“These,” the message flashed to
her, “do not have the talent, nor, it seems, any knowledge of
it.”
That her companion had dared to probe those with them made
Ziantha anxious. It would seem that care was better than audacity
now. Yet what he had learned made them free to use mind-touch.
“Can you then read their minds?” she asked.
“Not to any extent—emotions rather. They have a
different wave pattern. These are disturbed as would be entirely
natural. The armsmen accept our appearance as a miracle of return,
are in awe. The officer—” He checked, and when he did
not continue, Ziantha prompted him:
“What of the officer?”
“I see someone, not clearly—someone to whom he feels
he must report this as soon as he can. There is a
shadow—” Again his thought trailed off.
Ziantha unleashed her own mind-seek, aimed now not at
maintaining communication with her companion, but probing the
emotions of those about her. Yes, she could understand
Turan’s bafflement. It was like trying to keep in steady
focus a picture that blurred and changed whenever she strove to
distinguish it in detail. But she recognized a woman. And that
which was of Vintra awoke with a stormy memory.
Zuha M’Turan!
“The one to whom he would report,” she relayed,
“is the Lady of Turan. I think, Commander, that
you—we—go now into a snarl of matters formerly a danger
to him whose body you wear. It cannot be clearly read—but
there is danger ahead.”
“Which we knew from the first,” he replied calmly.
“So I am to beware, Lady? It would not be the first time that
intrigue brought down a man, intrigue from those whose loyalty he
had a right to expect was fully his. Now—we must try to delay
any report. Can you bend his will, work upon it? I can sense
something of his thoughts but not with the clarity I need for such
influencing.”
“I can try. But it is very difficult to keep in
touch—this wavering—”
Ziantha centered her energy fully upon the problem. Though she
knew well the theory of such suggestion, had worked it by
Ogan’s orders, she had done it surrounded by devices to
monitor and restrain. To have used it anywhere outside those villa
walls on Korwar would have alerted detects instantly. For such
interference by a sensitive was so illegal that it would lead to
brain-erase if one were caught practicing it. And the force so used
was easily traced.
Delicately she probed, caught the picture of Zuha M’Turan.
Drawing on Vintra’s memory she built it firmly in her mind.
And she felt her companion reach and touch that picture.
Bit by bit she achieved the affect she wanted to feed to the
alien: that Zuha M’Turan already knew of this night’s
work, that it was part of a deep-laid plan not to be revealed yet,
that chance had brought the officer into it, but that his superiors
would be grateful in the future if he did nothing to disrupt
it.
“Excellent!” Turan’s accolade gave her
confidence. “Now—feed it to him, and I shall back
you.”
As if she repeated a lesson learned by rote, Ziantha focused now
on the mind of the man sitting on the other side of Turan,
thrusting her image of Zuha and the message with all the vigor she
could muster, feeling the backup force of the other. Twice she was
certain she made clear contact, shared mind with the alien. Then,
spent, after all this night had demanded of her, she could no
longer fight.
Weariness swept in, a sea wave washing out all her strength of
mind and will. As it ebbed she was left dull, uncaring, aware only
of emptiness. Whether she had succeeded in what Turan had wanted of
her she had no way of knowing.
They were into the streets of Singakok now. She was aware of
lights through the curtain of rain, of people on the move. Vintra
was pushing out of confinement within her; the old hates and fears
which were a part of her double past surged up. And Ziantha was
hard put to retain her own identity. Now she was Vintra, now
Ziantha—and she was too tired to hold much longer.
The vehicle turned into a quieter side avenue where the
buildings were farther apart, each separated by walls. This was the
Way of the Lords—Turan’s palace lay not too far
ahead.
The ground car stopped at a gate; guards stepped out to flash a
light into the shadowed interior. There was a gasp as that beam
caught Turan.
“Admit us!” His voice was impatient as if the
momentary halt had been an added irritation.
“Lord Commander—” the voice behind that beam
of light was that of a badly shaken man.
“Am I to be kept waiting at my own door?” demanded
Turan. “Open the gates!”
The guard jumped back, and the gate swung open. They drove
between walls of dark vegetation, where rain-heavy foliage cut off
any view beyond the borders. Then the car was through that tunnel
and out before a sweep of steps leading to the imposing portal of
the building.
Ziantha stumbled as she got out; her fatigue was such that those
steps before her seemed insurmountable. But Turan was at her side,
his hand slipped under her arm, urging and supporting her. One of
the armsmen hurried ahead to make a rattle of noise at the
door.
That opened slowly just as they came to it. Light swept
forth.
“Who comes to disturb the High Consort of the House of
Turan? This is the day of third mourning—”
The man who began that indignant demand was now staring
open-mouthed at Turan.
“Would you keep us out in this storm, Daxter? In my own
door am I to be challenged?” Evidently Ziantha’s
companion would play his role boldly. Whether or not his boldness
was a good defense, who could judge at the present moment?
The doorman retreated, staring. His face was visibly paler as he
raised a hand, making a sign as if to ward off some supernatural
danger.
“Lord Commander Turan!”
“Yes, Turan.” He looked on into the hall. “The
third day of mourning is over. Let the household be made aware of
that.”
“Lord Commander,” Daxter retreated yet farther.
“You—you are—”
“Dead? But, no, Daxter, I am not. Do dead men walk, talk,
seek out their homes, their kin? And where is the High Consort? Let
it be made known to her that there is no need for
mourning.”
“Yes. Lord Commander—”
“And see that this officer, these armsmen, be given the
hospitality of the House. They have brought us through a wild
night.” He slipped off the weather coat and turned to the
armsman to whom it belonged.
“Battle comrade, you named yourself; you now have the
right to be comrade-in-arms with me. For I have come from a greater
trial than any war, a fiercer battle than you can guess.”
The man brought his hand up before his face, palm out, in
salute. “Lord Commander, the honor of being ready to your
service is mine. Be sure that when you call, I shall
answer!”
To Ziantha the whole scene was like a tri-dee play, seen when
one was half asleep and not too greatly interested in the story. If
she could not relax soon, find some energy restorative, she would
collapse.
“To my chambers now.” Turan was giving more orders.
“And you will bring food, wine. We have a long hunger and
thirst, Daxter.”
Ziantha knew they were climbing stairs, or rather, Turan was
pulling her up step by step. But the rest was a haze until she was
lying down and Turan was forcing between her lips a narrow spout
from which came a hot, spicy liquid. Half choking, she swallowed
again and again. It warmed her chilled body but also added to her
lassitude. She could keep her eyes open no longer; her body was one
long ache.
She was warm—too warm. Slowly she opened her eyes. Above
her was a ceiling riotous in color, and, as her eyes focused, that
color fitted itself within outlines of forms. But she had never
seen those before. Those strange animals—if animals they
were—or were they plants? This could not be her room in the
villa. It was—
With effort she turned her head, looked across a wide bed. There
were tall posts at each corner, and they provided support for what
appeared to be living vines. Cream-colored flowers, touched with
rose at petal tip, hung among those vines. And beyond the embowered
bed was the wall of a room, its surface covered also with pictures
that had the glint of inset metal here and there.
Ziantha pushed herself up with her hands to brace behind her.
This strange room was not the villa. Where then was she,
and how had she come here? Her thoughts were sluggish as she strove
to remember the immediate past. Then, as if some barrier in her
mind gave way suddenly, it all rushed in.
Turan—Vintra—the tomb—their escape. This must be
the palace in Singakok to which they had come. And
Turan—where was Turan?
She looked about her wildly, needing at that moment the
reassurance that she was not trapped here in the past alone. But
there was no sign of any other in the chamber. More than a little
lightheaded, the girl worked her way to the edge of the bed, slid
her feet over to the floor, and tried to stand. The room seemed to
dip and sway and she had to hold on to the bed, creeping down to
one of those leaf-covered posts and then hang on for support.
On the wall now facing her was a wide mirror and in that was the
reflection of—not Ziantha—but Vintra! For a moment or
two the shock of being confronted by a stranger was so great that
she would not look, study, learn this new self. And then her need
for control, for reasserting her will, dominated, and she made
herself give that other a searching survey.
She saw a slender body hardly veiled by a transparent robe of
pale rose to match the petal tips of the flower so near her cheek.
No, it was more than slender, that body, it was gaunt. She was
heavily browned on the arms to the shoulder, legs to the thigh,
face and throat, the rest being a yellowish tint, as if some
portions of her had been long exposed to sun and air. Her thick
hair was in stringy wisps reaching well below her shoulders, not
light, but a strange pale blue. And she believed that was natural,
not some exotic tinting.
The eyes gazing back at her were bordered in lashes of a darker
blue, just as the brows above them were, to her Ziantha memory, of
that unnatural shade. For the rest, her face as well as her body
were humanoid in contour, though both her forearms and lower legs
had a very noticeable down or fluff of blue hair, much lighter
against the brown skin.
So this was Vintra—Vintra of the rebels, Chieftainess of
the Foewomen of Kark, memory supplied that. But she must not allow
that alien personality too much freedom. No, she must be Ziantha,
or else there was no future for her.
The crown—the focus-stone! She looked about her. Where was
that key, the only one which would—or could—open the
way back? Her sharp anxiety gave her strength. She was able to
loose her hold, move around the room in search. Table backed by
another mirror, holding various small pots, a comb ready for
service, two chests— She was struggling to lift the lid of
the nearest when a sound brought her attention elsewhere.
One section of that painted wall had disappeared and in the
opening stood another woman. Vintra’s memory supplied a
name.
Zuha M’Turan.
She held herself with the arrogant assurance of one who from
birth had given orders that had never been questioned. But her face
now, under its heavy mask of paint, silvery overlay, was without
expression, schooled to remoteness.
Her overrobe was as filmy as Ziantha’s present covering
and gave only an illusion of cloud over the inner and much shorter
tunic. And her dark blue hair was piled into an elaborate coiffure
held with pins from which fine wires supported small wide-winged
insects of gauzelike filigree constantly in motion. About her waist
was a belt from which depended small chiming bells and more
encircled the tops of those tight-fitting silver boots showing
through the folds of her upper robe.
She did not speak as she crossed the threshold. Behind her the
door slipped shut; they were alone.
Ziantha was wary. Though she had not tried mind-seek, she could
sense that danger had entered with the High Consort. Where was
Turan? Had that body failed her companion? Would he now be returned
to the tomb, she with him? But she was not Vintra to be easily
handled—she had a defense and weapon in her own mind that she
would use to the utmost.
She must learn what had happened to Turan. Delicately, as she
might have made the first attempt to pierce the structure of an
explosive that could detonate in her face, she used mind-seek.
The alien wave pattern defeated any open reading. But that this
woman hated her, and that there was fear with that hatred, yes,
that could be read. Turan—Ziantha tried to bring some feeling
for him to Zuha’s mind.
The thought of Turan brought an explosion—seething hatred!
With it, a fear near panic. Zuha had both. What she felt for Vintra
was as nothing compared to the emotions which ravaged her now,
although her outer façade gave no sign of that storm
within.
But Ziantha had gained a little. Turan was alive—and this
woman feared that. She had wanted, had believed, her consort
dead—and he lived. Not only lived, but she believed him now
an ever-present threat whom she must find a way to finish.
“Sorceress!” Zuha flung that single word as she
might have used a flamer to char Ziantha. “You will not gain
from this shadow-trickery you have wrought! Be sure that I will see
to that!”
“I have wrought no trickery. There was the choice of Vut,
the door given every man. If by Vut’s will one comes through
it, back to life, how can the right or will of that be
questioned?” Vintra’s knowledge, to draw upon at her
time of need. Ancient beliefs these, long given only lip service by
the sophisticated nobles.
Vut’s priests taught of possible resurrection through the
spirit door, which could only be opened from within the sealed
tomb. Fabled miracles, legendary accounts of such returns kept Vut
as a power. His priests now would sustain Turan in his return for
the very reason that his appearance was a bolster to belief.
“Turan is dead. What outland sorcery do you use to make
him move and follow your will? You shall tell me and he
shall—”
But before the fury which burned her totally overcame all
caution, Zuha was silent. It was plain that she refused to accept
any thought of a miracle. Perhaps her questions might bring about
discovery. Though the alien had no vestige of talent, Ziantha was
certain of that—unless it existed on another range of
mind-wave entirely.
“Turan is not dead. Have you not the evidence of your own
eyes?” She must tread very warily. Zuha, the girl believed,
was near to that pitch of mingled fear and rage that might lead to
some hasty attack.
“The evidence of my eyes, say you? Yes, and the evidence
of the mouthing priests also. Whether they think sorcery or not,
they will not say it, lest Vut lose the advantage of this. But
Turan was dead, now he lives—or his body walks—”
Her hand moved in that same design the armsman had used.
“This is not Turan.” This last sentence was delivered
with an emphasis that made it a declaration of war.
“And if it is not Turan,” the girl countered,
“who then is he?”
“Rather what is he, sorceress? What have you
called from the Cold Depths to bring you out of Turan’s tomb?
Be sure that we shall learn, and in that learning you will have no
profit. The death with Turan shall be as nothing compared to the
end your dabbling in shadow lore shall bring upon you.”
“So it is sorcery, my High One, my First Companion, which
brings me back to you?”
Ziantha had been so intent upon their confrontation, as
apparently had Zuha, that his entrance had gone unmarked. For it
was Turan who stood there, his gaunt face seamed with the wound of
his last battle. In this full light he was no pleasant sight, for
his skin was a pallid gray, and only his eyes were alive. That this
body still served its inmate was a wonder to Ziantha.
“You speak of sorcery,” he moved closer when Zuha
did not answer, “but you do not speak of the infinite mercy
of Vut, not even when your many prayers to him for my well-being
have been so mightily answered. Why this change in you, my dear
companion, my High Consort? Have you not told me many times that my
death would mean your death also—that you would revive the
ancient and highest custom of our people and joyfully follow me
through the dark way if Vut chose that I should walk first? But who
shared my tomb? Not you, for all those loving vows. Rather did you
send with me one who was my battle enemy, who would carry with her
no love to ease my path, only hate to draw upon me the shadow
wraiths and evils. So did your promises come to little in the final
hour of farewell. Is that not so, Zuha of the sweet tongue—of
the many lies?”
As he advanced, she shrank back from him. And now under that
masking of overlay her mouth worked, her features showed emotion at
last. A portion of her mask loosened and fell from her skin as her
lips twisted and tightened as if to hold within her some shriek of
fear. Back she went before his slow steady talk.
“No! Do not come nigh me, dead man! Back! Get you back to
the Cold Depths, from which you crawled, from which that sorceress
drew you!”
“From the Cold Depths? Was that what you wished upon me,
Zuha? Ill wishing, was it not? Perhaps it was your underdealing
that brought me back; perhaps Vut would not be mocked by empty
words and so gave me life to serve his purpose. That would be
fitting—”
Her back was against the wall now. She flung out her other hand,
felt along that surface. Then the hidden door opened and she fell
rather than moved through it, scrambling back and away as it closed
again, leaving Ziantha and him together.
“Guilt gives birth to fear,” he commented, as if to
himself. “How deep her hatred must lie. I wonder in what it
is rooted.”
“Turan”—Ziantha demanded his
attention—“what have you learned?”
“A little in the time they left me free. It has taken much
contriving on my part to keep out of the priests’ hands. They
would have me among them for examination, since a miracle is so
much to their advantage. So far I have held them off. And I have
discovered that, in spite of the intrigues within this palace,
Turan also has some faithful followers. It was from one of those
that I gained what knowledge I have of this.” He put his hand
within the breast of his tunic and brought out the focus-stone.
“Before the outbreak of the rebellion, Turan made a voyage
in the southern sea with the fishers of the giant croob-crabs.
There a tumult of nature struck without warning, hitting the fleet,
no natural storm. From the description I was given it might have
been the result of an underseas eruption, followed by a tidal wave.
At any rate they found themselves luckily still afloat
thereafter—but only just, for the power of their ship was far
reduced. The ocean was much roiled, and dead things from the depths
floated on the surface.
“Soon after, they sighted land where no land existed on
their charts—an outcropping of rock encrusted with marine
life, showing it had until lately been long underwater. At
Turan’s urging the captain sent a small boat ashore on this
new-risen coast, and they made two finds. One where there had been
a raw break in a ledge disclosing therein a piece of wall not
formed by nature.
“Turan would have had them labor to uncover more, but there
came two aftershocks which shook the island. And the captain feared
for the ship and wanted to be out of such dangerous proximity to a
land mass they thought might sink again. They were on their way
back to their ship’s boat in some haste when Turan became
separated from the rest.
“He did not join them at once, and the captain at last
shouted to him to come or else be left behind. When he arrived he
did not say what had detained him, only his clothing bore marks as
if he had been lifting rocks covered with sea slime. And he said he
had sighted what appeared to be an inscribed rock. But it was plain
he was highly excited, and he tried to bring pressure on the
captain to anchor nearby, to send in another party in the morning.
However there was the threat of a storm, and the captain would not
agree.
“Storm came rightly enough, driving them far off course,
exhausting their power unit so that they had to put into one of the
small ports as soon as possible. And though Turan talked now and
again of returning to this risen land, the rebellion broke shortly
after his return.”
“What relation has this to the focus-stone?” Ziantha
asked.
“These people do not use sensitives as we know them. But
they have certain girls kept in the House of Vut who can go into
trances and then answer questions the priests set to them.
Apparently their talent is very limited and quickly exhausted,
rendering each girl incapable after one or two sessions. Thus the
power is the monopoly of the priests, well guarded, used only in
times of stress.
“Turan exerted his influence with a priest of the Third
Rank who had access to these girls. He produced this gem and asked
for its history. Whatever the priest told him was unsettling, for
he straightway had it set (he had hitherto carried it on his
person) into the crown made for the High Consort to wear to her
future entombing. There it remained until Zuha ordered it set on
your head when she would have you play the role set for her during
her many earlier protestations of loyalty and love for her
husband.”
“And this follower of Turan told you all this? Did he not
suspect when you questioned him concerning a matter you should have
already known well?”
Turan’s set lips moved in a counterfeit of a smile so
ghastly Ziantha looked away in a hurry.
“I saw that he recognized the stone and was astounded to
see me handling it. The rest I picked from his memory bit by bit,
only he did not know that. In this world a sensitive has that
advantage. But that this was found on that island, I believe. Only
whether that island still exists—that is another matter. And
if the twin stone lies anywhere, that island would be the first
place to look.”
“If you have any charts as a guide we might make
sure.” Ziantha remembered her success with the star
charts.
“Those are what I—we—must locate and speedily.
As I say, I cannot much longer spar with the priests and keep out
of their Tower of Vut. And even if their sensitives are of the
lowest grade they might discover the Turan who returned is not what
they believe. Then Zuha could well raise the cry of sorcery against
us both and gain her wish to see the last of her Lord Commander
forever. We have very little time—”
She looked at him and nodded. Vintra’s body served her
well, and to look in the mirror reassured her that she was alive.
But, Turan, with those deep-closed wounds, that gray face—he
was suspect, and she marveled he had managed so well this long.
“These,” the message flashed to
her, “do not have the talent, nor, it seems, any knowledge of
it.”
That her companion had dared to probe those with them made
Ziantha anxious. It would seem that care was better than audacity
now. Yet what he had learned made them free to use mind-touch.
“Can you then read their minds?” she asked.
“Not to any extent—emotions rather. They have a
different wave pattern. These are disturbed as would be entirely
natural. The armsmen accept our appearance as a miracle of return,
are in awe. The officer—” He checked, and when he did
not continue, Ziantha prompted him:
“What of the officer?”
“I see someone, not clearly—someone to whom he feels
he must report this as soon as he can. There is a
shadow—” Again his thought trailed off.
Ziantha unleashed her own mind-seek, aimed now not at
maintaining communication with her companion, but probing the
emotions of those about her. Yes, she could understand
Turan’s bafflement. It was like trying to keep in steady
focus a picture that blurred and changed whenever she strove to
distinguish it in detail. But she recognized a woman. And that
which was of Vintra awoke with a stormy memory.
Zuha M’Turan!
“The one to whom he would report,” she relayed,
“is the Lady of Turan. I think, Commander, that
you—we—go now into a snarl of matters formerly a danger
to him whose body you wear. It cannot be clearly read—but
there is danger ahead.”
“Which we knew from the first,” he replied calmly.
“So I am to beware, Lady? It would not be the first time that
intrigue brought down a man, intrigue from those whose loyalty he
had a right to expect was fully his. Now—we must try to delay
any report. Can you bend his will, work upon it? I can sense
something of his thoughts but not with the clarity I need for such
influencing.”
“I can try. But it is very difficult to keep in
touch—this wavering—”
Ziantha centered her energy fully upon the problem. Though she
knew well the theory of such suggestion, had worked it by
Ogan’s orders, she had done it surrounded by devices to
monitor and restrain. To have used it anywhere outside those villa
walls on Korwar would have alerted detects instantly. For such
interference by a sensitive was so illegal that it would lead to
brain-erase if one were caught practicing it. And the force so used
was easily traced.
Delicately she probed, caught the picture of Zuha M’Turan.
Drawing on Vintra’s memory she built it firmly in her mind.
And she felt her companion reach and touch that picture.
Bit by bit she achieved the affect she wanted to feed to the
alien: that Zuha M’Turan already knew of this night’s
work, that it was part of a deep-laid plan not to be revealed yet,
that chance had brought the officer into it, but that his superiors
would be grateful in the future if he did nothing to disrupt
it.
“Excellent!” Turan’s accolade gave her
confidence. “Now—feed it to him, and I shall back
you.”
As if she repeated a lesson learned by rote, Ziantha focused now
on the mind of the man sitting on the other side of Turan,
thrusting her image of Zuha and the message with all the vigor she
could muster, feeling the backup force of the other. Twice she was
certain she made clear contact, shared mind with the alien. Then,
spent, after all this night had demanded of her, she could no
longer fight.
Weariness swept in, a sea wave washing out all her strength of
mind and will. As it ebbed she was left dull, uncaring, aware only
of emptiness. Whether she had succeeded in what Turan had wanted of
her she had no way of knowing.
They were into the streets of Singakok now. She was aware of
lights through the curtain of rain, of people on the move. Vintra
was pushing out of confinement within her; the old hates and fears
which were a part of her double past surged up. And Ziantha was
hard put to retain her own identity. Now she was Vintra, now
Ziantha—and she was too tired to hold much longer.
The vehicle turned into a quieter side avenue where the
buildings were farther apart, each separated by walls. This was the
Way of the Lords—Turan’s palace lay not too far
ahead.
The ground car stopped at a gate; guards stepped out to flash a
light into the shadowed interior. There was a gasp as that beam
caught Turan.
“Admit us!” His voice was impatient as if the
momentary halt had been an added irritation.
“Lord Commander—” the voice behind that beam
of light was that of a badly shaken man.
“Am I to be kept waiting at my own door?” demanded
Turan. “Open the gates!”
The guard jumped back, and the gate swung open. They drove
between walls of dark vegetation, where rain-heavy foliage cut off
any view beyond the borders. Then the car was through that tunnel
and out before a sweep of steps leading to the imposing portal of
the building.
Ziantha stumbled as she got out; her fatigue was such that those
steps before her seemed insurmountable. But Turan was at her side,
his hand slipped under her arm, urging and supporting her. One of
the armsmen hurried ahead to make a rattle of noise at the
door.
That opened slowly just as they came to it. Light swept
forth.
“Who comes to disturb the High Consort of the House of
Turan? This is the day of third mourning—”
The man who began that indignant demand was now staring
open-mouthed at Turan.
“Would you keep us out in this storm, Daxter? In my own
door am I to be challenged?” Evidently Ziantha’s
companion would play his role boldly. Whether or not his boldness
was a good defense, who could judge at the present moment?
The doorman retreated, staring. His face was visibly paler as he
raised a hand, making a sign as if to ward off some supernatural
danger.
“Lord Commander Turan!”
“Yes, Turan.” He looked on into the hall. “The
third day of mourning is over. Let the household be made aware of
that.”
“Lord Commander,” Daxter retreated yet farther.
“You—you are—”
“Dead? But, no, Daxter, I am not. Do dead men walk, talk,
seek out their homes, their kin? And where is the High Consort? Let
it be made known to her that there is no need for
mourning.”
“Yes. Lord Commander—”
“And see that this officer, these armsmen, be given the
hospitality of the House. They have brought us through a wild
night.” He slipped off the weather coat and turned to the
armsman to whom it belonged.
“Battle comrade, you named yourself; you now have the
right to be comrade-in-arms with me. For I have come from a greater
trial than any war, a fiercer battle than you can guess.”
The man brought his hand up before his face, palm out, in
salute. “Lord Commander, the honor of being ready to your
service is mine. Be sure that when you call, I shall
answer!”
To Ziantha the whole scene was like a tri-dee play, seen when
one was half asleep and not too greatly interested in the story. If
she could not relax soon, find some energy restorative, she would
collapse.
“To my chambers now.” Turan was giving more orders.
“And you will bring food, wine. We have a long hunger and
thirst, Daxter.”
Ziantha knew they were climbing stairs, or rather, Turan was
pulling her up step by step. But the rest was a haze until she was
lying down and Turan was forcing between her lips a narrow spout
from which came a hot, spicy liquid. Half choking, she swallowed
again and again. It warmed her chilled body but also added to her
lassitude. She could keep her eyes open no longer; her body was one
long ache.
She was warm—too warm. Slowly she opened her eyes. Above
her was a ceiling riotous in color, and, as her eyes focused, that
color fitted itself within outlines of forms. But she had never
seen those before. Those strange animals—if animals they
were—or were they plants? This could not be her room in the
villa. It was—
With effort she turned her head, looked across a wide bed. There
were tall posts at each corner, and they provided support for what
appeared to be living vines. Cream-colored flowers, touched with
rose at petal tip, hung among those vines. And beyond the embowered
bed was the wall of a room, its surface covered also with pictures
that had the glint of inset metal here and there.
Ziantha pushed herself up with her hands to brace behind her.
This strange room was not the villa. Where then was she,
and how had she come here? Her thoughts were sluggish as she strove
to remember the immediate past. Then, as if some barrier in her
mind gave way suddenly, it all rushed in.
Turan—Vintra—the tomb—their escape. This must be
the palace in Singakok to which they had come. And
Turan—where was Turan?
She looked about her wildly, needing at that moment the
reassurance that she was not trapped here in the past alone. But
there was no sign of any other in the chamber. More than a little
lightheaded, the girl worked her way to the edge of the bed, slid
her feet over to the floor, and tried to stand. The room seemed to
dip and sway and she had to hold on to the bed, creeping down to
one of those leaf-covered posts and then hang on for support.
On the wall now facing her was a wide mirror and in that was the
reflection of—not Ziantha—but Vintra! For a moment or
two the shock of being confronted by a stranger was so great that
she would not look, study, learn this new self. And then her need
for control, for reasserting her will, dominated, and she made
herself give that other a searching survey.
She saw a slender body hardly veiled by a transparent robe of
pale rose to match the petal tips of the flower so near her cheek.
No, it was more than slender, that body, it was gaunt. She was
heavily browned on the arms to the shoulder, legs to the thigh,
face and throat, the rest being a yellowish tint, as if some
portions of her had been long exposed to sun and air. Her thick
hair was in stringy wisps reaching well below her shoulders, not
light, but a strange pale blue. And she believed that was natural,
not some exotic tinting.
The eyes gazing back at her were bordered in lashes of a darker
blue, just as the brows above them were, to her Ziantha memory, of
that unnatural shade. For the rest, her face as well as her body
were humanoid in contour, though both her forearms and lower legs
had a very noticeable down or fluff of blue hair, much lighter
against the brown skin.
So this was Vintra—Vintra of the rebels, Chieftainess of
the Foewomen of Kark, memory supplied that. But she must not allow
that alien personality too much freedom. No, she must be Ziantha,
or else there was no future for her.
The crown—the focus-stone! She looked about her. Where was
that key, the only one which would—or could—open the
way back? Her sharp anxiety gave her strength. She was able to
loose her hold, move around the room in search. Table backed by
another mirror, holding various small pots, a comb ready for
service, two chests— She was struggling to lift the lid of
the nearest when a sound brought her attention elsewhere.
One section of that painted wall had disappeared and in the
opening stood another woman. Vintra’s memory supplied a
name.
Zuha M’Turan.
She held herself with the arrogant assurance of one who from
birth had given orders that had never been questioned. But her face
now, under its heavy mask of paint, silvery overlay, was without
expression, schooled to remoteness.
Her overrobe was as filmy as Ziantha’s present covering
and gave only an illusion of cloud over the inner and much shorter
tunic. And her dark blue hair was piled into an elaborate coiffure
held with pins from which fine wires supported small wide-winged
insects of gauzelike filigree constantly in motion. About her waist
was a belt from which depended small chiming bells and more
encircled the tops of those tight-fitting silver boots showing
through the folds of her upper robe.
She did not speak as she crossed the threshold. Behind her the
door slipped shut; they were alone.
Ziantha was wary. Though she had not tried mind-seek, she could
sense that danger had entered with the High Consort. Where was
Turan? Had that body failed her companion? Would he now be returned
to the tomb, she with him? But she was not Vintra to be easily
handled—she had a defense and weapon in her own mind that she
would use to the utmost.
She must learn what had happened to Turan. Delicately, as she
might have made the first attempt to pierce the structure of an
explosive that could detonate in her face, she used mind-seek.
The alien wave pattern defeated any open reading. But that this
woman hated her, and that there was fear with that hatred, yes,
that could be read. Turan—Ziantha tried to bring some feeling
for him to Zuha’s mind.
The thought of Turan brought an explosion—seething hatred!
With it, a fear near panic. Zuha had both. What she felt for Vintra
was as nothing compared to the emotions which ravaged her now,
although her outer façade gave no sign of that storm
within.
But Ziantha had gained a little. Turan was alive—and this
woman feared that. She had wanted, had believed, her consort
dead—and he lived. Not only lived, but she believed him now
an ever-present threat whom she must find a way to finish.
“Sorceress!” Zuha flung that single word as she
might have used a flamer to char Ziantha. “You will not gain
from this shadow-trickery you have wrought! Be sure that I will see
to that!”
“I have wrought no trickery. There was the choice of Vut,
the door given every man. If by Vut’s will one comes through
it, back to life, how can the right or will of that be
questioned?” Vintra’s knowledge, to draw upon at her
time of need. Ancient beliefs these, long given only lip service by
the sophisticated nobles.
Vut’s priests taught of possible resurrection through the
spirit door, which could only be opened from within the sealed
tomb. Fabled miracles, legendary accounts of such returns kept Vut
as a power. His priests now would sustain Turan in his return for
the very reason that his appearance was a bolster to belief.
“Turan is dead. What outland sorcery do you use to make
him move and follow your will? You shall tell me and he
shall—”
But before the fury which burned her totally overcame all
caution, Zuha was silent. It was plain that she refused to accept
any thought of a miracle. Perhaps her questions might bring about
discovery. Though the alien had no vestige of talent, Ziantha was
certain of that—unless it existed on another range of
mind-wave entirely.
“Turan is not dead. Have you not the evidence of your own
eyes?” She must tread very warily. Zuha, the girl believed,
was near to that pitch of mingled fear and rage that might lead to
some hasty attack.
“The evidence of my eyes, say you? Yes, and the evidence
of the mouthing priests also. Whether they think sorcery or not,
they will not say it, lest Vut lose the advantage of this. But
Turan was dead, now he lives—or his body walks—”
Her hand moved in that same design the armsman had used.
“This is not Turan.” This last sentence was delivered
with an emphasis that made it a declaration of war.
“And if it is not Turan,” the girl countered,
“who then is he?”
“Rather what is he, sorceress? What have you
called from the Cold Depths to bring you out of Turan’s tomb?
Be sure that we shall learn, and in that learning you will have no
profit. The death with Turan shall be as nothing compared to the
end your dabbling in shadow lore shall bring upon you.”
“So it is sorcery, my High One, my First Companion, which
brings me back to you?”
Ziantha had been so intent upon their confrontation, as
apparently had Zuha, that his entrance had gone unmarked. For it
was Turan who stood there, his gaunt face seamed with the wound of
his last battle. In this full light he was no pleasant sight, for
his skin was a pallid gray, and only his eyes were alive. That this
body still served its inmate was a wonder to Ziantha.
“You speak of sorcery,” he moved closer when Zuha
did not answer, “but you do not speak of the infinite mercy
of Vut, not even when your many prayers to him for my well-being
have been so mightily answered. Why this change in you, my dear
companion, my High Consort? Have you not told me many times that my
death would mean your death also—that you would revive the
ancient and highest custom of our people and joyfully follow me
through the dark way if Vut chose that I should walk first? But who
shared my tomb? Not you, for all those loving vows. Rather did you
send with me one who was my battle enemy, who would carry with her
no love to ease my path, only hate to draw upon me the shadow
wraiths and evils. So did your promises come to little in the final
hour of farewell. Is that not so, Zuha of the sweet tongue—of
the many lies?”
As he advanced, she shrank back from him. And now under that
masking of overlay her mouth worked, her features showed emotion at
last. A portion of her mask loosened and fell from her skin as her
lips twisted and tightened as if to hold within her some shriek of
fear. Back she went before his slow steady talk.
“No! Do not come nigh me, dead man! Back! Get you back to
the Cold Depths, from which you crawled, from which that sorceress
drew you!”
“From the Cold Depths? Was that what you wished upon me,
Zuha? Ill wishing, was it not? Perhaps it was your underdealing
that brought me back; perhaps Vut would not be mocked by empty
words and so gave me life to serve his purpose. That would be
fitting—”
Her back was against the wall now. She flung out her other hand,
felt along that surface. Then the hidden door opened and she fell
rather than moved through it, scrambling back and away as it closed
again, leaving Ziantha and him together.
“Guilt gives birth to fear,” he commented, as if to
himself. “How deep her hatred must lie. I wonder in what it
is rooted.”
“Turan”—Ziantha demanded his
attention—“what have you learned?”
“A little in the time they left me free. It has taken much
contriving on my part to keep out of the priests’ hands. They
would have me among them for examination, since a miracle is so
much to their advantage. So far I have held them off. And I have
discovered that, in spite of the intrigues within this palace,
Turan also has some faithful followers. It was from one of those
that I gained what knowledge I have of this.” He put his hand
within the breast of his tunic and brought out the focus-stone.
“Before the outbreak of the rebellion, Turan made a voyage
in the southern sea with the fishers of the giant croob-crabs.
There a tumult of nature struck without warning, hitting the fleet,
no natural storm. From the description I was given it might have
been the result of an underseas eruption, followed by a tidal wave.
At any rate they found themselves luckily still afloat
thereafter—but only just, for the power of their ship was far
reduced. The ocean was much roiled, and dead things from the depths
floated on the surface.
“Soon after, they sighted land where no land existed on
their charts—an outcropping of rock encrusted with marine
life, showing it had until lately been long underwater. At
Turan’s urging the captain sent a small boat ashore on this
new-risen coast, and they made two finds. One where there had been
a raw break in a ledge disclosing therein a piece of wall not
formed by nature.
“Turan would have had them labor to uncover more, but there
came two aftershocks which shook the island. And the captain feared
for the ship and wanted to be out of such dangerous proximity to a
land mass they thought might sink again. They were on their way
back to their ship’s boat in some haste when Turan became
separated from the rest.
“He did not join them at once, and the captain at last
shouted to him to come or else be left behind. When he arrived he
did not say what had detained him, only his clothing bore marks as
if he had been lifting rocks covered with sea slime. And he said he
had sighted what appeared to be an inscribed rock. But it was plain
he was highly excited, and he tried to bring pressure on the
captain to anchor nearby, to send in another party in the morning.
However there was the threat of a storm, and the captain would not
agree.
“Storm came rightly enough, driving them far off course,
exhausting their power unit so that they had to put into one of the
small ports as soon as possible. And though Turan talked now and
again of returning to this risen land, the rebellion broke shortly
after his return.”
“What relation has this to the focus-stone?” Ziantha
asked.
“These people do not use sensitives as we know them. But
they have certain girls kept in the House of Vut who can go into
trances and then answer questions the priests set to them.
Apparently their talent is very limited and quickly exhausted,
rendering each girl incapable after one or two sessions. Thus the
power is the monopoly of the priests, well guarded, used only in
times of stress.
“Turan exerted his influence with a priest of the Third
Rank who had access to these girls. He produced this gem and asked
for its history. Whatever the priest told him was unsettling, for
he straightway had it set (he had hitherto carried it on his
person) into the crown made for the High Consort to wear to her
future entombing. There it remained until Zuha ordered it set on
your head when she would have you play the role set for her during
her many earlier protestations of loyalty and love for her
husband.”
“And this follower of Turan told you all this? Did he not
suspect when you questioned him concerning a matter you should have
already known well?”
Turan’s set lips moved in a counterfeit of a smile so
ghastly Ziantha looked away in a hurry.
“I saw that he recognized the stone and was astounded to
see me handling it. The rest I picked from his memory bit by bit,
only he did not know that. In this world a sensitive has that
advantage. But that this was found on that island, I believe. Only
whether that island still exists—that is another matter. And
if the twin stone lies anywhere, that island would be the first
place to look.”
“If you have any charts as a guide we might make
sure.” Ziantha remembered her success with the star
charts.
“Those are what I—we—must locate and speedily.
As I say, I cannot much longer spar with the priests and keep out
of their Tower of Vut. And even if their sensitives are of the
lowest grade they might discover the Turan who returned is not what
they believe. Then Zuha could well raise the cry of sorcery against
us both and gain her wish to see the last of her Lord Commander
forever. We have very little time—”
She looked at him and nodded. Vintra’s body served her
well, and to look in the mirror reassured her that she was alive.
But, Turan, with those deep-closed wounds, that gray face—he
was suspect, and she marveled he had managed so well this long.