Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

Now the adept’s expression changed in turn. There was a wrinkle of pain between his eyes.

“Who? The Witch Child could not mesh in that fashion. Nor do I believe that Gunnora’s Voice can be so unloosed from her Mistress. There is Romar of the Old Race… he is talented.” Hilarion shook his head slowly. “One of the Falconers? Their mind patterns differ. The Borderers—

She spoke only one word in answer. “Keris.”

“Your son!”

“Think closely, Hilarion. He is partly of the Old Race, partly of an off-world blood—and bred in Escore. Also, he is without any talent to rise and perhaps forbid exchange.”

“You know what may come of such meddling with life patterns?” Hilarion demanded.

Slowly the aging look was fading away again from Dahaun. “Those of our blood are birth-sworn against the Dark. He has fought evil since he could crack a flame lash, hold a sword.”

“The choice—” began Hilarion.

Jaelithe nodded, understanding the point he was beginning to make. “The choice must be his, and he must also know that the price may be heavy.”

Kyllan had moved forward and now Simon in turn had arisen, his face set grimly.

“What is this Power you would work?” Kyllan demanded first.

“The knowledge needed for the closing of this blood gate lies here.” Hilarion touched his own forehead. “Nor can it now be used by any except me. Later it may be otherwise, but this is a matter of racing time in the south. There is no possible way of my reaching this lost city in my person. Thus…” he hesitated and then went on, “I must have a body, a mind, ready for me to enter there. If Keris consents, he will serve even as I would could I stand there.”

“And the price?” Kyllan had edged up beside Dahaun. Though he had learned long since to control his emotions in most situations, there was now a frown and a stillness about his face which equaled that of Simon.

“The price is this.” To Molar’s surprise it was the witch Gull who cut into this confrontation. “When this adept withdraws his persona from the boy—what may be left is mindless husk, with no hope of restoration. He has no talent to anchor him.”

“No!” Nolar could not stifle that cry. Keris—she remembered the boy who had been so excited over the prospects of the scouting trips, so exultant when he knew he would be one of the seekers. Like her ruined face, he had carried an inner scar—of being a halfling with no talent. Yet it had not soured him.

Somehow Simons face looked as gray as Dahaun’s had been a little earlier. Kyllan slammed a clenched fist into the palm of his other hand; his eyes blazed.

They heard through that tense silence the squeak of Lady Mereth’s chalk. She turned over her slate and held it high so they could read the large bold letters she had written.

“To each a choice. Do not lessen him by not offering.”

But from the corner of her eye flowed a tear.

Simon put out his hand almost as if he sought some support and he received it speedily as Jaelithe moved to him.

“He is a Tregarth. There is that in him which would not thank you for denying him at least the choice,” she said.

“How do we do this?” Sage Morfew spoke up in his soft voice for the first time. “If you contact Keris and make clear to him what has to be done, it must be soon.”

Dahaun’s hair was now the brown of sere autumn leaves and only her eyes seemed alive in her face.

“He is blood of our blood.” Without looking, she caught at Kyllan’s hand. “We shall seek. Then—it must be done at once!”

It was of course a dream—yet so real. Keris lay in his own bed with, around him, the flowered vine walls of the Valley house which had always been his true home. Over his head the brilliant thatching of feathers rustled a little under a breeze. He felt utterly content, one with all around him, as had happened only a few times in his life. The feeling had once led him to believe that he was on the very edge of discovering that after all he carried buried talent.

There was movement and he turned his head a little to see his mother and father seated on mats, watching him broodingly. Perhaps he had been ill.

“Keris.” His mother’s hand did not quite touch his forehead. “Remember.”

How had he come here? This was the Valley of Green Silences, not the strange city. But she allowed him no time for questioning.

“You and your comrades need our aid. There is so little time. You must make a choice, my son.”

Now Kyllan smiled at him, but there was something awry in that smile, as if it were very forced.

“Hilarion,” Dahaun continued, “has found what may be the warding, but only he can use it. There is only one way he can bring it to the blood gate before evil breaks upon us. Since he cannot travel the leagues between, he must have a body for wearing.”

Keris knew the chill of fear. “For every use of power so great”—perhaps he was not really speaking, merely thinking that—“there is a price. What one is laid on this?”

“It can be done only by your free choice, my son. If you willingly consent to be the tool for Hilarion’s use… it may be that—She bit at her lip.

His father’s hands were on his arms belt as if he had heard a signal to battle. “It may be that when Hilarion must withdraw again—

“I shall die.” Keris brought that out quietly.

“That which is you may be gone. Your body—it may remain for a while.”

Keris closed his eyes for a long moment. The fear was waging in him now. What his father had said was worse than any sentence of death.

“The choice is yours!” Kyllan’s voice hurt like the thrust of steel into flesh.

Keris looked to his father and then to his mother. Halfling of mixed blood, but it would seem that there was some worth in him if…

“I am Tregarth.” He repeated the three words as he had so often thought them over the years. “I serve where I am best used. If I perish in the service of the Light, what greater end can be mine? Tell Hilarion… his body lies in wait. And the time is very short.”

There was a flicker, a dancing of color about him. He shivered. What—what had he promised? But perhaps from the first this had been the weaving of his life pattern, that he might have been born talentless for this very choice. He fought his fear fiercely. How long would he remain himself? When would Hilarion come to take that which was particularly his?

He could see light now, pale, coming from that open doorway in the ruined hall. And he heard a piteous moaning—no, not from him, thank the Great Old Ones. There was movement about him, yet he knew that he must remain in just this place—remain and wait.

Now he was a small pale thing fleeing along a stretch of shadow gray road until he crouched against a wall past which he could not drag himself. His pursuer came.

A flash of light was so great that it blinded the travelers for a moment, used as they were to the dusky interior of the ruins. Mouse sat straight up in her bedroll. She did not touch her jewel, but it was flaming as brightly as if she had called up its power. Destree felt the heat of her own amulet. There was such Power here now that one could sense it to the very bones, taste it.

When she managed to see clearly again, Keris stood, looking beyond all of them to the entrance. Keris… ? No! When she stared too intently at him, his body seemed to waver, to be doubled in an odd way.

“Hilarion!” Mouse was on her feet.

He who had been Keris looked to her. “There is that to be done and the doing lies… now!”

Paying no more attention to any of them, he started straight for the door, but Liara had caught at Mouse, taking such a grip on her worn robe that she held the witch captive.