Not death—not death—that stranger in her mind was awakening, taking over. Out—get out—not death—get out! But it was not D’Eyree who thought so—it was—
The clamor of the sea—she could breathe—she was out! And in her hands—
Ziantha sat up dazedly looking down at what she held. In one hand was the focus-stone, in the other a circle of shining metal with two settings in it—one held the twin to the stone, the other was empty! D’Eyree’s Eyes!
But how—she looked along her body, half expecting to see the scaled skin, the alien form. No, she was in Vintra’s body. And she—somehow she had not only found the twin stone, but had apported it from the past. But how long had she been in Nornoch? Turan—was he dead?
Lurching to her feet, she started back to the flyer. The sun was no longer high—instead it was nearly setting, sending a brilliant path across the waves. And the island was a dark and awesome blot. Ziantha shuddered away from the memory of those last moments before she had been able to tear away from D’Eyree. Never could she face that again. She must have won her freedom the very moment that the other had died. And if she had not—
Turan!
She tore open the cabin door to look within. He lay in his seat, his eyes closed. He looked dead.
“Turan!” She caught him by the shoulders, exerted her strength to draw him up, to make him open his eyes and see her.
13
Ziantha leaned over him, so filled with fear she could not immediately use mind-search to explore for any spark of life in Turan’s body. But slowly those eyes opened; she saw them focus upon her, know her—
“Not dead.” His slack lips tightened to shape the words. “You—got—out—“
“You knew that I was dying—back there?”
He did not seem to have even strength left to nod, but she could read his faint assent. Then she knew in turn—
“You helped me!”
“Trapped—needed—“ His voice trailed away. Those eyes closed again, and his head rolled limply on his shoulders.
“No! Not now, Turan—we have won! See!” Before his closed eyes she held the two stones, one free, one in its setting. But perhaps it was too late, or was it?
She thought of the way D’Eyree had used the Eyes. Could she do likewise now? Could she give to Turan through them some of her own life force?
She tried to fit the band on her head, but its shape was too different. It had been fashioned for another species. At length she cupped the stones in her hands, held them to her forehead, and thought—thought life, energy, being, into Turan, seeking that spark almost driven out by death. And in that seeking she found it, united with it, fed it with her will, her belief, and confidence. As D’Eyree had driven the Lurla, so did she now in fact drive Turan, feeding him all she had to give.
He stirred. Once more his eyes opened; he pulled himself up in the seat.
“No.” His voice was stronger. “I can hold, but do not exhaust what you have to give. The time is not yet when it may be that all you can offer will be needed. We must get back—back to the beginning—Turan’s tomb. And you must pilot this flyer.”
Ziantha could not protest. In her mind he had earlier set the proper information. But in what direction? Where would she find a guide?
He might have picked that question out of her mind as he answered:
“I have set it—“ Once more he lapsed into that state of nonbeing, hoarding his energy, she knew. Now it was her doing, all of it.
Ziantha pushed into the sea, fronted the controls. His instructions were clear in her mind. One did this and this. But could she lift the flyer off this stretch of rock, or would it crash into the sea, taking them both to a swift ending? There was no way to make sure but to try.
Her hands shaking a little, she brought the motor to life; the flyer moved forward. Now one did this and this. Frantically she worked at the controls, nor could she believe that she had succeeded until they were indeed airborne, climbing into the dusk of evening. She circled the rock that was all that was left of Nornoch, her eyes on the direction dial. The needle swung, steadied, and held. If he had been right that would take them back.
As they winged over the sea she tried to plan. That she had brought the second stone out of the past was still difficult for her to believe, unless the drawing power of its twin already in her hands and in use had been the deciding factor. But she was convinced that without careful study, her contemporaries would not be able to understand the psychic power locked in these gems.
The stones had been ancient in Nornoch, put to psychic uses by generations of sensitives. This in turn had built up in them reserves of energy. Reawakened by her use, that power had, in a manner, exploded. Would it now be as quickly dispersed, or could she harness it to return them to their own time?
Night came and still the flyer was airborne; the needle on the guide held steady. Turan moved once or twice, sighed. But she had not tried to reach him either by speech or mind-send. He was not to be disturbed. He needed all the strength he had to hold on. That he had given her of his last reserves in that moment of D’Eyree’s death was a debt she must repay.
It was in the first dawn that she saw the coast lights, and, with those, lights moving in the sky as well, marking at least two other flyers. She could not maneuver this machine off course, nor did she know any way of defending it. She could only hope—
Locked on course, the flyer held steady, and she did not have to constantly monitor the controls. Now Ziantha drew from the breast of her robe the band of the Eyes and the loose gem. If she were taken, she must do all she could to keep the focus-stones. She set herself to pry the second of them from the band. A girdle clasp proved to be a useful tool for this, and a few minutes later she had it out.
The other flyers were boxing them in now, one on either side. Ziantha tensed. How soon would they fire upon them? Vintra’s memory could not supply her with information. The rebels did not have many flyers, and Vintra had not used one. Would it be better to try to land? One glance at Turan told her of the impossibility of trying to cross country on foot.
Before her on the instrument board a light flashed on and off in a pattern of several colors. Code—but one she could not read, much less answer. They were helpless until the flyer reached the goal Turan had set.
When no attack came, Ziantha breathed a little easier. Zuha had ordered them shot down on sight, but that had not happened. Therefore it might be that other orders had been issued since. How long had they been on the island? She did not know whether it was only part of a day or much longer.
The flyer bored steadily on into the morning. Ziantha was very hungry, thirsty, and her sensitive’s control could no longer banish those needs. She found a compartment in which emergency rations were carried. The contents of the tube were not appetizing but she gulped them down. Turan? She drew forth a second tube, prepared to uncap it.
“No.” His word was hardly more than a whisper. He was looking beyond her to the flyer that was their escort—or guard.
“They have not attacked,” she told him the obvious. “For a while they tried to communicate by code. Now they do nothing.”
“The focus-stones—“ He made such a visible effort to get out those words that her anxiety grew.
“Here,” she held out her hand so he could see them lying on her palm.
“Must keep—“
“I know.” She had not yet thought of a hiding place. If they were taken, she, at least, would be searched. She had no doubt of that. She ran one hand through her hair. Its thick sweep was a temptation, but there was no safe way of anchoring them in those locks. There remained her mouth. Experimentally she fitted the stones, one within each cheek. They were about the same size as the pits of dried umpa fruit, and she believed she could carry them so.
With them so close, she could draw upon their energy. Somehow, as her tongue moved back and forth touching first one and then the other, Ziantha felt a little cheered. They had had such amazing good fortune in their quest so far; they were still free, with both stones. Yet, she knew that there was danger in any building of confidence. And no sane person depended upon fortune to last.