The Saga of the Renunciates (117 page)

Marisela stood up, as if gathering up the scattered threads of her discourse.

“It’s time to go, while the weather holds, and the only way to go is to get going. Are you ready to leave?”

Jaelle said quietly, “I told you, Magda. We were warned to be ready.”

Camilla thrust her hands into the pocket of her tunic, and demanded, “Go where?”

“To the place you have been seeking. Where else?”

“To the City of—”

“Hush,” Marisela said quickly, “don’t speak it aloud. No. I am serious. Word and thought have power.”

“Oh, in the name of the Goddess, or of all Zandru’s demons, Marisela, spare me your mystical rubbish!”

“Do you dare to tell me that? You know better, however you have tried to barricade it,
Elorie Hastur
.”

Camilla actually laid her hand on her knife.

“Damn you, my name is
Camilla n’ha Kyria
—”

Marisela stared her down.

“And still you say names have no power, Camilla?”

Camilla folded herself abruptly into a seat, her voice gone.

Magda began matter-of-factly to gather their possessions. The enforced stay of days in that room had made it a gypsy-camp clutter, though they had tried to keep what order they could. The old woman rose stiffly; Marisela stooped to assist her. Camilla strode toward her.

“Grandmother of many mysteries! Is a question permitted the ignorant?”

“How else shall they be instructed?” asked the old woman mildly.

“How did you know—” she stopped and swallowed and finally said, “all that?”

“To those who see beyond surfaces, little daughter—” her voice was infinitely gentle, “it is written in thine every scar, every line of thy face. In the energies which surround thy body it can read as clearly as a hunter of the wild chervine reads the spoor of his game. Fear not; thy friend—” she nodded at Marisela, “broke not thy confidence. This one swears it.”

“She couldn’t,” said Camilla brusquely. “She didn’t have it.” She stared quizzically at Marisela, and Magda could almost hear the words:
did she read me too, does she know everything about me
?

Then she asked, her voice abrupt and harsh, but speaking clearly in the mountain dialect the old woman spoke, “Thee makes it thy task to search out old names and buried pasts. May I then ask thine own, Mother?”

The toothless smile was serene.

“This one has no name. It was forgotten in another life. When thee has reason to know,
chiya
, thee will read it clear as I read thine. Avarra bless thy long road, little one. Few of thy sisters have had such trials. How shall the fruit grow unless the blossoms are pruned from the tree?”

She smiled benevolently, and closed her eyes as if falling into the sudden light sleep of senility. Marisela looked at Camilla almost in awe, but didn’t speak.

“How soon can we get out of here? It’s a fine day; let’s take advantage of it.”

In a surprisingly short time they were ready to leave. The sky was cloudless, but the wind blew across the heights as they approached the cliff. They went in two shifts, and Magda, edging unobtrusively back to wait for the second, watched with horror as the basket jerked and wobbled and bumped against the cliffs. The rope looked too small to hold it, though it was a mighty cable of twisted fibers almost three fingers thick. She turned away her eyes, knowing if she did not she would never have the courage to get into the contraption.

Jaelle, Cholayna and Camilla, with Marisela, had gone in the first load. As the basket came bumping back to where she stood with Vanessa and the old blind woman Rakhaila, Magda recoiled; coming up in the dark was one thing, but in broad daylight, she could not, she
could not
force herself to step into it.

Rakhaila felt her cringe, and guffawed.

“Haw! Haw! Ye rather climb down cliff, missy? I be old an’ blind, an’ I do so every livin’ day. Steps be right yonder.” She gave Magda a push toward the edge, and Magda cried out and fell to her knees, grabbing for safety; in another moment she might have stumbled over that terrifying edge.

Vanessa caught her arm. She whispered, “It’s perfectly strong, really. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Magda, they’ve evidently been going up and coming down here for centuries and it’s never failed them yet.” She steadied Magda’s arm as she managed, carefully turning her eyes away from the narrow dizzying gap between basket and ground far below, to step over the edge, and sink in, her eyes on the floor of the basket, strewn with bits of straw and grain.

Where do they get their food and grain up here? Does it all have to be hauled up in this one basket
? she asked herself, knowing that it was just a way to keep herself from being afraid. And then she was sourly amused at herself.

All my fine theories about not being afraid of death, and here I am almost wetting my breeches with fright because of a primitive elevator that’s probably just as safe as the ones in the Terran HQ!

Acrophobia, she reminded herself, was, by definition, not a
rational
fear. But surely it hadn’t been nearly as bad as this when she first crossed Scaravel with Jaelle seven, no, eight years ago. And she remembered positively enjoying her first trip to Nevarsin with Peter when they had both been in their twenties.

With unbelievable relief she felt the basket touch ground and scrambled out.

“You’re going with us, Marisela?”

“Of course, my dear. But I don’t know all the ins and outs of the trail; Rakhaila will guide us. The horses will have to stay here. We’ll take one pack animal and leave everything else for the return journey.”

Wondering vaguely how a blind woman could guide them on a confusing trail which even Marisela could not find, Magda volunteered to lead the pack chervine for the first stretch. Down here the wind was not the jet stream of the heights, but still blew so strongly that old Rakhaila’s matted hair blew out behind her magnificently as she set off in the teeth of the gale.

The snow was slushy under foot, and the wind cut hard; but Magda, wrapping her woolly scarf over her face, was grateful that it was not freezing. Vanessa, she noticed, was still limping a little. She followed Rakhaila close; behind her came Jaelle, then Camilla with Cholayna at her side; at least at the start, Cholayna set off fresh and strong and rested, and her breathing was good. Perhaps she had managed to acclimate to the altitude by now. They would not have let her go, she told herself, if there had been any sign of continuing pneumonia.

They set off along a trail which led across the knife-edge of a ridge, with a long drop to either side. Magda, leading the chervine behind Cholayna and Camilla, looked to the right, where the slope was gradual and gentle, and did not make her dizzy. The trail was just wide enough for one, but looked quite well-traveled; where the snow had melted Magda could see that it had been beaten down hard as if by generations of feet.

Behind Magda and the chervine was Marisela bringing up the rear. The fierce wind prevented much talk, and they went on at a smart pace.

An hour on the trail; part of another. The five days of rest had done Magda good; her heart no longer beat furiously with the altitude. Lower down she could see the tops of trees. A good place for banshees, she thought dispassionately, looking out over the icy wastes below her, on either side of the ridge, but even they would have starved to death centuries ago.

Rakhaila flung up her arm with a long shrill cry and they came to a halt.

“Rest ye here; eat if ye ha’ need.” Rakhaila herself, thought Magda, looked as if she had been battered into stoicism by all the winds of a hundred years; as they got out the camp stove and brewed tea she hunkered by the trail, immobile, looking like a random bunch of rags, and when Camilla offered her a mug of the brew she shook her head contemptuously.

Camilla muttered, “Now
there’s
an Amazon who makes us all look like puppies!” She gnawed on a half-frozen meat bar.

Cholayna had one of the cakes made from ground-up nuts and fruit stuck together with honey; she munched at the stuff with determination.

Magda heard her ask Camilla: “Do you really think they are dead?”

“Marisela isn’t given to exaggeration and I’ve never known her to lie. If she says they’re probably dead, she means it. Or else, as she said, they’re in the hands of Acquilara, or whoever else is hanging around.”

“And we’re still looking for this, whatever it is, this city of sorceresses? I think we ought to try and trace where the
others
have gone, try to find out where Acquilara could have taken them. If they’re being held for ransom, we can pay it. And if they want to fight, well, I’ll try that too.”

Rakhaila’s old filmed eyes turned to Cholayna. She said, “Ha’ ye a care what ye ask, sister; the goddess may gi’ it to ye.”

“I’ll take that chance, if you will guide me there,” said Cholayna quietly. “Marisela can take these others on to the City, or wherever they prefer to go.
Will
you guide me to whatever place Marisela believes our friends are being held?”

Rakhaila only gave a contemptuous, “Haw!” and turned away.

Jaelle and Camilla were sitting on their packs, eating meat bars. Magda heard them talking about Kyntha.

“She said, ‘Never name the evil you fear. ’ Does that mean such things as weather? Is it wrong to discuss the storm that’s coming?” Jaelle asked.

“Wrong? Of course not. Wise? Only if you can do something to avoid it. Certainly it is sensible to discuss precautions you can take. Apart from that, it only creates a self-fulfilling fear of something that can’t be helped. Don’t talk of how terrible the storm might be; think of what you can do to ride it out undamaged.”

“Then why did she tell us not to talk about Acquilara or even mention her name?”

Marisela smiled. Magda noticed it was the same cheerful, dimpled smile she used when she was instructing the young Renunciates in the Guild-house.

“I have spent too much of my life as a teacher,” she remarked, “I must be getting old; I am glad that there are wiser heads than mine to instruct you two. In brief, naming them could attract their attention; thoughts, as we know, have power.”

“But who
are
they, Marisela? I can just manage to believe in one benevolent Sisterhood demonstrating some interest in the affairs of women—”

“Of humankind, Camilla. Our sisters and our brothers as well.”

“But the idea that there is a rival organization dedicated to doing harm to humanity strains my belief!”

Marisela looked troubled. She said, “This is not the wisest place to discuss their doings. Let me say only that—Jaelle, you must have heard this among the Terrans as I heard it when I was in nurse’s training there—
for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction
.”

“So they are a reaction to the good sorceresses, and do evil?”

“Not that simple. I can only say that they care not enough to do evil to humankind; they want what they want, that is all. They want power.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Jaelle argued. “You are always telling the young girls, in training session, that women have a right to claim power—”

“Power over
themselves
, my dear! That kind of power is in accord with the Sisterhood. We have only one aim; that in the fullness of time, everyone who comes to this world shall become everything that he or she can be or do or accomplish. We do not fall into the error of thinking that if only people would do this or thus, the world would thereby be made perfect. Perfection is for individuals, one at a time, we do not determine the way they choose to live. Nevertheless, when the Sisterhood sees long-term trends and dangers, they nurture— how shall I put it—tendencies which will break these patterns and give people a chance to live another way.” She smiled gently at Camilla and said, “I do not know; perhaps it was a part of the pattern that you should not have grown up to be the powerful Keeper you were so obviously born to be.”

“Keeper? I?” Camilla snorted indignantly. “Even had I grown to womanhood in my father’s house—my
real
father, that is, and after this I should be a fool if I did not suspect who he was… ”

“Right. Can you imagine yourself in the sorceress Leonie’s position?”

“I would rather—” Camilla began, drew a long breath, and said on a note of surprise, as if she had just this moment thought of it, “I would rather have wandered the roads all my life as a bandit’s sword-mate!”

“Exactly,” said Marisela, “but had you been reared in the silks and privileges of the royal house of Hastur, I doubt you would have felt that way, but would willingly have followed Leonie into Arilinn. Ah, Camilla, Camilla love, don’t fall into the error of thinking this was your destiny, ordained in stone before you were born. But if some God or well-meaning saint had put forth his hand to save you from your fate, where would you be today?”

Of course, Magda thought. It was the totality of her life that had made Camilla what she was.

Camilla asked, “Did you know? Before this?”

“I knew of you, till this very day only what you chose to tell me, Camilla, and what once I read in your mind and heart when you were—broadcasting; believe me, I have never invaded your privacy. What you
were
is of no interest to me.”

Jaelle said aggressively, “I suppose now you will say that the Sisterhood chose to save my life and Magda’s for some reason—”

“I am not privy to all their reasons! Shaya, child, I am only one who serves them, one of many messengers. I am free to guess, no more. Perhaps they felt some long-term purpose would be served that the daughter of Aillard should bear a child lest her
laran
be lost to the world forever. Perhaps they wished some psychic gift of the Terrans to be strengthened in the Forbidden Tower and thus brought Magda there after she had decided she wished for a child, so her little Shaya would be reared among those who would foster her
laran
. Perhaps some one of them succumbed, as I do even when I know it might be better not, to the simple wish to save a life. Who can tell? They too are only human, and make mistakes, though they can see further than we do. But no one is perfect. Perfectable, maybe, in the fullness of time. Not perfect.”

“Yet after they went to all the trouble of saving Lexie’s life they let her fall into the hands of—Acquilara? I’m sorry, Marisela, I just can’t believe that.”

“I never asked you to believe anything,” said Marisela, suddenly indifferent, and rose to her feet. “Except that just now, I believe Rakhaila wants us to move on, and my legs are cramped from sitting down. Can I help you pack the kettle?”

As they went on Magda had plenty to think about. If what they said about
laran
in those of Terran blood was true, she thought, I am surprised that I was not somehow pushed into having Andrew’s child; heaven knows, he has about the strongest
laran
of any Terran I have ever known. But evidently they allow total free will. They left me to destiny. And I have heard that the Syrtis are an old Hastur sect; so Shaya is kinswoman to Camilla by blood as well as to Jaelle by the laws of a freemate’s oath.

That was reassuring.
If anything happens to me, Shaya will have kinfolk who will care for her. She and Cleindori are sisters indeed
.

Jaelle said, “I’ll take the chervine now for a bit,
breda
,” and Magda relinquished the rein, moving forward to walk at Marisela’s side. The path was leading upward now, edging alongside a mountain trail with long switchbacks, hugging a stone cliff from which, sometimes, loose rocks bounced downward; but the trail at this point was covered with an overhang and Rakhaila strode confidently along it as if she could see every step of her way.

“Want to walk on the inside?” Marisela asked. “As I remember, heights bother you.”

“A little,” Magda said, and accepted, and they strode along side by side for a time, without talking. At last Magda asked:

“Marisela, these—I won’t name them; you know who I mean—” the picture of Acquilara was in her mind, in the curious bluish glow of her nightmare, “May I ask just one thing? Why would anyone—want to go that way? Are they the ones who, maybe, tried to—to look for the
real
Sisterhood and failed? And this was easier?”

“Oh, no, my dear. It takes much,
much
more strength and power to do evil than to do good, you see.”

“Why is that? I heard that evil was just being weak, taking the path of least resistance—”

“Goodness, no. That’s just being weak, fearful, selfish… in a word, human, imperfect. If being weak were a crime we’d all stand before the judges. That’s excusable. Terrible sometimes, but certainly excusable. The thing is, people who are good, or are
trying
to do good the best way they can, they’re working with nature, see? To work up the power to do positive evil, you have to go
against
nature, and that’s much,
much
harder. There are resistances, and you have to work up momentum against the whole flow of nature.”