Andre Norton Super Pack. Andre Norton
forest which bordered the meadow and came to the central plain of Tav. There was a brooding stillness there. The Ana, perched on Garin’s shoulder, shivered.
Their walk became a trot; the Gibi bunched together. Once Thrala caught her breath in a half sob.
“They are flying slowly because of us. And it’s so far—”
“Look!” Dandtan pointed at the plain. “The morgels!”
The morgel pack, driven by fear, ran in leaping bounds. They passed within a hundred yards of the three, yet did not turn from their course, though several snarled at them.
“They are already dead,” observed Dandtan. “There is no time for them to reach the shelter of the Caves.”
Splashing through a shallow brook, the three began to run. For the first time Thrala faltered and broke pace. Garin thrust the Ana into Dandtan’s arms and, before she could protest, swept the girl into his arms.
The haze was denser now, settling upon them as a curtain. Black hair, finer than silk, whipped across Garin’s throat. Thrala’s head was on his shoulder, her heaving breasts arched as she gasped the sultry air.
“They—keep—watch...!” shouted Dandtan.
Piercing the gloom were pin-points of light. A dark shape grazed Garin’s head—one of the Gibi Queen’s guards.
Then abruptly they stumbled into a throng of the Folk, one of whom reached for Thrala with a crooning cry. It was Sera welcoming her mistress.
Thrala was borne away by the women, leaving Garin with a feeling of desolation.
“The Mists, Outlander.” It was Urg, pointing toward the Cavern mouth. Two of the Folk swung their weight on a lever. Across the opening a sheet of crystal clicked into place. The Caverns were sealed.
The haze was now inky black outside and billows of it beat against the protecting barrier. It might have been midnight of the blackest, starless night.
“So will it be for forty days. What is without—dies,” said Urg.
“Then we have forty days in which to prepare,” Garin spoke his thought aloud. Dandtan’s keen face lightened.
“Well said, Garin. Forty days before Kepta may seek us. And we have much to do. But first, our respects to the Lord of the Folk.”
Together they went to the Hall of Thrones where, when he saw Dandtan, Trar arose and held out his jade-tipped rod of office. The son of the Ancient Ones touched it.
“Hail! Dweller in the Light, and Outlander who has fulfilled the promise of Thran. Thrala is once more within the Caverns. Now send you to dust this black throne....”
Garin, nothing loath, drew the destroying rod from his belt, but Dandtan shook his head. “The time is not yet, Trar. Kepta must finish the pattern he began. Forty days have we and then the Black Ones come.”
Trar considered thoughtfully. “So that be the way of it. Thran did not see another war....”
“But he saw an end to Kepta!”
Trar straightened as if some burden had rolled from his thin shoulders. “Well do you speak, Lord. When there is one to sit upon the Rose Throne, what have we to fear? Listen, O ye Folk, the Light has returned to the Caverns!”
His cry was echoed by the gathering of the Folk.
“And now, Lord—” he turned to Dandtan with deference—“what are your commands?”
“For the space of one sleep I shall enter the Chamber of Renewing with this outlander, who is no longer an outlander but one, Garin, accepted by the Daughter according to the Law. And while we rest let all be made ready....”
“The Dweller in the Light has spoken!” Trar himself escorted them from the Hall.
They came, through many winding passages, to a deep pool of water, in the depths of which lurked odd purple shadows. Dandtan stripped and plunged in, Garin following his example. The water was tinglingly alive and they did not linger in it long. From it they went to a bubble room such as the one Garin had rested in after the bath of light rays, and on the cushions in its center stretched their tired bodies.
When Garin awoke he experienced the same exultation he had felt before. Dandtan regarded him with a smile. “Now to work,” he said, as he reached out to press a knob set in the wall.
Two of the Folk appeared, bringing with them clean trappings. After they dressed and broke their fast, Dandtan started for the laboratories. Garin would have gone with him, but Sera intercepted them.
“There is one would speak with Lord Garin....”
Dandtan laughed. “Go,” he ordered the American. “Thrala’s commands may not be slighted.”
The Hall of Women was deserted. And the corridor beyond, roofed and walled with slabs of rose-shot crystal, was as empty. Sera drew aside a golden curtain and they were in the audience chamber of the Daughter.
A semi-circular dais of the clearest crystal, heaped with rose and gold cushions, faced them. Before it, a fountain, in the form of a flower nodding on a curved stem, sent a spray of water into a shallow basin. The walls of the room were divided into alcoves by marble pillars, each one curved in semblance of a fern frond.
From the domed ceiling, on chains of twisted gold, seven lamps, each wrought from a single yellow sapphire, gave soft light. The floor was a mosaic of gold and crystal.
Two small Anas, who had been playing among the cushions, pattered up to exchange greetings with Garin’s. But of the mistress of the chamber there was no sign. Garin turned to Sera, but before he could phrase his question, she asked mockingly:
“Who is the Lord Garin that he can not wait with patience?” But she left in search of the Daughter.
Garin glanced uneasily about the room. This jeweled chamber was no place for him. He had started toward the door when Thrala stepped within.
“Greetings to the Daughter.” His voice sounded formal and cold, even to himself.
Her hands, which had been outheld in welcome, dropped to her sides. A ghost of a frown dimmed her beauty.
“Greetings, Garin,” she returned slowly.
“You sent for me—” he prompted, eager to escape from this jewel box and the unattainable treasure it held.
“Yes,” the coldness of her tone was an order of exile. “I would know how you fared and whether your wounds yet troubled you.”
He looked down at his own smooth flesh, cleanly healed by the wisdom of the Folk. “I am myself again and eager to be at such work as Dandtan can find for me....”
Her robe seemed to hiss across the floor as she turned upon him. “Then go!” she ordered. “Go quickly!”
And blindly he obeyed. She had spoken as if to a servant, one whom she could summon and dismiss by whim. Even if Dandtan held her love, she might have extended him her friendship. But he knew within him that friendship would be a poor crumb beside the feast his pulses pounded for.
There was a pattering of feet behind him. So, she would call him back! His pride sent him on. But it was Sera. Her head thrust forward until she truly resembled a reptile.
“Fool! Morgel!” she spat. “Even the Black Ones did not treat her so. Get you out of the Place of Women lest they divide your skin among them!”
Garin broke free, not heeding her torrent of reproach. Then he seized upon one of the Folk as a guide and sought the laboratories. Far beneath the surface of Tav, where the light-motes shone ghostly in the gloom, they came into a place of ceaseless activity, where there were tables crowded with instruments, coils of glass and metal tubing, and other equipment and supplies. These were the focusing point for ceaseless streams of the Folk. On a platform at the far end, Garin saw the tall son of the Ancient Ones working on a framework of metal