The door stood slightly ajar; he kicked it open and stood aside, lest an ambush be prepared for him. Nothing happened; he stepped forward again and looked within. A sudden wave of vertigo swept over him; he blinked, and looked through the door.
He was looking into his own home in Ordunin, the rambling stone and wood house that he had built with his own hands. For a moment he froze in astonishment, but the incongruity suddenly seemed unimportant. He was home!
He stepped inside and looked about. Through the large window to his right he saw the wide plank terrace and the spectacular view of the bay beyond; sunlight sparkled from the waves and poured warmly into the room. He listened, and could hear the ocean's roar very faintly; nearer at hand a bird sang somewhere.
He noticed that he still wore his helmet and breastplate, his sword on his belt and axe on his back; such precautions were surely unnecessary here in his own domain! He reached up to remove the helmet, but paused; how had he come home? He had no memory of the journey, and he had not intended to come here; returning home meant that he would have to speak to the Council, in accordance with his oath to the Baron. Something was peculiar about this, and until he recollected what it was, it would do no harm to keep his armor and weapons on. He was not particularly uncomfortable-though a trifle overwarm-and he could bear to take such a simple precaution.
There was a sound somewhere further inside the house; that would be one of his family, of course. It would be a pleasure to see them all once again. He wondered what the date was; he seemed to have forgotten, yet he always kept track of such things, to know when to expect his wives to be in heat. He would have to ask. He called out, 'Ho! Who goes?'
A door opened and an overwoman entered; Kyrith, his favorite wife. Her scent reached him, and warmth spread through him; she would be ready any time.
By human standards she was far from beautiful; she was as tall and flat-chested as any overman, and her face as inhuman; to Garth, she was a fine, handsome creature. Her golden eyes were warm and inviting; her black hair was long, for an overwoman, and Garth reached out to run his fingers through it. Her scent was entrancing.
She smiled, and caught his fingers; he smiled back.
He felt his body reacting to her odor; that smell was the only sexual stimulus that affected an overman, and it was irresistible. He reached out both arms for her; she smiled, and poked at his breastplate.
'Shouldn't you remove your armor?' she asked.
He growled playfully, reached up to remove his helmet, and stopped. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong.
Kyrith was mute. The real Kyrith was mute, at any rate; she had fallen years ago while skiing, a fall that sent slivers of ice through her throat. She had lived, with only a slight scar, but her voice was gone forever. This was not her: The whole thing was an illusion.
He thrust the false Kyrith away and drew his sword; the illusionist had made a fatal error in giving Kyrith a voice, but there was no doubt that his or her magic was effective. Not only had the image of his home been perfect, but the sounds and smells, and his memory had been befuddled as well. Garth dared not take any further chances.
'Show yourself, magician, or I will lay about with this blade until I find you!'
His home vanished, and he was in a small village tavern; a fire burned low on the hearth, and a chandelier held a dozen stubby candles, casting their wan light across a dozen empty tables and five human beings.
One was an old woman who lay sprawled on the floor where he had flung the false Kyrith; she wore a hood and cloak of pale blue that spread about her in disarray, revealing her bony blue-veined legs and wrinkled face. Her hair was long and silvery-white. She made no move to rise, but lay where she was, watching Garth with terror in her expression.
The other four sat clustered about a table. There was a young woman in brown leather helmet and tunic and black skirt, a bow leaning against the back of her chair and a quiver of white-fletched arrows slung on her shoulder. Beside her sat a man of indeterminate age, his face hidden beneath a gray hood, his gray cloak hiding all but his hands-muscular hands, one of which clutched the handle of a pewter mug.
The remaining pair wore pale blue robes that matched that of the woman on the floor, and both were likewise old; one was a man with steel-gray hair and gray-streaked black beard, the other was another white- haired woman, shorter and thinner than her fallen comrade.
There was a moment of silent consideration, and then Garth demanded, 'Why have you beset me?'
There was an uneasy silence; no one answered him.
'Is this the way you treat all travelers? Or is it because I am an overman? Because I wear armor? What do you want of me?'
The old woman at the table said, in a high and broken voice, 'We meant you no harm.'
'Then what did you mean? You have twice attacked me with your illusions; why?'
'We did not attack you; we sought only to have you pass through our village without seeing it.'
'You diverted me from my path; I am not bound northward.'
'We did not know that; we thought you must be, for it is to the north that overmen are said to dwell.'
Garth considered that for a few seconds; it did have a logical ring to it. 'You attempted to deceive me when I entered this tavern.'
'We sought only to remove your weapons, so that we could deal with you more easily.'
That accorded with the facts. Garth relaxed slightly. This handful of humans was no threat to him, save for their magic, and he seemed to have beaten that; only one even bore arms, and that one a mere girl.
'Which of you conjured those illusions?'
The man in the gray hood, silent heretofore, spoke up. 'It is a joint effort; no one of us is essential.'
Garth considered this, and chose to doubt it; such a claim was good tactics, and more likely tactics than truth. 'Who are you all, then?'
'I am the Seer of Weideth, and these three are the village elders.' He indicated the other man and the two old women.
'Who is she?' He pointed at the girl with his sword.
'She is just the one who saw you coming in time to warn us. She is no one of importance.'
'You call yourself a seer?'
'Yes.'
'Can you read the future, then?' Garth had heard of such talents, and had in fact dealt with an oracle, the Wise Women of Ordunin, who seemed to know something of events yet to come; he could see many uses for such an ability.
'On occasion. I'm afraid I'm not much of a seer, if the truth be known. I do have knowledge and talent beyond the ordinary, but I have little control over it. I am the last and least in a long line of Seers in Weideth, and I spend more time studying the prophecies of my predecessors than making my own.'
That explained why he had failed to foresee that Garth would not be deceived by the illusions, and therefore Garth decided to believe it. He had the impression that the man was being reasonably forthright. Perhaps a similar frankness on his own part would enable him to resolve this episode in short order and get on his way once more. He wanted to reach Dыsarra before morning; before midnight would be nice.
'Listen, then; I mean no harm to you or your village. I intend no evil toward any person or community outside the village of Skelleth. I bear no ill will for your mistaken attempts at self-defense. Let us end our dispute peaceably; I will not harm you, but will go about my business. In exchange you will refrain from bothering me further with your petty magic. Is this not fair to all, and a desirable conclusion?'
The Seer said to his comrades, 'He speaks the truth as he knows it.'
There was a moment of silent consideration as the elders looked at one another; the larger woman clambered to her feet, then, found a chair and seated herself. Garth lowered his sword, but did not sheathe it.
It was the sentry who first spoke, saying, 'But what about. the prophecies?'
The male elder nodded. 'There is that.'
