Authors: Andre Norton
It was not the robe or the crown which had changed her; she was not the same person.
For a long time, ever since she could remember, she had had the pallid skin and the
close-cropped hair of a dreamer very seldom in the sunlight. But the face of the woman
in the mirror was a soft, even brown. The cheekbones were wide, the eyes large, the
lips very red. Her brows—she leaned closer to the mirror to see what gave them that
odd upward slant and decided that they had been plucked or shaven to
produce the effect. Her hair was perhaps three fingers long and not her very fair
coloring, but dark and curling. She was not the Tamisan she knew, nor was this stranger
the product of her own will.
And it must follow logically that if she did not look like her normal self—then perhaps
the two she sought were no longer as she remembered either. Thus her search would
be twice the more difficult. Could she ever recognize them?
Frightened now, she sat down on the couch, facing the mirror. No, she dared not even
give way to fear. For if she once let it break her control she might be utterly lost.
Logic, even in such a world of unlogic, must make her think lucidly.
Just how true was her soothsaying? At least she had not influenced that fall of the
sand. Therefore—perhaps the Mouth of Olava did have supernatural powers. She had played
with the idea of magic in the past to embroider dreams, but that had been her own
creation. Could she use it by will now—since it would seem this unknown self of hers
did manage to draw upon some unknown source of power?
Fasten her thoughts upon one of the men, hold him in her mind—could the dream tie
pull her to him? Kas or Starrex? All she knew of her master she had learned from tapes,
and tapes gave one only superficial knowledge, as if one could study a person going
through only half-understood actions behind a veil which concealed more than it displayed.
Kas had spoken directly to her, his flesh had touched hers. If she must choose one
to draw her, then it had better be Kas.
Kas—in her mind Tamisan built a memory sketch of him as she would build a preliminary
picture for a dream. Then suddenly the Kas in her mind flickered and changed. She
saw another man. He was taller than the Kas she knew, and he wore a uniform tunic
and space boots—his features were hard to distinguish—and that vision lasted only
a fraction of time.
The ship! That symbol had lain touching both ship and sword in the sand seeing. And
it would be easier to seek a man on the ship than wandering through the streets of
a strange city with no better clue than that Starrex—this world’s counterpart—might
just be here.
So little on which to pin a quest! A ship which might or might not be now approaching
Ty-Kry—and which would meet a drastic reception when it landed. Suppose Kas—or his
this-world’s double—were killed? Would that anchor her here for all time? Resolutely
Tamisan pushed such negative speculation to the back of her mind. First things first;
the ship had not yet planeted. But when it came she must make sure that she was among
those who were preparing for its welcome.
It seemed that having made that decision she was at last able to sleep, for the fatigue
which had struck at her in the hall returned a hundredfold, and she fell, back on
the couch as one drugged, remembering nothing more until she awakened to find the
woman in green standing above her, one hand on her shoulder shaking her gently back
to awareness.
“Awake—there is a summons.”
A summons to dream, Tamisan thought dazedly, and then the unfamiliar room, the immediate
past came completely back to her.
“The First Standing Jassa has summoned.” The woman sounded excited. “It is said by
her messenger, and he has brought a chair cart for you, that you are to go to the
High Castle! Perhaps you will see for the Over-Queen herself! But there is time—I
have won it for you—to bathe, to eat, to change your robe. See—I have plundered my
own bride chest—” She pointed to a chair over which was spread a robe, not of the
deep violet Tamisan now wore, but of a purple-wine. “It is the only one of the proper
color—or near it.” She ran her hand lovingly over the rich folds.
“But haste!” she added briskly. “As a Mouth you can
claim the need for making ready to appear before high company, but to linger too long
will raise the anger of the First Standing.”
There was a basin large enough to serve as a bath in the room beyond. And, as well
as the robe, the woman brought fresh body linen. So that when Tamisan stood once more
before the mirror to clasp her silver belt and assume the Mouth crown, she felt renewed
and refreshed and her thanks were warm.
But the woman made a gesture of brushing them aside. “Are we not of the same clan,
cousin-kin? Shall one say that Nahra is not open-handed with her own? That you are
a Mouth is our clan pride, let us enjoy it through you!”
She brought a covered bowl and a goblet and Tamisan ate a dish of mush-meal into which
had been baked dried fruit and bits of what she thought well-chopped meat. It was
tasty, and she finished it to the last crumb, just as she emptied the cup of a tart-sweet
drink.
“Well away, Tamisan, this is a great day for the clan of Fremont when you go to the
High Castle and perhaps stand before the Over-Queen. May it be that the Seeing is
not for ill, but for good. Though you are but the Mouth of Olava and not the One dealing
fortune to us who live and die.”
“For your aid and your good wishing, receive my thanks,” Tamisan said. “I, too, hope
that fortune comes from misfortune on this day.” And that is stark truth, she thought,
for I must gather fortune to me with both hands and hold it tight, lest the chancy
game I play be lost.
First Standing Jassa’s messenger was an officer, his hair clubbed up under a ridged
helm to give additional protection to his head in battle, his breastplate enameled
blue with the double crown of the Over-Queen, and his sword very much to the fore—as
if he already strode the street of a city at war. There was a small grypon between
the shafts of the chair cart and two men-at-arms ready, one at the grypon’s head,
the other holding aside the curtains as
their officer handed Tamisan into the chair. He brusquely jerked the curtains shut
without asking her pleasure, and she decided that perhaps her visit to the High Castle
was to be a secret matter.
But between the curtain edges she caught sight of this Ty-Kry. And, though in parts
it was very strange to her, there were enough similarities to provide her with an
anchor to the real. The sky towers and other off-world forms of architectures which
had been introduced by space travelers were missing. But the streets themselves, the
many beds of foliage and flowers, were those she had known all her life.
And the High Castle—she drew a deep breath as they wound out of town and along the
river—this—this had been part of her world, too, though then as a ruined and very
ancient landmark. Part of it had been slagged in the war of Sylt’s rebellion. And
it had been considered a place of misfortune, largely shunned, save for off-world
tourists seeking the unusual.
But here it was in its pride, larger, more widely spread than in her Ty-Kry, as if
the generations who had deserted it in her world had clung to it here, adding ever
to its bulk. For it was not a single structure but a city in itself, though it had
no merchants nor public buildings, but rather provided homes to shelter the nobles,
who must spend part of the year at court, and all their servants, and the many officials
of the kingdom.
In its heart was the building which gave it its name, a collection of towers, rising
far above the lesser structures at the foot. These were of a gray at their bases which
changed subtly as they arose until their tops were a deep, rich blue, while the other
buildings in the great pile were wholly gray as to wall, a darker blue as to roof.
The chair creaked forward on its two wheels, the grypon being kept to a steady pace
by the man at its head, and passed under the thick arch in the outer wall, then up
a street between buildings which, though dwarfed by the
towers, were in turn dwarfing to those who walked or rode by them.
There was a second gate, more buildings, a third, and then the open space about the
central towers. They had passed people in plenty since entering the first gate. Many
were soldiers of the guard, but some of the armed men had worn other colors and insignia,
being, Tamisan guessed, the retainers of court lords. And now and then some Lord came
proudly, his retinue strung along behind him by threes to make a show which amused
Tamisan, as if the number of followers to tread on one’s heels enhanced one’s importance
in the world.
She was handed down with a little more ceremony than she had been ushered into the
chair. And the officer offered her his wrist, his men falling in behind as a groom
hurried forward to lead off the equipage, thus affording her a tail-of-honor too.
But the towers of the High Castle were so awe-inspiring, so huge a pile, she was glad
she had an escort into their heart. The farther they went through halls—so high that
it was hard to see their dusky roofs, ill lit by only the big candles in their man-tall
holders—the more uneasy she became. As if once within his maze there might be no retreat
and she would be lost forever.
T
WICE
they climbed staircases until her legs ached with the effort and the stairs took
on the aspect of mountains. Then her party passed into a long hall which was lighted
not only by the candle-trees but some thin rays filtering through windows placed so
high above their heads that nothing could be seen through them. And Tamisan, in that
part of her which seemed familiar with this world, knew this to be the Walk of the
Nobles, and the company now gathered here were, nearest, the Third Standing, then
the Second and, at the far end of that road of blue carpet onto which her guide led
her, First Standing—or rather sitting, there being two arcs of hooded and canopied
chairs, with a throne above them on a three-step dais. And the hood over that was
upheld by a double crown which glittered with gems, while on the steps were grouped
men in the armor of the guard and others wearing bright tunics, their hair loose upon
their shoulders.
It was toward that throne that the officer led her and they passed through the ranks
of the Third Standing, hearing a low murmur of voices. Tamisan looked neither to right
or left. She wished to see the Over-Queen, for it was plain she was being granted
full audience. And then—something stirred deep within her as if a small pin pricked.
The reason for this she did not know, save that ahead was something of vast importance
to her.
Now they were equal with the first of the chairs and she saw that the greater number
of those who so sat were women, but not all. And mainly they were of an age to be
at least in middle life. So Tamisan came to the foot of the dais, and in that moment
she did not go to one knee as did the officer, but rather raised her fingertips to
touch the rim of the crown on her head. For with another of those flashes of half
recognition, she knew that in this place that which she represented did not bow as
did others, but acknowledged only that the Queen was one to whom human allegiance
was granted after another and greater loyalty was paid elsewhere.
The Over-Queen looked down with as deeply searching a stare as Tamisan looked up.
And what Tamisan saw was a woman to whom she could not set an age; rather she might
be either old or young, for the years had not seemed to mark her. The robe on her
full figure was not ornate, but a soft pearl color without ornamentation, save that
she wore a girdle of silvery chains braided and woven together, and a collarlike necklace
of the same metal from which
fringed milky gems cut into drops. Her hair was a flame of brightly glowing red in
which a diadem of the same creamy stones was almost hidden. As for her face—was she
beautiful? Tamisan could not have said. But that she was vitally alive there was no
doubt. Even though she sat so quietly now, there was an aura of energy about her suggesting
that this was only a pause between the doing of great and necessary deeds. To Tamisan
she was the most assertive personality she had ever seen and instantly the guards
of a dreamer went into action. To serve such a mistress, Tamisan thought, would sap
all the personality from one, so that the servant would become but a mirror to reflect
from that surrender onward.
“Welcome, Mouth of Olava who has been uttering strange things.” The Over-Queen’s voice
was mocking, challenging.
“A Mouth says naught, Great One, save what is given it to speak.” Tamisan found her
answer ready, though she had not consciously formed it in her mind.
“So we are told. Though Gods may grow old and tired. Or is that only the fate of men?
But now it is our will that Olava speak again—if that is fortune for this hour. So
be it!”
As if that last phrase was an order there was a stir among those standing on the steps
of the throne. Two of the guardsmen brought out a table, a third a stool, the fourth
a tray on which rested four bowls of sand. These they set up before the throne.
Tamisan took her place on the stool, again put her fingers to her temples. Would this
work once more? Or must she try to force a picture in the sand? She felt a small shiver
of nerves she fought to control.
“What desires the Great One?” She was glad to hear her voice steady, no hint of her
uneasiness in it.
“What chances in—say four passages of the sun?”
Tamisan waited. Would that other personality or power,
or whatever it might be, take over? But her hand did not move. Instead that odd, disturbing
prick grew the stronger; she was drawn, even as a noose might be laid about her forehead
to pull her head around. So she turned to follow the dictates of that pull, to look
where something willed her eyes to look. But all she saw was the line of officers
on the steps of the throne, and they stared at and through her, none with any sign
of recognition by Starrex! She grasped at that hope; but none of them resembled the
man she sought.