Andre Norton - Zarsthor's Bane

“I wrought it!”

“I fought it!”

That they cried together.

“Why?” Her question seemed to startle both of them. How could she hope to render judgment when she knew so little of the rights of the matter which had brought them at each other’s throats?

For a moment they were silent. Then Elder moved a step closer, both his hands out as if to take the box from her by force if he must.

“You have no choice,” he told her fiercely, “what I shall summon shall surely answer. And that coming shall be your bane!”

“Give it to him if you are fearful! But you will never then know how empty his threats may be,” Zarsthor broke in. “Give it to him, thereafter you shall walk in the shadow of fear for as long as you live—and even after! Even as we two now must walk in this place because of the Bane.”

Box and flower—

Brixia found she could break the gaze with which they had held her, their eyes keeping her prisoner. Now she looked down at her two hands—at what those held in balance.

The box was open! Tight held within it lay an oval stone—light pulsed weakly from its visible surface. That light was gray, like a film of shadow—if shadow and light could be one. The flower had also opened to its greatest extent and the light which came from it was not the pure white which she had always before seen, but rather a green glow which was soft and soothing to her eyes.

“This is the Bane, then,” she said slowly. “Why was it wrought, Eldor—truly—why?”

His face was grim and hard.

“Because I would deal with my enemy as I must—”

“No,” Brixia shook her head. “Not as you must—but rather as you chose, is that not so? And why was he your enemy—?”

The harsh face grew even sterner. “Why? Because—because—” His voice trailed away, she saw him bite upon his lower lip.

“Is it that you no longer know?” the girl asked as he continued to hestiate.

He frowned at her fiercely but he did not answer. She turned to Zarsthor.

“Why did he so hate you that he had to make this evil thing?”

“I—I—”

“You also no longer know.” She did not ask this time. “But if you cannot remember why you are enemies—what does it really matter who holds this? You no longer need it, is that not the truth?”

“I am Eldor—the Bane is mine to use as I see fit!”

“I am Zarsthor—and the Bane has brought me this—” he flung out his arms, his hands clasped into fists, to indicate the ravaged world about them.

“I am Brixia,” the girl said, “and—I am not sure what else at this time. But that which abides in me says—let it be thus!”

She brought the flower above the box, made the dim light of that greenish glow fall upon the gray stone within.

“Power of destruction—power of growth and life. Let us now see which is master—even here!”

The gray film on the stone no longer appeared to move. Rather it lay like a still crust over the surface.

And, as the light continued to bathe that crust, it broke, flaked away to reveal new radiance. While the flower slowly dimmed, its petals drew in, began to wither. Brixia wanted to jerk it away from that devouring stone, but her hand would not obey. More and more the flower shriveled, the stone in turn glowed and pulsed. It was no longer the gray of death—of this land which was a trap—rather it now had a green spark at its heart, it could have been a seed ready to break through its protective casing and put forth new life.

Of the flower all which was left was a wisp, a frail skeleton of a blossom. Then there was nothing at all. Her hand was bare. But in her other palm the box was also crumbling, loosing its hold on the stone. Bit by bit it powdered away into dust.

There was no longer any warmth in the stone. If any energy dwelt within it, that was more isolated than had been the Power in the flower. But its beauty was such that Brixia was awed by what she held. Then she looked beyond it from Eldor to Zarsthor.

She held the stone out towards Eldor.

“Do you wish this now? I think it is no longer what you once wrought, but would you have it?”

The frown had been smoothed from his face and with it many of the hard lines which had aged and ravaged it. Dignity was still there and authority but behind those emotions—a freedom. His eyes were alight, but he snatched back his hand hurriedly as hers, holding the stone, approached the closer.

“This I did not make. No Power granted me fills it. I can no longer demand it by right for my own.”

“And you?” Brixia offered it now to Zarsthor.

He gazed at the stone absorbedly, not looking to her. Then, without raising his eyes, he answered:

“That which was meant to be my Bane—no, this is not it. Green magic is life, not death. Though death has brought to me through that as it was once. But I cannot break this as I would have the Bane—loosed its evil upon all. This is yours, lady, do with it as you will. For—” he raised his head and looked about him, there was peace in his face, underlying a great weariness. “The geas which bound us in this world of our own making is broken. It is time we take our rest.”

Together they turned away from Brixia, Zarsthor moved up beside Eldor shoulder to shoulder. As if they had long been shield brothers and not deadly enemies, they marched on, following some road only they could see, into the mist.

Brixia cradled the stone in her two hands. As if she awakened from some absorbing dream she looked about her with the beginning of new uneasiness.

That this place was not of any time or world she had known she was sure. How might she now return to her own place? Or could she? Panic began to grow from the seed of that first uneasiness. She called loudly:

“Uta! Dwed!” And finally—“Marbon!”

Then she listened, hoping against all hope that there would be an answer to guide her. A second time she shouted, this time more loudly—only to hear nothing when her own voice died away.

Names—as all knew names had a power of their own—they were a part of one—as much as skin, hair, or teeth. They were given to one at the birth hour and were thereafter something which could be threatened by evil, used to strengthen good. Now all she had to aid her were names. Still two of those she called upon had no ties with her, nor perhaps held any wish to aid, and the third was an animal, alien to her own kind. Perhaps she had no ties to draw her back at all.

Brixia lifted her cupped hands, stared at the stone. This was truly a thing of Power. It had been wrought to bring evil, even as Eldor (or the part of him who had existed here) had claimed and Zarsthor in turn had agreed. But its evil had somehow been discharged by the flower. Could it serve her, she who had no command over any force, no training as a Wise Woman? “Uta”—this time she did not shout that name aloud into the mist, rather spoke it softly to the stone. “Uta, if you have any fair feeling for me now—if I am granted any desire of yours for my salvation—Uta—where are you?”

The light glow began to pulse in ripples from the stone. A deeper green sparked in its heart—grew and spread. Brixia strove to keep her thoughts fixed on Uta.

That dark spot put out pricked ears, opened slits of eyes, became a head. The head in turn pushed out of the surface of the stone. Brixia, almost beyond wonder now, crouched down, held her hand closer to the earth. The tiny image of the cat was three dimensional as it arose from the stone. When it was fully clear it leaped to the ground.

Mist which had been encroaching ever since Eldor and Zarsthor had gone, curled back from where the cat stood. Uta’s image turned its head up to the girl, its tiny mouth opened. But if it mewed she caught no sound. Then it began to trot away and Brixia scrambled to follow it.