Andre Norton - Year of the Unicorn

Swiftly I ordered my clothes and then pushed out into the morning. The enchantment was gone-cold stone cliffs, a dying fire—No movement, save now and then at the picket line a mount pawed the ground. I felt as if I alone were awake when all else slept. And the need for knowing I was not alone swept me.

I came to the next tent, moved by that need. Kildas lay there, covered by a cloak, sleeping. I looked farther, the Riders were gone! Returning to Kildas I strove to rouse her, but I could not. Perhaps she dreamed happily for there was a smile on her lips. Nor were my efforts more fruitful with the rest.

The restlessness possessing me until to sit still was beyond my power, I fed the dying fire. My flesh tingled; I was eaten by a rising excitement I did not, could not understand. Somewhere action was in progress, and it drew me—

Drew me! That was the answer. Not my mind—I must blank out my mind and the here and now as I had sought to do to preserve the illusion—the other sight. Let that drawing force take over, it must if I would ease this torment within.

Clumsily I strove to do that. Closing my eyes against the reality of the camp, trying to shut out what I knew and yield to that tugging I felt. I swayed, as one in a wind too great to breast, and then turned to the rubble filled end of the valley. There—somewhere there—!

Danger—I forgot danger—I was aware of nothing save the drawing. I scrambled through the rubble of the fallen rocks, impatient at the hindrance of my skirts. On and up—on and up!

It was like blood beating in the regular pound of my heart, yet also was it a throb in the air which was not as loud as the pound of a drum-waves beating, becoming a part of my body as I laboured up the path to the Safe-keep gate.

Sound now, and the tingling in me responded to that sound. But within a growing frustration. I should know—I should! And yet I did not. I was shut outside some door on which I could beat with my fists until they ran blood, yet I could not enter for the knowledge which controlled the door was not mine.

I reached the top of one of the mounds and looked down. I had found the Riders.

They stood in a triple line, facing the end of the valley, and it was indeed an end—a wall of solid rock without break, smooth past any climbing. They were bare of head, their helms and their arms, all laid behind, immediately below my perch. They faced that wall with empty hands.

And they were calling, not with voices, but from their hearts. It tore at me, that calling. I put my hands to my ears to shut it out. But that gesture was nothing against the evocation rising from below. Hunger, sorrow, loneliness—and a small spark of hope. They hurled emotions against the stones as besiegers would swing rams to batter down a keep gate.

One of them came forth from the line—Hyron, I believed, though I could not see his face. He went forward to the wall, laid the palms of his hands against its surface and stood so, while still they cried silently their desire for admittance. He stepped aside and another took his place, and another, each in turn. Time passed and I was no more aware of that than the Riders. The first line were done with that touching, the second, one by one, and now the third and last. Halse led them. He came to the barrier with an air of confidence, as if it must open for him.

On and on—and now the last—Herrel—wall. I remembered his face as I had seen it the night before, naked, scored by loss and longing. They were not willing down there, they were pleading, humbling themselves, against the nature of their kind.

Answer—Did they expect an answer now? Herrel came away from the wall to his place in the last line. And the beat, beat of their plea was unchecked. Almost I could believe that they had mistaken their gate. That stone must have stood unriven from the beginnings of time. Or had madness, born out of their wanderings in the waste, tainted their minds so they expected the very mountains to break—Was there any lost land?

I was accustomed now to the beat in my own body. Now that I knew what they strove to do here perhaps prudence would argue that I make my way back to camp. But when I tried to move from my vantage point I could not. I was one bound to the rock on which I half lay. And the fright that realization gave me brought a cry from my throat.

They would know—would find me here! Only not a head turned, no eyes moved from their steady fix upon the wall. I struggled the more, summoned all my will—and could not break those invisible bonds. On and on the Were Riders called upon whatever power they sought to reason with, and I lay there helplessly.

Now it seemed endless and I found my fear of the trap which held me broke through my preoccupation with what passed. Will—I would not lie here helpless! I could move—My fingers stretched across a stone before my eyes. Those I would move—narrow my world and my will to my fingers—

Move, fingers! Flesh and bone arched up in answer, free of the flesh held in prison. My hand curved into a fist, thrust against the rock to push away. Arm—next—arm!

Beat—beat—open gate—NO! Doggedly I pulled will and mind back to me—me! Arm—raise—

I tasted the salt of my sweat running across my lips, into the corners of my lips. Arm—raise!

Slowly—with such painful slowness—obedience. I could set hand on rock, arm as a brace, lever myself up a little. But the rest of me was unstirring weight. Foot—knee—

“Beat—beat—the gate—that was important—the gate—

“No!” Perhaps I flung that denial down upon the heads of those below in an outburst of fury and frustration. Their gate meant nothing to me. They had receded from my life. What was needful was to move a foot, bend a knee, break out of a web I could not see.

I lay back, my shoulders supported by the cliff wall, panting as I drew great gasps of air into my labouring lungs. So far—in this small way I had broken free. Now—on my feet—I must get to my feet! From this new position I could no longer see the Riders, though their wall, still unbreached, was in my line of vision. As it would doubtless continue. They had failed. Why would they not accept that fact?

No—do not think of them! To do so was to lose the small ground I had gained, again it was hard to turn my head. There was nothing, nothing beyond this pocket of stone and earth which held my disobedient body, feet, legs, arms, hands—Will their coming alive!

Now I stood, stiffly, unsteadily, afraid that any attempt at a step would plunge me from my perch. Once more I could look down upon the Riders. And from them now arose no disturbing beat of supplication. But still they stood facing the wall. And it came to me that they awaited their answer.

I edged around. It no longer mattered to me what that answer would be. My world now held only Gillan and her concerns. I was encased in a hardening shell in which I could depend upon myself alone. And, when I thought that, there flashed a vivid picture out of memory, of Herrel setting between us a drawn sword—not of custom, but of severence.

As I managed to drag myself away from the rock where I had lain to watch the Riders my movements became freer. I had to expend less effort of will on making each limb do as I wished it to.

And sunlight found its way down into the valley. It was warm on my face, my hands, scraped raw and bruised. By the time I had turned my back fully on the slide of rock which walled the Riders from me I was moving normally, but with the fatigue which had punished me after my flight through the dream forest. There was on me now another kind of need, to reach the camp—to find there anchorage.

But I was only a few steps upon my way when my isolation was broken. I had heard the mellow gong notes they sound in the Abbey chapel to tell the hours prescribed for prayer. More rounded than the voice of any bell, richer, deeper. But this note came as if from the rock about me, the sky overhead, the rough ground under foot. And with it all that was stable moved, shook, was stirred. Stones toppled and fell. I threw myself back against the cliff side. My arm went numb as one struck against flesh and bone.