Wizards’ Worlds (8 page)

As she spoke a man came down the steep inner stair, crossed to sit at a table half
screened from the rest. It was almost as if his arrival turned the scales in Hertha’s
favor. For she was told to put aside her bundle and get to work. So it was she who
took the food tray to where he sat.

He was tall, taller than Kuno, with well-set, wide shoulders. And there was a sword
by his side, plain-hilted, in a worn scabbard. His features were sharp, his face thin,
as if he might have gone on short rations too often in the past. Black hair peaked
on his forehead, and she could not guess his age, though she thought he might be young.

But it was when she put down her tray and he reached out for an eating knife that
it seemed the world stopped for an instant. She saw the bowguard on his wrist. And
her whole existence narrowed to that metal band. Some primitive instinct of safety
closed about her, she was sure she had not betrayed herself.

As she turned from the table she wondered if this was by the power of the Toads, if
they had brought her prey to her hand so. What had they bade her—to see that the pebble
was in his bed. But this was early morn and he had just risen. What if he meant not
to stay another night but would push on? How could she then carry out their orders?
Unless she followed after him, somehow crept upon him at nightfall.

At any rate he seemed in no hurry to be up and off, if that was his purpose. Finally,
with relief, she heard him bargain with the mistress for a second night’s stay. She
found an excuse to go above, carrying fresh bedding for a
second room to be made ready. And as she went down the narrow hall she wondered how
best she could discover which room was his.

So intent was she upon this problem that she was not aware of someone behind her until
an ungentle hand fell on her shoulder and she was jerked about.

“Now here’s a new one—” The voice was brash and young. Hertha looked at a man with
something of the unformed boy still in his face. His thick yellow hair was uncombed,
his jaw beard stubbled, his eyes red-rimmed.

As he saw her clearly he made a grimace of distaste, shoved her from him with force,
so she lost her balance and fell to the floor.

“—leave kiss a toad!” He spat, but the trail of spittle never struck her. Instead
hands fell on him, slammed him against the other wall. While the man of the bowguard
surveyed him steadily.

“What’s to do?” The younger man struggled. “Take your hands off me, fellow!”

“Fellow, is it?” observed the other. “I am no liegeman of yours, Urre. Nor are you
in Roxdale now. As for the wench, she’s not to blame for her face. Perhaps she should
thank whatever Powers she lights a candle to that she had it. With such as you ready
to lift every skirt they meet.”

“Toad! She is a toad-face—” Urre worked his mouth as if he wished to spit again, then
something in the other’s eyes must have warned him. “Hands off me!” He twisted and
the other stepped back. With an oath Urre lurched away, heading unsteadily for the
stair.

Hertha got to her feet, stooped to gather up the draggle of covers she had dropped.

“Has he hurt you?”

She shook her head dumbly. It had all been so sudden, and that
he
—this one—had lifted hand in her defense dazed her. She moved away as fast as she
could, but before she reached the end of the passage she looked back. He was going
through a door a pace away from where the one
called Urre had stopped her. So—she had learned his room. But “toad-face"? That wet
ball which had struck her last night—what had it done to her?

Hertha used her fingers to trace any alteration in her features. But to her touch
she was as she had always been. A mirror—she must find a mirror! Not that the inn
was likely to house such a luxury.

In the end she found one in the kitchen, in a tray which she had been set to polishing.
Though her reflection was cloudy, there was no mistaking the ugly brown patches on
her skin. Would they be so forever, a brand set by her trafficking with dark powers,
or would they vanish with the task done? Something she had remembered from that strange
voiceless conversation made her hope the latter was true.

If so, the quicker she moved to the end the better. But she did not soon get another
chance to slip aloft. The man’s name was Trystan. The lame pot boy had taken an interest
in him and was full of information. Trystan had been a Marshal and a Master of Archers—he
was now out of employment, moving inland probably to seek a new lord. But perhaps
he was thinking of raising a war band on his own; he had talked already with other
veterans staying here. He did not drink much, though those others with him, Urre,
who was son to a dale lord, and his liegeman ordered enough to sink a ship.

Crumbs, yes, but she listened eagerly for them, determined to learn all she could
of this Trystan she must enmesh in her web. She watched him, too, given occasion when
she might do so without note. It gave her a queer feeling to look this way upon the
man who had used her so and did not guess now she was so near.

Oddly enough, had it not been for the evidence of the bowguard she would have picked
him last of those she saw beneath this roof. Urre, yes, and two or three others, willing
to make free with her until they saw her face clearly. But when she had reason to
pass by this Trystan he showed
her small courtesies, as if her lack of comeliness meant nothing. He presented a
puzzle which was disturbing.

But that did not change her plan. So, at last, when she managed close to dusk to slip
up the stairway quickly, she sped down the hall to his room. There was a huddle of
coverings on the bed. She could not straighten them, but she thrust the pebble deep
into the bag-pillow and hurried back to the common room, where men were gathering.
There she obeyed a stream of orders, fetching and carrying tankards of drink, platters
of food.

The fatigue of her long day of unaccustomed labor was beginning to tell. And there
were those among the patrons who used cruel humor to enliven the evening. She had
to be keen-witted and clear-eyed to avoid a foot slyly thrust forth to trip her, a
sudden grab at her arm to dump a filled platter or tray of tankards. Twice she suffered
defeat and was paid by a ringing buffet from the mistress’ hand for the wasting of
food.

But at length she was freed from their persecution by the mistress (not out of any
feeling for her, but as a matter of saving spillage and spoilage) and set to the cleaning
of plates in a noisome hole where the stench of old food and greasy slops turned her
stomach and made her so ill she was afraid she could not last. Somehow she held out
until finally the mistress sourly shoved her to one of the fireside settles and told
her that was the best bed she could hope for. Hertha curled up, so tired she ached,
while the rest of the inn people dragged off to their holes and corners—chambers were
for guests alone.

The fire had been banked for the night, but the hearth was warm. Now that she had
the great room to herself, though her body was tired, her mind was alert, and she
rested as best she could while she waited. If all went well, surely the stone would
act this night, and she determined to witness the action. Beyond that she had not
planned.

Hertha waited for what seemed a long time, shifting now and then on her hard bed.
Near to hand were both her
cloak and the spear staff, her boots, new filled with fresh straw, were on her feet.

She was aware of a shadow at the head of the stairs, or steps. She watched and listened.
Yes, she had been right—this was the man Trystan, and he was walking toward the door.
Whirling her cloak about her, Hertha rose to follow.

S
HE
clung to the shadow of the inn wall for fear he might look behind. But he strode
on with the sure step of a man on some mission of such importance his present surroundings
had little meaning, rounding the back of the inn, tramping upslope.

Though a moon hung overhead, there was also a veiling of cloud. Hertha dropped farther
and farther behind, for the brambles of the scrub caught at her cloak, the snow weighted
her skirt, and the fatigue of her long day’s labor was heavy on her. Yet she felt
that she must be near to Trystan when he reached his goal. Was it that she must witness
the justice of the Toads? She was not sure any more, concentrating all her effort
on the going.

Now she could see the stones stark above. They bore no candles on their crests this
night, were only grim blots of darkness. Toward them Trystan headed in as straight
a line as the growth would allow.

He reached the first line of stones; not once had he looked around. Long since Hertha
abandoned caution. He was almost out of sight! She gathered up her skirts, panting
heavily as she plunged and skidded to where he had disappeared.

Yes, now she could see him, though he was well ahead. But when he reached that final
row, the one forming a real wall, he would have to move along it to the entrance of
the Old Road. While she, already knowing the way, might gain a few precious moments
by seeking the road now. And she
did that, coming to better footing with her breath whistling through her lips in
gasps.

She had no spear to lean on and she nursed a sharp pain in her side. But she set her
teeth and wavered on between those rows of stones, seeing the gate ahead and in it
a dark figure. Trystan was still a little before.

There came a glow of light, the cold flames were back on pillar top. In its blue radiance
her hands looked diseased and foul when she put them out to steady herself as she
went.

Trystan was just within the gate of the hexagon. He had not moved, but rather stared
straight ahead at whatever awaited him. His sword was belted at his side, the curve
of his bow was a pointing finger behind his shoulder. He had come fully armed, yet
he made no move to draw weapon now.

Hertha stumbled on. That struggle upslope had taken much of her strength. Yet in her
was the knowledge that she must be there. Before her now, just beyond her touching
even if she reached forth her arm, was Trystan. His head was uncovered, the loose
hood of his surcoat lay back on his shoulders. His arms dangled loosely at his sides.
Hertha’s gaze followed to the object of his staring concentration.

There were the green blocks. But no toad forms humped upon them. Rather lights played
there, weaving in and out in a flickering dance of shades of blue—from a wan blight,
which might have emanated from some decaying bit on a forest floor, to a brilliant
sapphire.

Hertha felt the pull of those weaving patterns until she forced herself (literally
forced her heavy hands to cover her eyes) not to look upon the play of color. When
she did so there was a sensation of release. But it was plain her companion was fast
caught.

Cupping her hands to shut out all she could of the lights, she watched Trystan. He
made no move to step
across the low curbing and approach the blocks. He might have been turned into stone
himself, rapt in a spell which had made of him ageless rock. He did not blink an eye,
nor could she even detect the rise and fall of his chest in breathing.

Was this their judgment then, the making of a man into a motionless statue? Somehow
Hertha was sure that whatever use the Toads intended to make of the man they had entrapped
through her aid, it was more than this. Down inside her something stirred. Angrily
she fought against that awakening of an unbidden thought, or was it merely emotion?
She drew memory to her, lashed herself with all shameful, degrading detail. This had
he done to her and this and this! By his act she was homeless, landless, a nothing,
wearing even a toad-face. Whatever came now to him, he richly deserved it. She would
wait and watch, and then she would go hence, and in time, as Gunnora had promised,
she would bear a son or daughter who had none of this father—none!

Still watching him, her hands veiling against the play of the ensorceling light, Hertha
saw his lax fingers move, clench into a fist. And then she witnessed the great effort
of that gesture, and she knew that he was in battle, silent though he stood, that
he fought with all his strength against what held him fast.

That part of her which had stirred and awakened grew stronger. She battled it. He
deserved nothing but what would come to him here, he deserved nothing from her but
the justice she had asked from the Toads.

His fist arose, so slowly that it might have been chained to some great weight. When
Hertha looked from it to his face she saw the agony the movement was causing him.
She set her shoulders to the rock wall—had she but a rope she would have bound herself
there, that no weakness might betray her plan.

Strange light before him and something else, formless
as yet, but with a cold menace greater than any fear born of battle heat. For this
terror was rooted not in any ordinary danger, but grew from a horror belonging by
rights far back in the beginnings of his race. How he had come here, whether this
be a dream or no, Trystan was not sure. And he had no time to waste on confused memory.

What energy he possessed must be used to front that which was keeping him captive.
It strove to fill him with its own life, and that he would not allow, not while he
could summon will to withstand it.

Somehow he thought that if he broke the hold upon his body, he could also shatter
its would-be mastery of his mind and will. Could he act against its desires, he might
regain control. So he set full concentration on his hand—his fingers. It was as if
his flesh were nerveless, numb—But he formed a fist. Then he brought up his arm, so
slowly that had he allowed himself to waver he might have despaired. But he knew that
he must not relax the intense drive of will centered in that simple move. Weapons—what
good would his bow, his sword be against what dwelt here? He sensed dimly that this
menace could well laugh at weapons forged and carried by those of his kind.