Andre Norton - Oak,Yew,Ash & Rowan 3 - A Crown Disowned

A Crown Disowned by Andre Norotn

Prologue

In the Cave of the Weavers, the Youngest of the Three sat a little apart from her sisters, struggling with a

section of the Web Everlasting that seemed to resist her every effort to create harmony and order. The

pattern beneath her fingers had not, as yet, unfolded or revealed itself to her. She knew only that every

time she tried to work on this particular design and make clear what could only be glimpsed in what

resembled a heavy snowstorm, very few threads she added sank into and became a part of the Web.

The rest crumbled into dust.

"It is not yet time, sister," the middle one of the Three had told her when that part of their eternal work

kept drawing her attention. The Middle Sister was an imperturbable sort, neither as sentimental as the

Youngest nor as crusty as the Eldest. "But soon. Yes, very soon."

The Youngest glanced back at the Web where work was complete, or nearly so. All had become white,

as if heavy snow fell most of the time, and yet the pattern was not obscured elsewhere as it was here.

"You told me that the spot just past, where the joining of the ill-omened brought with it a shift in the

pattern, would also make clear this one."

The Youngest indicated a particular snarl of white, where the Web of Time accepted no thread of color

except for the occasional strand of red—the color of blood—and where fell shapes moved obscurely on

hidden business of their own.

Once she had recoiled from them. Later, searching that portion of the Web already woven, she had

discovered their dreadful origins. Now she could not let them be. "We know there is horror here, but the

Web has yet to tell us what it is."

"Come and work with us. Leave the past alone and do not inquire into the future.

Work for today. When tomorrow is ready, it will tell us. You know that."

"Aye, you have always known that," said the Eldest. She looked up from her work and frowned. "But

then, you were always ready to rush ahead, to find out what lay in store for those whose lives weave in

and out of the Web of Time."

"Is it really forbidden to care about them? They are so frail, so short-lived…"

"Again I will tell you, and this time I hope you listen, for you have not heeded me before. The affairs of

mortals, frail and fleeting as they are, must not concern us."

"The Web is fighting you because you are trying to change it," said the Middle

Sister.

"Let it form as it will," the Eldest said sternly, "for we cannot take pity on the ones whose lives are

interwoven in it. To do so would be to create a tangle that could never be put straight again. Please do

not speak of it again."

The Youngest looked away, unable to bear either the op-probation of her sisters or the hideous segment

of the Web of Time over which she toiled. She had to accept the truth of their words. She could not

remove all traces of compassion for the mortals who bravely arose to face the horrors in the snow and

the many who perished here, trampled under the feet of the monstrous beasts that appeared from out of

the past where they had once been locked away. Gently, she touched one of the life-threads entangled in

the struggle. It was strong and vigorous, but she knew it would snap ere long. "This is one of the great

ones," she observed, trying to keep her tone neutral. "Or, he could have been great had he been wise.

And had he not been cut down untimely."

Interested in spite of herself, the Middle Sister came and peered over her shoulder. "And you wonder if

his death is in vain?" she said.

"There must be those who mourn. He leaves confusion in his passing."

"And so has it ever been with great ones of the mortal kind," said the Eldest, more than a little crossly.

"Very well, if that portion of the Web draws you so irresistibly, then by all means, work on it."

"I agree," said the Middle Sister with a sigh. "But let it direct you, and do not meddle."

"Thank you, Sisters."

Grateful for the permission given, the Youngest straightened the kinks from her shoulders as she glanced

back along what had been completed in Time's Web. There all was order, in recorded lives and death,

and even Kingdoms' rise and passing.

There the Three had worked generally in harmony until this latest coil had arisen. With some measure of

tran-quility restored among the Weavers, she knew that she was now strong enough to suppress the pity

she could not help feeling.

She would offer no mercy to those who were doomed, and above all not meddle with the design, for it

would be folly—and worse, it would ruin the work.

At peace once more, the Youngest addressed herself to the area where the white tangle was deepest and

most confused. Under her patient fingers, it began at last to take form and shape, though what it showed

would have daunted any but one of the Three.

And as always, the living continued to believe that they were free to make decisions, to act as they

believed fit, even as their threads passed through the fingers of the Weavers.

One

Rohan tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, though he did not unsheathe the weapon. Much

depended on this meeting between himself, as leader of the

Sea-Rovers, and Tusser, leader of the Bog-people.

Instead of returning to Rendelsham as Granddam Zazar had instructed him, or even to the Oakenkeep,

he had gone south to New Void, wanting the companionship of blood kindred. There he had learned that

the Bog-people had resumed their raids on farms and small holdings.

"Hunger drives them," Snolli said, "but that doesn't put bread on our table.

These raids must cease."

"I agree, but not for the reasons you think."

"Then give me the benefit of your wisdom, young Rohan."

Rohan did his best to ignore the heavy irony of his grand-father's tone. "We should make a treaty with,

them," he said.

"And I suppose that means we feed them as well," Snolli replied more than a little sourly.

"Yes. It is certain," he told Snolli, "that we will need the help of the Bog-men when the Great Foulness

from the North comes, and a little grain now and then is a small price to pay. Hard times are upon us all."

Snolli shook his head. "I have almost come to believe that what we fled is no longer interested in us. If

Kasai wasn't always stroking that drum of his—"

The Spirit Drummer looked up from where he sat near the fireplace. "Be glad I do it, Chieftain," he said.

"You'd have been in more than one pretty pickle before now, if it wasn't for me."

"But what have your foretellings come to?" the aging leader of the Sea-Rovers demanded. "Nothing!"

"Not yet," Kasai muttered, as if to himself. "Not yet. But soon, yes, very soon…"

"Rubbish," Snolli declared stubbornly. "Nothing but rubbish."

And so, despite his grandfather's dismissive words but with the warning of the

Spirit Drummer still in his ears, Rohan had decided to seek out the Bog-men on his own and make

alliance. Surely Snolli wouldn't do it of his own accord, Rohan thought, and much as he admired and

respected Gaurin, leader of the Nordors, husband of his stepmother Ashen, he doubted that Gaurin

would have thought of such a move, either.

Bog-men were of no consequence to the Nordors, nor to the people of Rendel, whence the Nordors

had come for refuge, as had the Sea-Rovers. Yet, Rohan knew in his heart that all those who were able

would be needed when the fighting came.

With that in mind, he had sought Granddam Zazar's help in setting up this meeting with Tusser Though

word had come that Tusser's father, Joal, had gone to the deep pools alive, Rohan knew that it was just

a story told to frighten those who heard it. Even Zazar had been taken in until she realized the ruse to give

Tusser's claim to be headman legitimacy. Joal had not died; he had merely been hidden away until Tusser

was accepted by all in his village. Rohan's grandfather

Snolli lived also, though both men had long ago retired from such pleasant pastimes as making war on

each other.

Rohan hoped to make of that a common bond, through which he and Tusser might come to an

agreement. Also, though this was something he was reluctant to admit even to himself, it was in the

direction of the Bog that he had last heard tell of his sweetheart, Anamara, traveling. Still under the effects

of a spell the wicked Sorceress had put on her in Rendelsham, she could well be expected to return to

the place where, convinced she was a bird in human form, she imagined she belonged. Or—he hardly

dared hope—where she might think to find him again, as he had found her on the verge of perishing in the

cold and dangerous Bog.

At first, Zazar had been inclined to be cross with him for going against her instructions. But then, as

Rohan explained how matters were with both the

Bog-people and the Sea-Rovers whose crops the Bog-men raided more and more often, she relented.

"I can't guarantee that Tusser will meet with you," the Wysen-wyf said. "I can't guarantee, should he meet

with you, that he'll go along with such a scheme. I can't even guarantee that you'll come out of a meeting

with him with your skin in one piece."

"Yet I'll risk it," Rohan had said.

"And also, I will keep an eye out for that silly Lady Lack-wit of yours, in case she decided to come back

here instead of staying where she was warm and safe."

Rohan's ears had burned, but he made no retort. And so, now he waited in a place of Zazar's choosing,

at a time Tusser selected, and the Wysen-wyf stood across the little clearing hard by what had once been

a far outpost of Galinth, the ruined city, watching for Tusser's arrival. Behind her, inside a shelter hastily

thrown together from stones and brush, a wisp of smoke arose in the cold, dank air.

"I think he's coming," Zazar said.

A boat emerged from a concealing fringe of vegetation that had scarcely a trace of leaf on it, for the chill

that continued to grip Rendel discouraged any plant growth. Nevertheless, the twigs formed such an

effective barrier that Rohan had not seen the little Bog-craft until it was almost in plain view.

True to his agreement, Tusser—if that were truly him— was alone. Rohan had no doubt, however, that

he was heavily armed with additional weapons stowed in the bottom of the boat, and that he had

companions stationed within close hailing distance. He glanced across the clearing at Granddam Zazar.

She nodded and took a step forward.

"Hail, Headman," she said, though there was scarcely a trace of deference in her manner. "I have

prepared a talk-fire so that you and my grandson can confer properly." She indicated the conical

twig-walled hut prepared behind her, and ducked through the curtain covering the doorway ahead of the

two men.

Neither seemed willing to let the other precede him. Rohan held out both of his hands, showing Tusser

that he held no weapon. When Tusser did the same, Rohan ducked through the opening. When both

were inside and seated by the small fire,

Zazar dropped the makeshift curtain over the door again and snugged it against a random wind with a

few well-placed stones.

"It's a poor meeting place at best, but the only one even partially acceptable to both parties," she

explained. "Here. I have some broth to warm you."

"Waste of time," Tusser said gruffly. Though comparatively young to be a headman of a Bog-village,

nonetheless he appeared to be capable as well as strong. He accepted a mug of the steaming broth with

an air of indifference, but Rohan noted that he cradled it in his hands as if grateful for the warmth.

"Thank you," Rohan said, accepting his own mug. He sipped appreciatively. "Let's hope we can find, if

not a warm friendship, then at least a way to lessen animosity between us."

"Too much silly talk," Tusser said with a scowl. "I have time only for good talk, not silly. Why you want

meet with me? You just Outlander. Maybe I send to deep pools instead."

Rohan set his mug aside and put his hand on the hilt of his sword again. "I'd dispute you over that

ambition," he said mildly.

Tusser continued to scowl at him. Then he looked away, indifferent again. "No matter," he said. "Maybe

another time."

In the shadows, Zazar made a muffled sound that Rohan recognized as a stifled laugh. She scooted

forward until she had a place at the talk-fire as well. "It's plain to me that I'm going to have to serve as

go-between here." She turned to

Rohan. "Oh, I'm sure you have come here in a reasonable manner, but despite the fact that I've explained

the situation to this lout several times, he thinks he has to impress you and show you how strong he is

before he's willing to make treaty." She turned her head and fixed Tusser with a gaze that Rohan was all

too familiar with. He had been on the receiving end himself when he had been acting particularly

thickheaded. For all of Tusser's many years on Rohan, the look seemed to be affecting him in very much

the same way. "Very well, then, say it and have done. Get your stupid pride out of your system all at

once, or you can believe that I'll kick out every last spark of the talk-fire and the Bog-people can starve

or freeze or die when the invaders come. And you can be sure that your gabble of the deep pools won't

mean a thing to them. Now. What's it to be?"

Tusser shifted a little, trying to avoid Zazar's implacable stare. "I ready to treat. If terms good enough."

Rohan spoke up. "There are terrible times coming. Our land—" He spread his arms, indicating not only

where they sat, but the entirety of the Bog and beyond it.

"—all of our land, both yours and mine, is in danger. I have heard rumors, tales, of people from the north

who long to take it from us. And so my message here is a simple one. We must make pact with each

other and stop our warring, or these invaders will find us easy picking indeed. If, however, we stand

together—"

For the first time, Tusser appeared interested. "You think we like one village makes war on another?"

"Something like that."

"And then, when big birds come, or Outlanders come, even villages that not like each other all fight

together?"

Rohan took a deep breath of relief. "That's right. We must all fight together, when the—the other

Outlanders come."

"Tusser agree. But until then, we fight. Now I go."

"No," Rohan said hastily. "We must stop our fighting—I thought I had made that clear." He turned

imploringly to Zazar.

"You did," she said, "and so did I. But trying to get something through Tusser's thick skull when he

doesn't want to understand, is well nigh a hopeless chore."

"Look," he said to Tusser. "What's to be gained if we continue to make war on each other and when the

other Outlanders come upon us, we are so weak we can't fight them, even all together?"

Tusser frowned again, trying to work out what Rohan had said. "Yes," he said at last, "but what we do

between times?"

"There is much the Sea-Rovers can learn from you, and much that we can teach in return," Rohan said.

"Later we will go to the rest of Rendel. I'm sure that—"

Whatever prediction he had been on the point of making was lost as a small, furry creature nudged its

way under the door curtain. With a high-pitched squeal, it made a straight line for Zazar. Tusser recoiled,

reaching for his shell dagger, but Rohan grasped his wrist before he could draw it.

"Weysel" Zazar said, taking the little one on her lap. Weyse stood up, her clever little paws on Zazar's

shoulders, and trilled and squeaked at her in what could only be interpreted as an urgent manner. Her

fur-covered face held a def-initely anxious expression; and her entire manner radiated fear.

"This is a friend," Rohan explained to Tusser. "I know her well. What is Weyse saying, Granddam Zazar?

It must be important, to bring her here."

"Danger," the Wysen-wyf said. "Much danger. Men from the Outside, and they are burning as they go.

That's hard to believe." She held Weyse out a little distance from her, so she could look into her eyes.

"Are you certain?"

Again the little creature chittered and trilled in a highly agitated manner.

"Smoke," Tusser said, his already wide nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air.

"Not from talk-fire, not from hearth." He leapt to his feet, drawing the dagger whose hilt he was still

clutching. He appeared on the verge of attacking Rohan where he sat. "You!. Betray Bog-people!"

"Don't be a fool, Tusser," Zazar said, getting to her feet in turn. "Do you really think Rohan, an honorable

knight of Rendel, is going to set fire to everything while he's apt to get caught in it himself?"

"Granddam Zaz is right," Rohan said. He was last on his feet only because he paused to pick up Weyse

and cradle her in the crook of his arm. "I know nothing of these men, except that whatever it is they think

they are doing, setting fire to the Bog, they must be stopped!"

"Well, now's your chance," Zazar said to the two. "If ever you had any plans or hopes of working

together, you couldn't find a better place to start."

"I'm for it," Rohan declared. He handed Weyse to her and loosened his sword in its scabbard. Then he

turned to Tusser. "I'll face them alone if I have to, but it would go better with an ally."

Tusser stared at him for a long moment. Then he nodded. "We two not alone. I have men also."

"I thought you had. Better call them."

With Tusser and a half dozen of his warriors close behind, Rohan approached the scene that Weyse had

described to Granddam Zaz. He could immediately see that it was even worse than he had thought.

They were on the outskirts of the ruined city of Galinth, a place Rohan had visited before in the company

of Zazar, Ashen, and Gaurin. Now four men clad in nondescript clothing seemed bent on burning what

was left of it. No wonder

Weyse, whose home this was, had come running to Zazar for aid.

Tusser gave a hand signal, and his followers crouched down, eyeing the scene as warily as did he and

Rohan. "Make fire on water," Tusser observed. "I hear about this once before."

"When?"

"When still just spear man for Joal. Father," he explained as Rohan looked at him quizzically. "They go

after Outlander girl once one of us, find more

Outlanders. Take away. They burn water."

Rohan thought a moment. "Ashen," he said.

"Yes, Ashen." Then Tusser turned to stare at Rohan. "You know Ashen?"

"She married my father," Rohan said, wondering how to explain the tangled circumstances to somebody

as untutored as the Bog-man. "She is my foster-mother."

Tusser nodded. Apparently the notion of fostering was not an unfamiliar one to the Bog-people. "She

Outlander demon spawn, Joal say. She lives?"

Rohan decided not to give any more details than necessary. "Yes."

"Not want kill Ashen. Once maybe, when she make me want woman. Forbidden. Not kill now, though.

Maybe later. We attack now?" He indicated the four men out in the open.

"I think this is just a small part of them. Look there."

To the west, a plume of black, oily smoke was rising. Another began to boil upward just a little way east.

The crackle of dry, cold trees and underbrush filled the air. Tusser made another signal and one of his

warriors silently fell back and vanished the way they had come.

Going for aid, Rohan thought. It seemed a good idea under the circumstances.

The ones Rohan and Tusser were observing had finished opening bags and spreading what these bags

contained over both land and water. One of the men held a container Rohan recognized as the kind used

to carry live coals, and he was now trying to light a twig from it.

"Better be ready to pole for our lives once I get it going," one of them said.

"This stuff goes quicker than the old powder. Burns on land as well as water, too. Don't get any on you."

A quick, disciplined rush, Rohan thought, and we'll have a good ground from which to fight the rest,

when they come. Before the soldier could get his flame going, Tusser erupted from his place of

concealment and, followed by his warriors, began a wild attack. His and his followers' war-cries filled the

air.

"No, wait—" But there was no turning back. Rohan jumped to his feet and leapt forward.

The Outlanders' surprise was complete. They stopped dead in their tracks, staring at the ones who

seemed to have dropped out of nowhere. With swift, brutal efficiency the Bog-warriors cut down the

Outlanders. It was all over in an instant, and Rohan looked at Tusser with new respect.

"You are a worthy fighter," he said. "It will be good to have you as my ally, when the real fighting comes."

Tusser nodded his thanks, but didn't loosen his grip on his shell-tipped spear.

"More Outlanders come, I think. This place cursed, but maybe good for fight. Can hide until more of my

people get here."

"Then let's get to a high ground, where we can see what is happening."

The two men, with three of Tusser's warriors behind them, picked their way over the rubble. Behind

them, Rohan heard splashing and chose not to look at how the

Bog-men were disposing of the bodies of their enemies.

He would remember the way to the chamber where he and Granddam Zazar had held their meeting and

she had discovered the true identity of the one known variously as the Magician and the Sorceress,

depending on which guise she had decided to assume, but was reluctant to take them there. Instead, he

chose a spot where a portion of the city wall was still more or less intact. From that sheltered vantage

point, they had a good view of the surrounding territory.

They didn't have long to wait. Tusser pointed in the direction of the big plume of smoke rising in the west.

"They come," he said.

"I hope your fellows make it in time, or it will be an even shorter fight than the last one," Rohan observed.

Tusser grinned. "They make it in time. I hear both."

By straining his ears, Rohan could just discern the quiet sounds of poles pushing the Bog boats in their

direction. These were almost drowned out by the noise the Outlanders were making as they headed for

the ruins. Also, the interlopers were talking, obviously not thinking there was anyone to hear them.

"What's got into Morrice and his men?" one of them was saying. "We should have been seeing their

smoke a long time ago."

"Maybe they found a Bog-woman to take their minds off their jobs," another voice said, laughing.

"The Dowager won't be pleased to hear it," the first voice rejoined, and Rohan jumped a little despite

himself.

Was she the one behind this attempt to burn the Bog? He could scarcely believe that even Ysa could be

so blind as to commit such a foolhardy act, and yet the men had used her title. What could be her

reason? He didn't have time to ask more questions before the men were upon them.

He took a tighter grip on his sword, the Rinbell weapon that was his father's legacy, and, with Tusser,

swarmed over the low wall, taking the battle to the enemy.

In a moment the air was full of yells and the clash of weapon against weapon, punctuated with an

occasional cry of pain.

The man Rohan found himself facing had pulled a sack out of his belt, and had it open.

"Throw the powderl" another man, obviously the leader, yelled above the din.

Obediently, the soldier flung the contents of the sack into the air, aiming it at Rohan. He leaped back, and

most of it missed him. But some clung to his left sleeve. The smell was reminiscent of oil sometimes used

in lamps when the candle supply grew low. He didn't have time to brush away the substance. He made

short work of the man in front of him and then sought the one who had given the command.

As he fought, he could see out of the corner of his eye that these new attackers had managed, by

accident or by design, to set light to the powder, and the flames were beginning to leap skyward. Intent

on his opponent, it wasn't until he had dispatched his enemy that he realized his peril. The powder, which

clung to his mail, was ablaze. He managed to strip off the metal shirt only to find that the sleeve beneath it

was also on fire. Hastily, he began to beat out the flames, trying to keep himself from panicking. The

conflagration did not yield at once to his attempts to extinguish it.

A woman's scream. "Rohan!"

Beyond all belief, Anamara was running toward him from the direction of the center of the city. She

barreled straight into him, pushed him down and rolled him onto his side, smothering the flames. Despite

her efforts, they blazed up anew and without hesitation she ripped off a piece of her skirt, wrapping it

around his arm until the fire was well and truly extinguished. "Oh, Rohan!

You're hurt!" she cried.

"Not so bad," he managed to say. He looked up at her, fearful of what he would find, but her eyes were

clear and her own.

"Where have you been?" she said. "Where have I been? I remember only a little.

There was an old woman—"

"Later, my darling girl," Rohan said. "Later. Right now—" His arm was beginning to throb horribly. He

was afraid to remove the covering and see the injury he had sustained. "The old woman—that is

Granddam Zazar. Tusser—"

"Tusser here." The warrior knelt beside Rohan. Dimly he was aware that the

Bog-warrior was tucking some items into the lupperskin shirt he wore. "You hurt."

"Yes."

Tusser started to shove Anamara aside roughly, and Rohan grasped his arm with his uninjured hand.

"Please. This lady—she is my lady. You understand? Please. Get us—both of us—to

Zazar. I beg you."

Tusser frowned, staring first at Rohan and then at Anamara. Dirty and disheveled, her clothing in tatters,

she looked anything but a suitable person for Rohan to claim as his own. She could have been mistaken

for a wild creature of the Bog herself, had it not been for her skin, pale beneath the grime, and her

light-colored hair. Rohan gritted his teeth, his world spinning around him.

He wondered at the strength of the newly made alliance between him and the

Bog-man leader, and whether it would stand this strain.

"Zazar have much power," Tusser said finally. "I take. Let her deal with you and

Outlander woman."

"Thank you," Rohan said. Finally he was relieved enough to feel the pain of his burned arm, and he

fainted dead away.

When Rohan returned to his senses, he found himself in the familiar surroundings of Zazar's hut. He was

surprised by how little his injury pained him. He smelled one of Zazar's concoctions and, examining his

arm, he discovered that the pungent earthy odor was coming from under the clean cloth that wrapped it.

His burned clothing had been removed and he wore a shirt of lupper skin, similar to the ones that the

Bog-men wore. The lacings holding the left sleeve to the rest of the garment had been removed, to make

tending to his arm easier. He did not see his armor or his sword, but knew that Zazar would have seen to

it that they had been cleaned and laid aside for safekeeping.

He didn't think he had stirred much, but Zazar noticed his waking anyway. "Oh, so you're back with us,

are you?" she said. "It's a wonder you didn't get yourself burned to a crisp, and your precious Anamara

with you."

He noticed that she had not referred to Anamara as "Lady Lackwit" and reasoned that Zazar had noticed

her return to reality as well. Therefore, it was not a dream engendered by his need to have it so.

"Tusser and his fellows brought you in on a litter, with Anamara trailing behind," Zazar continued. "You

must have impressed him quite a bit during the battle. They don't do that for their own, but make them

walk if they're able."

Zazar's words triggered a memory. "They're burning the Bog," Rohan said urgently. "Ysa's men—"

"Don't worry. I'm taking care of things." Zazar indicated a pile of smoldering ashes on a flat stone.

A tiny flame sprang up and she turned away from Rohan instantly. Crooning a song that had no real

words, she made curious gestures over the bit of fire and then spat on it. At that moment, Rohan became

aware that the sound of light rain on the roof intensified. The little flame died at once.

"There," the Wysen-wyf said, satisfied. "That should be the last of it. We'd have had a warm time of it if

they'd been able to complete their task. That powder was very hard to deal with. It won't come off, but

Andre Norton - Oak, Yew, Ash & Rowan 3 - A Crown Disowned

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