Andre Norton - Gryphon's Eyrie

“Joisan!” I was being shaken violently to and fro, so that I rolled upon the ground, the blankets of my bedroll swaddling me against movement. Guret crouched above me, his face frightened. “Wake, Cera! Wake!”

I put a hand to my head, dazed, that other reality—Sylvya’s reality—still holding me in thrall. “What—” My voice seemed naught but a hoarse croak, yet Guret understood.

“You dreamed, Cera. You moaned and tossed, calling aloud strange names. Then, when I strove to wake you—I could not!”

“Kerovan?” I sat up, looking around, still half-caught by the force of that sending. It was strange, passing strange, to see around me the spring-green hillside, the rolling land, where only moments before I had stood within the bounds of that ancient Keep, stone-walled and shadowed.

“Watering the mounts. Best hurry and eat, Cera. I do not think he will wait long once they are saddled.”

I made haste to pull on my riding boots, then, with swift fingers, rebraided my hair and pinned it up. Brushing off the “broidered linen shirt I wore, I stood, belting on my knife, my sword. By the time I had splashed water on my face, Guret had packed my bedroll without any request from me. All of his actions suggested that he had been sufficiently impressed by my lord’s urgency to break camp speedily as one might at the call of enemy in sight.

A clink of rock against hoof announced the return of the horses. Kerovan made haste to saddle our mounts, while Guret, after pressing upon me a slab of journeybread, tended to his own stallion.

I swung onto Arren, still gnawing at the bread, preparing for yet another day’s wearying ride. Where would the night find us? Resolutely I forced such thoughts out of my mind, refusing to allow myself the energy waste of worry—either about my lord or about Sylvya—my dream Other.

As we rode, the hillocks lengthened and steepened, rising at a greater and greater angle. From the summit of each ridge the mountains ahead became clearer—changing from blue-veiled heights to tree-shrouded hills and higher, rocky peaks.

Kerovan rode mum-faced this morn, never speaking when he drew rein to allow us a brief—all too brief—halt. Even Nekia’s tireless strides seemed to be diminished by such energy. Whatever drove him—be it of the Shadow or the Light—pulled him with a force as relentless as the nets the Anakue fisherfolk wove to contain each day’s catch. He appeared barely aware now either of me or of Guret, though his gem-yellow eyes held a sparkle like the gleam of water in the deepest of wells.

Finally, as we mounted after our mid-morning break, Guret spoke. “Has your lord been troubled thus before now?”

“We were axe-wed when we were children,” I made answer. “We have only been truly wed for three years. He told me that since our true marriage, he has always fought this drawing—though in the beginning it was much milder.”

“He told me of your marriage… of the gryphon you wore upon your breast that turned out to be a real creature ’prisoned within crystal.”

I was surprised. To my knowledge Kerovan had never spoken to anyone about the events that had brought us into Arvon. Indeed , I found myself thinking, he must trust Guret greatly, for usually he never speaks of what lies closest to his heart—the gryphon and the heritage he bears, all unwillingly .

Afternoon found us in the foothills, skirting great ridges of rock thrusting up like bare bones from the softer flesh of the earth surrounding them. We had followed Kerovan’s lead, and he continued to bear to the east as he searched out the northern trails. There were no more rest breaks—we must needs push our mounts, lest he, in his relentless eagerness, would leave us behind.

Finally we rounded a huge granite scarp that sloped upward farther than my eyes could strain, only to find it cloven into a narrow pass. On either side of that opening stood a pillar of the blue stone, that blessed substance that the Shadow could not broach. Surmounting the top of each pillar was an emblem I had seen before—the winged globe.

The entrance the globes guarded—for such was the impression they gave—was curtained by a swirl of grey-blue mist, unnaturally thick, limiting sight. I blinked in surprise. Here, where I sat Arren, was the bright sunlight of afternoon, the rays slanting from the west, only to stop, unable to penetrate that curtain. I could make out naught but languid curls of the fog beyond, rolling and curdling almost like a serpent or other living creature.

Suddenly there came a flicker of movement ahead, then a dark shadow was silhouetted for a moment against that faintly luminous swirling—Kerovan! I put heels to Arren, calling his name as the mare bounded forward—too late! I drew reign before the leftmost of the globes to wait for the Kioga lad.

“Where did he go?” Guret swung his head wildly from side to side, searching. “He rounded the cliff just ahead of me, but now—I can’t see him!”

I pointed to that blue-grey curtain. “He went therein, and so we must follow.”

He stared frantically before him, as if he could not see that entrance which lay so close now. I looked from the boy to the mist-guarded pass with a dawning surmise. That it was ensorcelled was easy to understand—but in that case, why would I see it, when Guret could not? I pointed quickly in test. “There, do you not see it? A misty wall, swirling before you?”

The young man’s good-natured, open features held dawning terror. “See what, Cera? What is it you see?”

“A wall of mist. My lord rode to it, and vanished therein. What do you see?”

“Naught but a rock wall, Cera. I swear it, by the Sacred Horsehide of my people.”

A powerful spell, indeed. How could Guret ride straight into what seemed to him a solid cliff face? The Power of illusion might well prove to those so blind to be as dangerous. And why was I able to see?

Gesturing the youth to remain where he was, I urged Arren closer, striving to penetrate that mist with eyesight or mindsend. But there was nothing beyond that my eyes could discern, and only the same blankness that had possessed Kerovan since yesterday morning met my questing thought.

Touching heel to the mare’s side, I rode between the pillars. There was no physical barrier to my entrance, but I swayed, shivering, assaulted by such a sensation of giddiness that I nearly pitched from my saddle. All around me were shifting images—rocks, seeming to leer and reach, trees, bending and rippling as though before a storm wind—all in mad glimpses that blended and merged chaotically. I gasped, clinging to Arren’s mane with both hands.

The mare blew gustily, turning to look around at me with almost-human concern. It was plain she was unaffected. Closing my eyes, I fought against the glamourie that protected this place. Kerovan was somewhere ahead, and I must reach him!

After long moments of darkness, I felt a gentle peace banishing fear. Resting my hand on my abdomen, I felt it build a defense, so that I dared open my eyes. The shifting remained, but greatly diminished. Why?

My lord had plainly found the mist no barrier—had ridden in with his head up, as if the pathway for him was clear, and at the end of this trail lay all he had ever or could ever desire. Now, my hand touching my middle, I found the dizziness lessened. Could it be that the spell holding this pass had recognized Kerovan, welcomed him, allowed him free access, and that, because I carried his child, I also had the ability to see it, though some of the spell still held?

Speculations gained me nothing, and while I sat, my lord drew ever farther ahead. I longed to spur Arren after him, but there was Guret to consider. I could not abandon the youth in the face of sorceries he could not comprehend.