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    Lore of the Witch World: A Witch World Collection
    Lore of the Witch World: A Witch World Collection
    Lore of the Witch World: A Witch World Collection
    Ebook321 pages6 hours

    Lore of the Witch World: A Witch World Collection

    By Andre Norton

    3.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Few authors have achieved such renown as World Fantasy Life Achievement honoree and Science Fiction Writers of America Grand Master Andre Norton. With the love of readers and the praise of critics, Norton’s books have sold millions of copies worldwide.

    The Witch World . . . Far away in space and time, the Witch World has become the legendary home of all who dream and wonder of unknown worlds.

    Lore of the Witch World brings together in one volume all the novelettes and tales of the Witch World, including the never previously published novelette Changeling. 
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Media
    Release dateJul 1, 2014
    ISBN9781497656390
    Lore of the Witch World: A Witch World Collection
    Author

    Andre Norton

    <DIV>For well over a half century, Andre Norton was one of the most popular science fiction and fantasy authors in the world. With series such as Time Traders, Solar Queen, Forerunner, Beast Master, Crosstime, and Janus, as well as many standalone novels, her tales of adventure have drawn countless readers to science fiction. Her fantasy novels, including the bestselling Witch World series, her Magic series, and many other unrelated novels, have been popular with readers for decades. Lauded as a Grand Master by the Science Fiction Writers of America, she is the recipient of a Life Achievement Award from the World Fantasy Convention. An Ohio native, Norton lived for many years in Winter Park, Florida, and died in March 2005 at her home in Murfreesboro, Tennessee.</DIV>

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    Reviews for Lore of the Witch World

    3.5/5

    51 ratings4 reviews

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    • 4/5
      For me these are familiar stories taking me back to a time when I first became interested in Science Fiction. The Witch World stories are about honor, faith, belief - especially in oneself and that to do your best is enough. Norton wrote of a world that was dark and harsh and characters that were survivors. The world she created is believable because of the details and background she gives in each story.
    • 3/5
      I could only make it through a couple of the stories.
      I guess you have to be a fan, but I found them tendentious and uninteresting.
    • 3/5
      Lore of the Witch World by Andre Norton came out in 1980, collecting 7 stories that were originally published in the 1970s and with an introduction by C. J. Cherryh, another of my favorite authors. Something that I did not appreciate when I first read this collection as a child is that all of the stories except "Legacy from Sorn Fen" feature female protagonists. In every case, the woman teams up with a man, and they succeed in overcoming obstacles only because they work together, but she's the one driving the action.

      The volume contains 4 short stories ("Falcon Blood," "Legacy from Sorn Fen," "Sword of Unbelief," and "Changeling") and 3 novelettes ("Spider Silk," Sand Sister," and "The Toads of Grimmerdale"). The stories involve characters from both the Estcarp side and the High Halleck side of the Witch World.

      "Spider Silk" is divided into 5 chapters, featuring Dairine, a girl with traumatic blindness growing up in a remote fishing village in Estcarp after the war is over and seeking the source of a phenomenal textile with the aid of a Sulcar trading ship. "Sand Sister" also has 5 chapters and takes place in Tormarsh, featuring Tursla and Simond, the son of Koris and Loyse, again after the war is over. "Falcon Blood" features Tanree and an anonymous Falconer as the only survivors of a shipwreck and the mysterious home keep of the Falconers, long since fled. "Legacy from Sorn Fen" is set in High Halleck and the peril and promise of dealing with the Old Ones.

      "Sword of Unbelief" returns to Elys and Jervon, who first appeared in Spell of the Witch World. It takes place several years later, after they are wedded and wandering the Waste. An acquaintance online speculated that this may have been intended as part of the Trey of Swords collection but then discarded. I think not, considering that the stories in that collection feature the same set of characters in 3 interlocking stories.

      "The Toads of Grimmerdale" and "Changeling" are consecutive stories featuring Hertha, who was thrown out of her brother's hall in the Dales of High Halleck because she refused to terminate her pregnancy resulting from being raped by brigands even though the war was over. She travels to Gunnora's shrine to beg the boon that the baby not carry any part of the rapist, but Gunnora will not aid her in seeking vengeance. And so she turns to darker powers. Then she meets Trystan, a holdless man who has survived the war and seeks to become lord of a leaderless Dale.
    • 4/5
      Not bad, not wonderful. Seven stories - I've read most of them before. Spider Silk I knew, but didn't remember details. The blind weaver-girl, the spider creatures, and a happy ending. Sand Sister I think was new to me - nice to meet Koris' son, though his people may not be too happy with the reconnection to the Marsh. Interesting echoes with Spider Silk, too - with the blindness. Falcon Blood - also, I think, new to me - I've read references but not the story. And I swear I've heard that name before - Jonkara - but I don't know where (in another Witch World story, though). Legacy from Sorn Fen - I read that just recently - oh, it's in Garan the Eternal. Still don't think much of it. Sword of Unbelief - it's an Elys and Jervon story, and I think I've read it before - but there's not much to it. It sort of starts in the middle but Elys spends so much time flash-backing to explain her and Jervon that it's very muddled. Then the "action", which mostly consists of them standing around and refusing to believe...and of course they triumph. Kind of pointless. Then the two Toads stories - The Toads of Grimmerdale and Changeling. Hertha does jump to conclusions and into action a lot. Trystan is a little hard to understand, in relation to her, too. He really latches on to her. The action is quite straightforward; the understandings and motivations are what drive these stories, and those are rather muddled. I'd like to see a story of Elfanor grown up, though. That kind of exposure to magic that young would be likely to leave traces. Both of these are long-familiar to me. Overall - as I said above, good but not wonderful.

    Book preview

    Lore of the Witch World - Andre Norton

    Introduction

    by C. J. Cherryh

    Writing an introduction for one of Andre Norton’s books is rather like applying gilt to a lily, superfluity to be sure. When I was offered the chance to do it, I first thought it was impossible and then sat down to try, and then began to think of thousands of readers who would love to get a line in … to say some things that want saying; things I don’t think can be said too often, ever.

    About the Witch World stories: For all of us who’ve ever created a world to dream about, for those of us who write and for those who keep theirs in their hearts … the Witch World stories hold a special place. It’s a land, a world, a place of dark shadows and alien powers and human beings touched with strangeness, a place where men and women find extraordinary things within them, and match themselves against an environment at once marvelously detailed and full of mysteries. The Witch World is never explored. The smallest valley holds strange happenings and a past which reaches into things stranger still. The traveler finds the unexpected, the ancient, the bizarre at every turn. Nature is powerful here and those who open their hearts to it and to living things find themselves capable of marvels and involved in an old, old warfare. One meets old friends here, and hears of them; finds remnants of eldritch powers and visitants; finds … if one looks … ancient truths about courage and honesty and duty that involve the highborn and the ordinary, the young and the old, humans and the four-footed kind all in one fabric of magic and mystery.

    The Witch World both lies within a tradition and generates a tradition of its own. It comes of that mythic tradition out of which comes Homer’s wine-dark and fantastically mapped Mediterranean, peopled with gods and strange powers, which other heroes went on to sail in their turn, because it was a Place and a Time which had to exist; and which made heroes out of men and women of unlikely sort, because they met the unknown with why? and what if? and why not? The Witch World is one of those places a reader lives in, and some of those readers have become writers, and writers who never quite forget their journey in that ever-surprising and yet strangely familiar terrain. A lot of us who create worlds, whether we write them or dream them secretly, owe a great deal to this place, for its completeness, its way of underlaying daily life with the fantastical, its way of seeing vast forces implicit in the smallest and humblest things.

    If the Witch World had never been written, so many other worlds would be the poorer.

    And that brings me to Andre Norton herself.

    There’s been a great deal of fuss about women entering the science fiction field lately. Oh, no. Not lately. Andre Norton has been there, long before, doing things her way. I did some checking on publication dates and I was stunned to realize that Andre was publishing in this field the year this writer was a knobby-kneed kid in the third grade, struggling to get a bicycle home in what (to that third-grader) was the blizzard of the century … and I was too young to read the stories then, myself not one of the youngest of this crop who keeps getting asked about women breaking into the field. … Andre’s been there, writing her stories.

    That skinned-knee kid with the pigtails didn’t meet Andre Norton until 1977, although we’d corresponded a bit, because Andre out of the goodness of her heart did the introduction for my first book, which is one reason why I’d fight tigers to get the chance at this introduction. She asked me, me, the stranger from Oklahoma, to drop in on her to visit after Worldcon; and when that occasion turned into the chance for me to bring her the Gandalf Award she’d won from the World Convention for Life’s Achievement in Fantasy—oh, I was delighted! For one thing, I figured that had to at least win me a welcome at the door. When I showed up at Andre’s door and had a time to catch my breath I found myself with one of those people who do kindnesses as if it were nature’s most logical process, who is on the side of good books and living things, who has the kind of definite ideas about what’s right and what’s just that might be expected of the creator of worlds where people stand by each other.

    I like Andre Norton. I knew that from the start.

    And when people sit down and start talking about how they got into this field in the first place, what writers were responsible for leading them deeper and deeper into that attitude we call sense of wonder, and which has to do with being really alive to this universe and all the possibilities of it—that most precious gift of learning how to see what we look at—Andre Norton’s name is one that always comes to the front.

    What has Andre Norton done for this field? She’s written for all ages; she’s been the gateway through which so, so many of us have come into this field in the first place. She created women who did things, such as Jaelithe, and she sparked imagination in a host of young minds who had rarely seen such a thing; she created heroes who were more than strong, and touched the hearts of countless young people who could never be quite the same afterward. There’s a special look that comes into the eyes of these folk when they talk about Andre Norton, and you know full well that she has a very special place in their hearts, forever; that Andre’s books are the ones they’re going to put into the hands of their own sons and daughters and say with that special, waited-for hope: I think you might like this. It’s good. There’s hardly a gift one can give another so precious as something that wakes us to what we call sense of wonder. That’s what Andre’s work has done for so very many of us. She’s special. She’s one of those talents without which this field would be inestimably the poorer. She reminds me curiously enough of John Wayne: a quiet person with strong convictions, who never much goes with fads but does things her way, whose style is her own, and who has shot straight and told the truth and given a lot of readers, young and old, a marvelous sense of heroism possible in their own lives, because it’s right there pointed out to us what great possibilities there are, what great hearts in unlikely frames, what grand adventures likely for those who see their world with sense of wonder!

    She writes. And the thing she does for this field has woven itself through so many lives that that influence keeps traveling. She’s vexingly modest and deprecates such notions, but they’re true, Andre! And I’m glad to have gotten the chance to say them. Thank you Andre, for being there, for making worlds, for opening up so much of wonder to us…. I get to say it; but I say it for so many others. Thank you.

    SPIDER SILK

    1

    The Big Storm in the Year of the Kobold came late, long past the month when such fury was to be expected. This was all part of that evil which the Guardians had drawn upon Estcarp when they summoned up their greatest power to blast and twist the mountain lands, seal off passes through which had come the invasion from Karsten.

    Rannock lay open to that storm. Only the warning dream-sending to the Wise Woman, Ingvarna, drew a portion of the women and children to the higher lands, there to watch with fear and trembling the sea’s fierce assault upon the coast. So high dashed those waves that water covered and boiled about the Serpent Teeth of the upper ledges. Only here, in pockets among the Tor rocks, could a fugitive crouch in almost mindless terror, awaiting the end.

    Of the fishing fleet which had set out yesterday morn, who had any hopes now of its return save perhaps a scattering of wreckage, playthings of the storm waves?

    There were left only a handful of old men and boys, and one or two such as Herdrek, the Twist-Leg, the village smith. For Rannock was as poor in men as it was in all else since the war years had ravaged Estcarp. To the north perched Alizon, a hawk ready to be unleashed upon its neighbor; from the south Karsten boiled and bubbled, if aught was still left alive beyond the wrecked mountain passages.

    Men who had marched with the Borderers under Lord Simon Tregarth or served beneath the Banners of the Witch Women of Es—where were they? Long since, their kin had given up any hope of their return. There had been no true peace in this land since old Nabor (who could count his years at more than a hundred) had been in his green youth.

    It was Nabor now who battled the strength of the wind to the Tor, dragged himself up to stand, hunched shoulder to shoulder, with Ingvarna. As she, he looked to the sea uneasily. That she expected still their own fleet he could not believe, foresighted as all knew her to be.

    Waves mounted, to pound giant fists against the rock. Nabor caught sight of a ship rising and falling near the Serpent’s dread fangs. Then a huge swell whirled it over those sharp threats into the comparative calm beyond. Nabor sighed with the relief of a seaman who had witnessed a miracle, life won from the very teeth of rock death. Also, Rannock had the right of storm wrack. If that ship survived so far, its cargo was forfeit now to any who could bring it to shore. He half-turned to seek the shelter of the Tor hollows, rouse Herdrek and the others with this promise of fortune.

    However, Ingvarna turned her head. Through the drifts of rain her eyes held his. There was a warning in her steady gaze. One comes— He saw her lips shape the words but did not hear her voice them above the roar of wind and wave.

    At the same moment, there was such a crash as equaled the drum of thunder, the lash of lightning. The strange ship might have beaten the menace of the reef’s fangs, but now had been driven halfway up the beach, where it was fast breaking up under the hammer blows of the surf.

    Herdrek stumped out to join them. It is a raider, he commented during a lull of the wind. Perhaps one of the Sea Wolves of Alizon. He spat at the wreck below.

    Ingvarna was already scrambling over the rocks toward the shore, as if what lay there were of vast importance. Herdrek shouted after her a warning, but she did not even turn her head. With a curse at the folly of females, which a second later he devoutly hoped the Wise Woman had not been able to pick out of the air, the smith followed her, two of the lads venturing in his wake.

    At least when they reached the shore level, the worst of the storm was spent. Waves drew a torn seaweed veil around the broken vessel. Herdrek made fast a rope about his waist, gave dire warnings to his followers to keep a tight hold upon it. Then he ventured into the surf, using that cordage from wind-rent sails, hanging in loops down the shattered sides, to climb aboard.

    There was a hatch well tamped down, roped shut. He drew belt knife to slash the fastening.

    Ho! His voice rolled hollowly into the dark beneath him. Anyone below?

    A thin cry answered, one which might issue from the throat of a seabird such as already coasted over the subsiding surface of the sea on hunt for the bounty of the storm. Yet he thought not Gingerly, favoring his stiff leg, the smith lowered himself into the stinking hold. What he found there made him retch, and then heated in him dull anger against those who had mastered this vessel. She had been a slaver, such as Rannock’s men had heard tell of—dealing in live cargo.

    Of that cargo, only one survived. Her, Herdrek carried gently from the horror of that prison. A little maid, her small arms no more than skin slipped glovelike on bones, her eyes great, gray and blankly open. Ingvarna took the strange child from the smith as one who had the authority of clan and home hearth, wrapping the little one’s thin, shivering body in her own warm cloak.

    From whence Dairine came those of Rannock never learned. That slavers raided far was no secret. Also, the villagers soon discovered the child was blind. Ingvarna, though she was a Wise One, greatly learned in herbs and spells, the setting of bones, the curing of wounds, shook her head sadly over that discovery, saying that the child’s blindness came from no hurt of body. Rather, she must have looked upon some things so horrible that thereafter her mind closed and refused all sight.

    Though she might have been six or seven winters old, yet speech also seemed riven from her, and only fear was left to be her portion. The women of Rannock would have tried to comfort her. But secretly in their hearts they were willing that she bide with Ingvarna, who treated her oddly, they thought For the Wise Woman did not strive to make life easier in any way for the child. Rather, from the first, Ingvarna treated the sea waif not as one maimed in body, and perhaps in mind, but rather as she might some daughter of the village whom she had chosen to be her apprentice in the harsh school of her own learning.

    These years were bleak for Rannock. Full half the fleet did not return from out of the maw of that storm. Nor did any of the coastwise traders come. The following winter was a lean one. But in those dark days, Dairine showed first her skill. Her eyes might not see what her fingers wrought, yet they could mend fishing nets with such cleverness that even the experienced women marveled.

    And in the following spring, when the villagers husked the loquth balls to free their seeds for new plantings, Dairine busied herself with the silken inner fibers, twisting and turning those. Ingvarna had Herdrek make a small spindle and showed the child how this tool might be best put to work.

    Good use did Dairine make of it, too. Her small, birdclaw fingers drew out finer thread than any had achieved before, freer from knotting than any the villagers had seen. Yet never seemed she satisfied, but strove ever to make her spinning still finer, more smooth.

    The Wise Woman continued her fosterling’s education in other ways, teaching her to use her fingers, her nose, in the herb garden. Dairine learnt easily the spelling which was part of a Wise Woman’s knowledge. She absorbed that very quickly, yet always there was about her an impatience. When she made mistakes, then her anger against herself was great. The greatest when she tried to explain some tool or need which she seemed unable to describe but for which she evinced a need.

    Ingvarna spoke to Herdrek (who was now village elder), saying that perhaps the craft of the Wise Woman might aid in regaining a portion of Dairine’s lost memory. When he demanded why she had not voiced such a matter before, Ingvarna answered gravely: This child is not blood of our blood, and she was captive to the sea wolves. Have we the right to recall to her past horrors? Perhaps Gunnore, who watches over all womankind, has taken away her memory of the past in pity. If so—

    He bit his thumb, watching Dairine as she paced back and forth before the loom which he had caused to be set up for her, now and then halting to slap her hand upon the frame in frustration. It seemed as if she longed to force the heavy wood into another pattern which would serve her better.

    I think that she grows more and more unhappy, he agreed slowly. At first she seemed content. Now there are times when she acts as a snow cat encaged against her will. I do not like to see her so.

    The Wise Woman nodded. Well enough. In my mind this is a right choice.

    Ingvarna went to the girl, taking both her hands, drawing her around so that she might look directly into those blind eyes. At Ingvarna’s touch, Dairine stood still. Leave us! the Wise Woman commanded the smith.

    Early that evening as Herdrek stood at his forge Dairine walked into the light of his fire. She came to him unhesitatingly. So acute was her hearing that she often startled the villagers by her recognition of another presence. Now she held out her hands to him as she might to a father she loved. And he knew all was well.

    By midsummer, when the loquths had flowered and their blossoms dropped. Dairine went often into the fields, fingering the swelling bolls. Sometimes she sang, queer, foreign-tongued words, as if the plants were children (now knee height, and then shoulder height) who must be amused and cherished

    Herdrek had changed her loom as the girl suggested might be done. From Ingvarna she learned the mysteries of dyes, experimenting on her own. She had no real friend among the few children of the dying village. Firstly, because she did not range much afield, save with Ingvarna, of whom most were in awe. Secondly, because her actions were strange and she seemed serious and more adult than the years they believed to be hers.

    In the sixth year after her coming, a Sulcar ship put in at Rannock, the first strange vessel sighted since the wreck of the slaver. Its captain brought news that the long war was at last over.

    The defeat of the Karsten invaders, who so drained the powers of the rulers of Estcarp, had been complete. Koris of Gorm was now Commander of Estcarp, since so many of the Guardians had perished when they turned the full extent of their power upon the enemy. Yet the land was hardly at peace. The sea wolves of the coast had been augmented by ships of the broken and defeated navy of Karsten. As in times of chaos, other wolfheads, without any true lands or allegiance, now ravaged the land wherever they might Though the forces under Captain General Koris sought to protect the boundaries, yet to defeat such hit-and-run raids was well beyond the ability of any defending force.

    The Sulcar Captain was impressed by the latest length of Dairine’s weaving, offering for it, when he bargained with Ingvarna, a much better price than he had thought to pay out in this forgotten village. He was much interested also in the girl, speaking to her slowly in several tongues. However, she answered him only in the language of Estcarp, saving she knew no other.

    Still, he remarked privately to Ingvarna that somewhere in the past he had seen those like unto her, though where and when during his travels be could not bring to mind. Still, be thought that she was not of common stock.

    It was a year later that the Wise Woman wrought the best she could for her sea-gift foundling.

    No one knew how old Ingvarna was, for the Wise Woman showed no advance of age, as did those less learned in the many uses of herbs and medicants. But it was true that she walked more slowly, and that she no longer went alone when she sought out certain places of Power, taking Dairine ever with her. What the two did there no one knew, for who would spy on any woman with the Witch Talent?

    On this day, the few fishing boats had taken to sea before dawn. At moonrise the night before the Wise Woman and her fosterling had gone inland to visit a certain very ancient place. There Ingvarna kindled a fire which burned not naturally red but rather blue. Into those flames she tossed small, tightly bound bundles of dried herbs so that the smoke which arose was heavily scented. But she watched not that fire. Rather, a slab of stone set behind its flowering. That stone had a surface like glass, the color of a fine sword blade.

    Dairine stood a little behind the Wise Woman. Though Ingvarna had taught her over the years to make her other senses serve her in place of her missing sight, so that her fingers were ten eyes, her nostrils, her ears could catch scent and sound to an extent far outreaching the skill of ordinary mankind, yet at moments such as this the longing to be as others awoke in her a sense of loss so dire that to her eyes came tears, flowing silently down her cheeks. Much Ingvarna had given her. Still, she was not as the others of Rannock. And ofttimes loneliness settled upon her as a burdensome cloak. Now the girl sensed that Ingvarna planned for her some change. That it would make her see as others saw—that she could not hope for.

    She heard clearly the chanting of the Wise Woman. The odor of the burning herbs filled her nose, now and then made her gasp for a less heavy lungful of air. Then came a command, not given in words, nor by some light touch against her arm and shoulder. But into her mind burst an order and Dairine walked ahead, her hands outstretched, until her ten fingers flattened against a throbbing surface. Warm it was, near to a point which would sear her flesh, while its throb was in twin beat to her own heart. Still, Dairine stood firm, while the chant of the Wise Woman came more faintly, as if the girl had been shifted farther away in space from her foster mother.

    Then she felt an inward flow from the surface she touched, a warmth which spread along her hands, her wrists, up her arms. Fainter still came the voice of Ingvarna petitioning on her behalf, strange and half-forgotten powers.

    Slowly the warmth receded. But how long Dairine had stood so wedded to that surface she could not see, the girl never knew. Except that there came a moment when her hands fell, as if too heavily burdened for her to raise.

    What is done, is done. Ingvarna’s voice at the girl’s left sounded as weighted as Dairine’s hands felt. All I have to give, this I have freely shared with you. Though being blind as men see blindness, yet you have sight such as few can own to. Use it well, my fosterling.

    From that day it became known that Dairine did indeed have strange powers of seeing through her hands. She could take up a thing which had been made and tell of the maker, of how long since it had been wrought. A shred of fleece from one of the thin-flanked hill sheep put into her fingers would enable her to guide an anxious owner to where the lost flock member had strayed.

    There was one foretelling which she would not do, after she came upon its secret by chance only. For she had taken the hand of little Hulde during the Harvest Homing dance. Straightway thereafter, Dairine dropped her grasp upon the child’s small fingers, crying out and shrinking away from the villagers, to seek out Ingvarna’s house and therein hide herself. Within the month, Hulde had died of a fever. Thereafter, the girl used her new sight sparingly, and always with a fear plain to be seen haunting her.

    In the Year of the Weldworm, when Dairine passed into young womanhood, Ingvarna died swiftly. As if foreseeing another possible end, she summoned death as one summons a servant to do one’s bidding.

    Though Dairine was no true Wise Woman, thereafter she took on many of the duties of her foster mother. Within a month after the Wise Woman’s burial, the Sulcar ship returned.

    As the Captain told the forgotten village the news of the greater world his eyes turned ever to Dairine, her hands busy with thread she spun as she listened. Among those of the village she was indeed one apart, with her strange silver-fair hair, silver-light eyes.

    Sibbald Ortis, Sibbald the Wrong-Handed—thus they had named him after a sea battle had lopped off his hand, and a smith in another land had made him one of metal—was that captain. He was new to command and young—though he had lived near all his life at sea after the manner of his people.

    Peace, after a fashion, he told them, had encompassed the land at last. For Koris of Gorm now ruled Estcarp with a steady hand. Alizon had been defeated in some invasion that nation had attempted overseas. And Karsten was in chaos, one prince or lord always rising against another, while the sea wolves were being hunted down, one after another, to a merciless end.

    Having made clear that he was in Rannock on lawful business, the captain now turned briskly to the subject of trade. What had they, if anything, which would be worth stowage in his own ship?

    Herdrek was loathe to spread their poverty before these strangers. Also, he wanted, with a desire he could hardly conceal, some of the tools and weapons he had seen in casual use among them. Yet what had Rannock? Fish dried to take them through a lean winter, some woven lengths of wool.

    The villagers would be hard put even to give these visitors guest-right, with the feast they were entitled to. To fail in that was to deny their own heritage.

    Dairine, listening to the Captain, had wished she dared touch his hand to learn what manner of a man he was who had journeyed so far and seen so much. A longing was born in her to be free of the narrow, well-known ways of Rannock, to see what lay beyond in the world. Her fingers steadily twirled her thread, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

    Then she lifted her head a little, for she knew someone was now standing at her side. There was the tang of sea-salted leather and other odors. This was a stranger, one of the Sulcar men.

    You work that thread with skill, maid.

    She recognized the captain’s voice. It is my skill, Lord Captain.

    They tell me that fate has served you harshly. He spoke bluntly then, but she liked him the better for that bluntness.

    "Not so, Lord Captain. These of Rannock have been ever kind. And I was fosterling to their Wise Woman. Also,

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