Andre Norton: The Duke's Ballad

Her fingers riffled automatically through Wind Dancer’s fur as she thought. There was always a choice. She could fight to stay. But if she stayed would not Kirion’s evil go unchecked? But then if she fought him, what said he could not win? Then the lands would be poorer by other things she could have done had she not died. She sat among half-packed saddlebags as the day slowly waned to dusk.

In those hours she reviewed her life: her training here and all the paths she could see of possible choices made. When she rose at first dark she was so stiff she could barely stand. She stretched, her brain exhausted but calm. Wind Dancer leaped lightly from her lap and patted her with a large paw. His mind sent a desire for food to eat, sweet milk to drink.

Laughing, Aisling ran to the kitchen and fed him, returned with food and drink for herself, lit the single globe with a flick of her mind, and resumed her packing. With the stuffed saddlebags lying ready she ate, drank, then moved to lie full length on the bed. Hilarion had told the truth. Sister was set against brother on the gaming board.

She smiled as she relaxed. Yet in few games was only one piece against another. There were many. She would have Aiskeep, and old Geavon and his kin at Gerith Keep. Kirion had injured many as had his puppet duke. The victims who’d survived and those who loved them would aid her if given the opportunity. Against her she had Kirion and Shastro: black sorcery and the lord duke of Kars—powerful opponents.

But something fierce within her rose to fight that. They were powerful, yes. But with the teaching she’d been given here, she would be no easy morsel. She damped the emotion swiftly. She must be cunning, cautious. She must undermine slowly and with care. If her brother and the duke were seen to fail once or twice, more would rise against them. Kirion would spend strength watching those, and that use of strength would weaken him further. Beside her, Wind Dancer purred approval.

Aisling snuggled into her blankets. In the morning they would ride. She would have left the cat behind; it could be dangerous for him, but he’d have none of it. He was returning too, and that was his decision to make. She put out an arm and cuddled him closer, hearing and feeling the soft rumbling purr. It wouldn’t be home without him.

Many days’ travel away Kirion sat watching his newest puppet dance for the duke. Shastro had been delighted. Kirion was only tired, and irritated at the loss of so much power merely to provide another toy. He wouldn’t mind so much if Shastro didn’t use up his playthings so quickly, but this one would last a week, maybe a month, two at most. Then she’d be discarded, and the duke’s eyes would light on another to be coaxed—or coerced—to the ducal bed.

It was becoming a nuisance. He could use potions to lesson Shastro’s lusts, but without a blurring of the duke’s mind as well it would be obvious to his victim what had been done. Shastro would rise in the kind of fury only a weak man can produce. Kirion had seen that once. He had no wish to have it turned on himself. Not that he could be harmed, of course, but he’d have to defend himself. That would drive Shastro to use everything at his command.

Kirion bit back a snarl. He’d survive if that happened and the duke wouldn’t, but then he’d have lost his figurehead. Lost too his tower at the palace, and his position. To take power openly was to risk too much—his own skin for a start. As long as Shastro ruled, the people blamed any excesses on the duke. Kirion was careful to counsel moderation now and again, always within earshot of others of the court. He had a name as a powerful sorcerer but one who obeyed the duke and tried to temper some of the ruler’s ways.

No one liked the duke’s sorcerer much. But they didn’t really notice him either. And that was how Kirion wanted it. He could recall his grandmother’s tales of the Horning, how her family had been slaughtered. The then duke had been set against those of the Old Race and Blood. Kirion did not desire too many to talk about his abilities, just in case. He stood and unobtrusively strolled to the door.

Back in his tower he found his scrying bowl, filled it with water, summoned stolen power, and scried again to receive the same answer: Aisling was returning. From where or when he could not discover, but she was coming home. He called, and a man cringed as he made his way through the door.

Kirion eyed the man’s humble posture. The man was a competent enough steward, a satisfactory and most amusing servant although the fool knew it not. Kirion kept the man befogged in a series of dreams, paid him nothing, allowed him barely enough to eat, and permitted him to live. It was a useful system for one who was a sorcerer.

“Varnar, you will send out spies. They will watch Gerith Keep and Aiskeep, three men to each place. Each keep must be watched at all times. They are to look for a young woman, or a boy who could be the woman in disguise. If they miss her I’ll have them for my tower.”

Varnar shivered. “Yes, my Lord.”

“They are to watch continually. If the quarry appears one of them must ride to tell me. The other two are to remain on watch. If she leaves, one man is to follow her while the other returns to tell me. Is that understood? Repeat the instructions.” Varnar did so. “Good. Also you will post three men by a small abandoned garth in the hills. I’ll give you a map for them. They’re to make camp there. If the woman comes they are to seize her if possible and bring her to me. But only if they are sure they can take her uninjured.”

His face twisted into a terrifying scowl. “Make certain they understand. If she is injured, if they dare to lay hands on her for anything but to restrain her, I shall visit torments unspeakable upon them. I must have her… undamaged .” He invested the last word with a ferocious significance that his servant completely understood.

“They shall be told, Lord.” Varnar bowed his way out and ran to find Kirion’s spies. Gods help the poor young lady whoever she might be. Varnar knew only too well what such a command meant. He saw the men ride out and reported that to his lord before being dismissed. He crept from the sorcerer’s presence to be alone in his own quarters. He hated his master with every fiber of his being, but something held him here. Perhaps the dreams he dreamed. Apart from which it was unsafe to cross Kirion; those who did so died in ways it was not good to recall.

He ate and slept then, wrapped in two threadbare blankets on a bare chill stone floor. He dreamed of the past. He had once slept on finest wool between linen sheets. In that time so long behind other events that the memories grew dim, he’d once given orders, shared his hall with one whose eyes smiled love. There’d been scampering footsteps, a small girl’s voice. But he must forget all of that. If he remembered, Kirion would read it, and that was dangerous.

In his study Kirion did read and smiled, a slow vicious smirk that lit his face with a look that would have disturbed even Shastro. Kirion’s little experiment was starting to work. Dreams, memories, life were illusions, and he was a master illusionist. Let Varnar learn that. After all, one must amuse oneself, or what was power for?

Aisling lifted heavy saddlebags. Beside her Wind Dancer bounced in excitement as she picked up his carrysack and tossed it over one shoulder. She exited her shelter to find a renthan named Teelar waiting. The intelligent, deerlike mount eyed her and the excited cat, then mind-sent to Wind Dancer.

“Small friend, remember your claws.”

Wind Dancer made an indignant sound. Aisling smiled. “Teelar, don’t worry. He’ll be riding on my back not yours.” She tossed the bags over his back and knelt to tuck Wind Dancer into the carry-sack. With him secure she lifted it, fitting the straps over her shoulders and fastening the waist strap. Wind Dancer peered out over her shoulder, resting one large paw against the side of her neck.