The Castle Оf Hape. Caves Оf Fire Аnd Ice. The Joining Оf Тhe Stone

TWO

In the kitchen the open fire had just been fed, its flames blazed up, lighting the faces of the three frightened refugees clustered around it: a tall woman, a girl perhaps thirteen, and a very little girl who was being bathed by Dlos in the wooden tub. The woman was half-undressed and washing herself in some private ritual as if to wash away all that had been done to her. A dozen Carriolinian women were bustling about preparing food, bringing clean clothes. Skeelie knelt by the tub and took the little girl from Dlos as the old woman fetched her out. The child was covered with sores. Skeelie dried her, then began to dress her. “What is your name? Can you tell me your name?” The child would not speak. Her lank brown hair was dark from the tub.

“She is Ama,” said her older sister. “I am Merden.” Merden had a long, thin face and lank hair like her little sister. They both looked remarkably like their mother. Little Ama spoke then, softly against Skeelie’s shoulder. “Our sister Chanet is dead in the fire. Why is Chanet dead? Why did the Landmaster burn her?”

The older girl touched her little sister’s shoulder, stared unseeing at Skeelie with an expression that brought goose bumps. “Chanet was only . . . she was nine years old.”

When Ram came to stand in the doorway, the tall young woman glanced at him, then carelessly pulled clothes around her as if she had been exposed so often to male eyes that another pair made little difference. As if her ablutions were more immediate than modesty. Ram turned away until she was dressed, then came to speak to her. Skeelie watched him in silence. He’d never begin to heal if he didn’t stay in bed, he had no more business coming down here—no more sense than a chidrack sometimes. She stared pointedly at his bloody bandages. He ignored her.

Mawn Paula told Ram her story quickly and almost without expression, as if she held her emotions very taut within herself, afraid to let them go. She and her three little girls had been kneeling in temple when, in the middle of the ceremony, Venniver rose from the dais and came down among the benches. Without warning he reached across Ama and Merden and pulled Chanet from her seat, jerked her into the aisle and stood scowling down at her, his black beard bristling, his cold blue eyes piercing in their study of the child. The temple had been silent. Those in front had glanced behind them uneasily then stared forward again. Mawn had remained quiet, terrified for the child, fearful that the least motion, the least whisper from her would jeopardize Chanet further. After a long scrutiny, Venniver had forced the child before him up the aisle to the dais. Mawn had remained with great effort in her place. She had not let herself believe the truth, even then, that Venniver knew Chanet for a Seer, that he meant to kill her, to sacrifice her on the altar of fire, could not let herself believe it. It was only when Venniver forced Chanet with brutal blows to confess to Seer’s skills, that Mawn must believe. And even then she had sat frozen, terrified, as Venniver made the child climb the steps to the top of the dais.

When Venniver began to tie Chanet to the steel stake, Mawn had screamed and leaped up, had run to stop him, fighting the red-robed Deacons. They tried to hold her as she bit and scratched and hit out at them, finally they had her in a grip she could not break. Ama and Merden had fought fiercely, but at last all three were held immobile and forced to remain still as nine-year-old Chanet was burned to death in the flames of Venniver’s ceremonial fire as appeasement to the gods.

Skeelie heard the story, sick with revulsion. A child burned to death as appeasement. Appeasement to the gods. She lifted her eyes to Ram to see her hatred of Venniver reflected in his face, see her pain reflected there.

Mawn and the two girls had escaped Burgdeeth late at night while the guards sat drinking in the Hall. They slipped down into the tunnel as soon as it was dark, the secret tunnel that no one but a Seer could know of. Then they left the tunnel again well after midnight to make their way out of Burgdeeth in the sleeping, silent hours. They took little with them but some vegetables hastily pulled from the gardens and a waterskin they had found in the tunnel.

Ram listened intently to this, and Skeelie nearly wept, so thankful was she now for the painful years her brother Jerthon had spent digging that tunnel secretly beneath Venniver’s very nose while he was held as Venniver’s slave.

“And then you were captured by the Kubalese?” Ram said.

“Yes, in the hills,” Mawn said. “We were digging roots.”

“It must have been bad.”

“Yes. It was bad.”

“Will you tell me what the Kubalese stockade is like? Will you tell me as much as you can about their camp?”

“The stockade is like houses for chidrack, thick boards with space between and the roof is the same so rain comes in. The soldiers watch you undress, do—do everything. The boards are far too thick to break without tools. The herd animals are in pens close by. You are fed once a day on gruel and stale water. We were . . . we were sick much of the time. The guards . . . they didn’t open the gate, they just shoved the food through. A girl . . . she was the leader’s daughter, though he treats her badly. She slipped extra food to us and fresh water. She helped us to escape. Ama and Merden, when we were away, both knew that she was beaten for what she did.”

“It was,” Merden said, “as if the thing that kept us from Seeing opened out all at once and we could See. All—all of a sudden. We—we didn’t want to see that. We didn’t want to see her father beat her.”

Ram stared at her. Her voice seemed to fuzz so he could barely understand her. He was growing weak, the room swam, seemed hazy around him. The pain and bleeding were worse. “Were you—were you the only captives?”

She hesitated at his obvious discomfort, then continued. “There were many captives. When—when Telien freed us she had the key for only a minute, when her father left it by the water trough as he ran to catch a loose horse. He had been—in our pen, making . . . been in our pen. Telien unlocked the lock then slipped it round so it looked locked. She whispered for us to wait until dark. She put the key back before he returned, and there was no time to free the others.

“We got out after dark and went up into the hills, then we came south and east until we saw the little settlements and knew we must be in Carriol.”

The mention of the girl Telien made a disquiet in Skeelie, though she could not think why. She had never heard of Telien, knew nothing of such a girl. But her uneven Seer’s sense reached out now to concern itself with this girl so suddenly and with such distress that Skeelie trembled. She did not understand what she felt, knew only that she was suddenly and inexplicably uneasy.

Merden turned from combing her little sister’s hair. “Telien—Telien told us about Carriol.” She stared at Ram. ‘Telien spoke of you, of Ramad of the wolves . . .

Skeelie stiffened.

Merden smiled, a faint, uncertain smile. “Telien said that you would care for us, that we could make a new life here, that all who want freedom can. She spoke of the leader Jerthon, too, and of a world—a world very different from what we have known.”

Skeelie hardly heard the child for the unease and pounding in her heart. Yet she had no reason to feel anything for a girl from Kubal. What was the matter with her? She was almost physically sick with the sense of the girl.

Merden said quietly, “Telien said the leaders of Carriol were close to the gods. That you—that you have more powers than we do. That maybe you will be able to stop the killing in Burgdeeth.” She looked at Ram with such trust that he wanted to turn from her—or shout at her. Mawn, seeing his look, whispered diffidently, “Telien told us you command—command the great wolves that live in the Ring of Fire.”

“No one . . .” Ram said, wincing, “no one commands the great wolves. They—they are my friends. My brothers.”

Skeelie said uneasily, angrily, “If a girl of Kubal know such things, surely she is a Seer.” What was wrong with her, why was she bristling so?

“No,” Mawn said, “Telien is not a Seer. She learned what she knows of Carriol, of you, from the other captives. From Carriol’s settlers taken captive. They say Carriol is the only place of freedom in all of Ere.”

Later, when Ram had allowed himself to be helped upstairs by two of his men coming in to raid the larder Skeelie asked Merden the question that would not let her be. “What is she like? What is this Telien like?” And whet Merden looked back at her, that serious, thin, child’s face quietly reflecting, then described Telien, Skeelie could not admit to herself the terrible sudden shock that gripped her.

“Telien has pale, long hair. She is slight and she—she is beautiful.”

Skeelie stared, stricken. “And—and her eyes are green, are they not? Green eyes like the sea.”

“Yes. That is Telien.” Merden watched Skeelie, puzzling. She said nothing more. Perhaps she saw in Skeelie’s face, heard in her questions, more than Skeelie intended to show.

And Skeelie stood remembering bitterly and clearly that moment when she and Ram had, as children, stood inside the mountain Tala-charen, had felt time warp, had seen those ghostly figures appear suddenly out of time, seen the pale-haired, green-eyed girl stare at Ram with such eager recognition, with a terrible longing as if she would cross the chasm of time to Ram or die.

Was Telien that girl? Was she here now, in Ram’s own time? But this time had been only a dim, unformed future when Ram was eight. This time had not yet happened. How could—She broke off her thoughts, her head spinning.

He had never forgotten that girl. Never. Though he had never once spoken of her.

Was Telien that girl? Had she lived in this time? Had she traveled backward in Time to the long ago day when Ram was nine? Was she here in this time, and would Ram find her? Skeelie turned away. Had the thing that she had dreaded so long at last come to pass? She went from the kitchen in silence.

She went down through the town to the stables, got a horse, and rode out along the sea at a high, fast gallop that left her horse spent, and at last, left her a little easier in herself. If this was Ram’s love, come to claim him, then she must learn to live with it just as she had lived with the knowledge that one day it would surely happen.

*

It was not until four days later, in the middle of the simple worship ceremony in the citadel, that Skeelie’s brother Jerthon returned from the battle in the north, coming quickly into citadel in his sweaty fighting leathers. A ripple of welcome went through the citadel, through the singing choir, and Skeelie wanted to run to him. She found it hard to keep singing as he sat down heavily in the back row next to Ram. Jerthon leaned against the stone wall as if he were very tired, stared up at the light-washed ceiling, and seemed to listen to the hush of the sea, to listen in sudden peace to the choir’s rising voices.

The citadel was the largest hall in the honeycombed natural stone tower that had once been the city of the gods. Here in the citadel the winged gods and the winged horses of Eresu had come together for companionship; a meeting place, a place of solace and joy where the outcast Seers had come too, in gentle friendship. A place where the moving light, cast across the ceiling by the ever-rolling sea, seemed to hold sacred meaning; and the cresting sea made a gentle thunder like a constant heartbeat. Skeelie saw Jerthon lift his chin in that familiar sigh, then turn to stare at Ram, saw Ram speak.

Ram stared at Jerthon for a long solemn moment, then grinned. Jerthon’s appearance in the citadel so suddenly was like the sun coming out. Not dead, not lying wounded in some field, but strolling nonchalantly into the citadel in the middle of the service. Ram wanted to shout and throw his arms around Jerthon. He cuffed him lightly. “Your face is dirty. You could do with a bath. Was it bad in the north?”

“Yes, bad.” There was a deep cut across Jerthon’s chin and neck. His red hair, darker than Ram’s, was pale with chalky dust. He was quiet as usual, contemplative. Had learned to be, with half his life spent in slavery to the tyrant Venniver. Had learned not to be hot-headed as Ram still was sometimes. Jerthon’s voice showed the strain of the last days. “We lost near twenty men, lost horses. The Kubalese took captives heavy in Blackcob, took men, women and children—took most of the horses roped together, and the captives made to run before them.” His jaw muscles were tight, his eyes hard. “We relied too long on the skills of Seeing, Ram, and now we are crippled without them. Our scouts saw too little, our border guards did not sense the Herebian scouts or the Herebian bands slipping in. Oh, we routed those that didn’t go riding off with captives and stolen horses before we could rally ourselves. They set on us in waves, there must have been bands from half a dozen Herebian strongholds. Raiders creeping out like rats to snatch and kill and disappear. And something—” Jerthon stared at Ram with a barely veiled slash of fear in his eyes. “Something rides with them, Ram. Something more than the dark we know, something . . . dense. Like an impossible weight on your mind so the Seeing is torn from you and your very sanity near torn from you.”

“Yes. I know that feeling. I had it too. We all did.”

“We must never again—never—allow our senses to be so dulled by reliance on Seeing alone. We must guard against that. We must train against it.”

“Yes. I know we must.”

Jerthon pushed back a lock of red hair so violently that a cloud of the white dust rose to drift in motes on the still citadel air. “I think the hordes will not march here, though I’ve given orders for double guard and for mounts kept ready.” He grew silent, as if he were drawn away. The choir’s voices rose to hit along the ceiling like the wash of sea light.

“. . . faith then, faith in men then, faith to do then, faith to be . . .” rising higher and higher, Skeelie’s voice clearly discernible now; but now that song seemed a joke in the face of the murder Jerthon had witnessed.

Ram hardly heard the voices that rang across the cave. He sat looking inward at his own failure. For if they had the whole runestone of Eresu in their possession, they could easily defeat the dark. That round jade sphere, which he had held in his hands, carried power enough to defeat every evil Seer in Ere.

He had held it, seen it shatter asunder, seen its shards disappear from his open palm—seen those shards vanish out of Time into the hands of others, mysterious figures come out of Time in that instant.

He had returned to Jerthon with one small shard of jade. That shard, that bit of the runestone, was now the only force beyond their Seer’s skills with which they could battle the dark.

That moment would burn forever in his mind. He had felt the earth rock, felt Time warp and come together, was shaken by thunder as Time spun to become a vortex out of Time. He had stood helplessly as the stone turned white hot and shattered in his hands. And something of himself had gone then, too. He had known, since that time, an oppressive loss, a loss he did not really understand.

He and Skeelie had come down out of the mountain Tala-charen the next morning to make their way across unknown valleys to meet Jerthon and Tayba, meet all those who had escaped from Burgdeeth and Venniver’s enslavement.

He had placed the jade shard in Jerthon’s hand, and Jerthon had looked down at him—a tall, red-headed Seer staring down at a nine-year-old boy who had so recently seen his dreams, his hope for Ere, shatter. Jerthon had read the two runes inscribed on the jade; “Eternal—will sing,” then had looked hard at Ram. “Did it sing, Ram?”

“If you call thunder a song. But where—the other parts . . . ?”

“It went into Time, and that is all we can know. Now, in each age from which those Children came, Time will warp again, once, in the same way.”

Ram stared at the choir unseeing, shutting their voices from his mind. Could he have prevented the shattering of the stone? And if he had prevented it, what would have happened differently these past twelve years?

They had begun their journey that morning from the wild mountain lands above Burgdeeth to Carriol, and to Jerthon’s home. Carriol then was a collection of small crofts and farms, of peaceful men and women holding their freedom stubbornly against the ever-threatening Herebian bands. Joyful, vigorous men and women ready always to battle for their hard-won freedom.

Now, twelve years later, Carriol was a nation. With the easy cooperation between the Carriolinian Seers and those who came from slavery in Burgdeeth, with an easy-open council, they had welded Carriol into a strong, cohesive country. The few crofts at the foot of the ruins had grown into a town. The ready bands that had ridden to defend neighbors’ lands had grown into four fierce, well-disciplined battalions of fighting men backed by women who were equally skillful at arms.

And as Carriol grew stronger, the wrath of the Pellian Seers had grown. The Pellian, BroogArl, had drawn the evil Seers of all nations into an increasingly malevolent unity directed toward Carriol, a unity of dark that breathed hate poisonous as vipers upon the air of that rising free land, rose in increasing anger that Carriol was a sanctuary where men could come in need to escape the evils of the dark Seers, and that Carriol was becoming too strong to attack.

All the political intrigue and manipulating among small-minded leaders in other countries that so increased the lack of freedom of an unwitting populace, all the atrocities done to common men for the pleasure and diversion of those leaders as their evil lust began to feed on itself—all of this was threatened if fearful serfs could escape to Carriol and be protected there.

There had been a great, concerted effort by Ere’s dark Seers to bring all the nations but Carriol under one iron-gloved rule, one dark entity that could devour Carriol: a war-hungry giant that could crush her. The Seers of Carriol had so far prevented that, with the help of the runestone. But if they had had the whole stone, had held that great power, what more could they have done?

Surely they would have prevented—made impossible—the burning of a Seeing child in Venniver’s fires.

Ram glanced at Jerthon and found him scowling. He touched Jerthon’s arm, seeking for some silent contact, but caught only a fleeting sense of unease, nothing more.

Jerthon loosed his leather tunic, looked as if he would like to pull off his boots. “Lieutenant Prail told me the winged ones pulled you out of that bloody trap in the south.” He stared at Ram. “The horses of Eresu did not come near us, we did not see them or feel their presence. It seems to me something goes on with them, but I can’t make out what—as if there is fear among them. I think that evil stalks the winged ones just as evil stalks us. Only once did we hear their voices in our minds for a moment—beseeching voices laced with fear. Then the silence returned.”

Ram shifted, easing the strain on his wound. It itched abominably now that it had started to heal. “The golden mare who brought me had a sadness about her. Also, Jerthon, something is amiss with them, as well as with the world of men.”

Jerthon stared across the citadel to where Skeelie stood tall in the choir, the sun striking her robe. His sister sang as if her whole soul were lifted and buoyed by the music. He said, with more heart, “I ride in a few hours to rescue the captives taken in the north; I came back only to get fresh mounts and more men. Arben’s battalion rides north of Blackcob now. They will wait for us just below the mountains, to come on the Kubalese camp from high ground. I ride south, and those few men left in Blackcob ride out direct over the hills eastward. We will come upon Kubal from three sides. But there . . . I think there is someone in the Kubalese camp who is in sympathy with us. I had only a fleeting feel of it, but perhaps he can help us if we can summon the power to reach him. It would be good to have a spy inside to loose horses, cut saddle bands and otherwise cripple the Kubalese.”

Ram felt a strange sense stir him, an unfamiliar excitement. He paused, feeling outward, but could make nothing of it; and it was gone so quickly. He brought himself back to Jerthon. “Yes—perhaps I know of whom you speak.” What was this pounding of his pulse? “Perhaps I know, for we have had news of Kubal . . .” And the very word Kubal seemed to speak to him in some way; but he could make nothing of it. He reached out, tried to sense whatever it was, and could not, frowned, irritated himself. “There are captives from Kubal come three days ago, brought in by wagon from Folkstone. They escaped from Burgdeeth after a child was—burned to death in Venniver’s sacrificial flames.”

“You . . .” Jerthon stared at him. “It has begun, then. The burning has begun.”

“Yes. What we feared has begun.” Ram looked away toward the portal. This defeat, on top all the rest, was nearly unbearable. Well, it must be told. Jerthon waited to hear. He sighed, continued.

“The mother and the child’s two sisters escaped through the tunnel, then later were captured by the Kubalese as they dug roots in the hills. They were helped to escape Kubal by a young girl—the Kubalese leader’s daughter, they said.” And again that strange excitement swept him, a sharp sense of anticipation. “The girl is AgWurt’s daughter, but they said she brought extra food and water to them, helped them. Perhaps it is she you touched, perhaps she . . .” Why did the very mention of the girl unnerve him? “If she could help us . . .”

“Perhaps. We can try.” Jerthon sat hunched, scowling. Then at last, “The burning of a child should never have occurred. We have waited too long. Curse the Pellian Seers, curse the blindness they put on us!”

Ram shifted, easing his wound. “I ride tonight to carry out the plan we made long ago. I ride for Eresu to speak with the gods, to beg their help in stopping Venniver.”

Jerthon stared at him. “With that wound? You can’t ride alone with that wound. We will go this night.”

“You are committed to meet Arben.”

“There are lieutenants who can—”

Ram shook his head. “It would be foolish for us to be together. And the runestone . . .”

“Tayba will guard the runestone well and use it if it is needed.”

“Do you trust my mother, Jerthon, even yet? After her treachery against you in Burgdeeth?”

Jerthon gave him a look that withered him. “That was twelve years back, lad! She has proven—since that time—her quality. You know I trust her—more than trust her. And she . . . Tayba has the most skill with the stone. A traitor, Ram—a traitor turned to love the cause he betrayed is often the steadiest of all.” He paused as the choir’s voices rose . . .

They touch the star. The force of Waytheer

Brings us closer, gods and men.

Ynell’s true Children never waver,

Though falter, Seers dark with lusting,

Falter you.

The voices echoed against the cadence of the pounding sea. Jerthon said quietly, “What makes us really believe the gods will help us in curbing Venniver’s lust for the burning of children?”

“. . . Falter, Seers dark with lusting, Falter you . . .”

“The gods must help. Even if they have never helped men except to offer sanctuary, even if their beliefs say that to help is to tamper with the natural conditions of men, still this time, Jerthon, they must! I will—somehow I will—see that they do. If—if they are truly gods they . . .”

“I have no patience with that old discussion!” Jerthon wiped dust from his cheek with the back of his hand. “It means nothing. Anyway it makes no difference, true gods or not, they are capable of helping—if they will.”

“. . . Falter, Seers dark with lusting, Falter you. . .”

Jerthon looked at him for a long moment. “It is up to you, then, Ramad of wolves.”

The last stanza died echoing inside the citadel, the last tones rising and lingering against the pounding heartbeat of the sea. Ram and Jerthon rose as one and left the citadel. Skeelie stared after them and knew from the look of them they would both be off on some wild business, and bit her lip in anger. Damn the Pellian Seers! Damn this ugly, useless, harassing, small-minded, terrifying war!