“Jartar—?”
Both their heads turned. Lord Marbon had raised himself on one elbow. His eyes were fixed on Brixia. She would have denied at once that she was whom he looked to see there, but Dwed’s hand shot forth and his fingers closed with crushing pressure on her wrist. She guessed then what he would have her do—let her pretend to his lord, and, perhaps through such a pretense, Marbon might be drawn away from the trap of the lake. Or else be led to explain his preoccupation with it. Making her voice as low as she could, Brixia replied:
“My lord?”
“It is even as you said it might be!” His face was eager, alight. “An-Yak! Have you seen it—within the lake?” Lord Marbon sat up. There was a new youth in him, and Brixia realized how much this animation made of him a different man.
“It is there,” she kept her answers as short as possible, lest some mistaken word of hers return him again to the state that had held him for so long.
“Just as the legend—the legend you spoke of,” Marbon nodded. “If it is there—then also within it must lie the Bane—and with that—yes, with that!” He brought his hands together with force. “What shall we do with it, Jartar? Call down the moon to give us light? Or the stars? Be as the Old Ones themselves? Surely there is no limit for he who can command the Bane!”
“There is still a lake between us and it,” Brixia said softly. “There is ensorcellment here, Lord.”
“Surely,” he nodded. “But there must also be a way.” He glanced up at the steadily darkening sky. “Anything which is of value does not come easily to a man. We shall find a way—with the coming of light we shall do so!”
“Lord, without strength a man may do nothing,” Dwed had withdrawn one of the meat laden sticks and held it out to Marbon. “Eat and drink. Be ready for what you would do with the day.”
“Wise words,” Lord Marbon took the stick, then he frowned slightly, studying the boy’s face, revealed as it was by the firelight. “You are—are—Dwed!” He brought out the name with triumphant emphasis. “But—how—” He shook his head slowly, a measure of the old lost emptiness returning. “No!” now his voice was sharp again, “you are in foster ward—you joined us last autumntide.”
Dwed’s scowl was gone, he wore an eager, hopeful expression.
“Yes, my lord. And—” He caught himself nearly in mid-word. “And—” it was obvious he strove to change the subject, “since we came here, lord, you have not made plain what the nature of this ‘Bane’ is we seek.”
Brixia was pleased at his cleverness. As long as Marbon appeared shaken out of his apathy it was well to learn as much as they could.
“The Bane—” Marbon replied slowly. “It is a tale—Jartar knows it best. Tell the lad, brother—” He turned his attention to Brixia.
So her would-be cleverness had been a mistake after all. She tried to think of the words of the doggerel song she had heard in the keep courtyard of Eggarsdale.
“It is a song, Lord, an old one—”
“A song, yes. But we have proved it true. There lies An-Yak, water buried, it proves the truth. We have found it! Tell us of the Bane, Jartar. It is the story of my House and yours, you know it best.”
Brixia was trapped. “Lord, it is your tale also. You have claimed it.”
He watched her narrowly from across the fire. “Jartar,” he did not answer her question but asked one of his own, “why do you call me ‘lord’? Are we not foster-kin?”
To that Brixia could find no answer.
“You are not Jartar!” Marbon flung the spitted meat from him. Before she could get to her feet he was around the fire, moving with a cat’s grace, a cat’s leaping speed. His hands had closed on her shoulders, jerking her up to face him.
“Who are you?” He shook her with force, but now she resisted. Her own hands closed about his wrists and she exerted all the strength she could summon to break his hold. “Who are you!” he demanded the second time.
“I am myself—Brixia—” She kicked at his shin and gasped at the pain in her bruised foot. Then she gave a quick sidewise fling of the head and set her teeth in his wrist with the same wild fury Uta might have shown when resenting rough handling.
He yelled and hurled her from him so that she fell into the grass. But there was enough outrage and strength in her to roll frantically away, scramble to her feet. Her spear lay beside the fire, but she had her belt knife ready in her hand.
Only he had not followed her. Instead he swayed, and he held up his wrist, eyeing the marks her teeth had left. Now he looked at Dwed who was beside him.
“I—where is Jartar? He was here—and then-sorcery! There is sorcery—Where is Jartar—why did he wear the look of—of—”
“Lord, you have slept and dreamed! Come and eat—”
Brixia saw Dwed’s hold tighten on him. Perhaps the boy could soothe Marbon. In any case she had better stay well beyond the fire lest the sight of her again cause trouble. She eyed the meat hungrily.
Dwed succeeded in calming Marbon. He persuaded the man to reseat himself, got him to pulling the seared meat from the stick to eat. Indeed the awareness had ebbed out of Marbon’s eyes, his mouth became loose and slack—the forceful person he had been vanished.
Brixia watched the boy persuade his lord to settle once more to sleep. And when some time had passed without any movement in that recumbent figure the girl crept back to reach for the charred meat, gulping it down only half chewed. Dwed’s voice came cold:
“He will not accept you. Why do you not go your own way—”
“Be assured that I shall,” she snapped. “I tried to play your game, that good would come of it. If evil has chanced instead it is through no fault of mine.”
“Good or ill—we are better apart. Why did you follow—you are no liege of his.”
“I do not know why I followed,” she said frankly. “I only know that something I do not understand willed it.”
“Why did you speak of the three together when you came?” he persisted.
“Again I cannot answer. The words were not mine, I did not know what I said until I spoke so. There is sorcery in old places—” She shivered. “Who may say how that will influence the unwary?”
“Then be not unwary!” he snapped. “Be not here at all! We do not want you—and he may be beyond my control if he thinks you keep Jartar from him in some fashion.”
“Who is this Jartar—or was he—for I heard you name him dead—that he so moved your lord?”
Dwed shot a quick glance at the sleeping man as if he feared his lord might wake to hear, then he answered:
Jartar was my lord’s foster brother—they were closer than many who are blood-kin. I know not from what House he came—though he was a man who was used to authority of his own. How can I find words to say so another can understand if that other knew not Jartar? He was no master of any Dale, yet anyone meeting with him gave him the honor name of ‘lord’ upon their first speaking. I think there was something strange about his past. My lord, too—men said of him that he was of mixed blood—that he had ties with the Others. If that was so of him, then it might be doubly so of Jartar. He knew things—strange things!
“I saw him once—” Dwed swallowed and paused, “if you say this is not possible,” now he stared at her fiercely, “you give me the open lie for I saw it. Jartar spoke to the sky—and there came a wind which drove upon the enemy, forcing them into the river. Afterwards he was white and shaking, so weak my lord needs must hold him in his saddle.”
“It is said that those of Power when they use it to a great degree are so weakened,” Brixia commented. Nor did she doubt that Dwed had seen exactly what he reported. There were many stories of what the Old Ones could do when and if they wished.
“Yes. And he could heal—Lonan had a wound which would not close, but kept ever breaking open. Jartar went out by himself and came back with leaves which he crushed and laid upon the raw flesh. Then he sat with his hands upon the leaves, holding them there, and he stayed for a long time thus. The next day the slash began to close—there was no foul odor. It healed without even a scar. My lord could do so also—it was a gift which made him different from other men.”