Andre Norton - Three Hands for Scoprio

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Three Hands For Scorpio by

Andre Norton

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The author is deeply indebted to Caroline Fike and Rose Wolf, whose

twofold aid in preparing the saga of the Scorpys for publication was

beyond all price. Additional thanks are due to Larry Kimbrough, Wizard

of the Alabama Renaissance Faire, who lent his magely name and

knowledge to the character of Zolan. Larry also served as scout on a

fact-finding mission to the actual Dismals, a geological curiosity of

Alabama possessing unusual plants and animals, though

not-thankfully-spiders of Shelobian proportions.

One

This by the hand of Tamara, daughter to Earl Scorpy of Verset. Her

Most Gracious Majesty, Queen Charlitta of Alsonia, commands us to

chronicle our strange and remarkable adventure in Gurlyon, the North

Land that has ever been to our nation as a thorn beneath the saddlecloth

is to the rider of an ill-trained horse. Our sovereign believes that our story

may aid and warn those who follow us. Thus we three have been supplied

with quills, paper in plenty, and the carefully guarded palace library for a

workplace.

We are the Scorpys, a name neither likely to set bards to plucking

harp-strings in stirring song nor one honey-coated for general repeating.

However, as Duty, our mother's trusted deputy, has always said, with a

scornful sniff, a good name is worthy of honor.

We were three-in-one at our birthing—a cause, at that time (we have

been told), for no small surprise and chatter. We were duly named

Tamara, Sabina, and Drucilla, for two granddames and a great-aunt,

forceful women in their day.

We were also born on the very day of the Battle of Erseway wherein our

sire, Desmond Scorpy, the Earl of Verset, played a heroic role which all

properly tutored Alsonian children can remember from their schooling.

That passage of arms was to have subdued the Gurlys of the North, and

so it did for a short space—long enough, at least, for them to rearm and

prepare wood for watch-fires along the border. It goes without saying that

our own borderers, long used to raiding and thereby tweaking Gurly tails,

also laid plans.

A twisted kind of law served the debated boundary areas: Border Law.

Its rules were to be enforced by Warders appointed by our ruler, Lybert

the Second, as well as by the King of Gurlyon. These leaders were

responsible for protecting their countrymen, as well as for preventing

raids from either North or South.

However, such efforts were like attempting to hold back water's

downhill rush with a dam of sand. Bribery was rife, and raids continued

whenever a Gurlyon clan leader or greedy Alsonian baron spied a chance

to snatch cattle, horses, or material goods from his cross-border neighbor.

This piratical policy continued cheerfully for years, with neither side

having a leader strong enough to curb it.

Then, some six years after the battle, King Lothar died suddenly, after a

feast laid to entice foreign merchants for trade with Gurlyon. His heir

apparent was Gerrit, a mere lad of seven. The king's untimely demise

began a bloody battle over which clan would claim his son's

guardianship—a minor war that ended with the disappearance of the

child king. Many believed him to have been the prey of either the Mervens

or the Raghnells, while others said he had been taken South and was held

in secret by enemies there.

However, Summon Fires were not lit and, though the South gathered

an army, they remained on our side of the border until their commander

could no longer feed them and they must needs be dismissed without

drawing their swords.

We three may seem to dwell overlong upon history which must be

well-known to most who read this, but in this past lies the root of our own

story.

We Scorpys are among the women who possess some form of the

Talent. This name is as a large money-bag holding coins of various values,

but it is applied to a group of gifts from the Lords of Light that require the

channeling of Power through the wielder. We inherited our Gifts through

our mother, who comes of a cadet branch of the Scorpy line. We were

taught early, under the sharp eyes of Mother and Wise-wife Duty, who

served as our nurse, the use of healing herbs and the development of our

own special endowments. We sisters not only shared blood and

appearance but also thoughts, so that, when necessary, we could

communicate silently, as if a single mind served the three of us. And now,

in our eighteenth year, sometimes it seems we think and near act as one.

There is little of note to report from our early life. Though we suffered

from enough of the physical ills of childhood to cause our elders the

fidgets, our mother was well-learned in healcraft and dealt promptly with

our ailments.

In conduct, we displayed the alternating arrogance, shyness, and rigid

will of those of supposedly tender years. Of all behaviors, whining was

regarded by Mother as the most unwelcome. She was strict but always just

and loving—virtues that might be quickly sensed and appreciated by us

even as tiny children.

In appearance, we are as like to one another as our birth would suggest.

This likeness, we discovered very early, might profitably be used to

manipulate other members of the household, save for Father, Mother, and

Duty— we never tried any such trick with them. Despite the

unpleasantness of this trait, we must chronicle it as part of our ability to

blend personas when needed, for it figures importantly in our great

adventure.

We possess our father's hair. In the normal light of the hall, it seems

deeply black, but under strong sunlight, it appears burnished by threads

of fiery red. This crowning glory frames ivory skin and the large green eyes

we received from our mother.

In Grosper dwelt few of our rank; they were mostly visitors, and none

lingered for long. Lacking much basis for comparison, we had, perhaps,

too high an opinion of ourselves. However, that estimation came to be

sorely tested ere our tale was complete.

Our father, in his uneasy appointment as High Warden dealing with

unruly neighbors, maintained a tighter than customary hold, traveling

from one fortress to another through the year, save in the months holding

Year Turn and High Winter.

Having no son to "shield his back," as the country saying goes, Father

gave a new twist to our education from the very month we arrived at

Grosper Castle in our tenth year. He rode well, and he taught us to do so,

for horsemanship was a skill greatly needed in this land of few roads, and

many of those hardly more than trails. In addition, we learned to use

conventional weapons. We rebelled at the training from time to time—

why, was our collective thought, should we exert ourselves unduly in

practicing with a sword or snaplock when our mental talents would serve

nicely to bewilder any opponent? But Father lessoned us severely when we

made too-easy recourse to our Gifts, on the grounds that the Gurlys held

an ever-growing hatred for what they deemed the Black Arts, and it was

best not to give any clansman cause to suspect we had been tutored in

arcane lore. Southerners, in general, were rumored by the men of the

North to be learned in dark practices; thus even a hint about the Earl of

Verset and his family, kin to Her Gracious Majesty, could engender great

trouble.

After the Gurly defeat at Erseway, where the Northerners had been

forced to accept orders from the South, a strange and charismatic man

had come forth whom the Gurlys believed to be a holy Man of Power. He

descended from the Yakin Mountains, which were largely unknown

territory to the nearby lowlanders. Into an ever-growing company of

followers, this outland priest was able to draw commoners, clan lords, and

court members alike to give ear to—and soon to enforce—his preaching.

The kidnapped king had been replaced by another child: Arvor of Clan

Merven. Though now full-grown and a leader able to subdue overseas

raiders, Arvor was obviously still under the orders of Yorath of Merven

and appeared likely to always be so. However, the young king made the

new-come religious leader welcome at court, and he himself appeared at

all public services ordered by Chosen Forfind.

Thus affairs stood until the Tenth Day of Non in the year of Gorgast Six

when our world began to be wrung, then wrung again as a goodwife twists

new-laundered cloth in order to speed its drying. That afternoon, we sat

midway between the cavernous fireplace with its still-glowing coals and a

window unshuttered to freshen the room with spring breeze-breath now

and again. We were working together on a new embroidery conceit that

demanded great concentration.

Though deeply united, we each had individual talents. Bina's particular

skill lay in working with herbal lore, and her knowledge surpassed many of

greater age than hers. I liked nothing more than to ride in a stirring hunt

with a fine mount beneath me, a sharp-nosed hound beside me, and a fine

weapon to hand. Cilla could gaze intently at a weaving, such as the

backing for embroidered tapestry and, simply by concentrating, produce

markings for needlework of the most fascinating designs.

We now labored to fashion one of Cilla's creations. The cloth was tautly

stretched on a frame, and a cushion spiked with threaded needles stood

ready for our selection.

"This design," Bina commented as she searched for a needle with the

proper-colored wool, "is quite different from any you have created before,

Cilla." She did not at once thrust her needle into the cloth, but studied

that small portion she had already worked, a wrinkle deepening between

her eyes.

"Is this truly Raft's Tower as Father described it? It has certain features

that I find"—with her left forefinger, Bina traced an unfilled guideline—

"somehow disturbing."

Beside her, I poised my own needle but did not take another stitch. I,

too, was studying the portion nearest my seat on the opposite side of the

frame.

"Hmm—exactly what do we see?" I asked, using the point of her needle

to trace a fraction of a curve.

Cilla had turned her head as if to examine the coals in the fireplace. "I

dreamed," she answered after a short pause, "and the pattern I saw within

the dream did not fade with waking. I felt—compelled, as if I must form it

here and now."

Bina attempted to touch our minds but found the connection closed to

her. She stared at her sister, as did I, tapping the edge of the frame.

"Have you shown this to anyone else?"

Cilla most often sketched a pattern to see it plainly before she readied

the cloth and frame; then she would submit the motif for Mother's final

approval.

"You feel it, too, Sister?" Cilla answered slowly. She turned her head

again to look at the tracings.

The cluster of lights directly above us seemed to dim a little. Bina

thrust her needle into the cloth and then placed fingertips on the small

section I had earlier filled. She did not summon union, but our minds

were now open as we faced each other across the frame. Cilla pushed away

from the work.

"What—what is it?" she asked shakily as one who lifts a garden-pool

stone and discovers something repugnant beneath.

I rose. "I would say"—my thought sped—"that something is present

here that we are unwise to meddle with further. The closer we look, the

more clear that becomes."

"A manifestation of Power? That is Mother's concern!" declared Bina.

"No!" Two of us linked to deny her statement.

"Or"—Cilla modified that denial—"perhaps, but not yet"

She leaned forward to pull her needle from its thread, and we did

likewise, returning our tools to the pillow. Taking care not to touch the

pattern, we moved to loose the cloth from the frame; and, as the square

came free, Cilla bundled it together. In the same moment, the chamber

door opened suddenly.

The only one of the household empowered to enter any chamber

without a knock, Mother entered, and we curtseyed as she faced us. She

had taken only two steps into the room when she halted abruptly, head

lifted and nostrils expanded, as if she caught a scent that was at once alien

and threatening.

We knew that her Talent greatly overshadowed ours, and to see her

respond thus made us uneasy. Her eyes narrowed as she came

purposefully forward, and I was quick to push the frame out of her way.

The closer our parent approached, the deeper grew the crease between her

brows.

Mother pointed to the bundle Cilla had dropped. As she moved her long

beringed fingers, the bundle lifted weightlessly, then wriggled and

unfolded itself. We could clearly see the curious design as it remained

aloft. Our mother studied the crumpled surface for a moment and turned

her attention to us, though chiefly to Cilla.

"This pattern is one of yours, rash girl?"

Cilla faced her squarely, head high. "I dreamed it, nor would it go from

my mind when I awoke."

Our sorceress mother's hand shot forward and closed on the designer's

shoulder. "You—dabble—in—fearsome—things!" She shook Cilla to

emphasize each word, then paused.

"I know that now." Our sister's voice was close to a whimper. We moved

to flank her protectively, but Mother had already loosed her grip.

"You must repudiate it, Cilla, for, in a manner, you have tried to give a

shadow birth."

The trailing cloth still floated. Our sister stepped forward, lips working;

then she spat a droplet of moisture that landed on one of the tufts already

set in brilliant wool. We followed Cilla's example in making the formal

denial of ill-work.

"Go hence," we declared in unison, "our hands will not give you

substance. In the name of the Great One, we dismiss you!"

"Shall we send it to the fire?" Cilla asked after we had spat and spoken.

Our mother once more considered the crumpled square. "What was

your intention?" she asked slowly, as though she had been knotting several

thoughts together. "What would you have done with it when it was

finished and you had brought what it might carry to full life?"

"I intended it as a hanging for the Gathering Hall."

"So." Our mother nodded. "Did that thought also accompany your

dream?"

Cilla was silent for a long moment, during which we shared her sudden

astonishment. "No! Yes, I believe so."

Mother clapped her hands sharply. The cloth drew itself once more into

a bundle, the disturbing guidelines now hidden, then fell to the flagstones

just as a scratching sounded at the door.

At that signal, Mother called, "Come, Duty. Here is a problem such as

you are best equipped to deal with." Duty thrust her capped head past the

corner of the slowly opening door before us. Her spare body, in the mouse

gray gown she always favored, was taut as a stem of autumn-killed

poss-weed with the tension she, too, sensed in the room. She glanced at

Mother and then to the bundle on the floor.

The wise-wife snapped her fingers as she might at one of our father's

sleuthhounds, and the untidy mass of cloth answered like a well-trained

dog by rising and following her. Duty turned back to the door as the

bundle wafted across the room in her wake and followed into the hall

beyond.

"It will trouble us no more," Mother observed. "In such cases, it is best

not to rely on fire alone. It would seem, my daughters, that you are still not

too old for oversight. But no more about that now; we have other matters

to consider."

She drew a small square of paper from the low bodice edging of her

gown. "Visitors are arriving—and soon." We were acute enough to read

the trouble behind her announcement. "Your father's call for a general

truce has at last been answered with favor by the Gurly Lord Starkadder.

In three days' time, he and his train will spend two days here, and then we

shall depart with him to Losstrait to meet with the other clans and draw

up terms."

"And belike stage a horserace or two, also," I commented. "Though to

call these Border ponies horses belittles a noble breed."

"See that you keep such remarks and thoughts to yourselves!" Mother

snapped. "No matter that you can sit a saddle as well as any man; young

females of the noble clans do not make a show of riding—"

"No," interrupted Cilla, "the men would not permit a true contest." She

spread her skirts, touched the fingertips of her right hand to her chin, and

summoned up a simpering smile.

While clansmen and women were granted equality of rank, the

important families within the heritage employed a particular set of

manners in public life. What was done in private, we knew, was quite

another matter. Highly placed clan ladies dressed with ribbons and lace,

and they also fluttered fans and bedizened themselves with simply cut

gemstones set in silver and gold from the mountains. Our preferred garb

of riding habits with divided skirts met with their disdain as often as their

stilted formal manners provided us much silent amusement. Having

visited both northern peel castles and the Alsonian court, we opined that a

servingmaid to our gracious queen could show more refinement and

intelligence than many of the self-important grand dames of Gurlyon.

Mother stilled us with a stare and we, realizing we had gone beyond

proper limits, curtseyed again with appropriately sober faces. She did not

have to enlarge upon her displeasure, but continued on another subject.

"You," she addressed Cilla directly, "will go to the stillroom and fetch

one of the hop-pillows Bina made. You are to use that tussie for your bed

until I say otherwise, and I trust it will bring you dreamless sleep. We

want no more trouble than we already face." Her wine-dark skirts of

stiffened silk rustled softly as she swept out of the door.

"What did she mean, 'more trouble'?" Cilla's mental question touched

each of us.

"Father may share more news with her than we are told." I answered

aloud, and my opinion was echoed by Bina. "Could it be that the Border is

ready to rise again?"

Two

Our mother's perfection as a chatelaine was well-known. We often

lagged behind her, to be sure; still, she had trained us, even as she had the

servingmaids, to do with all our might whatever needed to be done to

show courtesy and provide comfort for guests. And so we were occupied

for the next two days.

The part of Grosper Castle kept for the housing of visitors had been

given a spring turnout several weeks early this year. Linens, smelling of the

lavender and dried rose petals that had been placed in their folds, were

shaken out and spread on the large, curtained beds. Any spiders surviving

the chill of winter were banished, and the floors pathed with thick carpet.

While we were engaged in aiding Loosy, the maid, in her work in the

largest state chamber where the Starkadder himself would be lodged, Duty

came in, a basket on her arm.

"Underpillows." Duty was never free with what she considered

unnecessary speech. She thumped the basket down on a carven chest to

make a quick inspection of our bedmaking, including a twitch to the

heavily embroidered upper spread; then she was gone.

Bina was nearest the basket. She leaned over to take an audible

measure of its contents. "Lavender and hops," she announced. "We wish

our chief guest good sleep, it would seem." Then she paused for a second

sniff and looked puzzled. "What else?" She held the herb-holder to me as I

labored at her elbow.

I performed a more thorough scent testing, then shook my head and

passed the woven container along to Cilla for her guess.

But our third sister had none to offer. "Some other fragrance, neatly

overlaid by the hops; I cannot put name to it. Loosy"—she summoned the

maid, who was plumping pillows near as tall as she—"what say you?"

Loosy held the basket well up against her breast and took several noisy

nosefuls. "I cannot tell, my lady, but no harm be in it. These Gurlys will

have ridden long to get here, and the mistress may wish them a goodly

rest."

A bunch of herbs from the basket, tied with a ribbon, was thus duly

applied as Duty had ordered—a process that was repeated in each room

we put into order.

We had been given to understand that not only the Starkadder chief

himself would be arriving, probably near sundown, but that his second son

would also accompany him, plus three of his most important kinsmen,

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