Andre Norton - Zarsthor's Bane

They had run through the night, apart from any others who had broken free. Thus Kuniggod had led her to that narrow way among tall stones where they had stumbled along, clinging to each other, Brixia then half witless with fear. She had been so unknowing of the way which they were taking that they had come into that Place before she noted truly what was about them.

No dalesblood willingly sought the sites which the Old Ones had once claimed for their own purposes—not unless such a seeker was a Wise Woman already learned in some of the unwritten knowledge. Even then that Wise Woman walked softly and with great care, for there were malific powers to be faced—sometimes rising without warning. Save that Brixia had always heard it whispered that such plague spots of the Dark had their own warning atmospheres and could be smelled, or felt, before the foolish were full into their nets.

Where Kuniggod had guided her was one of those shunned places, yet it seemed that her old nurse had had knowledge of it. For as she had sunk, coughing, with tearing gasps for breath in between, the woman had clutched at Brixia, holding her with all the strength she could summon when the girl, coming to her senses, would have run forth again.

“Stay—” she had gasped. “This is—not—of—any evil—”

Then Kuniggod had fallen forward on her face so that Brixia had in turn knelt to gather her into her arms, hold her, while the woman choked and struggled for breath. The girl knew that her old nurse could go no farther, nor could she go on and leave her. So she had huddled under the glow of a moon which was far too full and bright—for it appeared to hang directly above them—showing her every detail of the place.

It did not form a true circle she perceived by a closer study. Rather stones of a silvery gray-white, which shimmered in this light, formed two crescents, their pointed horns some distance from each other—leaving so two entrances to the inner part where the refugees crouched. Those stones were not rough, rather had been smoothed before being set so. Brixia could see that there were lines traced near the top of each. But whether those formed some design, or were the remains of inscriptions too weather worn to be any longer read, the girl could not tell.

However, the longer she studied those stones the more the light appeared to curdle and cling about them. They might, to her fear dazzled eyes, be giant candles, their light exuding from the sides as well as from those crowns where wicks should have been. Yet the light in the stones did not spread far beyond them, only furnished a glow to cloak each pillar.

Looking upon those steady glimmers of light Brixia’s first fear of the unknown had slowly seeped away. Her heart, which had pounded so fiercely as Kuniggod had drawn her here, slowed its beat. She began, without realizing, to breathe both more deeply and quietly. From somewhere came a numbing, a lassitude, which oddly comforted her. Her head nodded, she felt pleasantly drowsy, content.

At length she must have slid down to lie, Kuniggod’s head still pillowed on her arm, feeling as safe as if she rested behind the drawn curtains of her own bed. And so lying she fell gently into a deep sleep.

When Brixia had aroused the next morning she still lay with Kuniggod, and it had taken her time to realize where she was and what had happened to her. No stark fear returned to assail her. A curtain had dropped between her and what had happened the night before—as if years of time separated one part of her life from another. She had sensed a new strength, the restlessness of purpose which she could not understand, but her ignorance did not bother her.

Nor had the girl felt more than a shadow of sorrow when she knew that Kuniggod’s spirit had left her. Brixia had placed her nurse’s hands together on that quiet breast, kissed her forehead. Then she had stood and looked at the pillars. In the light of morning they were simple stone. Still there continued to abide in her this peace, or an absence of emotion—a new freedom from her fears. She knew then that it lay within her to survive—that survival in fact was demanded of her for a purpose which was not clear.

Whether that peace was of good or ill, she did not question. In that dawn light it gave her the strength to go on living, and enough of it she bore with her as shield and support through what lay ahead.

Now in this camp above Eggarsdale Brixia sat gazing into the flames and wondering. What had worked in her during that night she had spent encircled by the double sign of the new moon? Why had that memory now returned to her so exactly and in such vivid detail at this moment when somehow she had never desired to recall it before? Why did it seem that all which lay before that hour was of very little account in her life, rather that what she had done since had more meaning—would be of use to her?

Why—and why—and why—?

“There are many whys,” she said aloud to Uta. The cat was washing her face, but at Brixia’s words she stopped the swing of her paw, looked over at the girl.

“I am Brixia of the House of Torgus—or am I still, Uta? Oh, I do not mean the wearing of fine wool, the sitting in a seat of honor, the saying to man and woman—do this—and having it done. Those are not the signs truly of House birth. Look upon me,” she laughed and was startled, realizing how long it had been since she had voiced such a sound. “I look as such as might beg meat from a feasting, or be stoned from a village by those minded not to treat with suspicious wanderers. Yet it is true, I am Brixia of the House of Torgus—and that only I myself can take from me—by some act so unworthy of my heritage that I must judge myself and render punishment thereafter.”

“Your young friend in the valley rendered outward judgment upon me, Uta.” She shook her head. “I thought I had thrown aside pride as a useless thing. Pride does not put food in the mouth, covering on the back, keep breath within one’s body. Not that kind of pride. Perhaps I have rather the need to say ‘you cannot defeat me—you shadow of fear!’ That is the kind of pride you walk with, Uta. I think it is a good pride.”

She nodded emphatically. Still in the girl stirred a core of discontent. She had remembered too much, even though it was clouded and far away. And how that boy had looked at her—that now began to sting more than it had even when it first touched her.

“So be it!” Brixia balled her right hand into a fist and drove that into the cup of her left palm. “Those two are nothing to me, Uta. Nor can their thoughts touch me now. We shall be off with the morning coming and leave them to lord it over their tumbled blocks of stone.”

What she said was the best of good sense. Still—

As Brixia went about making her preparations for a night’s camp—finding a break in the ridge which was nearly half a cave and covering its floor with dried leaves and grass for the kind of nest she had come to use for her temporary lodging places, she paused now and then to glance at the tower below. Now she did not skulk or attempt to conceal her presence. For she was sure that the boy had no reason to seek her out, his care for his lord would occupy him fully.

She watched him come from the tower, take the horse to where a stream ran. After the animal had drunk, he led it back into a walled field. Then he went again to the stream side, bringing along a leather saddle bottle which he filled and carried back to the tower. Never did he look up, she might already be wiped from his mind.

Somehow, that, too, was like a prick against tender skin. Though why she should care, Brixia did not understand. His unconcern made her more bold. She took no cover as she herself went to that stream with her own worn water carrier. And she lingered to wash her face and her neck, wishing that there was a pool hereabouts which she could use for a mirror. Though perhaps it was just as well there was not, she decided as she combed through her thatch of hair with her fingers, picking out bits of leaf and twig left by her journey through the hedge.