Andre Norton - Gryphon in Glory

She had such courage, that brown girl, so wide and deep a heart, that even an outcast who was also a “monster” had been invited into the warm core of it. I need only have said the right words and she would have come to me willingly. But I did not want willingness out of duty—I wanted . . .

I wanted something else, not pity, not duty, not that she came to me because we had faced evil together and come unharmed out of that battle that we had fought. I did not know just what I wanted—save it was something I had not found, nor really could put name to.

Then I heard, even through my cloud of self-pity, a soft sound from Elys, a deeper gasp that could only have come from Jervon. Startled I raised my head. The road lay radiant in the j night. Each and every mark along it was alive with silver fire, even though the moon was not yet high.

Also—perhaps the cause was induced by some trick of that light, but it seemed to me that part of the patterns moved. There was a glow that came and went along the patches that resembled the footprints of man, beast, and bird, almost as if things now , trod upon them, clouding them for a second here and there as an invisible foot pressed, was again lifted, while those symbols in the corners of the stars glowed stronger, a light haze arising from them as if candles had been set ablaze.

I put out my hand, without being conscious that I did, until Elys’s fingers clasped mine. Also, I knew without looking, she must be linked with Jervon in the same manner. We were nor alone! There were travelers on the road though we might not see them, even as those other ghosts had passed into exile long ago. They did not approach us. Perhaps they journeyed, not in another dimension of space, but in time itself. Great concerns we could not comprehend drew them on. We dimly felt their concern—or at least I did.

Twice I stirred as a touch reached me. Slight as it was, that contact held the sharp impact of a blow. For that single instant I had been on the brink of knowledge and understanding. Yes. I almost knew—then the meaning was lost and I was left as empty as when I had put Joisan from me to ride alone out of Norsdale. Only this had nothing to do with Joisan, rather it came to me as a greeting, a meeting with those I understood, who knew and welcomed me—but to whose attention I could not hold because I was only a part of what they were in full.

I do not know how long we sat there so hand-linked, watching what no human eyes could ever catch in full. There came at last a time when the prints no longer glowed, dimmed, glowed again, when our sensing of those hastening travelers faded. Elys’s fingers slid out from mine. My hand fell limply, to lie on the stone.

We did not speak to each other—had we even seen or felt the same things? I never knew. Rather we separated in silence, all at once full spent, worn from the watching, wrapped ourselves in our cloaks to sleep. Nor did I dream that night.

However. I awoke later in the morning than my companions. Jervon had already brought up the horses and had them saddled, the packs ready. Elys knelt, was busy dividing supplies into two pouches. As I sat up, she gestured to a portion of journey cake set aside, giving the packet that held the remainder to Jervon.

He stayed where he was but Elys arose, to stand before me as I sat chewing the dry cake, wishing that for once I had a bowl of porridge hot from the pot, such as I had seldom tasted since I rode from Ulmsdale years ago.

“Kerovan,” she said abruptly. “Here we must part company.”

At first I did not even understand her. When I did, I stared at her open-mouthed. There were dark bruises left by exhaustion under her eyes, and her face seemed gaunt, as if she were fresh out of some battle. Her hand went out in a small gesture—not to summon power, rather one that expressed helplessness.

“We— we have been forbidden . . .”

I was on my feet, my food forgotten. What had happened as I slept away the rising of the sun? Who had forbidden?

She no longer looked at me but to the road, white and straight under the sun. I saw a longing, as deep as the heart-wrenching sorrow that I carried (perhaps with such ill grace) in her face. She might be regarding all the wonders the world can offer, piled in a heap before her, and yet know that she could touch them not.

“This way is not for us .. . not yet—not yet . . .”

The sadness in her eyes was near a sob in her voice.

“But you—you said . . .” I found myself floundering for words as might a child trying to learn from an elder the why of an inexplicable change in plan.

“When I told you that we would ride together—then I believed I spoke the truth. Perhaps—perhaps we, Jervon—I—have been weighed and found wanting.” Her disappointment was hurtful for any one to see. “Believe me, it is not for us to go on. This is your road only, Kerovan. Perhaps we played our part merely in companying you to this place, even as we earlier companied your lady. There must be some reason behind the pattern of our meeting with you both. Whatever that was, it is now fulfilled. But if we have in any way served—then remember us, Kerovan, in those days when you come into your heritage. It may be that we shall . . . No, you ride alone, for that is where you go—to accept your own fate, whether you believe it or not.

“If there comes a time later”—her expression did not change, still I read a thread of hope in her voice—“when we shall be made free of this way, and none shall say us no—then, when that time comes, look for us, Kerovan, be sure we come with glad hearts. What we shall do from this day forward is wait—and struggle and learn—until the road lies open.”

I clasped her hand and her flesh was chill. She said no more but mounted. Then I clasped hands with Jervon also. He had eyes mainly for Elys, as if whatever burden she bore, he would seize upon as his own if he could. I was left with no words at all as I stood and watched them go leaving Joisan’s mare and the pack pony, on which they had loaded the bulk of their own supplies, a last gesture of good will for me.

Back down the road they went, leaving in me a vast loneliness, a sharply growing need. Still, such had been the force of Elys’s words and manner I could not have found any argument to stop them.

I did not at once start in the other direction along that road, which Elys had said was to be mine alone. Rather I settled on my heels after I had seen them out of sight, they never turning once to lift hand to me again. Not until now had I been aware how much their company had meant during these past few days. I had ridden into this Waste telling myself that I was my own man (though I chose to go on Imgry’s errand), that in all High Hallack now there was not one I wished to comrade with, or who cared if I might come to trouble. Save only my lady—and her I had thought safe as anyone might be in this grim and war-torn land.

There was nothing, I had thought, which I any longer desired to have, to hold, to know. As if he who had been Kerovan of Ulmsdale was dead—only a husk of him walked, rode, spoke.

I had always known I was different. They had told me early that my mother could not bear to look upon me and thus I had been sent to the very edge of my father’s holdings to be fostered. There I had had but two friends—Riwal, for whom the Waste and its secrets were a lodestone, the attraction of which he never tried to deny, and Jago, a crippled man-at-arms who had taught me the ways of war—and later died treacherously at the hands of his enemies who were also mine, those enemies I faced in time I and fought.

No! Even at that battle with the Dark I had not been Kerovan of Ulmsdale; instead I had been filled by another personality, one who was out of another place (or else another time), filled I with great force, one who used me as I myself would draw a j sword. Save, when that presence withdrew, its will accomplished, j it took with it that part of Kerovan that had warmth, a love of I life, a belief in himself. Now I was empty, and only with the i going of Elys and Jervon (having witnessed the strong bond between them) did I realize how empty.