"Xuth, Lord Commander. I can set down, I think, along this line."
In spite of her resolution Ziantha closed her eyes as the nose of the flyer tilted downward and the machine began a descent. It seemed so vulnerable, so dangerous, compared to the flitters that she could only hope the pilot knew what he was doing and they were not about to crash against some unyielding stretch of rock.
The machine touched ground, bounced, touched again with a jar that nearly shook Ziantha from her seat. She heard a gasp from Turan and looked to him. The gray cast on his face was more pronounced; his mouth was open as if he were gasping for breath. Although the flyer ran forward, the pilot's tension suggested he was fearing some further peril.
They stopped and the pilot exhaled so loudly she could hear him. "Fortune has favored us, Lord Commander."
Ziantha looked out. Ahead was only emptiness, as if they were close to the edge of some cliff, a deduction which proved true as they climbed out into a brisk, whipping breeze and the full sun of midmorning.
Beyond, Ziantha could hear the wash of sea surf, though there was more distance between the shore and the flyer than she had earlier believed. The pilot had landed on what was an amazingly level stretch of rock running like an avenue between tall monoliths and crags of rock.
There was no vegetation to be seen, and those standing stones were of an unrelieved black, though the surface on which they stood was of a red-veined gray rock. A sudden sobbing wail brought an answering cry from her, as she whirled about to face the direction from which that had come.
"Wind—in the rocks," Turan's voice, strained but no longer only a gasp.
But she wondered. Her sensitive's reaction to this place was sharp. As the armsman had hinted—there was evil here. She would not want to touch any of those strange black rocks, read what they held imprisoned in them. For there was such a sense of the past here—an alien past—as one might gather from the walls of a tomb, entirely inimical to all her life force. Those were not just rocks, standing upright because wind and erosion had whittled them so. No, they were alien, had been placed there for a purpose. Ruins—a long vanished city—a temple—Ziantha did not want to know which.
There were birds with brilliant yellow wings flashing in the sunlight out over the sea. But none approached the cliff edge, nor were there any droppings from roosts among the near stones, as if living things shunned Xuth. Ziantha probed Vintra's memory and received a troubled response. Xuth—yes, it had been known to the rebel. But only as a legend, a haunted place wherein some defeat of the past had overturned all rule and order and from which had sprung many of the ills of this world, ills which had festered until this latter-day rebellion had burst in turn.
Now she tested not Vintra's memory but her own talent. So much could influence that. Not only the weather, emotions, the very geography of the site, but also subtle emanations of her surroundings. Would that very ancient evil, which was like a faint, sickening odor in the nostrils, work to combat what she must do?
Keeping well away from any contact with the rocks, Ziantha went on toward the sound of the sea, coming out on a ledge that projected like the beginning of a long-lost bridge over the surf which constantly assaulted the wall below. There was no sign of any beach; the meeting of cliff and water displayed wicked teeth of smaller rocks, around which the sea washed with intimidating force.
But here, on this prong, she was free of the darkness the black monoliths radiated. If there was any place from which she could search the sea it was here where the spray rose high enough in the air to be borne inland, leaving a spattering of moisture along the ledge.
Having won freedom from that other influence, Ziantha felt she dared not return to it. Here and now she must make her attempt to find their guide.
"Here," she mind-sent. "There is too much residue of some old ill among the stones. I can only do this thing free of them."
"I am coming—"
She turned to watch him moving slowly, with such care as if he must plan and then enforce each movement of his body, none of which were instinctive now. He had waved back the pilot who remained by the flyer. And when he reached her his head was up, his eyes steady and clear.
"You are ready?"
"As much as I shall ever be." Now that the final moment before carrying out her decision had come she wanted to flee it. She had used the focus-stone to its full power before, and it had brought her here. When she used it again—where would it take her? And would the change be as entire, as binding, as it now was? She had the gem in her hand, but before she looked into it, surrendered to the talent, Ziantha made a last appeal.
"Anchor me. Do not let me be lost. For if I am—"
"We both are." He nodded. "I shall give you all I have to give, be sure of that."
"Then—" she cupped the stone between her hands, raised it to her forehead—
The sea, the pound of the sea—wild, raging—the devouring sea! Around her the tower room trembled, the air was filled with the thunder of the waters. The anger of the sea against Nornoch. Would these walls stand through this storm? And if they did—what of the next and the next—?
Ziantha—no, who was Ziantha? A name—a faint flash of memory to which she tried to cling even as it vanished, as a dream vanishes upon waking. D'Eyree!
"D'Eyree!" her voice rang above the clamor of the storm, as if she summoned herself from sleep to face what must come.
She raised her hands uncertainly before her. Surely she should have been holding something—on the floor—look! The urgency, the fear of loss gripped her, sent her to her knees, her hands groping across the thick carpet.
Her every movement brought a clash, a jangling from the strings of polished shells which formed her skirt, just as they fashioned the tight, scant bodice which barely covered her flat breasts. Her skin—green, pale green, or gold—or blue—no, that color came from the scales which covered her, like small dim jewels laid edge to edge.
She was D'Eyree of the Eyes. The Eyes!
No longer did she run her hands across the floor in vain search. She had had such a foolish thought. Where would the Eyes be but where they had always rested since the Choosing made her what she was? She raised her fingers now to touch that band about her forehead with the two gems she could not see, only feel, one above each temple, just as they should be. How could she have thought them lost?
She was D'Eyree and—
She was—Ziantha! A flooding of memory, like a fire to cleanse the mist in her mind. Her head snapped up and she looked around at strangeness.
The walls of the oval room were opaline, with many soft colors playing across them, and they were very smooth as might be a shell's interior. The carpet on the floor was rusty red, soft and springy with a strange life of its own.
There were two windows, long and narrow slits. She went hastily to the nearest. She was Ziantha—no, D'Eyree! The Eyes—they fought to make her D'Eyree. She willed her hands to pull at the band that bound them to her head. Her fingers combed coarse hair like thick seaweed but could not move that band.
Ziantha must hold to Ziantha—learn where Nornoch might be.
She looked out, ducking as spray from the storm-driven waves fell salty on her face. But she glimpsed the other towers; this portion of Nornoch was guardian to the land behind, where she was warden.
Only, the sea was winning; after all these centuries it was winning. Her people held this outpost, and when the Three Walls were breached, when the sea came again—they would be swept away, back and down, to become, if any survived, what they had once been; mindless living things of the under-ooze. But that—that would not be! Not while the Eyes had a voice, a mind! Six eyes and their wearers—one for each wall still.
She leaned against the slit, a hand to each side of it, fighting for calm. Bringing all the power which was D'Eyree's by both inheritance and training to subdue this stranger in her mind, she put her—it—away and concentrated on that which was her mission, to will the walls to hold, to be one with t
he defense.
Think of her wall, of how the creatures, the Lurla, had built it and the two others from secretions of their own bodies over the centuries, of how those creatures had been fed and tended, bred and cherished by the people of Nornoch to create defenses against the sea. Will the Lurla to work, now—will!—will! She was no longer even D'Eyree; she was a will, a call to action so that creatures stirred sluggishly began to respond. Ah, so slowly! Yet they could not be prodded to any greater efforts or speed.
Secrete, build, strengthen—that Nornoch not yield! Move, so that the waves do not eat us into nothingness again. The Eyes—let the power that is in the Eyes goad the Lurla to awake and work.
But so few! Was that because, as D'Fani said, her people had dared turn away from the old ways—the sacrifices? Will—she must not let her thoughts, her concentration stray from what was to be done. Lurla—she could see them in her mind—their sluglike bodies as they crawled back and forth across the wall which was her own responsibility, leaving behind them ever those trails of froth that hardened on contact with the air and steadily became another layer within the buttress foundations of the Three Walls, the towers. Stir, Lurla! Awake, move—do this for the life of Nornoch!
But they were more sluggish than they had ever been. Two dropped from the walls, lay inert. What was—? D'Eyree raised her hands from the walls, pressed her palms to the Eyes, feeling their chill.
Awake, Lurla! This is no time to sleep. The storm is high; do you not feel the tower shake? Awake, crawl, build!
Lurla—it was as if she raised her voice to shriek that aloud.
The sea's pound was in her ears, but fainter, its fury lessened. Then D'Fani was wrong; this was not one of the great storms after all. She need not have feared—
"Ziantha!"
There was no window through which she looked. She was in the open with a bird's screams sounding above the surf. And before her, hands on her shoulders (as if those hands had dragged her out of the time and place that had been), Turan.
She wrested herself from his grip to wheel about on the rock, face out over the waves, straining as if she could from this point catch a glimpse of Nornoch, learn whether its towers, the Three Walls, were still danger-wrapped, if the Lurla had been kept to their task.
No, that was all finished long ago. How long? Her talent could not answer that. Perhaps as many years stood now between D'Eyree and Vintra as between Vintra and Ziantha. And that number her mind reeled from calculating.
Only now she knew where Nornoch lay, if any of Nornoch still survived. That much they had gained. She pointed with an outflung hand.
"Over sea—or under it—but there!" She spoke aloud, for the burden of weariness which followed upon a trance lay on her. And she allowed Turan to take her hand, draw her back to the flyer.
As if their coming was a signal, the armsman came out of the cabin. Beneath his close-fitting helmet hood his face was anxious.
"Lord Commander, I have had it on the wave-speak. They are using S-Code—"
Vintra's memory identified that for her and, lest Turan's memory no longer served him, Ziantha supplies what she knew by mind-touch. "A military code of top security."
"The rebels—" Turan began.
But the armsman shook his head. "Lord Commander, I was com officer for my unit. They hunt you and—they have orders to shoot you down!"
There was a look of misery on his young face, as if the first shock had worn off so he could believe, even if he did not understand.
"Zuha must be desperate," Ziantha commented.
"It does not matter. Only time matters," Turan returned. "Battle comrade, here we must part company. You have served me better than you will ever know. However I cannot take you with us farther—"
"Lord Commander, wherever you go, then I shall fly you!" His determination was plain.
"Not to Nornoch—" what made Ziantha say that she did not know.
His head jerked around. "What—what do you know of Nornoch?"
"That it holds what we seek," she answered.
"Lord Commander, do not let her! Nornoch—that is a story—a tale of the sea that sailors have used to frighten their children since the beginning. There is no Nornoch, no fish-people, except in evil dreams!"
"Then in dreams we must seek it."
The armsman moved between them and the cabin of the flyer. "Lord Commander, this—this rebel has indeed bewitched you. Do not let her lead you to your death!"
Tired as she was Ziantha did what must be done, centering her power, thrusting it at him as she might have thrust with a primitive spear or sword. His hands went to his head; he gave a moaning cry and stumbled back, away, until he wilted to the ground well beyond the wing shadow of the flyer.
"Ill done," she said, "but there was naught else—"
"I know," Turan said, his voice as flat, sounding as tired as she felt. "We must go before he revives. Where we go we cannot take him. You are sure of the course?"
"I am sure," she answered steadily as they climbed into the cabin.
11
Ziantha wanted to close her eyes as Turan brought the flyer's engines to life and headed toward the sea. Would the craft lift into the sky, or would they lose altitude and be licked down by the hungry waves below? That he had learned all he could from the pilot, she knew, but his first flight alone might be his last. They were out—over the water—and for a heart-shaking moment, Ziantha thought they had failed. Then the nose of the flyer came up. There was a terrible look of strain on Turan's gaunt face, as if by will alone he lifted them into the sky.
She held the focus-stone cupped in her hands, ever aware of the thread of force which pulled. But where lay the other Eye now? Beneath the ocean where they could not find it?
She concentrated on that guide, being careful, however, not to let the stone draw her into a trance. And to keep that delicate balance of communication between the focus and the retention of her own identity was exhausting. Also her strength of body was beginning to fail. She was aware of hunger, of thirst, of the need for sleep, and she willed these away from her, employing techniques Ogan had long drilled into her to use her body as a tool and not allow its demands to rise paramount.
How far? That was of the greatest importance. The flyer might not be fueled for a long trip. And if they could not land when they reached their goal—what then?
Ziantha kept her mind closed, asked no questions of Turan, knowing that his failing strength was now centered on getting them to their goal. And her part was that of guide.
Time was no longer measured. But the girl became aware that that thread which had been so slight on their setting forth from land was growing stronger, easier to sense. And with that realization her confidence arose. The stone was growing warmer, and she glanced at it quickly. Its brilliance had increased and it gave off flashes of light, as if it were a communication device.
"The stone," she spoke aloud, not using mind-touch lest she disturb his concentration, "it is coming to life!"
"Then we must be near—" His voice was very low, hardly above a whisper.
But if the sea covered—
Ziantha moved closer to the vision port, tried to see ahead. The sun's reflection from the waves was strong but— A dark shadow, rising from the sea!
"Turan, an island!"
The flyer circled it. What Ziantha could see was forbidding; jagged spires of rock, no vegetation. Where could they land? Had this been a flitter of their own time and world they would need only a reasonably open space to set down. But she had seen the take-off of these ancient machines and knew they required much more.
As Turan circled he spoke:
"It is larger than I expected. Either the report was wrong, or more of it has arisen since the first upheaval."
"Look!" Ziantha cried. "To the south—there!"
A stretch of great blocks of masonry locked together, stretching from the cliffs of the inner portion of the island out into the waves. Those dashed against it, leaving it wet w
ith spray. It might have been a pier fashioned to accommodate a whole fleet of vessels.
"Can you land on that?"
"There is one way of proving it." And it would seem Turan was desperate enough to try.
This time Ziantha did shut her eyes as he banked and turned to make the run along that strange sea-wet roadway, if road it was. She felt the jarring impact of their first touch, the bumps and bounces as they hurtled along a surface that was plainly not as smooth as it had appeared from the air. Then the vibration of the motor died. They came to a stop without crashing against a rock or diving headlong into the waiting waves.
When she dared to look she saw the vision port wet with spray. The flyer rocked slightly under the pound of water, diffused though that was by the time it reached them. They were safely down.
"Turan!" She glanced around. He had slumped in his seat. She caught his shoulder, shook him. "Turan!"
He turned his head with painful slowness. There was the starkness of death in his eyes.
"I cannot hold—much longer— Listen, open your mind!"
Stiff with fear, she dropped the focus-stone into her lap so that no emanation of that could befog reception for her and leaned forward, set her hands on either side of his head, held it, as if he were some artifact she must read for her life's sake.
Information flooded into her mind—all that he had picked up from the armsman, how to fly them away when what she had come to do was finished, and what she must do afterward if she were successful here.
She accepted this. Then she protested:
"Hold fast! You must hold fast. For if you cannot—then—"
To be entrapped here forever! In a way that was worse than death. Or would death free him when it took back the body it had never fully released to life? Ziantha did not know. All she was sure of was that she could not allow him to die here. That she must, if she could, not only find the key for her return, but also for his.