Andre Norton - Gryphon in Glory

About me there was only the gray light of predawn, which left the ridges black and harsh against the sky. Like all who deal secretly, I used this cover of shadows as I prepared to ride forth. Though I believed I was well armed in spirit for what I must do, still I shivered under my mail and leather as if I needed the cloak now rolled behind my saddle.

“Lady Joisan—”

That voice out of the dark, deep-set Abbey gate gave me a start. I swung around, my hand going without bid of conscious thought to the hilt of the sword swinging heavy at my belt.

“Lady. . .”

It was Nalda, who had been my right hand, and sometimes the left also, when the invaders drove us out of Ithdale and we wandered guideless westward across unknown lands. Last night I had given her, not my orders, but my confidence.

She had listened as I pointed out that those who were left of our people were now safe in Norsdale, that they would continue to be given shelter and work by the Dames, even as were the other refugees who had come this far, there being no near fear to trouble their future.

“But you,” she said, shrewdly seizing upon what must have colored my voice, “you speak as if you will not be here.”

“I will not—for a space. None of us can know what lies ahead from one day’s dawning to the next. I have been your lady, and, in a manner, also your lord, during our wanderings. Now I must consider my own affairs.”

“My lady, do you go to seek him, then—my Lord Amber?”

“Not Amber!” My answer had been sharp. That was the name we had given him when he first found us and we had thought him one of the Old Ones aiding us because of some whim. “You know that he is my wedded lord—Kerovan. Yes, I must go to him—or at least seek him. I must, Nalda.”

I had hesitated then, shy of revealing my feelings to anyone, even to Nalda, true of heart though she had always been. But she had nodded. “When my lord rode forth these five days past—I knew you would follow, my lady. There is the bond between you, which cannot be denied. Nor are you one to abide behind safe walls to wait there in patience for tidings. You must be a-doing—even as you were in Ithdale when we strove to defend it.” Her voice faltered. I knew that she remembered what ties of her own had been broken on that raw, red day when we had run from death, our escape so hard bought.

I had become brusque, for memory is sometimes a burden one must throw away lest it weigh too heavily, the past against what must be done in the present.

“To you I would give my keys, if those still hung from my girdle. I set you in charge of my people, knowing that you will see to their good—”

She had interrupted me quickly. “Lady, you have kin here. I am not of the keep household nor kin to the House. What will my Lady Islaugha say to this? She has recovered and no longer wanders in her wits—and she is a proud woman—”

“She may be my aunt but she is not of Ithdale,” I had pointed out decisively. “This is our own matter, none of hers. I have told the Lady Abbess that you are to be my deputy. No”—I shook my head at the open question on her broad, sun-browned face—“the Abbess does not know my intentions. I have only said that this shall be so should accident or illness strike at me. Your authority will stand.”

There was only one under that roof besides Nalda who knew what lay in my head or heart—and it was by her contrivance (that of the much revered Past-Abbess Malwinna) that I rode forth wearing unfamiliar steel and leather, mounted on a tough mountain mare, in the dim light of morning. Or would ride when I had done with Nalda.

She came closer, her voice a husky whisper. It would seem that she, no more than I, wanted to arouse any notice. Now her hand, pale in this dim light, raised as if to catch at the reins I had gathered up when I swung into the saddle.

“Lady, you must not go alone!” she said urgently. “I have been burdened with worry since you told me of what you would do. Outside this dale the country may be a trap—danger crawls there.”

“All the more reason that I ride alone, Nalda. One only, who goes with caution, can slip between shadows.” My hand rose to cup over that which hung about my neck—the globe of crystal with its imprisoned silver gryphon, my lord’s own gift to me, and one that was—was what? I did not truly know; this might be the time for me to discover the power of that which I wore, carried, and had once used, without understanding what it could or would do.

“I have seen things, Nalda. Yes, and been a part of them also, that would make those raving Hounds of Alizon turn and run, their tails clapped between their legs, their jaws foaming with fear. I ride alone and when I return, then my lord shall be with me—that, or I shall not come at all!”

She stood, her shoulder brushing against my saddlebag, looking up at me with searching intensity. Then she nodded briskly as I had seen her do many times on the trail when we had come to the solution of some problem.

“So be it, my lady. Be sure when you come for an accounting all shall be as you wish. May Our Lady of the Harvest Shrine guide your way—for she is ever mindful of those who love true!”

I made my own farewell, but Nalda’s invocation of Gunnora, the lady who is mindful of the pains and pleasures of womenkind, was a warm thing to carry. In my heart I blessed her for such an invocation—though she gave it in the very shadow of the House of the Flames, where Gunnora holds no rule or place.

Or was there one behind the walls who would also give me a blessing strange to the learning of the Dames? As I headed out into the first thin light of day I thought of that other—the Past-Abbess Malwinna, her ancient body so well tended by her “daughters,” who perhaps did not even guess what her thoughts might be or where they might roam.

I had sought her out in misery, coming into her small walled garden, which was a place of infinite peace, though there was no peace for me, nor could there be now. Within me battled feelings that were hot and high. I had thought her perhaps too old to understand what I felt. She was so near the Dames’ idea of perfection—how could she find sympathy for me?

Then my eyes had met hers and I knew that there was full awareness there. She did not weigh me in that long moment we sat so, eyes linked to eyes, or rebuke my savage impatience. All she took from me was that hampering self-pity, my sense of outrage, and so cleared my thoughts to positive ends.

“I will not let it end so!” I had cried out of my hurt and anger, which fed each other into a mighty storm.

Still our gaze had locked. She gave me nothing—I was young, uncertain. I wanted some one to say now, “Do this, or that, Joisan, and all will come right.” Except there was no one left to so order my life. I stood alone.

That loneliness was the very core of what ate at me.

“I am his wife—not only by ceremony, but by my heart’s wish!” I said that with defiance. To speak of such emotions here might well be a sin. The Dames of Norstead put aside all the desires of the flesh when they take their vows. “Two ways I can claim him—still we are not one!”

She did not answer—my words tumbled on, growing shriller as I thought upon my loss.

“We stood against evil, and after that, I thought our true marriage must come. He—I knew he was exhausted by the struggle, that he would turn to me soon—perhaps that he must learn a little to be himself after that ill fortune had passed.