Andre Norton - Web of the Witch World

“A cover, and none of our doing,” Guttorm stated, “it was only Yvian’s own force involved.”

“A cover,” Simon nodded. “And the only act which might be so covered was Yvian’s death. With his forces sadly split, too broken to organize a hunt for any murderer.”

“Maybe not just Yvian,” Koris broke in, “maybe also—Loyse!”

“But why?” Frankly that puzzled Simon. Unless—his tired mind moved slowly but it moved—unless Kolder wanted her for bait.

“I do not know, but I shall find out!” Once more the butt of Volt’s gift struck the floor with emphatic force.

LOYSE SAT on the wide bed with her knees drawn up, her arms clasped around them, her eyes for that naked blade resting before her. What was Aldis’ purpose? It could not be that the duke’s mistress thought she would lose her power over Yvian. His need for Loyse was one of expediency only. And Aldis who had ruled him so long would not be easily unseated.

But—Loyse’s tongue tip ran along dry lips as she remembered. When Jaelithe had been a seeress in Kars months ago, Aldis had come to her secretly, to buy a spell to keep Yvian truly hers. And she must have believed in the necessity and efficiency of that or she would not have come. Then, in that later battle of wills —when the Guardians had used the most potent sendings they could conjure—Aldis (by image) had been the target of Jaelithe’s attack. By all the arts of Estcarp certain temporary commands had then been planted in her to use her influence upon Yvian to further the witches’ desires.

Now Loyse could not reconcile this present Aldis with the one she had so long thought upon. This Aldis would not have sought out Jaelithe, save for a contest of strengths. Had that been the real purpose of that visit to the witch of Estcarp? No! Jaelithe’s own power would have revealed to her any such plan behind Aldis’ seeking. She had then come honestly for her love potion.

And it was the truth that Aldis had been put under control for a period at the battle of wills before the taking of Gorm, even though that had been done from a distance and through images only. A failure there, too, Jaelithe would have known immediately.

Loyse gnawed on her lower lip and continued to stare at the dagger. She herself had failed in meeting with the duke’s leman—she had been too assured when she should have been simple and bewildered. Somehow she had been turned inside out, assessed, by opposition she must respect—or fear? Aldis was not Aldis as she had expected her to be. And now, Aldis was playing some game of her own, in which she considered Loyse to be a piece to be moved at her pleasure.

Patiently the girl fought down both hot anger and the tinge of fear which followed the facing of that fact. Ostensibly she had been brought out of Estcarp because she was Yvian’s wife by ax marriage. What did Yvian gain by her coming? First, what he had wanted from the beginning—Verlaine with its sea-brought treasure, its fortress, its lower harbor which, with the reef knowledge of its men, would give him a fine raiding port from which to prey on Estcarp.

Second, she was of the old nobility, and perhaps that fact might reconcile the aloof houses to Yvian. The tales out of Kars were that he desired to cut old ties with the mercenaries, establish his ducal throne more firmly by uniting with the rulers of the past.

Third—Loyse hugged her knees more tightly—third, her flight from Verlaine, her joining with his enemies in Estcarp, must have been a goad to personal anger and a wound to his self-esteem. And—those few hints from Aldis—perhaps he chewed now upon the fact that she had sworn betrothal with Koris, that she preferred the outcast of Gorm to the Duke of Karsten. Her lips curled; as if there could be any question between them! Koris was . . . Koris! All she had ever wanted or could want in her life!

Three reasons to bring her here, yet behind them she sensed a shadowy fourth. And, sitting there in the gray of dawn, Loyse tried to summon it into the open. Not Yvian’s reason, but Aldis’? And why she was sure of that she could not have told either, but that it was true she had no doubt at all.

What could be Aldis’ reason? To bring her here, frighten her with those threats of what Yvian had in mind for her—and then deliver into her hand a weapon. So that she might turn that against herself, thus disposing for all time of a rival? A surface reason that, but one which did not quite fit. So that Loyse might turn this length of fine polished metal against the duke when he would have his will of her? But Yvian was Aldis’ hold on what she wanted—personal power within the duchy! At any rate Aldis’ gift must be considered carefully.

Loyse slid from the bed and went to throw open the window shutters, allowing the wind to sweep across her face, freshen her dully aching head. She thought that it might be mountain wind, though it must have crossed long leagues to be from there. There was a harsh strength to it which she needed to beat against her now.

Somewhere they must be on the move—Koris, Simon, Jaelithe. Loyse did not doubt in the least that they were seeking her. But that they could reach into Kars she did not think possible. No—once more her future depended upon her own resources and wits. She went back to the bed and took up the dagger. Aldis’ gift might be in some way a trap, but Loyse knew relief as her fingers closed about the weapon’s chill hilt.

Her eyelids were heavy, she dropped back against the bed. Sleep . . . she must have sleep. The table across the door once more? But she could not summon the energy to pull away from the bed and place it so. With the mountain air freshening the room she slept.

Perhaps it was those months she had spent campaigning in the border mountains, the need to be alert even in sleep, which had given her that guardian sense. Somewhere in the depths of exhaustion a warning sounded, so that Loyse was out of slumber and awake, though she lay for a long moment with closed eyes—listening, striving with every part of her to learn what chanced.

The faint protest of a hinge—the door! Loyse jerked upright amidst the tumbled covers of the bed. There was morning sun from the window she had left open. The rest of the room was dusky with shadows to which her eyes were more accustomed than were those of the man who entered.

Loyse scrambled to the side of the bed, plunged down, ignoring the dais steps, and put the wide expanse of that massive piece of furniture between her and the invader who had turned his back almost contemptuously as he put the key to lock, this time on the inner side of the door.

He was big—as tall as Simon—and his width of shoulder was not lessened by the folds of his loose bedgown. Big and probably as strong as Koris into the bargain. As he turned to face her with that assured leisureliness, she saw he was smiling a little. And to her mind it was a very cruel and evil smile.

In a way he was like Fulk, but with her father’s vivid red-gold coloring blurred into drabber sandiness, the clean cut features coarsened, a scar seam along his jaw line adding an ugly touch. Yvian the mercenary, Yvian the undefeated.

Loyse, her back now against the stone wall, thought that Duke Yvian no longer believed that defeat could ever touch him. And that complete self-confidence was in itself a daunting thing to face.

He crossed, with no hurry, to the end of the bed and stood watching her, his smile growing broader. Then he bowed with a mockery bolder than that Aldis had used.

“We meet at last, my lady. A meeting too long delayed—at least I have found it so.”

He surveyed her with some of the same contempt Fulk had used to batter her in the past. “A whey-faced stick indeed.” Yvian nodded as if confirming a report. “You have naught to pride yourself upon, my lady.”