The need for haste was so great it was as if
someone trotted on their heels, urging them in whispers to
run—run. She had found an undertunic, such as Zuha wore, in
one of the chests and bundled over it a longer, semitransparent
robe. She now caught that up in both hands to free her feet as they
sped along a corridor that Turan said linked the women’s
quarters with his own.
Though once or twice they heard the sound of conversation or
movement in rooms they passed, no one came into the hall. And, as
far as mind-touch reported, they passed unseen. She could hardly
believe fortune was favoring them so much.
If any record of Turan’s voyage existed, that might be
found among his private accounts. But to seek blindly was to waste
their precious time. It would require both their talents, one to
keep sentry, the other to sift out knowledge, as she had in
Jucundus’s apartment.
It was difficult to remember now that she was not only on an
alien world, but in a time so far lost to her own that this city,
these people were not even legends. Ziantha felt no wonder, only
the driving need to escape, to find again her own place, dangerous
though it might be. For those dangers were familiar, and now they
seemed, by comparison, not to be perils at all, but a well-settled
pattern of life. It is the unknown that always carries with it the
darkest fear.
“Here—” Turan was at a door, waved her to
him.
“Records?” She looked around her for something
familiar. Even if it might be the very ancient scrolls of actual
writing she had seen in a museum.
“For secrecy perhaps, or even because of custom they were
kept thus.”
He had gone to a cabinet and now brought forth bunches of short
cords, knotted together at one end, the rest flapping free. Along
each of these many lengths were spaced beads of different shapes
and colors. Ziantha stared. To her these made no sense.
Records—kept by beads knotted at irregular intervals on bits
of cord? That was a device she had never heard of. She looked to
Turan, unable to believe that he meant what he said.
As he ran his fingers along the cords, he paused to touch a bead
here and there.
“A memorization device. In our time this would be used by
a very primitive tribe that had not yet mastered the art of writing
in symbols. Yet it can be a personal code, locked for all time.
Apparently very secret records are kept here in this fashion. Each
type of bead, each knotting, whether it be a finger width less or
more from the next, has a meaning. The keeper of such can sit in
the dark and ‘read’ these by running them through his
fingers.”
“If they are Turan’s, then you should be
able—”
He shook his head wearily. “I have only very fleeting
touch with Turan’s memories, and those grow less and less.
I—I dare not use too much of my power; it is needed to
control this body.”
So he was admitting that he was having trouble with the Turan
shell? Ziantha put out a hand, stirred the mass of cords. If they
were in code, a code known only to him who had devised them, it
would require intense concentration to gain anything from them.
Compared to this, dealing with the sealed tapes in Korwar was
play for a beginner. For the tapes had been clearly inscribed by
one of her own species. An alien code, devised by an alien—
Well, since this key was the only one offered them she must
try.
“You hold watch then?”
At his nod, she took up the nearest assortment of cords. They
were silken soft, and the beads glinted blue, white, and vivid
orange-scarlet. She slipped the packet back and forth through her
fingers.
Emotion—hate—a vicious and deadly hate, as sharp and
imperiling in its intent to threaten her reading as if the cords
had taken on serpentine life and struck at her. With a little cry,
she threw the bunch from her.
“What is it?”
Ziantha did not answer. Instead she held her hand palm down over
the whole collection. Not quite touching, but in her mind seeking
what source had broadcast that blast that had met her first
probe.
“These—these have been recently handled, by some one
who was so filled with hate and anger that emotion blankets all.
Unless I can break that I can do nothing.”
He lowered himself wearily onto a bench, leaned his head back
against the wall, his eyes closed. And without the life of his
eyes—Ziantha shuddered, would not look at him. It was as if a
dead man rested there. How long could he continue to hold Turan in
this pseudo-life?
“Who is responsible? Can you learn that?”
She took up again the first collection. Strong emotion could fog
any reception of impressions, and she was already handicapped by
trying to read alien minds. She wadded the beads and cords into a
packet, held that to her forehead, trying to blot out all else but
the picture she must have.
Zuha—yes, there was no mistaking the High Consort. But
there was another influence. The girl tried for a name, some
identification which perhaps Turan could recognize in turn.
Zuha’s hate, her frustration—those were so strong a
wave that they were as blows against her, yet she probed.
“Zuha,” she reported. “But there is another,
some one behind Zuha. They came here seeking knowledge they did not
discover. Zuha was very angry; she needed something she wanted
desperately to find here. She—I think that she took some of
these with her—the ones she believed important.”
“If we can find no chart
soon . . . ” His
thought trailed away.
Time—she could not defeat time. Ziantha tossed the cord
bundle back with the others. Had she hours, perhaps days, she could
sort through these. There must be another way, for she did not have
those hours or days. She need only glance at Turan to know
that.
An island risen from the sea, and on it somewhere a twin to the
stone, an equal focus piece. Their piece tied to it, and they,
apparently, tied to the first. If they could not release those
ties, Turan would die again, and so would she—at the hands of
Zuha—and no pleasant death.
One could believe that some essence of personality survived the
ending of the body. Those with the talent were sure of that. But
inbred in their varied species was so firm a barrier against their
body’s dismissal that they could not face what man called
“death” without that safety device of struggle for
existence taking over control. She would not accept the fact that
she, Ziantha, was going to come to an end in this world which was
not hers, any more than she believed that her companion could
likewise surrender.
An island from the sea, and a stone found there— The girl
strode back and forth, thinking furiously, before the bench on
which Turan had half collapsed. There was one way, but she could
not do it here. Not in the midst of enemies when at any moment
those who had no reason to wish either of them life could come in
upon them. But where?
Ziantha paused, looked around, tried to be objective. She had
Vintra’s memories to call upon and she did that recklessly.
These people had aircraft. There was a landing port outside the
city where such were kept. If Turan could pilot one—if they
could first reach that landing port—commandeer one of the
craft— Too many ifs, too many things that might stand
between. But it was her—perhaps their—only hope.
She dropped down beside Turan, took his cold hand to hold
between her two warmer ones, willing strength back into him. He
opened his eyes, turned his head toward her.
Again that ghastly smile came. “I endure,” he said,
as if he not only meant to reassure her, but himself. “You
have thought of something—what? I would think clearer but I
must hold on, and at times that takes all my power.”
“I know. Yes, I have thought of something. It may be far
beyond what can be done, but it is all I have to offer. When I go
into deep trance I must be in a safe place—”
His eyes were very intent. “You would try that, knowing
what may come of it?”
“I can see no other way.” She wanted him with
desperate longing to deny that, to say there was another way, that
she need not risk again the baleful influence of the stone that had
already cost them so much. But he did not. Though he still regarded
her closely, his mind-shield was up, and she believed he was
testing her plan for feasibility.
“It is a way—” he said slowly. “But you
are right, we must have privacy and safety before you try it. I do
not believe we shall find either here. Turan’s memories are
so little open to me that I do not know what intrigues may be in
progress. But they threaten from his own household. It is certainly
not the first time a noble family came to an end by being torn
apart from within. And where shall we find safety? Have you a plan
for that also?”
“A weak one.” She again wanted him to refuse, to
prove her wrong. “These people have air transport. If we
could get one—they are not too unlike our own flitters, I
think—we might reach the sea. Find some safe place on the
shore to give me time for deep trance—”
“It seems—” he was beginning when Ziantha
whirled to face one of the mural-concealed doors in the wall.
The noise, a faint scratching, made her look about for something
to use as a weapon. She was reaching for a tall vase on a nearby
table when Turan pulled himself from the bench, walked with a slow,
heavy tread to release the portal.
A man squeezed through a crack hardly wide enough to admit his
stocky body and shut that opening at once behind him. The hair on
his head was streaked with light patches, and his face was seamed
with two noticeable scars.
“Lord Commander, thank Vut you are here!” He looked
beyond Turan to Ziantha. “Also the outland witch with
you.”
“There is trouble, Wamage?”
The man nodded vigorously. “More than trouble, Lord
Commander; there may be black disaster. She”—into that
single pronoun he put such a hiss that he spat the word in anger
and disgust—“she has sent to the priests. They are to
take you and”—he pointed with his thumb to
Ziantha—“this one to the Tower of Vut, that the miracle
may be made manifest to all on the Tenth Feast Day. But they do not
intend that you shall ever reach sanctuary. Behind all is Puvult,
Lord Commander! Yes, you exiled him half a year gone, but there
have been rumors he returned while you hunted the rebels northward.
Since—since you were tomb-laid, he is seen openly. And
secretly within these very walls!”
“The High Consort then welcomed him?” Turan
asked.
“Lord Commander, it has long been said that she favors the
younger branch of your House over the elder.” Wamage did not
quite meet Turan’s eyes. It was as if he had news to give,
but feared to offend.
“And with me tomb-laid then Puvult comes into
headship?” If Turan meant that for a question, it did not
alert Wamage, as far as Ziantha could tell, into any suspicion of
his lord’s memory.
“You spoke that with the truth-tongue, Lord Commander.
They thought you gone—then you return—”
“With the added power of a miracle,” Turan
commented. “I can see how they want now to finish
me.”
Wamage ran his tongue over his lips. Once more he would not look
at Turan but kept his eyes at some point over the other’s
shoulder.
“Lord Commander,” he paused as if seeking courage to
continue, and then went on in a rush of words, “she
says that you are still tomb-laid—that this—this witch
Vintra has only made a semblance of a man. Though one may touch
you, as I have done, and you are firm and real! But she
says that if you are taken to Vut the force will depart, and all
men will see that this is sorcery and no real return. The priests,
they are angry. For they say that in the past, Vut has returned men
to life when their purposes here are not fully accomplished. And
they do not believe her but want all the people to witness
Vut’s power. So they will come for you—only
she has a way to make sure you do not reach
Vut.”
Turan smiled. “It would seem that she does not really
believe in her own argument that I am but a rather solid shadow
walking, or she would leave it to Vut to answer the
matter.”
Wamage made a small gesture. “Lord Commander, I think she
believes two ways—she is fearful her own thought may be
wrong. If you die again—then Vut’s will is
manifest.”
“But I do not intend to die again.” Turan’s
voice was firm. It was as if his strong will fed the talent which
kept him alive. “At least not yet. Therefore I think I shall
be safer—”
“We can get you to the Tower, Lord Commander. Vut’s
priests will then make a defense wall of their own bodies if the
need arises!” Wamage interrupted eagerly.
Turan shook his head. “Do my own armsmen of
Turan-la”—a shade of confusion crossed his face.
“My armsmen of Turan-la,” he repeated with a kind of
wonder, Ziantha thought, as if he heard those words but did not
fully understand them. Ziantha feared his confusion was visible to
Wamage. But it would seem that the other was so intent upon his own
message of gloom that his thoughts were for that alone. For he
burst out then hotly:
“She sent them north after—after your
entombing, Lord Commander. They were battle comrades of yours; they
knew how you felt concerning Puvult. Me you can command under this
roof, and Fomi Tarah, and of the younger men, Kar Su Pyt, Jhantan
Su Ixto, and we each have armsmen sworn to us, as you know. Enough,
Lord Commander, to see you safely to the Tower.”
Turan was frowning. “There is another, not of this
household, so he might not be suspected or watched. He lent me his
weather coat on the night I returned—”
“Yes. I have sought him out. His father is a Vut priest,
one Ganthel Su Rwelt. They live on the southern coast—the boy
came with the levy from Sxark a year ago.”
“From the southern coast!” Turan caught the
significance of that at once. “Can you get word to him
secretly?”
“I can summon him, but, Lord Commander, as you well know
there are eyes and ears awake, watching, listening always amid
these walls.”
Turan sighed. His gaunt face looked even less fleshy, as if his
grayed skin clung tighter and tighter to his skull.
“Wamage.” He returned slowly to his bench, sat down
as if he could no longer trust the effort standing erect caused
him. “I would leave this palace, the Lady Vintra with me. But
I do not wish to go—as yet—to Vut. There is something
to be done, something of which I learned of late, which cannot be
left while I tend this ailing body of mine. For time may be fatal.
I must be free to move without question or interference. Now I call
upon you for your aid in my service, for if battle comrades cannot
ask this, then what justice lies in this world?”
“Truth spoken, Lord Commander. Can you depend upon no
other for this deed which must be done?” There was a furrow
of what Ziantha believed to be honest anxiety between
Wamage’s bushy brows. If Turan had not managed to gain the
loyalty of his High Consort, in this man, at least, he had one
faithful follower.
“No other. I have spoken truth to you; now I shall add
more. You know of my visit to the land that the sea gave up? Only
recently you spoke of this—”
“A place you have often mentioned yourself, Lord
Commander. You wished to take a ship of your own and go seeking it
again, but the rebels broke out. But—what of it?”
“Just this—there I made a great find, a find which I
must now uncover for my own safety.”
“Lord Commander, you are in some fever dream, or
else—” he swung to Ziantha, his face hard with
suspicion—“there is some truth in the High
Consort’s babble, and this rebel woman has bewitched you.
What could lie on a rock in the sea that would aid you
now?”
“Something very old and very powerful, and this is no
bewitchment. For what lies there I saw long before Vintra came into
my life.”
“The gem! The gem which you took to Vut’s tower and
thereafter put from you, having it made into tombwear so that none
could lay hand on it.”
“In part, yes, but only in part. How think you that the
Lady Vintra, wearing it in a tomb crown, was moved to come to my
aid, brought me again to this very room? There were ancients of
ancients. Do not men declare that they had strange knowledge we do
not possess? What of the old tales?”
“But those are for children, or the simple of mind. And we
do with the aid of machines made by our own hands what they did in
those tales. Who could fly save with a double-wing?”
“They, perhaps. There were things of great power on that
island, Wamage, how great I did not even guess then. I thought of
such treasure as delights the eye; now I know it was treasure for
the mind. With what I once found there and what still awaits to be
discovered, I shall be armed against the forces ready to pull me
down. Has part not already brought me from the tomb?”
“And how do you reach the island?”
“By your aid and that of this youth from Sxark. You shall
arrange for me and this lady—for she has learned part of the
secret—”
Wamage moved with a speed Ziantha had not expected. Only the
flash of mind-reading alerted her. He would have flamed her down
with a small beamer he brought from his sleeve, but she had thrown
herself flat.
“Wamage!” Turan was on his feet. “What do you
do?”
“She is Vintra, Lord Commander. Every rebel drinks
lorca-toast to her at night. If she has such command over any part
of your fate she is better dead!”
“And me with her, is that what you would want, Wamage? For
I tell you, it is by her I live, and without her further aid I
cannot continue to do so.”
“Sorcery, Lord Commander. Have in the priests and gain
their aid—”
From where she crouched, Ziantha put all her talent into a
mighty effort. His voice suddenly faltered, his hand dropped limply
to his side, and from his fingers the beamer thudded to the
carpeted floor. She retrieved it swiftly. The operation of it she
saw was simple. One aimed and pressed a button. What the results
would be Vintra’s memory supplied; they were both spectacular
and fatal.
“You should not have told him,” she mind-sent.
“We need him. Otherwise we can make one blunder after
another and achieve nothing.”
To Ziantha’s thinking one blunder had already been made,
but she would have to accept Turan’s plan. Could it be that
he was making such an effort to retain control of his body that he
no longer reasoned clearly, and the time would come when she must
take command?
Reluctantly she released Wamage from the mind-lock. The man
shook his head as if to banish some feeling of dizziness. As full
consciousness returned to him Ziantha laid the beamer on the bench
at Turan’s hand.
“Look you, man of Singakok.” She had from Vintra the
heavily accented voice of the rebel leader. “I have now no
weapon. There lies yours. At whose hand does it lie? Do you think
that if I were your enemy in this hour I would disarm myself before
you and your lord? I have no love for Singakok. But that which was
beyond any struggle of ours faced me in the tomb of Turan, and he
and I were bound together in this. Take up your weapon if you do
not believe me, use it—”
If he tried that, Ziantha thought—if I have gambled too
high—I hope Turan can stop him. But Wamage, though he put out
his hand as if to carry out her suggestion, did not complete that
move.
“She speaks the truth,” Turan said. “She
stands unarmed in the midst of her enemies, and she speaks the
truth.”
Wamage shook his head. “She is one of tricks, Lord
Commander, as you know. How else have the rebels held us off this
long? It is their tricks—”
“No trick in this. Vintra is no longer of the
rebels.”
“Do you want an oath on that before the altars of
Vut?” Ziantha demanded. “I was bound to another cause
by those hours in the dark before the spirit door opened. Do you
think any man or woman could pass through such an ordeal as that
and not come forth unchanged? For the present I am pledged to the
Lord Commander and will be so until his mission is
accomplished.” She hoped that Wamage believed her—for
in this she spoke Ziantha’s truth.
Wamage looked from one to the other. “Lord Commander, I
have been a battle comrade of yours since the action at Llymur Bay.
I am sworn by my own choice to your service. What you
wish—that shall it be.”
Was this surrender coming too easily? Ziantha tried mental
probe. The confusing in and out pattern of the alien mind could
deceive her, whereas with her own kind she could easily have
assessed friend or enemy.
“What I wish is a double-wing and the armsman from Sxark
as a guide. The hour is late, and I must move tonight.”
“It will be difficult—”
“I have not said this would move with ease; it is enough
that it does move!” Turan’s voice took on a deeper
note; there was authority in the look he turned upon the other.
“For if we do not go at once, we may be too late.”
“This is also true,” Wamage agreed. “Well
enough.” He became brisk, producing weather coats from one of
the coffers, these with head hoods, and, as he pointed out, no
insignia.
Part of the way out of the palace they could follow corridors
private to the Lord Commander, where none could intrude without
invitation— A fortunate custom, Turan noted to Ziantha as
Wamage went ahead to make sure of their clear passage in the public
parts of the building.
“Do you trust him?” Ziantha did not. “He may
be more loyal to what he considers best for you than to any order
from you. Vintra is too long and bitter an enemy for him to accept
otherwise.”
“We can not lean too heavily on trust, no. But can you see
any other way to get us out of this trap? If he is loyal we have
won; if he plays a double game, we shall have mind-search to warn
us. It is a pity we can not read their patterns better.”
But it seemed Wamage would prove loyal. He led them through an
inconspicuous side entrance to a waiting car.
“The armsman will meet us at the port, Lord Commander. But
we have half the city to cross. And much can happen before we get
there.”
“So let us be on our way!”
Wamage slipped behind the controls of the vehicle. It was
smaller than the one which had brought them there, and Ziantha was
cramped tightly in beside Turan. Wamage was immediately in front of
her, and she must be instantly alert, she knew, to any sign that he
was not carrying out his orders. Half the city to cross—it
would be a long time to hold that guard. Turan had raised barriers
again, perhaps because he had to retain his talent to aid his own
feat of endurance.
The need for haste was so great it was as if
someone trotted on their heels, urging them in whispers to
run—run. She had found an undertunic, such as Zuha wore, in
one of the chests and bundled over it a longer, semitransparent
robe. She now caught that up in both hands to free her feet as they
sped along a corridor that Turan said linked the women’s
quarters with his own.
Though once or twice they heard the sound of conversation or
movement in rooms they passed, no one came into the hall. And, as
far as mind-touch reported, they passed unseen. She could hardly
believe fortune was favoring them so much.
If any record of Turan’s voyage existed, that might be
found among his private accounts. But to seek blindly was to waste
their precious time. It would require both their talents, one to
keep sentry, the other to sift out knowledge, as she had in
Jucundus’s apartment.
It was difficult to remember now that she was not only on an
alien world, but in a time so far lost to her own that this city,
these people were not even legends. Ziantha felt no wonder, only
the driving need to escape, to find again her own place, dangerous
though it might be. For those dangers were familiar, and now they
seemed, by comparison, not to be perils at all, but a well-settled
pattern of life. It is the unknown that always carries with it the
darkest fear.
“Here—” Turan was at a door, waved her to
him.
“Records?” She looked around her for something
familiar. Even if it might be the very ancient scrolls of actual
writing she had seen in a museum.
“For secrecy perhaps, or even because of custom they were
kept thus.”
He had gone to a cabinet and now brought forth bunches of short
cords, knotted together at one end, the rest flapping free. Along
each of these many lengths were spaced beads of different shapes
and colors. Ziantha stared. To her these made no sense.
Records—kept by beads knotted at irregular intervals on bits
of cord? That was a device she had never heard of. She looked to
Turan, unable to believe that he meant what he said.
As he ran his fingers along the cords, he paused to touch a bead
here and there.
“A memorization device. In our time this would be used by
a very primitive tribe that had not yet mastered the art of writing
in symbols. Yet it can be a personal code, locked for all time.
Apparently very secret records are kept here in this fashion. Each
type of bead, each knotting, whether it be a finger width less or
more from the next, has a meaning. The keeper of such can sit in
the dark and ‘read’ these by running them through his
fingers.”
“If they are Turan’s, then you should be
able—”
He shook his head wearily. “I have only very fleeting
touch with Turan’s memories, and those grow less and less.
I—I dare not use too much of my power; it is needed to
control this body.”
So he was admitting that he was having trouble with the Turan
shell? Ziantha put out a hand, stirred the mass of cords. If they
were in code, a code known only to him who had devised them, it
would require intense concentration to gain anything from them.
Compared to this, dealing with the sealed tapes in Korwar was
play for a beginner. For the tapes had been clearly inscribed by
one of her own species. An alien code, devised by an alien—
Well, since this key was the only one offered them she must
try.
“You hold watch then?”
At his nod, she took up the nearest assortment of cords. They
were silken soft, and the beads glinted blue, white, and vivid
orange-scarlet. She slipped the packet back and forth through her
fingers.
Emotion—hate—a vicious and deadly hate, as sharp and
imperiling in its intent to threaten her reading as if the cords
had taken on serpentine life and struck at her. With a little cry,
she threw the bunch from her.
“What is it?”
Ziantha did not answer. Instead she held her hand palm down over
the whole collection. Not quite touching, but in her mind seeking
what source had broadcast that blast that had met her first
probe.
“These—these have been recently handled, by some one
who was so filled with hate and anger that emotion blankets all.
Unless I can break that I can do nothing.”
He lowered himself wearily onto a bench, leaned his head back
against the wall, his eyes closed. And without the life of his
eyes—Ziantha shuddered, would not look at him. It was as if a
dead man rested there. How long could he continue to hold Turan in
this pseudo-life?
“Who is responsible? Can you learn that?”
She took up again the first collection. Strong emotion could fog
any reception of impressions, and she was already handicapped by
trying to read alien minds. She wadded the beads and cords into a
packet, held that to her forehead, trying to blot out all else but
the picture she must have.
Zuha—yes, there was no mistaking the High Consort. But
there was another influence. The girl tried for a name, some
identification which perhaps Turan could recognize in turn.
Zuha’s hate, her frustration—those were so strong a
wave that they were as blows against her, yet she probed.
“Zuha,” she reported. “But there is another,
some one behind Zuha. They came here seeking knowledge they did not
discover. Zuha was very angry; she needed something she wanted
desperately to find here. She—I think that she took some of
these with her—the ones she believed important.”
“If we can find no chart
soon . . . ” His
thought trailed away.
Time—she could not defeat time. Ziantha tossed the cord
bundle back with the others. Had she hours, perhaps days, she could
sort through these. There must be another way, for she did not have
those hours or days. She need only glance at Turan to know
that.
An island risen from the sea, and on it somewhere a twin to the
stone, an equal focus piece. Their piece tied to it, and they,
apparently, tied to the first. If they could not release those
ties, Turan would die again, and so would she—at the hands of
Zuha—and no pleasant death.
One could believe that some essence of personality survived the
ending of the body. Those with the talent were sure of that. But
inbred in their varied species was so firm a barrier against their
body’s dismissal that they could not face what man called
“death” without that safety device of struggle for
existence taking over control. She would not accept the fact that
she, Ziantha, was going to come to an end in this world which was
not hers, any more than she believed that her companion could
likewise surrender.
An island from the sea, and a stone found there— The girl
strode back and forth, thinking furiously, before the bench on
which Turan had half collapsed. There was one way, but she could
not do it here. Not in the midst of enemies when at any moment
those who had no reason to wish either of them life could come in
upon them. But where?
Ziantha paused, looked around, tried to be objective. She had
Vintra’s memories to call upon and she did that recklessly.
These people had aircraft. There was a landing port outside the
city where such were kept. If Turan could pilot one—if they
could first reach that landing port—commandeer one of the
craft— Too many ifs, too many things that might stand
between. But it was her—perhaps their—only hope.
She dropped down beside Turan, took his cold hand to hold
between her two warmer ones, willing strength back into him. He
opened his eyes, turned his head toward her.
Again that ghastly smile came. “I endure,” he said,
as if he not only meant to reassure her, but himself. “You
have thought of something—what? I would think clearer but I
must hold on, and at times that takes all my power.”
“I know. Yes, I have thought of something. It may be far
beyond what can be done, but it is all I have to offer. When I go
into deep trance I must be in a safe place—”
His eyes were very intent. “You would try that, knowing
what may come of it?”
“I can see no other way.” She wanted him with
desperate longing to deny that, to say there was another way, that
she need not risk again the baleful influence of the stone that had
already cost them so much. But he did not. Though he still regarded
her closely, his mind-shield was up, and she believed he was
testing her plan for feasibility.
“It is a way—” he said slowly. “But you
are right, we must have privacy and safety before you try it. I do
not believe we shall find either here. Turan’s memories are
so little open to me that I do not know what intrigues may be in
progress. But they threaten from his own household. It is certainly
not the first time a noble family came to an end by being torn
apart from within. And where shall we find safety? Have you a plan
for that also?”
“A weak one.” She again wanted him to refuse, to
prove her wrong. “These people have air transport. If we
could get one—they are not too unlike our own flitters, I
think—we might reach the sea. Find some safe place on the
shore to give me time for deep trance—”
“It seems—” he was beginning when Ziantha
whirled to face one of the mural-concealed doors in the wall.
The noise, a faint scratching, made her look about for something
to use as a weapon. She was reaching for a tall vase on a nearby
table when Turan pulled himself from the bench, walked with a slow,
heavy tread to release the portal.
A man squeezed through a crack hardly wide enough to admit his
stocky body and shut that opening at once behind him. The hair on
his head was streaked with light patches, and his face was seamed
with two noticeable scars.
“Lord Commander, thank Vut you are here!” He looked
beyond Turan to Ziantha. “Also the outland witch with
you.”
“There is trouble, Wamage?”
The man nodded vigorously. “More than trouble, Lord
Commander; there may be black disaster. She”—into that
single pronoun he put such a hiss that he spat the word in anger
and disgust—“she has sent to the priests. They are to
take you and”—he pointed with his thumb to
Ziantha—“this one to the Tower of Vut, that the miracle
may be made manifest to all on the Tenth Feast Day. But they do not
intend that you shall ever reach sanctuary. Behind all is Puvult,
Lord Commander! Yes, you exiled him half a year gone, but there
have been rumors he returned while you hunted the rebels northward.
Since—since you were tomb-laid, he is seen openly. And
secretly within these very walls!”
“The High Consort then welcomed him?” Turan
asked.
“Lord Commander, it has long been said that she favors the
younger branch of your House over the elder.” Wamage did not
quite meet Turan’s eyes. It was as if he had news to give,
but feared to offend.
“And with me tomb-laid then Puvult comes into
headship?” If Turan meant that for a question, it did not
alert Wamage, as far as Ziantha could tell, into any suspicion of
his lord’s memory.
“You spoke that with the truth-tongue, Lord Commander.
They thought you gone—then you return—”
“With the added power of a miracle,” Turan
commented. “I can see how they want now to finish
me.”
Wamage ran his tongue over his lips. Once more he would not look
at Turan but kept his eyes at some point over the other’s
shoulder.
“Lord Commander,” he paused as if seeking courage to
continue, and then went on in a rush of words, “she
says that you are still tomb-laid—that this—this witch
Vintra has only made a semblance of a man. Though one may touch
you, as I have done, and you are firm and real! But she
says that if you are taken to Vut the force will depart, and all
men will see that this is sorcery and no real return. The priests,
they are angry. For they say that in the past, Vut has returned men
to life when their purposes here are not fully accomplished. And
they do not believe her but want all the people to witness
Vut’s power. So they will come for you—only
she has a way to make sure you do not reach
Vut.”
Turan smiled. “It would seem that she does not really
believe in her own argument that I am but a rather solid shadow
walking, or she would leave it to Vut to answer the
matter.”
Wamage made a small gesture. “Lord Commander, I think she
believes two ways—she is fearful her own thought may be
wrong. If you die again—then Vut’s will is
manifest.”
“But I do not intend to die again.” Turan’s
voice was firm. It was as if his strong will fed the talent which
kept him alive. “At least not yet. Therefore I think I shall
be safer—”
“We can get you to the Tower, Lord Commander. Vut’s
priests will then make a defense wall of their own bodies if the
need arises!” Wamage interrupted eagerly.
Turan shook his head. “Do my own armsmen of
Turan-la”—a shade of confusion crossed his face.
“My armsmen of Turan-la,” he repeated with a kind of
wonder, Ziantha thought, as if he heard those words but did not
fully understand them. Ziantha feared his confusion was visible to
Wamage. But it would seem that the other was so intent upon his own
message of gloom that his thoughts were for that alone. For he
burst out then hotly:
“She sent them north after—after your
entombing, Lord Commander. They were battle comrades of yours; they
knew how you felt concerning Puvult. Me you can command under this
roof, and Fomi Tarah, and of the younger men, Kar Su Pyt, Jhantan
Su Ixto, and we each have armsmen sworn to us, as you know. Enough,
Lord Commander, to see you safely to the Tower.”
Turan was frowning. “There is another, not of this
household, so he might not be suspected or watched. He lent me his
weather coat on the night I returned—”
“Yes. I have sought him out. His father is a Vut priest,
one Ganthel Su Rwelt. They live on the southern coast—the boy
came with the levy from Sxark a year ago.”
“From the southern coast!” Turan caught the
significance of that at once. “Can you get word to him
secretly?”
“I can summon him, but, Lord Commander, as you well know
there are eyes and ears awake, watching, listening always amid
these walls.”
Turan sighed. His gaunt face looked even less fleshy, as if his
grayed skin clung tighter and tighter to his skull.
“Wamage.” He returned slowly to his bench, sat down
as if he could no longer trust the effort standing erect caused
him. “I would leave this palace, the Lady Vintra with me. But
I do not wish to go—as yet—to Vut. There is something
to be done, something of which I learned of late, which cannot be
left while I tend this ailing body of mine. For time may be fatal.
I must be free to move without question or interference. Now I call
upon you for your aid in my service, for if battle comrades cannot
ask this, then what justice lies in this world?”
“Truth spoken, Lord Commander. Can you depend upon no
other for this deed which must be done?” There was a furrow
of what Ziantha believed to be honest anxiety between
Wamage’s bushy brows. If Turan had not managed to gain the
loyalty of his High Consort, in this man, at least, he had one
faithful follower.
“No other. I have spoken truth to you; now I shall add
more. You know of my visit to the land that the sea gave up? Only
recently you spoke of this—”
“A place you have often mentioned yourself, Lord
Commander. You wished to take a ship of your own and go seeking it
again, but the rebels broke out. But—what of it?”
“Just this—there I made a great find, a find which I
must now uncover for my own safety.”
“Lord Commander, you are in some fever dream, or
else—” he swung to Ziantha, his face hard with
suspicion—“there is some truth in the High
Consort’s babble, and this rebel woman has bewitched you.
What could lie on a rock in the sea that would aid you
now?”
“Something very old and very powerful, and this is no
bewitchment. For what lies there I saw long before Vintra came into
my life.”
“The gem! The gem which you took to Vut’s tower and
thereafter put from you, having it made into tombwear so that none
could lay hand on it.”
“In part, yes, but only in part. How think you that the
Lady Vintra, wearing it in a tomb crown, was moved to come to my
aid, brought me again to this very room? There were ancients of
ancients. Do not men declare that they had strange knowledge we do
not possess? What of the old tales?”
“But those are for children, or the simple of mind. And we
do with the aid of machines made by our own hands what they did in
those tales. Who could fly save with a double-wing?”
“They, perhaps. There were things of great power on that
island, Wamage, how great I did not even guess then. I thought of
such treasure as delights the eye; now I know it was treasure for
the mind. With what I once found there and what still awaits to be
discovered, I shall be armed against the forces ready to pull me
down. Has part not already brought me from the tomb?”
“And how do you reach the island?”
“By your aid and that of this youth from Sxark. You shall
arrange for me and this lady—for she has learned part of the
secret—”
Wamage moved with a speed Ziantha had not expected. Only the
flash of mind-reading alerted her. He would have flamed her down
with a small beamer he brought from his sleeve, but she had thrown
herself flat.
“Wamage!” Turan was on his feet. “What do you
do?”
“She is Vintra, Lord Commander. Every rebel drinks
lorca-toast to her at night. If she has such command over any part
of your fate she is better dead!”
“And me with her, is that what you would want, Wamage? For
I tell you, it is by her I live, and without her further aid I
cannot continue to do so.”
“Sorcery, Lord Commander. Have in the priests and gain
their aid—”
From where she crouched, Ziantha put all her talent into a
mighty effort. His voice suddenly faltered, his hand dropped limply
to his side, and from his fingers the beamer thudded to the
carpeted floor. She retrieved it swiftly. The operation of it she
saw was simple. One aimed and pressed a button. What the results
would be Vintra’s memory supplied; they were both spectacular
and fatal.
“You should not have told him,” she mind-sent.
“We need him. Otherwise we can make one blunder after
another and achieve nothing.”
To Ziantha’s thinking one blunder had already been made,
but she would have to accept Turan’s plan. Could it be that
he was making such an effort to retain control of his body that he
no longer reasoned clearly, and the time would come when she must
take command?
Reluctantly she released Wamage from the mind-lock. The man
shook his head as if to banish some feeling of dizziness. As full
consciousness returned to him Ziantha laid the beamer on the bench
at Turan’s hand.
“Look you, man of Singakok.” She had from Vintra the
heavily accented voice of the rebel leader. “I have now no
weapon. There lies yours. At whose hand does it lie? Do you think
that if I were your enemy in this hour I would disarm myself before
you and your lord? I have no love for Singakok. But that which was
beyond any struggle of ours faced me in the tomb of Turan, and he
and I were bound together in this. Take up your weapon if you do
not believe me, use it—”
If he tried that, Ziantha thought—if I have gambled too
high—I hope Turan can stop him. But Wamage, though he put out
his hand as if to carry out her suggestion, did not complete that
move.
“She speaks the truth,” Turan said. “She
stands unarmed in the midst of her enemies, and she speaks the
truth.”
Wamage shook his head. “She is one of tricks, Lord
Commander, as you know. How else have the rebels held us off this
long? It is their tricks—”
“No trick in this. Vintra is no longer of the
rebels.”
“Do you want an oath on that before the altars of
Vut?” Ziantha demanded. “I was bound to another cause
by those hours in the dark before the spirit door opened. Do you
think any man or woman could pass through such an ordeal as that
and not come forth unchanged? For the present I am pledged to the
Lord Commander and will be so until his mission is
accomplished.” She hoped that Wamage believed her—for
in this she spoke Ziantha’s truth.
Wamage looked from one to the other. “Lord Commander, I
have been a battle comrade of yours since the action at Llymur Bay.
I am sworn by my own choice to your service. What you
wish—that shall it be.”
Was this surrender coming too easily? Ziantha tried mental
probe. The confusing in and out pattern of the alien mind could
deceive her, whereas with her own kind she could easily have
assessed friend or enemy.
“What I wish is a double-wing and the armsman from Sxark
as a guide. The hour is late, and I must move tonight.”
“It will be difficult—”
“I have not said this would move with ease; it is enough
that it does move!” Turan’s voice took on a deeper
note; there was authority in the look he turned upon the other.
“For if we do not go at once, we may be too late.”
“This is also true,” Wamage agreed. “Well
enough.” He became brisk, producing weather coats from one of
the coffers, these with head hoods, and, as he pointed out, no
insignia.
Part of the way out of the palace they could follow corridors
private to the Lord Commander, where none could intrude without
invitation— A fortunate custom, Turan noted to Ziantha as
Wamage went ahead to make sure of their clear passage in the public
parts of the building.
“Do you trust him?” Ziantha did not. “He may
be more loyal to what he considers best for you than to any order
from you. Vintra is too long and bitter an enemy for him to accept
otherwise.”
“We can not lean too heavily on trust, no. But can you see
any other way to get us out of this trap? If he is loyal we have
won; if he plays a double game, we shall have mind-search to warn
us. It is a pity we can not read their patterns better.”
But it seemed Wamage would prove loyal. He led them through an
inconspicuous side entrance to a waiting car.
“The armsman will meet us at the port, Lord Commander. But
we have half the city to cross. And much can happen before we get
there.”
“So let us be on our way!”
Wamage slipped behind the controls of the vehicle. It was
smaller than the one which had brought them there, and Ziantha was
cramped tightly in beside Turan. Wamage was immediately in front of
her, and she must be instantly alert, she knew, to any sign that he
was not carrying out his orders. Half the city to cross—it
would be a long time to hold that guard. Turan had raised barriers
again, perhaps because he had to retain his talent to aid his own
feat of endurance.