Andre Norton - Year of the Unicorn

“What difference might my success mean?”

“It would give you the right to set the stakes—that other Gillan. If I challenge there is an equal chance they could deem this Pack quarrel only, with no stakes other than life or disgrace.”

“Do you think I might not name Halse? He is a bear.”

“The beasts you have seen are not the only shapes we may take upon occasion, only those which are the most familiar. And at such a test as this he would not show as bear.”

“But you could warn me—”

Herrel was already shaking his head. “That I could not, by word, or gesture, or even by thought! The naming would be only yours and on you the burden of its success or failure. If you stand out before them, holding this sword, then you will be the challenger.”

“I have the true sight. Have I not proved that?”

“How well does it serve you now?” he countered. I remembered the mist-halls I had seen in the afternoon and my feeling that the power ebbed.

“This afternoon—I tried to see—” I was not really aware I had spoken that aloud, but Herrel drew the sword out of my reach.

“It is too great a risk. I shall challenge by Pack right and bargain as I can—”

He sounded decisive but still my mind played with what he had told me, and I leaned back against the pillar, running my hands along its age pitted stone. My sight, if I could but regain that illusion-breaking sight only for the few moments needed for the naming of true names! Up and down the stone my fingers moved, around and around in my mind thoughts spun, seeking some solution. There were herbs in my simple bag which cleared the head, sharpened the senses—as well as those which cured wounds and illnesses. My bandaged arm moved now without pain. Surely there must be some way to strengthen my inner power for as long as was necessary. If I only knew!

“Herrel—the healer’s bag, please fetch it.” To expend even so much effort as to hunt for it would endanger what I would try. “What—?”

“Bring it hither! How long have we before they come?” He moved slowly, gazing at me over his shoulder as if he would have out of my mind what I planned. But he brought the bag and laid it in my lap.

“I do not know. I light the fire at moonrise—then we wait.”

But that would not do—I must have a better idea of time. My fingers released the latching of the bag. I searched within for a small bottle cut and hollowed from a prism of quartz. “What do you plan?”

I opened my fingers. Even in this shadow light the prism seemed to glow.

“Have you ever heard of moly, my lord?” His breath caught in a half gasp. “Where got you that?”

“From an herb garden. Dame Alousan used it. Not because she would work sorcery, but because it has the power to sooth those who have come under the ill-looking of witchery. Though I do not remember that she used it save twice, since witchery is not practised in the Dales. The last time,” I smiled, “was for a man-at-arms who claimed he had been ill-looked by a Were Rider, and so lay with no life in his limbs. Whether it was only an illness born of his fear, or true sorcery, I do not know. But he walked again after he had a few drops of this in his ale for three days. However, it has by legend property. It can break illusion.”

“But you do not know who will come—or which to try it on—”

“That is not needful. It is my illusions which I must break. But I dare not use it too soon. And neither do I know how long it takes these drops to work. If I choose the time wrongly I may be either clear-sighted too soon, or too late. Therefore if you can give me warning—”

“It is a great risk—”

“All we strive to do this night is by chance, good or ill. Herrel, will not this be better?”

“And if you fail?”

“To see ever the cloud and not the sun is to woefully and willingly blind oneself. But can you give me warning—?”

“This much. I can tell you that they come before I sight them. For I, too, will experience the drawing, and will know how strong it grows.”

With that I must be content. But as I enfolded the prism in my sweat-dampened palm, I knew how small a warning I must depend upon.

“Herrel, ’til the moon rises, tell me of this Arvon of yours. Not as it threatens us now, but as it might be.” And he told me—unrolling his country before me, with its strange people, its grandeur and might, its dark places.

To everyone the hills and plains of their homeland have a beauty and colour beyond the rest of the world. More is this the truth when one has been in exile. But still the Arvon which came alive to me in Herrel’s words was a country fair beyond the sparsely inhabited, war torn Dales of High Hallack, and like unto a nation—time-set and sunk, that is true—yet mighty.

Though they all, those who dwelt in Arvon, shared in some use of magic and that which can not be weighed or measured and of which only the results may be seen, yet that varied in degree and kind. There were adepts who dwelt apart, wrapt in their studies of other times and worlds which touched ours only momentarily at intervals, and who were now scarcely even of human seeming. On the other hand the people of the manors, the four clans, Redmantle, Goldmantle, Bluemantle, Silvermantle, worked sorcery very little, and, save for their very long lives, they were close akin to humankind. Between those two extremes ranged a number of alien folk—the Were Riders, those who tended the Fanes of personified Powers and Forces, a race which lived in rivers and lakes, one which chose not to be too far parted from woods and forests, and some that were wholly animal in form, yet with an intelligence which set them apart from any animal the outer world knew.

“It would appear,” I said, “that there are so many marvels in this Arvon of yours one could ride for ever, looking, listening, and still never come to the end of them!”

“As I have come to the end of this telling?” Herrel got to his feet and slid down the mound to the side of the piled tree roots. Then I saw that a silver moon was rising. He touched sword point into the heart of the wood and a small green spark broke from the meeting of steel and wood.

They did not leap, those flames, rather did the wood smoulder contrarily, as if it had no wish to be summoned from ancient sleep, to die in ashes. Thrice did Herrel thrust with his sword, each time the point going more deeply into the pile. Then flames did crawl reluctantly to the air and there arose a smoke which thinned into a grey-white column.

I closed my hand so tightly upon the prism which held the distilled moly that the edges of the crystal cut into my flesh. Already I had loosed the stopper, but I kept my thumb upon it, making sure I would spill none.

Herrel raised his head high. His eyes were glittering green, shadows swept across his face, and vanished, only to return. But the alien shape did not take possession of him as he stood there, naked sword bright in his hand. At last he turned his head and spoke to me. His speech was no longer quite human words, but I understood.

“They are drawn—”

I stood up, away from the pillar. He did not move to aid me down from the mound, it was as if he were held prisoner there. But I came to him and held out my right hand, the left still grasping tight the prism.

“Your sword, champion.”

Herrel moved stiffly, as one who fought some force, to hand me that blade. So we waited by the fire. The moon lighted the road, but nothing moved along it that I could see. After a while Herrel spoke again—sounding as if he stood afar from me and not within touching distance.

“They are coming.”

How near, how far? When must I put on such armour as a few drops of golden liquid would give me? I thumbed the stopper out, held the prism to my lips.