Flight of Vengeance (Witch World: The Turning) Page 5

  As she sorted through her tumbled memories, Nolar knew with a leaden certainty that many Witches had died this night, burned out by the Power they had attempted to direct and control. That would explain the curious faltering she had sensed; if the Witches of the Council had fallen one by one, during this extraordinary effort to turn the very earth of Estcarp against its enemies, then the flow of their Power would have been diminished until uninjured Witches could take their places. Was her own great-aunt one of the fallen? Nolar blinked at the thought. It was the fate of the half-blind Witch that urgently concerned Nolar far more. That lady of the silver raven had called to Nolar. At the moment of her greatest trial, the Witch had dispatched a Sending … more than just a Sending. Nolar crept up from the hearth to sit in Ostbor's chair. She had been summoned. How had it been said? “Es Castle. … Come!” and “Help me.” There could be no doubt of the urgency of that plea. Nolar found herself mentally calculating what supplies she would need for the journey. She drew up suddenly, trembling despite the warmth from the fire. Es Castle was the center, the seat of the Council of Witches. If Nolar should go there, how could she hope to avoid being disclosed as a potential Witch? Surely it must be known even now to the others of the Council. The force of that Sending had to have been felt by any adept near the Sender. Might not the half-blind Witch have told the others about Nolar? But had there been time? If this Sending had been simply a desperate effort by an injured or dying Witch among others similarly afflicted, could there be a chance that no one else had noticed what was being Sent? Nolar caught herself painfully gripping the chair arms and tried to relax her hands. It really didn't matter who knew what. Despite any risks to herself, Nolar had to try to reach the Silver Raven Witch. There was a double linkage between them now: first, the Witch had Foreseen Nolar in association with Lormt, and second, she had just Sent her plea for help directly to Nolar. As the rain and wind lashed Ostbor's house, Nolar smiled ruefully. Ostbor would have understood. This was one of those decisions that truly demanded no act of choice. Nolar felt an obligation toward the Silver Raven Witch. Somehow, a bond had been forged between the two of them, and Nolar could not rest until she found the Witch and offered whatever help she could provide.

  It was very late that night before Nolar wearily crawled into her bed. After a brief hesitation, she had unlocked Ostbor's treasure box and spread out on his table the entire store of precious metal. Ostbor had left her most of it, but she had earned some of the silver herself. She had no clear idea of what trials might lie before her, but it seemed prudent to carry with her all that she possessed. It took only a few moments to fold the gold and silver bits within a narrow fabric belt that she could conceal beneath her clothing. Her modest store of coppers could travel safely in her scrip. There was no need to arrange for the care of any livestock since she would be riding her only horse, and Ostbor had not customarily kept small animals as pets.

  He had occasionally accepted injured creatures to be nursed until they could be safely returned to their normal home areas. Nolar wistfully recalled one bright-eyed, soft-feathered owl, whose broken wing had mended in Ostbor's attic over one quiet winter only a year or two after Nolar herself had arrived. She had been reluctant to free it, but Ostbor had been firm: the owl belonged among its own kind.

  Sore at heart, Nolar had retorted, “Yet I do not belong. No one cares whether I stay or go. At least, I could talk to the owl, and perhaps stroke it sometimes.” The owl had appeared to follow the conversation with great interest, turning its head gravely toward whichever of them was speaking.

  Ostbor had grasped Nolar's hand. “Dear child, I care very much where you are. For this time, you belong here with me. This bird of the night needs to rejoin its kind, to hunt the mountain meadows and reduce the deplorable number of mice that insist upon chewing on my parchments. Look! See how he stretches his wings—he is ready now to fly from our care. Let us not confine him when he should be free.”

  Ashamed of her selfishness, Nolar had opened the shutter and Ostbor had gently set the owl on the window ledge. It had hooted once, then swooped away soundlessly, a shadow quickly lost among the night's other shadows.

  So Nolar had no beasts to provide for, but she had many other tasks to be completed before she could begin her journey the following day. All of her herbs and supplies had to be carefully examined and those that could be stored for an indefinite period had to be packed away. Nolar sent word by a passing herdsboy to the storekeeper that she would be bringing him her perishable items as well as those things most likely to be needed by the hill folk while she would be traveling to Es City.

  It was midafternoon when she arrived at the shop. The keeper agreed, somewhat gruffly, to supply her in return with ample journeycake and grain for her horse. After securing the grain sacks on her horse, the storekeeper surprised Nolar by pressing a handful of copper into her hand. “Here, lady. Good fortune upon your trip.”

  Taken aback, Nolar tried to return the metal, but he brushed aside her protests. “What you brought me, lady, fairly outweights the value of the grain and the cakes,” he said. “Besides, you were friend to the old scholar, and he was a wise man, helpful to us hill folk.”

  Nolar nodded as she mounted her horse. “Then I thank you gladly, for Ostbor's sake as well as for my own. Good fortune upon you and your house.”

  During the hot, weary days that followed, Nolar drove both herself and her horse to their physical limits. League by dusty league, she pressed on, her conviction sharpening, knowing that every moment was vital, that she must hasten with all possible speed. As before, on her trip to her father's house, Nolar kept her face swathed .and stayed apart from other travelers when she could.

  Every night before sleeping, Nolar paused and concentrated, straining to reestablish that remarkable mental linkage with the Silver Raven Witch. Each effort left her frustrated. If only she knew how one was supposed to reach out—but there was never the slightest indication of any response. Nolar kept telling herself that the Witch was probably too weak or too ill to attempt another Sending. With each failure, though, Nolar's sense of urgency burned stronger.

  The best times to ride, Nolar quickly discovered, were the very early and late hours. The air was cooler then, the dust less, and the company on the road generally sparser. She would have ridden exclusively at night, had there been enough light to see her way, but the destruction to the south appeared to have affected the weather. The farther south she went, the darker and cloudier the skies became.

  As she drew nearer to Es City, Nolar met fewer people on the road, and those she saw were close-mouthed, their eyes fixed on the road before them. Perhaps, Nolar thought, they were reluctant to talk to a stranger, but after several days of observing, she concluded that the people must still be stunned by what the Witches had wrought. Even at this distance from the southern border, the signs of physical damage kept increasing. Trees had been uprooted or splintered by the winds, and gravel and soil had been swept across the road. In places, the road itself vanished, scoured away by the unnatural storm.

  On the fifth day, Nolar slowly rode through one of the narrow gates set in the massive gray-green wall encircling Es City. As she approached across the plain, Nolar marveled at the great round towers set in the wall. This was the largest city she had ever seen, and she was profoundly impressed by the sense of immense strength and age that emanated from its stones. The midmorning sun flashed briefly through the clouds, but Nolar felt a foreboding internal chill despite the sultry air. She recalled the cloth merchant's description of how crowded Es City had been only a few weeks before. There still seemed to be a large number of people hurrying through the streets, but they were self-absorbed, their faces drawn and grim. Nolar had no need to ask directions to Es Castle, for it loomed in the middle of the city, dominating every view. She felt drawn to it, but also dreaded every step that increased her danger of being recognized as an untested potential Witch.

  As soon as she ventured into the Castle's main court
yard, however, Nolar realized that for once her deepest fears might be unjustified … at least for this moment. If Es City and its inhabitants appeared to share the dazed obliviousness that she had observed in travelers along the road, Es Castle was evidently demoralized into nearly complete inactivity. She searched without success for a watchman or doorkeeper. The few distant figures she sighted all scurried away before she could attract their attention. At first, Nolar was relieved not to be accosted. She was not at all certain how she would fare when asked for her reasons for invading the Castle grounds. As the minutes passed, however, she became increasingly uneasy. Someone should have intercepted her. Feeling curiously like an outlaw seeking plunder, Nolar decided that she must enter the Castle itself, and simply search for the Silver Raven Witch until or unless she was physically barred.

  Tethering her horse in a shaded area near a water trough, Nolar forced herself to cross the threshold into a warren of passages providing access to the lower halls and storerooms. Once inside, she stared in wonder at the clusters of pale globes set in metal baskets near the arched ceilings. They seemed to contain no candles or brazier coals, yet they shed a white, constant light. Nolar assumed that they must be part of the Witches's magic. As her footsteps echoed from the worn stone paving slabs, she felt oppressed by the silence and by what had to be the unnatural emptiness of a place that should be bustling with people. How could she possibly find the Silver Raven Witch in this enormous structure?

  Her hand brushed against a heavy wooden door that swung back quietly. Hoping to find someone within, Nolar pushed the door open and entered a storeroom whose shelves and bins stretched away into the shadows. She was about to withdraw when a metallic glint caught her eye. Above one section of shelves and cupboards, a metal House badge was inset into the dark wood: a silver raven. Nolar was just reaching up to touch it when she was startled by a sudden voice behind her.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Nolar whirled to find herself confronted by a gray-clad man whose face seemed creased in a permanent frown. He must have shared Ostbor's shortness of sight, for he stepped quite close, peering accusingly at her. He carried a short staff or thick wand in one hand, and a great bunch of keys in the other. Nolar recalled a similarly harried-looking man who had always flourished such a staff in her father's service, and decided that this man must also be a steward.

  “Please forgive my intrusion,” Nolar said, “but I could find no one outside to ask where I should go.”

  “Speak up, speak up! I am the Chief Steward, and I have many important things to do.” The man rattled his keys, but his eyes looked oddly distracted, as if he weren't really sure what he planned to do next.

  “Sir, I have come many leagues to seek a … relative of mine. I have been sent … word that the lady is ill and requires my assistance. I am Nolar of Meroney, late assistant scribe to Ostbor the Scholar.”

  The steward fastened on her family name. “Meroney—I fear that the Council member from your House is dead. The Turning, you understand.” His pale, lined face looked stricken, as if the recent disaster had brought him near his breaking point.

  Nolar bowed her head in respect. “I feared that might be the case, sir, but my message came from a living Witch.” She pointed to the metal raven. “That is her House badge. I cannot, of course, say her name.”

  The steward gazed at the badge and sighed. “Ah, poor lady. Come.” As he preceded her up stairs and through endless halls, the steward explained that the Castle was in great disarray. Few fully functioning Witches were left; many had died outright, and many others … his voice dropped. “Husks. They may never again come back to themselves. There has been a Sending to draw here safely from afar those Witches who remain, but they have not had time yet to arrive.” He shook his head. “Likely, there will have to be a reexamination of all girls as soon as Witches can be spared to quarter the countryside. The ranks must be replenished.”

  Nolar stood as if rooted, horrified by the prospect of being so quickly found out. The steward, impatient, glanced back at her.

  “Come along! I cannot spare this much time. Here, down this corridor.” He stopped in front of a metal-bound door and unlocked it with one of his many keys.

  Nolar entered the room. Her heart leaped when she saw the half-blind Witch sitting in a tall-backed chair. But … something was seriously wrong. The Witch was as motionless as a wax image. Her good eye was clear, but unfocused, gazing straight ahead. She was obviously unaware that anyone had come into the room. Anguished, Nolar turned to the steward. “Oh, sir, what has befallen my dear … aunt?”

  The steward made a vaguely hopeless gesture with his staff. “Many are like this. They will eat if food is put in their mouths, and drink if a cup is pressed to their lips—but truly they are not here with us. It was the effort of the Turning. The Power was too great for even the Council to control.”

  Nolar's mind raced. She dared not stay here at the Castle to try to care for the Silver Raven Witch. It was only a matter of time before she would be noticed and questioned too closely. If only, somehow, she could take the Witch away. “Sir, there are family estates where my aunt could be attended. May I take her thither?”

  The steward appeared tempted, but indecisive. “I could not say—it is not my place. The Council would have to rule.” Suddenly, his composure crumbled, and tears spilled down his cheeks. “The Council is no more! What shall become of Escarp?” He clenched his hands around his staff and his keys as he struggled to recover his official mien. “It is true that at present we are having some difficulty caring for our injured. If we knew when—or whether—they might regain their senses, we could make better plans. As it is, you see your aunt's jewel.” He pointed to the crystal pendant Nolar had seen sparkling at her father's house. Now it lay dull and lifeless against the Witch's scarcely moving chest. “The Acting Guardian has ruled that until the jewels resume their usual fire, we must assume that the possessing Witches are lost to us. Should you have a safe place for this lady, perhaps it might be wise … for the present, you understand … and if there should be any change, you would inform us at once.” The steward appeared perilously close to tears again but he straightened his drooping shoulders and assumed a brisker manner. “Your aunt's personal possessions were stored when she entered the Castle. She may require some of them for your journey. Come, I will unlock her cupboard for you.”

  Back in the shadowed storage room, Nolar chose several sturdy traveling cloaks and plain gowns. The steward extracted a locked casket from a drawer near the floor, and fussed with it until its lid hinged back. “Here, you may need some of your aunt's gems and silver. I really must be getting back. You will send word concerning your aunt if …” His voice trailed off. He turned abruptly and hurried away.

  Nolar retraced the route to her purported “aunt's” door, which the steward fortunately had left unlocked. She tried speaking to the Witch, even daring to raise her voice, but she might as well have shouted at the stone towers of Es Castle. Nolar paused, took a steadying breath, and examined the room. In a withe hamper in a corner, she found a stout fabric bag in which she collected the Witch's few personal articles—comb, hair nets, underclothing, a small pot of ointment to soften the hands. Several of the formal gray robes hung in a niche behind a curtain, but Nolar felt that it might not be wise to proclaim the identity of her charge. If the Witches’ views of Lormt and its scholars were so implacably scornful, how might Lormt welcome a supplicant seeking help in healing a Witch? Nolar gently removed the distinctive silver hair net, and exchanged the Witch's gray robe for a less noticeable pale blue one she discovered in a chest at the foot of the bed. Prompted by an afterthought, Nolar also slipped the Witch's jewel inside the fabric of her gown where it was not immediately visible. As she worked, she found herself talking to the Witch, even though she doubted that she was being heard. Still, Ostbor had told her of instances when folk with head injuries could not show that they heard, but upon later recovery, said that they had been
aware of sounds. It somehow seemed more courteous to explain what she was about to do than just to proceed as if the Witch were a helpless statue to be pushed and pulled, forced about by another's will.

  Nolar was greatly relieved to find that the Witch could stand erect and walk slowly, if guided and supported. Would she be able to sit on a horse? That would have to be determined. Nolar maneuvered the Witch to the courtyard, and then faced the problem of how to lift her into the saddle. Fortunately, by that time, more people were moving about the Castle grounds, and she was able to ask a passing man for his assistance. Stepping up on a mounting stone, he easily swung the Witch's small body astride the saddle. Nolar took the reins and slowly led her horse forward, glancing up and back frequently until she was certain that the Witch was securely balanced and not likely to fall. The man who had helped her also offered directions to an inn several streets away from the City wall.

  After only one false turn, Nolar arrived at the inn and installed the Witch in a small but comfortable ground floor room. Since it was by then well past midday, she ordered some simple food that she hoped she could feed to the Witch. The steward had been right; the Witch could eat and drink in a slow, jerky fashion. The amount she would take was completely determined by Nolar, somewhat to Nolar's dismay. She realized that she would have to be careful to provide enough food and drink; she would receive no response or request for more or less from her silent charge. Nolar forced herself to eat some of the thick soup and a bit of bread, then stood up and looked critically at the motionless Witch. She would also have to move the Witch's limbs regularly and change her body position if she was to avoid the sores which she had seen develop on the old and sick who could not move themselves. Making sure that the Witch was safely balanced in her chair, Nolar went to seek the innkeeper.