Gryphon's Eyrie

5 Joisan

Barely a fortnight after my lord’s departure with the Kioga scouting party, I began to wonder if I might be with child. My woman’s cycles had always been extremely predictable, but this time the moon had waned into darkness and still—nothing. Also, my midwife’s training made me alert to other small signs that could mean my body was preparing to shelter another life than my own.

Not truly knowing myself whether I hoped for or feared confirmation of my suspicions, I reminded myself that the strain of the past few weeks—leaving Anakue, Kerovan’s erratic behavior in the face of that drawing from the mountains—could well have disordered my body’s rhythms. Each morning I told myself that this day could well lay to rest all my doubts… while those days slipped by, each like unto the other, leaving me to question—with only-time to provide firm answer.

My days in the Kioga camp left me with too much time for such solitary speculation. As an honored guest I had no assigned duties, and those I could assist with, such as weaving the coarse linen thread spun from the wild flax growing along the riverbanks, were tasks that give one much time for thought. I spent long hours in conversation with Jonka, learning about the Kioga, how they had come to the plains, and was chilled to discover what had driven them from their mountain home—the same creature (or (me like unto it if one were to imagine the doubled horror dl two such) that Kerovan and I had seen that night on the hillside.

For some reason (perhaps to turn my speculations in any other direction—even an unpleasant one), thoughts of that mountain terror returned again and again to haunt me. I found myself wondering if it had always existed, a wrongness blighting the land since time itself was new, or if it had been created by some perverse follower of the Dark…

Sometimes at night I dreamed of it while lying alone in the guesting-tent, waking shaken and chilled, missing Kerovan’s warmth and strength more each time. We had always looked to each other for all companionship and happiness, as though we moved within a circle drawn by love—as a wand draws a pentagram for protection in a spelling. As the days passed, I wondered if, supposing that the drawing from the mountains was finally broken, we could extend that encircling warmth to include another, welcome a child…

With such hopeful speculation I barricaded myself against doubt and fear, for as the days passed, my certainty grew. At times I lay wakeful, hands pressed to my belly (though it would be long before any movement fluttered there), striving to ward off misgivings with reason.

Every woman fears a little when she first discovers she is bearing—I perhaps more than some, for I had presided at many birthings in past years. Fear of pain… fear of that ultimate aloneness that is labor… fear of change . . fear of the possibility—however remote—of death, nationally, I knew that I was well suited physically for childbearing, healthy, with a strong yet supple frame.

Women of my mother’s family for generations had been given to easy labors and birthings. Still I feared—a little.

But growing even more quickly, nigh eclipsing fear as the moon began to wax full again, was my eagerness to hold, touch, see my son or daughter. As I moved about the Kioga camp, my eyes were drawn naturally to the babies and young children, and I grew to know several of the young mothers—though my secret remained mine alone.

One of the young women, Terlys, was also alone while her husband was off with the scouting party, so I began to take my evening meal in her tent, helping her with her two lively youngsters, Janos, a boy of five, and Ennia, her daughter. Ennia was barely out of her cradle, but at times it seemed to me that she could crawl faster than her mother and I could walk, so busy did she keep us… untangling her from the spinning basket, snatching her from imminent immolation in the cooking fire; once I turned my back for what seemed a bare moment, only to find her playing with her mother’s copper necklet, sitting serenely between the front hooves of the herd-gelding tethered outside the tent!

Gunnora be thanked, the horse, as though he knew he must not move, stood like a rooted oak as I retrieved the baby. I carried her back into the tent, walking with knees that only will kept steady beneath me, as all the dreadful possibilities of the situation rose before my eyes. After I handed Ennia over to her mother, explaining how I had found her, I cut a thick chunk of bread, salted it, then fed to the gelding, scratching his ears and thanking him for his forbearance.

Returning to Terlys’s tent, I helped her change the baby into a clean dhoti, folding the thickness of the cloth carefully, so it would not chafe her little legs and bottom. Worn out by her exertion, Ennia was asleep before we slipped the clean tunic over her small head. Holding her carefully against my shoulder, I moved to put her in the wicker cradle. As I tucked the blankets around the sleeping child, Terlys’s voice reached me. “You need one of sour own to care for, Lady Joisan.”

I looked up, startled, to see the shadow of a smile about her lips, wondering if she had guessed. Perhaps I might have told her, then, if the tent flap had not rattled with Janos’s return from the practice field where he was learning to ride.

“How did it go today, Janos?” I asked, a little worried. Yesterday he’d returned dirty and scratched from a fall taken over the pony’s head when (acting with the waywardness most ponies possess) it had decided to buck rather than trot in a circle.

“Much better, Cera Joisan.” He grinned, showing the gap between his front teeth. “This time Pika went where I said, not where she wanted.”

His mother hugged him. “Good, good. No more falls, then.”

“Well…” He turned ruefully to show us the seat of his linen trousers. “I didn’t say that. But”—he brightened—today I got back on all by myself!”

That night when I left Terlys’s tent, picking my way carefully between the rows of tents and wagons, I saw that the moon was at her fullest and determined to ask Gunnora tor she is especially mindful of women who are bearing) if I indeed carried a child and, if so, for portents of its birthing. With this in mind, I made my preparations with special care, for I had never had need to try divination of this kind before.

Under the moon’s glow, I walked slowly to a nearby field, seeing there the distant shapes of the horses, hearing their muffled snufflings, the tearing of the grass as they grazed. Near the western side, protected from the animals by a makeshift hedge of cut thorn, was a stand of wild grain. Carefully I harvested a handful of the green heads, murmuring the proper thanks as I did so.

Returning to my tent, I poured these into an earthen bowl, adding wine until the grains bobbed in the dark liquid. Inhaling the fragrance of the grape deeply, I recited a silent invocation, asking Gunnora to bless and aid me, lastly holding the bowl so the rays of the moon shone full upon it. Then I settled down, cross-legged, closing my eyes to all about me, clearing my mind. Scrying is not a talent that all Wise Folk possess—as in all things, some are better at one thing than another. I had never tried such by myself before… but something seemed to be urging me to do so… whispering throughout my being that I must know… must know… must…

When my mind seemed clear and steady, I leaned forward, loosing the lacings of my shirt so that Gunnora’s amulet dangled free, still warm from its touch upon my breast. Without touching the amulet with my fingers, I lifted it by its thong over my head, then dropped it into the earthen bowl with the wine and the grain. When the red liquid was again still, I looked therein.

In the wavering glimmer and shadow cast by my single yellow candle, I could see the bowl and its contents clearly. I gazed at the surface of the liquid, trying to open my mind to any sight, any message forthcoming. The candle (lame reflection… my own wide eyes… there seemed to be nothing but those shifting flickers of red… then gold… red… red-gold…

I was floating above myself, looking down upon a young woman with slender shoulders, red-gold hair lying loose over them. Her/my face was hidden, of course, but my vision seemed expanded, intensified, so I could see the thing beyond the thing plain to normal sight… a wavering glow surrounded her very faintly, blue-green, brightening about her head, then shimmering into violet just below the faint outline of the shoulder blades beneath the linen shirt… violet, the color of the purest Power, that magic of the spirit… few of this world can harness it. The violet light brightened, pulsed, its throbbing quick and regular, as of a heartbeat. I seemed to see a white glow within the violet, at its heart, a quicksilver glimmer of something… something… something which seemed (o be enlarging infinitely, expanding to fill the universe, and at the same moment to be dwindling to the tiniest of specks, smaller than the human eye can discern.

One cannot look upon something which is, and yet which cannot be, for long—mercifully the mind blanks itself, shuts out a sight so terrible, so awesome, so wondrous.

I came to myself lying on the floor of the tent, the bowl of wine overturned, the sticky dregs draining into the earthen floor. Fortunately it had missed staining Jonka’s woven floor mat.

Slowly, hardly daring to think on what I had seen, I picked myself up, feeling very tired but strangely peaceful. After cleaning and drying the amulet and putting away my materials, I snuffed the candle and went to bed.

Lying in the white light of the moon, I closed my eyes, breathing deeply, feeling myself drift toward sleep. Only then, relaxed and serene, did I think about my scryingand the child it had revealed I indeed held within me. That violet glow… Little one, I thought, as though my son or daughter could mindshare already, what/who were you before? An Old One, it must be… one whose Power eclipsed any bare scratching for knowledge and wisdom I may have gleaned…

It has been speculated by some of my race that none of us comes into this world with no previous existence. Instead each of us lives many lives, with our actions in previous incarnations determining our pattern of existence in this present one. I had had direct knowledge of such a truth when Landisl revealed himself to Kerovan as one who bore ancient identity with my lord. Perhaps, in some previous time, they had been one being.

Was it through this heritage of long-ago Power that this child held such identification? Was it only Kerovan’s seed that betokened a lineage of time-forgotten might? I thought of my aunt. Dame Math, and how she had brought the very stones of vanished Ithkrypt down, crashing upon the hated invaders of Alizon. That usage of the Power had resulted in her death, hut such a death as would make any warrior proud. One aged woman had leveled a fortress built to stand centuries… no small feat of sorcery. And I… with little lessoning beyond that which I had gathered in working with Dame Math and other Wisewomen, I had strengthened my will… my Power, until I could rightfully claim some small knowledge of the ancient Craft for myself.

No, our child did not owe its entire heritage of Power to my husband… I bad a part in that making, also.

Then another thought struck me, and I found myself smiling in the moonglow. It was also entirely possible that the Power I had sensed in the child developing within me was strictly its own, owing naught to any lineage. Let it be enough that Gunnora had answered my question, given me positive knowledge. I thought of Kerovan, tried to picture him with a small bundle in his arms, looking as discomfited as most new fathers when first they gaze upon the squeaking reddish creature they must claim as their offspring.

Would he be pleased? With all my being I hoped so, longing for his return. Perhaps this would provide incentive for him to settle in one place, build a home. Though he had proven a capable midwife when Briata foaled, I did not fancy the thought of delivering our son or daughter in the middle of the wilderness somewhere, without a Wise-woman standing by—one trained in midwifery, possessing capable, experienced hands.

Counting in my mind, I realized that this child would be due about Midwinter Feast, when the breath of the Ice Dragon was at its fiercest. I closed my eyes, feeling sleep steal over me again, resolving drowsily—but firmly—that my lord and I would be settled in a holding of our own (be it cottage, Keep, or tent) before then…

During my time in the Kioga camp, I had had no reason (o practice my Craft as a Wisewoman, except as I had needed for myself. I could not forget the dark, closed face of Nidu, and it seemed to me that prudence might be the best course—to walk mum-faced, doing nothing that might seem to challenge the Shaman’s position.

Two days after my efforts at scrying, however, I was given no choice in the matter. Terlys’s voice reached me while I was still within my tent early one afternoon. Joisan! Joisan! You must come!”

I arose hurriedly, as the hanging shielding the opening of my tent burst inward at the force of her entrance.

“Joisan!” Terlys, usually so calm, clutched at me frantically.

Your Wisewoman’s knowledge—Janos is sick—you must come!”

“I will come.” I made haste to gather my bug of simples, overlooking its contents for my healing materials. “What ails him, Terlys? Calm yourself, tell me aught you remember.”

“I—he woke this morning with a headache, but seemed otherwise fine. Then this afternoon he lay down, saying he was tired. Just now, when I went to wake him, I could feel his fever before I even touched him. He will not wake, only tosses, moaning!”

“Fever… high fever…” I looked into the bag, satisfied myself that I was as well prepared as might be. “When we reach your tent, put water to boil. I must make a tisane of black willow and saffron.”

In the dimness of Terlys’s tent, I examined Janos. His fever was so high that his skin felt tight, stretched, and his eyes were sunken far into his head. I feared that if his body were not cooled immediately, he would have convulsions.

“Hurry, Terlys,” I said, pulling the child’s clothing off. We’ll take him outside, to the stream. Bring clean cloths and your ladle. We must lave him with cool water.”

We attracted some attention from the Kioga as we hastened toward the nearby stream, Terlys with Janos in her arms. I following with my bag of simples and a steaming pot. Jonka hurried over. “What chances, Cera?”

“Janos is very ill.” I hastened my steps as Jonka fell in beside me. “He has a high fever.”

“Where is Nidu?” Jonka asked.

Terlys did not turn as she answered, “I asked, but no one knew where she went, only that she has not been seen since morning.”

Reaching the bank of the stream, I hastily helped Terlys place Janos on a woven mat, instructing her to wet the cloths, then place them on his body. “When his skin has adjusted slightly to the coolness of the water, then use the ladle to pour it directly over him.”

While she began dipping and wringing the cloths, I hastily anointed myself with a healing oil, afterward lighting the three blue candles I had brought. Keeping one eye on Terlys as she labored over Janos, assisted by Jonka, I made a hurried but fervent invocation: “Gunnora, Lady who guards the innocent, bless and heal Janos of his fever. Help me in what I would do to aid him, in the Name of all Spirits of the Light. So may it be always by Thy will.”

Taking the still-seething pot, I measured pinches of the black willow powder from my simples bag, followed by several of the saffron, then a minute portion of sandal-wood for good measure. Swirling these three together, I waited for the water to cool, schooling myself to calmness, relaxing my tense muscles. I must put aside all impatience—use the proper disciplines.

Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply, willing patience, a positive spirit. Little is gained in healing magic until the would-be healer can attain a calm, relaxed state and frame a convincing mind-image of the subject as completely healed… Concentrating on an image of Janos happy, riding his pony, I swirled the tisane until it was cool enough to pour some into the blue crystalline cup I kept for medicinal doses.

Moving to Janos, I touched his forehead. Terlys’s efforts with the cool stream water were helping—praise Gunnora, (lie tisane would make the fever vanish completely. Supporting the now half-conscious child, I urged the contents of the cup on him. He grimaced at the taste, but under his mother’s and my urging, swallowed, then swallowed again. Covering him then with a light sheet, we sat quietly for a little while. I held Terlys’s hand in mine, instructing her to think of Janos as well, as healthy. Keeping that image in my mind, willing his recovery with all my strength, I did not hear footsteps approaching from the other side of the stream.

What chances here?” The harshness of that query made me jump. Opening my eyes, I saw Nidu standing on the other bank, her hooded eyes, usually so blank, blazing angrily.

Terlys answered, when I held silence. “The Cera Joisan helped when Janos was taken with a sudden fever.”

“Helped!” Nidu’s disbelief was patent. “Dousing the poor child in a stream? Gagging him with potions? He needs drum magic, Terlys… not this—this—”

What further slight she was about to voice was never uttered. Jonka’s cry of surprise made all of us turn back to Janos. “Look, there is sweat on his forehead! I think the lever is breaking!”

Hastening back to the little boy, I felt his forehead and chest with relief; Jonka was right. Terlys carefully wiped the moisture from his brow, crooning softly to him, then was rewarded when he opened his eyes for a moment. “Mama… I’m thirsty…”

May he have water?” Terlys turned to me Of course. Such high fevers deplete the body. Give him water that is cool, but not cold.”

As we prepared to carry Janos back to the tent, I looked about for Nidu, but she was gone. After seeing Janos safely asleep, I gave the remainder of the tisane I had brewed to Terlys, explaining that he was to have another dose at sunset, then the last in the middle of the night.

“If he needs more, I will brew it in the morn,” I told her, “but I doubt it will prove necessary. Make sure he is protected from chills, and keep him quiet for all of tomorrow, at least. I will—” I stopped as the sudden thought struck me that perhaps I should step aside, let Nidu have the final words in the boy’s case…

“I will stop by tomorrow afternoon, if I do not see you in the morn,” I said firmly. Janos was for the moment my charge, and I could do no other than to see him safely well again. If Nidu could not understand the obligations binding one pledged to healcraft, then she was but a poor healer herself.

“Thank you, Cera Joisan.” Terlys took both my hands in hers. “You have given me back my firstborn, and someday I feel sure you will know what a gift that is. I am beholden, and Rigon and I freely accept our debt to you. I will watch for any way I can repay your kindness.”

“There is no way I can thank you for the warmth of your fire and the companionship you have shown me, Terlys.” I took both her hands in mine, more moved than I could express easily. “Gunnora’s Blessing upon you, upon yours.”

There was a tightness at the back of my throat as I left the tent, and I wondered for a moment at the depth of emotion Janos’s healing and Terlys’s words had aroused in me… It was as though all my inner feelings had been thrust outward and were now lying just beneath my skin. Why? I had always been one trained to strong control, the masking of my thoughts and feelings—part of the lessoning I had received in preparation for running a Keep, before the war had ended that future for me.

Suddenly the answer to my new sensitivity came to me, and I smiled to think how purblind I had been. Many of my patients had described this feeling of being “thin-skinned” to all and sundry while they were carrying—did I think that I, because I was a healer, would be immune?

“You smile, Lady.” The cold words came from behind me. Whirling, I saw Nidu step out from the side of the nearest tent. As usual, the Shaman went robed in her hooded gown of coarse linen dyed dark brown, almost black. A small drum swung from her belt, and her fingers caressed the head of it, producing a faint thrumming. “Why do you smile? Do you have some secret happiness? Or could it be you were thinking of how you made me look foolish just now?”

I found that the drum’s barely discernible rhythm made it hard to concentrate, but I managed to summon words. “Of course not, Cera Nidu. I am just glad Janos is better.”

“Thanks to you, of course…” She moved closer, her fingers moving more quickly. “It seems you have a certain magic of your own, which, though it is no match for mine, still must be reckoned with. That is…” The thrumming of her nails on the hide top of her drum grew louder, and she swayed to its beat. “If you have any wish to stay here. Do you. Lady?”

“I… do not know.” To my horror I found my pulse In-ginning to quicken, even as these drumbeats did. • “I must stay here until my lord returns from the scout. Then, I know not what we will do. I wish no trouble. I came when Terlys called, because she has been my friend here.

Her eyes were jet, black and stony in her thin face. “You speak truth, I see. Still, there are times when those who wish no trouble nevertheless find it. Your summoning have disturbed the Dream Spirits who answer the drumming for me. My pipe visions are clouded. You must leave, and now.”

“I cannot. My lord—”

“Your lord, Joisan, has troubles enough of his own. He meddles, Lady, even as you do, and he has not your treble lessoning. Look.” Raising her hand palm outward, she brought it before my eyes, so I could see clearly the lines thereon. The muttered beat of the drumming in-creased still further. I attempted to step back, away from that threatening hand, but could not move. I looked at her palm, unable to look away, and even as I did so, I could see a swirling there… a clouding… a picture, growing…

Kerovan stood in the middle of an endless plain, sword out, the wristband he wore glowing, flaming, the runes along it pulsing brilliant red and gold. Beyond him was what appeared to be a well—but it was hard to see the exact shape, the miasma of the Shadow rose so dark about it. My breath caught as I realized the Dark was drawing, calling to my lord, and that he was answering that challenge. Legs braced apart, head up, he faced the thing, so real in the farseeing I felt that I must reach out, grab his arm, drag him backward from that noisome menace striving to entrap him.

“Kerovan!” I strove to force words, then a mindsharing, but his attention did not waver from what he faced. Was this an illusion Nidu created? But he was so real—he stood close enough that I could see the faint shadow of beard on his cheek, see the wind whip his unhelmed hair, longer now than when he’d ridden away. Why could he not hear me? Kerovan!

Slowly he moved toward the thing, one step… another—

“Kerovan!” My cry startled me as well as several of the passing Kioga. I blinked, shivering, my heart thrumming, although the drum was now silent. Nidu still fronted me, smiling, but that twist of lip held nothing about it of friendship or human goodwill. Slowly she lowered her hand. “See, Lady? Your lord may well not return from the scout. You had best ride on without him, and be grateful to leave safely.”

Anger swelled in me, hot and bursting, like a wound poisoned within. I longed to draw the dagger at my belt or, better still, seek out my sword, lying paces away in my tent. But anger leashed and controlled in the face of another’s heat is ofttimes a more potent weapon. I willed my voice to calmness.

“You know I will not do so, Nidu. I await my lord’s safe return. He has faced the Shadow before, and triumphed.”

“Think you so? Would you like to see what is even now happening to him?”

I dared not accept her offer to call up another farseeing for me—I could well imagine that to do so would open the door to whatever illusion this woman wished me to view. Kerovan’s death—or worse. Also, to accept a gift of magic knowingly from one who means you ill can tie the receiver to the giver—with dire price.

“No.” I made my answer firm and without further speech stepped aside, walking without haste to my tent.

Once safely inside, out of sight of both friendly and unfriendly gaze, I collapsed on my sleeping pallet. Shudders shook my body, sobs wrenched my throat. That evil tiling—and my lord walking toward it! Did he still live? I had voiced brave words for Nidu’s ears, but my mind kept returning to Kerovan’s steadfast determination to avoid all knowledge of powers beyond those of humankind. Yet in lacing such a foe, ordinary steel, even if swung in the most expert swordsman’s grasp, would avail little. If Kerovan tried to fight such a menace so… I closed my eyes, willing any trace of mindsharing, so that I might know . but nothing awoke in response to my efforts. For the next several days I tried many times to contact him, although with little hope. Our mindsharing had always been a tenuous thing at best, occurring mostly when we were within speaking distance, or in physical contact. To hope for such at what must be many days’ journey away. Yet still, at intervals, I found myself questing, calling—only to touch nothing.

Each night I fell on my pallet, exhausted, for the forming of a child during the first three moons is taxing for a woman’s body. This I had heard many times and found it true, though thankfully I was never plagued by any sickness.

Except for my unaccustomed fatigue, I felt well—barring the constant worry about Kerovan’s well-being.

Another concern pricked at me during those days, something I tried unsuccessfully to attribute to my pregnancy—the dreams began.

Each night, as I dreamed, I became another person, a young woman, but one not altogether of humankind. I never saw myself mirrored in any surface, but my hands bore elongated curving fingers, with a faint pearly look about them, as though they might be covered with the tiniest of scales. On my arms (for the short tunic I wore left them bare) fluffed a noticeable white down, also bearing an opalescent sheen.

At first I would wake at once when the dream-awareness that I was this Other came to me, but as each night followed, I found myself enclosed within that Other’s body for longer and longer periods, seeing through her eyes. As this Other I lived within a Keep, stone-walled and old, old beyond measuring, aged far beyond even the most tumbled ruin we knew in High Hallack. Gazing out my window across the heights (for this Keep surmounted a mountaintop), I knew this place had stood for aeons.

Yet I was not old—rather, I was young, perhaps even younger than my dreaming self. Those rocky heights held no fear for me; I knew each path, each cliff, each crag. Nearly every day I climbed down the mountainside to the valley with its river, its grassland, and the forests it sheltered.

I loved the bare crags of the mountaintop, but even more I felt myself truly at home in the valley. The birds, animals—even the trees and grasses held a special affinity for me, and my world contained no greater joy than that I found sitting beside a woodland stream or running free across the meadow.

These scenes—of wandering through the forests or climbing the mountain—dominated the dreams for many nights. Strangely, I felt no threat, no fear of that Other during my waking hours. Each night I went to bed knowing I would so dream, and each new morn found me rousing from deep, satisfying sleep that was normal in all respects—save one. Unlike the dreams I had experienced all my life, the details of these dreams were not lost upon waking, nor did they fade as the day’s hours passed. I began to feel more and more strongly that I was seeing through another’s eyes each night in order that I might be told a story—a story whose meaning would eventually become clear. For some reason I never doubted that there was a significance to the dreaming… and as the nights passed, there grew a certainty that I was, in some manner, linked to that Other.

Perhaps it was because my days were so filled with worry for my lord’s well-being, but I began to actually look forward to my dreaming, to learning more of that Other. One day, as Terlys and I sat outside her tent combing the flax to make it ready for spinning, the hot sun of late spring struck heavily upon my eyelids, so I closed them. Feeling drowsy, yet still awake enough to feel the warm breeze, hear the shouts of the children, I rested for a moment. The sun’s rays turned my shut-eyed vision into red… then, even as I nodded, the redness changed… darkened, became the deep green of the inner forests. I could hear the rippling of a stream… a stream that lapped cold about my ankles as I waded—

I jerked up, and the vision was gone. Still, my breath came short for a moment as I considered that I had entered the world of my dream Other while still waking. Could I now do so-at will? And was that a good thing? Never had I felt any taint of the Shadow about these sendings… but, as I had told Kerovan, the Dark has many forms and faces, some appearing very pleasant, very fair.

Terlys was staring at me. “What is it, Joisan? For a moment you looked frightened. There was a strangeness upon you… just for a second, then it was gone. Are you well?”

“Completely,” I answered. “I found myself dozing here in the warm sun, that’s all.”

“I can finish the combing. You go back to your tent and nap. I will send Janos to fetch you in time for the baking. Remember, today is the Festival of Change.”

Trying to hold back a yawn, I climbed to my feet. “I do feel sleepy still. Thank you, Terlys.”

As I made my way back to my tent, I mentally calculated how many days my lord and the scouting party had been gone. The moon would shine tonight near-full, so it had been more than twice a score of days. The party had only carried supplies for one month.

Jonka had reassured me only last evening that all was well—that they had undoubtedly found game and were hunting, as planned, and that she still held hopes they would return in time for the Festival. I also hoped, with all the fear and loneliness I had felt since Nidu showed me that vision of Kerovan facing the Shadow, that she was right. My lord and the others would return safely—I could not let myself think otherwise!

Kerovan… my thoughts were full of him as I lay down in my tent. I thought of the night we had lain here together, the night our child had begun… For a moment it was as though I could feel again the warmth of his body. My eyes grew heavy, so I shut them, seeing the vision of my husband, even as sleep took me. Kerovan…

I was farseeing again, seeing him, seeing the rest of the scouting party, with my lord riding at its head. He wore mail, and his helm was pulled down to shade his eyes, but still I knew him.

I watched from some indefinite height as they rode toward the camp, though I could not hear them. The plains rippled strangely, seeming now grey, then again their normal spring green… They were nearing the camp. I marked the swiftness of their passage, for but a moment ago, nearly a league had separated us—

A sound of feet approached the tent, then the rattle of the tent flap! Kerovan! I sprang to my feet, raced to meet him, feeling such relief that he had returned safely that I moved light as a feather borne by a strong wind. Kerovan! He was silhouetted in the opening as I ran toward him—

Suddenly my sight sharpened as the sunlight behind him picked out the flash of steel in his hand. His sword, unsheathed? But why?

I tried to halt, but was still borne forward, only to see his hand raise, the blade’s brightness flash toward me with all his experienced grace. That brightness became a stab of pain so great it was molten.

I looked up from the sword transfixing my middle, only to see the ultimate horror—Kerovan’s face bore a smile…

A shriek of anguish and hideous pain ripped itself from my throat, awakening me. I was lying on the pallet, safe, though the echoes of that stabbing awoke within my belly when I moved, convincing me that the pain, at least, had been real. A sword-thrust had been aimed at me, rightly enough, but no physical one., A spell…

Unsteadily I stood, feeling the prickling hairs at the back of my neck with a trembling hand, the other shielding my middle. But no further twinges resulted. I drew a deep, sobbing breath, half of anger, half of relief. Someone had tried to hurt me, had tried to kill my baby, but apparently had not succeeded—thanks be to Blessed Gunnora. Cupping my amulet, I sent up a brief and doubtless incoherent thanksgiving to the Amber Lady.

“Joisan!” Jonka’s voice came from outside the tent. “Are you safe? I heard you scream…”

“I’m fine,” I called to her, trying to steady my voice as best I could. “I was moving the sleeping pallet and a mouse ran across my foot.” I gave a laugh I did not have to feign to sound shaken. “I feel foolish.”

“Nonsense. Anyone would have been startled.” Jonka’s tone was reassuring. “Fair day to you, then. I will see you later, at the Festival.”

“Thank you, Jonka.”

Disgusted at having had to sound like a fool before the Chieftain, I made haste to give at least some of my explanation veracity, tugging at the heavy pallet, moving it a few feet away. As I did so, I saw something light that had been stuffed underneath the mats. Snatching it up, I realized it was one of my linen chemises. Carrying it over to the light filtering past the door flap, I examined it closely. As I turned the garment over, something fell from it, onto the floor—and at the same moment I saw someone had cut a large jagged square from the front, on the left, heart-high.

Going to hands and knees, I opened the bottom of the tent flap wider, studying what lay on the packed earth floor, careful not to touch it. Small, oval, black—a stone lay there, upon its dull surface faint, lighter scratchings that could have been runes…

A spell, right enough, and this stone its focusing point. Wrapped in my own garment, placed beneath where my body would rest, I stood for a moment trembling, consumed with rage and hate, wanting nothing so much as to show Jonka these things, tell her of my pregnancy, and demand Nidu’s death. Any who could summon such magic bore more than a small taint of the Shadow, making the Shaman one unfit to serve the Kioga. Evidently her jealousy had caused her to tread paths verging far from the Light.

But what proof had I, really? A ripped garment and what could have been a stream-washed pebble with naturally light veining—save I knew it was not. No, I must find that stolen piece of cloth, see what it enfolded. Then I could accuse Nidu, if that seemed the best course. Or, her magic having failed in its purpose this time, perhaps she would try nothing more. It is a far different thing to aim ü. spell at someone unprepared and unwarned than to duel with a knowing opponent. I could not match Nidu’s Power, of that I was certain, but in my bag lay simples that could set up formidable protections against evil. And as soon as Kerovan returned, we could leave the Kioga camp. I had never been one to shrink from a battle, but now I had to think of more than my own safety.

Having made my decision, I held Gunnora’s charm toward the cloth, careful not to touch it, for the fabric was now tainted.

“Blessed Lady of the Harvests, aid me. Where lies the other piece of this my clothing, that I may protect myself?” Slowly I passed the amulet over the linen three times widdershins, for the force that had touched it had definitely been against—not for—nature.

A small glow brightened the talisman, and I felt a definite tug in my hand, to the right. Hastily I gathered my bag of simples, tidied my hair, ordered my clothing, then, keeping the amulet enclosed in my hand, went out into the camp. I also carried the black pebble, wrapped once more within the linen.

Following always that slight tug from the amulet, I Mt the camp, heading for a small stand of woods bordering on the stream to the north. As I went I tried to keep my mind calm, seeking, not allow the anger within free rein. But the question of whether I should tell Jonka of Nidu’s actions continued to plague me—as did the question of why the Shaman’s spell had failed.

Finally, after a sweaty tussle with thorns and underbrush (for the amulet’s tugging led me straight and I dared not turn aside to search out a path), I found what I sought.

An elder bush—of course. Elder by its nature lends itself to the darker spellings—exorcisms, banes, and the like. A miniature figure bobbed in the faint breeze, roughly carved, made from some woody substance. Eyeing it more closely (though still keeping a careful distance), I thought perhaps that it had once been a root. There are several such that can be used—ash, bryony—but somehow I was sure that Nidu had used no half measures in this spelling, that what I was looking at was true mandrake, extremely rare and potent… especially in spells involving fertility. The small form had been wrapped in my linen square, then pinned to the trunk of the elder by a bone needle thrust through its tiny midsection.

Sickened anew by the hate that must have motivated such wrongness, I used my belt knife to shake the bush until the poppet fell free. Then I looked about me for a rowan tree—for rowan is the most powerful source of protection against any and all magics. There was one only a few paces away.

Worrying the doll onto the remains of the chemise, careful still not to touch it, I carried the entire evil package over to the slender tree that I sought, addressing it:

“Good rowan, I beg you to use your power to rid this bespelling of its threat. I ask it in Blessed Gunnora’s Name, and by the Power of Light.”

Digging quickly with my knife, I hollowed out a hole in the soil within the shelter of the rowan’s branches, but still a goodly distance from its root, for I did not wish to endanger the tree. Then I used knifepoint to topple the bundle into the earth, afterward carefully filling in the hole, patting it down firmly.

Taking a garlic bulb from my bag of simples, I stripped away its papery outer covering, then, after separating it into its individual cloves, I pressed each small section into the packed earth firmly. With the point of my knife I drew a protective rune, whispering, “Bind evil, rest here always. Harm none,” three times.

Lastly I sprinkled a pinch of salt over the spot, then rose, shaking dirt from my skirt. As I straightened I suddenly felt that brushing at the back of my neck that betokens a watcher. I tried to reassure myself that it was only that my nerves were still strung tight as threads on a loom, and had almost succeeded when I heard a footstep. Knife in hand, I turned to face that watcher.