Andre Norton - The Key of the Keplian

“In many places it has. How many living did you see as you crossed the land?’

“No one.”

“You see. To the north and east the land is empty. It is to the west and south, along the seacoast where traders still come, that people are to be found.”

“Traders?”

“The Sulcar ships sometimes touch port. They come armed and wary, but they do come now and again.”

The girl nodded, remembering all he had told her of that race of seafarers. “What about the Falconers you spoke of? Are any of them still around?”

Cynan sighed softly. “That I know not. They left the mountains before the turning. They took service in many places and with many people. I think they would live yet as a people; they are strong fighters and proud.” His eyes met hers. “But never mind others. What do you plan? You will not stay here beyond the snows. I feel your restlessness even now. You could travel over-mountain to Estcarp. I could give you places where you would be welcome in my name.”

Eleeri blinked. “Are there still trails?” Then she snorted at her own stupidity. “Of course there must be; otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to get back. How does the land lie there?”

She watched as he drew a burned stick from the fire and drew on the stone floor. “I see,” she finally said. “If I return along the mountain edge to the west and cross north, then I’ll be in Estcarp.” She laid a slim finger on the blank portion. “What land lies here?”

Cynan was silent for a long time. When he finally answered, she was conscious of a rising desire. There was something in the name of Escore as he said it, something which drew her even as the east had originally drawn her here to this secluded valley. She studied the map silently before she spoke.

“Our river—if I followed that, I would arrive in time in this land?”

“So I think, but I do not know for certain.”

Eleeri stood and walked to her bedding. She hauled firewood, banking the fire for the night as she thought. The pull, the feeling of rightness grew stronger. She settled into her bedding and allowed her body to relax.

From his bed the old man watched her face. Just before sleep claimed them, he spoke again. “You’ve decided, haven’t you?”

“Yes. When spring comes, I will go to Escore. Will you come with me?”

“No. I was born here in this hold. I came back to die here. But if you meet any who knew me where you go, tell them I still live.”

“I will.” She drifted into sleep then. A destination determined. Escore . . . she would go to Escore.

The winter was both a time of friendship and a time of hardship for Eleeri. Cynan taught her all the scraps of languages he had picked up over a long busy life. To that knowledge he added warnings, hints, and beliefs about the places of the Old Ones, their natures, and beginnings. His mother had possessed some small gifts, so that the girl’s increasing abilities failed to distress him as they might have another. The girl herself barely noticed that her gift was growing, stretching as she used it. She had always had the horse gift; it was a part of her.

But in the clear air of this new land, things were changing. Before she had been able to handle the wildest mare, soothe the most savage stallion. Foals had run to her for comfort. By the time she’d reached seven or eight, Far Traveler had been using her to start the training process for the horses he accepted. Beasts trained by her seemed to be calmer, more intelligent and sensible. Eleeri had loved the work but hated it when each four-footed friend left again. She knew that all too many owners would treat them as cheap machines.

She loved horses, the feel of hard muscle sliding under her hands as she groomed. The rough strands of mane, the scents and the sounds. But she loved most of all the feeling of communion she had with them, their trust and returned affection. Over that winter she did not regard it as odd that this communication deepened. It had been rare for her to keep a horse past the few weeks necessary to explain their new duties to humans. With these three she had spent much time and many months. Of course they had responded. But Cynan, watching, knew that it was far more. There were times when it was as if the minds of girl and horse mingled so that beast and rider were one.

He deliberately moved onto that subject one night. “Eleeri, the power often comes as it will and not as you will it.” She glanced up, but said nothing. “You say that in your own land none have great power, only small gifts that tend to lessen with each generation.” The girl nodded. “Then think on this. Here it is not so. It may be that here the gift you have grows. I do not believe it is so small as you think, and such gifts untrained can be dangerous. If you come upon anyone who can, let them teach you.”

“Look, I don’t think I have the power you do. But”—she looked up and smiled, a smile of affection for the old warrior—“I promise I’ll get teaching if I can find a willing teacher. And”—she held up a hand before he spoke—“I’ll make sure this one is of the Light before I begin to learn, okay?”

“Okay.”

Cynan returned to the shirt he was mending and Eleeri to the deerskin trousers she was making. Over the autumn she had hunted well, and not a hide or fur had been wasted. The quiet isolation of winter was a time for using these. She planned to leave Cynan a complete set of the deerskin garments along with a fur cloak. She knew that nowadays his old bones ached in the cold. She also planned to make a pair of special knee-high moccasins for him. The hide under the foot was to be triple-layered and the moccasins would be fur-lined. That would keep his feet warm and dry when he must go into the snow to tend the beasts next winter.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. It would not be easy to leave. But he would be furious if she stayed. He would know it was to look after him, and his pride would be cut to the heart. She understood the pride of a warrior. She would not wound the old man by counting him as less than he was. He had come back to this place which had once been his, to die. They both knew it. Here in a tiny graveyard higher into the hills lay the bodies of his wife and last child. The bodies of his parents, and his siblings. The hold had been the refuge for his bloodline for so long, the years faded to dust.

Her mind wandered to his words. She wasn’t sure . . . perhaps her gift was growing stronger. But why should she have any great gift at all? It was true that there had been medicine men and women of ability in Far Traveler’s line. Too many times she had been forced to bite down on hot words as her schools decried those gifts, calling them native superstition. Something snagged on her thoughts and she dimly recalled the teasing that her grandfather had given his wife. Yes . . . she concentrated, and the memories grew a little clearer.

They had been around the table: her mother Wind Talker, her father, and his parents. It was on one of her grandparents’ rare visits to Eleeri’s home. Her grandfather had been speaking of Cornish superstitions and their use.

“. . . a method of control in many cases.”

“Then you don’t think there was ever anything more?” That had been her mother.

“Not to denigrate your beliefs, my dear, but no, I don’t. I think that it was usually a way to handle large numbers of people. To persuade them into suitable actions. For instance, in New Zealand a tapu may be placed on shellfish to allow the numbers to recover after a bad season. The people believe they will be cursed if they touch them until the tapu is lifted. In this way their elders control them and the food supply.”

He had suddenly chuckled. “If I believed all the old talk, I’d never have married your mother-in-law.”