Wizards’ Worlds (11 page)

Hertha shuddered, cold to her bones in spite of her cloak and the fire. What had she
done in her blindness, her hate and horror? Almost she had delivered an innocent man
to that she dared not now think upon. What had saved her from that at the very last,
made her throw that stone rubbed with Gunnora’s talisman? Some part of her that refused
to allow such a foul crime?

And what could she ever say to this man who had now turned his head from her, was
looking into the flames as if therein he could read message runes? She half raised
her bound hands; he looked again with a real smile, from which she shrank as she might
from a blow, remembering how it might have been with him at this moment.

“There is no need for you to go bound. Or do you still thirst for my blood?” He caught
her hands, pulled at the cloth tying them.

“No,” Hertha answered in a low voice. “I believe you. He whom I sought is now dead.”

“Do you regret that death came not at your hand?”

She stared down at her fingers resting again against her middle, wondering dully what
would become of her now. Would she remain a tavern wench, should she crawl back to
Kuno? No! At that her head went up again, pride returned.

“I asked, are you sorry you did not take your knife to my gamester?”

“No.”

“But still there are dark thoughts troubling you—”

“Those are none of your concern.” She would have risen, but he put out a hand to hold
her where she was.

“There is an old custom. If a man draw a maid from dire danger, he has certain rights—”

For a moment she did not understand; when she did her bruised pride strengthened her
to meet his eyes.

“You speak of maids—I am not such.”

His indrawn breath made a small sound, but one loud in the silence between them. “So
that was the why! You are no farm or tavern wench, are you? So you could not accept
what he had done to you? But have you no kinsman to trade for your honor?”

She laughed raggedly. “Marshal, my kinsman had but one wish: that I submit to ancient
practices among women so that he would not be shamed before his kind. Having done
so I would have been allowed to dwell by sufferance in
my own home, being reminded not more than perhaps thrice daily of his great goodness.”

“And this you would not do. But with your great hate against him who fathered what
you carry—”

“No!” Her hands went to that talisman of Gunnora’s. “I have been to the shrine of
Gunnora. She has promised me my desire—the child I bear will be mine wholly, taking
nothing from
him!
”

“And did she also send you to the Toads?”

Hertha shook her head. “Gunnora guards life. I knew of the Toads from old tales. I
went to them in my blindness and they gave me that which I placed in your bed to draw
you to them. Also they changed my face in some manner. But—that is no longer so?”

“No. Had I not known your cloak, I should not have known you. But this thing in my
bed—Stay you here and wait. But promise me this, should I return as one under orders,
bar the door in my face and keep me here at all costs!”

“I promise.”

He went with the light-footed tread of one who had learned to walk softly in strange
places because life might well depend upon it. Now that she was alone her mind returned
to the matter of what could come to her with the morn. Who would give her refuge—save
perhaps the Wise Women of Lethendale. It might be that this marshal would escort her
there. Though what did he owe her except such danger as she did not want to think
on. But although her thoughts twisted and turned she saw no answer except Lethendale.
Perhaps Kuno would some day—no! She would have no plan leading in that path!

Trystan was back holding two sticks such as were used to kindle brazier flames. Gripped
between their ends was the pebble she had brought from the Toads’ hold. As he reached
the fire he hurled that bit of rock into the heart of the blaze.

He might have poured oil upon the flames so fierce was the answer as the pebble fell
among the logs. Both shrank back.

“That trap is now set at naught,” he observed. “I would not have any other fall into
it.”

She stiffened, guessing what he thought of her for the setting of that same trap.

“To say I am sorry is only mouthing words, but—”

“To one with such a burden, lady, I can return that I understand. When one is driven
by a lash one takes any way to free oneself. And in the end you did not suffer that
I be taken.”

“Having first thrust you well into the trap! Also—you should have let them take me
then as they wished. It would only have been fitting.”

“Have done!” He brought his fist down on the seat of the settle beside which he knelt.
“Let us make an end to what is past. It is gone. To cling to this wrong or that, keep
it festering in mind and heart, is to cripple one. Now, lady,” she detected a new
formality in his voice, “where do you go, if not to your brother’s house? It is not
in your mind to return there, I gather.”

She fumbled with the talisman. “In that you are right. There is but one place left—the
Wise Women of Lethendale. I can beg shelter from them.” She wondered if he would offer
the escort she had no right to ask, but his next question surprised her.

“Lady, when you came hither, you came by the Old Road over ridge, did you not?”

“That is so. To me it seemed less dangerous than the open highway. It has, by legend,
those who sometimes use it, but I deemed those less dangerous than my own kind.”

“If you came from that direction you must have passed through Nordendale—what manner
of holding is it?”

She had no idea why he wished such knowledge, but she told him what she had seen of
that leaderless dale, the
handful of people there deep sunk in a lethargy in which they clung to the ruins
of what had once been thriving life. He listened eagerly to what she told him.

“You have a seeing eye, lady, and have marked more than most given such a short time
to observe. Now listen to me, for this may be a matter of concern to both of us in
the future. It is in my mind that Nordendale needs a lord, one to give the people
heart, rebuild what man and time have wasted. I have come north seeking a chance to
be not just my own man, but to have a holding. I am not like Urre, who was born to
a hall and drinks and wenches now to forget what ill tricks fortune plays.

“Who my father was"—he shrugged—"I never heard my mother say. That he was of no common
blood, that I knew, though in later years she drudged in a merchant’s house before
the coming of the invaders for bread to our mouths and clothing for our backs. When
I was yet a boy I knew that the only way I might rise was through this"—he touched
the hilt of his sword. “The merchant guild welcomed no nameless man, but for a sword
and a bow there is always a ready market. So I set about learning the skills of war
as thoroughly as any man might. Then came the invasion, and I went from Lord to Lord,
becoming at last Marshal of Forces. Yet always before me hung the thought that in
such a time of upheaval, with the old families being killed out, this was my chance.

“Now there are masterless men in plenty, too restless after years of killing to settle
back behind any plow. Some will turn outlaw readily, but with a half dozen of such
at my back I can take a dale which lies vacant of rule, such as this Nordendale. The
people there need a leader, I am depriving none of lawful inheritance, but will keep
the peace and defend it against outlaws—for there will be many such now. There are
men here, passing through Grimmerdale, willing to be hired for such a purpose. Enough
so I can pick and choose at will.”

He paused and she read in his face that this indeed was
the great moving wish of his life. When he did not continue she asked a question:

“I can see how a determined man can do this thing. But how will it concern me in any
way?”

He looked to her straightly. She did not understand the full meaning of what she saw
in his eyes.

“I think we are greatly alike, lady. So much so that we could walk the same road,
to profit of both. No, I do not ask an answer now. Tomorrow"—he got to his feet stretching—"no,
today, I shall speak to those men I have marked. If they are willing to take liege
oath to me, we shall ride to Lethendale, where you may shelter as you wish for a space.
It is not far—”

“By horse,” she answered in relief, “perhaps two days west.”

“Good enough. Then, having left you there, I shall go to Nordendale—and straightway
that shall cease to be masterless. Give me, say, threescore days, and I shall come
riding again to Lethendale. Then you shall give me your answer as to whether our roads
join or no.”

“You forget,” her hands pressed upon her belly, “I am no maid, nor widow, and yet
I carry—”

“Have you not Gunnora’s promise upon the subject? The child will be wholly yours.
One welcome holds for you both.”

She studied his face, determined to make sure if he meant that. What she read there—she
caught her breath, her hands rising to her breast, pressing hard upon the talisman.

“Come as you promise to Lethendale,” she said in a low voice. “You shall be welcome
and have your answer in good seeming.”

Changeling

L
ITHENDALE,
though no fortress for defense, rather an abiding place for the Dames who gave refuge
to all, still held something of grim darkness in this early spring. Snow lay in ragged,
mid-edged patches upon the ground, and the courtyards showed a gloss of damp upon
worn stones. A chill wind moaned and cried at every window to the west, plucked at
steamy panes with fingers just too weak to wrench a way within.

Hertha’s forehead pressed against one of those thick panes. She leaned over the wide
sill as if she could gain relief from the pains which rent her fiercely. The life
she bore within her body might be a warrior, one who ruthlessly would tear her in
twain, so eager was it ready to battle all the world.

She was not alone. There was the woman who now and then came to walk beside her and
steady her. To Hertha that other was a faceless puppet, someone from a dream, or rather
a dark night’s sending which had no end. In one hand the girl clasped, so tightly
that even its time-smoothed ridges drove deep into her flesh, her one talisman, Gunnora’s
amulet. Hertha did not pray—not now.
Would any petition to one of the Old Ones be heard arising from this abbey dedicated
to another power?

Setting her teeth, Hertha lurched away from the window, took one step, then two, before,
once more, grinding pain sent her staggering. She was on the bed, her body arching.
Dank sweat plastered her hair to her forehead.

“Gunnora!” Had she screamed aloud or had the name only rung in her mind? A last thrust
of pain was a spear within her, twisting agony. Then—

The peace, end of all pain. She drifted.

In the dark which enfolded her she heard a throaty, gurgling laughter, a laughter
which was evil, a threat. In that same dark she saw—

There was a circle of stones and to these clung—no, they did not cling—only the deformity
of their bloated bodies made it seem so. Rather they sat, their monstrous heads all
turned, their bulbous eyes watching her with malicious joy and triumph. Hertha remembered.
Now she cried out, not any petition to a Power of the Old Ones, rather with a fear
she thought safely gone, buried in time.

She wanted to run, even to raise her hands as a barrier between those eyes and hers.
Though the girl knew that even if she so veiled her own sight, she could not escape.
The Toads of Grimmerdale! She had recklessly, wrongly sought them once, cheated them,
fought them, and now they were here!

“My lady.”

The words were faint, far off, had nothing to do with present horror and fear. Still
it would seem that somehow they acted as a charm against the Toad things, for those
faded. Hertha, shivering, spent, opened her eyes.

Inghela, the stout Dame, wise in herb lore and nursing, stood in the light of two
lamps. That wan day Hertha had watched so endlessly through the distorted thick glass
of the window must have ended. Dame Inghela’s grasp held the girl’s limp wrist. There
was an intent searching in her
eyes, so dark and clear under the line of her folded linen headdress.

Hertha summoned strength. Her mouth was parched, dry, as if she had fed on ashes.

“The child?” In her own hearing her voice was very thin and hoarse.

“You have a daughter, my lady.”

A daughter! For one moment of pure joy Hertha’s heart moved with a quicker beat. She
willed her arms to rise, even though it felt that each was braceleted with lead. Gunnora’s
promise—a child who would have nothing in it of the ravisher who had forced its birth.
Hertha’s own, her own!

“Give me,” her voice was still weak, yet life, and now will, were fast returning to
her, “give me my daughter!”

The Dame did not move. There was no bundle of warm wrappings in her arms. It seemed
to the girl that the woman’s measuring glance was stronger, an emotion in it which
Hertha could not read.