“I fear for Kasarian. He says little, and never, of course, to me, save on matters to do with the hearth. But he is engaged in some secret dealings, of that I am sure. He disappears for times, some long, some short, when none can see him, and Gannard stays ever close to his chamber as if on guard. Three times has he summoned young Deverian to him, though heretofore he showed no interest in the whelps, save that they mind their tutor and cause no trouble. Tonight he brought Lord Sincarian here and quoted a bride offer—yet Sincarian is such a man as my brother in the past would put fang to the throat. Why does this happen? Why must a female never be told what threatens her hearthhold?”
Singala’s bluish lips shaped a tiny quirk of a smile. “Again questions, questions. But to these I have no answers. Nor”—she glanced away from the hold the girl’s eyes kept on her, along the length of her twisted, aching body—“am I now one who can search out news for you. And”—her smile was gone—“remember this, Heart’s Whelp. Trust is something which can never be sworn to.”
Liara nodded. Even if she had a littermate within the female quarters, she would not turn to her for aid—and never to one of the slave maids.
“I must think on this. Now, my dam by choice, get your rest. Gurtha will be stern with me when she brings your sleep drink.” She attempted to loosen her hold on Singala’s hands, but those crooked fingers now entrapped hers.
“Course with care. You are not of the pack—therefore if they learn this, the pack will pull you down. Oh, Heart Whelp, course with care!”
“As if I would do else. Now rest you, and be sure that I shall do nothing to arouse the pack.”
Back in her own chamber she summarily dismissed both maids, seated herself on a bench before her dressing table, and gazed into the mirror. By every sign she was truly of the pack—yet they hunted not by sight but by more subtle means, reacting speedily to such scent as might be given off by fear or even by some faint change of thought. She had watched Volorian’s prized breed too long not to know that. Through the centuries that their masters had concentrated on such breeding, perhaps some hound nature had become a part of these masters as well.
She had thought to approach Kasarian directly for an accounting. But one in her position did not do such—it was beyond all proper action and training. Her speech in the banquet hall tonight had been on the verge of lost propriety. He had given no sign of either approval or disapproval that she could now sort out of memory. But she half expected him to seek her out, either for a lashing by tongue or—or what?
Liara slipped a tress of her hair back and forth between her fingers. She had heard traders’ tales such as were common in the female quarters. Alizon was not the whole world. There were other lands beyond its borders and the women there had strange ways past all propriety. Others even than the thrice-damned witches went freely about.
There had been slaves brought back from raids on the overseas Dales, though she was too young to remember more than glimpses of the two women who had been part of one of her littermates’ loot. They died, and swiftly—one of them taking with her two of the guard before she was cut down, and the other under the lash. For they could not be broken to the ways of proper obedience.
Liara stirred and now her hands flew busily to her hair. She twisted it tightly, bringing out a net to confine it as close to her head as she might. She sped across the room and pressed her thumbs hard, one on the center of a flower carved on the tall head of the bed and one on the two embossed leaves below it.
There was no sound as the panel swung. She kept it well oiled and it had been more often in use these past days than before. There was a small chamber beyond and she felt for the top of the chest there, snapped a make-light to the wick of a lantern. Then she wrenched her house robe over her head and substituted the one-piece garment she had devised with Singala’s help and sewn herself in secret. It had a hood which she pulled into place, leaving only a slit for her eyes.
The treasure chamber. She had made that part of her decision. She could have, of course, asked that her dam’s jewel case be brought to her, but somehow she wanted the Key in her own hands before anyone else knew it or even guessed that she would want it.
The hidden ways of the hold were a spider web. She kept carefully away from those she thought were known to Gannard or her littermate, as she made her way down and down, sometimes by stretches of ladders formed by finger- and toeholds only, to the lower depths. The lantern swung from a firm grasp on its cord, but its light was limited.
Two years ago during her night wanderings she had found the hidden entrance to the treasure room and now she searched once again for the proper turnings. At the time she had simply explored gingerly, afraid that there might be a hidden alarm which would betray her presence. But now she knew what she must look for. Threading a path between chests, storage boxes, even suits of armor glistening with gems as the lantern light touched them, she came to that table where she had noted a number of smaller coffers.
Swinging the lantern lower, she strove to read the arms engraved on the begemmed lid of each. Dust had settled—except on one! Liara halted. There was the double house badge of her dam. But even as her hand went out to seize upon its lid, her eyes and her sense of caution were keen enough for her to see that this one had been disturbed. She drew a deep breath.
The Key! She hesitated no longer but lifted the lid, the fastening of which showed marks of being forced. There was wealth in plenty to glitter up at the lantern as she swung it closer. With a finger she stirred coils of necklaces, the tumble of two state collars, a sprinkling of rings. No key.
Liara caught her lower lip between her teeth. Kasarian—she was as sure as if she had seen him. He had taken the Hearthkeeper’s Key—that which was rightfully hers!
She flipped closed the chest. Females were supposed to hold tight to any strong emotion. You might smile and smile when within you seethed with a storm of anger. She had seen Hearthkeepers accept dire insults with a languid air as if their ears were purposefully deafened to such.
But that did not mean that they could not plan—and act—to rebalance the scales of justice. Kasarian had her key. Now—now dared she confront him openly?
Liara shook her head at her own thought. No . . . subtle as some new weapon she must be. But first she must learn more, and since she was ready for such searching, she would start now.
It meant venturing into the ways she had always prudently avoided. But a good hound did not turn from the hunt because of a thorn in the foot pad. So Liara began a most cautious journey within the walls of her own home hearth.
The first unknown side turning she took led downward again and she decided to stick with it. Whatever Kasarian was doing, she believed he needed privacy, and he was not going to find that above—even with Gannard and Olderic to screen him.
She thought she must be past the level of even the dungeons now. Then the faint echo of a voice brought her quickly around and into another side opening, which led to so narrow a crack that she must turn sidewise to follow. But the voice was growing louder and now she could distinguish words.
“. . . honor of the house, whelp. You are the son of Regroian, who died to serve Alizon. That your littermate is ill is a pity, but he has done this many times. You will take this into your hand—latching it also to your belt.”
Liara’s own hand moved along the rough stone, then her nails caught in a crack and there was a jar of sound. She could not turn to go. Her body seemed wedged in and she was helpless, as if she were bound there to await Kasarian’s pleasure—for there was no mistaking his voice.
However, whatever lock she had in her folly undone answered that pressure she had unsuspectingly applied. A narrow door, only a little wider than the passage, swung open, gathering speed as it went so that it crashed against the outer surface beyond her reach.
Kasarian, yes, and with him, Nakarian, the younger of the two house whelps.
Her brother whirled. His thrown knife seemed to strike oddly to her left,
though she knew that Kasarian was an expert.
He flung out an arm and swept Nakarian back, advancing on her now with sword out and ready. Liara dropped the lantern. There was torchlight enough in the outer room to reveal her face as she scrabbled with hasty fingers to loose her hood.
Kasarian was already striking. That blade with its custom poison tip should have sliced into her at heart level. Instead the point rebounded with a force which also made him loosen his hold upon the hilt.
He stared at her, at the sword, and then back at her again. Deliberately now he stalked forward and she would not allow herself to try to squeeze away from his weapon. She was of the blood of Krevanel and as a female of that line she would die.
And strike he did, only to once more fail. Now he snarled, showing his teeth like one of the sire hounds.
Liara did not know what protection stood there with her, she only knew that one did. Dimly, very dimly in her mind a faint memory stirred. The Key—the Key was the answer!
“I am First Female of the Line of Krevanel, Guardian of the Hearth. In me doubly, as in you, littermate, runs the mage blood. And I have come for what is mine by pack right!”
His eyes widened, and he dropped his sword point.
“What is yours by pack right, female?” His voice grated dangerously, as it might have had she been an insolent slave.
“The Key of Kaylania, which was of my mother’s holding but was not given into my hands.”
Kasarian took a step backward. Slowly he shook his head from side to side, not as if he were denying her words, but rather as if he were trying to clear his thoughts.
“Come.” He beckoned and then added, “If you can—female who carries mage blood.”
Perhaps he meant to cut her down once she was free of this passage. Yet her pride was high and she would not yield to any fear. She stepped down from the level of the passage to the floor and stood facing him.
Those vividly green eyes of his which had widened earlier were now narrowing into slits. Suddenly he plucked something from his belt and tossed it to her with a queer expression of one waiting for some strange action.
Her own trained reflexes answered. Out of the air she caught a key—large, old. And it was warm in her hand, fitting within her fingers as if it were meant to rest there.
But there was something else now—a circle of brilliant light snapped into life and grew. She saw Kasarian suddenly grab the whelp and take from him a packet, which he tossed to Liara.
“Mage blood you claim—mage blood you be!”
The circle of light was turning into an oval, growing taller and taller. She saw Kasarian turn again on Nakarian and strike a blow, knocking the boy to the floor.
“Go, mage! You will find your kennel waiting!”
He gestured to the oval of light, which was now pulsating. It was a door—a door! She took one step forward and then another conscious now only of that opening. Nor did she feel Kasarian’s clutch at her wrist twisting the Key from her. At the same time his other hand slammed her between the shoulders, sending her stumbling into the core of that light, into whirling, wringing nothingness.
CHAPTER THREE
Lormt
K eris pushed the Lady Mereth’s wheeled chair with all the care he could summon. She never complained, but he had learned during these past days to watch for that shade of shadow which was the only sign of pain her features ever showed. How he had become in part her feet, and sometimes her hands, he could not rightly have explained, but now it seemed very natural that her wishes were as commands, as those of any Border captain.
The greatest chamber in Lormt, comprising most of the first floor of one of the undamaged wall sections connecting the three still-standing towers, had taken on a new look.
It had been ruthlessly cleared of age-worn desks. Piles of wood-backed books and rolls of manuscript had been stored in coffers along the walls, much to the fretting of that handful of elderly scholars who considered this their complete domain and were being rousted out of it without even a by-your-leave.
Owen and the Marshal Duratan, as well as the Lady Mereth, had attempted to clear the room for action without producing outward mutiny among those accustomed for so long to study there. There had been gusty scenes and in the end desks and materials had simply been moved and their owners told where to find them.
Now the huge chamber was occupied by a long center table, one Keris believed could seat with ease half a Border regiment. It had hurriedly been put together from the scarred refectory tables found here and there, some having been used only for the repository of books. Now it was covered not by a rich banqueting cloth, but by a strip of hide, cut and united again to form a runner from one end to another. And this was the center of present activity.
Men and women gathered up and down its sides and the sound of their voices rose far above a hum. Sometimes there was the sharp rise of argument and then Duratan, or Nolar his Lady, Owen, or the Lady Mereth would straightaway appear to listen and then bring the disputants to some agreement.
Many of those working on that huge map carried trays slung from cords about their necks, trays on which rested small pots of inks, while they held a selection of brushes in one hand or even between their teeth, their jerkins and robes spotted with the signs of their industry.
What was growing before all their eyes now was a strange picture of their world as they knew it. Mountains had been sketched in, rivers ran, forests blotted out portions of the hide.
In addition there were representations of blocky cities and ports, darksome towers. Sulcar charts were much in evidence, those who brought them surveying the new map keenly, often with sharp critical comments, locating ports which had been hardly more than legend to most of those there who were not seafarers.
Already there appeared several of those ominous pentagons which had been chosen for the symbol of the existence of gates.
The searching party for Estcarp and that of Escore were already on the move. Each included one of the witches, and that of Estcarp had located near the head of the River Es indications—very faint but still unmistakable—that a gate had once existed there.
The power needed for communication with Arvon via the Adept Hilarion’s instrument was too exhausting to those who must use it, and since their first contact they had had news only that those of Gryphon were spreading the news to arouse the Dales. Whether any real searching had begun there no one knew.
Lady Mereth was writing on her slate and Keris read the request over her shoulder.
“Ask the Lady Nolar to find us the Lady Liara.”
Keris nodded, positioning the chair broadside so that his present liege lady could see a section of the map which was nearly blank. This was not the territory of Alizon. Why that—that woman of the damned, hound-loving race was needed, he could not understand. As had most of them who had come in contact with her, he tried to ignore Liara entirely. Only the Lady Mereth, Duratan, and Nolar seemed to know how she arrived here in the first place. Though her people were established by very ancient lore to have entered via a gate, they had always been bitter enemies to those native to this land. Had not the Lady Mereth herself, Dales-born in High Hallack, suffered deep sorrow during the vicious invasion of the Alizonderns when they attempted to possess her homeland?
Keris threaded his way through the ever-moving throng about the slowly growing map, trying to catch sight of the Lady Nolar. Instead he nearly stumbled over a small figure robed in such dimming gray that she seemed hardly more than one of the shadows which their many lamps had nearly driven from the hall.
Keris backed away and bowed. “Lady, your pardon.”
To his mind witches were mature women, and from his first meeting he had wondered why this diminutive girl, hardly more than a child, had been included in the company sent from the Place of Wisdom.
“She is hiding—the Alizondern.” Even her voice still held a childish ring.
Hiding—spying! His revulsion arose swiftly.
The w
itch shook her head vigorously. “She is not our enemy—though so she has been counted. She watches—not spies. For this is the only way she can learn what we are, what we do. Her people know nothing of trust. Theirs is a hard, dark life and from their birthing they believe fate hangs over them. But this Liara—the older blood is stronger in her than she knows. The Lady Jaelithe perhaps can aid her—for she has also a part to play. Come.”
The witch girl led him toward the side of the hall where the discarded desks had been piled as safely as possible. Someone moved there, shrinking back but unable to get beyond his sight.
Keris moistened his lips. He certainly could not speak the devilish language of Liara’s kind. But she had picked up a few words—at least names.
“Lady Mereth—she—wants—you—” he spoke a little loudly as he might to one deaf.
Slowly the girl advanced from her hiding place. She was wearing the breeches, skirt, jerkin, and boots which were the garb of many of the women in the room, and her hair, so intensely white that it seemed to shine like a lamp glow, was tightly braided. By such dress she could be any of the Escore women at work on the map. But her heritage was plain in her pale face: that shining hair, and her slanted green eyes, with features narrow and sharp. Alizonderns were half hound according to legend, and Keris thought at that moment that they might indeed be were, able to shape-change and run with their packs.
• • •
Liara still felt that she was caught in some foul dream. This place . . . where had Kasarian thrust her in his hate for her—for she was sure only hate had made him send her so? Only that old totterer Morfew spoke her tongue. But his explanation of what had happened was so beyond comprehension that she did not believe it. All this talk of posterns and gates—
She looked at these strangers facing her now. The girl—Liara swallowed and swallowed again—the girl was a witch! Centuries of hatred and mistrust lay between them.
The young man—Morfew had told her he was a halfling, part human only, though he looked to be the same as any of the guardsmen passing now and then on errands. He wore a sword and another long holster weapon, which was common, but she wondered for a scornful moment whether all the Green Valley men such as he could stand up against Kasarian, or even her littermate’s guards.