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Falcons of Narabedla

15th October 2017

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Title: Falcons of Narabedla
Author: Marion Zimmer Bradley
Summary: Somewhere on the Time Ellipse Mike Kenscott became Adric; and the only way to return to his own identity was to find the Keep of the Dreamer, and loose the terrible.
Word count:  26662
Public Domain Mark (PDM)

Image:  Other Worlds May 1957.


Somewhere on the crags above us I heard a big bird scream.

I turned to Andy, knee-deep in the icy stream beside me. “There’s your eagle. Probably smells that cougar I shot yesterday.” I started to reel in my line, knowing what my brother’s next move would be. “Get the camera, and we’ll try for a picture.”

We crouched together in the underbrush, watching, as the big bird of prey wheeled down in a slow spiral toward the dead cougar. Andy was trembling with excitement, the camera poised against his chest, his eyes glued in the image-finder. “Golly—” he whispered, almost prayerfully, “six foot wing spread—maybe more—”

The bird screamed again, warily, head cocked into the wind. We were to leeward; the scent of the carrion masked our enemy smell from him. The eagle failed to scent or to see us, swooping down and dropping on the cougar’s head. Andy’s camera clicked twice. The eagle thrust in its beak—

A red-hot wire flared in my brain. The bird—the bird—I leaped out of cover, running swiftly across the ten-foot clearing that separated us from the attacking eagle, my hand tugging automatically at the hunting knife in my belt. Andy’s shout of surprised anger was a faraway noise in my ears as the eagle started away with flapping, angry wings—then, in fury, swept down at me, pinions beating around my head. I heard and felt the wicked beak dart in, and thrust blindly upward with the knife, ripped, slashing, hearing the bird’s scream of pain and the flapping of wide wings. A red haze spun around me—

Then the screaming eagle was gone and Andy’s angry grip was on my shoulder, shaking me roughly. His voice, furious and frightened, was hardly recognizable. “Mike! Mike, you darned idiot, are you all right? You must be crazy!”

I blinked, rubbing my hand across my eyes. The hand came away wet. I was standing in the clearing, the knife in my hand red with blood. Bird blood. I heard myself ask, stupidly, “What happened?”

My brother’s face came clear out of the thickness in my mind, scowling wrathfully. “You tell me what happened! Mike, what in the devil were you thinking about? You told me yourself that an eagle will attack a man if he’s bothered. I had him square in the camera when you jumped out of there like a bat out of a belfry and went for the eagle with your knife! You must be clean crazy!”

I let the knife drop out of my hand. “Yeah—” I said heavily, “Yeah, I guess I spoiled your picture, Andy. I’m sorry—I didn’t—” my voice trailed off, helpless. The boy’s hand was still on my shoulder; he let it drop and knelt in the grass, groping there for his camera. “That’s all right, Mike,” he said in a dead voice, “you scared the daylights out of me, that’s all.” He stood up swiftly, looking straight into my face. “Darn it, Mike, you’ve been acting crazy for a week! I don’t mind the blamed camera, but when you start going for eagles with your bare hands—” abruptly he flung the camera away, turned and began to run down the slope in the direction of the cabin.

I took a step to follow, then stopped, bending to retrieve the broken pieces of Andy’s cherished camera. The kid must have hit the eagle with it. Lucky thing for me; an eagle can be a mean bird. But why, why in the living hell had I done a thing like that? I’d warned Andy time and time again to stay clear of the big birds. Now that the urgency of action had deserted me, I felt stupid and a little lightheaded. I didn’t wonder Andy thought I was crazy. I thought so myself more than half the time. I stowed the broken camera in my tackle box, mentally promising Andy a better one; hunted up the abandoned lines and poles, carefully stowed them, cleaned our day’s catch. It was dark before I started for the cabin; I could hear the hum of the electric dynamo I’d rigged up and see the electric light across the dusk of the Sierras. A smell of bacon greeted me as I crossed into the glare of the unshielded bulb. Andy was standing at the cookstove, his back stubbornly to me. He did not turn.

“Andy—” I said.

“It’s okay, Mike. Sit down and eat your supper. I didn’t wait for the fish.”

“Andy—I’ll get you another camera—”

“I said, it’s okay. Now, damn it, eat.”

He didn’t speak again for a long time; but as I stretched back for a second mug of coffee, he got up and began to walk around the room, restlessly. “Mike—” he said entreatingly, “you came here for a rest! Why can’t you lay off your everlasting work for a while and relax?” He looked disgustedly over his shoulder at the work table where the light spilled over a confused litter of wires and magnets and coils. “You’ve turned this place into a branch office of General Electric!”

“I can’t stop now!” I said violently. “I’m on the track of something—and if I stop I’ll never find it!”

“Must be real important,” Andy said sourly, “if it makes you act like bughouse bait.”

I shrugged without answering. We’d been over that before. I’d known it when they threw me out of the government lab, just after the big blowup. I thought, angrily. I’m heading for another one, but I don’t care.

“Sit down, Andy,” I told him. “You don’t know what happened down there. Now that the war’s over, it’s no military secret, and I’ll tell you what happened.”

I paused, swallowing down the coffee, not knowing that it scalded my mouth. “That is—I will if I can.”

Six months before they settled the war in Korea, I was working in a government radio lab, on some new communications equipment. Since I never finished it, there’s no point in going into details; it’s enough to say it would have made radar as obsolete as the stagecoach. I’d built a special supersonic condenser, and had had trouble with a set of magnetic coils that wouldn’t wind properly. When the thing blew up I hadn’t had any sleep for three nights, but that wasn’t the reason. I was normal then; just another communications man, intent on radio and this new equipment and without any of the crazy impractical notions that had lost me my job later. They called it overwork, but I knew they thought the explosion had disturbed my brain. I didn’t blame them. I would have liked to think so.

It started one day in the lab with a shadow on the sun and an elusive short circuit that gave me shock after shock until I was jittery. By the time I had it fixed, the oscillator had gone out of control. I got a series of low-frequency waves that were like nothing I’d ever seen before. Then there was something like a voice speaking out of a very old, jerry-built amateur radio set. Except that there wasn’t a receiver in the lab, and no one else had heard it. I wasn’t sure myself, because right then every instrument in the place went haywire and five minutes later, part of the ceiling hit the floor and the floor went up through the roof. They found me, they say, lying half-crushed under a beam, and I woke up eighteen hours later in a hospital with four cracked ribs, and a feeling as if I’d had a lot of voltage poured into me. It went in the report that I’d been struck by lightning.

It took me a long time to get well. The ribs healed fast—faster than the doctor liked. I didn’t mind the hospital part, except that I couldn’t walk without shaking, or light a cigarette without burning myself, for months. The thing I minded was what I remembered before I woke up. Delirium; that was what they told me. But the kind and type of scars on my body didn’t ring true. Electricity—even freak lightning—doesn’t make that kind of burns. And my corner of the world doesn’t make a habit of branding people.

But before I could show the scars to anybody outside the hospital, they were gone. Not healed; just gone. I remembered the look on the medic’s face when I showed him the place where the scars had been. He didn’t think I was crazy; he thought he was.

I knew the lab hadn’t been struck by lightning. The Major knew it too; I found that out the day I reported back to work. All the time we talked, his big pen moved in stubby circles across the page of his log-book, and he talked without raising his head to look at me.

“I know all that, Kenscott. No electrical storms reported in the vicinity; no radio disturbance within a thousand miles. But—” his jaw grew stubborn, “the lab was wrecked and you were hurt. We’ve got to have something for the record.”

I could understand all that. What I resented was the way they treated me after I went back to work. They transferred me to another division and another line of work. They turned down my request to follow up those nontypical waves. My private notes were ripped out of my notebook while I was at lunch and I never saw them again. And as soon as they could, they shipped me to Fairbanks, Alaska, and that was the end of that.

The Major told me all I needed to know, the day before I took the plane to Alaska. His scowl said more than his words, and they said plenty. “I’d let it alone, Kenscott. No sense stirring up more trouble. We can’t bother with side alleys, anyhow. Next time you monkey with it, you might get your head blown off, not just a dose of stray voltage out of the blue. We’ve done everything but stand on our heads trying to find out where that spare energy came from—and where it went. But we’ve marked that whole line of research closed, Kenscott. If I were you, I’d keep my mouth shut about it.”

“It wasn’t a message from Mars,” I suggested unsmiling, and he didn’t think that was funny either. But there was relief on his face as I left the office and went to clean out my drawer.

I got along all right in Alaska, for a while. But I wasn’t the same. The armistice had hardly been signed when they sent me back to the States with a recommendation of overwork. I tried to explain it to Andy. “They said I needed a rest. Maybe so. The shock did something funny to me … tore me open … like the electric shock treatments they give catatonic patients. I know a lot of things I never learned. Ordinary radio work doesn’t mean anything to me any more. It doesn’t make sense. When people out west were talking about flying saucers or whatever they were—and when they talked about weather disturbances after the atomic tests, things did make sense for a while. And when we came down here—” I paused, trying to fit confused impressions together. He wasn’t going to believe me, anyhow, but I wanted him to. A tree slapped against the cabin window; I jumped. “It started up again the day we came up in the mountains. Energy out of nowhere, following me around. It can’t knock me out. Have you noticed I let you turn the lights on and off? The day we came up, I shorted my electric razor and blew out five fuses trying to change one.”

“Yeah, I remember, you had to drive to town for them—” My brother’s eyes watched me, uneasy. “Mike, you’re kidding—”

“I wish I were,” I said. “That energy just drains into me, and nothing happens. I’m immune.” I shrugged, rose and walked across to the radio I’d put in here, so carefully, before the war. I picked up the disconnected plug; thrust it into the socket. I snapped the dial on. “I’ll show you,” I told him.

The panel flashed and darkened; confused static came cracking from the speaker, erratic. I took my hand away.

“Turn it up—” Andy said uneasily.

My hand twiddled the dial. “It’s already up.”

“Try another station;” the kid insisted stubbornly. I pushed all the buttons in succession; the static crackled and buzzed, the panel light flickered on and off in little cryptic flashes. I sighed. “And reception was perfect at noon,” I told him, “You were listening to the news.” I took my hand away again. “I don’t want to blow the thing up.”

Andy came over and switched the button back on. The little panel light glowed steadily, and the mellow voice of Milton Cross filled the room … “now conduct the Boston Philharmonic Orchestra in the Fifth or ‘Fate’ symphony of Ludwig von Beethoven …” the noise of mixed applause, and then the majestic chords of the symphony, thundering through the rooms of the cabin.


My brother stared at me as racing woodwinds caught up with the brasses. There was nothing wrong with the radio. “Mike. What did you do to it?”

“I wish I knew,” I told him. Reaching, I touched the volume button again.

Beethoven died in a muttering static like a thousand drums.

I swore and Andy sucked in his breath between his teeth, edging warily backward. He touched the dials again; once more the smoothness of the “Fate” symphony rolled out and swallowed us. I shivered.

“You’d better let it alone!” Andy said shakily.

The kid turned in early, but I stayed in the main room, smoking restlessly and wishing I could get a drink without driving eighty miles over bad mountain roads. Neither of us had thought to turn off the radio; it was moaning out some interminable throbbing jazz. I turned over my notes, restlessly, not really seeing them. Once Andy’s voice came sleepily from the alcove.

“Going to read all night, Mike?”

“If I feel like it,” I said tersely and began walking up and down again.

“Michael! For the luvvagod stop it and let me get some sleep!” Andy exploded, and I sank down in the chair again. “Sorry, Andy.”

Where had the intangible part of me been, those eighteen hours when I first lay crushed under a fallen beam, then under morphine in the hospital? Where had those scars come from? More important, what had made a radio lab blow up in the first place? Electricity sets fires; it shocks men into insensibility or death. It doesn’t explode. Radio waves are in themselves harmless. Most important of all, what maniac freak of lightning was I carrying in my body that made me immune to electrical current? I hadn’t told Andy about the time I’d deliberately grounded the electric dynamo in the cellar and taken the whole voltage in my body. I was still alive. It would have been a hell of a way to commit suicide—but I hadn’t.

I swore, slamming down the window. I was going to bed. Andy was right. Either I was crazy or there was something wrong; in any case, sitting here wouldn’t help. If it didn’t let up, I’d take the first train home and see a good electrician—or a psychiatrist. But right now, I was going to hit the sack.

My hand went out automatically and switched the light off.

“Damn!” I thought incredulously. I’d shorted the dynamo again. The radio stopped as if the whole orchestra had dropped dead; every light in the cabin winked swiftly out, but my hand on the switch crackled with a phosphorescent glow as the entire house current poured into my body. I tingled with weird shock; I heard my own teeth chattering.

And something snapped wide open in my brain. I heard, suddenly, an excited voice, shouting.

“Rhys! Rhys! That is the man!”


Rainbow City

You are mad,” said the man with the tired voice.

I was drifting. I was swaying, bodiless, over a huge abyss of caverned space; chasmed, immense, limitless. Vaguely, through a sleeping distance, I heard two voices. This one was old and very tired.

“You are mad. They will know. Narayan will know.”

“Narayan is a fool,” said the second voice.

“Narayan is the Dreamer,” the tired voice said. “He is the Dreamer, and where the Dreamer walks he will know. But have it your way. I am very old and it does not matter. I give you this power, freely—to spare you. But Gamine—”

“Gamine—” the second voice stopped. After a long time, “You are old, and a fool, Rhys,” it said. “What is Gamine to me?”

Bodiless, blind, I drifted and swayed and swung in the sound of the voices. The humming, like a million high-tension wires, sang around me and I felt myself cradled in the pull of a great magnet that held me suspended surely on nothingness and drew me down into the field of some force beneath. Far below me the voices faded. I swung free—fell—plunged downward in sickening motion, head over heels, into the abyss….

My feet struck hard flooring. I wrenched back to consciousness with a jolt. Winds blew coldly in my face; the cabin walls had been flung back to the high-lying stars. I was standing at a barred window at the very pinnacle of a tall tower, in the lap of a weird blueness that arched flickeringly in the night. I caught a glimpse of a startled face, a lean tired old face beneath a peaked hood, in the moment before my knees gave way and I fell, striking my head against the bars of the window.

I was lying on a narrow, high bed in a room filled with doors and bars. I could see the edge of a carved mirror set in a frame, and the top of a chest of some kind. On a bench at the edge of my field of vision there were two figures sitting. One was the old grey man, hunched wearily beneath his robe, wearing robes like a Tibetan Lama’s, somber black, and a peaked hood of grey. The other was a slimmer younger figure, swathed in silken silvery veiling, with a thin opacity where the face should have been, and a sort of opalescent shine of flesh through the silvery-sapphire silks. The figure was that of a boy or a slim immature girl; it sat erect, motionless, and for a long time I studied it, curious, between half-opened lids. But when I blinked, it rose and passed through one of the multitudinous doors; at once a soft sibilance of draperies announced return. I sat up, getting my feet to the floor, or almost there; the bed was higher than a hospital bed. The blue-robe held a handled mug, like a baby’s drinking-cup, at me. I took it in my hand hesitated—

“Neither drug nor poison,” said the blue-robe mockingly, and the voice was as noncommittal as the veiled body; a sexless voice, soft alto, a woman’s or a boy’s. “Drink and be glad it is none of Karamy’s brewing.”

I tasted the liquid in the mug; it had an indeterminate greenish look and a faint pungent taste I could not identify, although it reminded me variously of anise and garlic. It seemed to remove the last traces of shock. I handed the cup back empty and looked sharply at the old man in the Lama costume.

“You’re—Rhys?” I said. “Where in hell have I gotten to?” At least, that’s what I meant to say. Imagine my surprise when I found myself asking—in a language I’d never heard, but understood perfectly—”To which of the domains of Zandru have I been consigned now?” At the same moment I became conscious of what I was wearing. It seemed to be an old-fashioned nightshirt, chopped off at the loins, deep crimson in color. “Red flannels yet!” I thought with a gulp of dismay. I checked my impulse to get out of bed. Who could act sane in a red nightshirt?

“You might have the decency to explain where I am,” I said. “If you know.”

The tiredness seemed part of Rhys voice. “Adric,” he said wearily. “Try to remember.” He shrugged his lean shoulders. “You are in your own Tower. And you have been under restraint again. I am sorry.” His voice sounded futile. I felt prickling shivers run down my backbone. In spite of the weird surroundings, the phrase “under restraint” had struck home. I was a lunatic in an asylum.

The blue-robed one cut in in that smooth, sexless, faint-sarcastic voice. “While Karamy holds the amnesia-ray, Rhys, you will be explaining it to him a dozen times a cycle. He will never be of use to us again. This time Karamy won. Adric; try to remember. You are at home, in Narabedla.”

I shook my head. Nightshirt or no nightshirt, I’d face this on my feet. I walked to Rhys; put my clenched hands on his shoulders. “Explain this! Who am I supposed to be? You called me Adric. I’m no more Adric than you are!”

“Adric, you are not amusing!” The blue-robe’s voice was edged with anger. “Use what intelligence you have left! You have had enough sharig antidote to cure a tharl. Now. Who are you?”

The words were meaningless. I stared, trapped. I clung to hold on to identity. “Adric—” I said, bewildered. That was my name. Was it? Wasn’t it? No. I was Mike Kenscott. Hang on to that. Two and two are four. The circumference equals the radius squared times pi. Four rulls is the chemming of twilp—stop that! Mike Kenscott. Summer 1954. Army serial number 13-48746. Karamy. I cradled my bursting head in my hands. “I’m crazy. Or you are. Or we’re both sane and this monkey-business is all real.”

“It is real,” said Rhys, compassion in his tired face. “He has been very far on the Time Ellipse, Gamine. Adric, try to understand. This was Karamy’s work. She sent you out on a time line, far, very far into the past. Into a time when the Earth was different—she hoped you would come back changed, or mad.” His eyes brooded. “I think she succeeded. Gamine, I have long outstayed my leave. I must return to my own tower—or die. Will you explain?”

“I will.” A hint of emotion flickered in the voice of Gamine. “Go, Master.”

Rhys left the room, through one of the doors. Gamine turned impatiently to me again. “We waste time this way. Fool, look at yourself!”

I strode to a mirror that lined one of the doors. Above the crimson nightshirt I saw a face—not my own. The sight rocked my mind. Out of the mirror a man’s face looked anxiously; a face eagle-thin, darkly moustached, with sharp green eyes. The body belonging to the face that was not mine was lean and long and strongly muscled—and not quite human. I squeezed my eyes shut. This couldn’t be—I opened my eyes. The man in the red nightshirt I was wearing was still reflected there.

I turned my back on the mirror, walking to one of the barred windows to look down on the familiar outline of the Sierra Madre, about a hundred miles away. I couldn’t have been mistaken. I knew that ridge of mountains. But between me and the mountains lay a thickly forested expanse of land which looked like no scenery I had ever seen in my life. I was standing near the pinnacle of a high tower; I dimly saw the curve of another, just out of my line of vision. The whole landscape was bathed in a curiously pinkish light; through an overcast sky I could just make out, dimly, the shadowy disk of a watery red sun. Then—no, I wasn’t dreaming, I really did see it—beyond it, a second sun; blue-white, shining brilliantly, pallid through the clouds, but brighter than any sunlight I had ever seen.

It was proof enough for me. I turned desperately to Gamine behind me. “Where have I gotten, to? Where—when am I? Two suns—those mountains—”

The change in Gamine’s voice was swift; the veiled face lifted questioningly to mine. What I had thought a veil was not that; it seemed to be more like a shimmering screen wrapped around the features so that Gamine was faceless, an invisible person with substance but no apprehensible characteristics. Yes, it was like that; as if there was an invisible person wearing the curious silken draperies. But the invisible flesh was solid enough. Hands like cold steel gripped my shoulders. “You have been back? Back to the days before the second sun? Adric, tell me; did Earth truly have but one sun?”

“Wait—” I begged. “You mean I’ve travelled in time?”

The exultation faded from Gamine’s voice imperceptibly. “Never mind. It is improbable in any case. No, Adric; not really travelling. You were only sent out on the Time Ellipse, till you contacted some one in that other Time. Perhaps you stayed in contact with his mind so long that you think you are he?”

“I’m not Adric—” I raged. “Adric sent me here—”

I saw the blurring around Gamine’s invisible features twitch in a headshake. “It’s never been proven that two minds can be interchanged like that. Adric’s body. Adric’s brain. The brain convolutions, the memory centers, the habit patterns—you’d still be Adric. The idea that you are someone else is only an illusion of your conscious mind. It will wear off.”

I shook my head, puzzled. “I still don’t believe it. Where am I?”

Gamine moved impatiently. “Oh, very well. You are Adric of Narabedla; and if you are sane again, Lord of the Crimson Tower. I am Gamine.” The swathed shoulders moved a little. “You don’t remember? I am a spell-singer.”

I jerked my elbow toward the window. “Those are my own mountains out there,” I said roughly. “I’m not Adric, whoever he is. My name’s Mike Kenscott, and your hanky-panky doesn’t impress me. Take off that veil and let me see your face.”

“I wish you meant that—” a mournfulness breathed in the soft contralto. A sudden fury blazed up in me from nowhere. “And what right have you to pry for that old fool Rhys? Get back to your own place, then, spell-singer—” I broke off, appalled. What was I saying? Worse, what did I mean by it? Gamine turned. The sexless voice was coldly amused. “Adric spoke then. Whoever sits in the seat of your soul, you are the same—and past redemption!” The robes whispered sibilantly on the floor as Gamine moved to the door. “Karamy is welcome to her slave!”

The door slammed.

Left alone, I flung myself down on the high bed, stubbornly concentrating on Mike Kenscott, shutting out the vague blurred mystery in my mind that was Adric impinging on consciousness. I was not Adric. I would not be. I dared not go to the window and look out at the terrifying two suns, even to see the reassurance of the familiar Sierra Madre skyline. A homesick terror was hurting in me.

But persistently the Adric memories came, a guilty feeling of a shirked duty, and a frightened face—a real face, not a blurred nothingness—beneath Gamine’s blue veils. Memories of strange hunts and a big bird on the pommel of a high saddle. A bird hooded like a falcon, in crimson.

Consciousness of dress made me remember the—nightshirt—I still wore. Moving swiftly, without conscious thought, I went to a door and slid it open; pulled out some garments and dressed in them. Every garment in the closet was the same color; deep-hued crimson. I glanced in the mirror and a phrase Gamine had used broke the surface of my mind like a leaping fish. “Lord of the Crimson Tower.” Well, I looked it. There had been knives and swords in the closet; I took out one to look at it, and before I realized what I was doing I had belted it across my hip. I stared, decided to let it remain. It looked all right with the rest of the costume. It felt right, too. Another door folded back noiselessly and a man stood looking at me.

He was young and would have been handsome in an effeminate way if his face had not been so arrogant. Lean, somehow catlike, it was easy to determine that he was akin to Adric, or me, even before the automatic habit of memory fitted name and identity to him. “Evarin,” I said, warily.

He came forward, moving so softly that for an uneasy moment I wondered if he had pads like a cat’s on his feet. He wore deep green from head to foot, similar to the crimson garments that clothed me. His face had a flickering, as if he could at a moment’s notice raise a barrier of invisibility like Gamine’s about himself. He didn’t look as human as I.

“I have seen Gamine,” he said. “She says you are awake, and as sane as you ever were. We of Narabedla are not so strong that we can afford to waste even a broken tool like you.”

Wrath—Adric’s wrath—boiled up in me; but Evarin moved lithely backward. “I am not Gamine,” he warned. “And I will not be served like Gamine has been served. Take care.”

“Take care yourself,” I muttered, knowing little else I could have said. Evarin drew back thin lips. “Why? You have been sent out on the Time Ellipse till you are only a shadow of yourself. But all this is beside the point. Karamy says you are to be freed, so the seals are off all the doors, and the Crimson Tower is no longer a prison to you. Come and go as you please. Karamy—” his lips formed a sneer. “If you call that freedom!”

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