demanded—she even thought she could see faint trailings in the air. The furred one played so with some force. The girl felt strangely light of head—she was being caught in a web.
Then—Malkin brought her outstretched foreclaws together, stabbing down into the center of one of the symbols on the cloak—that of the spiral. She sat silent now, brooding, her talons pricking into the material, her eyes near closed. She might be looking inward, not outward.
Thora had no wish to move, nor speak. Although questions gathered in her mind. However, stronger than any desire for answers was a feeling of expectation growing in her. What would come of Malkin’s ritual Thora could not guess. Her fingers brought out the moon jewel, which glowed even though this was only the beginning of twilight.
The girl held the gem tight cupped between palm and palm. Forces were awaking, beginning to seek—No, she did not know what would happen. The gem was still cool yet its light strengthened. Power was gathering.
Again Malkin’s fingers moved. From the heart of the spiral she traced its line around and out. Once more she sang. The hair on her head arose from the tight sleek the rain had given it. Each strand quivered, twisted. Thora could feel a tingling along her own skin. Fear, yes—that tugged at her but that was only part of it. She was on the edge of something which perhaps only the Three-In-One among her own people knew.
Round and round went those fingertips, outwards—an untying—a loosening. There was a drift of hazy smoke following that touch. When Malkin raised her hands a cone of vapor poured upward from the symbol. Pale against the dark cloak, against Malkin’s own fur, it was plain to see.
That cone began to swirl though Malkin no longer guided it. Her hands once more fell limp between her knees, her shoulders drooped as if she tired.
The spinning cone no longer kept its shape. Rather now it showed as a staff. Then it assumed vaguely humanoid form. At last there stood before the furred one a manikin, roughly formed, with but a ball for the head, the body closer to a collection of sticks. Still in the ball head opened pits and a slash—eyes and mouth.
Those eyes fastened on Malkin, the mouth writhed open. From it issued a twittering sound as high pitched as the squeak of amouse. Then with a speed which sparked Thora’s fear the stick legs pivoted and the creature whirled to face her.
She could not look away. The dark hole eyes caught and held her gaze with such strength that she clutched her moon gem the tighter. Deep in those pits was a projection of power—not Malkin’s, the girl was certain. The furred one might have summoned this thing but she was not mistress of it.
The mouth opened and the squeak became speech:
“To the north—there is need—”
Thora marveled at the authority, the command in that whisper of a voice. This thing was only a projection—but the will behind it pierced through her own cherished independence to fasten upon her.
Then the manikin writhed, twisted. Thora shivered from a thrust of pain in her own body. One of Malkin’s clawed hands swept out, two of the talons came together with a snap just above the head of the manikin who now wavered back and forth as if it were gripped by hands trying to wring out its life. Not from within this circle of safety did that attack come—no, the source lay outside—between what they saw and what had sent it forth.
Malkin’s cutting brought an end. The manikin winked out of existence, while the furred one gave a cry and sank forward, face down on the cloak, one hand falling to rest above thespiral and the other on the Moon Sign of the Lady. Thora thrust her gem again into hiding and went to her.
The furred one’s body was limp, her eyes closed. However even as Thora strove to straighten her in support, those eyes opened with a fierce blaze. Kort was on his feet, growling deep. Above them oak branches stirred, tossing as if assaulted by the
Then—Malkin brought her outstretched foreclaws together, stabbing down into the center of one of the symbols on the cloak—that of the spiral. She sat silent now, brooding, her talons pricking into the material, her eyes near closed. She might be looking inward, not outward.
Thora had no wish to move, nor speak. Although questions gathered in her mind. However, stronger than any desire for answers was a feeling of expectation growing in her. What would come of Malkin’s ritual Thora could not guess. Her fingers brought out the moon jewel, which glowed even though this was only the beginning of twilight.
The girl held the gem tight cupped between palm and palm. Forces were awaking, beginning to seek—No, she did not know what would happen. The gem was still cool yet its light strengthened. Power was gathering.
Again Malkin’s fingers moved. From the heart of the spiral she traced its line around and out. Once more she sang. The hair on her head arose from the tight sleek the rain had given it. Each strand quivered, twisted. Thora could feel a tingling along her own skin. Fear, yes—that tugged at her but that was only part of it. She was on the edge of something which perhaps only the Three-In-One among her own people knew.
Round and round went those fingertips, outwards—an untying—a loosening. There was a drift of hazy smoke following that touch. When Malkin raised her hands a cone of vapor poured upward from the symbol. Pale against the dark cloak, against Malkin’s own fur, it was plain to see.
That cone began to swirl though Malkin no longer guided it. Her hands once more fell limp between her knees, her shoulders drooped as if she tired.
The spinning cone no longer kept its shape. Rather now it showed as a staff. Then it assumed vaguely humanoid form. At last there stood before the furred one a manikin, roughly formed, with but a ball for the head, the body closer to a collection of sticks. Still in the ball head opened pits and a slash—eyes and mouth.
Those eyes fastened on Malkin, the mouth writhed open. From it issued a twittering sound as high pitched as the squeak of amouse. Then with a speed which sparked Thora’s fear the stick legs pivoted and the creature whirled to face her.
She could not look away. The dark hole eyes caught and held her gaze with such strength that she clutched her moon gem the tighter. Deep in those pits was a projection of power—not Malkin’s, the girl was certain. The furred one might have summoned this thing but she was not mistress of it.
The mouth opened and the squeak became speech:
“To the north—there is need—”
Thora marveled at the authority, the command in that whisper of a voice. This thing was only a projection—but the will behind it pierced through her own cherished independence to fasten upon her.
Then the manikin writhed, twisted. Thora shivered from a thrust of pain in her own body. One of Malkin’s clawed hands swept out, two of the talons came together with a snap just above the head of the manikin who now wavered back and forth as if it were gripped by hands trying to wring out its life. Not from within this circle of safety did that attack come—no, the source lay outside—between what they saw and what had sent it forth.
Malkin’s cutting brought an end. The manikin winked out of existence, while the furred one gave a cry and sank forward, face down on the cloak, one hand falling to rest above thespiral and the other on the Moon Sign of the Lady. Thora thrust her gem again into hiding and went to her.
The furred one’s body was limp, her eyes closed. However even as Thora strove to straighten her in support, those eyes opened with a fierce blaze. Kort was on his feet, growling deep. Above them oak branches stirred, tossing as if assaulted by the
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