Andre Norton - The Magestone

I have been sitting at that bench for some time now, attempting to set my queries in an orderly array. My earlier letter to you composed aboard the ship was most helpful in clarifying my thoughts. I find myself deeply affected by the weight of years pressing upon this place. The kin lists that you and I compiled in the Dales stretched back many generations, but Lormt’s stones belong to an age unbelievably remote beyond any we knew, even from the Dales’ oldest legends. The keen pursuit of learning here by so many scholars over so long a time makes my total candor not only a courtesy but a necessity. I have written the account of my past, including my odd talents and my one encounter with the Witch at Es Castle. I suspect that along with the famed kin lists here, there must also be ancient documents concerning magical matters. Perhaps these folk can help me find some lore related to my betrothal jewel . . . if they choose to allow me access to their archives. I await the dawn with a mixture of impatience and trepidation. My sense of apprehension last night was indeed justified. These Lormt folk were evidently as wary of me as I was of them! After I had eaten a hasty morning meal, Jonja herself conducted me to the larger courtyard building, which proved to be the main scholarly repository. Never before had I seen so many scrolls gathered together in one place. We passed through a warren of study nooks and cubicles, divided and flanked by shelves, with countless tables and desks all heaped with sheafs of writings. Scores of elderly men—and a few women—moved about slowly carrying documents or perching on chairs or benches.

Jonja did not speak to any of the scholars, but preceded me up a narrow staircase to the upper level, where she opened a massive door into a study room well illumined by a segment of the high window strip I had noticed from below. The same three Estcarpians who had met me at the gate looked up from their seats around a table littered with documents.

Ouen rose to offer me a high-backed chair. “Come join us, if you will,” he invited. “We have been discussing the significance of your arrival.”

I held out to him the pages I had written, then took my seat, placing my slate on the table before me and propping my staff at my knee. You used to claim to envy my practice of rapping on the floor with my staff to draw attention to my hand slate. You said it invariably stopped every contentious meeting, and threatened more than once to try a loud shout of your own to award you equal notice . . . but you never did test that tactic, at least, not in my hearing.

Ouen read my statement aloud, not pausing for any comments. When he finished the last page, he looked at me with a keenly assessing gaze. “You are commendably frank,” he remarked. “We shall return that courtesy. You should know that Mistress Jonja had alerted us of your approach some hours before your arrival.”

Startled, I turned to face the Wise Woman. She had laid her rune-board before her, and touched it now with her right hand. “I bear a certain measure of the foreseeing gift,” she explained. “I sensed yesterday that someone associated with Power was drawing near to Lormt, so I asked these friends to join me at the gate. You will understand that any stirring of Power must be carefully examined. Once you had come under Lormt’s roof, I consulted both my herbs and my runeboard to determine your allegiance to either the Light or the Dark.”

The soldierly Estcarpian, Duratan, nodded and extended his hand above the table. From a small leather bag, he spilled out a few gemstones of various colors, some clear, some cloudy. “I also consulted these crystals of mine,” he said. “I see you are surprised that a male could share those talents thought to belong solely to Witches and Wise Women. Kemoc Tregarth, whose talents descend from his mighty father, gave me these crystals. They fall for me in patterns that can convey warnings in time of need. When I tossed them last night concerning you, I received such a warning. You are at the center of potent violence and conflict. . . .”

Before he could finish speaking, I thumped my staff, snatched up my slate and wrote, “No! Violence wrenched away all dear to me twenty years past, in Alizon’s war against our Dales. I have no traffic with any magic, nor do I bring you any danger of conflict!”

Duratan smiled, but there was little warmth in his expression. “I did not mean conflict now,” he corrected. “I was about to say that my crystals warn of trouble yet to come.”

I wiped away my first remark with my slate cloth and scribbled my rejoinder. “I crave your pardon for interrupting. I am an old woman—how can I be a threat to anyone? I fought in defense of our Dales, that is true, chiefly by using my trading experience to supply our men harrying the invaders. But those awful years are gone by. All I seek now is your help in finding whence came my betrothal jewel, and who was my true father.”

Ouen again read my words aloud. The lady Nolar seemed deep in thought, then she observed, “This pendant jewel you describe cannot be a Witch Jewel, for I have seen and handled one of those—it belonged to a Witch I assisted in a quest over a year ago, just after the Turning. I must tell you that I briefly possessed a shard found here at Lormt that proved to have been riven from a stone of great Power far to the south. It was not a clear crystal, however, like your betrothal gem, but a creamy, opaque stone veined with green, and wondrous for its healing gifts when rightly addressed. I shall gladly aid you in searching our archives here for any news regarding your lost jewel.”

“And we can inquire whether old Morfew might spare the time to sort through his interminable kin lists,” suggested Duratan. This time, his smile was warmed by genuine affection. “He is justly famed for his store of knowledge.”

“I thank you all,” I wrote on my slate. “My questions have not allowed me to rest. I undertook this far journey with the mere hope that Lormt might provide answers. I rejoice that you offer me assistance.”

Thus as the snows of the Month of the Ice Dragon swirled outside, I began my search of Lormt’s documents.

I did sleep that night, and I did dream. I awoke before dawn, my bedclothes in a disordered tangle. Although I tried, I could not recall the substance of my dreams, only that there had been vivid colors and strange sounds and whirling motions. Had there not been some prominent object . . . some patterned design? No matter how intense my effort, I could not retrieve any details.

Feeling unsettled, I climbed the tower staircase to our castle’s mosaic chamber. Always before when I was troubled, I had found a certain soothing quietness in that room, as if the ancient designs ornamenting the walls and floor diverted both eye and mind. Some of the beasts and plants portrayed were clearly recognizable—the split-tusked boar, the shrieker, the hooded crow, the fever-leaf vine; others were bizarre, with too many legs or heads or fanciful flowers. As I walked slowly around the room, tracing the more faded patterns with my fingers, I felt suddenly convinced that some of these very designs had appeared in my dreams—their colors far brighter, the animal forms moving somehow, as if alive. On the heels of this insight came a second revelation. Before my last littermate had sailed for the Dales, we had talked in this room. He discussed the formalities I should follow if he were killed in the fighting, including the surrender by his mate of what we termed the elder’s key. As I recalled that conversation, the key’s image filled my mind’s eye.

When had I last seen that intricately engraved key? It was thought to be as old as our Line, descending to the mate of the eldest male upon the birth of her first male. Volorian’s mate having died young, the key had been presented to my dam, and upon my sire’s murder, passed to my eldest littermate’s mate. With all three of my elder littermates now dead, I had assumed that my mate would eventually be given the key . . . except I had so far bred no whelps, not yet having an alliance negotiated for me. As the persisting image of Gurborian’s jewel had nagged me the previous night, I found my thoughts were now fixated on the elder’s key. I had seen it only twice: once when I chanced to discover my dam sorting through our pack’s treasures, and once when the key was passed to my last littermate to be given to his mate. When she had delivered a female, the key had been returned to its special casket.