Free Moon Called by Andre Norton

settled, her back against its strength, her hands upon the knife which she had driven point deep into the earth so the steel stood firmly balanced. As Malkin had done Thora hummed, but this was no conscious threading of one word to another to summon. Rather, she realized with a start, what she sang without true words was the sowing song—that spell of the Lady which her Chosen, be they already raised up priestesses or children hardly from the back cradle, sang as they walked together over the new-turned field, sowing afar the first Hand-take of seed. Yet there was no field here, her companions of the past were dead—if they were lucky. For the raiders were of the Dark, and any vowed to the Mother were among the first they would rape and slay.
    No field for sowing—no. But the Lady’s sowing could be for more than a stretch of plow turned ground. It could lie within a person—bringing a woman into fruitfulness. She sang the sowing and somehow that was right—though the Lady had not yet revealed to her why that should be so.

    With the coining of full dark her song ended. Shadows drew in beneath the trees, yet with them they brought no fear. The stones stood as lamps though their radiance did not travel far. Thora watched Kort, back from his scouting, stretch out on the ground, to rest head upon paws. The perfume was ever stronger. One might be burying one’s face in a load of flowers. She slipped farther down her rock support and slept.
    In the morning the grove had lost some of its mystery. The Power had ebbed, or else withdrawn to be stored against some future need. There were only stones and trees with no protection to be felt.
    The three went on, heading north. Though Malkin started off at a pace faster than any she had kept before, Thora knew the danger of becoming too fatigued and cut back their speed to that of the trail stride she had followed through months of roving. By mid-morning she brought down two of the large birds of the grassland, and, finding an overhang of river bank (for the country was growing more hilly with a smudge on the horizon to denote real heights beyond), she built a small fire to broil some of the meat. Malkin ate raw bits from the second carcass which she shared with Kort. They filled their water bottle and drank deep.
    The river was shrinking. Perhaps those storms which had fed it at their coming had now subsided. Kort quested back and forthahead. The sun was hot, the day warmer than usual. Malkin lagged and Thora called more rest halts now and then.
    Kort came to a sudden pause. He did not bark, but rather turned his head and looked back at Thora, the whole stance of his body telling her this was something of importance. Nor did he return, but waited for them to join him.
    There was a patch of clay here, softened by yesterday’s rain. In it a sharp print. That was no animal spoor but rather the clear impression of a traveler’s boot. Kort sniffed at it. However it was not the hound but Malkin who surprised Thora. The furred one knelt, her red eyes wide open. She, too, went down on all fours and her tongue flickered out, back and forth, not quite touching the print itself.
    The furred one then took up the spear she still carried as a staff and, using its point, pricked the skin on her wrist. A drop of purplish blood gathered. Malkin dropped the spear, to squeeze before she held the wrist over the track so that blood fell in a thick blob into the center of the print.
    For a moment or two it lay inert, as if the clay were too thick to absorb it. Then it spread outward, forming a circle. Malkin watched it so intently that she might be summoning up a second manikin. The circle put forth two horns, so well marked they could have been so shaped with a brush.

    Malkin’s breath came with a sharp hiss. She raised her wrist to her mouth and licked the cut, but her eyes never left the print and the blood.
    “What do you do?” The girl could no longer contain her curiosity. There was hunting