Andre Norton - Ciara's Song

What seeker of knowledge can say with truth that the history of Witch World has been wholly preserved, even in the masses of parchment rolls, the wood-bound books, or those metal plates of yet earlier date engraved in tongues that have not been used for a millennium or more?

Where lie the life stories of those who raised the walls of that ruined city in the far South, site of a battle waged but yesterday? Whence came all the flotsam and jetsam of clans and races, whose only memories and records do not stretch back even to their arrival through one of the world gates?

Yes, even though those portals giving upon all the other dimensions have been closed, still there are many tales worth the telling to be found by delving into the Archives at Lormt. For centuries, Lormt acted as a depository for the histories of families and the keeping of clan lines, so that kinfolk widely separated by war or witchery might possibly find those of their blood again. There also, far in the past, the custom began for clans, families, and even solitary rovers to leave accounts of their own journeyings, battles, and victories, thereby illuminating some small facet of the history they knew, having acted within it—and, perhaps, upon it as well. Thus, records left by even single wanderers are to be found there, piled against official reports of vanished kingdoms.

It has now absorbed the attention of some of the burrowing scholars to search out accounts concerning events that they may have been involved in themselves but which they found hard to comprehend as being experienced simultaneously by unknown others. These seekers have included those tied to forceful action in the past and determined to leave for the future some detailing of the roots and branches of the tree of their tale. Such enlargers of the Witch World’s store of lore are Ouen and the Lady Mereth.

In a time of relative peace, when the inroads made by the Dark from without are no longer to be feared (though still, and ever, guarded against) these earlier tales are mined by songsmiths, and some mighty sagas have been wrought from even modest accounts. Thus, Lormt is now not only what it has always been—a treasure-house of ancient knowledge—but, in this day, it fosters new wisdom as well, spreading over the land a web of such stories as will make clear to the survivors of a past in which many went armed how well their kindred bore those weapons and to what end.

So, from out of their safekeeping at Lormt, different ages of the Witch World come to life again. In this way, those newborn can learn what passed before: actions of not only potent sorcerers and great lords and ladies but of folk like themselves, meant to live untroubled lives but prevented by fate from so doing.

One such tale, humble in origin only, is that of Ciara, who had to make her life anew under the very shadow of the Dark.

Ciara was playing in her secret cave in the cliff when the rider came. She recognized him at once. It was her brother Larian come back from distant Kars. He was studying as apprentice merchant with an old friend of her father’s. But why was he home? She scrambled down from her cave to where she could swing across from one tall elm to another. From there she could reach her bedroom window at the back of the garth. She clattered down the stairs calling, “Larian, Larian, Mother! Larian’s home!”

Her parents popped out of the cook room, both looking startled. “It can’t be.” Her mother sounded worried. “He isn’t due home again until Year End.”

Her father was practical. “Well, my love, we’d better go and see.” But before they could move toward the front of the garth, Larian came striding through to meet them. His face was white with exhaustion under the brown, and his eyes haunted. He wasted no words.

“Yvian’s gone mad. He’s ordered the three-times Horning for all of the Old Blood. I took Falco’s relay and came by the mountain paths. The guards will be right behind me. Half of them were fanning out south as I slipped away. They’re slaughtering any who even look as if they might be of our kind.”

Ciara’s mother stared up, and in a voice that the child did not recognize she spoke softly. “They took Falco at the very gates of the city. Merryon died fighting before they burned the house about his family. Even now the death-bringers circle the valley. For only one of us is there an escape.”

Talyo stared at his wife. “Do you see true, beloved?”

“I see true. We have less than a candlemark. They are too close for us to flee. But Ciara might hide.” She turned to the girl gently. “Don’t ask questions. There’s no time. You have a place where you go. Can you reach it without being seen?”

Frightened, bewildered, the child gulped. “Yes.”

“Can you take possessions with you if they aren’t too large or heavy?”

Ciara nodded slowly. She’d taken old rugs to furnish her cave already. Often she’d taken a meal there.

“Good, come with me. Talyo, you and Larian free the stock. Send them running. When you’ve done, barricade the doors.”

She was gone then, dragging Ciara behind her. “I know you get out of your bedroom window. Where do you go from there?”

Ciara pointed. “Across the elms. There’s a cave in the cliff up high you can reach from a branch on the end tree.” Lanlia stared.

“Goddess, if I’d even dreamed it was so dangerous I’d never had ignored it. Listen, Ciara. Can anyone get to your cave from below?”

“N-n-no. You can’t even see there’s a cave.” She remembered finding it the first time quite by accident as she scrambled about the elms.

“How big is the cave, sweetheart?”

“It’s very small. I have to crawl to get inside.” Lanlia’s look urged her to continue. “I can lie down inside but only just. When I do I can stretch my hands out and touch the wall on each side.”

“What do you have up there?”

“Rugs, only old ones, Mother. And candle ends. What are you doing?”

Lanlia was moving with a swift sure speed as she gathered items. She stowed them into a carrysack as Ciara asked her question.

“You must go to your cave. How long does it take you to reach it and return from this window?”

Ciara considered. She sensed the question was important. “Maybe a fifth of a candlemark.”

“Good. Now listen to me. There may be no time later to say this. What Larian said was that the duke has ordered all of the Old Race, all of our people to be killed on sight. That’s our family. Your father, Larian, and I will stay in the garth. If nothing happens you can return. If we are dead, you are to wait in the cave for five days. Five days, do you understand?” Ciara nodded, gulping back tears of fright.

“After that, try to make your way to Aiskeep. Lord Tarnoor has always been our friend. Ask him what you should do. Do not let any other see you. Now, take this to your cave. Just drop it there and return at once. Go quickly.”

The carrysack was thrust into Ciara’s hands as Lanlia snatched up another. Still gulping back sobs the child scrambled through the window on to a branch climbing higher and higher before she crossed the line of elms toward her refuge. But once there the peace of it seemed to still some of her terror. She stared down the length of their valley but saw no one. Maybe Larian was wrong. But something deep inside warned her the message had been true. Her other two brothers were dead. Her mother had seen it so. Mother ‘saw’ seldom, but when she did see what she saw was the truth.