Our linens, drawn up now to our chins, smelled not only of lavender but also of other herbs that underlay that favorite. I set myself to name those faint scents, but, before I could complete this self-set task, I had fallen asleep once more.
Cilla is our acknowledged dreamer, but this time it was I in the solar, needle in my hand and rolls of colored wool beside me, from which I must choose the one proper shade. So heavily did this task weigh upon me that I felt fear like a physical oppression. I struggled to put the needle from me, but my motions were maddeningly slowed, as if I were besotted or—bewitched? Even my mind seemed dulled, but I held to the thought that I must not obey this seeming command—must not—
Strengthened by a last burst of resolve, I opened my eyes to find myself in our bed. It was utterly dark—no lamp now glowed beyond the bed curtains. And what was far worse, beside me, to the left, was emptiness—no sound of even-drawn breath, no warmth radiating from a body lying close beside mine.
“Cilla!” For some reason, I called with mind-touch.
It was as though an unbreakable shield had been slipped between us. Never had this happened before. Terror shot through me with the pain of a pike thrust by a Breaksword raider.
Surely this was a nightmare. I made a great effort to rise, but my body refused to obey; and when I would have called aloud, my tongue would not serve me, either.
Suddenly I heard movement beyond the bed-curtains. Then a coarse voice spoke aloud as if there were no need for quiet:
“Ought we t’take th’ sluts now?”
“Nay, leave them!”
“They be tasty bits. One does no’ waste sweetmeats—”
“Get about what ye’re to do, Blubberguts, an’ no more cackle.”
I could not turn my head to see as the bed-curtain to my right was jerked open. Though the thick dark remained, no light having been rekindled, I was aware that Tam was being drawn from my side.
“Twa o’ ’em. All right and tight,” observed Blubberguts.
Once more I struggled with all my might, but again to no purpose. I might have been chain-bound as securely as any gallowsmeat.
Sounds of movement again reached me again. “She’s tight, Lug-ears. Call them in for the taking,” snapped the second speaker.
More noises, one the creaking of the door. Then someone must have stumbled against the bed, for it shook and I heard a blistering oath.
“These eye-things, they don’t work so good namore,” complained Lug-ears sullenly.
“Lug-ears?” sneered the second voice. “Lug-head, more like! The charm wasn’t promised to last forever. Nor will the door hold itself open—Hedge witch combings don’t be trusted. You want the Warden riding Hot Tod behind us and lighting balefires to bring in the others? Now jump to, I tell you, before they awake. That there guard be Border wise.”
Covers were yanked off me. Hands groped, grasping both my bedgown and my flesh. Helpless in the grip of the—drug? spell?—that had divided and paralyzed us, I was pulled across the bed. Hands were set on my ankles and my shoulders, but my arms were allowed to swing down limply. Then I was drawn altogether free of the bed in the cloaking dark and dropped, to land bruisingly on the floor.
A thick covering fell over me that was not the bedclothes, and rough paws now jerked me upright so that this stuff could be wrapped about me and made very tight, leaving only my head free. I was lifted again and carried out.
The darkness did not hold beyond the door, though my limp helplessness did. I was slung over the shoulder of a great ox of a man with the stench of horse sweat, clothes too long betwixt washings, and strong ale thick about him. I could see only leather and the curve of back armor. The Second Voice, who appeared to be the brain-pan behind this business, remained just that—speech with no visible speaker.
My bearer was strong enough that he seemed to have no difficulty in descending the stairway burdened with my weight. At last we came into the courtyard. I could hear the stamping of horses and, a moment or so later, was flung facedown across the back of a mount and made fast. I saw no more of my partner at pig-a-back.
It was too quiet—in spite of my present posture, which was upside down in mind as well as body, I grew more and more aware of that. The horse onto which I had been bound was moving, and I heard the motion of other animals, but no speech passed among my captors—our captors, if my guess was right and I shared this fate with Tam and Cilla.
Kidnapping was not unknown in the border lands. Years agone, it had been a common ploy on both sides, but it had dropped out of general favor as a means of forcing a foe’s hand since my father had taken the Wardenship. However, in most of those abductions, the victim had been caught in the open. This venture into the very heart of enemy territory to take us was a brazen maneuver we had never encountered in the reports we had been combing.
Yet it would seem these Breakswords had managed to do as they wished with no difficulty. What had happened to Heddrick and the gate-guardor to our Wards—that this villainous deed was possible? Once more I strove to mind-touch but met again with that impenetrable wall.
We were descending the slope from Grosper now. The fact that I was tightly rolled in blankets did not keep at bay the sawlike abrasion that began on my skin at the places where my body strained against the ropes lashing me to the horse. I soon passed into a haze of torment, dominated by wrenching cramps in arms and legs and punctuated by a fearful pounding behind my eyes, an anvil rhythm underscored by every thud of the horse’s hooves. I would have moaned, but just as thought-send was denied me, so, it appeared, was physical voice.
Time meant nothing. My fog of pain and confusion thickened, so that only a stumble of my mount now and then roused me to full consciousness. Each time I could think, half-mazed though I was, I tried to reach my sisters.
When finally I roused with a clearer mind, it was beginning daylight. The horse had come to a halt. It stood blowing heavily as if it were winded from being used so hardly.
“Get them down, dunderheads—down and in.”
Hands loosed my ropes; then, my bundling remaining tight about me, I was swung aloft to be carried on a shoulder once more. My new bearer and I passed from the predawn gray gloom into a roofed space where I again saw torchlight, felt fire-heat. I had not realized how cold I had been until I felt that warmer air.
Down I went, with a speed suggesting that my carrier had simply dropped me. I landed on my back on the floor of what seemed a hut. Though at the time the actions of my captors gave little comfort, this partial release meant that my long-bent body might straighten out, for a blessed time.
Within my limited sight stood a cloaked and hooded man, the collar of his garment pulled up so high about his ears and face that he appeared well-nigh masked. Finding that I could now move my head, I turned it a fraction, carefully, as I did not wish to attract attention. Then I could see not only the cloaked one but another man, tall, and bearing the massive shoulders and heavy head of a bull. This second ruffian was staring at me. Did he see that my eyes were open?
“Th’ cub be payin’ good money, right enough,” observed Bull-head. “Which one is it he wants to tumble?”
High-collar shrugged. “Not our choice. They all look alike, he said, for they were born together like a litter of pups. So we take them all.” Suddenly he swung in my direction and dropped to one knee. His gloved hand caught in my hair, and by that painful hold he dragged me up a little and raked me with an appraising gaze. His lips shaped a low whistle.
“So—the Chosen’s not as good as he thinks he is. You’re awake, slut? Want to see who snapped you out of Grosper like you were a pea in a pod?”
With his other hand, my interrogator pulled the cloak-collar away from his chin so that I might have full sight of his face. It was long and narrow. He wore his beard as did my father, trimmed evenly into a chin point; but this man’s hair was fair, not dark, and the firelight glittered on golden hairs here and there.
Lancing across his right eye—or rathe
r the shrunken socket that had once held that orb—and down his cheek was the ridge of a scar. The eye that remained was bright with a near-feverish gleam, and it kept me pinned as firmly as his hand continued to grip my hair. He gave those locks a punishing yank as if he would make sure I was listening.
“Pretty face.” He smirked. “Like I had, once, before your hound of a father rent it. Would have had me off to Licking Stone, he would, but Maclan is no rabbit.”
Maclan—Licking Stone! Now I knew into whose hands we had fallen; nonetheless, I held my gaze steady. In that moment, for the first time since I had awakened in the tower, my voice returned to me:
“It was a fair fight, and that you cannot deny—”
He gave a last vicious pull and, dropping my head, rose again to his feet. Then his boot flashed out and struck my shoulder to send me rolling, unable to aid myself in any way. I came to a stop only when my body struck against another in the same sort of bundling as mine.
“Cilla? Bina?”
Mind-touch, faint but true! Tam had called. I answered her swiftly and added a warning.
Five
Tamara
I, Tamara, lay in darkness. My body seemed to be swathed immovably in a length of coarse-woven stuff like a clansman’s plaidie. A flap of this blanket covered my face, and I was nearly gasping from both its weight and a surrounding reek of horse sweat. This was certainly not the familiar, secure tower room in which I had gone to sleep. Confused and frightened, I instinctively mind-called—and was answered.
“Tam—it is Bina. We are tod-taken.”
I had to struggle to understand her words, almost as if they were of some foreign language. Tod-taken? From our own bed? Yes, it must have been from there, for I could remember nothing but our settling in for the night and feeling oddly weak and tired as I had stretched out. But how could we have been seized from within Grosper?
Bina’s Send sounded silently again, aimed this time at Cilla. However, she received no answer.
But we were not alone. I heard a mighty clearing of throat; then someone spat.
“Leave th’ wenches so?”
“They won’t be going anywhere. Any sight of that blabbermouth of a Clyde?”
Two voices, neither of which did I recognize. The speech of the second seemed that of one gentle-born, or what might pass for good birth among the Gurlys. These men were indeed clansmen of the North, for they spoke their own rough tongue and not the Border language, which was common to both Gurlyon and Alsonia. We had learned it by our father’s will upon our coming to Grosper.
I wished I could move my head and somehow loose the bonds that were holding me. After a few moments of continued effort, though, I did manage to squirm free from a corner of the rough cloth that kept me blind.
“Bina, where are we?” I Sent, hoping that my sister had a better view and had gained therefrom some idea of our location.
“This is a hut,” she returned, “but where we may be, I do not know. As to our captors, I have seen but two of those who hold us, and know neither face.” Swiftly she told me of the manner in which we had been brought out of Grosper. “How this was done, I cannot guess. It was as if the keep were deserted, save for us and our enemies. What could have happened? Where were the guards—and Heddrick? Why did our Wards fail?”
I moistened my lips with tongue tip, though I had no intention of speaking aloud. Had the castle indeed been garrisoned only by the dead when we were drawn forth? My mind would not accept such a bloodletting. Had anyone been left to carry the lighted tod of turf tied to a spearhead and ride across country in search of vengeance—and ourselves?
But questions that concerned us three more closely had to be answered even more quickly. Why, for instance, had Bina been left with some ability to understand while Cilla and I lost our senses? Or was Cilla even with us?
I froze. Boots sounded on the floor near my head; then that sightbenighting edge of blanket was jerked fully away. I looked up into a face, and one I had seen before, for it belonged to that sour-sick Chosen who had visited Grosper. But the priest had ridden forth with those bound for the Truce!
He stared down in return. I had never seen eyes that held more menace. Had he been able to funnel his considerable will through them, the glare of those orbs alone would be able to call down a blasting curse on their luckless focus.
“She be Vitan Starkadder’s meat, not a novice for your lessoning, Chosen.” I could not see that speaker, but his voice was clear enough.
“This—is—vile—trash.” The Chosen’s teeth ground out each word, and his lips moved as if he wished to spit. “Would you have Starkadder’s line destroy itself? Nay, he must be saved from such defilement! All the whores from the South deal with workers of the Dark, summoning demons to their beds if they desire.”
“If demons obey such women, Chosen,” inquired the wellborn voice in a reasonable tone, “then why were they not defended when we took them? Oh, we had those bags of dust and did spread them as you said, blowing the last of it ‘neath their door. The lock opened at that right enough. And Prospar did carry the gore-hand as you ordered. Only ’tis ever better to trust steel, and that was our choice also. These three go to young Starkadder, for we will do as we swore.”
During this speech, Udo’s glittering eyes had not lifted from me. In one hand he held his board-bound missal. Now he settled that prayer book into a rope belt, then fumbled at a pouch fastened to the same cincture. Stooping a little, he threw out his fisted hand, and from the opened fingers whirled reddish sparks.
That was my last sight of him or our surroundings.
Drucilla
THIS BE DRUCILLA, third daughter of Verset. When I knew my world again, thirst had dried my throat. I had no feeling in my arms or legs, but pain rode my back in waves. At first I felt that I was fast caught in one of those dreams which had been my bane from childhood, when the world I knew had been banished and I journeyed by night where terror crept and danger threatened.
I forced myself now to try to break this dream, and indeed my feeble efforts brought the world about me into sharper focus. Unfortunately, the further I roused, the greater was my pain. I found that I was lying across a horse, for I was conscious of the shift (and smell) of an equine body beneath me. I myself, however, was unable to stir, being bound like any peddler’s pack.
“That dead-faced rat ben’t the one give us orders. We do as the Red Adder says—we gave word to him, not to any Chosen.”
“Two bulls in the same field never brought no luck—and that dungball beat it right enough when Maclan stood up to ’im! But why ain’t Starkadder’s cub here as he said he would be? Thought as how all this was planned out.”
“Ain’t nothin’ ever certain, Pokeweed. The rat says as how these wenches be demon-dealers, an’ Old Beck, she’s a wise one, she is. I say we wait until mornin,’ an’ iffen Red Adder don’t show, we Dismals ’em.”
The first answer from Pokeweed was a grunt, but a little later he added, “These here ponies ain’t goin’ to do well if we leave th’ sluts on ’em.”
“Maybe you have the right o’ that. Dump ’em off.”
A moment later, dumped I was, and quickly and clumsily, too. However, the indignity and discomfort were greatly lessened by what I had heard—I was now sure that I was not alone and that my sisters did indeed share my captivity. I landed on my back, and though I was bundled in blankets, my head was free, and that rapped smartly against rock when I went down. I blinked watering eyes and saw that I had been loosed from a hill pony who was hardly more than a rack of bones covered with ragged, mud-matted hair. Someone caught at the edge of the top blanket about me and dragged me a short distance. This time I was dropped onto an earthen surface that sloped, so that my head and the upper part of my body were raised. From this angle, I could see better the two other bundles of blanket, bound tightly around with rope, that shared my predicament. My sister Tam, and beyond her Bina, showed white faces smudged with dark streaks. Their eyes were closed, and
they breathed slowly, yet deeply, so I could see the movement of the coverings on their breasts.
“Bina! Tam!” I Sent. But all I met was an emptiness, and that frightened me into silence.
A splotch of sunlight lay across the lower part of the blanket bag which was my prison; dawn, then full day, had come while we had been lost in darkness or evil dreams. A man in the scruffy clothes of a Gurly farmer was leading the horse away. Since his back was to me, I did not see his face, but I could make out a stained and slotted band about his battered bonnet showing the faded colors of some clan: dust-dimmed red, sun-bleached yellow, and an edging, nearly missing from age, of black. Red, yellow, black—Yakin colors! This was of one of the mountain people who were very seldom seen as far south as the Border Land.
“Sir!” The blanket roll next to me produced a voice that was familiar, though at present cracked. The highlander turned to answer. Now I could see a great bush of wiry red beard, so full and coarse that it nearly covered a wide pug nose. Eyebrows as rank of growth as the chin whiskers did not quite cover small eyes of light blue.
He left the pony and came over to us; then he deliberately kicked the prisoner next to me. That done, he did not answer Tam but called out, “Th’ wench wants t’ talk.” He stood, his hands on his hips, waiting.
Another man loomed behind him. This ruffian had a cloak thrown back on his shoulders to show dented steel plate protecting his chest, though he wore no accompanying steel bonnet. I could see his face clearly; it was badly scarred from a past encounter.
He moved in, his eyes sweeping over all three of us. Tam spoke again, more strongly:
“Sir, do you want your take dead? We need water!”
The armored outlaw threw back his head and laughed. “The Chosen, mayhap, has the right of it! I wanted Verset to crawl, and perhaps my wish can be granted—starting, it would seem, with his close blood-kin. Now ask for it rightly—”