It was oddly still. Charis sat up on the cot,
pulled her coverall into place. Coverall? Something buried deep
inside her questioned, and a seed of doubt plagued her. Yes, the
post was very still. She went to the door, set her hands on either
side of the sealed slit. Was she locked in? But when she applied
pressure, the portal opened and she was able to look out into the
corridor.
The doors along it gaped open as she slipped into freedom.
Listening brought no trace of sound, no murmur of voices or the
heavy breathing of a sleeper. She went on down the hall, the floor
chill to her bare feet.
But this—all of this, whispered that rebellious voice deep
within her, she had done before. Yet on the surface, this was the
here and now. The rooms were empty; she paused at each to make sure
of that. Then the fourth room: a com screen against its wall,
chairs and piles of record tapes. The com—she could use its
sweep, try to pick up the government base. But first she must make
sure she was safely alone.
A hurried search of the post, room by room. Time—it was a
matter of time. Then she was back in the com room, leaning over the
key board, picking out the proper combination to trigger a sweep
ray.
A wait, and then a signal to the northeast. The visa-plate
clouded and then cleared. Charis dodged from her position before
it. A man was standing out of the mist, a man wearing a dingy
uniform of a trader. Charis studied him, but he was unknown to her.
Only the illegal blaster holstered at his belt made him different
from any other fringe crewman. Charis’s hand swept out to
break contact.
She activated the sweep once again, tried south, and picked a
signal—the insignia of Survey with a seal of Embassy. Slowly
then she began to click out a message for the tape.
She was on a hillside. It was cold, dark, and she was running,
running until her breath made a sharp stab beneath her ribs. The
hunt would be up soon. Or would Tolskegg be willing to let her go,
to die alone in the heights of exhaustion, starvation, or at the
claws of some beast? He had Demeter and the settlement below now
within his hold.
Demeter! The part of her which had been denying that this
was the here and now struggled. Charis shook with more
than cold. She was climbing to the heights above the settlement,
yet the belief that this was all false grew stronger and
stronger.
A dream. And there were those who used dreams and the stuff of
dreams as a potter spun clay on his wheel. If she was caught in a
dream, then she must wake—wake soon. Not a dream. Yes—a
dream. She felt her own exhaustion, the pinch of hunger which was
pain, the rough ground over which she stumbled, the bushes she
grasped to steady her.
Not real—a dream! The bushes thinned until they were
unsubstantial ghosts of themselves. Through their wavering outlines
she saw a wall—yes, wall, solid wall. She was not on
Demeter—she was—she was . . .
Warlock! As if the recognition of that name were a key, the now
shadowy slope of Demeter vanished, driven away like smoke by a
rising wind. She lay on a pad of mats. To her right was a window
giving on the dark of night with a frosting of stars in the sky.
This was Warlock and the Citadel of the Wyverns.
She did not move but lay quietly trying to separate dream from
reality. The post—it had been raided. That Survey officer
Shann Lantee— She could see him as plainly now as if he stood
before her, the blood-spattered alien spear held between them.
The spear. It had splintered under the action of the Wyvern. The
broken bits had moved in that weird dance until they had fallen in
a pattern which had awakened such rage in the Warlockians. And that
rage . . .
Charis sat bolt upright on the mats. Lantee crumbling under the
Power of the Wyverns, herself returned to relive portions of the
past—for what purpose she could not divine. Why had that rage
been turned on Lantee? In a way, it had been her fault for
summoning Gytha. She had been too impulsive.
Her hands went to the pouch at her belt. It was empty of the
disk. That had been in her hand when the Power had taken her on the
shore. Had she dropped it or had they taken it from her?
That could mean that the Wyverns no longer considered her in the
guise of friend or ally. What had the broken spear meant
to them? Without the disk Charis was a prisoner here in this room.
At least there was no reason why she could not attempt at once to
find out what bonds had been set upon her freedom. Would she
discover herself as unable to move as she had been on her flight
along the shore when it had suited the Wyverns to control her?
“Tsstu?” Charis held that call to hardly above a
whisper. She did not know how much of an ally the small curl-cat
could be against the Wyverns, but she had come to depend upon her
for companionship more heavily than she had guessed.
A drowsy sound came from the shadow directly below the window
near which her head had rested. Tsstu lay there, curled in a ball,
her eyes closed, her ears folded back tight against her head.
Charis stooped and drew her fingers lightly across that head.
“Tsstu,” she whispered coaxingly. Was the
curl-cat—she had adopted Lantee’s name for
Tsstu’s species since it fitted so well—deep in her own
kind of dream, too deep to be aroused now?
The ears twitched and slits of eyes showed between lids. Then
Tsstu yawned widely, her yellow tongue curled up and out. She
lifted her head to eye Charis.
To communicate more than just vague impressions without the aid
of the disk—could she do that? Charis made a sudden swoop to
gather up the curl-cat, holding Tsstu aloft so that those narrow
felinelike eyes looked straight into hers. Was Tsstu so closely
linked to the Wyverns that she would serve them rather than Charis
now?
Away, the girl thought, out of here.
“Rrrruuuu.” That was agreement.
Tsstu wriggled vigorously in her grasp, wanting her freedom.
Charis obeyed her wish. The curl-cat approached the doorway on
pad-feet, elongating and flattening her body so that she had the
appearance of a hunter on stalk. She stared into the corridor, her
head raised a little, her ears spread to their widest. Charis
guessed that every sense the curl-cat had was analyzing, scouting,
for them. Tsstu glanced back at the girl, summoned—
This way led to the assembly rooms, to other private chambers
such as hers, prepared for dreamers. Whether or not the corridor
would eventually take them outside Charis did not know; she could
only hope and rely upon Tsstu.
Even without the disk she strove to pick up any mind touch, any
intimation that the Wyverns were about. Twice Charis was sure she
had brushed beamed thoughts, not enough to read, just enough to be
certain that they did exist. Otherwise, as in the trading post, she
might be walking through a deserted dwelling.
Tsstu seemed confident of her path, trotting noiselessly along,
choosing without hesitation whenever the corridor branched or was
crossed by another passage. Charis was already out of the small
portion of the maze that she knew. And she was conscious of the
fact that the curl-cat had guided her into a section where the
light from the walls was dimmer, the walls themselves rougher,
narrower. She gained a feeling of age. Then the light was gone from
the whole wall surface, lingering only in some places. Charis had
to study closely before she saw the purpose of those remaining
patches. They made out a design not unlike the whorls and circling
on the disks. Here on the walls were some of the same symbols of
power which the Wyverns had harnessed to their bidding.
But these patterns were not finished nor as crisp and cleanly
cut as those on the disks. Larger, cruder, could they still open
doorways for the initiated?
Tsstu continued with confidence. The even temperature of the
other corridors failed. Charis put fingers to the nearest spiral
and jerked them away as her flesh shrank from the heat there. She
coughed, her throat dry. Where or what was this place?
In spite of an inner warning, she could not help but follow some
of the designs with her eyes, looking ahead to pick them up,
keeping them in sight until they were behind her. They blanketed
her general field of vision until all she could see were the
designs, and she halted with a cry of fear.
“Tsstu!”
Soft fur against her ankles, a reassurance in her mind. The
curl-cat must not be affected by the same illusions as now
imprisoned the girl. But to walk through this blackness where only
the whorls, circles, lines had any existence for her was more than
Charis could bring herself to do. Fear—overwhelming,
panic-raising fear—
“Meeeerreee!”
Charis could feel Tsstu, she could hear her, but she could not
see the curl-cat. She could see nothing but the patterns.
“Back!” Her word was a hoarse whisper. Only now
Charis was not sure where back was. To take a step could plunge her
into unknown chaos.
There was one design out of that mass of patterns—somehow
she was able to fasten on that. Larger, sprawled out in crude
length where she was used to it in a compact, clearly defined
circle—this was her own disk pattern. She was certain of
that.
“Tsstu!” She caught up the curl-cat by touch. Only
those lines of dull silver glowed in the darkness. Concentrate on
this design as she had on the disk and so—escape?
Charis hesitated. Escape to where? Return to the raided post? To
the moss meadow? She must have a strong visual picture of her goal
or the transport would not occur. Post? Meadow? Neither was where
she wanted to go now. It was not just escape she wanted, it was
knowledge of what was happening and why. But one could not gain
that so . . .
Then—she was there. Lines of Wyverns, all seated
cross-legged on mats, all intent upon two in the center. Lines of
Wyverns, circles of them, for the chamber was a bowl-shaped place
made up of climbing ledges, circling a space.
In that space Gysmay and her shadow-patterned companion stood
alone. They faced each other, those two, and between them on the
dark of the floor were splinters, needlelike pieces of all colors
of the rainbow. The two were intent upon those splinters as were
all others in that chamber.
Charis’s hair stirred with electricity, her skin prickled.
There was such power here, loosed, flowing, that she reacted to it
physically. None of those about her had noted her coming; they
stared at the splinters, concentrating their power.
The splinters rose upon their points, whirled, danced, spun into
the air to form a small cloud which first encircled Gysmay. Three
times about her body, beginning at waist height, then at her
throat, lastly about her head. Then they spun away to the open
between the two Wyverns, came apart in a tinkling rain to form a
design on the floor. And from those that watched there came to
Charis a ripple of emotion, some decision or demand or bargaining
point, she was not sure which, had been stated.
Again the needles rose in their point-dance, leaped into the air
to form a cloud which now wreathed the shadowed Wyvern. And Charis
thought that they spun more slowly this time and that the cloud did
not glint with bright colors but was more subdued. It broke and
tinkled down to deliver the answer, counterargument,
disagreement—three in one.
And again there was to be sensed a wave of approbation from some
of the watchers, but a weaker one. The company was divided upon
some issue and their discussion conducted so Charis watched,
supposing that Gysmay was about to answer, for the needles were
rising again.
But this time their dance was less prolonged and the cloud they
formed swayed neither to one of the Wyverns nor to the other. It
was a tight saucer-shape rising higher and higher, straight up
until it was level with the fourth and top tier of the ledges.
The company watched in shocked surprise. This they had not
expected. Gysmay and her companions held their disks. But if they
strove to call the needles, those were now out of their control.
The cloud swayed back and forth as if it clung to some unseen
pendulum. And each swing brought it closer to where Charis
stood.
Suddenly it broke from that measured swing to dart at her. She
cried out as it whirled about her head, swiftly, almost menacingly.
The two nearest Wyverns were on their feet, while all below focused
on the girl.
Twice, three times, the cloud wreathed her and then it was gone,
out over the open, descending. But Charis could not move; the
restraint of the power held her prisoner. The cloud broke, rained
its substance down to the floor, but she could see no design, only
a meaningless jumble.
At the same time she moved, not of her own volition, but under
the will of those about her, descending from tier to tier until she
stood in the open, equidistant from the two witches.
“What is read is read. To each dreamer, a dream as is the
will of Those Who Have Dreamed Before. It would seem, Dreamer of
Other World Dreams, that you, also, have a word in this
matter—”
“In what matter?” Charis asked aloud.
“In the matter of life and death, of your blood and our
blood, of past and future,” was the evasive answer.
Where she found the words and the courage to say them in an even
voice, Charis did not know as she replied: “If that is the
answer, I have been granted—” she nodded at the fallen
needles “—then you needs must read it for me, O One of
All Wisdom.”
It was the shadow-laced Wyvern who answered: “But this is
beyond our reading, though it has meaning since the Power
moved its fashioning. We can only believe that its time is not yet.
But time itself is an enemy in this matter. When one weaves a dream
there must be no breaking of the thread of warp and woof. In our
dreams, you and yours are unwelcome—”
“Those of my blood have died on the shore,” Charis
retorted. “Yet I cannot believe that it was by your hands and
will—”
“No—by their own. For they began an ill dream and
twisted the pattern. They have done a thing which is beyond
straightening now.” Gysmay was all anger, though that emotion
was controlled and perhaps the more deadly because of that control.
“They have given those who cannot dream another kind of power
to break the long-laid design. Thus they must be hunted! They would
overturn all reason and custom, and to that the end is
slaying—and the slaying has already begun. We want no more of
you. It shall be so.” She clapped her hands and the needles
jumped, collecting into a heap.
“Perhaps—” the shadowed Wyvern spoke.
“Perhaps?” echoed Charis. “Speak plainly to me
now, Holder of Old Wisdom. I have seen a dead man of my race lying
by a broken dwelling, and with him was a weapon which was not his.
Yet among you I have seen no arms save the disks of Power. What
evil walks this world? It is not of my making nor of the man
Lantee’s.” She did not know why she added that, save
that Lantee had had friendly contact with the witches.
“You are of one breed with the makers of this
trouble!” Gysmay’s thought was like a sharp hiss.
“The spear,” Charis persisted, “this is of
your kind, not mine! And a man died of it.”
“Those who dream not—they hunt, they kill with such.
And now they have broken the ancient law and run to do evil in the
service of strangers. Those strangers have given them a protection
against the Power so that they may not be brought back into order
again. Perhaps this was not of your doing, for among us you have
dreamed true and know the power in its proper use. And the man
Lantee, together with the one other who was with him from the
earlier time, he, too, has dreamed—though that was out of all
custom. But now come those who do not dream, to uphold the evil of
not-dreaming. And our world will fall apart unless we hasten to the
mending.”
“But still,” the shadowed Wyvern’s quieter
message came, “there is the pattern we cannot read and which
we may not push away unheeded, for it was born of what we evoked
here to answer us in our need. Therefore, there is a use for you,
though we know not yet what it may be, nor do you. This you must
learn for yourself and bring to aid the greater
design—”
There was no mistaking the warning lying in that. Charis could
only guess at the meaning behind the circumlocution of speech. An
off-world party—probably the Jacks who had raided the
post—had freed some of the males from the control of the
Wyvern matriarchs. And these were now fighting for or with the
strangers. In return, the Wyverns seemed about to organize some
counterblow against all off-worlders.
“This great design—it is being readied against those
of my blood?” Charis asked.
“It must be carefully woven, then aimed and
dreamed.” Again only half an answer. “But it will break
your pattern as you have broken ours.”
“And I have a part in this?”
“You have received an answer which we could not read.
Discover its meaning and maybe it will be for us also.”
“She breaks our pattern here,” Gysmay interrupted.
“Send her into the Place Without Dreams that she may not
continue to disrupt what we do here!”
“Not so! She was answered; she has a right to learn the
meaning of that answer. Send her forth from this place,
yes—that we shall do. But into the Darkness Which Is Naught?
No—that is against her rights. Time grows short, Dreamer.
Dream true if you would save the breaking of your pattern.
Now—get you hence!”
The tiered chamber, the watching Wyverns, vanished. Night was
dark about Charis, but she could hear the murmur of sea waves not
too far away. She breathed fresh air and above her were stars. Was
she back on shore?
No. As her eyes adjusted to the very dim light, she was able to
see that she stood on a high point of rock; around her on all sides
was the wash of waves. She must be marooned on a rocky spear in
what might be the middle of the ocean.
Afraid to take a step in any direction, Charis dropped down to
her knees, hardly believing this could be true. Tsstu stirred, made
a small questioning sound, and Charis’s breath caught in a
half-sob of incredulous protest.
It was oddly still. Charis sat up on the cot,
pulled her coverall into place. Coverall? Something buried deep
inside her questioned, and a seed of doubt plagued her. Yes, the
post was very still. She went to the door, set her hands on either
side of the sealed slit. Was she locked in? But when she applied
pressure, the portal opened and she was able to look out into the
corridor.
The doors along it gaped open as she slipped into freedom.
Listening brought no trace of sound, no murmur of voices or the
heavy breathing of a sleeper. She went on down the hall, the floor
chill to her bare feet.
But this—all of this, whispered that rebellious voice deep
within her, she had done before. Yet on the surface, this was the
here and now. The rooms were empty; she paused at each to make sure
of that. Then the fourth room: a com screen against its wall,
chairs and piles of record tapes. The com—she could use its
sweep, try to pick up the government base. But first she must make
sure she was safely alone.
A hurried search of the post, room by room. Time—it was a
matter of time. Then she was back in the com room, leaning over the
key board, picking out the proper combination to trigger a sweep
ray.
A wait, and then a signal to the northeast. The visa-plate
clouded and then cleared. Charis dodged from her position before
it. A man was standing out of the mist, a man wearing a dingy
uniform of a trader. Charis studied him, but he was unknown to her.
Only the illegal blaster holstered at his belt made him different
from any other fringe crewman. Charis’s hand swept out to
break contact.
She activated the sweep once again, tried south, and picked a
signal—the insignia of Survey with a seal of Embassy. Slowly
then she began to click out a message for the tape.
She was on a hillside. It was cold, dark, and she was running,
running until her breath made a sharp stab beneath her ribs. The
hunt would be up soon. Or would Tolskegg be willing to let her go,
to die alone in the heights of exhaustion, starvation, or at the
claws of some beast? He had Demeter and the settlement below now
within his hold.
Demeter! The part of her which had been denying that this
was the here and now struggled. Charis shook with more
than cold. She was climbing to the heights above the settlement,
yet the belief that this was all false grew stronger and
stronger.
A dream. And there were those who used dreams and the stuff of
dreams as a potter spun clay on his wheel. If she was caught in a
dream, then she must wake—wake soon. Not a dream. Yes—a
dream. She felt her own exhaustion, the pinch of hunger which was
pain, the rough ground over which she stumbled, the bushes she
grasped to steady her.
Not real—a dream! The bushes thinned until they were
unsubstantial ghosts of themselves. Through their wavering outlines
she saw a wall—yes, wall, solid wall. She was not on
Demeter—she was—she was . . .
Warlock! As if the recognition of that name were a key, the now
shadowy slope of Demeter vanished, driven away like smoke by a
rising wind. She lay on a pad of mats. To her right was a window
giving on the dark of night with a frosting of stars in the sky.
This was Warlock and the Citadel of the Wyverns.
She did not move but lay quietly trying to separate dream from
reality. The post—it had been raided. That Survey officer
Shann Lantee— She could see him as plainly now as if he stood
before her, the blood-spattered alien spear held between them.
The spear. It had splintered under the action of the Wyvern. The
broken bits had moved in that weird dance until they had fallen in
a pattern which had awakened such rage in the Warlockians. And that
rage . . .
Charis sat bolt upright on the mats. Lantee crumbling under the
Power of the Wyverns, herself returned to relive portions of the
past—for what purpose she could not divine. Why had that rage
been turned on Lantee? In a way, it had been her fault for
summoning Gytha. She had been too impulsive.
Her hands went to the pouch at her belt. It was empty of the
disk. That had been in her hand when the Power had taken her on the
shore. Had she dropped it or had they taken it from her?
That could mean that the Wyverns no longer considered her in the
guise of friend or ally. What had the broken spear meant
to them? Without the disk Charis was a prisoner here in this room.
At least there was no reason why she could not attempt at once to
find out what bonds had been set upon her freedom. Would she
discover herself as unable to move as she had been on her flight
along the shore when it had suited the Wyverns to control her?
“Tsstu?” Charis held that call to hardly above a
whisper. She did not know how much of an ally the small curl-cat
could be against the Wyverns, but she had come to depend upon her
for companionship more heavily than she had guessed.
A drowsy sound came from the shadow directly below the window
near which her head had rested. Tsstu lay there, curled in a ball,
her eyes closed, her ears folded back tight against her head.
Charis stooped and drew her fingers lightly across that head.
“Tsstu,” she whispered coaxingly. Was the
curl-cat—she had adopted Lantee’s name for
Tsstu’s species since it fitted so well—deep in her own
kind of dream, too deep to be aroused now?
The ears twitched and slits of eyes showed between lids. Then
Tsstu yawned widely, her yellow tongue curled up and out. She
lifted her head to eye Charis.
To communicate more than just vague impressions without the aid
of the disk—could she do that? Charis made a sudden swoop to
gather up the curl-cat, holding Tsstu aloft so that those narrow
felinelike eyes looked straight into hers. Was Tsstu so closely
linked to the Wyverns that she would serve them rather than Charis
now?
Away, the girl thought, out of here.
“Rrrruuuu.” That was agreement.
Tsstu wriggled vigorously in her grasp, wanting her freedom.
Charis obeyed her wish. The curl-cat approached the doorway on
pad-feet, elongating and flattening her body so that she had the
appearance of a hunter on stalk. She stared into the corridor, her
head raised a little, her ears spread to their widest. Charis
guessed that every sense the curl-cat had was analyzing, scouting,
for them. Tsstu glanced back at the girl, summoned—
This way led to the assembly rooms, to other private chambers
such as hers, prepared for dreamers. Whether or not the corridor
would eventually take them outside Charis did not know; she could
only hope and rely upon Tsstu.
Even without the disk she strove to pick up any mind touch, any
intimation that the Wyverns were about. Twice Charis was sure she
had brushed beamed thoughts, not enough to read, just enough to be
certain that they did exist. Otherwise, as in the trading post, she
might be walking through a deserted dwelling.
Tsstu seemed confident of her path, trotting noiselessly along,
choosing without hesitation whenever the corridor branched or was
crossed by another passage. Charis was already out of the small
portion of the maze that she knew. And she was conscious of the
fact that the curl-cat had guided her into a section where the
light from the walls was dimmer, the walls themselves rougher,
narrower. She gained a feeling of age. Then the light was gone from
the whole wall surface, lingering only in some places. Charis had
to study closely before she saw the purpose of those remaining
patches. They made out a design not unlike the whorls and circling
on the disks. Here on the walls were some of the same symbols of
power which the Wyverns had harnessed to their bidding.
But these patterns were not finished nor as crisp and cleanly
cut as those on the disks. Larger, cruder, could they still open
doorways for the initiated?
Tsstu continued with confidence. The even temperature of the
other corridors failed. Charis put fingers to the nearest spiral
and jerked them away as her flesh shrank from the heat there. She
coughed, her throat dry. Where or what was this place?
In spite of an inner warning, she could not help but follow some
of the designs with her eyes, looking ahead to pick them up,
keeping them in sight until they were behind her. They blanketed
her general field of vision until all she could see were the
designs, and she halted with a cry of fear.
“Tsstu!”
Soft fur against her ankles, a reassurance in her mind. The
curl-cat must not be affected by the same illusions as now
imprisoned the girl. But to walk through this blackness where only
the whorls, circles, lines had any existence for her was more than
Charis could bring herself to do. Fear—overwhelming,
panic-raising fear—
“Meeeerreee!”
Charis could feel Tsstu, she could hear her, but she could not
see the curl-cat. She could see nothing but the patterns.
“Back!” Her word was a hoarse whisper. Only now
Charis was not sure where back was. To take a step could plunge her
into unknown chaos.
There was one design out of that mass of patterns—somehow
she was able to fasten on that. Larger, sprawled out in crude
length where she was used to it in a compact, clearly defined
circle—this was her own disk pattern. She was certain of
that.
“Tsstu!” She caught up the curl-cat by touch. Only
those lines of dull silver glowed in the darkness. Concentrate on
this design as she had on the disk and so—escape?
Charis hesitated. Escape to where? Return to the raided post? To
the moss meadow? She must have a strong visual picture of her goal
or the transport would not occur. Post? Meadow? Neither was where
she wanted to go now. It was not just escape she wanted, it was
knowledge of what was happening and why. But one could not gain
that so . . .
Then—she was there. Lines of Wyverns, all seated
cross-legged on mats, all intent upon two in the center. Lines of
Wyverns, circles of them, for the chamber was a bowl-shaped place
made up of climbing ledges, circling a space.
In that space Gysmay and her shadow-patterned companion stood
alone. They faced each other, those two, and between them on the
dark of the floor were splinters, needlelike pieces of all colors
of the rainbow. The two were intent upon those splinters as were
all others in that chamber.
Charis’s hair stirred with electricity, her skin prickled.
There was such power here, loosed, flowing, that she reacted to it
physically. None of those about her had noted her coming; they
stared at the splinters, concentrating their power.
The splinters rose upon their points, whirled, danced, spun into
the air to form a small cloud which first encircled Gysmay. Three
times about her body, beginning at waist height, then at her
throat, lastly about her head. Then they spun away to the open
between the two Wyverns, came apart in a tinkling rain to form a
design on the floor. And from those that watched there came to
Charis a ripple of emotion, some decision or demand or bargaining
point, she was not sure which, had been stated.
Again the needles rose in their point-dance, leaped into the air
to form a cloud which now wreathed the shadowed Wyvern. And Charis
thought that they spun more slowly this time and that the cloud did
not glint with bright colors but was more subdued. It broke and
tinkled down to deliver the answer, counterargument,
disagreement—three in one.
And again there was to be sensed a wave of approbation from some
of the watchers, but a weaker one. The company was divided upon
some issue and their discussion conducted so Charis watched,
supposing that Gysmay was about to answer, for the needles were
rising again.
But this time their dance was less prolonged and the cloud they
formed swayed neither to one of the Wyverns nor to the other. It
was a tight saucer-shape rising higher and higher, straight up
until it was level with the fourth and top tier of the ledges.
The company watched in shocked surprise. This they had not
expected. Gysmay and her companions held their disks. But if they
strove to call the needles, those were now out of their control.
The cloud swayed back and forth as if it clung to some unseen
pendulum. And each swing brought it closer to where Charis
stood.
Suddenly it broke from that measured swing to dart at her. She
cried out as it whirled about her head, swiftly, almost menacingly.
The two nearest Wyverns were on their feet, while all below focused
on the girl.
Twice, three times, the cloud wreathed her and then it was gone,
out over the open, descending. But Charis could not move; the
restraint of the power held her prisoner. The cloud broke, rained
its substance down to the floor, but she could see no design, only
a meaningless jumble.
At the same time she moved, not of her own volition, but under
the will of those about her, descending from tier to tier until she
stood in the open, equidistant from the two witches.
“What is read is read. To each dreamer, a dream as is the
will of Those Who Have Dreamed Before. It would seem, Dreamer of
Other World Dreams, that you, also, have a word in this
matter—”
“In what matter?” Charis asked aloud.
“In the matter of life and death, of your blood and our
blood, of past and future,” was the evasive answer.
Where she found the words and the courage to say them in an even
voice, Charis did not know as she replied: “If that is the
answer, I have been granted—” she nodded at the fallen
needles “—then you needs must read it for me, O One of
All Wisdom.”
It was the shadow-laced Wyvern who answered: “But this is
beyond our reading, though it has meaning since the Power
moved its fashioning. We can only believe that its time is not yet.
But time itself is an enemy in this matter. When one weaves a dream
there must be no breaking of the thread of warp and woof. In our
dreams, you and yours are unwelcome—”
“Those of my blood have died on the shore,” Charis
retorted. “Yet I cannot believe that it was by your hands and
will—”
“No—by their own. For they began an ill dream and
twisted the pattern. They have done a thing which is beyond
straightening now.” Gysmay was all anger, though that emotion
was controlled and perhaps the more deadly because of that control.
“They have given those who cannot dream another kind of power
to break the long-laid design. Thus they must be hunted! They would
overturn all reason and custom, and to that the end is
slaying—and the slaying has already begun. We want no more of
you. It shall be so.” She clapped her hands and the needles
jumped, collecting into a heap.
“Perhaps—” the shadowed Wyvern spoke.
“Perhaps?” echoed Charis. “Speak plainly to me
now, Holder of Old Wisdom. I have seen a dead man of my race lying
by a broken dwelling, and with him was a weapon which was not his.
Yet among you I have seen no arms save the disks of Power. What
evil walks this world? It is not of my making nor of the man
Lantee’s.” She did not know why she added that, save
that Lantee had had friendly contact with the witches.
“You are of one breed with the makers of this
trouble!” Gysmay’s thought was like a sharp hiss.
“The spear,” Charis persisted, “this is of
your kind, not mine! And a man died of it.”
“Those who dream not—they hunt, they kill with such.
And now they have broken the ancient law and run to do evil in the
service of strangers. Those strangers have given them a protection
against the Power so that they may not be brought back into order
again. Perhaps this was not of your doing, for among us you have
dreamed true and know the power in its proper use. And the man
Lantee, together with the one other who was with him from the
earlier time, he, too, has dreamed—though that was out of all
custom. But now come those who do not dream, to uphold the evil of
not-dreaming. And our world will fall apart unless we hasten to the
mending.”
“But still,” the shadowed Wyvern’s quieter
message came, “there is the pattern we cannot read and which
we may not push away unheeded, for it was born of what we evoked
here to answer us in our need. Therefore, there is a use for you,
though we know not yet what it may be, nor do you. This you must
learn for yourself and bring to aid the greater
design—”
There was no mistaking the warning lying in that. Charis could
only guess at the meaning behind the circumlocution of speech. An
off-world party—probably the Jacks who had raided the
post—had freed some of the males from the control of the
Wyvern matriarchs. And these were now fighting for or with the
strangers. In return, the Wyverns seemed about to organize some
counterblow against all off-worlders.
“This great design—it is being readied against those
of my blood?” Charis asked.
“It must be carefully woven, then aimed and
dreamed.” Again only half an answer. “But it will break
your pattern as you have broken ours.”
“And I have a part in this?”
“You have received an answer which we could not read.
Discover its meaning and maybe it will be for us also.”
“She breaks our pattern here,” Gysmay interrupted.
“Send her into the Place Without Dreams that she may not
continue to disrupt what we do here!”
“Not so! She was answered; she has a right to learn the
meaning of that answer. Send her forth from this place,
yes—that we shall do. But into the Darkness Which Is Naught?
No—that is against her rights. Time grows short, Dreamer.
Dream true if you would save the breaking of your pattern.
Now—get you hence!”
The tiered chamber, the watching Wyverns, vanished. Night was
dark about Charis, but she could hear the murmur of sea waves not
too far away. She breathed fresh air and above her were stars. Was
she back on shore?
No. As her eyes adjusted to the very dim light, she was able to
see that she stood on a high point of rock; around her on all sides
was the wash of waves. She must be marooned on a rocky spear in
what might be the middle of the ocean.
Afraid to take a step in any direction, Charis dropped down to
her knees, hardly believing this could be true. Tsstu stirred, made
a small questioning sound, and Charis’s breath caught in a
half-sob of incredulous protest.