Andre Norton - Gryphon's Eyrie

This time he did pause, turning to look back at me. “My lord, we must rest! Arren is tiring!” And so am I , I thought, watching his head swing once more toward the northeast. But, to my surprise, he did halt, dismounting from Nekia to wait for me.

Silently we shared food, a few sips from our water-skins, while the horses cropped hungrily at the thick grass. I felt myself growing sleepy… jerked awake, glancing somewhat fearfully at my lord. I needed rest… but if I allowed myself sleep, might I not wake to find him gone?

With sudden decision I fumbled in my saddlebag, bringing forth a tough rawhide thong. “Kerovan. Give me your hand.”

Slowly, so slowly, his eyes broke that stare at the faint shadowing on the horizon marking those distant mountains, to regard me questioningly. Grasping his hand, I tugged until he faced me directly. Not slacking my hold, I carefully threaded my string of hide through the wristband of the Old Ones, looping it also about his flesh for a double precaution. “Give me your knife, Kerovan.”

“Why?” Speech again seemed difficult for him, so great now was the pull. I watched him hesitate, frown, then shake his head as though already he had forgotten my request. With as much of my worn patience as I could summon, I moved closer until we were nearly breast to breast, my fingers seeking the hunting knife at his belt.

Grasping the blade, I jerked it out of scabbard, placing it securely within my own cloak pocket. “Now your sword, Kerovan. Throw it over there.” I pointed by chance to a growth of thorny brush.

“Joisan…” When his fingers fumbled and shook, I lent quick aid. Then I fastened the thong’s other end about my own wrist, leaving only a handspan of slack between us.

“There, my lord. If you would free yourself from me, you must gnaw through this… and that, I think, you will not do without rousing me. I must sleep, Kerovan.” Wearily I dropped to my knees, drawing him after me by that hide bond, then stretched full length upon the ground, pillowing my head on my saddle.

His hand slid into mine, warm and strong. His voice came deeper, more assured, as if I had forced a crack in the wall of his ensorcellment. “I would not leave you, Joisan.”

“I know.” I made answer, but those words were a lie, for that was the fear growing steadily within me. “But I believe I shall rest better so.”

Sleep I did, even while the sun westered in the sky. Yet as I slept, it was not afternoon… No, night held me. Again I was the Other, she who had haunted my dreams so many times…

Once again I walked amid the shadowed bounds of my beloved forest in the valley, feeling the night wind light on my cheek, stirring thick growth on my head that was not—or was not quite —hair…

My senses, my self , were alertly attuned to life around me—and I was troubled. There had been tampering here, there was something awry within the bodies of the woodland inhabitants, both plant and animal. The ripening of fall should have begun, offering promise, through seedpod and carried young, that new life would come with the spring, but here that would not be so. Something had touched all life, a Power outside all natural laws, which disturbed the rhythms of That Which Must Be…

I put out a hand (in the moonlight the downy feathering on my skin barely showed) to touch leaf, stroke bark. “What has chanced?” I murmured, putting forth all my talent to sense, to track the source of this wrongness.

Time ! Time out of kilter, awry. Time had been stopped, not once but many times, just for a fleeting second or so, but such pauses were enough to disturb the internal “clock” of plant and animal. Seconds stopped, then resumed… Who, I demanded of my inner knowledge, had such ability? Who had, merely, I was certain, as a demonstration of Power, caused this wrongness?

I concentrated, invoking Neave of the Fane, she who rules the continued order of life’s seasons, the relationships of plant to soil, mother to young, man to maid. Thus imperiously I demanded an answer and it came.

An image sprang sharp-pictured in my mind. I staggered as if that sight was a blow as I recognized Maleron! His narrow face, pointed of chin, wide of brow, topped by black hair, a face from which blazed eyes dark and hard as onyx… Maleron , in whose dominion this forest, this valley, and the walling mountains lay… Maleron , who had, this year past, denied increasingly the responsibilities of his rulership, preferring instead to shut himself within the fastness of the Keep, emerging rarely and then drained of energy, the smell of sorcery clinging heavier than his robes of state… Maleron , whom I had once loved as one closer to me than any other… Maleron —my brother.

Sobs shook me as I felt the anguish of betrayal… Born of a different mother (a brief flash of a lovely, nonhuman face filled “my” mind), having only the faintest memories of both her and our human father, my early life had nevertheless been full of love, of warmth, by grace of this half brother who had ascended the throne so young, yet still man-grown compared to me.

“Maleron…” My lips moved, I heard the faint croak of my choked voice as the forest shimmered around me. I struggled to stay—I must know . But it faded.

I awoke, tears stinging my eyes as I struggled to sit up. My movement alerted Kerovan. He was watching me closely with much of his old caring.

Hastily I averted my face, made a show of unfastening the flap of my belt-sheath and withdrawing my knife before I severed the cord binding us together. My lord had enough to weigh him without my “dream” evoking concern he could ill afford. I bit my lip, struggling for control, my dream Other’s anguish of discovery… of betrayal… still vivid.

Names… the knowledge of a True Name was oft the key in a spell. Now I had come from my “dream” with a Name—Maleron. Who—or what—was he? Did he still live? Had his careless meddling with nature caused irreparable harm to that valley I could still see if I closed my eyes?

Questions… questions only, with no possible answers—unless they came again in future sleep. I wondered again, fruitlessly, from whence came these sendings. There must lie a reason for all that was happening to me, yet—

“Are you rested, Joisan?” Kerovan extended a hand to me, drew me up seemingly without effort. His momentary concern was gone—once more his eyes were for the mountains, not for me.

“Well enough.” I made the only answer I could, though fear still threatened to choke me. “Let us ride.”

Ride we did, not halting even after the sun had descended. Around us the country changed, the flat plainsland now rolled and dipped, then steepened as we ascended into hilly country. Trees dotted the hillsides, their leaves that improbable fresh green of late spring. Hocks and boulders lay tumbled on the ground. I drew n-in to let Arren bury her nose in a swift-running stream, (lie chill of the waters reaching me even as I sat astride her. The mountains were drawing ever nearer.

In the red wash of sunset, I looked to the west. Anakue lay in that direction. Longingly I thought of a hot meal, a warm bed in Zwyie’s loft… things that, until this morning, I had learned once more to take for granted. Sighing, I urged the mare on, calling for Kerovan to wait.

We halted for the night only after I pointed out to my lord that Arren was again faltering. Nekia seemed as tireless as Kerovan, the mare picking her way unerringly among the rocks and over brush, seeming undeterred by the darkness. I remembered Obred’s comment that “Nekia” meant “night-eyes” in the Kioga language.

We halted, took food, ate silently. There was no sound save the gurgle of a not-too-distant brook on its way down the hillside, and the gentle cropping noises of our mounts. Feeling chilled, I drew a woven shawl from my pack, wrapping it closely about my shoulders. Kerovan busied himself spreading our bedrolls, his only light the waxing moon, for we had deemed it safer to go fireless. I thought of the last night we had spent together on the trail, remembering the vision of that glowing horror that had flowed down the hill toward our camp.