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Authors: Andre Norton

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Meive
M
y love does not know that two secrets remain to me. Nor shall he know one. Those who come after me need to be warned of that which is dark. Of the other I say this, that we shall be three and not two before next Summer lies on our land. I shall tell my lord the news tonight, watching his joy. The other secret bears upon this. For as is he, I, too, am of the line of Paltendale by the rape of my great-grandmother. And I have come to see that this is a thing upon which I should be silent.
Lorcan hated Hogeth, and also there is the tale of Pletten the Wicked. I think if I tell him of my blood he may see wickedness in those children who shall come after us. Every fourth generation, the story runs. I shall be silent on my bloodline, nor have I written of it in the pages I laid in the box of memories. Yet that part of my story and this page I shall leave to those who follow me. Let them know as my love shall not. Let them fear and beware as he need not. But let them also remember, from Lorcan's hive was the honey as sweet as my Lady of the Bees said. Thus is life. That there is always the good and the bad. One must take joy in the good and endure the bad, balancing
one against the other. In the end I have deemed myself fortunate.
—MEIVE OF HONEYCOOMBE, LADY TO LORCAN, DAUGHTER OF THE HIVE.
Silver may tarnish, gold may be taken,
Years may flow by like—wind on the grass.
Nought is eternal, nothing else lingers,
Only the land, the land does not pass.
Silver may tarnish, gold may be taken,
Blood wash away in—the wind and the rain.
When all else is gone this—still is a true word,
The land has not vanished, the land still remains.
Silver may tarnish, gold may be taken,
All life may vanish, and why none can say.
Memories die and—blood is forgotten,
Only the green land, your own land will stay.
Silver may tarnish, gold may be taken,
Life, love, and joy may—all pass one by;
Only worth keeping, only worth holding,
Is your own green land under blue sky.
Silver may tarnish, gold may be wasted,
Friends may betray you, clan-kin may lie.
What does it matter, so long as you hold yet
All of your keep lands under fair skies?
T
o Andre Norton first and foremost. Her books gave me great joy for most of my life, and to be let into two of her worlds to write in them in my later years was kindness beyond measure. She was a lady of wit and generosity, and I shall miss her phone calls, her letters, and the occasional time I could spend with her in person, for many years to come.
This book came about in part because of Andre. Several years ago I was possessed of a short story and I sat down to write. To my bewilderment, after a week I found I had written some 12,000 words. What could I do with that? There is little market for a story of that length, and I feared I could find no suitable market for a story of 12,000 words. Because it was set in the Witch World, I sent the story to Andre to ask her advice. She rang to say that I was wrong.
She told me the work was not a short story, but three chapters of a Witch World fantasy novel and that I should sit down at once and write the book. I looked again and saw that, yes, she was right. Out of her instruction came
Silver May Tarnish,
with the original story forming—in revised version—chapters four, five, and six. Andre read the finished book and loved it, and so was born a new chapter
in the Witch World, and a cluster of new dales. To Andre then,
ave atque vale.
To Jim Frenkel, who edited this book, and to the copy-editor, next time there'll be fewer mistakes, I swear. But I appreciate the time given and the care taken this time.
—L. McC.
The Crystal Gryphon
Dare to Go A-Hunting
Flight in Yiktor
Forerunner
Forerunner: The Second Venture
Here Abide Monsters
Moon Called
Moon Mirror
The Prince Commands
Raleatone Luck
Stand and Deliver
wheel of Stars
Wizards' Worlds
Wraiths of Time
Grandmasters' Choice (Editor)
The Jekyll Legacy
(with Robert Bloch)
Gryphon's Eyrie
(with A. C. Crispin)
Songsmith (with A. C. Crispin)
Caroline (with Enid Cashing)
Firehand (with P. M. Griffin)
Redline the Stars
(with P. M. Griffin)
Sneeze on Sunday
(with Grace Allen Hogarth)
House of Shadows
(with Phyllis Miller)
Empire of the Eagle
(with Susan Shwartz)
Imperial Lady
(with Susan Shwartz)
WITCH WORLD NOVELS
(with Lyn McConchie)
Duke's Ballad
Silver May Tarnish
CAROLUS REX
(with Rosemary Edghill)
The Shadow of Albion
Leopard in Exile
BEAST MASTER
(with Lyn McConchie)
Beast Master's Ark
Beast Master's Quest
Beast Master's Circus
THE GATES TO WITCH WORLD
(omnibus)
Including:
Witch World
Web of the Witch World
Year of the Unicorn
LOST LANDS OF WITCH WORLD
(omnibus)
Including:
Three Against the Witch World
Warlock of the Witch World
Sorceress of the Witch World
THE WITCH WORLD (Editor)
Four from the Witch World
Tales from the Witch World 1
Tales from the Witch World 2
Tales from the Witch World 3
WITCH WORLD: THE TURNING
L Storms of Victory
(with P. M. Griffin)
II. Flight of Vengeance
(with P. M. Griffin & Mary
Schaub)
III. On Wings of Magic
(with Patricia Mathews & Sasha
Miller)
MAGIC IN ITHKAR
(Editor, with Robert Adams)
Magic in Ithkar 1
Magic in Ithkar 2
Magic in Ithkar 3
Magic in Ithkar 4
THE SOLAR QUEEN
(with Sherwood Smith)
Derelict for Trade
A Mind for Trade
THE TIME TRADERS
(with Sherwood Smith)
Echoes in Time
Atlantis Endgame
THE OAK, YEW, ASH, AND ROWAN
CYCLE (with Sasha Miller)
To the King a Daughter
Knight or Knave
A Crown Disowned
THE HALFBLOOD CHRONICLES
(with Mercedes Lackey)
The Elvenbane
Elvenblood
Elvenborn
I moved to stand back from the door, inside my room, then drew sword and dagger. The door was flung open and a man burst through. I allowed him to pass me then struck him down just as his comrade entered. My blow had been true so that the thief died without cry. I think the one who followed believed the small sound of a blade cleaving flesh was made by his friend as he slew me.
He grunted approval, then spoke low-voiced. “Is he dead?”
I closed with him. My dagger went home even as my other hand choked back his cry. His dagger snapped on my mail. He thrashed after that as he died.
The third thief must have been bewildered by the dark. He blundered into me, seized my arm, and muttered angrily, “You make too much noise about it, you fool. You'll have the innkeeper up here.”
“A good thought,” I agreed. I lifted my dagger, striking him hard across the side of the head with the pommel before he understood my words. I caught him as he sagged, then lifted my voice in a bellow, “Ho, innkeeper, aid here? Aid to your guests beset by thieves.”
“Although the basic setting is familiar after more than 40 years' worth of Witch World stories, the book's quite convincing picture of a land without rulers or laws in the wake of disaster is more than a little timely.”
—Booklist
The song “Silver May Tarnish” is a folk song of considerable antiquity. Legend says it came with the dalesfolk when they entered High Hallack. This is not impossible, since the first form of the work appears to have been a sword song. That is, a song which was chanted rather than sung, and to an accompaniment formed by the tapping of blades together, customarily the blade of an eating dagger against that of a bowed sword blade. The rhythmic metallic tapping formed the “music.”
This type of song and accompaniment does date back many hundreds of years and may well predate the arrival of the dalesfolk to the land they now occupy. The possibility is strengthened by the fact that this form of the song extols the possession of land as something to be prized above all else. Some time later, after a gap of at least another two hundred years, the song altered, forming two variations. Both are quite different musically from the original, being in a format closer to the usual ballad. One variation is a love song, the other a lullaby.
The unusual thing is that each has retained the original name. This may be because in all forms of the work a number of the phrases, including the title, are used in common.
In order to differentiate between them, the person requesting the song tends to add a comment noting the preferred form. Alternately, the person singing uses a musical introduction that allows those listening to know which song is to be sung. The love song and lullaby have only three verses, and in each the first verse is repeated as a fourth verse. In the original song there are five verses and no exact repetition.
—LAUTRON OF ALSVALE, SONG-GATHERER TO LORMT. YEAR OF THE PARD.
ANDRE NORTON, named a Grand Master by the Science Fiction Writers of America and awarded a Life Achievement World Fantasy Award, was the author of more than one hundred novels of science fiction and fantasy adventure. Beloved by legions of readers the world over, she thrilled generations with such series as
The Beast Master, Time Traders, The Solar Queen, Witch World
, and others. Miss Norton died on March 17, 2005, and was laid to rest beside her mother in an Ohio cemetery; Andre Norton was 93. However, her spirit lives on in continuing reprints and foreign language editions of her works, and in the writing of her friends and collaborators. Visit her Web site at
www.andre-norton.org
.
LYN McCONCHIE is the coauthor, with Andre Norton, of the Witch World novel
The Duke's Ballad, as well as Beast Master's Ark and Beast Master's Circus,
and other novels. She also writes her own fiction. A native of New Zealand, she has twice been awarded the Sir Julius Vogel Award for Best Science Fiction or Fantasy Novel by a New Zealander, in 2002 for
Beast Master's Ark
and in 2004 for
Beast Master's Circus
. A third Beast Master novel,
Beast
Master's Quest
, will be published by Tor in 2006.
by Andre Norton and Jean Rabe
(0-765-31527-0)
Available Now in Hardcover
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T
he tip of my tongue registered an unpalatable acridity, the distinctive taste of death and the lingering scents of fear and desperation.
There'd been a raid while I was hunting!
Our village is filled with farmers, hunters, and weavers, not warriors. Peaceful people! My heart seized with fear. I dropped the reins, knowing Dazon would follow me, and I rushed through a gap in the brush.
Who attacked us? And why?
I saw no one.
The gate to the courtyard swung in the wind.
Near Willum t'Jelth's house I spotted a snorter stretched on a frame over a now-smoldering fire, more than half of its carcass hacked away. I heard the bellow again, and I slipped along the hedge to the north, drawing upon all the stealthy skills Bastien had taught me and trying to force down the dread threatening to overwhelm me.
“Willum? Gerald?”
No answer.
I raised my voice. “Maergo? Lady Ewaren? Lady Ewaren!”
Now I could see a section of the yard beyond the gate, the
Great House and its various attendant buildings essentially forming the walls of the courtyard. Inside, a large cow tramped across the soft loam of a newly seeded herb garden and continued to bellow loudly, two smaller ones trailing behind it. Another cow leaned against the side of the Great House. The sun caught on shards of metal protruding from its black hide, as numerous as the pins in Lady Ewaren's sewing pillow. Blood dripped from its wounds. I vowed to end its suffering—after I saw to the village.
I looked elsewhere, cupping my hands over my eyes, shutting out the light and focusing on my wyse-sense and on my tongue and what the wind was telling me.
Death.
The wind spoke of death and suffering and confusion.
I thought I saw a foot and a torn piece of material just under the shadow of a jutting second story.
Afoot …
“Willum! Maergo! Lady Ewaren!”
Loosening the web of my backpack, I sat it on the ground and placed my blowpipe and quiver of bolts next to it. I did not want to be encumbered when I faced the enemy, but I wanted to be prepared. I drew the longest of my knives and fought to keep my senses sharp. Fear and grief threatened to overwhelm me.
It was easy to suspicion all manner of horrid things, especially after seeing the throwstars in the cow's side and finding no one outside and no one to answer my call. I wanted more than suspicion to work with, and so struggling desperately to keep panic at bay, I again tasted the air, urging my tongue to find the scents.
Blood—blood is always strong enough to make itself known first. There was more blood than I had ever scented before. And I picked up a touch of sweat—of men and mounts—and the fire I smelled earlier, and ashes. Then I strained my senses to the limit, barely able to reach and identify emotions. I tasted terror, pain, and hate. And above
all of that, I tasted my own horror, choking and dreadfully nauseating.
“Willum.” My voice grew weak, a whisper. “Lady Ewaren.”
Still, nothing stirred in the village.
The foot I spied in the distance did not move, and somehow I knew it belonged to a corpse. How many dead? I knew I would have to search the entire village to learn what had happened. My stomach churned with the grisly possibilities, and my heart hammered with each step I took. I was feeling faint from the scents and the notion that I wouldn't find a soul alive, that everyone I knew and loved had been brutally butchered.
But slain by whom? Slain why?
And why had I gone hunting so early this morning? Had I lingered, I could have defended this place.
“Willum!”
The coughing sickness had taken Bastien this past winter. The village had no guards, the elders thinking Bastien's presence enough protection. But after his death, the elders still took no steps for defense, thinking our world oh so peaceful and safe, and thinking that I could be sufficient defense, given the skills Bastien had taught me. Too, there had been no rumors of invasion from the Twisted Lands, and Lady Ewaren seemed held in favor with the neighboring countries to the west—even though it was said she was descended from the long-outlawed House of Alchura.
I sheathed my knife and tugged a long, thin chain free from my belt. I preferred it as a weapon because of its reach. Then I started down a gentle slope, making use of the shadows from buildings to provide me some cover. Within heartbeats I stood in the gate road. Once more I tongue-tested, finding more blood, ashes, terror, and hate. Oddly, hate was the strongest here, almost overwhelming. Darting around the comer of the gate, I came into the courtyard.
The foot …
The rags that had been her spring-green gown lay torn on the ground between myself and where the body lay. Her ripped undergarments were saturated with blood. Something stronger than anger welled from deep within me, and a horror I'd never felt overcame me. I grabbed on to a post to support myself.
I edged closer.
The foot … it belonged to Lady Ewaren, our House Lady. My breath caught and I went down on my knees beside her body, fighting for air.
“My lady!” The first words I'd spoken since entering the village were filled with grief. “By the Green Ones, my lady!”
Lady Ewaren had taken me in after the death of my mother ten years past. Hers was the only home I truly remembered. Her face … now a broken ruin. Sobbing, I tugged down from her curve cap a length of lace veil. It didn't hide all the blood, but it softened the worst of it around her face. Then I noticed her other injuries. Each and every one of her fingers—which she had used to weave such beauty that nearby lords and ladies begged for her work—every one had been broken. Deliberately, cruelly, I knew, broken while she'd lived.
Once more I heard the bellow of the cow. Though the mournful sound was muted now by the intervening buildings, it was nonetheless demanding. In the intervals between the bellows, I heard an incessant buzzing from the bees in the hive housed on a balcony above me. I noticed the sound of flies, too. They were drawn to Lady Ewaren's body.
Lady Ewaren, I should pray for her.
I hesitantly touched her broken fingers and under my breath, in the thinnest of voices, I uttered old, old words.
“Nesalah dorma calla—
”
“Yaaaaaah!” The scream spun me around so quickly I nearly lost my balance. I saw a slip of a girl, just a heartbeat
before her knifepoint flashed down and sliced my tunic at the shoulder. I moved fast enough that the blade only drew a thin line of blood. Without pause, I lashed out with my chain, whipping it around her arm.
She cried in surprise and pain, and dropped the blade as I dragged her close. But she didn't give in. Her wide golden eyes flashed with madness, and her teeth snapped at my throat. It was as if I held a night fiend instead of the slight girl that Lady Ewaren had taken as an apprentice almost a year ago. Lady Ewaren had hoped I'd be like a sister to this girl, but that hadn't happened. I didn't want to hurt the girl if I could help it—and it would be so easy for me to end this fight with a single blow. I was that much stronger, and she was half my age … at most ten years old.
“Demon!” she spat. “Thrice-damned demon may you be!”
I dropped my chain and grabbed both her wrists, shaking her roughly in an effort to bring her to her senses. She kicked at me now, her heavy boot landing a solid blow against my shin. I cringed and dragged her so close against me she had no room to kick again, while at the same time I twisted her arms behind her in a hold Bastien had taught me early on. I crushed the air out of her, and she swayed and gasped. I truly hadn't intended to hurt her, but she'd given me no choice.
I bent my head to her ear, as I stood several inches taller. “Alysen, what happened here?”
She went limp, and I held her up now.
“They came for you, Eri,” she said after a moment.
“Who? Tell me, Alysen!”
She didn't answer this, saying instead, “They came for you because the Emperor's dead. And so is your father. You and your kin, the Empress has had you drummed!”
I loosed her then and she staggered back, stumbling toward one of the slender pillars that held up the outer edge of a narrow roof. Catching at the pillar with both hands to
support herself, she faced me. Alysen's smooth face was a scarlet mask of hatred.
“They came for you!” Her voice was stronger now, spittle flecking at her lips. “You they wanted! And all this death, Eri, is because you weren't here! Everyone died because of you!”
Me? All this because of me?
A wave of dizziness crashed against me.
“Everyone is dead, Eri!”

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