Andre Norton - Witch World - The Turning 05 - Ciara's Song

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Ciara's Song by Andre

Norton

A Word About the Chronicles of the Witch

World

Andre Norton

What seeker of knowledge can say with truth that the history of Witch

World has been wholly preserved, even in the masses of parchment rolls,

the wood-bound books, or those metal plates of yet earlier date engraved

in tongues that have not been used for a millennium or more?

Where lie the life stories of those who raised the walls of that ruined

city in the far South, site of a battle waged but yesterday? Whence came

all the flotsam and jetsam of clans and races, whose only memories and

records do not stretch back even to their arrival through one of the world

gates?

Yes, even though those portals giving upon all the other dimensions

have been closed, still there are many tales worth the telling to be found by

delving into the Archives at Lormt. For centuries, Lormt acted as a

depository for the histories of families and the keeping of clan lines, so

that kinfolk widely separated by war or witchery might possibly find those

of their blood again. There also, far in the past, the custom began for

clans, families, and even solitary rovers to leave accounts of their own

journeyings, battles, and victories, thereby illuminating some small facet

of the history they knew, having acted within it—and, perhaps, upon it as

well. Thus, records left by even single wanderers are to be found there,

piled against official reports of vanished kingdoms.

It has now absorbed the attention of some of the burrowing scholars to

search out accounts concerning events that they may have been involved

in themselves but which they found hard to comprehend as being

experienced simultaneously by unknown others. These seekers have

included those tied to forceful action in the past and determined to leave

for the future some detailing of the roots and branches of the tree of their

tale. Such enlargers of the Witch World's store of lore are Ouen and the

Lady Mereth.

In a time of relative peace, when the inroads made by the Dark from

without are no longer to be feared (though still, and ever, guarded against)

these earlier tales are mined by songsmiths, and some mighty sagas have

been wrought from even modest accounts. Thus, Lormt is now not only

what it has always been—a treasure-house of ancient knowledge— but, in

this day, it fosters new wisdom as well, spreading over the land a web of

such stories as will make clear to the survivors of a past in which many

went armed how well their kindred bore those weapons and to what end.

So, from out of their safekeeping at Lormt, different ages of the Witch

World come to life again. In this way, those newborn can learn what

passed before: actions of not only potent sorcerers and great lords and

ladies but of folk like themselves, meant to live untroubled lives but

prevented by fate from so doing.

One such tale, humble in origin only, is that of Ciara, who had to make

her life anew under the very shadow of the Dark.

BOOK ONE

Thrice-Horned to Death and

Destruction

Ciara was playing in her secret cave in the cliff when the rider came.

She recognized him at once. It was her brother Larian come back from

distant Kars. He was studying as apprentice merchant with an old friend

of her father's. But why was he home? She scrambled down from her cave

to where she could swing across from one tall elm to another. From there

she could reach her bedroom window at the back of the garth. She

clattered down the stairs calling, "Larian, Larian, Mother! Larian's home!"

Her parents popped out of the cook room, both looking startled. "It

can't be." Her mother sounded worried. "He isn't due home again until

Year End."

Her father was practical. "Well, my love, we'd better go and see." But

before they could move toward the front of the garth, Larian came striding

through to meet them. His face was white with exhaustion under the

brown, and his eyes haunted. He wasted no words.

"Yvian's gone mad. He's ordered the three-times Horning for all of the

Old Blood. I took Falco's relay and came by the mountain paths. The

guards will be right behind me. Half of them were fanning out south as I

slipped away. They're slaughtering any who even look as if they might be

of our kind."

Ciara's mother stared up, and in a voice that the child did not recognize

she spoke softly. "They took Falco at the very gates of the city. Merryon

died fighting before they burned the house about his family. Even now the

death-bringers circle the valley. For only one of us is there an escape."

Talyo stared at his wife. "Do you see true, beloved?"

"I see true. We have less than a candlemark. They are too close for us to

flee. But Ciara might hide." She turned to the girl gently. "Don't ask

questions. There's no time. You have a place where you go. Can you reach

it without being seen?"

Frightened, bewildered, the child gulped. "Yes."

"Can you take possessions with you if they aren't too large or heavy?"

Ciara nodded slowly. She'd taken old rugs to furnish her cave already.

Often she'd taken a meal there.

"Good, come with me. Talyo, you and Larian free the stock. Send them

running. When you've done, barricade the doors."

She was gone then, dragging Ciara behind her. "I know you get out of

your bedroom window. Where do you go from there?"

Ciara pointed. "Across the elms. There's a cave in the cliff up high you

can reach from a branch on the end tree." Lanlia stared.

"Goddess, if I'd even dreamed it was so dangerous I'd never had ignored

it. Listen, Ciara. Can anyone get to your cave from below?"

"N-n-no. You can't even see there's a cave." She remembered finding it

the first time quite by accident as she scrambled about the elms.

"How big is the cave, sweetheart?"

"It's very small. I have to crawl to get inside." Lanlia's look urged her to

continue. "I can lie down inside but only just. When I do I can stretch my

hands out and touch the wall on each side."

"What do you have up there?"

"Rugs, only old ones, Mother. And candle ends. What are you doing?"

Lanlia was moving with a swift sure speed as she gathered items. She

stowed them into a carrysack as Ciara asked her question.

"You must go to your cave. How long does it take you to reach it and

return from this window?"

Ciara considered. She sensed the question was important. "Maybe a

fifth of a candlemark."

"Good. Now listen to me. There may be no time later to say this. What

Larian said was that the duke has ordered all of the Old Race, all of our

people to be killed on sight. That's our family. Your father, Larian, and I

will stay in the garth. If nothing happens you can return. If we are dead,

you are to wait in the cave for five days. Five days, do you understand?"

Ciara nodded, gulping back tears of fright.

"After that, try to make your way to Aiskeep. Lord Tarnoor has always

been our friend. Ask him what you should do. Do not let any other see you.

Now, take this to your cave. Just drop it there and return at once. Go

quickly."

The carrysack was thrust into Ciara's hands as Lanlia snatched up

another. Still gulping back sobs the child scrambled through the window

on to a branch climbing higher and higher before she crossed the line of

elms toward her refuge. But once there the peace of it seemed to still some

of her terror. She stared down the length of their valley but saw no one.

Maybe Larian was wrong. But something deep inside warned her the

message had been true. Her other two brothers were dead. Her mother

had seen it so. Mother 'saw' seldom, but when she did see what she saw

was the truth.

Ciara was the baby of the family. She was barely nine. Falco and

Merryon had both been adult men, Merryon married with a family. She

had seen them both no more than twice in her life. They were the sons of

her father's first wife whereas Larian was her full brother. He had only

gone to study in Kars three years ago. Since then he had been home each

Year End bringing gifts for all. She had heard of the three-times horning

as any child might hear. It was something done to outlaws she recalled

vaguely as she scrambled back across the line of trees. The guards blew a

horn three times and named the ones who were now outside all laws. After

that the wicked men could be killed without blood feud or punishment.

Anything they had belonged to their killers. She almost fell through the

window. Did that mean they were outlaws now?

Lanlia had no time for her questions. "Take this one back, too. Hurry!"

Ciara found another full carrysack pushed into her hands and obediently

hurried. A third journey, but on the way back this time she could see

riders. She dropped into her bedroom gabbling the news. Her father was

there. It was he who asked quietly, "How many?"

"I couldn't count, maybe twenty."

"Are they riding fast?"

"No." Ciara was puzzled. "They don't seem in any hurry."

Larian's voice was suddenly savage. "No, they know we're trapped if

we're here. Why tire the horses."

Lanlia was practical. "Let them dawdle all they will. It gives us more

time. Ciara, you remember what I told you, tell me again."

"I'm to go to the cave and stay there five days or until you call me back.

If you can't… oh, Mother, I'm scared!"

She was hugged hard. "I know, now go on."

"If anything happens I wait five days, then go to Lord Tarnoor. Only to

him."

"Yes. This time don't come back from your cave. Be careful. Don't let

the riders see you." One by one her family embraced her. At the last Larian

placed two items in her hand. She looked down.

His hand closed hers upon them. "If we live, I'll claim them from you,

little sister. If I don't, they're yours." He helped her through the window,

watching as she vanished in the foliage.

He could have gone with her. From what his mother said there would

be room in the cave for two. But his seventeenth name day had passed. It

was for a man to defend his home and family, not to hide while others

died.

He'd been fortunate. His father was only partly of the Old Blood, but his

first wife had been wholly so. For that Falco and Merryon had both died,

their faces too much of the ancient race. But both Larian and Ciara looked

more like the incomers. Lanlia had been a half-blood orphan who wed the

widowed farmer. Her children resembled her, dark-haired, but with

rounder faces and eyes of a clear hazel.

It had saved the boy's life as he thrust through blood-crazed men

toward the stables. Once there he had swiftly saddled Falco's relay. He'd

guessed his brother would need them no more. That first two days he had

ridden all three mounts into near exhaustion to stay ahead of the news.

Then he had swung up onto the foothill tracks. In a tiny valley he had

unsaddled the leg-weary animals, hobbling them carefully. He had allowed

the horses to graze all day while he hunted. Two hares and several rabbits

would be good rations for days. He ate ravenously, tearing the roast flesh

from small bones.

That night he had slept until midday, risen to eat eagerly again, and

then saddled his mounts. Now he kept away from any riders. Several times

he dropped down to warn garths where the inhabitants were friends and

of the Old Blood. Each time he had been given filled feed sacks for the

horses, food for himself. He had been able to press on to the limits of his

strength. Two horses had been left behind as he rode.

Larian clamped his teeth shut on a plea to join Ciara. He knew if he

stayed he would die. He stared out of the window slit as the riders

approached. He recognized the enemy, and accepted death. With the

guards was a neighbor who'd always coveted Elmsgarth land. Under the

new Karsten laws he could take it once all males in the family were dead.

Ciara had no claim. Only if she had been adult and wed could she have

held it.

The neighbor might overlook the child's absence, but not Larian's. He

would see the lathered horse that stood head down by the fence and guess.

Larian stood straighten If he was to die, then he would see to it their

neighbor did not profit. He strung his bow and waited.

Far above Ciara had reached the cave with her last carry-sack. She

huddled into the heavy gray wool of the cloak. It felt like home. Lanlia had

woven it for herself only last year. Falco had sent a set of matching

hareskins to line it as his Year-End gift. They'd been taken when the hares

were in winter garb so that on one side the cloak was dark gray wool, and

on the other pure white fur. It was far too large for Ciara, but it would

keep her warm in her refuge if she must wait. It even had a hood with

drawstrings to tighten it about her face.

She wiggled forward to look down. The riders had reached the garth.

From her perch she could hear only a mumble until one raised his voice.

"Come out and you can go free." She knew the man. He was Tylar from

Sersgarth in the next valley. He had a pack of brawling sons all looking

hard at their father's garth. At least that was what her father had said

once. Her mother had retorted that Tylar could look for land for his sons

elsewhere. Below Tylar was shouting again.

"Come out and you can go. You leave everything and we'll leave you."

There was no movement from the house and Ciara whimpered. If Tylar

was telling the truth it would be wonderful. They could just leave and

they'd be safe. Then she wondered.

But where would they go if they had to leave everything behind? How

would they live?

She squirmed back a little looking down at the treasures Larian had

given her to hold for him.

They were treasures in truth. The slim-bladed dagger laying in her

hand had never been sharpened. It had come down from the family of her

father's grandmother. Legend had it the dagger had been made by an

adept in the Power. Be the story true or not it was true that the dagger

remained razor sharp no matter what its usage. For that alone it was

prized. Larian had been a favorite of his grandmother's. She had given the

weapon to him when he left at fourteen to study in Kars. She had died

soon after and Ciara knew how Larian treasured it.

The other object she held was a pendant. It was drop-shaped in silver

with small wings sweeping up in a curve on either side. Minute blue stones

edged each wing feather. It had been wrought with a delicacy that was

sheer beauty.

That had come from her mother's side of the family. It was a bridal gift,

held by each son in turn to give to his chosen. Ciara slipped the chain

about her neck allowing the pendant to fall beneath her bodice. Then she

wiggled back to peer out from the cave mouth again. What were they

doing down there?

At first she could see no one. Then a small group of men on foot came

into view. Leading them was neighbor Tylar. They carried a log from the

wood stack. Ciara was puzzled; what did they plan to do with it? She

gasped as below the log was swung forward to strike the door with a

hollow boom. She stared blankly. Why, they'd break the door if they kept

doing that. Then as the log struck again she understood. They meant to

break in. Now that her family was thrice-horned anything could be done

to them. There was nothing against the law. Small whimpers squeezed

between her clenched teeth. All the stories she had ever heard rose up to

remind her of what that 'anything' could be.

Larian sighted his arrow carefully. From among their neighbors, only

Tylar was with the guards. If he was dead, there would be none to say

Ciara lived. There was no hope for any within Elmsgarth, he knew that

now. But his adored small sister might still survive. With Tylar dead his

sons would be too busy squabbling over their own Sersgarth and the

Elmsgarth land to bother about one small female child with no claim. He

hung on the shot until Tylar moved clear. The arrow flew with deadly

accuracy. Tylar fell soundlessly, heart pierced. The guards shouted with

rage, redoubling their attack on the door.

Talyo nodded to his son in approval. He knew why the boy had shot.

Larian had always been the best archer in the family. That had been a

tricky shot but Tylar was silenced, and Ciara safer. His wife had vanished

upstairs to the watchtower. It had been built by his great-grandfather

when he took this valley for his own. The land had been more lawless then

and it had been used often. It stood high above the garth. Very high.

Anyone who leaped from that would not survive landing on the

cobblestones below. Lanlia returned to stand beside her husband.

"The doors are open." He understood, she would not be taken alive.

The massive old door was beginning to split; soon it would fall. He laid

his weapons aside and took her gently in his arms.

"Beloved, when I lost Shala I never thought I would know happiness

again. With you I have found such joy and love as a man seldom finds."

Lanlia said nothing but held him to her with all her strength. There was a

final booming ending in a long, splintering crunch as the door gave way.

Talyo thrust her behind him.

"Go to the tower now, beloved, and do what you must." In that split

second as she turned to run she 'saw.' The gifts of her blood had never

been real power in her. But with death reaching out she 'saw' now, as she

had 'seen' the deaths of her stepsons and their family. Duke Yvian lay

dead, betrayed by his own. Mountains twisted and crumbled, beneath

them lay the armies of Karsten. Lanlia leapt for the stairs as her husband

and son stood side by side behind her in the narrow hall.

As she flashed around the bend of the stairs she halted to stare back.

Larian was down, she felt his death. Talyo was falling. She cried out as he

turned to look at her one last time, love in his eyes. Then a sword fell. The

guards howled in triumph surging forward to reach for her. But she was

already in flight. She hurled herself through the doorways, slamming each

door as she ran. It slowed those behind just enough. She reached the final

door to the tower and thrust it shut, dropping the long metal bar into

place. Then she flung herself up the final flights of stairs. She gained the

top and it seemed more terrible to her that it should still be a bright day.

All she had loved, all but her daughter were dead. It should be cold,

snowing or raining. Not this soft sunshine of late afternoon.

She listened as the guards beat on the door below. It would take little

time for them to realize they should bring the log again. Lanlia closed her

eyes, her mind sought back to the visions of a dead duke, falling

mountains. Below the door boomed. She reached to hold Ciara's face in

her mind. Would her daughter be strong enough to survive as she must?

The door began to splinter. Lanlia called the faces of her loves. The

stepsons she'd cared for, her beloved husband, her son and daughter. She

stepped out onto the tower edge. The door broke open and a rush of feet

roared upward. She turned to face them then and into her mind came a

calm clear voice. She knew it. Her husband's grandmother. A woman of

the old pure blood who had loved them all.

"The blood shall come full circle. It shall rise to flower again. Come to

me, child, and be free."

As the guards threw themselves forward she smiled at them. Then she

allowed herself to fall in silence.

High in her cave Ciara could see little. The men had broken down the

door and vanished. Then her mother appeared on the watchtower. Ciara

would have called to her but she remembered. She must draw no

attention, she must keep silence. Her mother was facing away, looking

down the stairs. Dimly the child could hear a thudding sound. The men

were breaking down another door. She saw them rush onto the roof, saw

her mother fall silently. And in that moment she knew she was the last of

her family alive. Her hand stole up to grasp the pendant beneath her

bodice. The other gripped the dagger hilt. They were hers to keep now,

along with the memory. She would not forget how they'd died, that she

swore on Larian's treasures.

But she was still only a child. She crawled back into her refuge and

wept until her face was swollen and her eyes slits. She cried until she fell

asleep wrapped in her mother's cloak. She did not see the guards leave

almost empty-handed. What use were sheep or goats to them? And if

Elmsgarth had held anything of value, they could not find it. A few had

taken minor items. The bolt of cloth her mother had bought to make Ciara

and herself new dresses. The set of good pans from the kitchen. A saddle

and bridles from the stable. Several bits of clothing and a few sheepskins

already tanned. They set a fire but it was already going out as they

departed. They grumbled as they rode. The garth had been a waste. No

loot, no women, nothing worth the energy.

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