Andre Norton - The Warding of Witch World

Ancient Es loomed over them and then the citadel engulfed them. Loyse, though Verlaine had been old and had much of a dark history, had never felt at ease in these halls. All was too old—seeming to reach back before people were people and other presences dwelt here.

Koris kept his office in the lower room of one tower and it was there that the most private business was conducted. They had no sooner entered than Vixen was upon them. Loyse resented bitterly—for Koris’s sake—that this witch, chosen to be their contact with her kind and Lormt, loomed well above both of them. Nor was she beanpole-thin as might have seemed in keeping with their austerity, but as broad-shouldered and hulking as a man at arms.

As usual all her face except for her eyes was impassive. Those two points of light half hidden by the puff of her cheeks were never pleasant to face. Loyse had her share of highborn pride and she had nothing to be ashamed of in her past, yet when Vixen cast one of her cutting glances in her direction she felt as if she were still back under her father’s cruel rule.

Koris had seated his lady with all the formal courtesy of the court (that, too, was a small reminder of his rule here) and had waved Vixen to a seat across the small table piled high with maps and reports.

“You have news, Lady?” He came directly to the point.

“Of a kind.” Her thick tongue swept across her lips as if she savored what she had to say. Which meant, Loyse knew, it was trouble. “Our watch sister near Korinth has sent a warning.”

“Korinth.” Koris was already reaching for a map. “Yes, the secondary new settlement of the Sulcar, north of the Alizon Border.”

Loyse wanted to smile but kept any signs of levity under strict control. Did Vixen think that she could for a moment know more of his duties than Koris?

If she was irritated by the fact that a meant barb had not gone home, the witch did not show it.

“They have given refuse to strangers,” she continued. “People not of their kind, nor Alizonderns, nor of the Old Race. These are fleeing from the north and their shaman”—she used the word with a tone of disgust—“babbles of trouble building. They dream, do these strangers, and take a nightmare born of lack of food—or too much of it—for some revelation from the Great Power.”

Koris’s attention seemed fully for the map. “If the winds continued fair, the Wave Cleaver should be at anchorage there. Stymir has kin in Korinth and so access to the latest rumors out of the Great Cold. Their wisewoman accepts these refugees as such in truth?”

Vixen gave a curt nod. Loyse thought it was plain she would like to express an opposite opinion.

“Well enough. With the storm of the Magestone’s passing, raw power doubtless passed around the world. Who knows what balance it may have upset in these lands we know nothing of?”

Loyse’s fingers tightened in a hard clasp where her hands lay on her lap.

“What is the news from Lormt?” Koris asked with the same tone in which he would have required a report from one of his menie.

“They dig and they delve, and that adept urges them on. But as yet he has no answers and he has no touch with Arvon.”

“And it is southward these refugees flee.” Koris was busy with the map again. “Of your favor, Lady, call upon this outland sister of yours and ask for all she can tell us—even to the smallest detail. It may even be necessary for her to leave her post and go to Korinth to learn all we should know.”

Now there was a shadow of expression on Vixen’s face—a none too pleasant one. “The sisters are assigned by the Council in the Place of Wisdom. Only those selected to protect these expeditions move about.”

“I do not think that the council will refuse any request which has a bearing on the safety of this world,” Koris returned. “Now—what news has come from the Lady Frost?”

“None, save that which was beamed last night. The captain comments on the unusual number of icebergs. Frost is to speak with the shaman in Korinth today.”

“Then”—Koris leaned back a little in his chair—“we should have a good reporting, so your watcher will not have to fare north from her post to give us one.”

Loyse saw how hard Vixen’s hands were gripping her jewel. There was not always a smooth joining of the generations of witches. And those chosen to go with the searchers were of the younger. Luckily Frost had impressed all of those at the choosing with her quiet strength and goodwill.

Vixen arose with a swirl of her gray robe. “What is sent you will have in good time, Lord Marshal.” Without any further adieu she strode out of the room.

“Trouble in the north.” Loyse allowed herself enough relaxation to repeat that. “My heart, when have we not faced trouble in one quarter of the world or another?” A weariness had settled on Koris.

“True. But it is easier to fight in person than to wait on this shuttling back and forth of news!”

Now he reached out and put his hand on that map, and impulsively she laid hers on it.

“He is of your blood and mine, Loyse. And neither of us ever accepted defeat, nor were we disappointed by having it forced upon us. He is also man grown. He has taken a mate of his choice—one we can respect. And the jewel selected the two of them. It is always the harder for the watcher than the doer. I send to Simon tonight—he prowls the north Border, since we still are not sure what boils in Alizon. Though it seems by rumor that that young lordling Lady Mereth tamed is very busy. If his actions can keep his countrymen within their own Borders, baying for each other’s throats, he serves us well. Loyse”—his grip on her hand was tight now—“it seems our destiny to be ever on the alert. I think that peace is not to be our portion, so let us bear that as we can. This much have I gained from war—my dear lady, without whom my life would be a barren thing.”

“As I have gained you, my dearest of lords. In the end good comes out of evil—or else of what value is life itself? I made my choice long ago,” Loyse said slowly. “Never have I regretted it. Now I shall teach myself not to regret that Simond has made his also—or else it has been made for him—as perhaps it was for me. We have been blessed, my heart.”

“As we shall be again.” Koris took her into his arms and they were one—as it had been for so long and would continue always to be.

So new… Trusla moved closer to Simond. The canal which ran through the center of this town was not strange to one who had been born and raised in Tor Marsh, where all clan houses existed on islands divided by bogs and channels. But there she had always been aware of a feeling of kin-age—of timelessness where things remained always the same from season to season.

And when Simond had taken her to Es City, that was a place of awesome age—as was even the keep where they had later made their home together.

Here were no stone walls—only barked log houses, many of them still roofless, all the center of activity. The mud from the last rain was thick enough between these crude shelters to be ankle deep if one were forced off one of the planked walks. Always one could hear the pound of hammers, the shouts of those raising beams, warnings to get out of the way of this or that train of burden bearers.

The ship from which they had embarked only a short time since had come heavily laden with supplies to keep those hammers busy. And after Sulcar custom the women were busy as the men, poling laden craft along the canal, even steadying materials for the builders and wielding axes themselves.

Trusla had never before heard of creating a whole new town, but there were many things in this strange world outside Tor Marsh of which she had been unaware.