Ziantha leaned over him, so filled with fear
she could not immediately use mind-search to explore for any spark
of life in Turan’s body. But slowly those eyes opened; she
saw them focus upon her, know her—
“Not dead.” His slack lips tightened to shape the
words. “You—got—out—”
“You knew that I was dying—back there?”
He did not seem to have even strength left to nod, but she could
read his faint assent. Then she knew in turn—
“You helped me!”
“Trapped—needed—” His voice trailed
away. Those eyes closed again, and his head rolled limply on his
shoulders.
“No! Not now, Turan—we have won! See!” Before
his closed eyes she held the two stones, one free, one in its
setting. But perhaps it was too late, or was it?
She thought of the way D’Eyree had used the Eyes. Could
she do likewise now? Could she give to Turan through them some of
her own life force?
She tried to fit the band on her head, but its shape was too
different. It had been fashioned for another species. At length she
cupped the stones in her hands, held them to her forehead, and
thought—thought life, energy, being, into Turan, seeking that
spark almost driven out by death. And in that seeking she found it,
united with it, fed it with her will, her belief, and confidence.
As D’Eyree had driven the Lurla, so did she now in fact drive
Turan, feeding him all she had to give.
He stirred. Once more his eyes opened; he pulled himself up in
the seat.
“No.” His voice was stronger. “I can hold, but
do not exhaust what you have to give. The time is not yet when it
may be that all you can offer will be needed. We must get
back—back to the beginning—Turan’s tomb. And you
must pilot this flyer.”
Ziantha could not protest. In her mind he had earlier set the
proper information. But in what direction? Where would she find a
guide?
He might have picked that question out of her mind as he
answered:
“I have set it—” Once more he lapsed into that
state of nonbeing, hoarding his energy, she knew. Now it was her
doing, all of it.
Ziantha pushed into the sea, fronted the controls. His
instructions were clear in her mind. One did this and this. But
could she lift the flyer off this stretch of rock, or would it
crash into the sea, taking them both to a swift ending? There was
no way to make sure but to try.
Her hands shaking a little, she brought the motor to life; the
flyer moved forward. Now one did this and this. Frantically she
worked at the controls, nor could she believe that she had
succeeded until they were indeed airborne, climbing into the dusk
of evening. She circled the rock that was all that was left of
Nornoch, her eyes on the direction dial. The needle swung,
steadied, and held. If he had been right that would take them
back.
As they winged over the sea she tried to plan. That she had
brought the second stone out of the past was still difficult for
her to believe, unless the drawing power of its twin already in her
hands and in use had been the deciding factor. But she was
convinced that without careful study, her contemporaries would not
be able to understand the psychic power locked in these gems.
The stones had been ancient in Nornoch, put to psychic uses by
generations of sensitives. This in turn had built up in them
reserves of energy. Reawakened by her use, that power had, in a
manner, exploded. Would it now be as quickly dispersed, or could
she harness it to return them to their own time?
Night came and still the flyer was airborne; the needle on the
guide held steady. Turan moved once or twice, sighed. But she had
not tried to reach him either by speech or mind-send. He was not to
be disturbed. He needed all the strength he had to hold on. That he
had given her of his last reserves in that moment of
D’Eyree’s death was a debt she must repay.
It was in the first dawn that she saw the coast lights, and,
with those, lights moving in the sky as well, marking at least two
other flyers. She could not maneuver this machine off course, nor
did she know any way of defending it. She could only
hope—
Locked on course, the flyer held steady, and she did not have to
constantly monitor the controls. Now Ziantha drew from the breast
of her robe the band of the Eyes and the loose gem. If she were
taken, she must do all she could to keep the focus-stones. She set
herself to pry the second of them from the band. A girdle clasp
proved to be a useful tool for this, and a few minutes later she
had it out.
The other flyers were boxing them in now, one on either side.
Ziantha tensed. How soon would they fire upon them? Vintra’s
memory could not supply her with information. The rebels did not
have many flyers, and Vintra had not used one. Would it be better
to try to land? One glance at Turan told her of the impossibility
of trying to cross country on foot.
Before her on the instrument board a light flashed on and off in
a pattern of several colors. Code—but one she could not read,
much less answer. They were helpless until the flyer reached the
goal Turan had set.
When no attack came, Ziantha breathed a little easier. Zuha had
ordered them shot down on sight, but that had not happened.
Therefore it might be that other orders had been issued since. How
long had they been on the island? She did not know whether it was
only part of a day or much longer.
The flyer bored steadily on into the morning. Ziantha was very
hungry, thirsty, and her sensitive’s control could no longer
banish those needs. She found a compartment in which emergency
rations were carried. The contents of the tube were not appetizing
but she gulped them down. Turan? She drew forth a second tube,
prepared to uncap it.
“No.” His word was hardly more than a whisper. He
was looking beyond her to the flyer that was their escort—or
guard.
“They have not attacked,” she told him the obvious.
“For a while they tried to communicate by code. Now they do
nothing.”
“The focus-stones—” He made such a visible
effort to get out those words that her anxiety grew.
“Here,” she held out her hand so he could see them
lying on her palm.
“Must keep—”
“I know.” She had not yet thought of a hiding place.
If they were taken, she, at least, would be searched. She had no
doubt of that. She ran one hand through her hair. Its thick sweep
was a temptation, but there was no safe way of anchoring them in
those locks. There remained her mouth. Experimentally she fitted
the stones, one within each cheek. They were about the same size as
the pits of dried umpa fruit, and she believed she could carry them
so.
With them so close, she could draw upon their energy. Somehow,
as her tongue moved back and forth touching first one and then the
other, Ziantha felt a little cheered. They had had such amazing
good fortune in their quest so far; they were still free, with both
stones. Yet, she knew that there was danger in any building of
confidence. And no sane person depended upon fortune to last.
There was a faint beeping sound from the controls. She had set
the flyer on maximum speed when they had left the island,
recklessly intent only on reaching their goal as quickly as
possible. What fueled the machine she did not know, pushing away
that worry when she had so much else to concern her. Was this a
signal that that energy was failing them?
But it was the guide dial that made that sound. They must be
near to the tomb. Where could she land—and how?
The flyer shook, broke out of its forward sweep. Ziantha caught
at the controls. But they were locked against her attempt to free
them!
“Turan!”
He turned his head with painful effort.
“They have us—in—a—traction
pull—” he whispered.
A pull that was taking them earthward. They would crash! She sat
with her hands on those useless controls and sent out mind-seek.
The in-and-out reception of alien thought was blighting, but that
they were captive she understood. And they were being brought down
to their captor’s desire almost within sight of their
goal.
“They—want—us—secretly—”
Turan was rousing, pulling himself higher in the seat. “No
one to know what happens—”
Ziantha probed, fought to reach and hold one of those mind
waves. Perhaps it was the Eyes that gave her the skill to seize and
hold.
Zuha!
The thoughts were blurred. It was like hearing only a few words
of a whispered conversation. But the girl learned something. Yes,
Turan was right; they were being brought in for a landing at a
small private field, away from Singakok. Zuha wanted no
interference while she dealt with them. Had they been of her own
world and time, Ziantha could have used the power to control, to
alter their memories for long enough to escape.
“Ride with them—not—against,” Turan
said. “Zuha wants us dead.”
Ziantha caught his suggestion. Could they use the hate and fear
of the alien woman to take them where they must go? Could she feed
Zuha’s desires?
“I shall be dead,” Turan answered her chain of
thought. “You must project to the High Consort a great fear
of your own—one she will understand.”
“The fear of being once more buried with you,”
Ziantha agreed. But it would be true, painfully true. All the
horror she had known as D’Eyree entombed in that sealed
crevice flooded back to make her sick. Could she face such an
ordeal again? For it might well prove to be the truth, that,
returned to Turan’s tomb, they would remain there.
“There is no other way. Our door lies there.”
Of course she had always known that in the back of her mind, but
she had pushed it from her, refusing to face it squarely. This was
the pattern they must follow to the end. Once again the tomb and
the hope of return through it.
“I am dead,” he said. “Your fear must be fed
to her. In this I cannot help you.”
“I know.”
With the same concentration she had used to learn the method for
that invasion of Jucundus’s apartment which had begun this
whole mad foray, Ziantha began to build her one chance. The
irregular wavelength meant that Zuha would not have clear
reception. And so she could not be sure she had succeeded until
some action of the other revealed it.
But she summoned fear, which was easy to do, fear of the dark,
of imprisonment in that dark, of death, though she dared not allow
panic to disrupt the careful marshaling of thought. Not
that—not the tomb again! To die entombed beside the dead. Not
that! She built up the strength of her broadcast in vivid mind
pictures. Ziantha was shivering now, her hands locked about the
useless controls.
The flyer was spiraling down. She saw trees rising to meet them,
wondered for a moment if they would crash. But no, Zuha wanted more
than any quick death, she wanted vengeance on Turan, and more on
the woman she believed responsible for Turan’s return. Feed
her the thought of death in the tomb. Ziantha held to her mind-send
as the flyer bounced along the rough ground.
Turan had been shaken against her in that landing. His body was
an inert weight. To her eyes he was dead. Dare she test now? No,
she must continue to concentrate on that suggestion—the
return of the dead—and the living—to the tomb.
She made no move to escape from the flyer. Let them believe she
was cowering here in fear. And they would not be far wrong. The
dark passion she had touched in Zuha’s mind was enough to
promise the worst. But, if only the High Consort believed the worst
to be what Ziantha tried to suggest to her!
The door was wrenched open with force, and she saw the face of
an armsman. He stared at her, at Turan lying limply against her
shoulder; then he was ordered aside by an officer.
“Lord Commander!” The man caught at Turan to draw
him away from the girl. The body sprawled forward in his grasp.
With an exclamation, the officer involuntarily jerked back, Turan
falling, to dangle head and shoulders over the edge of the
door.
“Dead!” the officer cried out. “The Lord
Commander is dead!!
“As he has been!” There was triumph in the High
Consort’s reply. “There was only the sorcery of this
witch to keep him seemingly alive. But he has eluded her at
last.” She stood wrapped in a heavy cloak against the
snow-laden wind. Her eyes hot as she looked beyond the body to
Ziantha. Now she leaned forward, her pose almost reptilian as she
hissed:
“He is safely dead. But you still live, witch! And now you
are under my hand.”
The armsman and the officer had drawn Turan’s body out of
the flyer, laid it upon the ground. Ziantha did not move; only with
her last spurt of mind-send she tried to reach, to implant in the
High Consort what must be done.
“Your Grace,” the officer looked up from where he
knelt by Turan, “what are your orders?”
“What should they be—that my lord be returned to his
place of rest where we laid him in honor and respect. And let this
be done without further delay before such witnesses as will bear
the proper news to the people and put an end to this wild tale of
returns and miracles. Let the Priest-Lord of Vut be summoned to
reseal the spirit door with Vut’s own seal, which no witchery
can break.”
She spoke swiftly as one who had planned for this moment and
intended to see her orders carried out with all dispatch. Turan,
dead, must vanish again, and as speedily as possible. But was he
dead? Ziantha could only hope that the spark of that other still
clung to life so he could win out in the end.
“And the witch, Your Grace?” The officer arose to
his feet, came over to the cabin to draw her forth.
“Ah, yes, the witch. Bring her forth!”
The grasp upon her hurt as he pulled her out roughly. She hoped
that her concealment of the Eyes would serve. The armsman twisted
her arms behind her back, holding her so to face Zuha.
“The priests would have you,” the High Consort said
slowly, “to tear forth the secret of your witchery. But
priests are men before their vows are taken. I would blast you with
the flamer where you stand, save that that is too quick a death.
You have companied with my lord and brought him back to
life—for your purposes. What purposes?”
“Ask of him,” Ziantha said. “I moved by his
will, not by my own.”
Her head rocked from the blow Zuha struck with lightning speed
then. Ziantha feared the most that she might have revealed the
presence of the Eyes, for the inside of her mouth was cut by the
edges of one of the stones.
But as she stood, dazed a little from the force and pain of that
blow, the High Consort stepped back a pace.
“It does not matter. Whatever he, or you, attempted has
failed. Turan is dead and will go to the tomb. As for
you—”
Ziantha braced herself. This was the crucial moment. Would her
attempts to influence Zuha succeed?
“Since my lord saw fit, as you tell me, to use you, then
it would seem he found you well suited for his tomb service. Thus
you shall return with him. Only this time there shall be no escape,
through the spirit door or otherwise! There shall be measures taken
to make sure of that, above all else do I swear it so!”
She turned to the officer. “You will take charge of my
lord’s body and bear it to the lodge. I shall send those to
prepare him for sleep, which this time will not be disturbed. You
will take this witch also, and her you will keep under strict guard
until the time comes that she also be returned whence she came. And
your life will answer for hers.”
“So be it, Your Grace.”
Ziantha was so full of relief, for that moment, that she was
hardly aware of the rough handling that stowed her into one of the
ground cars, brought her forth again at a building among trees. She
was bound and dumped on the floor of a room, left under the eyes of
two armsmen who watched her with such an intensity of concentration
that it was clear they thought she might disappear before their
very eyes.
Lying there, her first relief ebbed as she considered the ordeal
before her. Even though she had escaped D’Eyree’s
death, she was not certain she could make the second transfer to
her own time. She had drawn so heavily on her powers that even
with the Eyes she could not be sure she had enough energy left. And
she would also have the need to draw “Turan” with
her.
Rest was what she needed. And in spite of her present discomfort
of body, she set herself to relaxing by sensitive techniques,
withdrawing into the inner part of herself to renew and store all
the force she could generate.
Ziantha submerged herself now in memory, summoning to mind each
detail of that plundered outer room of the tomb. If she was to have
a point to focus upon it must be that. Her last memory of it had
been when she was in the hands of the Jack captain, being forced to
gaze into the focus-stone. But she pushed aside her mind-picture of
that action, concentrated instead upon the chamber itself—the
walls, the crumbling debris of what long ago thieves had smashed.
Bit by bit she built up her mental picture of it as she had seen it
the moment they had broken their way in.
She rejected any portion that seemed uncertain, but the reality
of that chamber must exist, must be so she could center
her will and power on returning to it. And that her memory was
faulty, too broken by the actions of others for accurate anchorage,
she was well aware. Again, until the testing, she could never count
on success.
Having made her mind-chamber as clear and precise as she could,
she allowed it to slip into memory again. Turan—she wished
she dared to arouse him. But perhaps the slight effort of receiving
a mind-send might shake his hold—if he was not already gone.
No, this was her own battle, and she must not count on any help at
hand except from her own strength and knowledge.
She had done what she could in preparation. Now let her once
more sink into that half-tranced state of mind which would allow
her to conserve her strength—wait— Deliberately she
forced away all thought of the next hour—the next moment. Her
breathing was shallow, even, her eyes closed. She might have been
asleep, save that this state was no sleep of body.
Ziantha visualized her own form of peace and contentment. There
was a pool of silent, fragrant water, and on it her body floated
free. Above her only the arch of the sky. She was as light as a
leaf on the surface of the pool. She was as free as the
sky—
The sound of a voice broke the bubble of her peace in a painful
shattering. It came so suddenly she did not understand the meaning
of the words. But there were hands on her, jerking her upright with
unnecessary roughness. As she opened her eyes she saw the officer
in the doorway. So it was time.
They dumped her without ceremony in the back of a car, where she
was bumped and rolled back and forth by the motion of their going.
She could not see out, and she made no effort to tap the minds of
those with her. Turan was not here. Doubtless they transported him
with more dignity.
The drive seemed long, and she was badly bruised—half
dazed—but in time the vehicle came to a stop, and she was
pulled out. This place she knew. They were at the foot of that rise
down which she and Turan had made such an awkward descent on the
night of their escape. It was not night now but late afternoon, and
the details of earth, rock, and vegetation were clear.
Her two guards kept her upright to one side, away from the
cortege climbing the hill to the spirit door. There was a priest of
Vut, of the highest rank, Vintra’s memory told her. He
intoned a chant as he went, supported by two lesser prelates, one
carrying a heavy mallet, the other a box, while the Priest-Lord of
Vut scattered on the wind handfuls of ashy powder.
Turan, borne on a bier supported by two officers, followed.
Except for his face, he had been covered with a long, richly
embroidered drapery, over-worked in metallic threads with designs
sacred to Vut. Behind came three armsmen and then the High Consort
in her robe of yellow mourning, but her veil was thrown well back
as if she wished to see every detail of this recommitment of her
lord to the earth she determined would hold him safely this
time.
Ziantha shivered with more than the lash of the wind, the bite
of the snow settling down around them. She watched the Priest-Lord
of Vut lean over the bier, sift upon it more of the ashes. They
must be standing by the open spirit door. Two of the armsmen
lowered themselves through that door, ready to arrange the
commander’s body.
Then the bier was attached to ropes and slid through the opening
to disappear from sight. When the armsmen reappeared, Zuha made a
gesture to Ziantha’s guards.
They were eager as they pulled and pushed her along. Now she
struggled, cried out, for Zuha must not suspect that she greeted
this end with other than the height of fear. The wind was harsh,
icy as it met them full at the top of the cliff.
“But we should know how she did this thing—”
The Priest-Lord of Vut stood before Zuha, authority in his tone.
“If the rebels have such powers—”
“If they have such powers, Reverence, will they not be
able to use them to bend living men to their will as well? Did not
the armsman we found at Xuth tell of how this one controlled him so
when he would go to the Lord Commander’s aid she rendered him
unconscious? She is a danger to us all. Would you take her to the
heart of Vut to practice her sorcery?”
The priest turned to look at Ziantha. Was he going to protest
more? Here at the very last would he defeat all she had fought
for?
“She seems safe enough a prisoner now, High Consort. Would
she allow herself to be so taken if she had the great powers you
fear?”
“She does not have the Lord Commander. In some way he
aided her in this. I do not know how, but it is so; she even
admitted it. I tell you such is a danger as we have not seen
before. There is only one thing she fears—look well at her
now. She fears return to the tomb. Seal it with the seal of Vut and
she will trouble us no more!”
For a moment or two he hesitated. The armsmen and the officers
had closed ranks behind Zuha, and it was apparent he decided not to
stand against them.
Zuha knew that she had won. She swung around to fully face
Ziantha and her guards.
“Strip the witch!” she ordered crisply. “If
she has aught which seems a thing of power, let it be given to the
Priest-Lord. Let her take nothing but her bare skin this
time!”
They ripped her clothing from her, and then one of the officers
caught her by the shoulders, pushed her forward. She felt them run
a rope about her arms. Half frozen in the lash of the wind, she was
dropped over, lowered. A moment later all light vanished as they
clapped down the spirit door.
Ziantha leaned over him, so filled with fear
she could not immediately use mind-search to explore for any spark
of life in Turan’s body. But slowly those eyes opened; she
saw them focus upon her, know her—
“Not dead.” His slack lips tightened to shape the
words. “You—got—out—”
“You knew that I was dying—back there?”
He did not seem to have even strength left to nod, but she could
read his faint assent. Then she knew in turn—
“You helped me!”
“Trapped—needed—” His voice trailed
away. Those eyes closed again, and his head rolled limply on his
shoulders.
“No! Not now, Turan—we have won! See!” Before
his closed eyes she held the two stones, one free, one in its
setting. But perhaps it was too late, or was it?
She thought of the way D’Eyree had used the Eyes. Could
she do likewise now? Could she give to Turan through them some of
her own life force?
She tried to fit the band on her head, but its shape was too
different. It had been fashioned for another species. At length she
cupped the stones in her hands, held them to her forehead, and
thought—thought life, energy, being, into Turan, seeking that
spark almost driven out by death. And in that seeking she found it,
united with it, fed it with her will, her belief, and confidence.
As D’Eyree had driven the Lurla, so did she now in fact drive
Turan, feeding him all she had to give.
He stirred. Once more his eyes opened; he pulled himself up in
the seat.
“No.” His voice was stronger. “I can hold, but
do not exhaust what you have to give. The time is not yet when it
may be that all you can offer will be needed. We must get
back—back to the beginning—Turan’s tomb. And you
must pilot this flyer.”
Ziantha could not protest. In her mind he had earlier set the
proper information. But in what direction? Where would she find a
guide?
He might have picked that question out of her mind as he
answered:
“I have set it—” Once more he lapsed into that
state of nonbeing, hoarding his energy, she knew. Now it was her
doing, all of it.
Ziantha pushed into the sea, fronted the controls. His
instructions were clear in her mind. One did this and this. But
could she lift the flyer off this stretch of rock, or would it
crash into the sea, taking them both to a swift ending? There was
no way to make sure but to try.
Her hands shaking a little, she brought the motor to life; the
flyer moved forward. Now one did this and this. Frantically she
worked at the controls, nor could she believe that she had
succeeded until they were indeed airborne, climbing into the dusk
of evening. She circled the rock that was all that was left of
Nornoch, her eyes on the direction dial. The needle swung,
steadied, and held. If he had been right that would take them
back.
As they winged over the sea she tried to plan. That she had
brought the second stone out of the past was still difficult for
her to believe, unless the drawing power of its twin already in her
hands and in use had been the deciding factor. But she was
convinced that without careful study, her contemporaries would not
be able to understand the psychic power locked in these gems.
The stones had been ancient in Nornoch, put to psychic uses by
generations of sensitives. This in turn had built up in them
reserves of energy. Reawakened by her use, that power had, in a
manner, exploded. Would it now be as quickly dispersed, or could
she harness it to return them to their own time?
Night came and still the flyer was airborne; the needle on the
guide held steady. Turan moved once or twice, sighed. But she had
not tried to reach him either by speech or mind-send. He was not to
be disturbed. He needed all the strength he had to hold on. That he
had given her of his last reserves in that moment of
D’Eyree’s death was a debt she must repay.
It was in the first dawn that she saw the coast lights, and,
with those, lights moving in the sky as well, marking at least two
other flyers. She could not maneuver this machine off course, nor
did she know any way of defending it. She could only
hope—
Locked on course, the flyer held steady, and she did not have to
constantly monitor the controls. Now Ziantha drew from the breast
of her robe the band of the Eyes and the loose gem. If she were
taken, she must do all she could to keep the focus-stones. She set
herself to pry the second of them from the band. A girdle clasp
proved to be a useful tool for this, and a few minutes later she
had it out.
The other flyers were boxing them in now, one on either side.
Ziantha tensed. How soon would they fire upon them? Vintra’s
memory could not supply her with information. The rebels did not
have many flyers, and Vintra had not used one. Would it be better
to try to land? One glance at Turan told her of the impossibility
of trying to cross country on foot.
Before her on the instrument board a light flashed on and off in
a pattern of several colors. Code—but one she could not read,
much less answer. They were helpless until the flyer reached the
goal Turan had set.
When no attack came, Ziantha breathed a little easier. Zuha had
ordered them shot down on sight, but that had not happened.
Therefore it might be that other orders had been issued since. How
long had they been on the island? She did not know whether it was
only part of a day or much longer.
The flyer bored steadily on into the morning. Ziantha was very
hungry, thirsty, and her sensitive’s control could no longer
banish those needs. She found a compartment in which emergency
rations were carried. The contents of the tube were not appetizing
but she gulped them down. Turan? She drew forth a second tube,
prepared to uncap it.
“No.” His word was hardly more than a whisper. He
was looking beyond her to the flyer that was their escort—or
guard.
“They have not attacked,” she told him the obvious.
“For a while they tried to communicate by code. Now they do
nothing.”
“The focus-stones—” He made such a visible
effort to get out those words that her anxiety grew.
“Here,” she held out her hand so he could see them
lying on her palm.
“Must keep—”
“I know.” She had not yet thought of a hiding place.
If they were taken, she, at least, would be searched. She had no
doubt of that. She ran one hand through her hair. Its thick sweep
was a temptation, but there was no safe way of anchoring them in
those locks. There remained her mouth. Experimentally she fitted
the stones, one within each cheek. They were about the same size as
the pits of dried umpa fruit, and she believed she could carry them
so.
With them so close, she could draw upon their energy. Somehow,
as her tongue moved back and forth touching first one and then the
other, Ziantha felt a little cheered. They had had such amazing
good fortune in their quest so far; they were still free, with both
stones. Yet, she knew that there was danger in any building of
confidence. And no sane person depended upon fortune to last.
There was a faint beeping sound from the controls. She had set
the flyer on maximum speed when they had left the island,
recklessly intent only on reaching their goal as quickly as
possible. What fueled the machine she did not know, pushing away
that worry when she had so much else to concern her. Was this a
signal that that energy was failing them?
But it was the guide dial that made that sound. They must be
near to the tomb. Where could she land—and how?
The flyer shook, broke out of its forward sweep. Ziantha caught
at the controls. But they were locked against her attempt to free
them!
“Turan!”
He turned his head with painful effort.
“They have us—in—a—traction
pull—” he whispered.
A pull that was taking them earthward. They would crash! She sat
with her hands on those useless controls and sent out mind-seek.
The in-and-out reception of alien thought was blighting, but that
they were captive she understood. And they were being brought down
to their captor’s desire almost within sight of their
goal.
“They—want—us—secretly—”
Turan was rousing, pulling himself higher in the seat. “No
one to know what happens—”
Ziantha probed, fought to reach and hold one of those mind
waves. Perhaps it was the Eyes that gave her the skill to seize and
hold.
Zuha!
The thoughts were blurred. It was like hearing only a few words
of a whispered conversation. But the girl learned something. Yes,
Turan was right; they were being brought in for a landing at a
small private field, away from Singakok. Zuha wanted no
interference while she dealt with them. Had they been of her own
world and time, Ziantha could have used the power to control, to
alter their memories for long enough to escape.
“Ride with them—not—against,” Turan
said. “Zuha wants us dead.”
Ziantha caught his suggestion. Could they use the hate and fear
of the alien woman to take them where they must go? Could she feed
Zuha’s desires?
“I shall be dead,” Turan answered her chain of
thought. “You must project to the High Consort a great fear
of your own—one she will understand.”
“The fear of being once more buried with you,”
Ziantha agreed. But it would be true, painfully true. All the
horror she had known as D’Eyree entombed in that sealed
crevice flooded back to make her sick. Could she face such an
ordeal again? For it might well prove to be the truth, that,
returned to Turan’s tomb, they would remain there.
“There is no other way. Our door lies there.”
Of course she had always known that in the back of her mind, but
she had pushed it from her, refusing to face it squarely. This was
the pattern they must follow to the end. Once again the tomb and
the hope of return through it.
“I am dead,” he said. “Your fear must be fed
to her. In this I cannot help you.”
“I know.”
With the same concentration she had used to learn the method for
that invasion of Jucundus’s apartment which had begun this
whole mad foray, Ziantha began to build her one chance. The
irregular wavelength meant that Zuha would not have clear
reception. And so she could not be sure she had succeeded until
some action of the other revealed it.
But she summoned fear, which was easy to do, fear of the dark,
of imprisonment in that dark, of death, though she dared not allow
panic to disrupt the careful marshaling of thought. Not
that—not the tomb again! To die entombed beside the dead. Not
that! She built up the strength of her broadcast in vivid mind
pictures. Ziantha was shivering now, her hands locked about the
useless controls.
The flyer was spiraling down. She saw trees rising to meet them,
wondered for a moment if they would crash. But no, Zuha wanted more
than any quick death, she wanted vengeance on Turan, and more on
the woman she believed responsible for Turan’s return. Feed
her the thought of death in the tomb. Ziantha held to her mind-send
as the flyer bounced along the rough ground.
Turan had been shaken against her in that landing. His body was
an inert weight. To her eyes he was dead. Dare she test now? No,
she must continue to concentrate on that suggestion—the
return of the dead—and the living—to the tomb.
She made no move to escape from the flyer. Let them believe she
was cowering here in fear. And they would not be far wrong. The
dark passion she had touched in Zuha’s mind was enough to
promise the worst. But, if only the High Consort believed the worst
to be what Ziantha tried to suggest to her!
The door was wrenched open with force, and she saw the face of
an armsman. He stared at her, at Turan lying limply against her
shoulder; then he was ordered aside by an officer.
“Lord Commander!” The man caught at Turan to draw
him away from the girl. The body sprawled forward in his grasp.
With an exclamation, the officer involuntarily jerked back, Turan
falling, to dangle head and shoulders over the edge of the
door.
“Dead!” the officer cried out. “The Lord
Commander is dead!!
“As he has been!” There was triumph in the High
Consort’s reply. “There was only the sorcery of this
witch to keep him seemingly alive. But he has eluded her at
last.” She stood wrapped in a heavy cloak against the
snow-laden wind. Her eyes hot as she looked beyond the body to
Ziantha. Now she leaned forward, her pose almost reptilian as she
hissed:
“He is safely dead. But you still live, witch! And now you
are under my hand.”
The armsman and the officer had drawn Turan’s body out of
the flyer, laid it upon the ground. Ziantha did not move; only with
her last spurt of mind-send she tried to reach, to implant in the
High Consort what must be done.
“Your Grace,” the officer looked up from where he
knelt by Turan, “what are your orders?”
“What should they be—that my lord be returned to his
place of rest where we laid him in honor and respect. And let this
be done without further delay before such witnesses as will bear
the proper news to the people and put an end to this wild tale of
returns and miracles. Let the Priest-Lord of Vut be summoned to
reseal the spirit door with Vut’s own seal, which no witchery
can break.”
She spoke swiftly as one who had planned for this moment and
intended to see her orders carried out with all dispatch. Turan,
dead, must vanish again, and as speedily as possible. But was he
dead? Ziantha could only hope that the spark of that other still
clung to life so he could win out in the end.
“And the witch, Your Grace?” The officer arose to
his feet, came over to the cabin to draw her forth.
“Ah, yes, the witch. Bring her forth!”
The grasp upon her hurt as he pulled her out roughly. She hoped
that her concealment of the Eyes would serve. The armsman twisted
her arms behind her back, holding her so to face Zuha.
“The priests would have you,” the High Consort said
slowly, “to tear forth the secret of your witchery. But
priests are men before their vows are taken. I would blast you with
the flamer where you stand, save that that is too quick a death.
You have companied with my lord and brought him back to
life—for your purposes. What purposes?”
“Ask of him,” Ziantha said. “I moved by his
will, not by my own.”
Her head rocked from the blow Zuha struck with lightning speed
then. Ziantha feared the most that she might have revealed the
presence of the Eyes, for the inside of her mouth was cut by the
edges of one of the stones.
But as she stood, dazed a little from the force and pain of that
blow, the High Consort stepped back a pace.
“It does not matter. Whatever he, or you, attempted has
failed. Turan is dead and will go to the tomb. As for
you—”
Ziantha braced herself. This was the crucial moment. Would her
attempts to influence Zuha succeed?
“Since my lord saw fit, as you tell me, to use you, then
it would seem he found you well suited for his tomb service. Thus
you shall return with him. Only this time there shall be no escape,
through the spirit door or otherwise! There shall be measures taken
to make sure of that, above all else do I swear it so!”
She turned to the officer. “You will take charge of my
lord’s body and bear it to the lodge. I shall send those to
prepare him for sleep, which this time will not be disturbed. You
will take this witch also, and her you will keep under strict guard
until the time comes that she also be returned whence she came. And
your life will answer for hers.”
“So be it, Your Grace.”
Ziantha was so full of relief, for that moment, that she was
hardly aware of the rough handling that stowed her into one of the
ground cars, brought her forth again at a building among trees. She
was bound and dumped on the floor of a room, left under the eyes of
two armsmen who watched her with such an intensity of concentration
that it was clear they thought she might disappear before their
very eyes.
Lying there, her first relief ebbed as she considered the ordeal
before her. Even though she had escaped D’Eyree’s
death, she was not certain she could make the second transfer to
her own time. She had drawn so heavily on her powers that even
with the Eyes she could not be sure she had enough energy left. And
she would also have the need to draw “Turan” with
her.
Rest was what she needed. And in spite of her present discomfort
of body, she set herself to relaxing by sensitive techniques,
withdrawing into the inner part of herself to renew and store all
the force she could generate.
Ziantha submerged herself now in memory, summoning to mind each
detail of that plundered outer room of the tomb. If she was to have
a point to focus upon it must be that. Her last memory of it had
been when she was in the hands of the Jack captain, being forced to
gaze into the focus-stone. But she pushed aside her mind-picture of
that action, concentrated instead upon the chamber itself—the
walls, the crumbling debris of what long ago thieves had smashed.
Bit by bit she built up her mental picture of it as she had seen it
the moment they had broken their way in.
She rejected any portion that seemed uncertain, but the reality
of that chamber must exist, must be so she could center
her will and power on returning to it. And that her memory was
faulty, too broken by the actions of others for accurate anchorage,
she was well aware. Again, until the testing, she could never count
on success.
Having made her mind-chamber as clear and precise as she could,
she allowed it to slip into memory again. Turan—she wished
she dared to arouse him. But perhaps the slight effort of receiving
a mind-send might shake his hold—if he was not already gone.
No, this was her own battle, and she must not count on any help at
hand except from her own strength and knowledge.
She had done what she could in preparation. Now let her once
more sink into that half-tranced state of mind which would allow
her to conserve her strength—wait— Deliberately she
forced away all thought of the next hour—the next moment. Her
breathing was shallow, even, her eyes closed. She might have been
asleep, save that this state was no sleep of body.
Ziantha visualized her own form of peace and contentment. There
was a pool of silent, fragrant water, and on it her body floated
free. Above her only the arch of the sky. She was as light as a
leaf on the surface of the pool. She was as free as the
sky—
The sound of a voice broke the bubble of her peace in a painful
shattering. It came so suddenly she did not understand the meaning
of the words. But there were hands on her, jerking her upright with
unnecessary roughness. As she opened her eyes she saw the officer
in the doorway. So it was time.
They dumped her without ceremony in the back of a car, where she
was bumped and rolled back and forth by the motion of their going.
She could not see out, and she made no effort to tap the minds of
those with her. Turan was not here. Doubtless they transported him
with more dignity.
The drive seemed long, and she was badly bruised—half
dazed—but in time the vehicle came to a stop, and she was
pulled out. This place she knew. They were at the foot of that rise
down which she and Turan had made such an awkward descent on the
night of their escape. It was not night now but late afternoon, and
the details of earth, rock, and vegetation were clear.
Her two guards kept her upright to one side, away from the
cortege climbing the hill to the spirit door. There was a priest of
Vut, of the highest rank, Vintra’s memory told her. He
intoned a chant as he went, supported by two lesser prelates, one
carrying a heavy mallet, the other a box, while the Priest-Lord of
Vut scattered on the wind handfuls of ashy powder.
Turan, borne on a bier supported by two officers, followed.
Except for his face, he had been covered with a long, richly
embroidered drapery, over-worked in metallic threads with designs
sacred to Vut. Behind came three armsmen and then the High Consort
in her robe of yellow mourning, but her veil was thrown well back
as if she wished to see every detail of this recommitment of her
lord to the earth she determined would hold him safely this
time.
Ziantha shivered with more than the lash of the wind, the bite
of the snow settling down around them. She watched the Priest-Lord
of Vut lean over the bier, sift upon it more of the ashes. They
must be standing by the open spirit door. Two of the armsmen
lowered themselves through that door, ready to arrange the
commander’s body.
Then the bier was attached to ropes and slid through the opening
to disappear from sight. When the armsmen reappeared, Zuha made a
gesture to Ziantha’s guards.
They were eager as they pulled and pushed her along. Now she
struggled, cried out, for Zuha must not suspect that she greeted
this end with other than the height of fear. The wind was harsh,
icy as it met them full at the top of the cliff.
“But we should know how she did this thing—”
The Priest-Lord of Vut stood before Zuha, authority in his tone.
“If the rebels have such powers—”
“If they have such powers, Reverence, will they not be
able to use them to bend living men to their will as well? Did not
the armsman we found at Xuth tell of how this one controlled him so
when he would go to the Lord Commander’s aid she rendered him
unconscious? She is a danger to us all. Would you take her to the
heart of Vut to practice her sorcery?”
The priest turned to look at Ziantha. Was he going to protest
more? Here at the very last would he defeat all she had fought
for?
“She seems safe enough a prisoner now, High Consort. Would
she allow herself to be so taken if she had the great powers you
fear?”
“She does not have the Lord Commander. In some way he
aided her in this. I do not know how, but it is so; she even
admitted it. I tell you such is a danger as we have not seen
before. There is only one thing she fears—look well at her
now. She fears return to the tomb. Seal it with the seal of Vut and
she will trouble us no more!”
For a moment or two he hesitated. The armsmen and the officers
had closed ranks behind Zuha, and it was apparent he decided not to
stand against them.
Zuha knew that she had won. She swung around to fully face
Ziantha and her guards.
“Strip the witch!” she ordered crisply. “If
she has aught which seems a thing of power, let it be given to the
Priest-Lord. Let her take nothing but her bare skin this
time!”
They ripped her clothing from her, and then one of the officers
caught her by the shoulders, pushed her forward. She felt them run
a rope about her arms. Half frozen in the lash of the wind, she was
dropped over, lowered. A moment later all light vanished as they
clapped down the spirit door.