Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

“Farther—perhaps Estcarp wars again. Yet this had no touch of witch sending. We strive now to contact the adept Hilarion, since Alon of Gryphon’s Eyrie was his ’prentice and they dealt with new learning. Those of the Castle of the Gryphon seek knowledge among the four clans—there is stirring of possible conflict there. And…” he hesitated a moment as if to make what he now had to say the more forceful, “Garth Howell has opened its doors to take a hand in some ill game.”

“And we of Reeth?” Herrel asked swiftly. “What would you have of us, Ancient One?”

“Them!” A curl of mist broke away and then into two threads indicating Aylinn and Kethan. “The Lady Sylvya—she who suffered under the evil hunt and won free by our aid—has appealed to the Voices in the north hills. As usual they will not answer clearly, speaking in a maze of words through which we must find our way. But this much we have learned. There is to be a mustering at the Eyrie, first to deal with Garth Howell, and then for some even greater task. And the choosing of those for the task is not to be of our making. Aylinn, Moon Daughter and Healer, you have a part in this. Kethan, were and warrior, you also. This is my summons—come to the Castle of the Gryphon, for there is need.”

“And for us—what need?” There was a deep angry growl in Herrel’s question.

“To hold Reeth, you and my Lady Gillan, as it has never been held before—with all the power you can summon. When we go up against Garth Howell we shall have good need for such founts of strength, and Reeth is now you, as you are Reeth.”

Ibycus—or his authoritative shadow—gave them no more time for any questions. The mist swirled and then was gone, leaving the four of them in the moonlight with the scent of herbs about them.

Though there was still the marks of chaos within the tower, here was peace.

Or only the suggestion of it, for all Ibycus had said hung like a warning stormcloud over them. Aylinn held forth her arms, her head turned upward so that the moon encased her fully. Within her the uneasiness was growing ever stronger and it must be battled and put down.

There came a frightening roar from her left and now the moon glistened on sleek white fur as a wide-jawed, fearsomely fanged head raised to once more sound red anger. To her right Gillan had moved into view, her hands and robe stained with the nearly destroyed harvest of herbs, and by her side padded a pard, snarling. Of such was the garrison of Reeth, and so it stood as one.

But how can one defy an unknown enemy, Garth Howell? Aylinn knew the place only secondhand by rumor. Those born with her talents were not welcome there, nor would she ever wish it otherwise. And what part had she and Kethan to play in the action Ibycus had only hinted at?

Together as they had stood ready for battle, so they returned at length to the inner stronghold of the star-shaped tower of Reeth. Those rods along its walls held steady with the bluish haze which meant their usual protection held.

No snowcat now, no pard, the two men pulled forward their usual chairs and Herrel would have seated Gillan also, but she shook her head and tramped back and forth across the wide end of the wedge-shaped room while Aylinn settled by the smoldering hearth and fingered the rod topped with moonflower which was her talent focus.

“Kar Garudiyn is a three-day ride.” Herrel broke the short silence. “You will take the were mounts.” He did not look straightly at either his son or his foster daughter.

“Then,” Aylinn answered, “should we not be prepared?”

Gillan stopped in her pacing. Her mouth was straight set and she wore the face which was hers when some problem raised by the talent confronted her.

“Why Aylinn, Kethan?” she demanded of the room at large. “Ibycus speaks in half riddles as the Old Ones have a way of doing.

There is this…” She made a small gesture toward the door which gave upon the wreckage of what had once been her particular stronghold. “Power draws Power. This blowout of chaos has already made plain how feeble our defenses may be. Yet Ibycus prates of Reeth as a stronghold. I should have had him look upon what chanced here and then ask what good our defenses were. Now he asks for—” She shook her head. “A force to go up against Garth Howell. Is the Ancient One mad or age-forgetful? And then hints of another task beyond that.”

Her eyes were blazing as she came to stand before Herrel, as if he were the one she would rail against.

“We are what we are.” Herrel’s voice had again fallen close to the growl of his werehood. “And being what we are, what choice have we? If the Dark rises, then must the Light also stir.”

Gillan’s stained hands wrung together. Then she rounded on Aylinn. “Daughter—though our supplies have already been too well consumed, we shall save what we can for aiding a wayfarer.”

Aylinn hastily followed her foster mother back to the devastated storage room, but Kethan heeded his father’s gesture in another direction.

“We can war either as men or beasts,” Herrel said as he lifted the ponderous lid of a great chest. “You will know which choice is yours when the moment comes. Yet you will ride forth as a man and hold to man’s heritage as long as you can, for you will find few that are comfortable with were blood and talent.”

He pulled forth a large bag and loosed its cording, bringing out a mail shirt which gleamed blue-green in the sparsely lighted room.

Herrel shook it out and stepped forward, the shirt held out, to measure against his son’s shoulders. “Quan iron—a legacy from those who held Reeth before us. Yes, I think it will serve in fit.”

Beside the mail there was a helm, bare of any crest, yet with a fore-portion which descended over the face with only eye holes to break its sleek surface. And last of all there was a sword in worn scabbard.

“Your belt.”

Kethan freed the buckle, the familiar touch of the large jargoon long since carved into the buckle disturbing him a little. He had been warrior-trained and knew that to depend upon the were form for all battle was more dangerous to him than perhaps the enemy. For always there was an inner battle between beast and man when the talent awoke.

He was oddly relieved when Herrel, having made the weapon fast to the belt, handed it back to him and once more its binding was about him, though the weight of the sword made it strange now.

No normal horse would carry a were—in fact astute fighters among the kin had learned that that hatred of their kind could also serve them as a weapon. But they had their own breed and though Herrel no longer rode with his kin from the Gray Tower, he had two mounts of their shaping for service.

When they rode out of Reeth the next day, they carried well-filled saddle bags—and the blessings of those who cared for them the most.

In Kar Garudiyn there was another gathering at that same hour. The sturdy Kioga scout drank thirstily of the guesting cup, watching over the rim while Lord Kerovan laid out the thin-scraped parchment map and Firdun held down one end firmly. The Lady Joisan had both elbows on the table, supporting her chin as she studied the lines burned into the skin.

“To the east, Horsemaster, there was flattening of one of the tall domes,” the scout reported. “Massar rode with us and he had scouted that land well—he has ever a nose for evil and he did not like it that there had been so much astir there lately. We all have our magics, Horsemaster, but can we tell which is the more powerful until we pit one against another?

“The flash signals this morning told us that one party has ridden out of the place. They must intend a journey of length, for they have pack ponies in train. There was a guard of their knights and foot fighters, and at least three robed mages set in the middle as if they were treasure being held against mountain outlaws.”