Exiles of the Stars

men call death. Thus it would readily gain what it wanted by offering life continuation quickly at the moment when that death approached.

'Come!' Urgency in that. 'Would you be nothing?'

So I read its great need. My identity was not what it wished to take to itself, nor did it seek another's body. For to it its own covering was a treasure it clung to. No, it wanted my life force as a kind of fuel that, drawing upon this force, it might live again on its own terms.

'Maelen! Maelen, where are you?'

'Come!'

'Maelen!'

Two voices in my head, and the pain rising again! Molaster! I gave my own cry for help, trying not to hear either of those other calls. And there came an answer—not the White Road, no. That I could have if I willed it. But such a choice would endanger another plan. That was made clear to me as if I had been lifted once more to the cliff crest and a vast scene of action spread before me. What I saw then I could not remember, even as I looked upon it. But that it was needful, I knew. And also I understood that I must struggle to fulfill my part in that purpose.

'Come!' No coaxing, no promises now—just an order delivered as if it could not possibly be disobeyed. 'Come now!'

But I answered that other call of my name, sent my own plea.

'Here—hurry!' How I might carry out the needful task I did not know. Much would depend now upon the skill and resources of another.

I could not make the glassia body obey me or even give me sight. To keep my mind clear, I had to block off all five senses lest pain drive me completely forth. But my mind—that much I had—for a space.

'Krip!' Whether he was still on the cliff top or beside me, I had no means of knowing. Only I must reach him and give him this last message or all would fail. 'Krip—this body—I think it is too badly broken —it is dying. But it must not die yet. If you can get it into stass-freeze—You must! That box with the sleeper—get me to that—

I could not even wait for any answer to my message. I must just hold grimly, as long as I could. And how long that might be—only Molaster could set limit to.

It was a strange hidden place where that which was the real 'I'—Maelen of the Thassa, Moon Singer once, glassia once—held and drew upon all inner resources. Did that other still batter at my defenses, crying 'Come, come—live'? I did not know. I dared not think of anything save holding fast to this small stronghold which was under attack. Weaker grew my hold so that at times the pain struck in great punishing blows. Then I tried only to form the words of singing, which I had not done since they took away my wand. And the words were like dim, glowing coals where once they had been leaping flames of light. Yet still there was a feeble life in them and they sustained me, damping out the pain.

There was no time in this place—or else far too much of it. I assured myself, 'I can hold one more instant, and one more, and one more'—and so it continued. Whether Krip could accomplish that which would save me, orif it would save me—But I must think of nothing save the need to hold on, to keep my identity in this hidden place. I must hold and hold and hold!

But I could no longer—Molaster! Great were the powers once given me, much did I increase them by training. But there comes an end to all—and that faces me now. I have lost, I cannot remember that pattern of life which I was shown. Though I know its importance and know that not by the will of the Great Design was it interrupted for me. Yet it would seem that I have not the strength to finish out my part of it. I—cannot—hold—

Pain rushed in as a great scarlet wave to drown me.

'Maelen!'

One voice only now. Had that other given up? But I thought that even yet, were I to yield, it would sweep me into its web.

'Maelen!'

'Freeze—' I could shape only that one last plea. And so futile, so hopeless a one it was. There came no answer.

None—save that the pain grew less, now almost bearable. And I had not been cut free from the body. What —

'Maelen!'

I was in the body still. Though I did not command it, yet it served as an anchor. And there was a freedom from that pressure which had been upon me. As if the process of my 'death' had been arrested, and I was to be given a short breathing space.

'Maelen!' Imperative, imploring—that call.

I summoned up the dregs of my energy.

'Krip—freeze—'

'Yes, Maelen. You are in the case—the case of the alien. Maelen—what—'

So—he had done it. He had taken that last small chance and it was the right one. But I had no time for rejoicing, not now. I must let him know the final answer.

'Keep freeze—Old Ones—Yiktor—'

My hold on consciousness, if one could term that state of rigid defense 'consciousness,' broke. Did I walk the White Road now? Or was there still a place for me in the great pattern?

Chapter Thirteen

KRIP VORLUND