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Continuing to hold the spear at ready, she worked the bud out into the open. It was still tightly encased as it had been this morning, the shiny brown outer petals sealing all which had given light and perfume in the night.

But when her hand closed about it Brixia was startied. Though, instead of loosing grip because of what she had felt, rather her fingers tightened the more on it. The bud was warm—not only warm, but it pulsated in her hold. She might well have clasped a slowly beating heart!

Keeping her eyes on the bird-woman, Brixia brought the bud out and then dared to give it a quick glance. No, there was no sign of it opening. It remained tightly enfolded.

Again the bird-woman fanned her arm wings, sending the heated air of the desert to raise a portion of sand and grit, blew that, with the foul scent of her own body, directly into Brixia’s face. Her jiggling dance grew faster, the claw feet in turn stirring up the surface soil in spurts of dust.

One such kick sent flying to Brixia’s own face the feather which had fallen from the wing of the bird. And that did not fall back to earth. Rather it arose in the air like an arrow shot from a bow with a definite target in view.

Brixia dodged. But it was not aimed at her face as she had first thought. Instead it shot up, to lay across the fist which was shut around the bud. The strangeness of that was no natural happening, of that the girl was certain.

But did the feather come to serve some purpose of these desert hunters? She shook her hand vigorously, striving to send it flying. It did not flutter away, but remained balanced across her fist as if fastened there.

And she dared not set down her spear to pluck it off—such a move might be just what these others awaited.

A feather—

Its touch was so light on her flesh she could not be aware of its presence visually. Why—why had it come to her and in such a fashion?

The black length of it was like a giant evil finger laid across to seal the bud from the light of day.

The black length of it—

Brixia’s breath caught in a gasp. Black—no! The color along the quill was changing—The black faded, became gray—

Now the bird-woman screamed, and her throat-wracking cry was picked up and echoed by all those wheeling above. The sound made Brixia jerk her head, cower back against the stone. She watched for the attack she believed that clamor must signal.

But, save for her dance, the bird-woman did not move. While the feather grew lighter and lighter. Now it was the shade of fine ashes, nearly white—

Brixia flipped her hand frantically from side to side, up and down, hoping to shake it off. To no avail. The feather was now a pearly white. Not only white, but it seemed to draw light to it in an odd way, as if a very pale radiance curved along it to be diffused at the edges. The radiance—how could one be sure of such a thing in this blaze of desert sun?

At the same time there was movement within Brixia’s tight hold upon the bud as if something now struggled there for freedom. She found that a will beyond her own commanded her muscles so that her fingers began to loose the protecting grip.

Her hand moved in a high jerk, though she had not consciously ordered that. The feather loosed at last, spun upward and out and—

A bird flew up into the air. In form it was as large and of the same shape as those which beleaguered her. But in color this was the pearl-white of the tree flowers. Once in the air it darted forward straight at the head of the bird-woman.

The creature from the Waste struck at it with outspread wings, screamed in rage. While the birds which served her broke their circle and came spiraling down to where she battled with the darting flyer.

Brixia dropped her spear. Holding the bud tight to her breast she snatched up her stones, one after another, and flung them at the wheeling birds, and their furiously dancing and screeching mistress. Some thudded home. There were two of the birds fluttering on the ground. The bird-woman gave a great cry as one wing dropped to her side and she did not seem able to raise it again.

But there was other movement out on the desert land. Brixia had been so intent upon her own struggle that she had not been conscious that a new force was drawing in. Things scuttled about stones, moved so quickly she could not be sure of where they went. She only knew that this battle was now a focus for interest and she could not hope that what came would be any help to her.

The white bird had not attacked with either claws or beak, thought it was as well equipped with both. Rather it appeared to attempt to confuse and mislead the black flock and their mistress. Illusion? There could be no other answer Brixia thought. But whose illusion? It had not been born of any sorcery she had worked. She was no Wise Woman, no dealer in the forgotten magics of the Old Ones. She—

In her mouth there was a faint taste of the healing, nourishing bounty of the tree. And closing her in came the scent of its flowering. She had drawn into her being what it had had to offer—not by conscious knowledge, but because it had seemed the natural thing to do. What had flowed into her then?

“Green Mother,” her voice was hardly more than a croak, “I do not know what I have done—If I only knew!”

Once more the bud within her hand gave a great beat, so strong a one that it made the flesh and bone which encased it quiver. Was that in a measure some answer? Some reassurance? Brixia did not know what was happening to her—nor did she have time to set her mazed thoughts in order.

But the screaming of the birds had brought another sound, not as an echo—rather an answer. Creatures flashed into view, able to move so quickly that Brixia had only a fleeting impression of supple, lengthy bodies, either bare of any haired covering, or else scale set. These leaped out so that the bird-woman, with a great squawk of rage, turned to give battle. She was not backward about action now as she had hesitated when fronting Brixia. It was as if she had not been sure of what armament the girl might bring to bear while what she wrought with now she knew well and classed as an ancient enemy.

Escape! Was this her chance? Brixia could not tell, but she was sure in that moment while she viewed the whirling battle between the two parties of the desert dwellers that she might never have another such opportunity. As she made up her mind to move so, once more the bud gave a throb as if urging her on to that course. Or it might have been in warning—But as long as she was Brixia she was determined to follow her own will.

Back still to the stone, she edged to the left, turning slowly to put the outcrop between her and the struggle. At last that knob of rock did hide the skirmish from her. Bud in one hand, spear in the other she ran—not out into the desert but back towards the dark line of the mounds. Whether she would bring up against the mound wall, pursued by the desert creatures to her death, she did not know. But that she had a chance if she was driven farther into the unknown she was sure could not be so.

Above her the mounds loomed, bare and dark under the westerning sun which was now well on its way down the sky behind her. There was little comfort in viewing the humps of this range. To spend a night in close contact with them was not a thing she wanted. But better that than the desert.

She passed over the rim of sand and gravel and saw before her the unyielding rise of the coarse-grassed slope. In spite of the menace of those cutting blades she would have to win up and over, put at least one of the mounds between her and the open desert. Whether the bird-woman and her flock, always supposing that they did win out in their struggle with those other things, could follow her here she did not know.

Her side pained from running as she lurched along. Hunger was a dull ache and thirst was even worse. How long she could continue to keep going she had no idea. She was not even sure that this was the place where she had come through to enter the desert—or had been herded through at a dark and alien will.