“To think of defeat is to summon it.” Out of the dark Alon’s voice was that of a man’s, save for its higher pitch. “You would not have been called unless there was a chance.”
“What if,” she retorted between her teeth, “I was brought hither to satisfy some purpose of the Dark—a sacrifice? How can I swear that this is not so? There were forces in Karsten that always hated and feared my kind. In the past some of them linked with Kolder. Perhaps now they strike bargains with another power.”
Her depression was like a thick cloud. She had never so mistrusted the future. Before, the need for the quest had upborne her through much trouble, nor had she been visited by such feelings of despair and helplessness.
Fingers caught at her moving hands, wrapped about them tightly, holding with a fierce grip.
“Swordmaster”—Alon’s voice sounded as sharply us one summoning another to battle—“your sword! There is a shadow striving to engulf her.”
Tirtha struggled to free her hands from the boy’s hold. He—they must go, leave her now! There welled up inside her such a wave of darkness as she had never known. This was not the icy evil that had struck at her during that farseeing. Rather it appeared to be a part of herself, born out of her own fears and doubts, out of every disappointment, hardship, and past danger she had fought. It welled up, filled her, was sour in her mouth, invaded and routed coherent thought. She wanted nothing but to be free of it—of this other self—to find peace, peace forever and ever, all struggle gone.
She felt, through that dreadful fog, pain that was not this new and frightening pain of body and inner essence, but physical pain. Tirtha struggled to win free—to be herself.
“Hold her—the sword—take it…” A voice thin, far away, meaning nothing.
Let her be free—at peace! She could not think; she was filled with fear and despair that clawed within her, tearing down, crushing.
“Hold her! She is invaded!” Again that voice. The words were meaningless. There was nothing left for her. Dark—into the Dark—let her go into the Dark. There lay peace, rest, a refuge.
She saw nothing but threatening shadow arising from a depth in her she had not realized existed. Therein crawled all the harshness of her life, all the self-denials that she had made. Now she was alone with the worst that dwelt within her. To face it was breaking her so that only—only death… Death—if that would come at a call! Tirtha felt an ache in her throat as if she shouted aloud to summon the end. What she was now was as monstrous as anything that could come crawling out of Escore to run through these hills. She was the monster, the evil, she polluted the world—she…
Within that shadow she writhed in a torment worse than any torment of body, for torture of one’s body could end in death. For her there would be no death, no peace, no…
“Tirtha—Tirtha!” The voice was very, very far away—so thin that she could hardly hear it. Nor did she want to. There could be no one else in this evil world she had made for herself. She had fashioned this horror, unknowingly perhaps. Still it had grown out of her—let it not engulf anyone else.
She could not drive the murk from her mind, still she was dimly aware of other warmth.
“Tirtha!” A voice not so faint, possessing more depth, stronger, even more demanding than that other one. She strove to turn, twist, to outrace the voice.
But she was held. Her body lay against another’s, immobilized. For a second or two—the length of perhaps a heartbeat—that realization pierced through the emergence of the thing to which her inner spirit had given birth.
Tirtha strangled on a cry, begging for release, lest this other presence be tainted, befouled, lest he suffer because of her.
“No.” So emphatic was the denial that it broke through to her. “No, this is not of you, you are not so…”
She thought that she whimpered as her strength fast drained away. The shadow was winning; it was possessing the last remnants of her, devouring all she had believed once that she was or could be. That belief was built on rot within her.
“Tirtha!” Again that summons.
Then like a sun rising into the cloudless sky on a fair day of spring when the renewing of life could be believed in, the heart know a stir of joy and well-being, a spark of light rayed through the fog of evil about her. Larger, stronger grew that pinpoint. She was aware of another strength that pushed into the murk of her own failure.
Slowly, steadily it pushed. There came a sharp innermost thrust that pierced directly to the heart of what she now was. Death? If so, welcome.
Once more there whirled through her mind all that she had done, all that she had made of herself until this hour. However, the light followed, fought against sick self-contempt, her deep debasement of spirit. That portion of her confidence, which had been defeated, beaten into the ground, stirred. Slowly, oh, so slowly, a part of her answered the light, was nourished by it. Her thoughts no longer drew pictures of all that had gone wrong in the past—the least of those actions weighing against the good in her.
Again Tirtha strove to ask for help as she had done once before, only this was for help against her own being, a prayer that she be strengthened to face what she was and accept all her faults. The warmth which held her fed that need for comfort and strength of will, even as did the light.
She sighed, and the shadow no longer pressed in so tightly. Yes, this she had done and that, she had been harsh and cold and wrapped within herself, but she was no longer so utterly alone. There was a presence with her lifting her up and out, and out…
Tirtha saw the blur of a face close to hers, another beyond. She lay within a firm hold, while both her hands were imprisoned in another grasp, so tightly that her flesh was pinched and cramped. There was dark about the three of them. However, not that terrible inner darkness that had captured her without warning; this was the natural dark of the night. The Falconer held her, supported her, as he had when she emerged from the trance, while Alon knelt, her hands in his.
“I…” She tried to speak, to tell them. It was the Falconer who laid his sword-calloused hand across her lips.
In his claw, as it came about her shoulder, rammed well into the grasp of that cold metal, was the weapon of power. Light shone from it—lighter in color, not blue, but a golden-white—to illuminate all their faces. He had thrown off his helm, was unmasked, and as she looked up into his face, it was no longer impassive. Tirtha could not have said what the strange expression she saw there meant, save that he was more moved by some emotion than she had ever seen him. The flames in his eyes were steady while he watched her searchingly as if she were a land—a gate—that must be defended from all comers.
His bird, which she believed would never leave him, perched on Alon’s shoulder as the boy knelt before her. The avian eyes flamed with a fierce light, and the head turned at an angle to survey her with a predator’s steady, unblinking gaze.
Alon’s small face was nearly ashen in spite of the warmth of the color from the weapon’s glow. His lips were pinched between his teeth, and there was such strain in his face as she believed he might have shown had he once more confronted Gerik’s men.
“I…” She turned her head, slipped the Falconer’s hold from off her lips. “I was…”
“In the Dark.” The man answered her somberly. “This attack…”
Alon interrupted him. “You met that which only the Full Dark can summon.”
It was her turn to protest. “Not from without.” It was difficult to find the proper words. Her mind felt benumbed, beaten and sore, as might her body had she come through, survived only by inches, some battle. “It was inside—inside me.”
Alon shifted a little, settling back on his heels. “You even tried to use your sword—against yourself.” He had dropped his hold on her hands; now he motioned to what lay between them—that old, worn blade that was her talisman. “What possessed you would have made you self-slain.”