Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

Lormt—that seemed to be the kernel of this gathering and yet only its marshal and two of his men were under this roof. There was much talk of a Lady Mereth and—he frowned—of a link with Alizon. All his life long Keris had known that Alizon was the enemy.

But at least that terrible attack of raw magic which had laid them all low had been explained. That, too, Lady Mereth had had a hand in. The Magestone—the Great Key which had controlled the master gate of the ancient adepts—had come to her, and equally to an Alizondern, by right.

There had been a battle of Powers. A black mage who would have seized that control was safely gone—but so was the Key. And the Key had been fashioned to control all the gates. No one knew how many of those there were—or where they all might be. If the Magestone lay now in limbo for all time, then would the gates themselves—those still able to work—go wild and let in upon them such perils as the Kolders? Or would they reach out here in his own world to snatch the innocent and take them ever beyond the reach of home and kin?

He heard the summoning gong which vibrated through the walls of the citadel, and reentered the room he shared with two other Valley born, so cramped were the lodgings by the arrival of such a host. The sound of the gong had died away but not the sound of feet along corridors.

The heart of the citadel, of Es itself, was the great assembly hall four stories high, ringed with balconies for those who were unable to find places on the main floor.

Keris worked his way to a place by the rail and began to pick out from the gathering below those he knew by name as well as those whose deeds were already bard’s tales. Ethatur of the Valley and Dahaun, Keris’s own mother, with Kyllan overreaching her by but a finger’s breath or two. Flanking them on one side his Uncle Kemoc, with his Krogan lady well wrapped in a heavily dampened cloak so that she could withstand a lengthy time beyond the touch of her native water.

On Dahaun’s right was a great bear of a man, his heavily muscled form made the bulkier by a furred cloak worn as a badge of authority—Anner Osberic of the Sulcars, he who had led the raid on Karsten which would not be early forgotten.

There were so many: dark-haired, pale-skinned lords and ladies of the Old Race, as well as these outlanders. At the far end of the hall was a table set on a dais, chairs along one side of it only, ancient, tall of back, their once-deep carvings worn nearly smooth. In the center were two raised a little higher than their fellows. And even then one had to have a double set of cushions to bring it high enough for the occupier: Koris of Gorm, Marshal of Estcarp, in reality, since the withdrawal of the witches from most active government, the ruler of a land, which had once deemed him an outcast. His handsome head was high held but his stunted body, in spite of the shoulders of a veteran axeman, could have been dwarfed by most of the company.

To his right the other throne chair gave seating to a woman whose dull ash-gray gown was in sharp contrast to the brilliant show of color in the garb of those about her. She wore a single jewel—and that, too, as it swung on her breast on a silver chain, was as dull as her gown. Yet it was a far more potent weapon than any other armament within this great hall.

The witches were nameless, as all knew. For a personal name was a potent thing and to surrender it to the knowledge of another was to put one with that other’s power. But this one passed by the name of Gull when among others and she was now the chosen link to those remaining within the walls of the Place of Wisdom.

There was Simon to Koris’s left, and Jaelithe, his once-witch wife (who held an uneasy truce with her onetime sisters). Then Koris’s Lady Loyse, of whom legends had already been woven.

At the end of the table stood a man who had not seated himself in the chair awaiting him. Rather he was leaning forward, handling with obvious care the wrappings of some object which had been placed on the board. Flanking him was Marshall Duratan, chronicler and protector of Lormt, who was watching every movement of that unwrapping as if he expected some outburst of energy to follow.

Keris was well placed to watch that action and he knew the man so engaged, just as he knew well the woman who hovered beside his shoulder as if to offer aid be it needed.

The man was Hilarion, the last (as far as they knew) of the adepts whose playground and experimental laboratory their whole world had been before the Great Change. Though Hilarion looked to be no older than Simon, he had survived years untold as a slave beyond a gate of his own making before being freed by the woman beside him—Kaththea, Simons sorceress daughter.

There were a handful of others at the other end of the table, but, as Keris’s, all eyes were intent on what the adept was doing.

The last of the enfolding covering had been pulled away. What stood there, some six hands high, was a double-pyramid-shaped object, each of the square bottoms being set solid on a length of blue quan iron.

Hilarion moved around the end of the table to the side facing the whole company, where there were no chairs to conceal a full view. And he went slowly, edging his device hardly more than an inch at a time along with him, until they reached the certain point of the board.

For the first time then the adept spoke. “Of old we could look across mountains, under seas, beyond oceans. But like much else, that art was lost with those from whose minds it sprang. You all know of the discoveries at Lormt after the Turning, but before that time I was working with another—Alon, now of Arvon—to bring back a device which would allow such communication.

“Now we face such danger as may equal the Great Disaster. As you well know, the Mage Key, which once controlled all gates, has been discovered. When such power comes, even into worthy hands, it awakens and stirs the Dark. And though that key may be safely lost once more, the Dark is still awake, and old enemies are empowered.

“Those of Alizon have long labored, plotted, to bring us down. They had their compact with the Kolder first, and, when those vermin were driven from our world, they went seeking other aid. Though they profess to fear and hate all Power, there are those among them willing to use any weapon to gain what they would have.

“Therefore, the key when it was found brought out of the Dark an Old One of great power, as well as he who in the beginning first fashioned it. There were those of his house still living. And through them the Light arose.

“Through the years we all have known of the gates. There have come through them whole nations seeking refuge—such as those of the Dales—as well as others by chance. And most of these we had reason to welcome. But…” the pyramids seemingly having been placed to his satisfaction, he turned more to the company to address them, “the key is gone forever. While it remained in our world—though well hidden—its influences might well have kept a portion of the gates in check, allowing them to work only erratically. Now”—he made a small gesture with one hand—“who knows what has happened? We all felt the terrible unleashed power of the key’s passing—we have certain gates we are sure of… However, perhaps I wander from what I hope we can learn.”

“This”—he had swung around once more to confront his apparatus—“perhaps will give us word out of Arvon. For Alon has labored there, backed by the Power of the Gryphon, to construct a similar device. If we can communicate, then we need not wait for any ship’s voyaging to bring us news which perhaps will arrive too late for us to act effectively.”

Kemoc had slipped out of his chair, and Dahaun and Ethatur also, and with them Jaelithe. There was a stir as Gull arose from her seat. With impassive face she followed them, one hand clasping her jewel to her breast.