Andre Norton - Gryphon's Eyrie

“I saw you—” she said in the same instant. We laughed, then I insisted she speak first. Her smile faded, and I saw the echoes of fear shadow her eyes. “I saw you, Kerovan. You were facing what seemed to be a well, yet was not. It was of the Shadow—”

“Yes.” Memory of that evil still had the Power to shake me a little. “It was something from the Dark right enough. I know not exactly what. Yet it was destroyed utterly by that chip of quan-iron I carried—you remember?”

“Yes. But how did you know what would vanquish it?”

I hesitated. “I asked for aid from any of the Light, and the words and action just came into my mind. Perhaps the Old Ones answered… perhaps it was something 7 remembered from… long ago.” I was thinking of that other heritage that had been mine, that had, on one or two occasions, filled me with the essence of Landisl himself. Seeing her nod, I knew she had caught my thought and agreed.

“But now my question.” I gestured at the woods as we turned to walk toward the camp, my arm about her shoulders, little Valona trailing behind. “Why were you here… in the woods? Jonka said she had to send her little girl to seek you.”

Her glance touched mine, then dropped as she watched her footing on the overgrown path. “I was searching… for an elder bush.”

“Did you find one?” I saw the pouch she used for collecting simples hanging from her belt, concluding that elder must be one of the growing things that Joisan used in her healing potions.

“Yes.” She made no further reply, only smiled at me, and I felt that warm touch in my mind, the equal of any kiss we had shared. When we reached the cluster of tents again, Valona ran off on some errand of her own, leaving us to stare at the bustle of activity. Men and women shook out their best garments, hanging them in the late afternoon breeze to air. The smell of roasting meat and baking bread made me—after nearly two months of travel rations—sniff avidly, while juices awakened in my mouth.

“What’s to do, Joisan?”

“I don’t—Oh!” She clapped a hand to her cheek, flushing. “It’s the Festival of Change! I’ve had so many… other concerns… that I forgot all about it! I must help Terlys with the baking—I promised, Kerovan.” She swung to face me, her eyes pleading. “It will only be a short while, then we will be together again.”

I made a good show of concealing my disappointment. “Of course. But who is Terlys?”

She explained that she and Terlys had become friends while Rigon (Terlys’s husband) and I were away. Within minutes we scratched at the flap of a brown tent colorfully appliqued with scarlet strands of braided horsehair.

Terlys was a large, ample-fleshed woman with hair flowing so long it nearly reached her knees. Her lord, Rigon, I knew slightly from standing watch with him one night. He was a wiry, short man, spare of words as he was of flesh. But there was in his dark eyes a look that I had trusted from our first meeting.

Janos, their young son, circled me warily as any weanling colt, eyeing me measuringly, then, suddenly, he ducked his head and grinned. After Joisan had made me known to all of her friend’s family, she bent over a small saddle, picked up a baby. “This, Kerovan, is Ennia.” The small one blinked at me sleepily, thumb in mouth, then laid her head trustingly on my lady’s shoulder. Seeing her do so, then catching the soft light in Joisan’s eyes, pain twisted within me with knife force. I had not been mistaken—Joisan wanted children of her own—and those I could not give her.

I looked away, biting hard at my inner lip to control my reaction, then felt her soft touch on my arm. “Would you like to hold her, my lord?”

Shaking my head, I backed away, fighting to keep my voice unchanged—but it rang harsh in the stillness of the tent. “No. She’ll only cry if I touch her.” I cleared my throat, turning to the tent flap. “I am weary, my lady, and dusty from riding. I will see you shortly.”

Ducking, I left the tent, hearing behind me Joisan’s voice calling my name, then silence. I stood in the gentle wash of sunlight, blinking, while the old bitterness welled anew—why could I not accept that I would never be as other men? And now I must have hurt Joisan. I stood there, cursing myself, then turned suddenly at the sound of Guret’s voice:

“M’lord Kerovan!” He hastened toward me, dodging the path of an old woman carrying a huge platter of bread. I waited until he reached me, then voiced the question every soldier learns early on—be he Kioga or Dalesman.

“The horses? Nekia?”

“Rubbed down, watered, then turned loose for grazing , m’lord. She is fine. I checked her legs and hooves.”

“My thanks.” My eyes traveled around the camp, noting the excited bustle. “Are you ready for your part in the Festival this evening?”

Guret’s mouth stretched in a wry grin. “My ‘part’ so far seems to consist mostly of staying out of the way. My mother is baking and roasting, grumbling about how narrowly we timed our return, and my father is assembling the Council, on Jonka’s order. That has made my mother grumble even more, since she must lay aside her cooking to attend.”

“Why has Jonka called the Council together? Is that usual before the Festival of Change?”

“No.” He looked troubled for a moment, then shook himself, shuddering like a horse in fly season. Plainly he was uneasy about this new turn of events.

Striving to turn the conversation in a new direction, I motioned toward the camp. “This is a shameful thing for a warrior to admit, but I know not where I am quartered. It was dark the evening we arrived here and I spent but one night in your guesting-tent. Can you show me where it lies?”

“Of course.”

I followed him as he threaded the narrow spaces between the tent rows, until we came to the one I remembered. Joisan’s touch, I saw immediately, was evident, lending a sense of permanence to even this temporary dwelling-place. Spring flowers, carefully transplanted, bloomed along the horsehair “walls,” their perfumes warring with the sharp, spicy scents of the herbs hung up to dry, both within and without. Entering, I stripped off my mail, then my sweat-streaked shirt and under-jerkin. Guret reappeared in moments with a bucket of water, soap, and a coarsely woven towel. By the time I was washed, shaved, and had managed to tame the most unruly cowlicks of my hair, he had already laid out clean clothing from my pack.

Freshly garbed once more, I placed my pack within the sleeping area, glancing once at the pallet as I did so, feeling my blood stir. Tonight I would not rest alone…

As we walked back through the camp toward Terlys and Rigon’s dwelling, I noticed a large crowd of men and women ahead of us, dispersing rapidly, as though just dismissed from a meeting.

Guret looked up, surprise in his eyes. “The Council session is over. I wonder what is happening?”

I studied the faces of those closest to us, thinking that most did not appear pleased with the outcome—whatever it might be. Common sense told me that this meeting could have but little to do with Joisan and me, but even as I so reassured myself, Jonka appeared in the doorway of the tent marking our destination, with Joisan, a moment later, following her. My lady’s eyes were troubled, while the Chieftain’s normally round, good-natured features seemed pinched and fleshless. As we approached, she pushed past us with only a muttered word.

Hastening my strides, I reached Joisan. “What’s to do, my lady? Jonka is upset about something.”

“Was it the Council meeting? What happened?” Guret echoed, his voice strained.

Joisan twisted her hands in her flour-marked apron, half turning from us. As she did so, Terlys brushed aside the tent opening, the baby squirming in her hold, and answered. “It is Nidu, the Shaman. She has demanded—as is her right—the selection of a Drummer of Shadows tonight at the Festival.”