The Key of the Keplian

9

But she did keep her promise. She raided less often into Keplian lands, but when she did, her eyes were always alert for the boy who looked like Mayrin. The Gray Ones watched her, but after several disastrous meetings, they tended to look the other way—unless they were in full pack as they were one bright spring morning after winter was banished from even the mountains about Eleeri’s canyon. They gave chase, but the tough fit pony carrying a light weight and the powerful Keplian mare stayed easily beyond their reach.

Eleeri reined in many miles later, laughing. “That gave them a nice run. Didn’t they look disappointed?”

The mare gave her whinnying laugh, then sobered. *Kin-sister, have you not noticed, this spring they have returned to chasing us again. Before the winter, they had looked aside if we were in view. Now they hunt again.*

“That was full pack,” the girl objected.

*They knew themselves unable to catch us, but they still gave chase. Something builds; the Gray Ones do not hunt where the prey is worthless.*

Eleeri grinned. “I wouldn’t say we were worthless, precisely.”

*Not if they could take us, no. But they have tried often in the past, failed, and ceased to try. So why do they try again now?*

“I see what you mean.” She sat her pony, looking thoughtful. It was strange. For most of the previous year the wolfmen had ignored them both. Tharna could be right. Something was building. But what—and why? Her mind made an intuitive leap. Romar! According to Mayrin, he’d ridden off in spring last year. They’d expected him back by late summer. Could the Gray Ones have taken him, found a use for him? But what sort of use, apart from food? Or torture? her mind added grimly. The pony had ceased to nibble at the grass. Now he lifted his head alertly. Eleeri gathered in the reins.

“I suspect trouble comes. Best we leave.”

The mare nodded, then stiffened as the gust of changing wind came to her nose. Her eyes met Eleeri’s in deepening surprise. The pack still followed. Eleeri led them to the river. Let the evil ones stick their noses into all that running water. It might cool their brains. The river ran higher than expected, so that the girl was becoming worried. It would be dangerous to cross, it must have rained higher in the mountains last night.

Moving with decision, she swung the hunt upriver, heading now for the stream that fed the lake. That, too, was high, and the crossing was difficult. They paused to rest on the other side as the pack snapped and snarled in frustration.

“Better keep going, kin-sister. I have a nasty feeling that if we stay in plain sight, it may impel that lot to do something stupid.”

The mare shrugged. *If they try to cross, they die.*

“And if it dawns on them this stream has an end?”

Tharna looked startled. It would be well out of the territory, but there was actually nothing to prevent the pack from circling the lake to continue the hunt.

*It is far—many days, even for them.*

“True, but if they are driven, they might not care about that. There is food to be hunted and when they round the lake there are also humans.”

The mare nodded silently. Humans unaware of approaching danger. As they talked, they had moved away from the stream, hooves clicked dully on the rocky trail. They traveled several hours in silence, each recalling the events of the day. There was little doubt that something stirred in the land once more. Tharna was apprehensive; her kin-sister would insist on poking her nose into it, whatever it was. She would that Eleeri was better armed. Not with her bow only, but with the gift and powers. They walked slowly, so she had time to decide. A flick of her mind alerted the girl that there was something the mare wished her to consider.

Eleeri listened. The golden mist at the canyon end had almost ceased to interest her. It was forbidden to enter; nothing answered calls from without. Her pendant warned her away from it and even her own common sense advised caution there. There had been so many other adventures and paths to follow, the mist had been relegated to the back of her mind. Now she protested.

“We are still refused entry.”

*How long is it since you tried?*

That was a point. Eleeri thought back. Months, many months. It must have been—she counted on her fingers—why, it had been early last summer. Well, she could try again. It would do no harm as long as she was polite. At least she hoped it wouldn’t.

She did try, to receive the clear impression of a barred door. Whatever was within the mist wasn’t welcoming her in today. She walked away slowly. Would it ever allow her in? Was there something she was supposed to be doing to pay for the privilege? She chuckled. She didn’t want to get in that much anyhow; it was just curiosity.

Farther down the canyon, Tharna waited. She noted the return and the deliberately casual air. It seemed the gate was still barred to them and her kin-sister wasn’t of a mind to try again in a hurry. Tharna said nothing but returned to grazing.

Eleeri noticed both the attention, then the studied disinterest. It pricked her so that she turned on her heel and returned to the mist. There she stood formulating what she would say. The Gray Ones’ unusual behavior, the sense that something was wrong in the lower lands. The feeling of an approaching storm, not of wind and sky but of power and danger. She fixed the feelings in her mind, then did what she felt was the equivalent of knocking on the mist’s door.

In a burst she sent her message. Attention sharpened on her. She felt a sudden exhilaration. That had interested it.

Query?

She sent again her surprise at the way the wolfmen had followed them so tenaciously. This time she included all events, mental pictures of the terrain. The way they had been hounded right to the very edge of running water. The way she and Tharna had felt they should move away even that after crossing—as if the desperation of the pack to reach them was communicated. The sudden fear that the Gray Ones might decide to circle the lake, move into territory they did not know. Endanger the humans there who were friends.

She had the impression then of having her mind winnowed. The rifler was interested in the Keplian mare. They were friends? Yes, they were, and was there anything wrong with that? was Eleeri’s sharp response.

In return she received a burst of amusement. On the contrary. The mist or whatever dwelt within was pleased. Eleeri blinked, sending her own query in turn: Why? Now there was a sense of duality touching her, not one thing communicating, but two. Male and female. She received the impression they were human in some way, more than human in others. Adepts, then? she queried. In reply the touch vanished. The image of the barred door returned and she found herself backing slowly away again as the mist writhed and coiled.

She retired hastily to share the experience with Tharna. They stared at each other when she had finished. Wordlessly the mare began to graze again. She liked to consider things, to chew over thoughts as she did grass. Eleeri was not so eager to think about all this. In several ways she wasn’t even sure she had liked the way her mind had been invaded. She had suffered no injury, but they could at least have asked, she thought resentfully. She didn’t even belong in this world.

That brought her up short in her mind. Didn’t she? This world had allowed her to be herself; it had given her a home, a roof and friends. Here she rode as a warrior as she could never have done in the world she had escaped.

It had been an escape. She had run here. Entered willingly along the road of the gone-before ones. For a single moment she felt a terrible longing for Far Traveler and their home. But her great-grandfather was gone, their small home no longer hers. Even if she could go back, nothing would ever be the same. Tharna and Hylan could not travel with her; in her world they would be treated ill. She fingered her knife. She could not ride as a warrior there. That thought alone could sway her powerfully.

Life was hard in this land she had chosen. She must fight to survive, to eat. For food and trade she must hunt, and all she owned was from the work of her own hands. She drew in a deep breath of the spring-scented air. Then she marched into her keep. It was hers, hers by right of finding, by use. The decision had been made. For all this time in many ways she had been living as if her sojourn here were only temporary. Now she knew in a burst of wild gladness it was her home, her keep, her land. No one was going to take anything away from her without having a fight on their hands. And that, she added with mental ferocity, included any Gray Ones or their masters.

She swept inside to begin turning out winter-musty furs. Bedding she hauled to the stream and washed in the stone basins designed for that purpose. She looked properly at the basins for the first time. Clever: whoever had dwelt here hadn’t intended to live without amenities. She trotted back inside to add her own clothing to the pile.

She left the grass spread with her work, as she returned to her keep. For too long she had used only the great hall. On very cold or wet nights many of the Keplians would join her there. She had never bothered to search the upper rooms.

She snorted. That had been the faint remembrances of Far Traveler’s tales. Of how it was not well to accept a roof where the owners had died. She didn’t know that the owners had died here. It could have been far away. They could even be those who lived behind the mist, and hence not dead at all. She tramped up the narrow stone stairs. You could tell this place had been built by those expecting a war. The stairs had no rail and twisted in a way that allowed a defender free sword-arm.

Upstairs, she counted as she moved down the narrow passage. It must run the length of the keep, above the center of the downstairs hall.

No wooden furniture remained, if any there had been, but stone tables furnished several of the rooms. Hearths were placed to warm bedrooms. Two large alcoves shelved in stone may once have been linen closets. She wandered through the rooms, tapping idly at the walls. Cynan had showed her the small hiding place for jewelry in his own hold. Had they had one here? she wondered. She drifted down to the end of the passage and found, to her surprise, that it continued in a flight of stairs leading downward again. She orientated herself. Strange. She’d seen no second set upward from the lower floor.

She trod down, eyes and ears alert, hand on knife hilt. Down, down. By now she had to be below ground. She glanced up and suddenly understood. Once there was probably extra planking level with the stone floor, hiding the continuation of the staircase, probably with a hidden trapdoor there. The light had faded so that she stumbled, retreating in search of something she could use to light her way. Feet padded swiftly back up the stairs—there, that would do. She’d used branches to sweep upstairs the previous summer. Now dry, they would burn to light her way. She glanced at the armload. Would it be enough?

Surely she could manage. She hurried back down to where she could no longer see, then lit a branch. As it burned, the amount of light was small, but it did allow her to see the stairs. She padded on down until a door appeared before her. Stone, but so well crafted it could be opened by a firm push. She peered around the edge in wonderment. A vast expanse of paved floor met her gaze.

There seemed to be nothing but that floor stretching into darkness on the far side. Making a mental note that she must make better torches for this, she advanced. Stone-paved floor, stone block walls, and no other entrance. That didn’t make sense. Why would they have this down here with no escape? Perhaps it had been only storerooms?

She padded around the perimeter, holding up her branch. It was beginning to die; she lit the second and continued to walk. She guessed this area was almost as large as the keep above. Something caught her eye, a rusted remnant of metal on the floor. She stooped to find she was holding a dagger. From the studs that surrounded it, the steel had once been within a leather sheath. She faced the stone wall, thinking. Was this a weapon dropped in flight, or had it a deeper significance?

Cynan had taught her several words in common usage as commands. This keep had been built as a fortress, but those who had lived here might not have used more than simple locks.

She faced the wall, lifting her voice in clear command. “Ashlin!” Eleeri said. There was a soft creaking, a grinding, as the wall opened.

Behind it, protected from time’s hunger, hung weapons. Here and there were gaps as if a portion of the collection had been snatched up in haste. The woman studied the array carefully. Bows, quivers filled with arrows, swords, daggers, honing stones, everything one could want to defend this place. She smiled. Would her word continue to work? She walked to the edge of the open section, then took two more paces sideways.

“Ashlin!” There was no response. She paced sideways again. Still no response. But on her third try the wall again quivered into life.

This time it was mail. Mail in a wonderful metal that held the sheen of oil on water. She lifted out a piece and admired the work. The mail—no, she remembered now, when it was rings like this Mayrin had said it was called chain. The chain was wrought by a master, surely. It hung heavy but limp as velvet in her hands. There was a smaller shirt there which she found her hands drawn to.

It fitted perfectly, as if some long-ago smith had made it for her measure. Once on, it didn’t feel so heavy, either. She lit the last branch—now she had light enough to leave, and that was it. Facing the open sections, she spoke the word of closing and watched as they snapped shut again. She’d be back. There was more here to be discovered. She hurried up the stairs as her branch burned low. Was it possible, her curiosity suggested, that the commands would work in some of the bedrooms as well? Were there other secrets she might have overlooked?

She soon found there were. Mayrin had taught her other commands, and these opened what must have once been clothes closets in several of the rooms. She gasped over the wealth of silks and velvets exposed to her. From the sizes and other indications, she guessed there had been a lord and lady of the keep. There looked also to have been babies.

For the remainder of that day, she trotted from wall to wall all over the keep trying her commands. Even the kitchen yielded up cupboards of pots, pans, crockery, and other minor items. Eleeri retired to bed, her head whirling with delight. From being a beggar in someone else’s keep, she now felt true ownership for the first time. It was as if the keep itself had let her in.

Early the next morning she was back down the stairs again with torches. She circled the walls, trying each of the words she knew in turn. One opened a small door to stables she had not known were there. By the afternoon, she was exhausted with her work. She retired to the great hall with a charcoal stick and a large piece of white bark. There she attempted to make a plan of the keep. As she drew, she marveled. Why had it taken her so long to explore? It was as if she had felt herself an invader. That by remaining in the hall alone she would not anger those who had once owned this place.

In some ways she understood her own actions. It had been the canyon with its runes and strange mist. She had felt that to trespass too greatly would be to see them all driven forth. But now that they had lived here for a time, she felt a gradual welcome begin to close about her. As if she was known now, recognized and accepted. The keep was hers: she would accept its gifts, its shelter, the comfort offered by the strong walls and runes at the gates.

For the next weeks she was busy going over her newfound keepdom. She began sleeping upstairs in the bedroom that must have belonged to lord and lady. The kitchen shone with burnished pots and pans hung on the walls. From cupboards now open to her searching eyes, she retrieved tapestries, hanging them with much labor and cursing. It puzzled her that the cupboards appeared to have protected their contents so well. It occurred to her to experiment with fresh meat placed inside the closet in a bedroom. The attempt explained much to her; the meat remained fresh for weeks. After some trial and error, she found that the more often the cupboard was open, the more swiftly the meat would decay. A spell? It had to be. Some magic to preserve from time whatever was placed within. Good. The cupboards she did not need would do well to keep her food against the summer heat.

Meanwhile, the Keplians had not been idle. Hylan had taken to quiet visits into the lands his dam had once known. From there he had returned with news gleaned from his kind. The last visit, Tharna had traveled beside him. Now she came in search of Eleeri.

*Kin-sister, there is news, nor do I like what I have heard.*

The woman stood up to stroke the soft nose. She waited. Tharna would speak in her own good time.

*In the center of our lands there rises an old shadow. Evil lairs once more in the Dark Tower. My people fear it, obey it, yet still do they fall to its hunger. It is possible it is the reason the Gray Ones hunt us far harder than ever before. More and more Keplian fall to them also.*

Eleeri had known of that. The Keplians had always been small in numbers, the fault of the treatment meted out to orphaned foals by the stallions who killed so casually and the mares who refused to aid the helpless. Now she listened to Tharna and Hylan as they told of foals and birth-weakened mares taken almost under the noses of herd stallions. Even of young bachelor males pulled down by many Gray Ones working together.

*They are run mad. They kill and kill until all our lands will be empty.* Hylan’s breath hissed in. *They even attack the rasti. But they lose doubly in that. The rasti are not such as should be trifled with. Many died—on both sides.*

The woman smiled broadly. “It is well said that when evil ones fall out, good may profit. Let us hope they slaughter each other until none remain.”

*Unlikely,* the stallion commented. *They say in our lands that that which dwells in the tower spoke to them harshly, saying that if they war again, he will punish both sides.*

Eleeri glanced up. “That won’t get it far. Rasti care nothing for threats. If the Gray Ones attack them, they will fight.”

Tharna nodded. *But the wolf ones do care. They fear that which is in the Dark Tower. They will not again attack without word. I fear that it may be your friends who are to be prey next. There was some talk of a gathering of the pack, that they might hunt out far toward the edges of their territory.*

Eleeri gazed out from under the trees where they were standing. Her mind was suddenly made up: she would ride to speak of this to those of the lake keep.

*That is well, kin-sister. But ride wary.*

That the woman was more than prepared to do. The sturdy dun was saddled and Keplians mind-sent affection as she rode past them. The runes flared at her passage. Impelled by an impulse, she leaned over as she passed, fingers tracing the main runes of guard. A word came into her mind then as if gifted to her. By now she had learned not to speak such aloud, but in her mind she stored it against need.

As she rode from her hold, she thought about the runes. From what she now knew of the land, the gift of power was common. Even those who had little were taught to use what they had. All homes, keeps, strongholds, were warded, the Valley of the Green Silences most strongly of all. It was an ability native to the people here.

Her mind turned to the Gray Ones. Unpleasant creatures that they were. They and the Keplians had been enemies from time out of mind. It seemed that the attempts to control them, perhaps to draw power from them, was driving them mad. The tower might demand they cease to fight; the dweller there would not wish his meager resources wasted casually in a war he did not approve, and one moreover which killed his own side only. But he wasn’t having much luck there, Eleeri thought. That suited her. Friends profited when enemies fell out, Far Traveler had been fond of saying. If the Gray Ones continued to irritate the rasti, too, it would be useful.

She shivered. A rasti pack-ground was no place to be. They looked rather like weasels to her—weasels grown to three feet in length, with wonderful fur. And like weasels sometimes would in the depths of a hard winter, rasti hunted in packs.

They had no true intelligence, but they had an animal cunning all their own. Nor, if their territory was invaded, did they seem to care how many of their own kind died, so long as the intruders were expelled. The dead were food, their own dead or the invaders. She shivered, thrusting the thought from her mind.

She rode steadily downstream and along the lake edge. That night as she slept, she dreamed as she had not done in many months. A dark-haired man looked at her with a wistful hope. He had aged beyond the boy of the small painted picture. But she knew him . . . Romar, twin to Mayrin. His face twisted in his efforts to reach her, to speak, perhaps to warn.

Then strength visibly drained from him and his face went slack. She leaned forward; her eyes studied him. He was thin, pale of skin, as one who had been indoors too long. But resolution still showed in the firm set of jaw, the folded lips. In her sleep, slender fingers slid to her throat, there to twine about the Keplian pendant. She strained to see more clearly. Warmth rose from that which she clasped.

Her dream sight cleared a little. Now beyond the man she could see a window, blue sky spread above, gray stone surrounding it. He sat held to a great carved chair by leather straps. Yet she sensed he was held by more than the bonds she saw. About him spread a circle. Runes flared red, smoked in black around the outer line. Eleeri shivered. There was no mistaking what she saw: Romar was captive to an evil that sought to use him. His eyes opened again, and in them there was a desperate appeal. The runes flared high, veiling him in a smoke that reeked even in her dreaming, of power and danger.

She pulled back. The scene began to fade, but as it did so, it shifted. Now she looked down as a bird might upon a tower below. Confirmation. That was indeed the Dark Tower, deep in Keplian lands. She rode on at daybreak, the dream repeating over and over in her mind. She feared the effect on Mayrin, did she speak of this. The woman would insist on an attack, but Eleeri felt that this would bring only death. They must be clever. Attack, yes, but as thieves in the night, not as warriors. The fighters of her people had once esteemed such battle cunning.

Her face flickered into a brief dangerous smile. She would keep her own counsel, but she would speak of the warnings her friends had brought from Keplian lands. That would be sufficient to place the keep on guard. As for Jerrany—there, too, she would not speak, she decided. He loved Mayrin dearly, too much to hide anything from her. Once she suspected, Mayrin would have the story out of him as a sea-dog shelled sea-snails.

Eleeri rode into the keep days later. From across the bridge, her friends came running, Mayrin laughing happily.

“Oh, it is so good to see you again. What has happened since last you came? Has the hunting been good? Are you tired?”

Jerrany seized the reins. “I’ll take this fellow to be cared for. Go you with Mayrin before she bursts with her questions.” He touched her lightly on one shoulder. “She speaks for us both, though. It is good to see you once more. I’ll bring your pack to the hall.” He strode away, leading the weary pony.

Mayrin had her friend by a sleeve. For the first time she realized that there was a hard material under her fingers. “Why, what is this?” She turned up the outer fabric. “Chain, you wear chain, and such craft! Where did it come from? Have you found another place to trade? What—”

Eleeri held up a hand laughing softly. “Let me answer one set of questions before you ask me more. As for the chain, it was found, not traded. I will tell you the story another time. The hunting has indeed been good, and yes, I am both tired and hungry. I have no news of Romar, but something that may bear upon you and the keep. Feed me and I will talk with you and Jerrany of it. This is in part why I have come.”

Late into that night they talked. Jerrany did not take her words lightly.

“I will have all put in order. We do stand ready, but there are many small things which might yet be done to prepare for siege or attack.” His face grew serious as he thought. “What have you brought to trade?”

“No luxuries this time,” Eleeri assured him. “All good deerskins, sinews, and a gift for you, another for Mayrin.” She reached for her pack. “Ask me not where these came from. They are for you, a gift of Light.” She allowed the first bundle to unroll, revealing a matching chain shirt which would fit her friend. Mayrin gasped, touching it with wondering fingers. Another bundle unrolled to spread half a dozen swords across Jerrany’s feet. They were unadorned but of superb workmanship. The keep lord picked one up, closed his hand about the hilt, and tried a pass or two. Then he spoke as one who offers a pledge.

“We will ask not whence these came. That they are of the Light is enough.” He eyed his wife sternly when she would have spoken, and Mayrin’s lips closed again. “They shall be used against evil, to protect that which is good.”

He was more sober than was his custom the remainder of Eleeri’s visit. When she departed, he watched as her pony rounded the lake edge, gradually disappearing from their sight. Then he strolled inside and called for a trusted armsman. To him he handed a letter.

“Take this to the lady who rules the Valley of the Green Silences, and none other.” Hoofbeats died on soft turf as he stood at the keep door. Silently he went to his armory and from there to check provisions.

Little enough of the gift was there in his line. But now he felt the chill as of a coming storm. He had heard Eleeri’s warnings with belief. He had mentioned it neither to his wife nor their visitor, but a hunter for the keep, ranging farther than usual, had seen Gray Ones. There was more the woman was not telling, he was sure. Perhaps she was not certain of the import herself. There would be no ill reason for her silence.

He stared out over the land that lay before him as he passed an arrow slot. It was fair: here he had planned to live, to see children grow. Would his bones lie here before his time instead? And what of Mayrin? She would not leave did he try to send her.

He looked out over the land to where blue-tinged mountains lifted far in the distance. Here they had come to build a house and a name. Here they would stay, for life or death. If the valley could send help, well enough; if not, then they would fight alone. Sunlight glinted far down the lakeside. No, not quite alone. Eleeri, too, rode to war.

He sighed. Always Romar had been his right arm. If only his friend were here now to stand beside him. His step was heavy as he left the window. Behind him there were none left to care about him, he thought. His mother had long since turned to her new lord and her growing brood. No, here were his only friends and loves. But he missed his sword-brother Romar with every fiber of his being.

He found he was standing in the middle of his bedroom studying the window once more. Through it he could see a long sweep of land toward the Valley of Green Silences. He sighed. This had been a lonely and dangerous place to choose to live. But hitherto it had been free from the Gray Ones. It was a sign the Dark was growing in strength, and a danger to all who rode for the Light.

Many years ago, a different Dark lord dwelling there had tried to seize the mind and heart of a witchmaid—the daughter of Simon Tregarth. She had been freed, and evil turned back on the man who would have used her. But the tower was a place which seemed to call to those small ones of the Dark who would be greater. A pity it was impossible to tear it down completely so that none might rise there in Dark power again. He had suggested that once; it was Duhaun herself who told him they could not. Some reason rooted in the things of power. He had not understood half the explanation, only enough to know she was right. It could not be done without endangering the land itself.

Far down the lakeside, sunlight flickered briefly from bridle mountings as Eleeri rounded the stream bend. She, too, was remembering—a harsh-planed face weary beyond words, and gray-green eyes that pleaded for aid. Over the past few days her mind had been made up. There comes a time when a warrior must ride. Along with Romar’s face, those of Mayrin, Jerrany, Tharna, and Hylan arose along with her other Keplian friends. Too many innocents. If she must don war paint, take oath to ride pukutsi, to ride slaying until all who faced her died, or she herself fell, then let it be so. She found she was humming softly as she rode. Far Traveler’s death song. She smiled. She would be ready.