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Web of the Witch World

10 JAELITHE FOUND

It would seem that Tormarsh, for all its taboo-locked borders, still heard the news from outside the swamp.
“The story is long—”
“There is time,” she told him flatly, “for the telling of it. And I would hear.”
There was a definite order in that. Simon began, cutting the tale to bare outline, but telling of the ax marriage made for Loyse in Verlaine’s towers and all that happened thereafter. But when he spoke of the ship-wreck on the coast and how he, Koris, and two survivors of the Guard had climbed to discover themselves in the long-lost tomb of Volt, where Koris had boldly claimed Volt’s ax from the hands of the mummified dead, the Torwoman halted him abruptly, made him go into details. She questioned and requestioned him on small points, such as the words, as well as he could remember, that Koris had used when he asked the ax of Volt, and how that ax had been taken easily, with the long dead body crumbling into dust once the shaft had been withdrawn from the claw hands.
“Volt’s ax—he bears Volt’s ax!” she said when he was done. “This must be thought upon.”
Simon expelled his breath in a gasp. She was gone—as if she had never stood there, solid body on solid pavement. He took two strides to the same spot where she had been standing only an instant earlier, drove his boot down in a stamp which proved the footing as solid as it looked. But—she was gone!
Hallucination? Had she ever been here at all? Or was this one of those mind-twisting tricks such as the witches played? Shape-changing—that was as eerie in its way as this instant vanishing. So this could be another form of magic, with its own rules, simple enough when one was trained by those rules. And not only the Torwoman practiced it, for the boy had winked out in just the same way. But to those who did not know the trick, this room or others like it would continue to be prison cells.
Simon returned to the bed. The tray with its beaker and plate still rested there. That much was real. And the fact that his hunger and thirst was gone, that he felt strong and able again—that was no hallucination.
He had been captured and imprisoned. But he had also been fed, and so far he had not been threatened. His dart gun was gone, but he had expected to be disarmed. What did these marsh dwellers want? He and Loyse had come into their territory by accident. He knew that they resented all trespassing bitterly, but were they fanatical enough on that subject to hold the innocent equally guilty with any determined invader?
Did they close their borders to everyone? Simon remembered Aldis, her hands tight upon the Kolder talisman, so deeply sunk in her voiceless call for aid that she was unaware of action about her. She must have expected such aid—so Kolder crawled somewhere in Tormarsh as evilly as the lizard thing had crawled upon the flyer.
Kolder. To those of witch blood Kolder was a void, noticeable in its presence because of that void. In the times past he, too, had known Kolder by sensing it—not as a void but as a waiting menace. Could he pick up the canker now the same way?
Simon set the tray on the stool, stretched himself once more on the bed, closed his eyes, and set his will free. He had always had this gift of foreseeing, in part a limping gift, not to be disciplined into any real service. But he was sure that since he had come to Estcarp that gift had grown, strengthened. Jaelithe—the twist of pain which always came now with the thought of Jaelithe. She had used the symbols of power between them twice and those had glowed in answer. So that she had hailed him as one of her kind, then . . .
Now, though he intended to go hunting for the cancer of Kolder, rather did his mind return again and again to Jaelithe, to pictures of her. First, as he had seen her fleeing in rags with the hounds of Alizon baying on her trail, then as she had ridden in mail and war helm to Sulcarkeep when Kolder had made its first foul move in the present war. Jaelithe, kneeling on the quay of that fortress, breathing witchery into the scraps of sail for the vessels they had hastily whittled from wood, tossing those crude ships into the sea, so that a mighty fleet moved out through the cloaking mist to confound the enemy. Jaelithe acting as a sorceress and reader of fortunes, brewer of love potions in Kars, when her summoning had brought him across many miles to her aid. Jaelithe, shape-changed into a hideous hag and riding in company over the border to rouse Estcarp for war.
Jaelithe in Gorm, telling him in her own way that that way was also his from then on. Jaelithe in his arms, being one with him in a way no other woman had ever been before, or would ever be again. Jaelithe excited, bright-eyed, that last morning, in the belief that her witchcraft had not gone from her at all, but that she was all she had been. Jaelithe—gone from him as if she used the traveling magic of these Torfolk.
Jaelithe! Simon did not cry that aloud, but inside of him it was one great shout of longing. Jaelithe!
“Simon!”
His eyes snapped open, he was staring up into the gloom, for the crawling lights had returned to their scattered clusters along the walls.
No, that had not come in any audible voice. Breathing fast, he closed his eyes again. “Jaelithe?”
“Simon.” Firm, assured, as she had ever been.
“You are here?” He thought that, trying to shape the words clearly in his mind as a man might fumble about in a foreign tongue of which he knew little.
“No—in body—no.”
“You are here!” he replied with a conviction he could not explain.
“In a way, Simon—because you are—I am. Tell me, Simon, where are you?”
“Somewhere within Tormarsh.”
“So much is already known, since we are aware that your flyer dropped there. But, you are no longer Kolder ruled.”
“Fulk’s belt—one of the bosses on it—their planting.”
“Yes, it opened a gate for them. But you were never so much theirs that we could not alter their spell a little. That is why you did not fly seaward at their bidding, but inland. Tormarsh is no ally of ours, but perhaps there is better chance to treat with Tormarsh than Kolder.”
“Kolder is here also.” Simon told her what he believed to be the truth. “Aldis called their aid, she was calling when we left her.”
“Ah!”
“Jaelithe!” That moment of withdrawal frightened him.
“I hear. But if Kolder is with you—”
“I was trying to search for it.”
“So? Well, perhaps in that two may be better than one, my dear lord. Think you on Aldis. If she moved to Kolder, perhaps your power may move with her—to our better knowledge.”
Simon tried to picture Aldis as he had seen her last, lying in the flyer as he pushed back the sprung door. But he discovered that he could not visualize that clearly at all. Instead he had momentary flashes of quite another and nonfamiliar scene—of Aldis seated, leaning forward, speaking eagerly to—to a blankness. And upon that the tie, if tie it was, with Aldis snapped.
“Kolder!” Jaelithe’s recognition was sharp as any blow. “And they are on the move, I think. Listen well, Simon. The Guardians say that my power is now only a wisp which will fail with the passing of time, that I have no place now in the Council of Es. But I tell you that between us we have something that I do not understand, for it is different than all else which I have held in my witchhood. Therefore, though it has taken me time to test this thing, to work with it as best I can, I have learned that I am not able to shape or aim it, save with you. Perhaps both of us must be the united vessel for this new strength. Sometimes it rages within me until I fear that I cannot hold it in bonds. But we have so little time to learn it. Kolder. is on the move and it may be that we cannot bring you forth from Tormarsh before that move is made—”
“I do not wear their talisman, but it may be that they can control me still,” he warned her. “If so, can they reach you through me?”
“I do not know. I have learned so little! It is like trying to shape fire with my two hands! But this we can do—”
Again a snapping—even more sharp than that break which had come between him and the shadow shape of Aldis.
“Jaelithe!” he shouted soundlessly. But this time—no reply.

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Web of the Witch World

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10 JAELITHE FOUND

“I CAN GO no farther . . .”
Simon kept Loyse on her feet with an effort; her stumbling had become a weaving he could barely support. The sight of the quagmire beyond the road’s end had sapped all her strength.
He was hardly in better case himself. The need for water, for food, racked him. And he had kept the girl on her feet only because he was sure that if they gave way now they might never be able to go on again.
Being so lightheaded Simon did not see the first of those balls which had plopped to the ancient roadway and burst to release a cloud of floury particles. But the second fell almost at their feet, and he had caution enough left to stagger back from it, dragging Loyse with him.
But they were ringed in, the dusty puffs rising and melting into a thin wall about them. Simon held Loyse against him, his dart gun ready. Only one could not fight a cloud rising sluggishly. And he had no doubt that this was a deliberate attack.
“What—?” Loyse’s voice was a hoarse croak.
“I don’t know!” Simon returned, but he knew enough not to try to cross the line of the cloud.
So far these flaky particles had not reached towards the two they confined. And they arose straight from the broken balls from which they had issued as if still attached to those sources. They were not so thick that Simon could not see beyond. Sooner or later someone would come to the sprung trap—then would be his turn. There was a full clip of the three-inch needle points in his dart gun.
Now the cloud began to move. Not in at them but around, speeding in that circling until Simon could no longer distinguish particles but saw only an opaque milky band.
“Simon. I think they are coming!” Loyse pulled a little away, her hand was on knife hilt.
“So do I.”
But they were to be given no chance at defense. There was another dull popping sound. A ball from which the circle would not let them retreat, fell, to break. From this came nothing they could see. Only they wilted, to lay still, their hands falling away from the weapons they never had a chance to use.

Simon was in a box and the air was driven from his lungs. He could not breathe—breathe! His whole body was one aching, fighting desire for breath again. Simon opened his eyes, choking, gasping in pungent fumes which arose from a saucer being held by his head. He jerked away from that torment and found he could breathe now, just as he could see.
A wan and murky light came from irregular clusters on the walls well above where he lay. Stone walls, and the damp and chill of them reached him. He looked to the one who held that saucer. In the pallid light perhaps details of features and clothing were not too clear, but he saw enough to startle him.
Simon lay on a bed for this other sat on a stool and so was at eye level. Small, but still large-boned enough to appear misshapen, too long arms, too short legs. The head, turned so that the eyes met his. Large, the hair a fine dark down, not like hair at all. And the features surprisingly regular, handsome in a forbidding way, as if the emotions behind them were not quite those of Simon’s kind.
The Torman arose. He was quite young, Simon thought; there was a lank youthfulness about his gangling body. He wore the breeches—leggings such as were common to Estcarp, but above them a mail jerkin made of palm-sized plates laid scallop fashion one over the other.
With one more measuring stare at Simon the boy crossed the room, moving with that feline grace which Simon had always found at odds with Koris’ squat frame. He called, but Simon heard no real words, only a kind of beeping such as some swamp amphibian might voice. Then he completely vanished from Simon’s sight.
Although the room had a tendency to swing and sway Simon sat up, steadying himself with his hands. His fingers moved across the bed coverings, a fabric fine and silky to the touch. Save for the bed, the stool on which the young Torman had sat, the room was empty.
It was low of ceiling, with the massive beam across its middle forming a deep ridge. The lights were clustered haphazardly about. Then Simon saw one of them move, leave a cluster of three and crawl slowly to join a singleton!
Though the stone walls were damp and chill, yet the swamp stench did not hang there. Simon got warily to his feet. The radiance of the crawling lights was dim, but he could see all four walls. And in none was there any opening. Where and how had the Torman left?
He was still bemused over that when, a second or so later, he heard a sound behind. To turn quickly almost made him lose his balance. Another figure stood on the far side of the bed, slighter, less ill-proportioned than the boy, but unmistakably of the same race.
She wore a robe which gleamed with small fiery glints, not from any embroidery or outer decorations, but from strands woven into the cloth itself. The down which had fitted the boy’s head in a close cap, reached to her shoulders as a fluffy, springing cloud, caught away from her face and eyes by silver clasps on the temples.
The tray she held she put down on the bed for lack of table. Then only did she look at Simon.
“Eat!” It was an order, not an invitation.
Simon sat down again, pulling the tray to him, but still more interested in the woman than what rested on its surface. The paleness of the light could be deceiving but he thought that she was not young. Though there was no outward signs of age such as might appear among his own kind. It was rather an invisible aura which was hers—maturity, wisdom, and also—authority! Whoever she might be, she was a woman of consequence.
He took both hands to raise the beaker of liquid to his lips. It was without any ornament, that wide-mouthed cup, and he thought it was of wood. But its satiny surface and beautiful polish made it a thing of beauty.
The contents were water, but water in which something had been mixed. This was not ale or wine, but an herb drink. At first the taste was bitter, but then that sharp difference vanished and Simon drank eagerly, relishing it the more with every mouthful he sipped.
On a plate of the same shining, polished wood were cubes of a solid, cheese-seeming substance. As the drink, they had a wry taste upon the first bite, and grew more savory later. All the time Simon ate the woman stood watching him. Yet there was an aloofness about her; she was doing her duty by feeding one whom she found unacceptable. And Simon began to prickle under that realization.
He finished the last cube and then, his faintness gone, he got to his feet, favored the silent watcher with much the same bow as he would have used to greet one of the Guardians.
“My thanks to you, lady.”
She made no move to pick up the tray but came forward, around the end of the bed, so that a large cluster of the crawling lights revealed her more clearly. Then Simon saw that the lights were indeed crawling, breaking up their scattered companies to gather along the beam overhead.
“You are of Estcarp.” A statement and yet a question as if, looking upon him, the woman doubted that.
“I serve the Guardians. But I am not of the Old Blood.” His appearance, Simon decided, was what puzzled her.
“Of Estcarp.” Now it was a statement. “Tell me, witch warrior, who commands in Estcarp—you?”
“No. I am Border Warder of the south. Koris of Gorm is marshal and seneschal.”
“Koris of Gorm. And what manner of man is Koris of Gorm?”
“A mighty warrior, a good friend, a keeper of oaths, and one who has been hurt from his birth.” From whence had come those words for his use? They were not phrased to match his thinking, yet what he had said was the truth.
“And how came the Lord of Gorm to serve the witches?”
“Because he was never truly lord of Gorm. When his father died his stepmother called in Kolder to establish the rule for her own son. And Koris, escaping Kolder, came to Estcarp. He wishes not Gorm, for Gorm under Kolder died, and he was never happy there.”
“Never happy there—But why was he not happy? Hilder was a kindly man and a good one.”
“But those of his following would never let Koris forget he was—strange . . .” Simon hesitated, striving to choose the right words. Koris’ mother had come from Tormarsh. This woman could even be kin to the seneschal.
“Yes.” She did not add to that but asked a very different question. “This maid who was taken with you, what is she to you?”
“A friend—one who has been with me in battle. And she is betrothed to Koris who seeks her now!” If there was any advantage to be gained from the thread of connection between the seneschal and the marsh people, then Loyse must have it.
“Yet they say she is duchess in Karsten. And there is war between the witches and those of Karsten.”
It would seem that Tormarsh, for all its taboo-locked borders, still heard the news from outside the swamp.
“The story is long—”
“There is time,” she told him flatly, “for the telling of it. And I would hear.”
There was a definite order in that. Simon began, cutting the tale to bare outline, but telling of the ax marriage made for Loyse in Verlaine’s towers and all that happened thereafter. But when he spoke of the ship-wreck on the coast and how he, Koris, and two survivors of the Guard had climbed to discover themselves in the long-lost tomb of Volt, where Koris had boldly claimed Volt’s ax from the hands of the mummified dead, the Torwoman halted him abruptly, made him go into details. She questioned and requestioned him on small points, such as the words, as well as he could remember, that Koris had used when he asked the ax of Volt, and how that ax had been taken easily, with the long dead body crumbling into dust once the shaft had been withdrawn from the claw hands.
“Volt’s ax—he bears Volt’s ax!” she said when he was done. “This must be thought upon.”
Simon expelled his breath in a gasp. She was gone—as if she had never stood there, solid body on solid pavement. He took two strides to the same spot where she had been standing only an instant earlier, drove his boot down in a stamp which proved the footing as solid as it looked. But—she was gone!
Hallucination? Had she ever been here at all? Or was this one of those mind-twisting tricks such as the witches played? Shape-changing—that was as eerie in its way as this instant vanishing. So this could be another form of magic, with its own rules, simple enough when one was trained by those rules. And not only the Torwoman practiced it, for the boy had winked out in just the same way. But to those who did not know the trick, this room or others like it would continue to be prison cells.
Simon returned to the bed. The tray with its beaker and plate still rested there. That much was real. And the fact that his hunger and thirst was gone, that he felt strong and able again—that was no hallucination.
He had been captured and imprisoned. But he had also been fed, and so far he had not been threatened. His dart gun was gone, but he had expected to be disarmed. What did these marsh dwellers want? He and Loyse had come into their territory by accident. He knew that they resented all trespassing bitterly, but were they fanatical enough on that subject to hold the innocent equally guilty with any determined invader?
Did they close their borders to everyone? Simon remembered Aldis, her hands tight upon the Kolder talisman, so deeply sunk in her voiceless call for aid that she was unaware of action about her. She must have expected such aid—so Kolder crawled somewhere in Tormarsh as evilly as the lizard thing had crawled upon the flyer.
Kolder. To those of witch blood Kolder was a void, noticeable in its presence because of that void. In the times past he, too, had known Kolder by sensing it—not as a void but as a waiting menace. Could he pick up the canker now the same way?
Simon set the tray on the stool, stretched himself once more on the bed, closed his eyes, and set his will free. He had always had this gift of foreseeing, in part a limping gift, not to be disciplined into any real service. But he was sure that since he had come to Estcarp that gift had grown, strengthened. Jaelithe—the twist of pain which always came now with the thought of Jaelithe. She had used the symbols of power between them twice and those had glowed in answer. So that she had hailed him as one of her kind, then . . .
Now, though he intended to go hunting for the cancer of Kolder, rather did his mind return again and again to Jaelithe, to pictures of her. First, as he had seen her fleeing in rags with the hounds of Alizon baying on her trail, then as she had ridden in mail and war helm to Sulcarkeep when Kolder had made its first foul move in the present war. Jaelithe, kneeling on the quay of that fortress, breathing witchery into the scraps of sail for the vessels they had hastily whittled from wood, tossing those crude ships into the sea, so that a mighty fleet moved out through the cloaking mist to confound the enemy. Jaelithe acting as a sorceress and reader of fortunes, brewer of love potions in Kars, when her summoning had brought him across many miles to her aid. Jaelithe, shape-changed into a hideous hag and riding in company over the border to rouse Estcarp for war.
Jaelithe in Gorm, telling him in her own way that that way was also his from then on. Jaelithe in his arms, being one with him in a way no other woman had ever been before, or would ever be again. Jaelithe excited, bright-eyed, that last morning, in the belief that her witchcraft had not gone from her at all, but that she was all she had been. Jaelithe—gone from him as if she used the traveling magic of these Torfolk.
Jaelithe! Simon did not cry that aloud, but inside of him it was one great shout of longing. Jaelithe!
“Simon!”
His eyes snapped open, he was staring up into the gloom, for the crawling lights had returned to their scattered clusters along the walls.
No, that had not come in any audible voice. Breathing fast, he closed his eyes again. “Jaelithe?”
“Simon.” Firm, assured, as she had ever been.
“You are here?” He thought that, trying to shape the words clearly in his mind as a man might fumble about in a foreign tongue of which he knew little.
“No—in body—no.”
“You are here!” he replied with a conviction he could not explain.
“In a way, Simon—because you are—I am. Tell me, Simon, where are you?”
“Somewhere within Tormarsh.”
“So much is already known, since we are aware that your flyer dropped there. But, you are no longer Kolder ruled.”
“Fulk’s belt—one of the bosses on it—their planting.”
“Yes, it opened a gate for them. But you were never so much theirs that we could not alter their spell a little. That is why you did not fly seaward at their bidding, but inland. Tormarsh is no ally of ours, but perhaps there is better chance to treat with Tormarsh than Kolder.”
“Kolder is here also.” Simon told her what he believed to be the truth. “Aldis called their aid, she was calling when we left her.”
“Ah!”
“Jaelithe!” That moment of withdrawal frightened him.
“I hear. But if Kolder is with you—”
“I was trying to search for it.”
“So? Well, perhaps in that two may be better than one, my dear lord. Think you on Aldis. If she moved to Kolder, perhaps your power may move with her—to our better knowledge.”
Simon tried to picture Aldis as he had seen her last, lying in the flyer as he pushed back the sprung door. But he discovered that he could not visualize that clearly at all. Instead he had momentary flashes of quite another and nonfamiliar scene—of Aldis seated, leaning forward, speaking eagerly to—to a blankness. And upon that the tie, if tie it was, with Aldis snapped.
“Kolder!” Jaelithe’s recognition was sharp as any blow. “And they are on the move, I think. Listen well, Simon. The Guardians say that my power is now only a wisp which will fail with the passing of time, that I have no place now in the Council of Es. But I tell you that between us we have something that I do not understand, for it is different than all else which I have held in my witchhood. Therefore, though it has taken me time to test this thing, to work with it as best I can, I have learned that I am not able to shape or aim it, save with you. Perhaps both of us must be the united vessel for this new strength. Sometimes it rages within me until I fear that I cannot hold it in bonds. But we have so little time to learn it. Kolder. is on the move and it may be that we cannot bring you forth from Tormarsh before that move is made—”
“I do not wear their talisman, but it may be that they can control me still,” he warned her. “If so, can they reach you through me?”
“I do not know. I have learned so little! It is like trying to shape fire with my two hands! But this we can do—”
Again a snapping—even more sharp than that break which had come between him and the shadow shape of Aldis.
“Jaelithe!” he shouted soundlessly. But this time—no reply.

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