His voice came close to her ear as his breath stirred wisps of hair which had worked free from under the edge of her cap.
“You shall see—”
17
He swung her up as if she was of no weight at all, carried her swiftly to the next chamber where furniture loomed darkly against the walls and she knew that she was once more in the dining room where Lady Lyle had once sat enthroned. It was to that same chair this stranger brought her now, settling her within it. She struggled for self-possession, for the energy to (once his hold was off her) get away. But it was as if she had been bound with cords and she suspected that his will made that so.
Even in the dark his body was visible, he seemed to glow faintly as had the stones—not with their white light, rather with a faint haze of gold. She watched him wordlessly as he went to the doorway again and passed through, leaving her alone.
Gwennan was cold. Her body shook still with that chill which had crept up through her hands, her wrists, her arms, during her labor to open the casket. Her teeth chattered in spite of her struggle for control. Within her boots her feet were as numb now as the upper part of her body—she might be congealing into ice.
There was no sound through the shadowed house. Only on her breast the pendant glowed. Somehow she managed to break the hold of her icy, stiff fingers on the arms of the tall backed chair—the hold which kept her where she was, not suffering her to slide to the floor as a boneless heap. With an effort Gwennan brought her two hands together, cupping the pendant between them.
The silence was not that of death—of an end; it was rather one of anticipation, a pause before action. She realized that slowly by the aid of that other awareness. Her hands were warming, life was returning to her. However, there had come no added strength with that life, rather her sense of being a prisoner grew the stronger. A prisoner to another’s will—to fulfill a commitment she had never made—not consciously.
She could only fight for control of her inner will, as her body responded to the power enclosed in that piece of alien metal. Her breath came in deep, long inhalations equalling those the awakening Guardian had taken before he moved into action. As her frantic beating heart slowed, the warmth spread through her, Gwennan listened.
Nothing to be heard, not even the faint stir of air. There lingered an odor of the smoke. In this chamber she could not see a window. Long pieces of tapestry were drawn over those. Candles—on the table—on one of the tall chests—but she did not have the strength to rise and light those.
Gwennan shifted in the chair, transferred her hold on the pendant to one hand, with the other tried to push herself up. Light at last! Her head snapped around so she could gaze squarely at the glimmer growing brighter at the doorway through which her captor (for she must consider him so) had vanished.
The light did not sharpen—rather remained a diffused radiance. Then he entered—that other Tor. He held his right hand outstretched. In the cupped palm rested a sphere, twin to that which had already given her windows on strange places, shown her at last his place of rest.
He was clothed now—Tor’s clothing—and it made him look even more like the one she feared. Still, when she gazed up into his face, there was a difference. The gem bright eyes were as far seeing but they were now half closed—forming shields for what lay behind them. There was no sly mockery about his mouth as he smiled at her. His lift and curve of lip was like that of Lady Lyle, meant to—charm—entice—? Gwennan settled farther back in her chair.
“We have little time,” he broke the silence. “Doors are opened which must be closed. However, only he who summons can also dismiss—”
“You—” the girl had to moisten her lips with tongue tip before she spoke.
“No.” He seated himself in the chair at her right and laid his hand on the table so that globe was between them, flowering like a small bit of sun. “There is Tor—Look!”
She could not have resisted that order any more than in this moment she could have arisen to leave the room. There was the familiar swirling of haze within the globe he supported and her eyes centered on it. That took form—a form—
On a cot lay a man, his shoulders and arms swathed in a thick green covering—a treatment for burns. His eyes were closed but his head turned from side to side as if something within him sought escape.
“Call him!” That was a command. Again there was nothing Gwennan could do to stiffen her will so she need not obey. She was forced forward, there might have been a vast compelling hand set to her back, pushing her so.
“Call him!” The command did not ring loudly, but it was one she could not evade.
“Tor—” At first that name came as a ragged whisper. Then she spoke it more loudly as if she did indeed stand beside the injured man demanding him to return to consciousness.
His eyes did not open, but his movements became more restless. Where he was she could not tell, but she thought perhaps he was still in the village—that they had not yet transported him to the hospital for treatment.
“Tor—!”
He did open his eyes now. They were dull, unseeing—
“Tor!” For the third and last time Gwennan called. Then the haze arose, the picture was gone. The ball moved from the hollow of the hand which held it, rolled out upon the table—though it did not lose its glow.
“He will come—” There was assurance in the voice of the one who sat beside her.
“How can he?” Gwennan had command of herself again enough to ask. “He’s hurt—burned—they’ll stop him—”
That other shook his head. “It is laid upon him—no one can stop him. Come—” This time the summons was for her, and not Tor. He held out the same hand which had cupped the globe, making no move towards picking that up once again.
She found that, without thinking, her fingers had reached out, to be enfolded by his. There was an instant flow of strength and vitality borne by the touching of their flesh—an in-flow to her. She remembered how Ortha had watched the Voice weave the Power into that which comforted and brought peace. Did she want such comfort, such peace? A small part of her cried out against taking anything which was not of her world. However, she had gone too far down that other path, been drawn into a slate which was now removed from all she had been and done.
He drew her up from the chair and she discovered that she had lost all weakness and gnawing fear which had ridden her for so long. Then, hand in hand, they went through the house, not towards that front portal, but the back way by which she had come so secretly in the dark.
When they stood together in the courtyard outside Gwennan discovered that in some unknown fashion her eyes had adjusted to the dark—that she could see much which had been hidden before. See—hear—smell—!
That which had followed her to the wall gate no longer battered nor screamed, still it waited beyond. More than one of those alien things lingered outside.
“He is coming—” The earlier promise was stated as fact by her companion.
“What can he do—?” she dared to ask.
“What he must,” was the answer. “The calling was his—so now he must also face that which was called. For every action there is a summation. One faces that willingly—or unwillingly.”
“Who—who are you?” She had had to accept that he was not Tor. But who or what he was she felt she must know.
“I am he who has the Duty. I am he who must wait—”
Evasive enough, but she dared not at present try to learn more. She was as much in awe of him as Ortha had been of the Arm in ages past. Tor possessed powers beyond her reckoning, she had always guessed that. But this man (if he were man at all) was greater by far.
There was an absolute stillness when he finished speaking—a stillness which waited—as the house behind her waited. Gwennan strained to hear even the smallest sound which hinted that the end of that waiting was nearer.
A grunting growl—so deep and menacing — broke that silence. Gwennan started. The clasp on her hand tightened
.
“It is time—”
He who stood with her went forward, confidently, as though there was nothing which could touch him. She, too, was so drawn along, matching her steps to his. They were at the gate of the courtyard. His other hand pointed. That barrier swung inward and they stood waiting until the force of that swing thumped it against the inner wall.
Her night sight held, but now she wished it had not. That milling, monstrous crew before them were much the same as had accompanied the hunter in the green-lit land. Here was he of the owl’s head, and the arm-wings, the wolf-man, the haired creature—and others—such a splotch of evil and the Dark as she had never faced, even in the worst of her nightmares.
Yet there was utter confidence in the way that he whom she had freed went forward with the same firm steps. Those creatures from Outside drew back, forming a lane. Down that open space the Guardian led Gwennan.
That calm which had flooded into her from his first touch held. She knew rather than saw that the creatures drew in again behind them, to follow. Yet they did not menace, nor did they utter any more sounds.
Through the massive growth of the garden the two made their way. Gwennan had a sudden guess as to their goal—the stones! It could only be the stones! Where her adventure had begun there also it must end. There was more than one wheel which turned in its own time.
There was no wall to be climbed now. The snow lay unmarked as they came through the wood along a path, hearing the rustle of the monsters padding at their backs, smelling always the foulness which was the mark of those spawned by the Dark.
The stones were alive. From their crowns arose those flaming wicks of light Gwennan had seen once before. It was straight towards those beacons that she was being led. The darkness of the night was on the wane, the greyness of before dawn arched up the sky.
Side by side they came to the mound. Snowdrifts arose about their legs, nearly to their knees, yet they walked steadily, as if those white banks were nothing, giving away as easily as water. Up the mound they climbed—came to stop only at the foot of the great stone.
On that was clearly visible all those markings she had half-known were there—having been hidden both by time, and the forgotten art of those who had wrought them. Gwennan understood that she could read them if she willed, that to her now there could be no more secrets. Still she did not try. There was too much expectancy in the air—too much excitement stirring in her. Something was about to happen which would be not of her old world and which, in her half-awakened state, she shrank from, yet half welcomed, aware that it must be accepted.
The two turned at the foot of the tall stone, looking steadily towards the lane. Between them and the field wall was the snow—a brilliantly white carpet—the very purity of it making it shine. Sound again, low growls, twitterings, a coughing thick and foul. Those who had followed them flowed about the base of the mount not setting foot upon its rise, but gathering in around the sides to also face the lane.
Gwennan nearly flinched from full sight of some of those abnormalities that crouched, shuffled, sat, or stood, waiting. Here were gathered things like the visions of men of the past who had attempted to draw upon the darkest side of imagination, summoning up their personal devils or monsters. The worst was that all these dark distortions were mingled with the human, so that one might see what man could become when sinking to the lowest within himself.
Movement on the lane brought the creatures creeping inward. A wolf-man bounded forward, nearer to the wall, throwing up his narrow head and widening his jaws as if to howl. Still no sound issued forth—unless it was one too high for human ears.
He who walked down the lane wove from side to side, stumbled and wavered, yet kept always on his feet, though his head fell forward, chin near against his breast, as if he did not watch where he went but rather was drawn by that he could not resist. At the wall he fell as he strove to climb, and was several moments floundering in the snow before he unsteadily arose again.
Tor—coming in answer to her summons. How he had eluded those who had cared for him Gwennan could not understand. He moved so clumsily it was plain he was weak, probably in pain, still he came. The wolf-man moved beside him, its stance that of a hound waiting for orders, but Tor never raised his own head nor looked to the thing which matched his march towards the stones.
The creatures opened a way, even as they had outside the gate for Gwennan and that other, leaving an open space at the foot of the mound. In that Tor staggered to a halt, stood swaying, his arms hanging loose, his burns visible beneath the dressings. Now his head came up at last and his eyes—those dead eyes, gazed to the two above him.
His lips writhed into a snarl as pronounced as any on the animal-man face of the thing who crouched close at his feet. Life began to flow into him. There was a fire which was not of the kind which had seared his flesh—rather it burned inside him. Upon that he drew deeply and willingly.
“I have come—” His voice was not weak, nor strained, nor even touched with pain, rather it was a challenge.
“You have come—” Gwennan’s companion returned.
“I am of the Blood—” Again there was pride in that, force. He no longer wavered, his back was straight. He bore dreadful burns but they seemed no more to him at that moment than clothing he could take from his body and throw away.
“You are of the Blood—” For the second time there was acknowledgment.
“I command—” Tor raised his arm. There was a guttural answer from those things crouched about him. Their red coals of eyes swung to the two above, they waited only for the gesture or the word which would send them bounding up to destroy.
“I command—” The hand which had held Gwennan’s for so long, instilling in her warmth and serenity, loosened itself from hers. He moved from her side, passed between the two shorter stones, began to descend.
The girl would have cried out, tried to restrain him, but she knew that would be no use. This was between the two of them, those who looked so much alike that they could have been the same man reflected from one to the other, had it not been for Tor’s visible injuries.
Tor’s eyes were only on the one who approached. The beasts shifted about hungrily. Still whatever held them in check was still in force.
The guardian reached the foot of the mound, passed between two of the monsters, and stood only an arm’s distance from Tor.
“You cannot take—” Tor said. There was none of the old mockery in him. Anger blazed so that his eyes were as much afire as those of his pack of beasts.
“I cannot take—” the other agreed. “Only you can give.”
Tor’s face twisted in a grimace which must have torn at his burns. He raised his arms high, his hands clenched into fists, if so he might bring them both down in a shattering, killing blow on the man standing so quietly before him.
“No!” He screamed in a denial, which could have been twisted out of him by a torturer’s skill. “I will not! This time it will be me, me!”
While all the time that other only watched. Gwennan had unconsciously moved forward.
“You cannot use the Power against me!” Tor cried.
“I shall not use it. The choice is yours—as it has always been—yours!”
Tor’s arms fell to his sides, his fists uncurled. There was weariness about him like a cloak. Still his eyes blazed.
“You cannot bind me—”
“Only the Blood can do that. Which is why you did not want to face me—is that not so? The Blood is strong—it binds—”
Tor gave an inarticulate cry. “To go—I will not go! I am free—”
“Are you?” Two simple words, yet Gwennan saw Tor’s shoulders quiver.
“I am free—” his voice came muffled because both his hands now covered his face. “I will not be—taken—I am—”
“You are master of such as these,” the other made a slight gesture at the monsters now in circle about them. “Is that what one of the true Blood wants? Will you come to Powe
r by Dark Ways?”
“There are others of us—we stood free—”
“Free? Ah, no. you were more tightly enchained than any man ever was in any time. You wear your chains within—not without. Those of you who took the Power thus: how did it serve them? Think—remember—how did it serve them?”
Tor stood, his face still hidden. “You cannot—”
“Had the wheel not turned, perhaps not. Look upon me!” Now that voice was sharp, cracking with an order which even Tor could not disobey.
He dropped his hands to stare eye to eye at the other.
There was something Gwennan had never seen before in his face—a pain which was not pain of body, a softening, breaking of spirit.
“Had it not been you—” he said in a low voice. “You and the time.”
“Yes, the two of us—and the stars which spell the time. It is your choice still—”
Tor made a small gesture. “What choice have I? Already you have set the mark on me. If I could have kept you fast until—Saris—she has won. She called up that other half-blood—” For the first time he glanced at Gwennan— “and against the two of you what chance have I? Have it then as you wish—”
The other shook his head. “Not as I wish, no. The wish must be yours. There is no defeat, no victory. Only that which was rent must be mended—that which was sent on a wrong path must be turned aright.”
“And the darkness which is to come—does that mean nothing?” Tor demanded. “Once more the dark, perhaps a slow climb and again a fall, will this then go on forever?”
“Nothing is forever. Nor is even that darkness complete. Which also you know. You cannot achieve any pattern yourself. It needs many to make, with none to claim to be the master weaver.”
Tor turned his head slowly from side to side. He did not look to his monsters, Gwennan believed, but rather at the snow-covered world about them. Then he held up his right arm and pointed to the woods. There was a stirring among the monsters, whines, growls, cries, as if they would dispute whatever unheard order he gave. Then they turned and went, with a fluttering of wings, a padding of paws, a stumping of feet, of hooves. Overhead the grey of the sky darkened with clouds drawing together and Gwennan heard the first roll of thunder.