Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

Kethan’s nostrils expanded. He had not only pard sight now but pard sense of scent. This was a female which awoke in him something which had been long asleep and now would move him to… But move he could not.

Who are you ? He thought he had asked that aloud and then realized that he had used mind-send.

He saw her smile, showing sharp-pointed teeth. She raised both hands and smoothed herself down the length of her body as far as her hips, as if in some feminine reassurance that she was appealing as she wished to be.

Kethan made a supreme effort. He did not want to be wholly pard and so perhaps drive this wondrous apparition from him; he only wanted to touch, to make sure that he saw what he believed stood there.

Somehow he succeeded. His fingertips slipped down her thigh until he could hold no longer and his hand fell helplessly against his own body.

You like… what you see ? Her mind-send was high-pitched and there was something of an effort in it.

I like . And his send was close to the pard’s growl.

She laughed silently, making no sound. Be patient, four-foot. If fate is kind we all gain what we strive the most to obtain. I have waited—long … Her voice trailed away.

Kethan summoned the last of his strength and tried to catch her. But like the moonflower earlier, she faded and was gone. Now he sat alone and the peace of this place was broken for him.

That his visitor had been from the Dark Side he knew was impossible. Was she some servant of the throned one who had dared to make her presence so known to him? Or was she a sending?

He simply knew that he could no longer sleep. Uta, curled by his feet, uttered a sleepy protest. He half covered her with the edge of his sleeping mat and struck outward through the trees toward the outworld, certain that he must find something which was real enough for him to understand.

“Who goes?” That demand out of the dark argued that some other of their group had found this place an enigma which might not be wholly accepted as good.

“Firdun?” He recognized the voice.

There was movement in the darkness and a hand clasped his arm with a punishing grip. “The talents are many; we each have our own. That we know. But—has your sister this night found a path which will lead her totally away from the ways of our world?”

“I do not know,” Kethan answered truthfully. He was shaken a little out of his preoccupation with his late visitor, to wonder at why this son of the Gryphon would be so moved by the ceremony they had watched.

“She is your kin—” Firdun was beginning, when Kethan interrupted him.

“We are not blood kin, but fosterling. I am were, as you well know. Aylinn was raised daughter to my mother, who is a Wise-woman and healer. Discovering she had great talent, she was sent to Linark—and there discovered she was Moon called.”

“There are those women of Estcarp”—Kethan could not see Fir-dun’s face, but Firdun’s voice was bitter—“who raised the power to wrack mountains. But they look upon men as lesser beings. Oh”—there was a vigorous swish of air in the dark as if the speaker had flung his arms wide—“I do not know what I seek to say—but if Aylinn goes from us—

“That will nor happen while we quest.” Kethan was guessing. Aylinn—the Gryphon son—men were drawn to women and women to men and had been since the days the world had begun. Sometimes it was ill done and ended in sorrow; sometimes it was as with Kethan’s parents, Gillan and Herrel, such a bond as nothing could sever. But no one could speak for another in such matters. “She will be with us,” he repeated, knowing at the same time it was chill comfort, “until we have finished what we would do. Time changes many matters, and talents can fit to talents in a fashion one might not believe.”

His answer was first a sigh, and then Firdun said: “The Kioga camp nearby… we can share their watch.” He spoke as if sleep was now beyond his hope.

Well away from the grove of the throne, Guret, armed and alert, was following such a trail as only an expert horsemaster could sight. For the most part the mounts they had carefully chosen from the Kioga herds for this venture were well trained—to the point of standing as if hitched when the reins were flipped over their heads to touch the ground until their riders remounted.

Heretofore only the packhorses, who were ever contrary beasts, had to be picketed when they camped. But for the past few days the young gelding Vasan had provided something of a problem. Guret blamed most of this restlessness on the presence of the were mounts, even though those were as perfectly behaved themselves as any war-trained horse and he could not find anything in their recent actions to fault them.

Tonight, perhaps because they were still bemused by what they had seen in that strange fane, the Kioga had moved out to camp in the familiar open without paying any special attention to the beasts they loosed to good forage. They had busied themselves as usual with the packhorses, but their own mounts they had left to their usual freedom.

However, it was customary for a sentry on duty—and they had posted their sentries here as they would in any unknown territory—to check the horses, moving among them with those soft words which had reassured them from colthood.

And Guret had discovered that Vasan was not beside his usual bond mate Vartin. Having widened his circle of search and discovering no sign of the horse at visual distance from the small herd, he had returned to camp, awakened Obred, and told him that he would trail the stray. It was not long since they had been loosed and he wondered how and why Vasan had taken himself off . He was one of Guret’s own private string (each of the Kioga had brought three mounts so that they could change and not overweary the horses if the need arose), and Guret felt responsible for such unlikely behavior.

Guret was gone before Firdun and Kethan joined the Kioga camp and Obred had already vanished into the darkness to take up his sentry duties.

The land was at least level and there were within easy distance no more strands of trees. Also there was a moon overhead even though it was waning. Guret whistled and stood listening for any answering thud of hooves.

When he was not so answered, he went to hands and knees, locating where the taller grass was trampled. Oddly enough, Vasan was not moving like a grazing horse, but rather as if he had already been summoned.

Guret had shed mail and helm and left them in camp. The night was so warm, and that insidious promise of peace had been so all-prevailing, that he had not thought of the gear he had left piled by his bedroll until now. He wavered between returning to arm, to perhaps give some kind of an alarm, and then he made his decision. No. Vasan could not have strayed too far. There was another copse of trees not far ahead now and perhaps that proved a screen for the horse.

Guret had been well tutored in all the tricks of tracking horses. Since the life of the clan depended upon their trained mounts, the loss of even one could not be accepted. He now found a stream by nearly sliding down a slick clay bank to where there was a narrow runnel of water well below the surface of the plain.

There another searching of the ground revealed footprints—leading north, as if Vasan had chosen not to cross that shallow stream but rather moved beside it. Here and there bunches of grass had been snatched for the eating; the gelding had not lingered to graze.

Again Guret tried the calling whistle. Only the cry of a night bird sounded in answer. Now he began to question his choice. To go trailing on into the unknown dark was a risk that was folly to take.

He had just risen to his feet from tracing another hoof mark in the clay when a scream cut through the air. At least he had his sword, having taken that up as a matter of course when he had gone on sentry. That was out of his scabbard and ready in his hand as he pounded forward.