Lore of Witch World (Witch World Collection of Stories) (Witch World Series) (32 page)
Read Lore of Witch World (Witch World Collection of Stories) (Witch World Series) Online
Authors: Andre Norton
He was once more beside her. “Together we once fought here, my lady. So shall we fight again. I have not sought you out to lose you again in any battle which means all this one does. Heave if you will and must, but with my help also. Surely whatever power sent you here cannot deny you my aid, not now!”
Hertha could not raise breath to answer him. She labored At the stone, and it was moving more easily, rocking from side to side. If she was not fulfilling the task laid upon her,
she
would suffer. But she could not accomplish it all alone, of that she was sure.
The stone moved so slowly. Above was the darkening of clouds which were of no storm's signal but that of coming night. Night was when the Dark Ones arose to power, if they could not get the stone in place before the last of daylight reached them! Hertha's breath came in shallow gusts of panting. Before them to the left was the last of the open ways. Trystan changed position, coming about behind her so as to exert pressure from the other side.
It seemed to Hertha that the very ground denied them aid, that certain shadows crept out from the pillar bases to cover the rough portions and hide obstacles from them as they labored.
“On now, my lady, just a short way—” He, too, was panting. Then he bent even closer to the ground, going down on one knee as he set his shoulder firmly against the side of the rock.
“Stand away!” he ordered her.
She saw the strain of his body, his flushed face. For a long moment it would seem that the rock had caught past their moving. Then—
Slowly, and with a wavering from side to side (which Hertha watched with anguished anxiety, her bleeding hands pressed to her mouth) it went forward, came to a stop in the center of the way.
There was a sudden sweep of wind, sword-sharp with cold, whirling out her clothing, raising dust to blind her eves. Somewhere from within that gritty haze came hands, arms, a body which steadied her. Was it the wailing of the wind which carried that strange chorus of grunting cries? Or did she imagine it only?
She could barely keep her feet. A moment later be caught her up, carried her out of the whirlwind of noise and grit, back toward the bush which still sheltered Elfanor.
The wind died, she heard another sound, the vigorous crying of a baby. Trystan set her down and Hertha staggered to the cradle. It was not dark yet, the twilight was still holding off a little. She caught the basket up into her arms as she fell to her knees. Holding it tight against her with one arm, she clawed at the covering blanket. Elfanor was screaming steadily.
Hertha stared down. Her eyes were tearing, perhaps the grit of the wind storm had irritated them. She blinked and blinked furiously, fighting against that distortion of her sight. Then she could see clearly.
Her daughter's face was red with effort, her eyes screwed shut as she howled, flailing at the air with the fists she had managed to loose from her swaddling.
A red face, but—
Hertha's fear melted away. This was no changeling! She had won! The curse was gone. The eyes in the baby's face opened. They were dark, but there was no alien knowledge in them, just as that anger-reddened skin held no scaled patch of brown.
“Free! She is free!” Hertha crooned, rocking the baby, cradle and all, against her as she swayed back and forth. Firm hands clasped her shoulders. Dimly she realized that a new strength had come, that she was no longer alone.
“You freed her.” His voice was clear to her.
She turned her head to look at him, all her gratitude swelling up within her like an inner fire.
“With you only could I have done it.”
“Did you think I would not help?” He looked stern, harsh and hard, in the failing light. But that was not Trystan in truth, that she was sure of. For the first time in days, months, even years which she could remember, Hertha let her stiff independence seep away, allowed herself the precious safety of his hold.
“With you only,” she repeated softly. She knew from the light suddenly aglow in his eyes, the softening of his lips that he heard. “Many are Gunnora's gifts—many and good.”
“May her name be praised,” he said then, though Gunnora was the holder of women's Power and no man worshiped at her shrine. “She has given us both much in this hour. My lady, it grows dark, shall we go?”
Hertha looked at Elfanor. Whatever rage had possessed her at the sundering of the dark power was gone. The baby blinked sleepily.
“Yes,” Hertha cried. “Let us go—home!”
The delight in his face was such at her words that she believed she had nothing else to wish for.
