Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

“Thus speaks that which the Voices have decreed shall be our guide. What talent you have will be at need—more than it will serve here. And now”—he pushed back his chair and stood—“hither come two others of our party to be. Sylvya has seen them through the wards.”

They could hear the stamp of a horse hoof through the window giving onto the outer courtyard. Firdun was the first through the door he had just entered and the rest were close behind him.

Sylvya had dropped on the edge of the fountain and was dabbling her fingers in the water, her sweet smile bringing peace with its very presence. But the other two were strangers.

There was a man hardly out of his late youth and with him a girl, whose dark hair was crowned with a circlet bearing a silver moon. The man was tawny-haired and wearing such mail as only the greatest of lords might hope to possess: a shirt of quan iron rings and a helm. His only weapon appeared to be a sword swinging from a belt of tawny fur the same color as his hair, its fastening a graven gem in the form of a pard’s snarling head.

She with the moon crest was dressed in stout riding clothes of a dull green, and that color seemed to shift in shade with every movement she made. A second silver moon lay pendant on her breast. Across her knees as she sat in the saddle was a short staff, hardly longer than a wand, and around its upper portion was wound a cluster of moonflowers, supposed only to bloom at night but here spilling out their fragrance in the day.

The mounts that they rode were different from any Firdun, for one, had ever seen—slightly larger than the cherished Kiogan breed, both dappled in shades of gray. The eyes of the one which turned its head to view him were a vivid green and seemed to lack pupils.

“Ibycus!” The man greeted Neevor gladly. “As you see, we are good and obedient children.”

The mage laughed. “Of Aylinn I will believe that, but of you, Kethan, perhaps there may sometimes be question. Let me make known to you”—he half turned to those of the Eyrie—“our two new comrades. This is Aylinn, Moonmaiden and Healer, and her foster brother, Kethan, were and warrior.”

Were! Firdun was startled. All knew of those of the Gray Tower, the fighters who had held against the Dark, but somehow in his mind he had always pictured them in their animal guise. This Kethan was like any other man save for his coloring—his coloring and that belt to which Firdun’s eyes kept turning.

“Our mounts,” Kethan was saying as he swung out of the saddle, “do not herd with other horses. They will not cause trouble, but it is better that they be stabled apart.”

In spite of the powers Neevor (whom they addressed as Ibycus) had professed for them, those of the Eyrie discovered these new recruits to their company to be no different from other travelers the hold had housed over the years. They were not like the Kioga, but Kethan, at least, might have passed for the son of some Mantle lord.

To Joisan, Eydryth, Elys, and Hyana, it seemed within minutes of their greeting that Aylinn had been known to them all their lives. There was about her something of the Lady Sylvya—a feeling of peace and comfort in her presence.

Trevor had gone at once to the two shadow-dappled horses which loomed so tall over him, and reached up his hands. Each bent head to nuzzle his fingers.

Kethan came up behind the child. “This is Trussant. And the other is Morna. They are the were breed.”

The child turned his head a little to view the tall warrior. “Do they then become… people?”

Kethan laughed. “No, they are not shifters—only they company with us who are and are willing to share our lives. The horses that men generally know would not do so.”

“Will—would Trussant let me ride him?” Trevor had always been horse-mad, Eydryth thought as she came quickly up to where they stood.

Kethan smiled at her. “No harm, Lady, for this little one. If he wishes, let him ride and show us where we may stable them. They have come long at a fair pace and need care as any tired travelers.”

Kethan had shrugged off his mail and helm, and even the tawny belt which supported his sword lay across a stall barrier as he worked rubbing down the two horses, answering Trevor’s questions.

There was fresh hay which the small boy insisted on putting in the mangers and he watched with intent interest as Kethan sprinkled over each portion of that double handfuls of what looked like brown beans.

“What are you doing here, Lordling?” Guret stood now, scowling, just inside the door of the stable.

“Guret—see the were horses—come.” Trevor beckoned. Kethan had turned to regard the young Kioga, who entered with the authority of one who was in his proper place and about to question the presence of others.

“You are Mount Master?” Kethan smiled and made the palm-up friendship gesture of a warrior meeting a friend. “It is not that I do not trust your boys to stable our mounts, but these are of another breed and will learn quickly who is friend and foe. Until then it is better that I care for them.”

Guret’s scowl did not lighten and he paid little attention to Trevor, who now held his hand and urged him forward.

“Were mounts,” he said stiffly. “I have heard of such from the traders.”

“They are not to be found save at the Gray Tower and Reeth,” Kethan answered civilly. “They are battle chargers and trained fighters.”

He did not seek to break through the other’s very apparent antagonism. Weres knew only too well how they were accepted by those who looked upon shapeshifting as a thing well within the Dark’s shadow.

“This”—he touched with his booted toe one of the close-woven bags which he had unhooked from the saddles—“we add to their forage when they are stabled. It is made from herbs of the Lady Gillan’s own growing and serves as grain.” He set about reassuming his mail and belt while Guret continued to watch him with narrowed eyes, saying nothing.

Then he stooped and slung over his shoulder first one set of matched saddlebags and then another. They were a fair load, pressing his mail shirt near bruisingly against his flesh, but Guret made no attempt to offer aid.

However, he turned abruptly, brushing past Trevor and heading for the outer courtyard. Nor was he in sight by the time Kethan had reached the stable door. He sighed. It was plain that this stable master was important here. Would Kethan now meet members of a garrison who looked with the same suspicion upon his kind?

It was Firdun who came to meet him now and with an exclamation insisted on taking half of his burden. So he came into the great hall where the others were gathered close to Ibycus, and a guesting cup was pushed into his hand by the maiden they called Hyana, the other set of saddlebags taken.

He soon discovered that there was no prejudice here, but then he could sense that talent was strong within these walls. And those with Powers, if they followed the Light, were always well met together.

Both of those from Reeth found that the hospitality of the Eyrie was indeed to be enjoyed. And they had two days for exchanging stories, those from Reeth learning of the news from overseas and of all that could be learned concerning Garth Howell. Ibycus-Neevor spent much time with the enchanting woman who had led them here. She was plainly not of human heritage, but that she was considered close kin by the others within these walls was easy to be seen.

What they conferred about was not made public, but the others were engrossed enough in preparing for what must come to have little time to wonder.

The decision had been made that a scouting party strike west and south through Silvermantle country to the Waste. That a parry from Garth Howell had now been traced as taking nearly the same path seemed to Ibycus-Neevor (who now went by the first of his names) to urge that they follow.