Andre Norton - The Key of the Keplian

Mayrin was fumbling at the chains. “I can’t see any locks. How are they sealed?

Jerrany had picked up a link and was following it around his friend. He circled, circled again, traced the links over an arm and around the chair. Finally he looked up at them.

“There are no locks. The chain has no end.”

“Damn!” Eleeri snarled. “They were put on; there has to be a way to take them off again.”

The prisoner smiled bitterly. “You are assuming that my master wanted to take them off. He plans to use me until all I am is gone. Then he will have no need to open the chains. I will no longer be within them.”

But Eleeri came of a people to whom there were no impossible problems, only unfound solutions. Touching the chains with the daggers brought reaction. The chains tightened until Romar gasped for breath. Lift the touch of silver and they slackened once more. At length she stood back.

“Romar, if the Dark lord created these, they must be wholly of the Dark. That is why they react to the silver and to anything else we bear that is of the Light. But they are stronger than anything we bear.”

She paused, thinking. Perhaps their guide could help them. “What is stronger than the Dark?”

“Love,” the creature answered.

“What buys freedom?”

“Sacrifice.”

She leaned forward, her eyes holding his, watching for the slightest evasion now. “What breaks chains to free a living captive?”

“That which you hold in common.”

Into her mind came the answer then, like curtains raised to show the sun. Her dagger flicked into her hand and with one sweep she opened the skin of her arm. Blood spilled over the chains. For one instant they tightened—she could almost hear the creak of Romar’s ribs. Then the black bindings withered, smoking away to nothingness. Her hands went out to lift him up as he took one tottering step forward. Then he was in her arms as his sister and sword-brother crowded about, holding them both.

His face bent to hers. “Tsukup?”

“Indeed.” She was half laughing as tears slid down her face. His finger gathered one in.

“Tears for me? No, now is no time to weep.” He hugged her savagely. “The three of you have done the impossible. Let us compound this and see if we cannot leave this place.”

Their guide cleared his throat. “I can return you to a certain place, should you ask it of me.”

It was Jerrany who understood that first. He straightened. “We ask that you take all four of us to a gate from whence we might come to our own lands again.” Their guide held out a hand and at a touch they were gone. They stood swaying on short thin grass as their heads cleared. Ahead of them a faint mist alternately obscured and partially revealed a dull gray structure. Weathered stone blocks showed in a lichen-daubed archway.

Mayrin stepped back a pace. Her eyes met those of the guide. “I do thank you, good lord of this land. For your courage and your aid. Is there aught we could do for you in return? Your help has been far beyond any poor debt you might have owed us for releasing you from the brambles.”

He hesitated, then nodded. His eyes drifted to the dagger that gleamed softly at her belt. Mayrin freed the sheath, handing it to him, then she drew the dagger.

“This weapon of Light do I freely give to you. Use it with honor. May it serve you as it has served me.” She handed it to him, watching as it was sheathed once more. He bowed low to all of them in turn, then he was gone, loping away over the gray moorland. But as he went, it seemed as if his figure changed yet again, so that they stared at each other in silence.

To Eleeri it appeared as if a coyote had turned to study her with amusement as it left. She knew not what the others might have seen, but in her heart she smiled. The trickster came in many guises, as Far Traveler had always said. But they had dealt fairly and so been treated well in turn. That was as it should be, and as all legends told.

Her friends were studying the gate. It loomed, gray and massive, forbidding above them. Through the ancient arch they could see only mist.

“Well, shall we return?” Romar’s voice was almost happy.

“We can; you cannot.” Mayrin blinked. “We were told that you are only here in spirit. It takes both spirit and body to pass the gate.”

He stared at them blankly. “Then must I remain here?”

But Eleeri’s eyes had opened wide in sudden knowledge. At last there was a purpose for the clay from the canyon keep. Quickly she ran from bush to bush, then dragged out her dagger, cutting free a piece of her tunic. It was Romar who first understood. He nodded, taking the dagger from her to cut a length of his hair and spit upon the clay.

Eleeri twisted grass into thin cord, sewing rapidly. Then she held up the figure modeled from the clay. It bore a tiny dagger rough-carved from a silver wood, and was dressed in leather tunic and breeches.

“And something from all of us,” Eleeri said as she dappled her own blood across the clay, then bound her dagger lengthwise along the cut she had given herself to free Romar. Mayrin added a long strand of her hair, Jerrany spat on the clay even as his sword-brother had done. Eleeri nodded.

She beckoned Romar. “Hold this and do not let go, no matter what may happen. Lead us, Jerrany.”

He strode through the gate, sword at the ready. Behind him Romar was flanked by the women, each fierce-eyed. Light flamed about them in a blinding aura, heat seared, cold burned. But the women’s hands remained clamped to Romar’s arms. They were battered, tossed from side to side. Their fingers ached; it was as though they were dragged time and again against their hold.

Then it was over. Three people stood swaying on a stone floor within a great hall. Above, banners stirred. Mayrin shrieked.

“Romar! Romar! He didn’t come with us.”

Eleeri stooped to take up the clay figure. “He did, you know. Now all we have to do is defeat the Dark lord. Return his spirit, which is contained in this, to his body here, and go home.” She sighed elaborately. “All in a day’s work.”

The giggles that greeted her words were a touch hysterical, but better than outcry. In her hand the clay moved. She placed it on the paving, then watched as it marched forward.

“Where’s he going?”

“In search of his body, I should think. He’d have a better tie to that than any of us.” They fell in behind at a slow walk. None of the passages they traversed were dark. Runes sparkled from the walls as they paced on. The small figure was tireless, but by now Mayrin was beginning to show her own weariness, and Jerrany and Eleeri were slowing. A glance from a window as they passed told them that time had halted in the shadowlands, but now it moved on again, albeit slower than outside the tower. By the sun they had entered this place no more than two hours ago, although days seemed to have passed. Hunger and thirst plagued them all, so that they passed dry tongues over drier lips as they walked.

The pace quickened until the tiny figure before them was running. It halted the flight at a door. Eleeri groaned.

“Not another door. What do we have to do this time?”

Jerrany had opened his mouth to reply when the heavy wood trembled. The door crunched open, as red-tinged light spilled from the room within.

The clay figure darted past Eleeri. She gave a yelp of protest as she followed it in—only to pull up facing a long broad desk. Leaning back in a magnificent chair, the tower’s lord glared at them. At his side Romar lolled, body and face slack. In one swift glance Eleeri saw the clay figure lurking under the Lord’s desk. She moved to the right, drawing the lord’s eyes. The figure scurried forward into hiding behind the chair. Red coals met hers, holding her in their gaze.