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  Now that he was no longer before her with his infirmity to hold her attention she began to remember things she had unconsciously noted and only now drawn to mind. It was plain from the disorder and spotting of his clothing that no one had paid attention to his comfort and appearance for some time.

  But he had made some attempt to shave and she knew enough of the customs of the nobility to realize that that had been a clinging to a small detail which asserted his caste. Landsmen, merchants of the lower class might go bearded but those with any pretense to good birth showed their faces proudly to the world. And in spite of the ragged appearance of missed stubble and some cuts he had achieved at least that much—a goodly feat when done by touch.

  If he had been able to give full attention to his appearance he would be, she realized, a far from ill-looking man. His features much resembled those of Lord Harmond but were not set so sternly. And he was younger than perhaps she had first guessed—perhaps there was not more than a year or two between him and Ustar, which might indeed make his present maiming an even more bitter thing to bear.

  Ensorcellment—yes, Hulde had spoken of such matters during Twilla's learning. Though there were fast rules for those who would follow the Wisewoman's path. One did not summon any calamity to another unless one was willing to pay a price oneself. Her own fancied disfigurement was aimed only at herself, it injured no one else—therefore she would not suffer any return of an ill-power backlash.

  But Hulde's learning was circumscribed by what she herself had managed to amass over many years of study and experimentation. Her own mentor, the Wisewoman Katerna—long since dead—had clung more closely to a healer's studies, and what Hulde had learned of other powers she had had to ferret out for herself and had imparted only in bits, and with much warning, to Twilla.

  This ensorcellment born somewhere in the dreaded woodland might be utterly new, not obeying the laws Hulde dealt by. There such ill wishing could be fully released, used without harm to the sender. Twilla shivered, her hands going to the mirror, pressing it so tightly its rim bit into her skin. She had only this for any major power, and its abilities she had only partly explored.

  She shoved a little away from the chest which formed her table, her appetite suddenly gone. Though she put out her hand to take up a slice of bread and pinch it between her fingers, a childish habit she thought she had forgotten.

  At least they had not scanted her on the food. And it was a noble's feast compared to trail rations. But she did not lift the cup on the tray to taste its contents, which were dark and had the odor of thick wine. To a healer, such was something to be indulged in only after dire physical exertion. One must not muddy one's mind with such potions.

  Or perhaps the “brides” were expected to become so bemused that they would not offer even token resistance to the demands of their new masters. For a moment she caught her lip between her teeth and considered a new thought.

  Within her stores she had that which would render the senses far duller than any drink, except that it be offered in a far greater quantity than had been offered here. Could she escape—her inner self if not her body—in such a fashion when Ustar came to carry out his father's wishes?

  No, that was the coward's way—and beneath the will of any wisewoman. There were certain times when one might indeed use what she carried, not only to lose keen senses, but even life itself. However, she thought that she was not yet driven to such a state. Once more her hand pressed the mirror and it seemed that her answer came in a wave of disgust against her own dark thoughts.

  The room was very dark now—she could see no candle, no lamp, and when Twilla tried to move again she bumped against the bed. Now she felt her way along the wall until her outstretched hands touched the wood of the heavy door.

  She had seen no latch—and she had heard the drop of a bar on the other side when Tathan had left. But still she had hoped that she could apply some lock upon her side so that no one else could come on her unaware. There was nothing. But still determined to have some warning she pushed the stool on which she had been sitting, having found it in a wide sweep through the chamber, against the door.

  The wood of its rudely chiseled legs had made enough of a scraping noise when she moved as to assure her that that sound would alert her, even if she missed the slippage of the bar without.

  Having done what she could, Twilla felt her way back to the bed, moving clumsily and barking her shin painfully against the side of the chest. She heard the rattle of the dishes from which she had fed, groped her way using the edge of the chest until she came to the bed.

  It would seem that the dispute between Lord Harmond and his second son was a long one. She had not been brought forth as Tathan had promised, to have that bond placed upon her in the company of those within these walls. Thus she wondered what pleas Ustar was raising on his own behalf. Not that it would matter in the end for Lord Harmond was duty-bound to honor the law and see his son wed as fortune decreed.

  Twilla settled on the edge of the bed. There was a small measure of light now showing at one of the windows as if some torch or lantern had been set alight not too far away. But it was not enough for the mirror.

  Suddenly she was aware that the inner tension of the day had worn hard upon her. She wanted to sleep, needed to.

  On impulse she pulled at the mirror cord, working it around on her throat so that she could slip the mirror itself under the thin pillow her hands had located.

  “Sunwise, darkwise—” Her lips shaped the words rather than pronounced them aloud.

  "Power that lives be aguard.

  “Creeping evil thus barred.

  “Moonwise rise in me

  “May I safe in slumber be.”

  Rhyme of a sort, if hardly better than that of a child playing with words. She laid down on the bed and now slipped one hand beneath her head, rubbing her fingers about the surface of the hidden mirror.

  Perhaps it was only because she had so longed for it, but it seemed to Twilla that her fears lessened, were gone. Instead there arose in her a new strength of purpose, body, and mind. Accepting that as the truth because she must believe so, she closed her eyes and slept.

  Mist, silver mist, a mist which whirled and blinded, made all which lay before an unknown path. Still she pushed on and the mist reached out hungrily for her but could not quite engulf her wholly.

  Such a gauze of mist she had seen. Dimly memory moved, presented to her mind a picture—a mask of mist laid across the upper part of a gaunt and drawn young face, a mist which blinded!

  The mist appeared to close more tightly about her. She held something, which chill shrank from, a glowing disc—a cold light—moonlight—not suntouch. The encroaching mist drew back. Twilla felt the lash of unseen, unheard anger. An anger which was so rooted in contempt it was twice as potent. But the anger—the mist—could not prevail.

  Twilla awoke. No mist—only the darkness of the small chamber. Yet she was as certain as she would have been had Hulde herself told her that in this night she had been discovered by something which was beyond the common understanding—something which was clearly inimical. But, oddly enough, she felt no fear.

  To fear the unknown was prudent, perhaps, but this unknown had a foundation in an emotion she could put name to: anger, contemptuous anger. And she was equally sure that the dream, if dream it had been, had not been forced upon her by any power within these walls. It was nothing summoned by a Dandus priest.

  They certainly did not dabble in such visions—rather foul nightmares to punish.

  The blind lord! Twilla sat up suddenly, jerking the mirror from under her pillow to strike against her shoulder. If that dream had been born from his mind—No, he would have no reason to so try to reach her, enmesh her in an ensorcellment like his own bitter one. She had done him no harm—unless his reason was the crooked one that he wanted his brother to fail even as he had done, and so would use her as a weapon in that wise.

  She heard it now—not from the door, whic
h gave upon the interior of the Keep, but outside. A sound of—yes, it was like the beating of air by great wings. At the same time she heard a shout from below as if some sentry had been alerted.

  But though Twilla now strained to catch any sound which might give her knowledge of what might be happening without the noise of the wings—if wings those were—ebbed. Though the clamor from below grew stronger.

  Before that had died away there came another—a warning. She heard a sound from without her door now. That which might have been the bar was hurriedly pushed from the hooks which held it. Then the door itself was sent flying inward, with force enough to send the stool she had left as a warning scraping across the floor.

  Light streamed also enough to make a silhouette of the one who pressed in. The blind lord—surely it was he.

  Twilla slipped from the bed, taking a moment to put the mirror back into hiding. She reached his side just in time to save him from coming up against the chest.

  Though his face was in the shadow, she did not doubt that he was in search of her. And she was made very sure of that when his arms swung out with the speed of a man used to battle training, his hands closing upon her upper arms as well as if he could see what he would capture.

  “What would you do?” His words were near spat into her face. “What ill webs do you weave here?”

  He was shaking her now with such vigor as to send her head rocking dizzily on her shoulders.

  “I—do—nothing—” she got the words out, near breathless from his handling.

  “You lie! I—I saw—for a breath of time I saw—webs spun of mist—and—and I remembered!” There was exultation cutting through his first anger. “She en-webbed me, but I won free—now she has sent you to spin me prisoner again!”

  “No.” His shaking had grown more and more of an attack. He had shoved her back until the bed struck behind her thighs and there was no escape. “No!” The prisoning hold on her arms, bruising in its intensity, kept her bound. Now she gave a savage twist of her own, striving to break that captivity. The mirror slipping from her loosened clothing came out of hiding, was between their bodies.

  He pressed in against her as if he would crush her with his greater strength. The mirror was caught fast between them, its reflective surface against his chest.

  “What—?” He gave a short cry, cut off as if a hand had fallen over his lips and then he dropped his hold, so suddenly she fell back on the bed, drawing back from her as if she had become a fire to sear him.

  Twilla caught once more at the mirror, pushed it into hiding. He had withdrawn well away from the bed and was now fully revealed in the light from the corridor.

  His dark brows were drawn near together, his jaw set. He had the look of a man facing odds which he could not understand but which he would not surrender to.

  “I have done nothing,” Twilla found her voice, was glad to hear the words issue levelly from her lips. “I dreamed—of a mist—but it was none of my weaving.”

  His head had turned a fraction, she felt rather than saw that fixed stare of his useless eyes was on her, as if he was fighting for sight, for the need to learn—

  “Mist—” he repeated. His hand went uncertainly to his head, rubbing fingers across his forehead. She saw him sway and was quick to move, reaching his side and steadying him until he reached the bed and dropped down to crouch at its edge, his head now forward and hidden in his hands, supported by elbows planted on his knees. He was shivering now, his whole body quivering as if he stood bare in some icy winter wind.

  Twilla leaned forward, laid her hands first on his tangled mop of greasy hair and let them rest so while she pulled on healer's strength. Then her fingers slid down toward his hunched shoulders and she worked at the knotted muscles until she heard a sigh out of him and he raised his head.

  “I do not know who or what you are,” he said slowly as a man working out some puzzle, “but that you mean any harm—that I will not believe, healer. There is that in you which is different—I have heard of the learning of wisewomen—some speak them fair, some believe like the Dandus that they are ones who open gateways to evil. But sure as my name is Ylon and I am son to Lord Harmond, I am certain that you do not bring evil here. Or—”

  Under her touch his body suddenly tensed once again and he shook his head. “No!” Though to what he gave that denial she could not tell.

  Suddenly he shifted around on the bed so that he was half facing her, his face again most wholly in the shadow.

  “You are in danger, healer, worse than you know. To speak ill of a kinsman is a fault against the blood. But listen now—” His hands once more swung out until they touched and then gripped her but not painfully as before, rather as if she had stumbled and he was drawing her back to safety.

  “Because I am blind—an un-man—rift of my kin standing, they no longer pay attention to me. I have become as a wall, a hound, something which has no thought or feeling.

  “Ustar believes himself shamed by you, he has held out against our father as I would not have believed that he could do. But his anger is not turned toward our father, nor toward the laws which bind him to what he will not endure—he hates you. ”

  Twilla shivered. There was such intensity in his warning that it aroused all the fears which had dwelt in her since she had stood on the platform below.

  “He will kill me,” she said trying to keep any quaver from her answer.

  “No. Clean death would be one thing. This night I have heard him plot something else—” His voice trailed away as though he found it very hard to summon the words to complete his message.

  “The Dandus priest?” That she had also feared since she had seen the man outside the town walls. What fate did such fanatics bring to those they had so long tried to vanquish?

  “No,” the word came in a low voice hardly above a whisper. “The Dandus priest wants his place here well-assured, he would not lend himself to any action which would counter my father's well-known law. No, what Ustar intends is something foul, something which calls upon the very core of House Blood. One of the House cannot wed a used woman—”

  “A used woman?” For a moment she did not understand, and then her face flushed though there was no one to witness that rise of blood from shame and anger.

  “There are always fewer women sent here for wedding than there are men in hunger.” Ylon's voice was toneless, as if he used tight control to keep it so.

  “Those who are to establish the landholds, a few of the townsmen, are summoned to the lottery. Soldiers are not men of homes and families for the most part. Even though they would be sought by the demons if they went wood venturing, there are only a selected number and that very small which are allowed bride taking—it is considered an honor and much sought for.

  “However, in any force there are those who are never far removed from the animal, who would have no chance under my father's eye to ever hope to be chosen for the lottery. And to many of these a woman has become a much-longed-for but unobtainable trophy. They would be willing to risk much to allay certain hungers of the flesh.

  “It is with such Ustar deals. He plots even now. Once those have had their will of you—and the gaining of that would be a monstrous thing—you would not be taken as bride by any man. How could he be sure that any child you bore was not conceived in rape?”

  Twilla's shiver grew stronger, almost to equal those which had racked Ylon earlier. The mirror—was there any way the mirror could save her from this? Or—or must she resort to those potent herbs she carried to take her into oblivion?

  “What must I do?” she asked aloud, but of herself rather than him.

  “It is rather what I will do,” he answered, sitting straightly now as if he had called upon inner strengths. “I believe that you are truly a healer, you have shown me"—he paused and then continued—"somehow you have shown me that I am not a useless thing. This night—the mists—when I came to you it was as if some greater will cut through those webs and I was again a true
man. Therefore I shall act as one. I believe—I truly believe—that the Wood holds a secret and I shall never be free until I discover it. It is my intent now to return there—”

  Twilla put out a hand to lie over his. She could understand, if only a little, what that decision must mean for him.

  “You have heard of the danger waiting there,” he continued—“Blasted wits, blindness—complete disappearance. Yet you have such strengths as I have not touched before. In the Wood you would be free of pursuit—by those here.”

  “How—” she was beginning when suddenly his hand moved under hers.

  “Be quiet,” he breathed, getting to his feet. He started to move across the small room toward the door. She threw herself off the bed and pulled away the stool to give him clear passage but he was not going out, instead he took his stand behind that half-open door and now she could hear the tramp of boots up the stair without.

  7

  THE DOOR SWUNG slowly closed and so the light from without was cut off. However, there was certainly no way of returning the prisoning bar without into its hooks. Whoever was coming would know that the room had been visited.

  Twilla backed away until she stood with her shoulders planted against one of the hide-shrouded windows. Did she hear more than one pair of footsteps outside?

  Then the door was sent open once more with a violent shove which must have slammed back against Ylon. There was light in abundance now for he who tramped in was holding a lantern. From him came the sour smell of that poor ale which these outlanders fancied. His face was flushed and he moved unsteadily.

  He swung the lantern higher so it fully revealed Twilla. Now he scowled and then spat noisily so a fleck of his spittle spotted her dress.

  “Sow-faced trash!”

  Twilla tried to slide away along the wall, away from his advance, but he moved quicker than she thought possible from his appearance of being well drunk. The lantern fell to the floor as he dropped it and then one of his hands tangled in her hair and, with that painful hold, he pulled her toward him while with his other palm cuffed across her face with exploding force.