Andre Norton - Moon Singer 05 - Brother To Shadows

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Brother to Shadows by Andre Norton
THE CHILL FINGERS OF THE DAWN WIND CLAWED. Behind the spires of the Listeners the sky
was the color of a well-honed throwing knife. There was not any answer to time's passing in Ho-Le-Far
Lair.
Brothers stood in the courtyard as they had since twilight, keeping the Face-the-great-storm position with
a purpose that rose above any cramping of limb or protest of body. Only their eyes were apprehensive
and what they watched was that oval set at the crown of the arch which marked the door of the Master's
great hall. What should have showed a glow of light was lifeless, as dull as the stone in which it was set.
Now through that door, which gaped like a skull's lipless jaws at the top of a flight of stairs, came the
long awaited figure muffled in robes the hue of dried blood—The Shagga Priest.
He spoke and his voice, though low-pitched, carried as it had been trained to do.
"The Master has fulfilled his issha vow."
No one in those lines below wavered, though this was an ending to all the life they had known.
Those two to the fore of the waiting company raised hands in Sky-draw-down gestures. Then they
strode forward with matching steps while the priest descended further to meet them. He stopped, still
above their level, so they must look up to meet his eyes. In the growing light their Shadow garments were
a steel to match the lowering sky.
TarrHos, Right Hand to the Master, crossed his hands at breast level, drawing with action too quick for
the eye to truly follow, slender daggers.
"It is permitted?" he asked of the priest, his voice as hard as the weapons he displayed.
"It is permitted—by the Issha of this Brotherhood it is so." The priest nodded his shaven head and his
own hands advanced, like predators on the prowl, from the shadows of his wide sleeves to sketch
certain age-old gestures.
TarrHos went to his knees. Three times he bowed, not to the priest but to that lifeless stone above. It
was a blinded eye now; that force which it had contained had fled, no brother or priest could tell why or
how. It had been, it was not, and with it went the life of this Lair.
TarrHos's weapons swept in the ritual gesture. There was no sound from the man who crumpled
forward, only the moaning of the wind. Red spattered upward, not quite reaching the perch of the priest.
LasStir, Left Hand of the Master, took another step forward. He did not look at his dead fellow.
"It is permitted?" His voice, rendered harsh by an old throat wound, outrode the wind.
"It is permitted—the issha holds."
With the same dexterity of weapons LasStir joined his colieutenant in death.
The Shagga descended the last two steps, making no effort to draw back the hem of his robe from the
spreading pools of blood coming to join as one.
Ten more made up that assembly left below, younger men, some near boys. Their short cloaks were
black, the sign of those who had not made at least ten forays for the honor of the Lair. One in that line
dared to speak to the Shagga.
"It is permitted?" His voice was a little too high, too shrill.
"It is not permitted!" The priest silenced him. "A Lair dies when its heart is no longer fed by the will of its
Master. The unblooded and half-sworn do not take up the issha.
"Rather you shall serve in other Lairs still as is demanded of you. Ho-Le-Far has ceased to be." He made
the Descent-of-Darkest-Night wave with his left hand—so setting an end to all which had existed here,
erasing a long and valiant history. "Here no longer is there a Post of Shadows."
For the first time there was a slight movement in that assembly. This was a thing of disaster, almost of
terror, and it was an evil fate to be caught in it.
The Shagga moved along the line slowly, stopping to eye each one, and to address that one alone:
"HasGan and CarFur," he singled out the first two on the left. "Draw supplies and weapons, go to the
Lair of Tig-Nor-Tu. DisNov and YasWar, you will do likewise, but go over mountain to Ou-Quar-Nin."
So it went until the priest reached the last in that line. He had to look up to meet eye to eye with the
waiting novice and now that it was fully light it was plain to see the sparks of malice in his sunken eyes,
the vicious twist of his lips as he shaped words which he had long savored and held ready for this
moment.
"Outlander—misborn—no-blood— Out with you to where you will—you are not of the Oath and by the
Will of TransGar you never shall be. You are an abomination, a stain. No doubt the Master's force death
has come through you. You will take no weapons—for those are of the Brotherhood, and henceforth you
will go your own way!"
The hooded listener refused the Shagga the satisfaction of seeing how deep that thrust went. He had long
known that the priest hated him, looked upon his being there as a blot on the honor of the Lair. Since the
force stone had started to fail he had foreseen this and tried to plan beyond it. But so much of his life was
tied here that it was hard to break the bonds of discipline, to think of himself as moving without orders on
a wayward path which had no real goal.
Within the Lair only the Master had ever shown him any concern. He had been told why only three moon
speds ago. The Brothers to Shadows, trained assassins, spies, bodyguards, had been in service on
Asborgan for centuries. Rulers employed their services knowing well that, once oathed, they were
absolutely loyal to their employer for the agreed-upon length of their bond. However, recently there had
been a rumor that their particular talents were in demand off-world also and that was a new source of
income for the Lairs. To employ one of off-world blood off-world would be setting that Lair to the fore
of the new idea and the Master had been a forward-looking man—which was, Jofre thought, a hidden
point of disagreement between him and the custom-bound Shagga.
Jofre was the Master's own find, a literal find, for the Master, on one of his scout training missions, had
come upon the wreck of an escape craft, one of those which sometimes could make a perilous rescue
from a spacer in dire trouble. Jofre had been the only living thing in that tiny vessel, a child so young he
could remember only a few scraps of scenes of his life before he had been taken into the Lair to be given
the grilling training of the Brothers.
Though in frame he was larger than the rest of the novices, he quickly absorbed all he was taught, proving
more proficient in some of the necessary skills than others. At the same time the Master had seen that he
was given lessons in the off-world trade tongue, passed to him information which seeped from the airport
to the Lair, brought by traders and travelers. Though both Master and student knew well there were
large and awkward gaps in what he absorbed with a will. His greater reach and strength as he
approached manhood had awakened envy in his fellows, something he had long known that the Shagga
Priest had fostered. However, he knew that he was competent enough for a mission and that the Master
had had plans for him.
The Master and the force stone… Each Lair was endowed with such a stone and no one knew from
where these came or what was the purpose—save that at long intervals their glow died. That was taken
as a direct sign that the force of the Master had gone also and that he must pay for whatever secret failing
had brought about the death of his power. With the stone died also the Lair as this one had here and
now. But it had been a long time since any Lair had come to an end, and it was a bitter thing which
brought a faint touch of fear to every other Lair when it happened.
Jofre continued to meet the priest eye to eye. The man would see him dead if he could. But he could not,
for Jofre had passed the first oathing four seasons ago and Brother could not shed the blood of Brother.
However, the Shagga was settling his fate in another way. This was the season of mountain cold. To be
cast out of shelter without weapons or full supplies was a delayed sentence of death—or so the priest
believed.
"I am assha if not issha." Jofre spoke the words slowly as he might ready his knives for a final thrust.
"Weapons you may take from me, for they are of the Lair. I claim therefore traveler's rights under the
law." On this point custom would bear him out and he would hold to it.
The priest scowled and then flung away after the others, who were already moving off to make up their
packs ready for the journeying to their newly appointed stations.
Jofre faced the force stone again. Slowly he moved forward. The light which had centered it was
certainly gone— it was now as dull as the age-worn stone which held it. At least ten Masters had lived
and died in its light—the eleventh had the misfortune to see that light fail.
The young man skirted the bodies of the lieutenants and climbed the steps. He expected some outcry
from the Shagga though what he would do was no profanation. However, that did not come and he
passed into the darkness of the hall above, where the only faint light came from two lamps at the far end.
Between them lay that other body—the Master. For some reason Jofre needed to do this but he could
not explain that reason even to himself. He came to stand beside the man who had saved his life, even
though just perhaps because he saw in Jofre a tool to be well employed at a future date.
Jofre's hands moved Star-Of-Morning—Journey-into-Light. The fingers shaped that message in the air.
Farewell-far-journey-triumph-to-the-warrior. As he did this there welled into him an inflow of strength,
almost as if some of the will and purpose of the dead Master passed to him as a bequest.
Only a tenth night ago he had knelt at this very spot, had spread before him certain maps and papers,
known the carefully hidden excitement of one being prepared for a mission.
"It is thus," the Master had spoken as one who shared thought, "these off-worlders change every world
they enter. They cannot help but do so to us. We have lived by a certain pattern for ten centuries now.
The valley lords have their feuds which have become as formally programmed as the IDD dances. They
hire us as bodyguards, as Slip-shadows to dispose of those whose power threatens them or whom they
wish to clear from their paths. It has become in a manner a game—a blood game.
"But to all patterns there comes a time of breaking, for weaving grows thinner with years. So it comes for
us— though many of the Masters would say no to that. But we must change or perish." There had been
force in those words as if the Master were oath giving.
"The Master of Ros-hing-qua has shown the way. He has oathed two Brother Shadows, one Sister
Shadow off-world to men who seek easement to trouble on their own home globe. Word has come that
they carried out their assignment in keeping with issha traditions. Now it is our turn to think of such a
thing. There is news from the port that there has been talk of others coming from the far starways to seek
the arts we have long cultivated. You are not of our blood, Jofre, by birth. But we claimed you and you
have eaten of our bread, drunk brother-toasts, learned what was our own way. Off-world you can use
all you know and yet not be betrayed by the fact you are born of us. Therefore, when the time comes,
this mission shall be yours—either you will be sent to be the shoulder shield, body armor for some far
lord, or you will be the hunter with steel."
Jofre had dared then to break the pause which followed:
"Master, you place in me great trust but there are those within these walls who would speak against that."
"The Shagga, yes. It is the manner of most priests to cling to tradition, to be jealous guardians of custom.
He would not take departure from the old ways happily. But here I am Master—"
Yes, here he had been Master—until the issha and the door crystal had failed him. Jofre's lips tightened
against his teeth under the half-mask scarf of his headdress. Could the Shagga have, in some way,
brought this ruin here? There were tales upon tales of how they had strange powers but he had never
seen such manifest and besides, were such a thing possible, all the Masters of Lairs would rise and even
the Shagga would face death.
Jofre knelt now and touched his turbaned head three times to the floor, the proper answer to one given a
mission.
"Master, hearing, I obey."
He was not being sent forth officially, no. For no Lair would offer him shelter with the Shagga against
him, nor did he want to remain where he was not a true brother. Off-worlder they called him. But as the
Master had pointed out he had certain skills which could well be useful on any planet where men envied
other men, or feared for their lives, or sought power. The spaceport would be his goal and from there he
would await what fortune his issha would offer.
Now he left the hall and its dead and went directly to the storehouse, in which there was a bustle. A line
of burden quir were waiting with pack racks already on their ridged backs. Hurrying back and forth were
the Brothers, already in their thick journey clothing, loading on those ugly-tempered beasts all which must
be transported now to their future homes.
The Shagga priest stood by the door but as Jofre approached he turned with a whirl of his robes to face
him.
"Off with you— But first— There—" he pointed to the ground at his feet already befouled by the
droppings of the quir, "your weapons, nameless one."
Under his half-mask Jofre snarled. Yet, this too, was a part of the tradition. Since they declared him not
of any Lair, he could not bear the arms of one.
His long knife, his two throwing sleeve knives, his chain-ball throw, his hollow blowtube. One by one he
threw them at the priest's feet. At last he held but one knife.
"This," he said levelly, "I keep—by traveler's law."
The priest's mouth worked as if he would both spit and curse in one. But he did not deny that.
Nor did Jofre draw back now. Though the priest and the Brothers with their supplies tended to block the
doorway.
"I claim traveler's right supplies," the young man stated firmly.
"You will get them!" The priest seized upon one of the boys just returning for another load. "Bring forth
that prepared for this one. Then get you forth, cursed one."
The Brother ducked within and returned in a moment with a shoulder pack, a very small one, lacking
much, Jofre thought, of what he would really need. Yet the Shagga had obeyed the letter of the law and if
he protested, it would achieve nothing but to render him less in the eyes of these who had so recently
been his oathed Brothers.
He took up the pack which had been tossed contemptuously in his direction and, without a word, turned
and went toward the wide open gate in the wall. In that last meeting with the Master he had memorized
from the map the route he must take. Of his destination he knew only what he had learned by study and
by listening to the talk of the traders who now and then visited the Lair.
There was a road of sorts. However, that followed a winding way and he would lose time. By the heft of
the pack he had little in the way of supplies. Though the Brothers were trained to live off the land, this
was the beginning of the cold season and much which could be converted to food would be hard to find.
The herbs were frost burnt and dead; the small animals had mainly retreated to burrows. It was at least
ten days travel on foot before he would reach farming land and then he must be wary of attempting to
obtain supplies. The Brothers were feared by commoners. A Brother alone might well be fair game. No,
it would be better to strike straight over the Pass of the Kymer, if that was not snow choked by an early
storm. In a way he would thus be seeking out his own roots, as it was on the slope of the Ta-Kymer that
the escapeboat in which he had been found had made a crash landing.
Jofre did not turn and look back at the only home he could remember. Instead he centered all his
concentration on what lay before him, marshaling all strengths to face the mountain path.
The Shagga priest stood in the middle of that narrow room which had been his own quarters at the Lair.
There were blanks of lighter strips on the wall where the rolls of the WORDS OF SKAG had been hung
only moments earlier. All his belongings were enwrapped in weather-resistant orff skin bags to wait by
the door.
He plucked at his lower lip as was his habit in thought, though there was so little skin to be gathered
there.
Outside the narrow slit of window the pale sun was being cloud hidden. A storm, early in the season, that
might most easily answer his problem. But no man could count on the whims of nature. It was best to
cover all possible points in planning an attack.
There was one other object there in the room. A cage in which a black blot huddled. The priest went to
haul out that occupant. He held something which was neither bird nor mammal but a combination of both
and faintly repulsive. The thing expanded leathery wings, releasing more of its disgusting, musty body
odor.
Its head twisted and turned on a long neck as if it were trying to escape, not the priest's hold upon its
body, but the glare of his eyes. Until at last the man's will overcame that of the Kag, the turning head was
still, and it was held eye to eye with him as if being hypnotized, which it was after a manner.
There was a long pause and then the priest stepped quickly to the window and the Kag arose and was
gone, spiraling out over the countryside, but still as much under his control as if he held it on a leash. It
would follow, it would spy. When death struck down that upstart its master would speedily learn.
JOFRE NOTED THOSE SIGNS OF STORM, YET HE DID NOT quicken pace. For the first hour
after leaving the Lair he had country comparatively easy to travel. For he could keep for awhile to the
travelers' road. He swung along at the controlled gait for a long journey, with a divided mind which had
come from his training.
One-half of his attention was for his surroundings and footing, the other probed into the future. He felt so
oddly alone, though the Brothers, for the most part, operated singly, but always on a set task, and he was
without that guidance. He set to gaining full control, first visualizing the map he was to follow, then
examining in turn all the possible points of knowledge which could aid him in the future.
The history of the Brothers was thickly entangled with the intrigues and conspiracies of many small courts
and kingdoms. All they knew of off-world came largely through hearsay. Many, such as the Shagga
priest, wanted to keep it that way. Only because the Master had been far looking and ambitious in a new
fashion did Jofre have those scraps he clung to.
A city had been already established on the plain where the first spacer exploring starship had set down
on Asborgan. Now there were, in fact, two cities, the old and a new one which had grown up nearer the
port landing and in which there were strange off-world buildings housing beings of different races,
different species even.
On the outer fringe of this newer city along the port side there was a third collection of buildings, seedy
inns, trading marts in which there were few questions asked as to the source of goods offered. Here the
outcasts of both Asborgan's native stock and the scum which followed the star lanes as a blot gathered
and held a strong hold of their own.
Jofre had heard of the Thieves Guild, which spread talons to seize across half the star lanes. There was
said to be a branch of that which had gained a foothold here, incorporating into its very diverse assembly
native talent. In addition there were those who had met with such misfortune that they had fallen to a
point of no return. He had been told of drugs which drove men wild, giving them great power for a short
time, but condemning them to miserable deaths. All the evil which an intelligent mind could conceive
gathered there in that dismal sink.
Yet that must be his own first goal. As a Brother he could not shelter in the old city—for he wore no
lord's badge. Also there would be a need for coins to pay his way. The better portion of the space city
would see him as a curiosity and so suspect. No, he must dive into the dark quarter until he could find his
way about.
In his decision Jofre had no fear of either the law or the lawless. The conception that a Brother could be
taken anywhere, used at any time against his own will, or the will of his Master, was inconceivable. He
had skills of body and will, honed mastery of mind to shield him there. But when he tried to think to
whom he might offer those skills now he found himself at a loss.
Finally, deciding that sure attempts at foreseeing were only useless, he shut down that portion of his mind
and concentrated on the journey itself.
It was twilight when he came to where he must take the cutoff for the pass. Long trained to scout work,
he could slip through the bare-branched brush and work his way up into the heights easily enough. He
sheltered that night in a half cave where two great rocks tilted together.
Once he had his fire, hardly wider than his two hands held thumb to thumb, and had chewed the tough
trail mix of meat pounded with dried fruit into a strip, he turned to the fitting of himself for what might well
be the trials of tomorrow.
First he sought out The Center of All Things, concentrating on the mental symbols which marked the
existence of that. Then he visualized the inner workings of his own body, the muscles, the nerves, the
blood and bones, the knitting of the flesh. From his toes he began to use The Flow of Inner Life, drawing
it up through him, into his mid body, his arms and shoulders, until his hands, where they rested on his
knees as he sat cross-legged, grew warm and each finger tingled.
Into his throat, his head, the flood continued. There was a feeling of elation but that he was swift to
dampen. He was not summoning battle power. Only the strength needed for travel.
He breathed deeply three times, to lock in that warmth. Then he relaxed, aware that he had prepared
himself as best he could. Now he set his sentinels of alarm that he might take a full night's rest. At least
those were available to all travelers and so the Shagga priest could not refuse him them.
Jofre worked the three large pebbles out of their traveling bag and, with a knowing eye, in spite of the
dark which had now closed in, he positioned them in the gravel about the rock. Such were quick to give
alarm when approached by anything warm-blooded to which they had not been bound, as he had bound
these with a drop of his own blood and the warmth of his bared hand.
Having taken his precautions, Jofre rolled in his double blanket and went to sleep, rest easily summoned
by his long training.
There was no show of either moon tonight and clouds were heavy, though they had not yet loosed their
burdens. Through their thickness sped the Kag. The creature lit on a spur of rock and hunched into a
motionless blot of darkness, only to launch itself again and seize a warfin which had ventured out to hunt.
Bearing the bird to its chosen perch, it ripped apart the body and fed ravenously, then settled to rest as
had its quarry below.
Jofre awoke at dawn. He chewed another strip of journey rations, adding to that only a single finger
scoop of yellowish paste from a small box. The Brothers did not depend often on stimulants but they had
their own kinds of energy-inducing herbal concoctions. He gathered up his sentries, returned them to their
pouch, and swung his pack up on his shoulder. However, when only a few feet from his last night's camp,
he paused to eye something protruding slantwise from the rubble which must have descended in a small
slide from the heights he must now face.
It was certainly not the remains of any bush, or sapling. No, he had seen—and used—its like before.
This was a pass staff which, in the right hands, could even confront a steel swinging opponent. The flash
of recognition sent his hand out to close firmly about it.
The slide held it well in grip and he had to work it loose. When he had it wholly free he could see that the
hook at its end had been bent out of shape, but it was still a weapon of which he could make excellent
use. His issha was assuredly strong—
But whence had it come? He took several steps backward so he could view the upslant of the way
before him more clearly. Then he saw it—a clean angle which was not of nature. There had been—still
was—a wall!
Jofre closed his eyes for a moment and drew to the fore of his mind the map. No, he was certain that
there had been no hint of any such along the route he had chosen. How could he have gotten so far off
trace? He turned his attention to the staff he now held. It was old but it had been painstakingly carven of
armor wood—that precious growth which could be worked by a great deal of effort, but once shaped
would perhaps well outlast its maker.
He pulled off his thick glove and took the shaft into his bare hand, allowing it to slide along between his
fingers as he held it closer to centered sight. Then that grip tightened. His breath came with the faintest
hiss.
Qaw-en-itter!
Dead Lair, long dead Lair! And by all the teaching of assha a site to be avoided lest the ill fortune of that
place still weave some pattern to entrap. Even as his own home Lair would now be regarded by any
chancing close to its deserted compound. However—Jofre slid the staff back and forth between both
hands as he sifted logic from superstition.
The Master he had served had been one to discount much in the way of rumor and legend. His
outlooking for off-world contracts had brought him a wealth of contradictory information which he had
sifted patiently, and for the past half year Jofre had oftentimes served as a kind of sounding board—since
the Shagga priest and the Master's Right and Left Hands were all of a conservative turn of mind. The
Shagga doubtlessly believed, and would tell it near and far, that the now dead Master's loss of assha had
come because of that very turning from orthodox ways. But something in Jofre had responded eagerly to
whatever speculation the Master had wished to voice.
Now he could remember that small warning mark on the map. However, there was a far better way to
the Pass if one tried the ancient route from Qaw-en-itter. He would save perhaps a day's journey time,
maybe more. A glance at the lowering clouds, at that threat of storm to come, made him think it would be
worth the try.
Slinging the staff to be fastened to the lashings of his pack took only a short time. He was moving upward
determinedly, watching for the best footholds, almost at once.
Over the years there had been a number of slides here. He came to a place where his path was closed by
blocks of masonry, perhaps a portion of the wall above, and he had to wriggle by. Then he came
suddenly on a ledge which sloped upwards and showed the marks of very old tooling, undoubtedly one
of the ways into the deserted Lair.
That was not what he wished. He must round what remained of the stronghold to locate the road on the
other side. And the ledge was soon choked with debris. This was dangerous footing and Jofre walked
with careful tread.
The half-destroyed wall arose on his right. There was the broken archway of a minor door but what he
sought would lie beyond, and he shifted left, paralleling that offshoot of the wall. Something floated down,
touched his sleeve— then another and another flake. The snow was beginning and, unless he would have
himself walled from the pass, he must hurry.
Qaw-en-itter had been of moderate size, he concluded. Though so much of it was in ruin that he could
not, without some waste of time, trace out its original ways. He tried to think of its history—there had
been something—like a flicker, a scrap of memory came and went in his mind.
The master crystal here had failed, of course, or it would still be inhabited. But there was something
else—the last Master—Jofre shook his head. For all his meticulous training he could not deepen that very
faint feeling of having heard something.
The flakes of falling snow thickened, still were not enough to hide the way ahead. He had sight, if limited,
and could keep from blundering off trail. Yet when he reached the point he had been seeking, where that
other old path led upwards into the heights, Jofre hesitated. There was shelter here of a sort. Should the
winds rise past the teasing point which they now held and he be caught in the open on the bareness of the
upper slopes, he would be in a perilous state.
This was a first storm. Those of the Lair had been trained to be weatherwise; they had to be. Part of him
urged pushing on, another suggested a prudent delay. He could not hope to breast the pass if the snow
became a true curtain.
On a quick decision he turned towards the end of the wall where the ruins beyond promised shelter.
Edging around a tumble of stones, he came into what had been the main court of the Lair. There was a
tangle of autumn-dried brush where the land had set its first grasp back on the forsaken territory. Brittle
and sparse though that was, it promised better than anything he believed was available at a greater height.
Jofre nearly tripped on the first step which had led to the Master's hall, so enbowed was it with dried
grass and drift from storms. He hesitated. To go on into that dark cavern which opened like a toothless
mouth before him would take him out of the storm. But enough of the Brothers' belief remained in him to
warn him off.
Instead he chose a niche to one side, where there had once been a storehouse, enough remaining of walls
and roofing portion to afford shelter better than he could have hoped for elsewhere. There he set up
camp.
The brush he broke off, or tore from its frail rooting in the pavement chinks, to afford him fuel for his
small fire. As he worked to gather that the snow thickened, becoming more and more of a concealing
curtain, and he knew that his impulse to night here had been right.
At last he settled in the small space he had made as stormtight as he could, but he felt no desire for sleep.
Instead he knew the alertness of a scout in an enemy territory, his hearing, his sight, every sense he had
reaching out to pick up the small hint of something which was not of wind, or snow, or natural to this
ancient place.
For he could feel it more and more; it was like an itch he could not scratch because he did not know its
source. There was that here which was not— Not what? Jofre chewed upon that question and found no
answer.
He set out his sentries at the entrance to his burrow. The portion of supplies he allowed himself was
halved and he chewed carefully a long time before he swallowed each mouthful, as if that would stretch it
to satisfy his hunger.
What clung here? Were there indeed bases to old superstition and an abandoned Lair still held by the
spirits of the last Master and his lieutenants? Without knowing that he did it, Jofre pulled the staff he had
found across his knees as he sat cross-legged, was rubbing his right hand along the shaft, his fingers
tracing the runes set there to identify the armory from which it had come. Suddenly he was aware there
was a warmth in the shaft which did not spread from but rather to his moving hand. And then there was a
sudden sharp shift in the staff, which had certainly not come by his will or from any movement he had
made.
"Ssaahh—" Jofre was so startled from his carefully maintained calm that he hissed that aloud. What he
was experiencing—yes, it was certainly that which he had heard tell of—had once seen
demonstrated—and that by the Master on a scouting trip.
The half-broken weapon he had found on the rocks below was issha pointing! Issha? But the fact that
this Lair was abandoned meant that there was no issha here— nor was he a Master to channel the
power. Yet—this was happening!
In his now loosened grasp that shaft was pointing outward toward the snow. A long-set trap? He had
also heard tales of such. Some of the Masters were rumored to have powers far beyond those of
common men. He had dared to invade the accursed—was he now being drawn to the punishment for his
impudence?
Because, Jofre also realized, he could not resist. He must carry through whatever action the weapon now
urged. Loosing his knife for his other hand, he crawled out into the open, remaining there for an instant or
two in the half crouch of Ward-the-attack-in-the-night.
Only the snow. Nothing moved through it or against the drifts it was building around the ruined walls. But
the shaft was swinging in his grip with vigor, as if he were being pulled by a determined force on the other
end. Now he was facing again the hall door.
"By the blood oath Brothers.
By salt and bread, water and wine,
By steel and rope, hand and foot—mind,
By the ancients and the elders, Masters, and men,
Thus do I swear."
He repeated the oathing of the assha, even as he would have done had he been sent with the rest to
another Lair.
And he followed, even as he would have had the long gone Master of Qaw-en-itter stood on the
rubble-strewn steps gesturing him in.
But it was not to the dark that the staff led him. As he reached the top step, the staff swung in his hand,
摘要：

/*/*]]*/ScannedbyHighroller.ProofedmoreorlessbyHighroller.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.BrothertoShadowsbyAndreNortonTHECHILLFINGERSOFTHEDAWNWINDCLAWED.BehindthespiresoftheListenerstheskywasthecolorofawell-honedthrowingknife.Therewasnotanyanswertotime'spassinginHo-Le-FarLair.Brothers...

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