Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

He could hear the faint crooning song Aylinn was voicing. Words so old that time had nearly erased them. The moon was not above to favor her now, but still she entered into the Maiden’s ritual. And her moonflower appeared to revive.

Firdun stared straight ahead of him, not at the red-robed figure who postured and chanted before the gate. The man was but the key; it was what lay beyond him that must be faced.

Jakata was well aware of them—how else could it be with the currents of magic circling about? Yet he had not glanced in their direction, his attention all for what he would do.

His black staff pointed first to one of the prone sages and then to the other. It was not the bodies which arose at his bidding, but shadow things, more material than those Kethan had seen in the city. But all which was human and of the world of light lay still, now just husks discarded.

Those shadows flanked Jakata, one on either side. And they changed, growing taller, more visible. It was they who turned to face Ibycus and the others now.

The ring of the mage’s finger was blazing. He gripped his staff almost as if it were an anchorage he must hold to.

“Neevor…” That thing out of the shadows which had arisen on Jakata’s left at his bidding showed a discernible face now. It was no monster—there was almost a serene beauty in it. However, Fir-dun, seeing it, felt an icy chill.

“Neevor!” Those lips were shaping a small tight smile. “Well met, brother.”

Ibycus’s features were set. He looked beyond the thing which addressed him at Jakata.

“Brother.” That greeting was repeated softly, almost caressingly. “We meet again.”

“Not so,” the mage returned. “Long ago our paths parted, if you are indeed some remnant of him whose liking you strive to wear. At Car Re Targen there was a parting, and Car Re Targen has been tumbled stone for countless seasons. You are not Mawlin—you are not!”

“Deny me as you please, I stand here, brother.”

He was fully solid now—that shadow-born thing. And such a one as might loom well over Ibycus, only the mage raised his ring hand and the beam of light from that stone struck full into the face of the thing slowly advancing. It writhed, cried out.

“Ill done, brother. Death you have given, death you will have in return.”

“Ill lived,” Ibycus answered, “and even more ill in dying. You do not walk again.”

There was agony twisting that fair face now and Firdun swayed, for a pain which was not his and yet seemed of his giving, struck through him. Then it was gone. He saw that Ibycus leaned now on his staff as if he needed its support.

Almost within the archway Jakata postured and moved as he might in some formal dance at a feasting.

“Ibycus…” the second of the shadow-born spoke. This was a woman. As her companion, she was fair of face, well endowed of body. Looking upon her, Firdun felt a drawing which almost brought him a half step forward.

“Beloved.” Her voice was husky; it beckoned, promised. What man could stand against the lure she had become?

“Love does not last past betrayal, Athal who was.”

“I am not was —beloved—I am! ” She opened wide her arms.

Firdun almost could have rushed forward, but that call was not for him. He saw from the corner of his eyes the purple blaze which now seemed to half hide Elysha.

The woman-thing laughed and one wanted to join with her. A musky, languorous scent filled the air. Her eyes promised…

“Remember the morning in the great chamber—Ibycus? Then you swore many things, did you not? Among them an eternal bond for us. Remember the night upon the river when you said the very stars were mirrored in my eyes and you were in your might? Remember—

“Remember,” Ibycus interrupted her languorous voice, “how it was with you when we came to the last stand at Weyrnhold.”

Tears came into those large eyes, spilled over on her ivory cheeks.

“I am your true love, Ibycus, come again. Weyrnhold was long ago—I was young—and afraid.”

“Afraid?” That word uttered with scorn had not come from the mage but from Elysha. “Afraid of losing what mattered most to you—your power over men.”

The languorous beckoning look was gone. The vision’s smile became as near a snarl as any human lips could shape.

“Stupid nothingling! Have all your sighs and longings brought you what you wish—this man?”

“What any man would give a woman must come with truth and trust,” Elysha’s voice rang out. “I do not lay your traps.”

Athal laughed, spitefully this time. “And where do you stand, nothingling?”

“Beside him you would bend to your own purposes. I take only what is given freely.”

“Enough!” Ibycus raised his ring hand. “We lose time with this chitter-chatter. Be gone, Athal, to seek again what you chose at Weyrnhold. Such choices are made only once and forever hold.”

“No!” Her voice rose to a shriek. “You cannot be lost to—

The thrust of the ring light caught her in midstep as she would have flung herself at him. Her screams rang in Firdun’s head until he half turned on the mage who would inflict such pain on anyone, man or woman.

Then she was gone and with her disappeared that spell which had begun to entangle him also. Ibycus leaned even heavier on his staff. Elysha advanced a hand but did not quite touch him.

Then he straightened and his voice rang out with all the old force and power.

“Shall we cease with games, Jakata? You have thrown the challenge. Now make good your threat.”

The Dark Mage had ceased his strange pacing back and forth. His wand swung between two fingers and he smiled as had the woman.

“You have lived long, Warden. I think your day is done. I have unlocked the gate and—”

His words centered all their eyes upon that archway. There was a hum in the air, a feeling of compression about them which was partly anticipation. The inside of the arch was black, as hidden as a starless, moonless night—or the very depths in which the greatest of evil nested.

“Firdun!” Ibycus did not look at him, but he was instantly alert at that call. He must remember—it was now that that which had been given must be used.

He spoke the first of those words in unity with the mage. Even as Ibycus drew patterns in the air with his ring finger, so did Firdun echo them. He felt drawn out of himself, melded into something larger, stronger than he had ever known—he who could not meld.

And the chant continued. There was a roiling within the darkness of the gate. That which Jakata had summoned was at hand. Though Firdun could not see it, the stench filled his nostrils, the first wave of black power washed around him. But he held and the words came. As he spoke them, they issued from his lips not as speech but as points of light, and those points formed patterns.

Again came the surge of evil. Before them Jakata swelled, grew. His arms were flung out and then drawn to his breast as if he embraced the blackness, drew it toward him to be one with him or he the symbol of it.

A length of black lashed out as Jakata pointed now at Ibycus. The mage swayed, but his voice continued, and Firdun’s with it. More of the star-words gathered, and from one side came stabs of purple lightning such as Elysha had summoned before.

The giant which was now Jakata threw back his head and laughed. While behind him the dark beyond the gate thickened, split, thickened again, as if some force gathered there to be launched at the outer world.

Jakata was now framed in a half circling of tentacles which issued out of the dark. The words which were stars had clustered into a form like the head of a spear. Jakata moved. His leap did not carry him to Ibycus; instead his giant form faltered as he stumbled. The mage pointed with his ring.