The Corridors of Time by Poul Anderson

Author:Poul Anderson [ANDERSON, POUL]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Science fiction
ISBN: 978-1-4976-9420-0
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 2011-09-14T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Word rang through the forest, the refugees returned home, and joy dwelt in Avildaro.

The feast was not less wild and merry for being a funeral of the slain as well as a triumph. The strangers whose metal weapons had driven out the Yuthoaz were welcomed into the frolic. They had no comprehensible language, but what did that matter? A roasting pig spoke to them with its savor, a man with his grin, a woman with herself.

Only the Long House was avoided. For there stayed the green gods who had delivered their people. Meat and drink were brought to the door, and every adult male vied for the honor of standing by as servant or messenger. On the second noon of celebration, one sought out Lockridge, where he watched the dancers in a meadow, and said he was summoned.

He left with thumping eagerness. Worry about Storm had prevented him from taking much part in the sport. Now he was told that She of the Moon commanded his presence.

Sunlight, smells of woodland and smoke and salt water, distant shouts and songs, vanished from his consciousness when he entered the house. Not yet had the holy fire been rekindled; a promise was given that She would perform that rite in Her good time. Luminous globes made the interior radiant, rafters and columns stood forth rugged against sooty walls, the strewn furs glowed as if alive. Seven Wardens on the daises waited for their queen. They didn’t condescend to greet Lockridge.

But all rose when Storm appeared. The rear end of the house was now blocked off, not by a material screen but by a force curtain which drank down light. She came through it. Next to such blackness she seemed to burn.

Or no … she shone, Lockridge thought dizzily, like that sea which was also the Goddess’. The three days and nights of her ordeal in the mind machine still marked her, high cheekbones stood sharply forth and the eyes smoldered feverish green. But she carried herself spear straight, and blue-black hair swept sheening past the tawniness of face and throat. From the gate of King Frodhi there had been brought her garb befitting her time and station. In blue translucence the robe descended to the copper belt of power; thence it broadened and rippled to the ankles, darkening toward purple, with argent emblems in-woven that were at once foam and serpents. A brooch shaped like the Labrys upheld a cloak whose lining was white as a summer cloud but which outside was gray for thunderheads and mares’-tails. Her shoes were gold sparked with diamond dust. A crescent of hammered silver crowned her brow.

Mareth accompanied her. He was saying something in the Warden’s language. Storm’s gesture chopped off his words. ‘Speak so Malcolm can understand you,’ she ordered in the Orugaray.

He looked shocked. ‘This hog-tongue, brilliance?’

‘Cretan, then. It’s subtle enough.’

‘But brilliance, I was about to report on —’

‘He needs to know.’ Storm let him swallow his humiliation while she advanced to Lockridge. She smiled.

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