Wizards’ Worlds (13 page)

There was the faintest shadow of a smile about the Abbess’s lips.

“And if I said so, and wrung my hands, and called upon authority—which I do not have
since you are no
daughter of this roof—would you have listened? No, I believe that you have thought
much and that you believe this is your life burden. So be it. We all choose our own
roads, some with less cause than you.”

Hertha stood very straight. This woman had that in her which might have made them
friends had the circumstances been otherwise. For a single moment Hertha wondered
what it would have been like to be welcomed as a “daughter” into such a house of peace.
But that was a very fleeting thought. She repeated the old guesting farewell of the
traveler:

“For the feasting, for the roof, I give thanks and blessing. For the future all good
to this place, as I take the road again.”

The Abbess bowed her head slightly. “Go in peace, Lady Hertha. As you seek so may
you find.” Though she said she refused the flame blessing, still her hand raised and
moved in some air-drawn sign between them.

Then Hertha and Elfanor went out of the place of peace. The Abbess had indeed been
generous. The horse Hertha rode, astride, garments culled from the supply left by
the refugees providing her with the wide, skirt-like breeches of a noblewoman’s hunting
garb, was that on which Trystan had brought her here. It was not a showy beast, and
it was rather small, having much of the blood, she was sure, of the tough, wild mountain
breed. But such were sought by travelers for hardiness.

Trailed behind by a leading rope was an even smaller pony, well-filled packs slung
one on either side of his back. Belted at Hertha’s waist was a long bladed sword-dagger
which she had found among the stored gear. She also had strapped to her saddle a short
boar spear, its wicked head needle sharp. Elfanor rode in a cradle-like basket against
Hertha’s back, leaving the girl’s arms free for the managing for her two beasts.

She went out in the early morning, for it was her wish to get along the known road
when it would be the least
traveled, on into the hills, even as the Abbess had advised. The land was indeed
filled with masterless men and outlaws. Many of the lords had died in the war, leaving
their holdings to the weak and the easily preyed upon. It was such men as Trystan
who might in the end bring order out of this present darkness. She thought of that,
and then pushed it out of mind. That she could have stood beside him and perhaps given
him aid, that was like a smoke fancy, quickly blown away by the grim truth of her
burden.

Before the sun was well up she was off the road to pick a crisscross path among some
stones which looked as if they were the chance product of a landslip, but which, she
knew from her diligent questioning at the abbey, were instead a barrier or half-closed
gate to disguise the beginning of another and much older way.

It was true those Old Ones who had once held the Dales, had a liking for roads which
climbed along the crests of the hills rather than curled at more ease through the
valleys. Such a way had, months before, taken her to Gunnora’s shrine and later to
the place of the Toads. What she sought now was a return to the shrine. Gunnora alone
might grant her some direction. For the Great Lady was a lover of children, one who
smiled upon those who bore them, and was well known to listen to any petition for
a baby in need. Whether she would aid one who was cursed—No, Hertha told herself firmly,
this sin was hers and not that of the child. Any payment which must be made was to
be laid where it belonged. She would take the scaly spotted skin, the eyes, all visited
on Elfanor. It was her hope that Gunnora might lead her by some dream of enlightenment
to learn to do just that thing.

She rode at a slow amble, stopping at times to slide from her padded saddle and nurse
Elfanor. The child had not cried. Her silence was one of the strange things about
her. Also Hertha noted that, at times, those rounded eyes looked out upon the world
with a measurement which
certainly was not of the human kind. Nor should so young a baby focus so keenly on
what lay about it.

Though the ancient road kept to the heights, those who had fashioned it had arranged
that travelers could not easily be revealed. Brush and trees, both thick-growing,
walled it on the valley side, here and there giving way to a screen of upstanding
broken rocks, all blending with the countryside so that this safeguard was not, in
itself, a sign that a highway lay so concealed.

Hertha and the child sheltered that night in what might even have been a contrived
campsite, for here were rocks upsprouting, several leaning at an angle so that their
tips touched to form a rude imitation of roof.

There was even a basin or pit there, blackened surely by ancient fires, into which
she packed sticks and the dried moss she had had the forethought to cull from branches
of the brush, setting a pocket of flames, over which she crouched, nursing the baby
against her. To that fire she added a scant handful of dried leaves from a packet
Dame Inghela had given her. The smoke puffing up as those were consumed brought a
fresh, clean scent. But it was not for that that Hertha had added her material so
sparingly. Such a combination of herbs had the ability to keep at bay dark dreams.
The scent cleared the head, as those learned in plant lore knew. Hertha needed this.

To travel this old road deliberately put her again under the influence which ancient
powers could still exert. Whatever small safeguards she could raise against evil,
those she must use.

The beasts drew closer to the fire also, feeding on the grain she took from her journey
bags. She dared not turn them loose to graze at will. But there was water nearby,
a spring feeding a rill from which the horse and pony had drunk noisily, where she
herself rinsed out her two bottles of water, refilling them both, slaking her own
thirst after the dryness of a journeycake.

Sleep came fitfully, for she had set herself a kind of inner warning which did arouse
her now and then through the night to feed the fire, while ever close to her hand
was the hilt of the long knife, the shaft of the boar spear.

Her body ached in spite of the way she had tried to ease her travel. Near dawn, though
she lay back once more in the cup of rock, she did not sleep, rather went over in
her mind the direction in which she must head at the coming of true day.

The hill road ran on, now dipping a little into some valley, now climbing above. Hertha
passed rock walls on which had been graven so deeply strange symbols that even long
passing of time had not altogether erased them.

On the fourth day her road branched, one part turning south. She had seen no one,
though once or twice, when the trail drew closer to the valley way, she had heard
sounds of others. Each sound had frozen her into waiting with a fast-beating heart.

At the splitting of the trails Hertha took the northernmost, and began to look about
her for some landmark. If she was right, this was the same way she had followed months
ago to Gunnora’s shrine. So she should catch sight of some rock spur, some stretch
of country she could remember.

There was no good camping place on this fork. The wind swept down, holding no spring
softness. She swung the cradle about from her back, steadying it across her saddle,
bending a little over it so that the folds of her cloak could give protection to the
baby.

Shadows formed by early evening drifted down the slope. Still she rode on, for there
was no promising place to alight. Then, when Hertha had nearly given up hope, she
saw the building she sought. There was a glow from the door on which was hung a strip
of metal fashioned into Gunnora’s own sign, a ripe grain sheath with a binding of
fruit-laden vine.

Her mount, which had been plodding with down-drooping head, now whinnied. Its call
was answered by the pony from behind. Hertha herself raised her voice, which in her
own hearing sounded hoarse from cold and lack of use:

“Good fortune to this house and the dwellers therein!”

The door split open, each half sliding back into the wall; golden light streamed out.
Nor did her mount give her time to slip clumsily from her saddle, rather the horse
paced on and stood, blowing, in what was an outer chamber, not a real courtyard. Still
both beasts seemed quiet and content as if they had indeed come to their proper place.

Hertha, stiff and sore, feeling as if she had been riding forever, dismounted.

“Enter into peace.”

The voice came from the air. She remembered how it had also done so upon her visit
to the shrine. She looked doubtfully at the horse and the pony. Their loads must be
shed. They had served her well and should be eased.

“Enter.” A second door opened for her. “The good beasts will be tended, as will all
who come in peace.”

Already the warmth, the feeling of being burdenless, filled her. She did not linger,
but walked forward. At that second doorway she slipped the long knife from her belt
sheath and left it lying, for steel was not worn in Gunnora’s hall.

The second room was as she had remembered it—a table set with food, all ready to refresh
the traveler. In her basket nest Elfanor stirred, gave a small mewling cry. Her large
eyes stared up into her mother’s face, and never had Hertha been so sure that within
the small misshapen body there was a mind which saw, which knew, which was older than
the flesh and bone that contained it.

She half expected a protest from the child, or perhaps from whatever presence abode
in this chamber. Could one
bring a cursed being into the light which was its opposite? Save for that one cry
Elfanor did not make another sound, nor was there any answer. Hertha dropped into
the chair, held the baby close to her with her left arm, stretched out her right hand
to pick up a goblet from which arose faint steam, the scent of wine mulled with herbs
which was a traveler’s welcome on a night of cold and long wayfaring.

She drank. She spooned into her mouth the richness of a stew, food which satisfied,
filled the body and eased the mind as no mouthful had done since her first visit to
the shrine.

Satisfied, she sat back in her chair at last and spoke as much to the leaping flame
of the two lamps on the table as to the room.

“To the giver of the feast, fair thanks from the heart. For the welcome of the gate,
gratitude. To She who rules here—” Hertha hesitated. She could no longer find the
proper words. For the first time the idea arose, hard and harsh, of what she had done.
Into a place of peace and light she had brought sin and evil—her own sin and evil!

On the far side of the table a second door swung open. There was dimmer light beyond.
Now, filling the room, came the sweet scent of flowers at the height of their summer
blooming, a kind of voiceless murmur as one might hear in the flowing of a merry stream,
the hum of contented bees about their harvest, the faintest breath of wind stirring
blossom-laden branches.

It would seem that the Presence here did not judge as she knew she should be judged.
In her heart there was a small spring of real hope. Her travel-stained divided skirt
dragging at her boots, she went forward, not slowly, reluctantly, but as one who has
a purpose and knows that it must be carried out.

Smoke tendrils ringed about her, the scent grew stronger. It seemed to Hertha as if
that smoke took on tangible substance, forming many arms to draw her on. Half-amused
by the herb scent, she stumbled a little as she
came up against a couch. There she lay down wearily. Her eyes closed.

There was a light, golden as the ker-apples of autumn, rich in its seeming as the
metal men prized. It arose as a pillar stretching from the floor or ground so far
into the upper regions of this other place that Hertha, no matter how far back she
turned her head, could not see its crown. She saw now that it was not solid, even
though her sight could not pierce it. Rather it pulsed in rhythm, as if it were tuned
to the beating of a heart.

Beautiful as that column was, there was something awesome, near threatening about
it. Hertha had knelt unconsciously. She wanted to reach out her hands to that light,
to pray for pardon; only her hands, her arms, were locked about what she carried.
She turned her eyes from the light to that burden.

The child had human form, true human form, yet it was dark, sullenly dark. Still,
in its small breast, the light of the pillar awoke an answer, a spark as clear and
glowing golden.

“Lady—” Hertha did not believe she spoke aloud. In this place the words came straight
from the heart, from innermost thought, and that part of any who came here which was
the whole truth. “I have sinned against the life which is of the good. Let not punishment
fall upon the child, but rather on me. For the innocent should not suffer for the
guilty.”

The light flashed brightly to scald her eyes. Tears ran. Or were those tears she had
not shed since first the evil that all her kind could do had caught her in a foul
net?

Hertha waited for an answer. When nothing came, fear awoke. She had to hold to all
her strength and courage to keep her eyes upon that searing light. She shivered, for
it seemed to her that a cold wrapped around her, cutting her off not only from the
mercy of the light, but from the life of her own kind as well.

She cried out. If this was death, then—

“Not the child!” Her words were not as a plea, rather a demand. Then she was more
frightened, for one did not demand from the Powers, one wooed and prayed.

The light vanished as if a blink of her tormented eyes had sent it into extinction.
She saw something else—

There spread now before her a place of rocks standing in a pattern, a wheel pattern.
That stretched as if she were suspended in the air above. Though it had looked different
from the ground, as she had seen it twice before, she knew what she envisioned now—the
place of the Toads.