Warlock by Andre Norton

“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.”

“But I do not intend to die again.” Turan’s voice was firm. It was as if his strong will fed the talent which kept him alive. “At least not yet. Therefore I think I shall be safer—”

“We can get you to the Tower, Lord Commander. Vut’s priests will then make a defense wall of their own bodies if the need arises!” Wamage interrupted eagerly.

Turan shook his head. “Do my own armsmen of Turan-la”—a shade of confusion crossed his face. “My armsmen of Turan-la,” he repeated with a kind of wonder, Ziantha thought, as if he heard those words but did not fully understand them. Ziantha feared his confusion was visible to Wamage. But it would seem that the other was so intent upon his own message of gloom that his thoughts were for that alone. For he burst out then hotly:

“She sent them north after—after your entombing, Lord Commander. They were battle comrades of yours; they knew how you felt concerning Puvult. Me you can command under this roof, and Fomi Tarah, and of the younger men, Kar Su Pyt, Jhantan Su Ixto, and we each have armsmen sworn to us, as you know. Enough, Lord Commander, to see you safely to the Tower.”

Turan was frowning. “There is another, not of this household, so he might not be suspected or watched. He lent me his weather coat on the night I returned—”

“Yes. I have sought him out. His father is a Vut priest, one Ganthel Su Rwelt. They live on the southern coast—the boy came with the levy from Sxark a year ago.”

“From the southern coast!” Turan caught the significance of that at once. “Can you get word to him secretly?”

“I can summon him, but, Lord Commander, as you well know there are eyes and ears awake, watching, listening always amid these walls.”

Turan sighed. His gaunt face looked even less fleshy, as if his grayed skin clung tighter and tighter to his skull.

“Wamage.” He returned slowly to his bench, sat down as if he could no longer trust the effort standing erect caused him. “I would leave this palace, the Lady Vintra with me. But I do not wish to go—as yet—to Vut. There is something to be done, something of which I learned of late, which cannot be left while I tend this ailing body of mine. For time may be fatal. I must be free to move without question or interference. Now I call upon you for your aid in my service, for if battle comrades cannot ask this, then what justice lies in this world?”

“Truth spoken, Lord Commander. Can you depend upon no other for this deed which must be done?” There was a furrow of what Ziantha believed to be honest anxiety between Wamage’s bushy brows. If Turan had not managed to gain the loyalty of his High Consort, in this man, at least, he had one faithful follower.

“No other. I have spoken truth to you; now I shall add more. You know of my visit to the land that the sea gave up? Only recently you spoke of this—”

“A place you have often mentioned yourself, Lord Commander. You wished to take a ship of your own and go seeking it again, but the rebels broke out. But—what of it?”

“Just this—there I made a great find, a find which I must now uncover for my own safety.”

“Lord Commander, you are in some fever dream, or else—” he swung to Ziantha, his face hard with suspicion—”there is some truth in the High Consort’s babble, and this rebel woman has bewitched you. What could lie on a rock in the sea that would aid you now?”

“Something very old and very powerful, and this is no bewitchment. For what lies there I saw long before Vintra came into my life.”

“The gem! The gem which you took to Vut’s tower and thereafter put from you, having it made into tombwear so that none could lay hand on it.”