Wizards’ Worlds (34 page)

Aroused to a frenzy by the danger of drowning, Tursla tried to get free of the hold
upon her, to strike at Simond and make him let go before she was pushed completely
under the water.

“—go! Let me go!” Her mind shrieked and water once more flooded into her mouth and
nose.

Out of nowhere came a blow. She felt a flash of pain as it landed. Then, nothing at
all.

Slowly she came back from that place of darkness. Water—she was drowning! Simond must
let her go.

But there was no water. She lay on a surface which was
steady, which did not swing as did the waves. And she could breathe. No water filled
her nose, covered her head. For a long moment it was enough to know that she was indeed
safe from being drawn under. But—

They must be back on the shore then. With her releasing of mind control the sand would
have gone. Perhaps Affric was—

Tursla opened her eyes. Above her the sky arched—clear except for a drifting cloud
or two. There was no hint of the Tormarsh mist about. She raised her head—though that
small action seemed very hard—she was weak, drained.

Sand, white, marked with the ripples of waves which curled in, drained away again.
And rocks. And the sea. But no Affric, no Torman standing over her. She was—Tursla
sat up, bracing herself by her hands.

Her wet robe was plastered thick with sand. She could even taste the grit between
her teeth. There was no one—no one at all. Yet a few moments of study showed her that
this was not that tongue of beach to which the Tormarsh reached.

She inched around to face inland. To her left now, a-goodly distance away, rising
into the air as if a hundred—no, a thousand fires burned (for it stretched along there
inland as far as she could see), the mists of the marsh arose like smoke, cloaking
well what might lie on the other side.

They had passed the barrier! This was the Outland.

Tursla wavered to her knees, striving to see more of this unknown world. The sand
of the beach stretched for a space. Then there was a sparse growth of tough grass;
beyond that, bushes. But there was no smell of the swamp.

Where was Simond?

Her loneliness, which had been good when she feared Affric and the others, now was
a source of uneasiness. Where had he gone—and why?

His desertion, for her, was frightening. Was it that she was of the Torfolk? Could
it be that the Outlanders’ hatred
for the marsh dwellers was so great, that, having saved her life, he felt he had paid
any debts between them and had wished no more of her company?

Bleakly Tursla settled on that fact. Perhaps in the Outlands Koris himself hated his
Torblood and his son had been raised to find it a matter of shame. Just as a Torman
might, in turn, look upon half-Outland blood as something to lessen him among his
fellows.

She was Tor—as much as Simond knew. And as Tor—

Tursla supported her head upon her hands and tried to think. It might well be that,
having made one of those decisions she had been told to consider seriously, she had
cut herself totally adrift from all people now. Xactol had warned her fairly. When
she left the country of the pool she would no longer have communication with that
one mind?—spirit?—entity?—who could understand what she was.

Mafra—for the first time Tursla wondered, with a little catch of breath, how had it
gone with the Clan Mother who had faced Unnanna and worked some magic of her own to
cover their escape; though what manner of Torfolk would dare to raise either hand
or voice against Mafra? The girl wished passionately at that moment that she could
reverse all that had happened to her, be once more in the clan house—as it had been
on the night before she had gone to keep her meeting with the sand sister.

To look back, Tursla shook her head, that was only a waste of effort. No man or woman
might ever turn again and decide upon some other path once their feet were firm set
on one of their choice. She had made her decision, now by that she must live—or perhaps
die.

Bleakly she looked landward. The sea was empty and she expected no help to arise out
of that. Now she was hungry. Already the sun was well down in the western sky. She
had not even a knife at her belt; and who knew what manner of danger might prowl the
Outland at the coming of true darkness?

But if she tried to go hence it must be on hands and
knees. When she attempted to rise to her feet she found herself so weak and giddy
that she tottered and fell. Hunger and thirst—both were an emptiness crying to be
filled.

Filled! At least now the clan would never discover her deception. If she had been
filled with something else as Mafra had averred, what
was
it?

She brought her knees up against her breast, put her arms about them, huddling in
upon herself, for the wind was growing colder and had a bite to it which the winds
of Tormarsh never held. Now she tried to think. What was good fortune for her now?
What was ill? The latter seemed a longer list. But the good—she had escaped Affric
and the rest—the anger of the Torfolk which would have been dire when they discovered
she would bring forth no child to swell their dwindling numbers. She had certain knowledge
which she as yet did not know how to use, that which Xactol had granted her.

But if the sand sister was forever barred from her, when and how could she ever learn?

And where might she go for shelter? Where was there food? Water? Would the hands of
all dwellers in this land be raised against her when they knew her for Tor?

She—

“Holla!”

Tursla’s head came up instantly.

There was a mounted man—riding through the inland brush! His head—bare head—Simond!
Somehow she wobbled to her feet, called out in return though her voice sounded very
thin and weak in answer to that shout of his:

“Simond!”

Now, it was as if something tight and hurting inside her had suddenly broken apart.
She wavered to her feet, staggered, one foot before the other. She was not alone!
He had not left her here!

The horse was coming at a trot. She could sight a second animal following; Simond
had it on lead. He came
in a shower of sand sent up by the pounding feet of his mount. Then he was out of
the saddle and to her, his arms around her.

Tursla could only repeat his name in a witless fashion, letting him take the weight
of her worn out and aching body.

“Simond! Simond!”

“It is well. All is well.” He held her steady, letting the very fact that he was there,
that she was not alone, seep into her mind and bring her peace.

“I had to go,” he told her. “We needed horses. There is a watch tower only a little
away. I came back as soon as I could.”

Now she gained a measure of control.

“Simond.” She made herself look directly into his eyes, sure that he would in no way
try to soothe her with any false promise. “Simond, I am of Tormarsh. I do not know
how you brought me past that spell your people used as a barrier to keep us from the
Outland. But I remain Tor. Will your people give me any welcome?”

His hands now cupped her face, and his eyes did not shift.

“Tor chose to stand our enemy, but in return we have never sought that enmity. Also,
I am partly Tor. And Koris has made Torblood a blessing not a curse in Estcarp, as
all men know. He held the Axe of Volt which would come only to him. And he intended
that Estcarp not be meat for those who were worse than any winter wolf! Tor holds
no stigma here.”

Then he laughed, and the lightness of his smile made his whole face different.

“This is an odd thing. You know my name, but I do not know yours. Will you trust me
with that much to show your belief in my good will?”

She found that her face, sticky with sea water and rough with sand, stretched an answering
smile.

“I am Tursla of—No, I am no longer of any clan house. Just what I am now—or whom—that
I must learn.”

“It will not be hard that learning. There will be those to help,” he promised her.

Tursla’s smile grew wider. “That I do not doubt,” she replied with conviction.

Toys of Tamisan

S
HE
is certified by the Foostmam, Lord Starrex. A true action dreamer to the tenth power.”

Jabis was being too eager, or almost so; he was pushing too much, Tamisan sneered
mentally, keeping her face carefully blank, though she took quick glances about from
beneath half-closed eyelids. This sale very much concerned her, since she was the
product being discussed, but she had nothing to say in the matter.

She supposed this was a typical sky tower, seeming to float, masked in clouds at times,
since its supports were so slender and well concealed, lifting it high above Ty-Kry.
However, none of the windows gave on real sky, but each framed a very different landscape,
illustrating what must be other planet scenes. Perhaps some were dream remembered
or inspired.

There was a living lambil grass carpet around the easirest on which the owner half
lay, half sat. But Jabis had not even been offered a pull-down wall seat. And the
two other men in attendance on Lord Starrex stood also. They were real men and not
androids, which placed the owner in the multi-credit class. One, Tamisan thought was
a bodyguard, and the other, younger, thinner, with a dissatisfied
mouth, had on clothing nearly equal to that of the man on the easirest but with a
shade of difference which meant a lesser place in the household.

Tamisan catalogued what she could see and filed it away for future reference. Most
dreamers did not observe much of the world about them. They were too enmeshed in their
own creations to care for reality. Most dreamers . . . Tamisan frowned. She
was
a dreamer. Jabis and the Foostmam could prove that. The lounger on the easirest could
prove it if he paid Jabis’ price. But she was also something more, Tamisan herself
was not quite sure what. And that there was a difference in her, she had had mother
wit enough to conceal since she had first been aware that the others in the Foostmam’s
Hive were not able to come cleanly out of their dreams into the here and now. Why,
some of them had to be fed, clothed, cared for as if they were not aware they had
any bodies!

“Action dreamer.” Lord Starrex shifted his shoulders against the padding which immediately
accommodated itself to his stirring to give him maximum comfort. “Action dreaming
is a little childish—”

Tamisan’s control held, but she felt inside her a small flare of anger. Childish was
it? She would like to show him just how childish a dream she could spin to enmesh
a client. But Jabis was not in the least moved by that derogatory remark from a possible
purchaser; it was in his eyes only a logical bargaining move.

“If you wish an E dreamer—” He shrugged. “But your demand to the Hive specified an
A.”

He was daring to be a little abrupt. Was he so sure of this lord as all that? He must
have some inside information which allowed him to be so confident. For Jabis could
cringe and belly-down in awe like the lowest beggar if he thought such a gesture needful
to gain a credit or two.

“Kas, this is your idea. What is she worth?” Starrex asked indifferently.

The younger of his companions moved forward a step
or two. He was the reason for her being here—Lord Kas, cousin to the owner of all
this magnificence; though certainly not, Tamisan had already deduced, with any authority
in the household. But the fact that Starrex lay in the easirest was not dictated by
indolence, but rather by what was hidden by the fas-silk lap-robe concealing half
his body. A man who might not walk straight again could find pleasure in the abilities
of an action dreamer.

“She has a ten-point rating,” Kas reminded the other.

The black brows which gave a stern set to Starrex’s features arose a trifle. “Is that
so?”

Jabis was quick to take advantage. “It is so, Lord Starrex. Of all this year’s swarm,
she rated the highest. It was—is—the reason why we make this offer to your lordship.”

“I do not pay for reports only,” returned Starrex.

Jabis was not to be ruffled. “A point ten, my lord, does not give demonstrations.
As you know, the Hive accrediting can not be forged. It is only because I have urgent
business in Brok and must leave for there that I am selling her at all. Though I have
had an offer from the Foostmam herself to retain this one for lease-outs—”

Tamisan, had she had anything to wager or someone with whom to wager it, would have
set the winning of this bout with her uncle. Uncle? To Tamisan’s thinking she had
no blood tie with this small insect of a man—with his wrinkled face, his never-still
eyes, his thin hands with their half-crooked fingers always reminding one of claws
outstretched to grab and grab and grab. Surely her mother must have been very unlike
Uncle Jabis, or else how could her father ever have seen aught worth bedding—not for
just one night but for half a year—in her?