“What is it?”
Ziantha did not answer. Instead she held her hand palm down over the whole collection. Not quite touching, but in her mind seeking what source had broadcast that blast that had met her first probe.
“These—these have been recently handled, by some one who was so filled with hate and anger that emotion blankets all. Unless I can break that I can do nothing.”
He lowered himself wearily onto a bench, leaned his head back against the wall, his eyes closed. And without the life of his eyes—Ziantha shuddered, would not look at him. It was as if a dead man rested there. How long could he continue to hold Turan in this pseudo-life?
“Who is responsible? Can you learn that?”
She took up again the first collection. Strong emotion could fog any reception of impressions, and she was already handicapped by trying to read alien minds. She wadded the beads and cords into a packet, held that to her forehead, trying to blot out all else but the picture she must have.
Zuha—yes, there was no mistaking the High Consort. But there was another influence. The girl tried for a name, some identification which perhaps Turan could recognize in turn. Zuha’s hate, her frustration—those were so strong a wave that they were as blows against her, yet she probed.
“Zuha,” she reported. “But there is another, some one behind Zuha. They came here seeking knowledge they did not discover. Zuha was very angry; she needed something she wanted desperately to find here. She—I think that she took some of these with her—the ones she believed important.”
“If we can find no chart soon . . . “ His thought trailed away.
Time—she could not defeat time. Ziantha tossed the cord bundle back with the others. Had she hours, perhaps days, she could sort through these. There must be another way, for she did not have those hours or days. She need only glance at Turan to know that.
An island risen from the sea, and on it somewhere a twin to the stone, an equal focus piece. Their piece tied to it, and they, apparently, tied to the first. If they could not release those ties, Turan would die again, and so would she—at the hands of Zuha—and no pleasant death.
One could believe that some essence of personality survived the ending of the body. Those with the talent were sure of that. But inbred in their varied species was so firm a barrier against their body’s dismissal that they could not face what man called “death” without that safety device of struggle for existence taking over control. She would not accept the fact that she, Ziantha, was going to come to an end in this world which was not hers, any more than she believed that her companion could likewise surrender.
An island from the sea, and a stone found there — The girl strode back and forth, thinking furiously, before the bench on which Turan had half collapsed. There was one way, but she could not do it here. Not in the midst of enemies when at any moment those who had no reason to wish either of them life could come in upon them. But where?
Ziantha paused, looked around, tried to be objective. She had Vintra’s memories to call upon and she did that recklessly. These people had aircraft. There was a landing port outside the city where such were kept. If Turan could pilot one—if they could first reach that landing port—commandeer one of the craft — Too many ifs, too many things that might stand between. But it was her—perhaps their—only hope.
She dropped down beside Turan, took his cold hand to hold between her two warmer ones, willing strength back into him. He opened his eyes, turned his head toward her.
Again that ghastly smile came. “I endure,” he said, as if he not only meant to reassure her, but himself. “You have thought of something—what? I would think clearer but I must hold on, and at times that takes all my power.”
“I know. Yes, I have thought of something. It may be far beyond what can be done, but it is all I have to offer. When I go into deep trance I must be in a safe place—“
His eyes were very intent. “You would try that, knowing what may come of it?”
“I can see no other way.” She wanted him with desperate longing to deny that, to say there was another way, that she need not risk again the baleful influence of the stone that had already cost them so much. But he did not. Though he still regarded her closely, his mind-shield was up, and she believed he was testing her plan for feasibility.
“It is a way—“ he said slowly. “But you are right, we must have privacy and safety before you try it. I do not believe we shall find either here. Turan’s memories are so little open to me that I do not know what intrigues may be in progress. But they threaten from his own household. It is certainly not the first time a noble family came to an end by being torn apart from within. And where shall we find safety? Have you a plan for that also?”
“A weak one.” She again wanted him to refuse, to prove her wrong. “These people have air transport. If we could get one—they are not too unlike our own flitters, I think—we might reach the sea. Find some safe place on the shore to give me time for deep trance—“
“It seems—“ he was beginning when Ziantha whirled to face one of the mural-concealed doors in the wall.
The noise, a faint scratching, made her look about for something to use as a weapon. She was reaching for a tall vase on a nearby table when Turan pulled himself from the bench, walked with a slow, heavy tread to release the portal.
A man squeezed through a crack hardly wide enough to admit his stocky body and shut that opening at once behind him. The hair on his head was streaked with light patches, and his face was seamed with two noticeable scars.
“Lord Commander, thank Vut you are here!” He looked beyond Turan to Ziantha. “Also the outland witch with you.”
“There is trouble, Wamage?”
The man nodded vigorously. “More than trouble, Lord Commander; there may be black disaster. She”—into that single pronoun he put such a hiss that he spat the word in anger and disgust—“she has sent to the priests. They are to take you and”—he pointed with his thumb to Ziantha—“this one to the Tower of Vut, that the miracle may be made manifest to all on the Tenth Feast Day. But they do not intend that you shall ever reach sanctuary. Behind all is Puvult, Lord Commander! Yes, you exiled him half a year gone, but there have been rumors he returned while you hunted the rebels northward. Since—since you were tomb-laid, he is seen openly. And secretly within these very walls!”
“The High Consort then welcomed him?” Turan asked.
“Lord Commander, it has long been said that she favors the younger branch of your House over the elder.” Wamage did not quite meet Turan’s eyes. It was as if he had news to give, but feared to offend.
“And with me tomb-laid then Puvult comes into headship?” If Turan meant that for a question, it did not alert Wamage, as far as Ziantha could tell, into any suspicion of his lord’s memory.
“You spoke that with the truth-tongue, Lord Commander. They thought you gone—then you return—“
“With the added power of a miracle,” Turan commented. “I can see how they want now to finish me.”
Wamage ran his tongue over his lips. Once more he would not look at Turan but kept his eyes at some point over the other’s shoulder.
“Lord Commander,” he paused as if seeking courage to continue, and then went on in a rush of words, “she says that you are still tomb-laid—that this—this witch Vintra has only made a semblance of a man. Though one may touch you, as I have done, and you are firm and real! But she says that if you are taken to Vut the force will depart, and all men will see that this is sorcery and no real return. The priests, they are angry. For they say that in the past, Vut has returned men to life when their purposes here are not fully accomplished. And they do not believe her but want all the people to witness Vut’s power. So they will come for you—only she has a way to make sure you do not reach Vut.”
Turan smiled. “It would seem that she does not really believe in her own argument that I am but a rather solid shadow walking, or she would leave it to Vut to answer the matter.”
Wamage made a small gesture. “Lord Commander, I think she believes two ways—she is fearful her own thought may be wrong. If you die again—then Vut’s will is manifest.”