“Ashara has sent for us. Are you coming?”

“Not now,” he said. Regis had changed, in only a few hours; he seemed older, hardened somehow. He smiled in the old easy way, but I was not wholly comfortable in his presence. It hurt to realize that Regis was keeping himself barriered from me, but in a way it was a relief.

A servant folded Callina in a wrap like a gray shadow. As we went out, and down the staircase, Linnell stood between the panels of curtain, watching us, smiling. The colored lights, spilling over her pale dress, made her a rainbow statuette in a golden aureole; suddenly, for an-instant, vague unrest crystallized and fell together into one of those flashes of prevision which touch a telepath in moments of stress.

Linnell was doomed!

“Lew, what’s the matter?”

I blinked. Already the certainty, that sick instant when my mind had slid off the time-track, was fading. The confusion, the sense of tragedy, remained. When I looked up again, the curtains had dropped shut and Linnell was gone;

Outside, a thin fine rain was falling. The lights had faded in the old city, dark in the lee of the cliff below; but further out, in the Terran Zone, a neon glare of wet orange and red and green streaked the night sky with garish colors. I looked over the low wall.

“I would like to be down there tonight,” I said wearily. “Or anywhere away from this hell’s castle.”

“Even in the Terran Zone?”

“Even in the Terran Zone.”

“Why aren’t you, then? No one keeps you here, if that is where you would rather be.”

I turned to Callina. Her cobweb cloak spun out winglike on the wind; her hair blew, like a fine spray, about her face. I turned my back on the distant lights and pulled her close. A moment she held herself away from me, then suddenly she clung wildly, her lips frantic under mine, her arms gripping me with desperate dread. When we pulled apart, she was shaking like a young leaf.

“What now, Lew? What now?”

I gestured violently at the glare of neon. “The Terran Zone. Confront the Comyn with an accomplished fact, and let them find themselves another pawn to play with.”

Slowly, the spark faded in her eyes. Turning her back on the city, she pointed at the distant ridge of the mountains, and again the illusion came; thin white smoke, strange fire…

“Sharra’s fires burn there, still, Lew. You are no freer than I.”

I put my arm around her, returning by slow degrees to sane acceptance. The rain was icy cold on our faces; we turned and went silently toward the dark mass of the tower.

The wind, broken in its sweep by the angles of the castle, flung little spits and slashes of rain at us. We passed through walled courts and pillared passages, and finally stopped before a dark arch. Callina drew me forward, and a shaft began to rise.

Ashara’s Tower — so the story goes — was built for the first Keeper when Thendara was no more than a row of mud huts huddled under Nevarsin peak. It belongs to the strange days before our world writhed in earthquakes and cast off her four spinning moons. The smell of centuries hung between the musty walls with the shadows that slipped past, flitting into darkness. We rose and rose. At last the shaft halted and we stood before a carven door of glass. Not a curtain or panel of light. A door.

We stepped into blueness. Uncanny lights so mirrored and prismed the room that it seemed to have no dimension; to be at once immense and confined. The shimmer of blue glistened in the air, ,and under our feet; it was like swimming in blue waters or in the fire of a blue jewel.

“Come here,” said a low voice, clear as winter water running under ice. “I am waiting for you.”

Then and only then could my eyes focus enough in the frosty dayshine, to make out a great throne of carven glass; and the figure of a woman, seated on the throne. A straight tiny figure, almost as small as a child, in robes which so absorbed and mirrored the light that she appeared transparent.

“Ashara,” I whispered, and bent my head before the Sorceress of the Comyn.

Her pale features, innocent of wrinkles as Callina’s own, seemed almost fleshlessly pure. But they were old for all that, so old that even wrinkles had been smoothed away by the hand of time. The eyes, long and large, were colorless too, although in a normal light they might have been blue. There was a faint, indefinite resemblance between the two Keepers, nevertheless; as if Ashara were a stylized portrait of Calh’na, or Callina an embryo Ashara, not yet what Ashara was but one day to become so.

And I began to believe that she was immortal indeed, as they whispered; that she had lived on Darkover since before the coming of the Sons of Light.

She said softly, “So you have been beyond the stars, Lew Alton?”

It would not be fair to say the voice was unkind. It was not human enough for that. It only sounded as if the effort of conversing with actual, living persons, was too much for her; as if our life disturbed the cool crystalline peace that should always reign here. Callina, accustomed to this — or so I suppose — answered gently.

“You see all things, Mother. You know what we have seen.”

A flicker of life crossed the ancient face. “No, not even I can see all things. And you refused my only chance to aid you, Callina. You know I have no power now, outside this place.” Her voice had more vitality now, as if she were wakening to our living presence.

Callina’s head bowed low. “Yet aid me with your wisdom, Ashara,” she whispered. The ancient sorceress smiled remotely.

“Tell me,” she said.

We sat together on a carven glass bench at Ashara’s feet, and told her of the events of the last few days. I asked her at last, “Can you duplicate the Sharra matrix?”

“Even I cannot alter the laws of matter and energy,” she said. “Yet, I wish you knew less Terran science, Lew.”

“Why?”

“Because, knowing, you look for explanations. Your mind would be steadier if you could call them Gods, demons, sacred talismans, as the Comyn did long ago. Sharra — a demon? No more than Aldones is a God,” she said, and smiled. “Yet they are living entities, of a kind. Nor are they good or evil, though they may seem so in their contacts with men. What says the old legend?”

Callina whispered, “Sharra was bound in chains, by the Son of Hastur, who was the Son of Aldones, who was the Son of Light…”

“Ritual,” I said impatiently. “Superstition!”

The still old face turned to me. “You think so? What do you know of the Sword of Aldones?”

I swallowed. “It is — the weapon against Sharra,” I said. “I suppose it’s a matrix, and, like the Sharra one, it’s set in a sword for camouflage.”

It was a hypothetical discussion anyhow, and I -said so. The Sword of Aldones was in the rhu fead, the holy place of the Comyn, and might as well have been in another Galaxy.

There are things like that on Darkover. They can’t be destroyed; but they are so powerful, and so deadly dangerous, even the Comyn, or the Keepers, can’t be trusted with them.

The rhu fead was so keyed and so activated by matrices that no one can enter it but the Comyn who have been sealed into council. It is physically impossible for an outsider to get inside without stripping his mind bare. By the time he got through the force-layer, he would be an imbecile without enough directive power to know why he had come.

But inside — the Comyn of a thousand years ago had put them out of our own reach. They are guarded in the opposite fashion. No Comyn can touch them. An outsider could have picked them up freely, but no Comyn can come near the force-field surrounding them.

I said, “Every unscrupulous Comyn for three hundred generations has been trying to figure that one out.”

“But none of them have had a Keeper on their side,” Callina said. She looked at Ashara. “A Terran?”