Andre Norton - Witch World High Halleck 7 - Gryphon In Glory

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Gryphon in Glory by Andre Norton
Joisan
ABOUT ME THERE WAS ONLY THE GRAY LIGHT OF PREDAWN, WHICH left the ridges
black
and harsh against the sky. Like all who deal secretly, I used this cover of
shadows as I prepared to ride forth. Though I believed I was well armed in
spirit for what I must do, still I shivered under my mail and leather as if I
needed the cloak now rolled behind my saddle.
"Lady Joisan—"
That voice out of the dark, deep-set Abbey gate gave me a start. I swung
around,
my hand going without bid of conscious thought to the hilt of the sword
swinging
heavy at my belt.
"Lady…"
It was Nalda, who had been my right hand, and sometimes the left also, when
the
invaders drove us out of Ithdale and we wandered guideless westward across
unknown lands. Last night I had given her, not my orders, but my confidence.
She had listened as I pointed out that those who were left of our people were
now safe in Norsdale, that they would continue to be given shelter and work
by
the Dames, even as were the other refugees who had come this far, there being
no
near fear to trouble their future.
"But you," she said, shrewdly seizing upon what must have colored my voice,
"you
speak as if you will not be here."
"I will not—for a space. None of us can know what lies ahead from one day's
dawning to the next. I have been your lady, and, in a manner, also your lord,
during our wanderings. Now I must consider my own affairs."
"My lady, do you go to seek him, then—my Lord Amber?"
"Not Amber!" My answer had been sharp. That was the name we had given him
when
he first found us and we had thought him one of the Old Ones aiding us
because
of some whim. "You know that he is my wedded lord—Kerovan. Yes, I must go to
him—or at least seek him. I must. Nalda."
I had hesitated then, shy of revealing my feelings to anyone, even to Nalda,
true of heart though she had always been. But she had nodded. "When my lord
rode
forth these five days past—I knew you would follow, my lady. There is the
bond
between you, which cannot be denied. Nor are you one to abide behind safe
walls
to wait there in patience for tidings. You must be a-doing—even as you were
in
Ithdale when we strove to defend it." Her voice faltered. I knew that she
remembered what ties of her own had been broken on that raw, red day when we
had
run from death, our escape so hard bought.
I had become brusque, for memory is sometimes a burden one must throw away
lest
it weigh too heavily, the past against what must be done in the present.
"To you I would give my keys, if those still hung from my girdle. I set you
in
charge of my people, knowing that you will see to their good—"
She had interrupted me quickly. "Lady, you have kin here. I am not of the
keep
household nor kin to the House. What will my Lady Islaugha say to this? She
has
recovered and no longer wanders in her wits—and she is a proud woman—"
"She may be my aunt but she is not of Ithdale," I had pointed out decisively.
"This is our own matter, none of hers. I have told the Lady Abbess that you
are
to be my deputy. No"—I shook my head at the open question on her broad,
sun-browned face—"the Abbess does not know my intentions. I have only said
that
this shall be so should accident or illness strike at me. Your authority will
stand."
There was only one under that roof besides Nalda who knew what lay in my head
or
heart—and it was by her contrivance (that of the much revered Past-Abbess
Malwinna) that I rode forth wearing unfamiliar steel and leather, mounted on
a
tough mountain mare, in the dim light of morning. Or would ride when I had
done
with Nalda.
She came closer, her voice a husky whisper. It would seem that she, no more
than
I, wanted to arouse any notice. Now her hand, pale in this dim light, raised
as
if to catch at the reins I had gathered up when I swung into the saddle.
"Lady, you must not go alone!" she said urgently. "I have been burdened with
worry since you told me of what you would do. Outside this dale the country
may
be a trap—danger crawls there. "
"All the more reason that I ride alone, Nalda. One only, who goes with
caution,
can slip between shadows." My hand rose to cup over that which hung about my
neck—the globe of crystal with its imprisoned silver gryphon, my lord's own
gift
to me, and one that was—was what? I did not truly know; this might be the
time
for me to discover the power of that which I wore, carried, and had once
used,
without understanding what it could or would do.
"I have seen things, Nalda. Yes, and been a part of them also, that would
make
those raving Hounds of Alizon turn and run, their tails clapped between their
legs, their jaws foaming with fear. I ride alone and when I return, then my
lord
shall be with me—that, or I shall not come at all!"
She stood, her shoulder brushing against my saddlebag, looking up at me with
searching intensity. Then she nodded briskly as I had seen her do many times
on
the trail when we had come to the solution of some problem.
"So be it, my lady. Be sure when you come for an accounting all shall be as
you
wish. May Our Lady of the Harvest Shrine guide your way—for she is ever
mindful
of those who love true!"
I made my own farewell, but Nalda's invocation of Gunnora, the lady who is
mindful of the pains and pleasures of womenkind, was a warm thing to carry.
In
my heart I blessed her for such an invocation—though she gave it in the very
shadow of the House of the Flames, where Gunnora holds no rule or place.
Or was there one behind the walls who would also give me a blessing strange
to
the learning of the Dames? As I headed out into the first thin light of day I
thought of that other—the
Past-Abbess Malwinna, her ancient body so well tended by her "daughters," who
perhaps did not even guess what her thoughts might be or where they might
roam.
I had sought her out in misery, coming into her small walled garden, which was
a
place of infinite peace, though there was no peace for me, nor could there be
now. Within me battled feelings that were hot and high. I had thought her
perhaps too old to understand what I felt. She was so near the Dames' idea of
perfection—how could she find sympathy for me?
Then 'my eyes had met hers and I knew that there was full awareness there.
She
did not weigh me in that long moment we sat so, eyes linked to eyes, or
rebuke
my savage impatience. All she took from me was that hampering self-pity, my
sense of outrage, and so cleared my thoughts to positive ends.
"I will not let it end so!" I had cried out of my hurt and anger, which fed
each
other into a mighty storm.
Still our gaze had locked. She gave me nothing—I was young, uncertain. I
wanted
some one to say now, "Do this, or that, Joisan, and all will come right."
Except
there was no one left to so order my life. I stood alone.
That loneliness was the very core of what ate at me.
"I am his wife—not only by ceremony, but by my heart's wish!" I said that
with
defiance. To speak of such emotions here might well be a sin. The Dames of
Norstead put aside all the desires of the flesh when they take their vows.
"Two
ways I can claim him—still we are not one!"
She did not answer—my words tumbled on, growing shriller as I thought upon my
loss.
"We stood against evil, and after that, I thought our true marriage must
come.
He—I knew he was exhausted by the struggle, that he would turn to me
soon—perhaps that he must learn a little to be himself after that ill fortune
had passed.
"So I was patient." Now, remembering my words, my clasp on the reins
tightened,
I stared ahead not seeing the road before me. "I tried to let him know by
word
and act that in him I found all that any woman might desire. Marriage between
House and House is not rooted in liking of maid for man, man for maid. We
wed,
or are wed, for the advantage of our kin. But I believe, yes, I must believe
that sometimes a richer life comes from such couplings. I thought it would be
mine!
"You know the marks he bears," I had continued, "the sign of the Old Ones.
When
his enemies seized and would have used me for their foul purposes he alone
came.
Then I understood that such marks meant nothing, he was not one to hold in
awe,
but one to love.
"His hurts were mine, his way my road. I know this will be so as long as that
Flame Eternal burns upon any altar. But—what I had to give him was not
enough…"
So I had poured out my hurt, and my hands had been tight upon the englobed
gryphon which was all he had left me, even as I held it now, left-handedly,
for
comfort. The gryphon was the badge of my lord's house, but this talisman was
far
older, a thing out of the Waste where the Old Ones had gone.
I looked down at it. Even in this half light its tiny gemmed eyes glittered,
I
could almost believe that its half-furled wings had moved, that it longed to
break free of the confinement of the crystal. It was a thing of Power, though
neither my Lord or I knew how to use it. Also it was a Key—
I remember the words of that strange man who had come at the end of my lord's
battle. Neevor, he had called himself. It was he who said that I held a key.
What I had was not enough! My pain caught at me, it had burned away pride.
Pride
of that kind I did not want. I shifted in the saddle, I was beyond the
outermost
farm, soon I must turn into the southern way-path. Still I could not control
my
backward-looking thoughts.
When I had made that same cry to the Past-Abbess she had answered me with what
I
had not expected—agreement.
"No, what you have is not enough."
"Kerovan." She had said his name in her soft voice, as if she blessed him.
"He
has been ever made poor. His father—to him a son was needed for his own
pride,
that one of his blood follow him in the great seat of his hall. Kerovan knew
this with his heart before he could understand.
"Darkness feeds and grows stout on unhappiness, draws also thoughts which are
misshapen and hurtful. We all have such thoughts—some held so secretly we do
not
know with our full minds that they exist. Yet, in spite of such a fashioning,
Kerovan was not wrought into what they term him—monster. Rather he is
stronger
within than he believes.
"I have met your lord."
That startled me, for I knew that no man entered the inner part of the Abbey.
I
must have made some sound, for the Past-Abbess had smiled at me.
"Great age brings its own privileges, my child. Yes, when I heard your story
I
wished to learn more of him. He came and—in spite of his inner wall against
the
world—he talked. What he said was less, of course, than what he did not, but
he
revealed more than he knew.
"He now stands in a place from which run many roads—he must choose and that
choosing shall make of him, for good or ill, a different man. Child, we know
so
little of the Old Ones. Though, in spite of prudence telling us to walk with
care, we are drawn to the unknown—those wonders and perils beyond our
understanding. Kerovan has their heritage; he is now like a child who faces a
pile of glittering toys. But the caution born of his strange birthing makes
him
ever suspicious. He fears giving way to anything that he senses will make him
feel instead of think. Most of all he fears himself, thus he will not be
drawn
to any he loves—"
"Loves?" I had been bitter then.
"Loves," she repeated firmly. "Though he knows it not, nor, even if he did,
would he allow himself to be moved now. He feels safe within those walls of
his—not only safe for himself, but for others. He will not come again to you,
Joisan—though he does not admit this even to himself. He will not come
because
he cares—because he fears that the strange blood in him shall, in some
manner,
threaten you."
"But that is not true!" I had cried then. My hold upon the crystal gryphon
became so tight that I might have crushed it.
"To him it is. Unless he can break his inner wall—"
"Or have another break it for him!"
She had nodded then. And again, when I had added, "I am not free, nor shall
he
be! Let him ride south at Lord Imgry's bidding as he has done. They will try
to
use him—even as they make wardsigns for evil behind his back. He shall find
no
friends there. Oh, why did he go?"
"You know why, child."
"Yes! He thought he had nothing else, that he might as well spend his life
thus.
So he tells his wife that she is free—and he goes! Well, I care! I have no
false
pride. If Kerovan rides to the bidding of those who would make him a tool—then
I
shall ride also!"
"You shall. For this is a meant thing, and, perhaps, of greater importance
than
you can guess now. Go with the Will of the Flame. That shall be your cloak
and
shelter, dear child. May It lighten your path and kindle joy in your heart at
last."
So she had not only given me her full blessing, but, by her orders, the
storehouse of the Abbey had been opened to me. There I had chosen weapons and
gear from that brought by refugees, keeping my own council until all was
readied. Then I held my meeting with Nalda and so had come to this lonely
ride
into the unknown.
My mare, an ugly beast if compared to the larger horses of the plain, was
mountain bred. I called her "Bural" which is a landsman's name for a tough
root
it is hard to pull free. She turned now under my urging into the trail
southward
that my lord and his escort had taken earlier.
I had little hope of catching up with him; there were too many days gone.
Also,
though this road must be my guide, I was wary of riding openly.
The land was now a roaming place for more than one kind of enemy. Before the
war
the Waste, which lay not too far distant, had been a haunt for outlaws and
masterless men, raiders. I also had heard that there were small bands of the
enemy quartering the land to the eastward—though those had grown fewer of
late.
Perhaps their scouts had found this trail, visited it to spy upon any traffic
there.
Once this had been a merchants' path. The abbey dales were notably good for
trade and several sponsored yearly fairs. However, there had been no attempt
to
keep this road open since the invasion began and now it was overgrown; winter
slides had cut away slices of the way where it climbed the ridges.
I was glad of the coming of better light, for several times I had to dismount
and lead Bural over loose footing. Still I was not too delayed until the
second
day of travel when a thick mist became a threat. It was so complete a
cloaking
of the ground that I could see less than a sword's length before me. Moisture
gathered on my helm, trickling down to wet my face, and my hands were clammy
on
the reins as I led the mare on.
To continue so blindly was folly. I began to look for shelter. There were
rocks
and heaps of stone in plenty, but nothing in the way of a cave or even a
half-roofed crevice. I had no mind to squat on wet stones in the open while
waiting for better weather.
Then, before us reared a sudden barrier of rock. Bural jerked at the reins,
turned her head stubbornly to the left, though whether that was north, south,
east, or west, I could not have said. We had left the road earlier, as it lay
straight and open for a space and I had no mind to be seen.
Since the mare was so stubborn, and the footing seemed less loose in that
direction, I allowed her her will. Thus we skirted along the wall so closely
that now and then the saddlebag brushed the stone. I do not know when I first
noticed that it was not just an escarpment of natural rock, but in truth a
wall
made to some purpose.
The stones, though rough and very large, had been laid with such skill that I
do
not believe I could have forced the point of my belt knife into the cracks.
Though on other rocks one could see the ash-green or rusty-red of lichen in
growth, this wall was clear except for runnels of moisture condensed from the
fog.
I was certain we had come upon another ruin of the Old Ones and I paused,
holding out the gryphon as a test. The crystal was, as ever, warm, while the
glittering eyes of the imprisoned beast were bright, but there came no real
glow. Not all the remains scattered about the Dales were imbued with unknown
Power. There were many no different from the new-made ruins of our own where
war
had swept. I judged this to be one of the dead places where I had nothing to
fear.
Bural plodded steadily on. There was no break in the wall. Then, suddenly,
the
mountain mare snorted, her head came up higher as if she had scented
something
through the mist. She hastened pace, pulling determinedly when I would have
held
her back.
I drew the dart gun for which I had but little ammunition, took Bural's reins
into my left hand. Swordplay I would trust to only as a last resort.
Now I smelled it also, hanging heavily entrapped in the mist, wood smoke! We
could not be too far from a fire.
Before I could silence her, Bural uttered a loud whinny—and was answered!
There
was no holding her wiry strength, though my tight grasp on the reins brought
her
head around. She bucked and kicked out. Our struggle carried us into an open
space where the wall came to an abrupt end.
In the murk there was a ruddy glow which must mark a fire. I saw a shape,
well-veiled by the mist, coining from it toward me. As I brought up the dart
gun, Bural broke away and went trotting straight to the fog-muted flames.
I dared not be set afoot in the wilderness, so must get the mare back, though
that fire, in this place, was likely tended by enemies rather than friends.
No
refugees would have willingly chosen these barren heights as their road.
The one coming toward me swung aside to let Bural pass, making no attempt to
catch at her dangling reins. Tall—plainly a man. Now I could see he carried
bared steel. I must hold my own fire until I had a better target, for he
probably went mailed.
I had seen death and had been ready to kill. But then my actions had been in
defense, for myself or the lives of others. To shoot coolly thus, I
discovered,
was a difficult thing.
"Jervon!" A hollow call came from the ruddy blotch of flames behind the
advancing man. He did not turn his head, but he stopped and stood, his sword
still in his hand. All I could see of his face beneath the rim of his helm was
a
whitish blur, for as he halted, so did I, still and waiting.
Another came out of the fog, near to the height of the man but more slender.
The
newcomer held out both hands, shoulder high, palm out, in the age old sign
for
truce. Passing the man, that second stranger approached me confidently as if
we
were kin meeting.
The mail this warrior wore had a strange bluish hue, as if fashioned of a
different metal. I slowly lowered the dart thrower, yet did not slide it back
into the loop on my belt. Now the mist ceased to mask all so completely and I
was looking into a face browned by the sun, yet of delicately cut feature. I
was
fronting not another man but a woman going armed like myself.
Her hands dropped, but not to draw a weapon, rather so her forefingers
sketched
in the damp air a sign. I saw that symbol gleam sharp and clear for a space
of
three or four breaths and then fade. It was blue—yet partly green—and I knew
it
for a manifestation of Power.
An Old One?
I drew a deep breath, put the dart gun away, knowing well that no man-made
weapon could be used against such. Also I knew that any of the Power that was
without harm for my kind was of that pure color. Just as places of safety in
the
Dales glowed the same shade by night.
She smiled, this woman of the Old Ones. Then she nodded as if the answer to
some
riddle had become clear. Now she held out her right hand to me.
"Come." That was neither order nor invitation, but lay between. Her fingers
closed on mine as I unconsciously reached out. They held fast as if she
half-expected me to jerk away.
Her flesh was as damp and chill from the mist as mine, but no different, that
I
could see, from humankind. I was sure she meant me no harm. Rather she looked
on
me with a smile as if I were one she had been awaiting for a long time.
She drew me on to the fire, and I went willingly enough. As we passed the
man,
he fell in on my other side, his sword now sheathed. He had a strong, comely
face, though there were lines laid deep about his eyes and lips. Yet now he
also
smiled in welcome, as if he were brother-kin.
I sensed almost from the beginning that there was a deep bond between these
two.
They did not speak to each other or to me, but the three of us came
companionably to a pocket where the fire had pushed back most of the mist.
Beyond the flames were two of the larger horses of the lower Dales, now rough
of
coat, such as my uncle had once prized in his stables before he rode south to
die. There was also a pack pony, by which Bural stood, stretching out her
head
so that they might rub noses. All three of the horses had been stripped of
gear,
which was piled, saddles and packs together, behind the fire. At the side of
that were spits whittled from wood impaling the fat, dripping bodies of three
hill hens. The scent of the roasting meat made my mouth water.
The woman laughed, pointing to the hens.
"See even Gunnora has prepared for your coming. There is plenty for all of
us.
Sit, rest, and eat. But first—" She turned to her companion who, without a
word,
fetched a small saddle cask, drew the stopper from it with his teeth, while
in
his other hand he held a horn cup into which he then poured liquid from the
cask.
The woman took the cup and pressed it into my hands, serving me in the manner
that the lady of a Dale keep does an honored guest—the welcome cup to wash
trail
dust from a wayfarer's throat before he announces himself and his business.
Old formal manners—I remembered to bow instead of curtsy, and the proper
words
came to me without trying. "To the givers of the feast, thanks, fair thanks.
For
the welcome of the gate, gratitude. To the rulers of this house, fair fortune
and bright sun on the morrow."
As I drank, the lady's nose wrinkled and she chuckled.
"For that last wish, we may all petition whatever Powers aid travelers here.
Unless"—she raised a long finger, as she had used it pen fashion in the air
earlier, and nibbled at it—"unless all this has been the work of some Plan."
I saw her companion frown slightly, as if a memory he did not like touched
him.
Studying them both in this better light I thought that he was just such a man
as
one might find in any Dale force, though one of rank to seat at the high
table.
Yet at the fore of his tarnished helm (for his armor had none of the
brightness
of hers) there was no longer any house badge. I found his face frank, open,
strong of mouth and jaw as a man's should be, with an air of confident
purpose
about him.
The lady—I was sure she was not of Dale blood, which here in High Hallack,
could
only mean strange kin. Old. Though she also wore a helm, a small wisp of hair
(as if she had assumed that head covering hurriedly at my coming) lay loose
on
her cheek. The color was very dark, also her features were thinner, sharper,
and
her eyes very large. I had never seen her kind in any Dale holding.
While I drank the welcome cup, they both sat at ease, cross-legged, on either
side of me. I wondered what to say beyond the courtesy of my name. They could
well wonder why I wandered alone among the hills, but to entrust strangers
with
the nature of my mission was folly.
Kerovan
IN A LAND SUCH AS OURS A MAN IS WARY OF DREAMS. WE OF THE Dales carry old
fears,
not the least being that perhaps, when we dream, our innermost selves receive
warnings, orders… Save that we carry into waking only broken shards, to be
haunted by them. Can a man dream himself into madness? I have sometimes
feared
so. For I was haunted… Yet with the coming of each morning I hoped again to
wake
from the shadow which new deep dreams had laid upon me and which I never
could
remember.
In a way I was captive—to whom or what I could not name.
When I last went into the Waste it was in search of Joisan to whom I owe
duty.
Yes, I will have it so—duty only. She must not be more to me. No matter what
boy's hopes I once held, I recognize that they are not for my kind—half man,
half—what? At least I now have the courage to know myself for what I am and
show
it. I need only look at my bootless feet, bare after all those years when I
tried to conceal my otherness, to see the hooves upon which I walk…
I went then into the Waste, still, in part, Kerovan of Ulmsdale. What did I
come
out as? I do not know. Perhaps I will never learn—maybe for my own good. Yet
I
was driven by restless loneliness, sharp as any sword point against my flesh.
Joisan—no, I will not think of Joisan. I will harness my determination to
keep
her out of my mind. I need only remember how they looked at me in Norsdale
when
I brought her there— safe, still her own woman. Then I broke our wedding
bonds,
I evoked wife-right for her, since she would not for herself.
That woman—the Past-Abbess… No, I will not think of her either. Their world
is
not mine. In truth; I felt no tie with the Dales, even though Lord Imgry had
summoned me again. Because nothing, any longer, has meaning for me, I have
answered his order.
Yet the dreams come and I cannot tear them out of my aching head as a man
tears
away the badge of a lord he no longer serves. I hate to sleep—unless it be to
drop into darkness without another awakening.
My escort sit and talk around the fire well beyond me. Men, as I once was, or
seemed to be. They avoid me and I know it is only Imgry's will that has kept
them in my company.
Once I was fascinated by the Old One's secrets. I had gone exploring in the
Waste with the Wiseman Riwal. Together we rode the Road of Exile. No—I am not
going to remember!
Hair—like the polished leaves of autumn, her quick steps, her voice… Too
strong
a memory, a hurting which will never heal. I will not remember! I am not the
Kerovan that was…
To tramp about the camp at night is a way to keep awake. My body aches with
fatigue. The men watch me from the corners of their eyes, whisper. I do not
allow myself to think of them— or…
However, one cannot fight sleep forever. I dream again…
There was one of the Old Ones—Neevor—I remember his name. Who he was or what
I
do not know. Once—twice—he has given me aid. A friend? No, those such as I
have
no friends. When I am awake I try to think of Imgry and what he wants of me.
A
cold man, strong with a pride that feeds on accomplishment, on strength of
will
and purpose.
We of the Dales (once I was of the Dales) have never given oaths to any one
overlord. That was our great weakness when the invaders, having tested us
with
their spies, struck our land. Each lord fought for himself to defend his own
holdings, so was speedily overrun.
Painfully we learned our lesson. The sea coast by then lay in their hands,
while
those among us who had the grace and largeness of spirit to attract others to
serve under them were dead—either slain in fruitless battle, or by
assassination. Only then we drew together under three of the southern lords
who
were far-seeing and strong enough to make a kingdom of sorts out of a loose
confederation of holdings.
Of these Imgry is the least liked. However, no man who has served with him
can
deny that he has the iron will to gather support. A man does not have to be
loved to be well served. He, most of all, drew together our broken forces,
hammered them mercilessly into an army where old feuds were unallowable—an
army
knowing only one enemy, the Hounds of Alizon.
Only that army was so battered and weary they could make no real stand. They
raided, like the snarling outlaws of the Waste, fighting like wolves even as
those canny beasts hold to pack-kin.
Still the invaders poured into the port they had taken. The only advantage we
had was that they brought no more of those strange weapons from overseas
which
had given us such blows—rolling over strongholds as a man steps upon a hill
of
ants. Those, we were told by the few prisoners we took, were not of Alizon but
a
new magic known to allies of our enemies.
The fact that these land-crawlers were broken, or helpless, for some reason
we
did not understand, meant little for they still had men and weapons in
plenty.
Though our smiths labored in the far western Dales, we could not make one
dart
do the work of two, and we must at times raid for the very supplies we needed.
I had been one of the scouts seeking out such supplies. My childhood in the
far
Dales, where I had been fostered with a hunter, gave me skills for such work.
I
had been content to serve so. for among my own kind I was suspect even before
my
physical differences were known—monster—half-man—rumor had always played with
me.
Imgry had sent me north months ago because my father ailed. Also, there was
always the chance that the Hounds, nosing along the coast, might strike
inland
there. I had visited Ulmsdale in secret, learning then that I had enemies of
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