee, the sword half out of his grasp.
As he grabbed it tighter he heard a cry. Still crouched, he slewed around.

   The serpent head at which he had struck had only been a ruse. His
lunge at it carried him away from the woman. Two other heads had
captured her. To his horror he saw that one had fastened across her head,
engulfing most of it on contact. The other had snapped its length of body
about her waist. Gagged by the one on her head she was quiet; nor did she
struggle as the pallid lengths pulled her back to the snakes' lair. Two more
reached out to fasten upon her, no longer heeding Trystan, intent on their
capture.

   He cried out hoarsely, was on his feet again, striking savagely at those
dragging her. Then he was startled by a voice which seemed to speak
within his head.

   "Draw back, son of men, lest we remember our broken bargain. This is
no longer your affair."

   "Loose her!" Trystan cut at the tentacle about her waist. It burst into
light, but another was already taking its place.

  "She delivered you to us, would you save her?"
  "Loose her!" He did not stop to weigh the right or wrong of what had
been said, he only knew that he could not see the woman drawn to that
which waited, that he might not do and remain a man. He thrust again.

  The serpents' coils were moving faster, drawing back into the hexagon.
Trystan could not even be sure she still lived, not with that dreadful thing
upon her head. She hung limp, not fighting.

  "She is ours! Go you—lest we take more for feasting."

   Trystan wasted no breath in argument, he leaped to the left, mounting
the curb of the hexagon. There he slashed into the coils which pulled at
the woman. His arms were weak, he could hardly raise the sword, even
two-handed, and bring it down. Yet still he fought stubbornly to cut her
free. And little by little he thought that he was winning.

   Now he noted that where the coils tightened about her they did not
touch her hand where it still rested clasping something between her
breasts. So he strove the more to cut the coils below, severing the last as
her head and shoulders were pulled over the edge of the curb.

   Then it seemed that, tug though they would, the tentacles could not
drag her wholly in. As they fought to do so Trystan had his last small grant
of time. He now hewed those which imprisoned her head and shoulders.
He saw those rising for new holds. But, as she so lay, to do their will they
must come across her breast to attack, and that they apparently could not
do.

   Wearily he raised the blade and brought it down again, each time sure
he could not do so again. At last there was a moment when she was free of
them all. He flung out his left hand, clasped hers where it lay between her
breasts, heaved her back and away.

   There was a sharp hissing from the serpent things. They writhed and
twisted. But more and more they sank to the ground, rolled there feebly.
He got the woman on his shoulder, tottered back, still facing the enemy,
readied as best he could be for another attack.


                                      5
  It would seem that the enemy was spent, at least the snakes did not
strike outward again. Watching them warily, Trystan retreated, dared to
stop and rest with the woman. He leaned above her to touch her cheek. To
his fingers the flesh was cold, faintly clammy. Dead? Had the air been
choked from her?

   He burrowed beneath the edges of her hood, sought the pulse in her
throat. He could find none, so he tried to lay his hand directly above her
heart. In doing so he had to break her grip on what lay between her
breasts. When he touched a small bag there, a throbbing, a warmth
spread up his hand, so he jerked hastily away before he realized this was
not a danger but a source of energy and life.

  Her heart still beat. Best get her well away while those things in the
hexagon were quiescent. For he feared their defeat was only momentary.

   Trystan dared to sheath his sword, leaving both arms free to carry the
woman. For all the bulk of her cloak and clothing, she was slender, less
than the weight he had expected.

   Now his retreat was that of a coastal sea crab, keeping part attention
on the stew pot of blue light at his back, as well as on the footing ahead.
He drew a full breath again only when he had put two rings of the
standing stones between him and the evil those guarded.

   Nor was he unaware that there was still something dragging on him,
trying to force him to face about. That he battled with a firm will and his
sense of self preservation, his teeth set, a grimace of effort stiffening
mouth and jaw.

   One by one he pushed past the standing stones. As he went, the way
grew darker, the weird light fading. He was beginning to fear that he
could no longer trust his own sight. Twice he found himself off the road,
making a detour around a pillar which seemed to sprout before him,
heading so back the way he had come.

   Thus he fought both the compulsion to return and the tricks of vision,
learning to fasten his attention on some point only a few steps ahead and
wait until he had passed that before he set another goal.

   He came at last, the woman resting over his shoulder, into the clean
night, the last of the stones behind him. Now he was weak, so weary that
he might have made a twenty-four-hour march and fought a brisk
skirmish at the end of it. He slipped to his knees, lowered his burden to
the surface of the old road, where, in! the open, the wind had scoured the
snow away.

   There was no moon, the cloud cover was heavy. The woman was now
only a dark bulk. Trystan squatted on his heels, his hands dangling loose
between his knees, and tried to think coherently.

   Of how he had come up here he had no memory at all. He had gone to
bed in the normal manner at the inn, first waking to danger when he faced
the crawling light in the hexagon. That he had also there fought a danger
of the old time he had no doubt at all. But what had drawn him there?

   He remembered the forcing open of the inn window to look up the
slope. Had that simple curiosity of his been the trigger for this adventure?
That those of the inn could live unconcerned so close to such a peril—he
could hardly believe. Or because they had lived here so long, were the
descendants of men rooted in Grimmerdale, had they developed an
immunity to dark forces?

   What had the thing or things in the hexagon said? That she who lay
here had delivered him to them. If so—why? Trystan hunched forward on
his knees, twitched aside the hood edge, stooping very close to look at her,
though it was hard to distinguish more than just the general outline of her
features in this limited light.

   Suddenly her body arched away from him. She screamed with such
terror as startled him as she pushed against the road under her, her whole
attitude one of such agony of fear as held him motionless. Somehow she
got to her feet. She had only screamed that once, now he saw her arms
move under the hindering folds of her cloak. The moon broke in a thin
sliver from under the curtain of the cloud, glinted on what she held in her
hand.

   Steel swung in an arc for him. Trystan grappled with her before that
blade bit into his flesh. She was like a wild thing, twisting, thrusting,
kicking, even biting as she fought him. At length he handled her as harshly
as he would a man, striking his fist against the side of her chin so her body
went limply once more to the road.

  There was nothing to do but take her back to the inn. Had her
experience in that nest of standing stones turned her brain to see enemies
all about her? Resigned, he ripped a strip from the hem of her cloak, tied
her hands together.

   Then he got her up so she lay on his back, breathing shallowly, inert. So
carrying her he slipped and slid, pushed with difficulty through the scrub
to the valley below and the inn.

   What the hour might be he did not know, but there was a night lantern
burning above the door and that swung open beneath his push. He
staggered over to the fireplace, dropped his burden by the hearth and
reached for wood to build up the blaze, wanting nothing now so much as
to be warm again.

   Hertha's head hurt. The pain seemed to be in the side of her face. She
opened her eyes. There was a dim light, but not that wan blue. No, this
was flame glow. Someone hunched at the hearth setting wood lengths with
expert skill to rebuild a fire. Already there was warmth which her body
welcomed. She tried to sit up. Only to discover that her wrists were
clumsily bound together. Then she tensed, chilled by fear, watching
intently he who nursed the fire.

   His head was turned from her; she could not see his face, but she had
no doubts that it was Trystan. And her last memory—him looming above
her, hands outstretched—to take her again as he had that other time!
Revulsion sickened her so she swallowed hurriedly lest she spew openly on
the floor. Cautiously she looked around. This was the large room of the
inn; he must have carried her back. That he might take pleasure in a
better place than the icy cold of the old road? But if he tried that she could
scream, fight—surely someone would come—

   He looked to her now, watching her so intently that she felt he read
easily every one of her confused thoughts.

  "I shall kill you," she said distinctly.

    "As you tried to do?" He asked that not as if it greatly mattered, but as
if he merely wondered.

  "Next time I shall not turn aside!"

  He laughed. And with that laughter for an instant he seemed another
man, one younger, less hardened by time and deeds. "You did not turn
aside this time, mistress, I had a hand in the matter." Then that half smile
which had come with the laughter faded, and he regarded her with
narrowed eyes, his mouth tight set lip to lip.

   Hertha refused to allow him to daunt her and glared back. Then he
said:

  "Or are you speaking of something else, mistress? Something which
happened before you drew steel on me? Was that—that thing right? Did I
march to its lair by your doing?"

   Somehow she must have given away the truth by some fraction of
change he read in her face. He leaned forward and gripped her by the
shoulders, dragging her closer to him in spite of her struggles, holding her
so they were squarely eye to eye.

   "Why? By the Sword Hand of Karther the Fair, why? What did I ever do
to you, girl, to make you want to push me into that maw? Or would any
man have sufficed to feed those pets? Are they your pets, or your masters?
Above all, how comes humankind to deal with them? And if you so deal,
why did you break their spell to aid me? Why, and why, and why?"

   He shook her, first gently, and then, with each question, more harshly,
so that her head bobbed on her shoulders and she was weak in his hands.
Then he seemed to realize that she could not answer him, so he held her
tight as if he must read the truth in her eyes as well as hear it from her
lips.

  "I have no kinsman willing to call you to a sword reckoning," she told
him wearily. "Therefore I must deal as best I can. I sought those who
might have justice—"

   "Justice! Then I was not just a random choice for some purpose of
theirs! Yet, I swear by the Nine Words of Min, I have never looked upon
your face before. Did I in some battle slay close kin—father, brother, lover?
But how may that be? Those I fought were the invaders. They had no
women save those they rift from the Dales. And would any Daleswoman
extract vengeance for one who was her master-by-force? Or is it that, girl?
Did they take you and then you found a lord to your liking among them,
forgetting your own blood?"

  If she could have, Hertha would have spat full in his face for that insult.
He must have read her anger quickly.

   "So that is not it. Then why? I am no ruffler who goes about picking
quarrels with comrades. Nor have I ever taken any woman who came not
to me willingly—"

   "No?" She found speech at last, in a wrath-hot rush of words. "So you
take no woman unwillingly, brave hero? What of three months since on
the road to Lethendale? Is it too usual a course of action with you that it
can be so lightly put out of mind?"

  Angry and fearful though she was, she could see in his expression
genuine surprise.

  "Lethendale?" he repeated. "Three months since? Girl, I have never
been' that far north. As to three months ago—I was Marshal of Forces for
Lord Ingrim before he fell at the siege of the port."

   He spoke so earnestly that she could almost have believed him, had not
that bowguard on his wrist proved him false.

   "You lie! Yes, you may not know my face. It was in darkness you took
me, having overrun the invaders who had first made me captive. My
brother's men were all slain. For me they had other plans. But when aid
came—then still I was for the taking—as you proved, Marshall" She made
of that a name to be hissed.

  "I tell you, I was at the port!" He had released her and she backed
against the settle, leaving a good space between them.

   "You would swear before a Truth Stone it was me? You know my face,
then?"

  "I would swear, yes. As for your face—I do not need that It was in the
dark you had your will of me. But there is one proof I carry ever in my
mind since that time."

   He raised his hand, rubbing fingers along the old scar on his chin, the
fire gleaming on the bowguard. That did not match the plainness of his
clothing, how could anyone forget seeing it?

  "That proof being?"
   "You wear it on your wrist, in plain sight. Just as I saw it then,
ravisher—your bowguard!"

   He held his wrist out, studying the band, "Bowguard! So that is your
proof, that made you somehow send me to the Toads." He was half smiling
again, but this time cruelly and with no amusement. "You did send me
there, did you not?" He reached forward and, before she could dodge,
pulled the hood fully from her head, stared at her.

   "What have you done with the toad face, girl? Was that some trick of
paint, or some magicking you laid on yourself? Much you must have
wanted me so to despoil your own seeming to carry through your plan."

   She raised her bound hands, touched her cheeks with cold fingers. This
time there was no mirror, but if he said the loathesome spotting was gone,
then it must be so.

   "They did it—" she said, only half comprehending. She had pictured
this meeting many times, imagined him saying this or that. He must be
very hardened in such matters to hold to this pose of half amused interest.

   "They? You mean the Toads? But now tell me why, having so neatly put
me in their power, you were willing to risk your life in my behalf? That I
cannot understand. For it seems to me to traffic with such as abide up
that hill is a fearsome thing and one which only the desperate would do.
Such desperation is not lightly turned aside—so—why did you save me,
girl?"

   She answered with the truth. "I do not know. Perhaps because the hurt
being mine, the payment should also be mine—that, a little, I think. But
even more—" she paused so long he prodded her.

   "But even more, girl?"

   "I could not in the end leave even such a man as you to them!"

   "Very well, that I can accept. Hate and fear and despair can drive us all
to bargains we repent of later. You made one and then found you were too
human to carry it through. Then later on the road you chose to try with
honest steel and your own hand—"

   "You—you would have taken me—again!" Hertha forced out the words.
But the heat in her cheeks came not from the fire but from the old shame
eating her.

   "So that's what you thought? Perhaps, given the memories you carry, it
was natural enough." Trystan nodded. "But now it is your turn to listen to
me, girl. Item first—I have never been to Lethendale, three months ago,
three years ago— never! Second: this which you have come to judge me
on," he held the wrist closer, using the fingers of his other hand to tap
upon it, "I did not have three months ago. When the invaders were close
pent in the port during the last siege, we had many levies from the
outlands come to join us. They had mopped up such raiding bands as had
been caught out of there when we moved in to besiege.

   "A siege is mainly a time of idleness, and idle men amuse themselves in
various ways. We had only to see that the enemy did not break out along
the shores while we waited for the coasting ships from Handelsburg and
Vennesport to arrive to carry them from the sea. There were many games
of chance played during that waiting. And, though I am supposed by most
to be a cautious man, little given to such amusements, I was willing to risk
a throw now and then.

   "This I so won. He who staked it was like Urre, son to some dead lord,
with naught but ruins and a lost home to return to if and when! the war
ended. Two days later he was killed in one of the sorties the invaders now
and then made.

   He had begged me to hold this so that when luck ran again in his way
he might buy it back, for it was one of the treasures of his family. In the
fighting I discovered it was not only decorative, but useful. Since he could
not redeem it, being dead, I kept it—to my disfavor it would seem. As for
the boy—I do not even know his name—for they called him by some
nickname. He was befuddled with drink half the time, being one of the
walking dead—"

   "Walking dead?" His story carried conviction, not only his words but
his tone, and the straight way he told it.

   "That is what I call them. High Hallack has them in many—some are
youngsters such as Urre, the owner of this." Again he smoothed the guard.
"Others are old enough to be their fathers. The dales have been swept with
fire and sword. Those which" were not invaded have been bled of their
men, of their crops—to feed both armies. This is a land which can now go
two ways. I can sink into nothingness from exhaustion, or there can rise
new leaders to restore and with courage build again."

  It seemed to Hertha that he no longer spoke to her but rather voiced his
own thoughts. As for her, there was a kind of emptiness within, as if
something she carried had been rift from her. That thought sent her
bound hands protectively to her belly.

   The child within her—who had been its father? One of the lost ones,
some boy who had had all taken from him and so became a dead man
with no hope in the future, one without any curb upon his appetites.
Doubtless he had lived for the day only, taken ruthlessly all offered during
that short day. Thinking so, she sensed that queer light feeling. She had
not lost the child, this child which Gunnora promised would be hers alone.
What she had lost was the driving need for justice which had brought her
to Grimmerdale—to traffic with the Toads.

   Hertha shuddered, cold to her bones in spite of her cloak, of the fire.
What had she done in her blindness, her hate and horror? Almost she had
delivered an innocent man to that she dared not now think upon. What
had saved her from that at the very last, to throw that stone rubbed with
Gunnora's talisman? Some part of her refusing to allow such a foul crime?

   And what could she ever say to this man who had now turned his head
from her, was looking into the flames as if therein he could read message
runes? She half raised her bound hands, he looked about with a real smile
from which she shrank as she might from a blow, remembering how it
might have been with him at this moment.

   "There is no need for you to go bound. Or do you still thirst for my
blood?" He caught her hands, pulled at the cloth tying them.

   "No," Hertha answered in a low voice. "I believe you. He whom I sought
is now dead."

  "Do you regret that death came riot at your hand?"

   She stared down at her fingers resting again against her middle,
wondering dully what would become of her now. Would she remain a
tavern wench, should she crawl back to Kuno? No! At that her head went
up again, pride returned.
  "I asked, are you sorry you did not take your knife to my gamester?"

  "No."

  "But still there are dark thoughts troubling you—"

   "Those are none of your concern." She would have risen, but he put out
a hand to hold her where she was.

  "There is an old custom. If a man draws a maid from dire danger, he
has certain rights—"

   For a moment she did not understand, when: she did her bruised pride
strengthened her to meet his eyes.

  "You speak of maids—I am not such."

   His indrawn breath made a small sound, but one loud in the silence
between them. "So that was the why! You are no farm or tavern wench are
you? So you could not accept what he had done to you. But have you no
kinsman to ride for your honor?"

  She laughed raggedly. "Marshal, my kinsman had but one wish, that I
submit to ancient practices among women so that he would not be
shamed before his kind. Having done so I would have been allowed to
dwell by sufferance in my own home, being reminded not more than
perhaps thrice daily of his great goodness."

   "And this you would not do. But with your great hate against him who
fathered what you carry—"

   "No!" Her hands went to that talisman of Gunnora's. "I have been to
the shrine of Gunnora. She has promised me my desire, the child I bear
will be mine wholly, taking nothing from him!"

  "And did she also send you to the Toads?"

   Hertha shook her head. "Gunnora guards life. I knew of the Toads from
old tales. I went to them in my blindness and they gave me that which I
placed in your bed to draw you to them. Also they changed my face in
some manner. But—that is no longer so?"

  "No. Had I not known your cloak, I should not have known you. But this
thing in my bed—Stay you here and wait. Only promise me this, should I
return as one under orders, bar the door in my face and keep me here at
all cost!"

  "I promise."

   He went with the light-footed tread of one who had learned to walk
softly in strange places because life might well depend upon it. Now that
she was alone her mind returned to the matter of what could come to her
with the morn. Who would give her refuge—save perhaps the Wise
Women of Lethendale. It might be that this Marshal would escort her
there. Though what did he owe her, except such danger as she did not
want to think on. Although her thoughts twisted and turned she saw no
answer except Lethendale. Perhaps Kurio would some day—no! She would
make no plan leading in that path!

   Trystan was back holding two sticks such as were used to kindle brazier
flames. Gripped between their ends was the pebble she had brought from
the Toads' hold. As he reached the fire he hurled that bit of rock into the
heart of the blaze.

   He might have poured oil upon the flames so fierce was the answer as
the pebble fell among the logs. Both shrank back.

   "That trap is now set at naught," he observed. "I would not have any
other fall into it."

  She stiffened, guessing what he thought of her for the setting of the
same trap.

  "To say I am sorry is only mouthing words, but—"

  "To one with such a burden, lady, I can return that I understand. When
one is driven by a lash one takes any way to free oneself. And in the end
you did not suffer that I be taken."

   "Having first thrust you well into the trap! Also—you should have let
them take me then as they wished. It would only have been fitting."

   "Have done!" He brought his fist down on the seat of the settle beside
which he knelt, "Let us make an end to what is past. It is gone. To cling to
this wrong or that, keep it festering in mind and heart, is to cripple one.
Now, lady," she detected a new formality in his voice, "where do you go, if
not to your brother's house? It is not in! your mind to return there, I
gather."

   She fumbled with the talisman. "In that you are right. There is but one
place left—the Wise Women of Lethendale. I can beg shelter from them."
She wondered if he would offer the escort she had no right to ask, but his
next question surprised her.

  "Lady, when you came hither, you came by the Old Road over ridge, did
you not."

  "That is so. To me it seemed less dangerous than the open highway. It
has, by legend, those who sometimes use it, but I deemed those less
dangerous than my own kind."

  "If you came from that direction you must have passed through
Nordendale—what manner of holding is it?"

   She had no idea why he wished such knowledge, but she told him of
what she had seen of that leaderless dale, the handful of people there deep
sunk in a lethargy in which they clung to the ruins of what had once been
thriving life. He listened eagerly to what she told him.

   "You have a seeing eye, lady, and have marked more than most, given
such a short time to observe. Now listen to me, for this may be a matter of
concern to both of us in the future. It is in my mind that Nordendale
needs a lord, one to give the people heart, rebuild what man and time have
wasted. I have come north seeking a chance to be not just my own man,
but to have a holding. I am not like Urre who was born to a hall and drinks
and wenches now to forget what ill tricks fortune plays.

   "Who my father was—" he shrugged, "I never heard my mother say.
That he was of no common blood, that I knew, though in later years she
drudged in a merchant's house before the coming of the invaders for
bread to our mouths and clothing for our backs. When I was yet a boy I
knew that the only way I might rise was through this—" He touched the
hilt of his sword. "The merchant guild welcomes no nameless man, but for
a sword and a bow there is always a ready market. So I set about learning
the skills of war as thoroughly as any man might. Then came the invasion
and I went from lord to lord, becoming at last Marshal of Archers. Yet
always before me hung the thought that in such a time of upheaval, with
the old families being killed out, this was my chance.

   "Now there are masterless men in plenty, too restless after years of
killing to settle back behind any plough. Some will turn outlaw readily, but
with a half dozen of such at my back, I can take a dale which lies vacant of
rule, such as this Nordendale. The people there need a leader, I am
depriving none of lawful inheritance, but will keep the peace and defend it
against outlaws—for there will be many such now. There are men here,
passing through Grimmerdale, willing to be hired for such a purpose.
Enough so I can! pick and choose at will."

  He paused and she read in his face that this indeed was the great
moving wish of his life. When he did not continue she asked a question:

  "I can see how a determined man can do this thing. But how does it
concern: me in any way?"

  He looked to her straightly. She did not understand the full meaning of
what she saw in his eyes.

   "I think we are greatly alike, lady. So much so that we could walk the
same road, to the profit of both. No, I do not ask an answer now.
Tomorrow—" he got to his feet, stretching, "no, today. I will speak to those
men I have marked. If they are willing to take liege oath to me, we will ride
to Lethendale, where you may shelter as you wish for a space. It is not
far—"

  "By horse," she answered in relief, "perhaps two days west."

   "Good enough. Then having left you there, I will go to Nordendale—and
straightway that will cease to be masterless. Allow me, say, three score
days, and I will come riding again to Lethendale. Then you will give me
your answer as to whether our roads join or no."

  "You forget," her hands pressed upon her belly, "I am no maid, nor
widow, and yet I carry—"

  "Have you not Gunnora's promise upon that subject? The child will be
wholly yours. One welcome holds for you both."

   She studied his face, determined to make sure if he meant that. What
she read there—she caught her breath, her hands rising to her breast,
pressing hard upon the talisman.

   "Come as you promise to Lethendale," she said in a low voice. "You will
be welcome and have your answer in good seeming."




                  CHANGELING
   Lithendale, though no fortress for defense, rather an abiding place for
the Dames who gave refuge to all, still held something of grim darkness in
this early spring. Snow lay in ragged, mid-edged patches upon the ground,
and the courtyards showed a gloss of damp upon worn stones. A chill wind
moaned and cried at every window to the west, plucked at steamy panes
with fingers just too weak to wrench a way within.

   Hertha's forehead pressed against one of those thick panes. She leaned
over the wide sill as if she could gain relief from the pains which rent her
fiercely. The life she bore within her body might be a warrior, one who
ruthlessly would tear her in twain, so eager was it ready to battle all the
world.

   She was not alone. There was the woman who now and then came to
walk beside her and steady her. To Hertha that other was a faceless
puppet, someone from a dream, or rather a dark night's sending which
had no end. In one hand the girl clasped, so tightly that even its
time-smoothed ridges drove deep into her flesh, her one talisman,
Gunnora's amulet. Hertha did not pray—not now. Would any petition to
one of the Old Ones be heard arising from this abbey dedicated to another
power?

   Setting her teeth, Hertha lurched away from the window, took one step,
then two, before, once more, grinding pain sent her staggering. She was
on the bed, her body arching. Dank sweat plastered her hair to her
forehead.

  "Gunnora!" Had she screamed aloud or had the name only rung in her
mind? A last thrust of pain was a spear within her, twisting agony. Then—

  The peace, end of all pain. She drifted.
   In the dark which enfolded her she heard a throaty, gurgling laughter, a
laughter which was evil, a threat. In that same dark she saw—

   . There was a circle of stones and to these clung—no, they did not
cling—only the deformity of their bloated bodies made it seem so. Rather
they sat, their monstrous heads all tainted, their bulbous eyes watching
her with malicious joy and triumph. Hertha remembered. Now she cried
out, not any petition to a Power of the Old Ones, rather with a fear she
thought safely gone, buried in time.

   She wanted to run, even to raise her hands as a barrier between those
eyes and hers. Though the girl knew that even if she so veiled her own
sight, she could not escape. The Toads of Grimmerdale! She had
recklessly, wrongly sought them once, cheated them, fought them, and
now they were here!

  "My lady."

   The words were faint, far off, had nothing to do with present horror
and fear. Still it would seem that somehow they acted as a charm against
the Toad things, for those faded. Hertha, shivering, spent, opened her
eyes.

   Inghela, the stout Dame, wise in herb lore and nursing, stood in the
light of two lamps. That wan day Hertha had watched so endlessly through
the distorted thick glass of the window must have ended. Dame Inghela's
grasp held the girl's limp wrist. There was an intent searching in her eyes,
so dark and clear under the line of her folded linen headdress.

   Hertha summoned strength. Her mouth was parched, dry, as if she had
fed on ashes.

  "The child?" In her own hearing her voice was very thin and hoarse.

  "You have a daughter, my lady."

   A daughter! For one moment of pure joy Hertha's heart moved with a
quicker beat. She willed her arms to rise, even though it felt that each was
braceleted with lead. Gunnora's promise—a child who would have nothing
in it of the ravisher who had forced its birth. Hertha's own, her own!

  "Give me," her voice was still weak, yet life, and now will, were fast
returning to her, "give me my daughter!"

   The Dame did not move. There was no bundle of warm wrappings in
her arms. It seemed to the girl that the woman's measuring glance was
stronger, an emotion in it which Hertha could not read.

  She tried to raise herself higher on the bed.

   "Is the child dead?" She believed that she had managed to ask that
without betraying the surge of emotion which tore her as sharply as had
the pains earlier.

   "No." Now Dame Inghela did move. Hertha watched as the Dame
stooped to lift from a box-like bed a bundle that gave a sudden,
ear-piercing squall, struggled against the confinement of the blanket
about it.

  Not dead—then what? There was ill fortune in the way the Dame had
met her question, Hertha was sure. She held out her arms, willing them
not to tremble, setting herself to bear any evil.

   The baby must be far from death. Its battling against the swaddling
was vigorous. Hertha grasped the bundle, resolutely turned back the
coverings to look upon what Gunnora had promised, a child to be wholly
and only hers.

    She looked down upon a small wrinkled, reddened body of the newborn,
and she knew! Revulsion, for only a moment, burned in her as if she might
still vomit forth the evil which must have lain dormant in her since this
new life had been conceived.

   Evidence of her sin, her dealing with the powers of evil, ancient and
strong evil, only that lay now on this one, not on her. She stared down!
into the ill formed face. The child stared back, its croaking cries still.
Those bulbous eyes seeming to thrust into hers as if already the small
creature knew that fate had marked it. There was the faint hint of
brownish patches already staining its skin. The Toads—yes—their mark!

  Hertha cradled the child with fierce protectiveness, looked defiantly
over its head at the Dame.

  Inghela's hands moved in the signs of ritual against the Powers of
Darkness, even as her lips shaped words which were whispered too low for
Hertha to catch. One of her hands caught at the loop of prayer rings at her
belt and fingers began to separate one from the other.

    "Changeling!" The maidservant, whom Hertha had hardly been: aware
of during her hours of labor, crept from behind her mistress into the circle
of lamplight.

  That word aroused Hertha to greater awareness.

    "This is," she said slowly, distinctly, in that moment taking unto herself
all which might have misformed the child, all the burden of sin she had
drawn to her in her madness and her hate, "this is my daughter, Elfanor,
whom I proclaim is truly of my body, my fair child, and who rests within
the flame of my clan."

   Elfanor? Hertha wondered at that name, how had it come to her? It
was one which she had never heard before. Yet it seemed to her the proper
one. As for the other formal words of her acknowledgment of the child,
they were empty. She had no clan, no family name, no lord to raise the
child in the central hall of a keep before all those of his holding.

  She was utterly alone, the more so now because of what had been laid
upon this child. Hearing the click of the prayer rings Inghela fingered,
Hertha knew that already her daughter had been judged, and she had
been, too.

   That same stubborn pride which had made her withstand the demands
of a family line she could no longer lay claim to, to court a certain revenge
which had now recoiled upon her in this vile fashion, that was her shield,
and, perhaps, still her weapon.

   "My daughter," she repeated firmly, daring the Dame, the maidservant
staring avidly at what she held, to raise any protest.

  "Changeling—" Once more that dread word held a cursed sound.

   Dame Inghela turned swiftly, her authority plain to read on her round
face as she looked at the maid and issued a swift stream of orders. The girl
fled, busied herself hastily in gathering stained linen, pouring slops into a
waiting bucket. Then she scuttled from the chamber. Inghela had once
more taken her place by the bedside. Her steady gaze met Hertha's defiant
stare.

   "The child—" she began slowly.

  Hertha's chin raised a fraction. She would never reveal now to this, or
any other living soul, the sorrow and the torment within her.

  "Is cursed. Is that what you would say, Dame? If so, the curse is mine
and mine must be the answer."

   Dame Inghela showed no sign of affront at what might almost be
considered blasphemy when uttered in this place. Those who followed the
Flame were taught, and taught, that sin left its mark upon the sinner. In
so much could Hertha's words be considered confession.

   "Evil seeds itself when it is watered and cherished by the will," she said
slowly. Yet the gaze which held Hertha's so levelly did not condemn.

   "You know my story," Hertha replied harshly. Since she had taken
Elfanor into her arms the child lay quiet, the large, bulging eyes were half
closed, as if, young as the babe was, she heard and understood. "Yes, I
sought evil to draw upon my enemy, him who had defiled me. I sought an
evil of the Old Ones openly, willingly, because all which filled me then was
hate. Still the full evil did not come to fruit. He whom I sent to the Toads I
fought for. He lives."

  "Yet he was not the right man, as you have also said," Dame Inghela
reminded her.

   "That I did not know until after. I had already fought for him. Thus,
this—" Her arms tightened about the small body. "I do not know any of the
ancient wisdom, the sorcery of how any power could have reached within
my body and changed new life I carried into this. Elfanor is mine, upon
me let the burden fall. And—" it might be ill for her to speak so within this
place, still that headlong need for defense, for the right to nurse some
small hope within her now, led her to do so—"perhaps what one power had
done to set awry, another can aid."

  Once more Dame Inghela swung her hoop of rings. "Your speech is not
good. Here we follow the true teachings. You have already had proof of
what comes when one appeals to that which is no belief of ours!"
  "True." Hertha repressed a shiver arising from cold within her, not in
answer to that rebuke. At the same time she reckoned—they can put no
walls about my thoughts. There are powers and powers.

   She loosed one hand, her fingers found what lay upon her breast, the
amulet of Gunnora. Again she recalled how she had sought out that
shrine, heavy with her child, seeking what succor she could. Of how in
dream—or perhaps more than dream—she had been made welcome and
one of her boons granted. For she was certain at this moment that Elfanor
had indeed no part of her father within her, that she was wholly Hertha's
own.

   As days passed Hertha never spoke again of what she might do. She
was well aware that her child was the subject of many whispers, that such
congratulations upon her safe delivery as were offered gave lip service only
to custom.

   Sudden warm winds came out of the south. The earth dried after the
last of the snow's burden soaked into it Spring was coming early. Hertha
kept to her chamber much of the time, her thoughts busier than her
hands, though she nursed her daughter and cared for her entirely, refusing
any help from those who she knew looked upon the baby as cursed.

   At the fourth week she asked for formal audience with the Abbess, her
plans made.

   Carrying the child, she made her courtesy of ceremony in the inner
parlor, thinking fleetingly how different matters were since she had been
previously received here. Then she had come wrapped in what she knew
now was a false contentment, having laid upon another for a short space,
the ordering of her life. At this moment she caught at that straying
memory fiercely, pushed it away. She had been a fool, and must now pay
for her folly, perhaps all her days.

   "They say, Lady Hertha, that you desire to go forth from Lithendale."
The Abbess was not a tall woman. Still the high-backed chair of
age-darkened wood, all carven with Flame symbols, enthroned her.
Hertha's first suspicion dulled. Perhaps she was a poor judge of the
motives and thoughts of others, but here she read no malice, no
accusation, only true concern.

  "I must," she replied, sitting on the very edge of the stool to which the
Abbess had waved her, Elfanor close against her. The baby never cried
when Hertha held her so. In fact she would lie still, open eyes upon her
mother's face. Hertha had to keep herself from ever searching those
too-large eyes for some hint of the marsh fires she had seen once in eyes so
like them. "Your reverence, I—and mine—have no place within these
walls."

   "Has that been said to you?" The Abbess's demand came, quick and
sharp.

   "Such does not have to be said. No, none has given me any unwelcome
word. But it is the truth. Through me a shadow of evil has come into a
place which should be at peace and holy."

   "Peace we may strive for. Holiness is not of our fashioning," the Abbess
returned. "If you leave here where do you go? My Lord of Nordendale—"

   Hertha made a swift gesture. "Your Reverence, he was good to me when
he had every right to draw steel across my throat. I brought him into such
peril as perhaps none of our kind has seldom faced. You know my story,
how I prayed for vengeance to creatures whose very nature is of black
foulness, and later drew him into their net."

   "Then fought for him again," the Abbess said slowly. "Did you not
believe when you so fought that he was still the one who shamed you?"

  "Yes. But what did that matter? If I had turned my own dagger point
upon: him for a clean death, that was my right, was it not?" Her old
shame and hate clung for a moment to memory. "But no man, no matter
what his sin, should be given to old evil."

   "He did not hold your act against you. No, rather he did in a measure
honor you for trying to uphold your battle against shame. This Trystan
spoke with me before he rode forth, and, since then, have you not had
twice messengers from him confirming that he has accomplished his
desires in part, that he has taken command of the leaderless people of
Nordendale, that he has brought peace and more than! a small measure of
hope to others, that he wishes you to come in all honor as his lady. He is a
strong man, hard in some ways, but also, in his core, as good as the steel
he carries. What of him? Do you go to him?"

  "To him least of all, Your Reverence. He is but new come into his
lordship. Strong and valiant a man though he may be, let him bring a
bride with a 'changeling' already at her breast, and trouble shall rise about
him, as water rises about a rock fallen into a swift flowing river which in
time shall roll it over and over, doing with it as the water wills. No, I do
not go to Nordendale. Also I beg this humbly of Your Reverence, that you
not send any message to Lord Trystan. If he or his messenger rides hither
again you will say that I have gone to my own people."

  "You have no people, so you have said," the Abbess returned sharply.
"Falsehood shall not be uttered here either in a good or bad cause."

  "My Lady Abbess, I have by my own action set myself apart from those
once my kind. In truth I go to what perhaps is my own place."

   "The Waste? That means your death. To seek death willingly is also a
sin."

  Hertha shook her head. "No, had I wished to travel that path I would
have taken! it easily months ago. I do not go out to die, but to seek an
answer. If that seeking leads me into strange places, then that I shall face."

   "Their ways have never been ours. You imperil more than your body in
such a search."

    "Lady, I imperiled myself so months ago. Now I have a battle before me.
Do you believe—" the girl's face flushed, her eyes were bright, afire as
those of a hunting falcon ready for the death swoop, "that I shall not fight
for this little one, who is wholly mine? There are places of evil from the
days when our people did not know this land, but there are also places of
peace and good. Is it not true of a healer that often a small part of a
dangerous herb may be given to counteract the illness that same herb or
its like seeded in the body? If it takes me a lifetime of searching, I will seek
healing."

   For a long moment the Abbess made no answer. She studied Hertha's
face, as if by the very force of her will she could see through flesh and bone
to the thoughts of the mind within that skull.

   "This is your choice," she said slowly. "We do not use strange powers,
but sometimes the Flame grants us also a measure of foreseeing, even as a
wise woman will look into her scrying cup. I cannot tell why, but I believe
that if anything can be done to lift this curse, guidance will be given you."
   "And if the Lord Trystan comes?" Hertha had drawn a deep breath. She
had never expected such a response from a woman so deeply wedded to
rituals which denied any dependence upon other and older arts.

   "He will be told the truth. That you bore one for whose future you must
strive, and that you have gone so to battle, we know not where. Whether
such a man will accept these statements, I do not know. That is a matter
for him to decide. I cannot give your search a blessing, but insofar as one
vowed to our beliefs can well-wish another, so do I you, Lady Hertha. You
have courage, and your will is like a sword blade, worn somewhat by this
world's battles, still sunbright and keen of edge.

   "You have the mount which the Lord Trystan left for you; that I advise
you to accept, even though your pride may prickle. We shall also give you
one of the baggage ponies, for of those we have many, brought here by
refugees, some of whom did not survive and whose goods were left for
kinsmen who never came. Supplies you shall have, with what traveler's
gear you wish to select from our storehouse.

   "And—" once more she hesitated. "I have given you well-wishing. I
cannot add to that any blessed charm, for where you go such could be a
hindrance rather than an aid. Nor will I ask in which direction you travel,
though I will say do not ride the open road, as this is a land in chaos and
there are many masterless men to prey on travelers."

   "Lady Abbess, you have given me far more than I dared dream." Hertha
arose to her feet. "Perhaps your greatest gift is that you have not said to
me, 'Go not, this is a useless thing!'"

  There was the faintest shadow of a smile about the Abbess's lips.

   "And if I said so, and wrung my hands, and called upon
authority—which I do not have since you are no daughter of this
roof—would you have listened? No, I believe that you have thought much
and that you believe this is your life burden. So be it. We all choose our
own roads, some with less cause than you."

   Hertha stood very straight. This woman had that in her which might
have made them friends had the circumstances been otherwise. For a
single moment Hertha wondered what it would have been like to be
welcomed as a "daughter" into such a house of peace. But that was a very
fleeting thought. She repeated the old guesting farewell of the traveler:
    "For the feasting, for the roof, I give thanks and blessing. For the future
all good to this place, as I take the road again."

   The Abbess bowed her head slightly. "Go in peace, Lady Hertha. As you
seek so may you find." Though she said she refused the flame blessing, still
her hand raised and moved in some air-drawn sign between them.

   Then Hertha and Elfanor went out of the place of peace. The Abbess
had indeed been generous. The horse Hertha rode, astride, garments
culled from the supply left by the refugees providing her with the wide,
skirt-like breeches of a noblewoman's hunting garb, was that on which
Trystan had brought her here. It was not a showy beast, and it was rather
small, having much of the blood, she was sure, of the tough, wild
mountain breed. But such were sought by travelers for hardiness.

   Trailed behind by a leading rope was an even smaller pony, well-filled
packs slung one on either side of his back. Belted at Hertha's waist was a
long bladed sword-dagger which she had found among the stored gear.
She also had strapped to her saddle a short boar spear, its wicked head
needle sharp. Elfanor rode in a cradle-like basket against Hertha's back,
leaving the girl's arms free for the managing for her two beasts.

   She went out in the early morning, for it was her wish to get along the
known road when it would be the least traveled, on into the hills, even as
the Abbess had advised. The land was indeed filled with masterless men
and outlaws. Many of the lords had died in the war, leaving their holdings
to the weak and the easily preyed upon. It was such men as Trystan who
might in the end bring order out of this present darkness. She thought of
that, and then pushed it out of mind. That she could have stood beside
him and perhaps given him aid, that was like a smoke fancy, quickly
blown away by the grim truth of her burden.

   Before the sun was well up she was off the road to pick a crisscross path
among some stones which looked as if they were the chance product of a
landslip, but which, she knew from her diligent questioning at the abbey,
were instead a barrier or half-closed gate to disguise the beginning of
another and much older way.

   It was true those Old Ones who had once held the Dales, had a liking for
roads which climbed along the crests of the hills rather than curled at
more ease through the valleys. Such a way had, months before, taken her
to Gunnora's shrine and later to the place of the Toads. What she sought
now was a return to the shrine. Gunnora alone might grant her some
direction. For the Great Lady was a lover of children, one who smiled upon
those who bore them, and was well known to listen to any petition for a
baby in need. Whether she would aid one who was cursed—No, Hertha
told herself firmly, this sin was hers and not that of the child. Any
payment which must be made was to be laid where it belonged. She would
take the scaly spotted skin, the eyes, all visited on Elfanor. It was her hope
that Gunnora might lead her by some dream of enlightenment to learn to
do just that thing.

   She rode at a slow amble, stopping at times to slide from her padded
saddle and nurse Elfanor. The child had not cried. Her silence was one of
the strange things about her. Also Hertha noted that, at times, those
rounded eyes looked out upon the world with a measurement which
certainly was not of the human kind. Nor should so young a baby focus so
keenly on what lay about it.

    Though the ancient road kept to the heights, those who had fashioned
it had arranged that travelers could not easily be revealed. Brush and
trees, both thick-growing, walled it on the valley side, here and there
giving way to a screen of upstanding broken rocks, all blending with the
countryside so that this safeguard was not, in itself, a sign that a highway
lay so concealed.

   Hertha and the child sheltered that night in what might even have been
a contrived campsite, for here were rocks upsprouting, several leaning at
an angle so that their tips touched to form a rude imitation of roof.

   There was even a basin or pit there, blackened surely by ancient fires,
into which she packed sticks and the dried moss she had had the
forethought to cull from branches of the brush, setting a pocket of flames,
over which she crouched, nursing the baby against her. To that fire she
added a scant handful of dried leaves from a packet Dame Inghela had
given her. The smoke puffing up as those were consumed brought a fresh,
clean scent. But it was not for that that Hertha had added her material so
sparingly. Such a combination of herbs had the ability to keep at bay dark
dreams. The scent cleared the head, as those learned in plant lore knew.
Hertha needed this.

  To travel this old road deliberately put her again under the influence
which ancient powers could still exert. Whatever small safeguards she
could raise against evil, those she must use.
   The beasts drew closer to the fire also, feeding on the grain she took
from her journey bags. She dared not turn them loose to graze at will. But
there was water nearby, a spring feeding a rill from which the horse and
pony had drunk noisily, where she herself rinsed out her two bottles of
water, refilling them both, slaking her own thirst after the dryness of a
journeycake.

  Sleep came fitfully, for she had set herself a kind of inner warning
which did arouse her now and then through the night to feed the fire,
while ever close to her hand was the hilt of the long knife, the shaft of the
boar spear.

   Her body ached in spite of the way she had tried to ease her travel.
Near dawn, though she lay back once more in the cup of rock, she did not
sleep, rather went over in her mind the direction in which she must head
at the coming of true day.

   The hill road ran on, now dipping a little into some valley, now
climbing above. Hertha passed rock walls on which had been graven so
deeply strange symbols that even long passing of time had not altogether
erased them.

   On the fourth day her road branched, one part turning south. She had
seen no one, though once or twice, when the trail drew closer to the valley
way, she had heard sounds of others. Each sound had frozen her into
waiting with a fast-beating heart.

   At the splitting of the trails Hertha took the northernmost, and began
to look about her for some landmark. If she was right, this was the same
way she had followed months ago to Gunnora's shrine. So she should catch
sight of some rock spur, some stretch of country she could remember.

   There was no good camping place on this fork. The wind swept down,
holding no spring softness. She swung the cradle about from her back,
steadying it across her saddle, bending a little over it so that the folds of
her cloak could give protection to the baby.

   Shadows formed by early evening drifted down the slope. Still she rode
on, for there was no promising place to alight Then, when Hertha had
nearly given up hope, she saw the building she sought. There was a glow
from the door on which was hung a strip of metal fashioned into
Gunnora's own sign, a ripe grain sheath with a binding of fruit-laden vine.
   Her mount, which had been plodding with down-drooping head, now
whinnied. Its call was answered by the pony from behind. Hertha herself
raised her voice, which in her own hearing sounded hoarse from cold and
lack of use:

   "Good fortune to this house and the dwellers therein!"

   The door split open, each half sliding back into the wall; golden light
streamed out. Nor did her mount give her time to slip clumsily from her
saddle, rather the horse paced on and stood, blowing, in what was an
outer chamber, not a real courtyard. Still both beasts seemed quiet and
content as if they had indeed come to their proper place.

   Hertha, stiff and sore, feeling as if she had been riding forever,
dismounted.

   "Enter into peace."

   The voice came from the air. She remembered how it had also done so
upon her visit to the shrine. She looked doubtfully at the horse and the
pony. Their loads must be shed. They had served her well and should be
eased.

   "Enter." A second door opened for her. "The good beasts will be tended,
as will all who come in peace."

   Already the warmth, the feeling of being burdenless, filled her. She did
not linger, but walked forward. At that second doorway she slipped the
long knife from her belt sheath and left it lying, for steel was not worn in
Gunnora's hall.

    The second room was as she had remembered it—a table set with food,
all ready to refresh the traveler. In her basket nest Elfanor stirred, gave a
small mewling cry. Her large eyes stared up into her mother's face, and
never had Hertha been so sure that within the small misshapen body there
was a mind which saw, which knew, which was older than the flesh and
bone that contained it.

   She half expected a protest from the child, or perhaps from whatever
presence abode in this chamber. Could one bring a cursed being into the
light which was its opposite? Save for that one cry Elfanor did not make
another sound, nor was there any answer. Hertha dropped into the chair,
held the baby close to her with her left arm, stretched out her right hand
to pick up a goblet from which arose faint steam, the scent of wine mulled
with herbs which was a traveler's welcome on a night of cold and long
wayfaring.

  She drank. She spooned into her mouth the richness of a stew, food
which satisfied, filled the body and eased the mind as no mouthful had
done since her first visit to the shrine.

   Satisfied, she sat back in her chair at last and spoke as much to the
leaping flame of the two lamps on the table as to the room.

   "To the giver of the feast, fair thanks from the heart. For the welcome of
the gate, gratitude. To She who rules here—" Hertha hesitated. She could
no longer find the proper words. For the first time the idea arose, hard
and harsh, of what she had done. In a place of peace and light she had
brought sin and evil—her own sin and evil!

   On the far side of the table a second door swung open. There was
dimmer light beyond. Now, filling the room, came the sweet scent of
flowers at the height of their summer blooming, a kind of voiceless
murmur as one might hear in the flowing of a merry stream, the hum of
contented bees about their harvest, the faintest breath of wind stirring
blossom-laden branches.

   It would seem that the Presence here did not judge as she knew she
should be judged. In her heart there was a small spring of real hope. Her
travel-stained divided skirt dragging at her boots, she went forward, not
slowly, reluctantly, but as one who has a purpose and knows that it must
be carried out.

   Smoke tendrils ringed about her, the scent grew stronger. It seemed to
Hertha as if that smoke took on tangible substance, forming many arms to
draw her on. Half-amused by the herb scent, she stumbled a little as she
came up against a couch. There she lay down wearily. Her eyes closed.

   There was a light, golden as the ker-apples of autumn, rich in its
seeming as the metal men prized. It arose as a pillar stretching from the
floor or ground so far into the upper regions of this other place that
Hertha, no matter how far back she turned her head, could not see its
crown. She saw now that it was not solid, even though her sight could not
pierce it. Rather it pulsed in rhythm, as if it were tuned to the beating of a
heart.

   Beautiful as that column was, there was something awesome, near
threatening about it. Hertha had knelt unconsciously. She wanted to reach
out her hands to that light, to pray for pardon; only her hands, her arms,
were locked about what she carried. She turned her eyes from the light to
that burden.

   The child had human form, true human form, yet it was dark, sullenly
dark. Still, in its small breast, the light of the pillar awoke an answer, a
spark as clear and glowing golden.

    "Lady—" Hertha did not believe she spoke aloud. In this place the words
came straight from the heart, from innermost thought, and that part of
any who came here which was the whole truth. "I have sinned against the
life which is of the good. Let not punishment fall upon the child, but
rather on me. For the innocent should not suffer for the guilty."

   The light flashed brightly to scald her eyes. Tears ran". Or were those
tears she had not shed since first the evil that all her kind could do had
caught her in a foul net?

   Hertha waited for an answer. When nothing came, fear awoke. She had
to hold to all her strength and courage to keep her eyes upon that searing
light. She shivered, for it seemed to her that a cold wrapped around her,
cutting her off not only from the mercy of the light, but from the life of her
own kind as well.

  She cried out. If this was death, then—

   "Not the child!" Her words were not as a plea, rather a demand. Then
she was more frightened, for one did not demand from the Powers, one
wooed and prayed.

   The light vanished as if a blink of her tormented eyes had sent it into
extinction. She saw something else—

   There spread now before her a place of rocks standing in a pattern, a
wheel pattern. That stretched as if she were suspended in the air above.
Though it had looked different from the ground, as she had seen it twice
before, she knew what she envisioned now—the place of the Toads.
   Devilish greenish lights glowed upon the sitting rocks at its heart.
Hertha half expected those to reach for her, fearing that any protection
she might once have had against those Dark Ones had been withdrawn.

   However, they did not appear to be aware of her, if indeed the Toads
were present. Now she moved, as one might who wore wings and used
them in slow even beats. She traveled above that maze of rock ways
outward to its circumference. Something else appeared. At the ends of
several of the ways which led into the web of the Toads there stood
straight and fast in the middle (as if they were closed doors to bar
entrance) stones which shown faintly blue. Three such roads were so
closed, three were open. Into Hertha's mind swept knowledge, as if this
were something she had always known and which had been asleep in her
mind, to be now awakened.

   So had the Toads of Grimmerdale once been confined and kept from
troubling the dreams of men, kept from drawing to them such foolhardy
or evil people as she had been when she had first sought them out. So
must they be confined again. Hertha drew a deep breath. If this was the
task set her, then she was ready for it.

   There came to her then a warning. Because she had once attempted to
use the Toads to achieve her end, she was now vulnerable to them. To
come so close to their own place was a risk of death worse than any failure
or hurt of body. The choice was hers alone. Would it save Elfanor? Of even
that she could not be sure, only hope, but hope was strong, it could carry
one far, be meat and drink, rest and surcease. Now Hertha held to it with
the full force of her will.

   Once more the girl faced the winds of the heights. There had been food
again waiting her when she had awakened. In the outer court she had
discovered the animals, fed, saddled and burdened, ready. The sun already
touched the upstanding peaks of the hills as she set out, turning once
more eastward, picking a way to avoid the closer settled dales.

  As she went Hertha searched for landmarks she had seen but once.
Above all she must avoid any meeting with a far-roving hunter or herder
out of Nordendale. The fact that the dalesmen avoided the places of the
Old Ones, shunned their roads, was her only advantage.

  The track which had been a clear guide to Gunnora's shrine became
dimmer on its twisting way east. Beyond the reaches of Nordendale she
should cut south once again for the circle of the Toads, perhaps over land
where there was no trace at all of any road.

   She dared not quicken pace. This track was treacherous with a winter
slippage of stones and rock. With Elfanor in her carrying cradle upon her
back, Hertha had to dismount now and again to lead her horse, testing the
stability of the trail with the haft of the spear. Her mount had not so far
refused to advance and that she took as a good sign, accepting that the
animal's senses, so much keener than her own in many ways, would give
any warning of trouble.

   After a full day's travel she slept but fitfully, Elfanor in her arms
beneath the huddle of her cloak, their rest a nest of last year's leaves and
grass which Hertha scooped into place among a tangle of storm-downed
trees. The second day had no sun, instead a thick mist which was half
drizzle dampened her dank clothing against her.

   Nordendale she passed—with a feeling of relief. She had allowed herself
a short period of viewing what lay below, marking the changes which had
come to that half-deserted, once masterless holding since last she had
come this way. There were people in the garden patches, a movement of
sheep along one hillside. But her eyes had sought at once the tower of the
keep. No banner cracked in the crisp wind. Which meant the lord was not
in residence. Where? Hertha bit down on her mittened hand. There could
well be one place to which Trystan was now bound—Lithendale! If he had
gone seeking her—She shook her head as if her jumble of thoughts could
be so reduced to order. No, there was only one thing which mattered, that
stone wheel above Grimmerdale!

   There was little forage for the horse and pony here. They pulled toward
the green now coating hillside meadows. She had to use all her skill and
determination to keep them moving. At noon she bribed them with
broken bits of journey cake which they mouthed eagerly, licking up the
last of the crumbs from the rocks where she had dropped the pieces.

   The drizzle never became true rain, only a gray misery which wrapped
her around. One of those lesser irritations which could eat away at one's
determination. Her garments clung to her, and she shivered continually as
she rode. Tonight—if she did not halt too long at an eating or rest
break—tonight she should be within such distance of Grimmerdale that
the next morn she could face her task.
   She had this much in her favor, Hertha decided. The Powers of the
Dark Ones were fed by the night, by any absence of light. If she could get
to her task by the day she would have that small advantage. Providing she
could finish before dusk deepened again.

   Twilight came early. Again she camped at a place from which she could
see the lantern above the door of that inn where once she had served and
waited with what patience she could muster, for the one man whom her
singleminded purpose had sent her to deliver to vengeance. She longed for
a hot drink, for shelter even as squalid as that inn had been, the sound of
voices of her own kind. Instead she crouched alone, her two beasts uneasy
beside her, sucking at a stick of dried meat, and nursing her child. In the
last of the light she saw that once more that knowing, measuring look was
back in Elfanor's eyes. Something which was not of proper mankind
looked out at her, slyly, maliciously, with anticipation.

   Hertha refused to believe that this was more than her imagination. She
cradled the baby in her arms, after giving her the breast, rocking back and
forth, crooning in a whisper one of the old, old songs she remembered her
own old nurse had used to hold at bay the dark and all which might glide
within thick shadows.

   That night she did not sleep. It was as if the driving purpose which had
brought her here fostered within her a frenetic energy, so that she had to
use all her power and determination not to leave the half shelter she had
found, to go straightway to the place where they waited.

    So strong did that pull become that she knelt upon the ground, fighting
with all the strength of her being the desire to move, to go-That night
might have lasted for a year, a century, more than her own lifetime, or so
it seemed when the first grayish finger-claws of dawn came clutching over
the hills. Hertha got stiffly to her feet. She was numb with cold, cramped
in every muscle by the battle she had fought. Still lay the task ahead.

   Now placing the baby's cradle on the ground, the girl opened the bag
which Dame Inghela had given her. There were packets of leaves so dried
and crushed that their condition was dry powder, others, withered to be
sure, but still clinging to the branches from which they had sprung.

   Hertha made her choices, lifting each pinch she used close to her nose
to make sure that she dealt with the right one. Five such pinches she
worked into a thick grease contained in a small pot, then three more, and
lastly one, which was the strongest and most pungent of them all, making
her sneeze, even gag when she smelled it closely.

   The salve which had absorbed all these she rubbed in wide circles about
her eyes. It beaded in her brows, making her squint a little from its
strength of emanation. Again she used more as an ointment. Taking off
her damp cap, she thrust her braids of hair back impatiently that she
might anoint her cars. Last of all what was left she spread across the
palms of her hands. Having so prepared herself, and fasting as required,
she picked up the basket cradle and took Elfanor to the nearest shelter, a
bush very thick with budding branches which overhung the ground.
Slipping the cradle back under that rough canopy, Hertha set on end
about the open side of the hiding place those branches of twigged herbs,
forcing them into the earth, bolstering them erect with small stones.

   The horse and pony had followed her. Now she recklessly crumbled all
she had left of her journey cakes, leaving the bits in two piles at which they
eagerly nuzzled. Getting to her feet, Hertha started forward, refusing to let
herself look back. All she could do to protect Elfanor she had. She dared
not let any apprehension steal into her mind, she must remember only
what she had come to do.

  The circle of the outer stones which was the rim of the Toad's wheel
were clear enough. She held her hands together so that the greased palms
were as one. Using them both then she pointed her fingertips forward, the
smell of the herbs very strong.

   Hertha edged along, making the circuit of the wheel's outer wall. Nor
would she allow herself to glance down any of the avenues formed between
the spokes of upstanding stones, but kept her gaze on' the ground. She
found the first of the "stopper stones" at the third such aisle.

   Hertha faltered. The thing was a rough hunk of rock, not even worked
as were the pillar stones, and it was as tall as her knees, so well embedded
in the ground that perhaps it might be even larger. She wet her chapped
lips with the tip of her tongue and considered its size, her own strength.
Could she move such?

   She might only find one of the missing ones and try. The girl dropped
her cloak to the ground, its sodden folds hindered her shoulders and arms.
Already she had sighted what she wanted. This was one! All points and
angles, its blue surface standing out vividly in this place. Hertha reached it
quickly, set her palms to it and pushed, to find the boulder set in the
ground as securely as any forest tree.

  So—but it could be moved! Having been in place once, it must be put so
again. Now she exerted more strength, strove to rock it back and forth,
her hands chafed by the roughness of its surface. The stone moved!

   So small a triumph, but enough to encourage her. Panting, fighting,
rubbing her hands near raw in spite of their protective covering (for in
this place she knew that she dare not use the mittens which dangled from
her wrists), she edged the rock on, brought it into place at last midpoint of
one unguarded aisle, and leaned against it, panting for a space.

   There was something building about her, a kind of soundless laughter,
of jeering at one who dared so much surely to fail. Hertha straightened.
Her lips were one firm line, her chin set. One! Now for the next—

   She found a second stone, but this was half buried in rubble. She had to
pull and dig to free it before she could once more try to move the rock on.
It was stubborn, leaving its bed with such reluctance that once or twice
she despaired of ever getting it out. Her hands left bloody prints upon its
surface when she dragged it at last to the doorway it must lock. Two—

   Hunger gnawed at her. She swayed dizzily now and again as she went to
search for the last. Surely she could find and set that. Her wide divided
skirt dragged at her legs. She felt as one wading through a vast quagmire
of sucking mud, having to fight for each forward step.

   There was no stone! There must be! She could not have been misled in
her vision in the shrine. Those of the Power who turned to the light played
no such cruel tricks. They could refuse help, but they did not deliberately
deceive. Somewhere near the stone must lie. Hertha turned slowly,
examining the ground. There were tumbled stones, yes, plenty of them,
both large and small, but none of a blue sheen.

   Could it be wholly buried in some pile as the second was half
concealed? She could sight no heap in that clutter of rocks which was
large enough to hide totally what she sought Once more she made the
dragging round of the outer circumference of the wheel. As she went, so
did that sly laughter seem to grow within her mind, buffet her like the
wind of a rising storm. She was certain that the Toads knew what she
attempted, that they watched her in amusement, somehow certain that
her efforts would fail. But those would not!

   The circling of her search grew wider, farther away from the edge of the
wheel. Now she sought out Elfanor and nursed the whimpering baby. Not
realizing her own fatigue until her legs seemed to fold under her and the
bleeding hands with which she clasped the child to her shook with tremors
she could not control.

  Her hunger was gone, leaving only a dull pain in her body as she
hunched forward, impatient but waiting that the child might be satisfied.
The horse and the pony stood on either side of the tangled bush. They had
again licked up all the food she had left but they had not strayed.

   Suddenly the mount which had carried her threw up its head and
nickered before Hertha could stop it. A neigh answered. She stiffened
where she crouched, taking the baby from her breast and placing it
quickly in the basket behind her. Elfanor opened her mouth and gave forth
a furious yell.

  Somehow Hertha got to her feet, stood there wavering, one hand
making fast her clothing, the other resting ready on the hilt of her dagger.
Though the drizzle of rain no longer fell, the clouds still hung overhead.
Not dark nor close enough however to hide the fact that there was a rider
coming.

  There were outlaws enough in this war-torn land who had the
desperate courage, or perhaps even the inclination, to follow the Old
Roads. She remembered, too, nightmare tales of things which prowled, or
were said to run the ridges. Surely no one would come here unless he was
bent on some form of mischief, so evil was the reputation of this place.

  The newcomer fronted the rise, and she saw he wore war mail, a
snouted helm which hid much of his face. A shield swung by his saddle
horn, and its device had been new painted. That was the only bit of color
about him, for the horse he rode was of the same dull gray as his half
armor, as dusky of mane as his surcoat.

   Once she might have known him by the shield device, but the lords of
the dales lay in many unknown graves up and down the lands, and new
men had risen, choosing their own markings. Hertha could not put name
to who would bear what he carried. The painting was crude as if someone
hardly versed in such work had made an effort to picture something only
imperfectly described. There was a strange cloudy representation of what
might be some kind of monstrous head, cutting across it, straight and far
better pictured, the blade of a drawn sword, as if that weapon barred the
monster behind from some prey. Cold iron—

   The thought ran in her head as if he who rode so shouted it aloud. Cold
iron, which was indeed the bane of some of the Old Ones, a counter to
their magic in itself.

   Some outlaw, more foolhardy and reckless than most of their breed? Or
a wanderer who did not know the danger he unwittingly courted in such a
place? With that snouted helm so overshadowing his face she could not
see him any clearer than if he wore a mask. But the voice which hailed
her! Hertha drew a deep breath of protest—yes, that she knew!

   His mount, a war charger of good breed, paced slowly onward, the reins
lying easy on its neck as if the rider had no reason to control it to his will.
She wanted to run, but there was no refuge, no place to go where he could
not follow— even into the den of the Toads where once they did venture
together.

   "My lady—" His hail seemed to hang in the air between them as if she
refused to let her ears hear it. His horse stood quiet as he swung down
with the practiced ease of a fighting man, leaving that shield still hung in
place. Now he came toward her, his booted feet making a small crunching
sound on the gravel. Somehow Hertha found her voice, was able to raise
hand and ward him off with the only gesture she could make.

   "No!"

   If he heard her he did not listen. Now she could see his sunbrowned
jaw, his firm-lipped mouth below the half mask of the helm. He paused
and dragged his mail-enclosed gauntlets from his hands, thrust them into
his belt and then dealt expertly with the fastening snaps of the helm,
pulled it off to free his head with its frosted hair blowing free in the
breeze. His eyes were slightly narrowed as he regarded her with such a
speculative look that Hertha longed to be away from here, safe hid from all
the thoughts which his coming had awakened in her, nothing must defeat
her purpose here. So, hardening her resolve, it was her turn to take a step
forward, both hands up, grimed, broken of nail, raw of finger, between
them, in that warding off gesture.
   "My Lord Trystan—why?"

   Somehow she could not find more words, though thoughts plagued her.

   "I went to Lithendale; you were gone." He spoke simply, as one might to
a troubled child. "They told me that you sought help in a strange and
perilous place. So I came."

   Hertha ran her tongue across her lips, tasted a little of the bitter
coating she had laid upon her face.

  This—it is my task—" She tried to lash herself into saving anger.
Always, save once, she had defended her independence, carried her own
burden without any help.

   "I do not know witcheries," he said gravely. "Perhaps it is true that
yours may be the only hands," he glanced at her misused fingers then,
"which can accomplish this. Then again, my lady, it may also be that two
can do better and quicker than one what must be done."

   Before Hertha could retreat he was at her side in one swift stride, trying
to catch her hands. But she jerked away. "Do not!" she cried. "They have
protection."

    "Protection!" One eyebrow arched upward in an odd slant which she
remembered of old. "It would seem by the looks of those that you have had
little of that this day. Tell me," now his voice had the ring of that which
had been raised many times to command men, "what do you do here and
why?"

   "Why?" She must disgust him and quickly, get rid of one who had no
part of this and who must not be drawn into her troubles. With a flap of
her earth-stained clothing she turned and stooped to catch up the basket.
Settling that against her hip, she pulled free the covers about Elfanor's
face. Even under these clouds the light was without pity, showing the clear
marks of the curse. While the baby's eyes were open, staring outward with
that evil, knowing look. "See you?" she demanded fiercely, studying him
intently, watching for the first sign of revulsion.

   However he had himself well schooled, that she must admit. He did not
display the disgust she was certain she would see.
   "They told me—a changeling—" His voice was slow, event, again as if he
were afraid to alarm. "But you think, lady, that you have found an answer
here?"

   "Perhaps, only perhaps." She felt odd, having prepared herself to
counter the shrinking she had expected from him. What kind of a man
was he who faced the results of dark evil without a change of eye or
expression?

   "Perhaps is sometimes all one can ask for." Again he made one of those
swift, sure moves and she found the basket whirled out of her torn hands,
held firm and secure in his, as he looked down at the child. "What is it
that you think must be done?" he asked briskly.

   She wanted to take the basket from him, to draw tight the coverings
which made Elfanor safe from prying eyes as well as this cold. But her
tired body made her clumsy as she stumbled, half fell forward, so that now
he held the cradle upon one hip and his other arm was about her, both
drawing her close and supporting her.

   "Come." He countered her small attempt to pull away, led her to a pile
of stones and there seated himself, the cradle resting across his knees, she
herself beside him, unable to summon any strength to pull free from his
hold.

   She shivered, her hands lying uselessly on her knees. Then, to her great
disgust, she felt tears on her cheeks. So much of her wanted to yield, to let
someone else take command. Only—she need only look down at Elfanor,
who as usual lay quiet, only stared up into the face of the man who held
her with those unblinking eyes, the sly fires well alive deep in their depths.

   Hertha summoned up all the strength she could muster, and broke free
from his grip, somehow got to her feet.

  "The rocks—the last one—" She must keep to her task!

   "Which rock?" He did not try to hold her back, only stood himself and
then placed the cradle carefully on the ground.

   Hertha had already lurched away, afraid now that he would attempt to
hold her again. If he did, she might yield to that traitor part of her which
his coming here had awakened in a way which bewildered and weakened
her resolve.

   "The blue one, the last— I have searched, and searched. Two I found.
The third—I cannot." She stumbled on, her torn hands outstretched as if
to implore the ground itself to produce the stone she must have. "The
rocks," she spoke more to herself than to him, trying to return to her
singleminded hunt, shut out all which was not atuned to that, "one must
be placed at each of the entrances, as a sealing. That is the task laid upon
me now."

   She was only half aware then he had passed her, to go to the nearest of
the spoked lanes and look down at the earth-encrusted boulder she had
worked so hard to set in place.

   "This kind?" Trystan did not wait for her to answer. Instead, having
studied the stone, he too swung out in search among the tumble of rocks
which lay spread out along the crest of the ridge.

  Hertha dragged her way on, stopping now and then to pull at a pile of
smaller stones, hoping each time to see hidden beneath them the blue she
sought. She had been near three-quarters of the way around the wheel
now and there was no sign of the last one. Did it exist at all?

   "Ha!"

  She turned. So quickly that she lost her balance and fell painfully to her
knees. For a moment she did not see him at all and then his head
appeared nearly at ground level and she remembered a notch of gully
which ran there.

   "I think that it is down here!"

   Somehow Hertha got across the ground between them. Trystan was
stooped, hurling small rocks away from him with vigor. As Hertha came to
the lip of that cut she could see it too, buried, only a small bit showing
above the soil now that he cleared it from the rock fall. Blue like the
others. But how could she raise it?

   Having thrown aside the rocks, Trystan drew his sword and stabbed the
earth, throwing chunks of winter-hardened clay aside, yet working more
slowly and with care for the safety of his tool which was not to be foolishly
blunted.
   Hertha wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, smearing the
herb grease on her face. She stared down at where Trystan worked with a
dull despair. He might free the stone, yes, but how could she get it out of
that tight lodging, then drag or roll it to the final resting place? Strength
seemed to have melted out of her body.

   "There it is, my lady!" He stepped away, thrusting his sword once more
into its scabbard, looking down at the boulder he had uncovered with an
expression of satisfaction.

  From somewhere Hertha summoned croaking words. "Up—how does
one get it up?"

   That she could lift that piece of rock she had to acknowledge was
beyond her powers. Yet the task was hers alone, she was sure of that, as
she had been since the first of this ordeal.

   "There is the rope which kept your pony's sacks in place." He stood,
pinching his lips as he looked down at the rock. "With the aid of the
horses it can be pulled out."

   Hertha blinked. What he said made sense. She had been so bemused by
her own fatigue that such a move had not occurred to her. It gave her a
spurt of energy and she was on her feet once more, heading to where she
had piled the pony's gear. There was the rope, sure enough, a strong one.
Whether its strength was enough to carry through Trystan's suggestion
she could not be sure until it was tried. Looping the coil over her arm and
shoulder, she brought it back and tossed the end to him.

   He caught it neatly out of midair as it fell, then knelt to work a length
around the rock, taking advantage of any projecting angle to make the
stone more secure. Finally he looked up to her.

  "Bring your horse, mine, and we shall see if this will serve."

   Her own placid mount caused no trouble, plodding easily enough to the
gully. But his beast pulled back on the reins he had left dangling to the
ground, the traditional "earth tie" of a fighting man, rolling its eyes and
snorting. Hertha pulled steadily on the reins and was glad that there was
no battle— the horse followed her at last, one reluctant step after another.

  Trystan clambered out of the cut, was already making one end of the
rope into a loop about the horn of her saddle. The other he still gripped in'
his hand as he mounted up, giving the now foreshortened piece of cordage
a second twist about his own horn.

   At his signal not only the horse he bestrode, but her own moved and she
saw the rope become as taut as a bowstring, snapping hard against the
edge of the gully. She feared to hear the crack of a snapping rope. Still that
did not come. Trystan's horse went slowly on, step by step, her own
following while the rope remained taut. The rock, indeed, freed from its
earth setting, was drawn up the side of the gully as it gouged and scraped
against the wall along which it swung.

   The boulder arose at last over the edge, plopped near Hertha's feet. She
hurried it, worrying at the knotted rope, she would have nothing left to
draw upon. Trystan was beside her, his hands pushing her aside as they
competently freed the stone.

  "Now where? Where is this road which must be so guarded?"

   She shook her head. "I must do it! Mine the sin, mine the payment!"
She tried to edge past him, to set her hands to the stone's earth-grimed
side. It must be done—she must do it!

   "No." His voice seemed to come from very far away, as if her head were
so full of the need for keeping her mind on action that she could not catch
the words quickly. "If it needs your touch, well enough. But remember, I,
too, faced the Toads once in a time."

   "Because then I tricked you." Hertha was not aware again that she was
crying until she tasted the salt of her own tears. "All was of my doing. Let
me go. It must be placed before sundown—it must be!"

   He did not answer her. Instead he bent and braced both hands to the
boulder, releasing his strength, sending it rolling in a wobbling fashion
across the ground. Hertha hurried after it with a cry of dismay. She
reached it first, set her own energy, what remained of it, to the pushing,
and felt that it gave only inches.

   He was once more beside her. 'Together we once fought here, my lady.
So shall we fight again. I have not sought you out to lose you again in any
battle which means all this one does. Heave if you will and must, but with
my help also. Surely whatever power sent you here cannot deny you my
aid, not now!"

   Hertha could not raise breath to answer him. She labored at the stone,
and it was moving more easily, rocking from side to side. If she was not
fulfilling the task laid upon her, she would suffer. But she could not
accomplish it all alone, of that she was sure.

   The stone moved so slowly. Above was the darkening of clouds which
were of no storm's signal but that of coming night. Night was when the
Dark Ones arose to power, if they could not get the stone in place before
the last of daylight reached them! Hertha's breath came in shallow gusts
of panting. Before them to the left was the last of the open ways. Trystan
changed position, coming about behind her so as to exert pressure from
the other side.

   It seemed to Hertha that the very ground denied them aid, that certain
shadows crept out from the pillar bases to cover the rough portions and
hide obstacles from them as they labored.

  "On now, my lady, just a short way—" He, too, was panting. Then he
bent even closer to the ground, going down on one knee as he set his
shoulder firmly against the side of the rock.

  "Stand away!" he ordered her.

  She saw the strain of his body, his flushed face. For a long moment it
would seem that the rock had caught past their moving. Then—

   Slowly, and with a wavering from side to side (which Hertha watched
with anguished anxiety, her bleeding hands pressed to her mouth) it went
forward, came to a stop in the center of the way.

   There was a sudden sweep of wind, sword-sharp with cold, whirling out
her clothing, raising dust to blind her eyes. Somewhere from within that
gritty haze came hands, arms, a body which steadied her. Was it the
wailing of the wind which carried that strange chorus of grunting cries?
Or did she imagine it only?

   She could barely keep her feet. A moment later he caught her up,
carried her out of the whirlwind of noise and grit, back toward the bush
which still sheltered Elfanor.
   The wind died, she heard another sound, the vigorous crying of a baby.
Trystan set her down and Hertha staggered to the cradle. It was not dark
yet, the twilight was still holding off a little. She caught the basket up into
her arras as she fell to her knees. Holding it tight against her with one
arm, she clawed at the covering blanket. Elfanor was screaming steadily.

  Hertha stared down. Her eyes were tearing, perhaps the grit of the
wind storm had irritated them. She blinked and blinked furiously, fighting
against that distortion of her sight. Then she could see clearly.

  Her daughter's face was red with effort, her eyes screwed shut as she
howled, flailing at the air with the fists she had managed to loose from her
swaddling.

   A red face, but—

   Hertha's fear melted away. This was no changeling! She had won! The
curse was gone. The eyes in the baby's face opened. They were dark, but
there was no alien knowledge in them, just as that anger-reddened skin
held no scaled patch of brown.

   "Free! She is free!" Hertha crooned, rocking the baby, cradle and all,
against her as she swayed back and forth. Firm hands clasped her
shoulders. Dimly she realized that a new strength had come, that she was
no longer alone.

   "You freed her." His voice was clear to her.

  She turned her head to look at him, all her gratitude swelling up within
her like an inner fire.

   "With you only could I have done it."

   "Did you think I would not help?" He looked stern, harsh and hard, in
the failing light. But that was not Trystan in truth, that she was sure of.
For the first time in days, months, even years which she could remember,
Hertha let her stiff independence seep away, allowed herself the precious
safety of his hold.

   "With you only," she repeated softly. She knew from the light suddenly
aglow in his eyes, the softening of his lips that he heard. "Many are
Gunnora's gifts—many and good."
   "May her name be praised," he said then, though Gunnora was the
holder of women's Power and no man worshiped at her shrine. "She has
given us both much in this hour. My lady, it grows dark, shall we go?"

  Hertha looked at Elfanor. Whatever rage had possessed her at the
sundering of the dark power was gone. The baby blinked sleepily.

  "Yes," Hertha cried. "Let us go—home!"

  The delight in his face was such at her words that she believed she had
nothing else to wish for.