The Andre Norton Megapack - 15 Classic Novels and Short Stories

This jeweled chamber was no place for him. He had started toward the door when Thrala stepped within.
    “Greetings to the Daughter.” His voice sounded formal and cold, even to himself.
    Her hands, which had been outheld in welcome, dropped to her sides. A ghost of a frown dimmed her beauty.
    “Greetings, Garin,” she returned slowly.
    “You sent for me—” he prompted, eager to escape from this jewel box and the unattainable treasure it held.
    “Yes,” the coldness of her tone was an order of exile. “I would knew how you fared and whether your wounds yet troubled you.”
    He looked down at his own smooth flesh, cleanly healed by the wisdom of the Folk. “I am myself again and eager to be at such work as Dandtan can find for me.…”
    Her robe seemed to hiss across the floor as she turned upon him. “Then go!” she ordered. “Go quickly!”
    And blindly he obeyed. She had spoken as if to a servant, one whom she could summon and dismiss by whim. Even if Dandtan held her love, she might have extended him her friendship. But he knew within him that friendship would be a poor crumb beside the feast his pulses pounded for.
    There was a pattering of feet behind him. So, she would call him back! His pride sent him on. But it was Sera. Her head thrust forward until she truly resembled a reptile.
    “Fool! Morgel!” she spat. “Even the Black Ones did not treat her so. Get you out of the Place of Women lest they divide your skin among them!”
    Garin broke free, not heeding her torrent of reproach. Then he seized upon one of the Folk as a guide and sought the laboratories. Far beneath the surface of Tav, where the light-motes shown ghostly in the gloom, they came into a place of ceaseless activity, where there were tables crowded with instruments, coils of glass and metal tubing, and other equipment and supplies. These were the focusing point for ceaseless streams of the Folk. On a platform at the far end, Garin saw the tall son of the Ancient Ones working on a framework of metal and shining crystal.
    He glanced up as Garin joined him. “You are late,” he accused. “But your excuse is a good one. Now get you to work. Hold this here—and here—while I fasten these clamps.”
    So Garin became extra hands and feet for Dandtan, and they worked feverishly to build against the lifting of the Mists. There was no day or night in the laboratories. They worked steadily without rest, and without feeling fatigue.
    Twice they went to the Chamber of Renewing, but except for these trips to the upper ways they were not out of the laboratories through all those days. Of Thrala there was no sign, nor did any one speak of her.
    The Cavern dwellers were depending upon two defenses: an evil green liquid, to be thrown in frail glass globes, and a screen charged with energy. Shortly before the lifting of the Mists, these arms were transported to the entrance and installed there. Dandtan and Garin made a last inspection.
    “Kepta makes the mistake of under-rating his enemies,” Dandtan reflected, feeling the edge of the screen caressingly. “When I was captured, on the day my people died, I was sent to the Black Ones laboratories so that their seekers after knowledge might learn the secrets of the Ancient Ones. But I proved a better pupil than teacher and I discovered the defense against the Black Fire. After I had learned that, Kepta grew impatient with my supposed stupidity and tried to use me to force Thrala to his will. For that, as for other things, shall he pay—and the paying will not be in coin of his own striking. Let us think of that.…” He turned to greet Urg and Trar and the other leaders of the Folk, who had approached unnoticed.
    Among them stood Thrala, her gaze fixed upon the crystal wall between them and the thinning Mist. She noticed Garin no more than she did the Anas playing with her train and the women whispering behind her. But Garin stepped back into the shadows—and what he saw was not weapons of war, but cloudy black hair and graceful white limbs veiled in splendor.
    Urg and one of the other chieftains bore down upon the door lever. With a protesting squeak, the glass wall disappeared into the rock. The green of Tav beckoned them out to walk in its freshness; it was renewed with lusty life. But in all that expanse of meadow and forest there was a strange stillness.
    “Post sentries,” ordered Dandtan. “The Black Ones will come soon.”
    He beckoned Garin forward as he spoke to