The Ring Оf Fire. The Wolf Bell

TWENTY

Zephy woke cold and stiff from sleeping on the stone floor. She could not tell whether it was night or day. The constant darkness of the cave depressed and upset her. She had awakened several times, longing to see daylight. She rose and went into a side corridor, where there were several holes in the cave ceiling to let in air, and stared up at the barely light sky. The cold, predawn air felt so good. She had a terrible desire to leave the cave and run across the hills, free.

Instead she hunkered down against the stone wall, waiting for some sign of life from the others, thinking that otter-herb tea would taste wonderful, wishing she could wash herself properly.

None of them had wanted to sleep on the stone slabs. Certainly the Children who had been drugged had not. They had all chosen the floor instead, with Tra. Hoppa and two of the women occupying the bunks in the brewing room. Thorn had brought Tra. Hoppa and the baby down, and Showpa had taken to Bibb at once, relieving Tra. Hoppa of him.

But now, instead of Bibb, Tra. Hoppa had Nia Skane and the two little boys from Burgdeeth to look after. All three children had been found in a deep, nearly closed tunnel with a supply of watered MadogWerg so diluted that they were semi-conscious. They lay bound, with their drug-water in bottles beside them, being used in some terrible experiment that sickened Zephy. Thorn thought it had been done to see at what level of consciousness these three young ones would keep themselves voluntarily, when the drug in the sweetened liquid was all the food or drink they had. Tra. Hoppa had taken them at once into her own care, until she fell asleep from exhaustion. No one realized, perhaps, what a toll the journey had taken of her. She had looked tired and drawn when Thorn brought her in.

Now, with twelve Children awakened from the drug, they should surely be able to wake the others. But Zephy felt an unease all the same, for the sense of evil that clung about the caves had not diminished as the Children were awakened one by one. On the contrary, the feel of dark had increased. They all felt it, the sense of dark they had touched from afar, now grown strong all around them. Why? Why? She scowled, perplexed and frightened, and found she was clenching her hands so tight they had gone quite numb.

She rose at last when she heard others stirring, and went to the brewing room to make zayn tea. And all through the day and the next day as the remaining Children were found and awakened from the drug, she puzzled over the feel of the foreboding that lay rank as a bad smell upon the caves. But it was not until she found Meatha at last that she felt the darkness surround and touch her like a live thing.

She had discovered Meatha quite unexpectedly, after she had nearly given up hope, in a crevice so deep she might well have missed her. As Zephy stood staring, then knelt so the candlelight fell full on Meatha’s face, she could see no indication of life, nor could she feel the sense of life that had come from the others. Furiously, she tried to force her own sense of living into Meatha, her terror making her frantic. She poured every ounce of her strength into the pale girl, but the darkness gripped Zephy and held her, and seemed to swing a curtain between herself and Meatha; and she could do nothing.

When Toca found her, she was close to tears and exhaustion, and she thought she had lost Meatha.

Toca came to her silently and stood quiet for a time. She was so preoccupied she paid no attention to him. Then slowly she began to sense a kind of animal need and possessiveness coming from the little boy, something quite beyond her own power, and directed at Meatha. Something so basic and simple—like a baby demanding its mother’s attention with righteous fury. She drew her own thoughts back and waited, letting Toca take hold as he would.

She sensed, as his very spirit gripped into Meatha, that part of what he was doing he had learned from the baby, from Bibb, that demanding, uncompromising indignation; and that part of it was from his own experience. He was still so close to babyhood that he could more easily bring it forth: a charged, young-animal insistence to life that could not be ignored.

Nor was it ignored. For at last, where Zephy’s strongest efforts had failed, Toca’s were responded to. Zephy felt the darkness drawing back, knew that it was being held off; and finally Meatha opened her eyes, staring blankly.

Zephy, shaken, could have wept over Toca. She took his hand in her own and knew that he was complete and special, and admired him—and let him know that she did.

When Meatha was able to rise, able to walk supported by them both, she clung to them as if the very touch of something living was necessary to nurture the flow of her own life forces. As if she had been very close, indeed, to dying. When she had been fed in that dormitory that the brewing room had become, leaning against Tra. Hoppa, taking a hesitant spoonful at a time, she was stronger. She and Zephy looked at each other silently, and a lifetime seemed to have passed. Truly a resurrection of life had taken place and neither could speak of it; and the strangenesses that lay between them brought them closer. For fear bound them; the gift of Ynell bound them; the darkness bound them.

Before the last Children were awakened from the drug, Thorn began to post guards—Children made well and willing to remain at the farther reaches of the tunnels, away from distractions of the mind, to sense anyone coming. above on the hills. But no one came, they were not disturbed; and finally Thorn wondered if the three soldiers—the two dead and the one still captive—had not been set to live here alone for a very long time indeed.

The bound Kubalese refused to talk. He would not give them any idea of when more guards were due or from what direction. When Thorn questioned him about the feeling of evil, of dark, he would only stare as if he didn’t understand. He accepted food grudgingly but told them nothing, so that Thorn half wished they had killed the man after all and saved the trouble. To pity the Kubalese, the drug giver, would have been hypocritical to Thorn, as it was not to Elodia, who felt some strange human kindness for the captive.

It was Elodia, though, who to save the others danger had successfully shielded her thoughts, taken a knife, and crept out into the night with Toca, through the hillside door. They went alone to locate a band of horses that Toca sensed, grazing untended, to the south. The little boy would have gone by himself, recklessly. They returned with the news of a small band of Kubalese horses and a wagon at what appeared to be an iron ore depot. And, a fact that shook them all, two smaller Carriolinian mares, butternut, all butternut. This news made them renew their search for Anchorstar, though he could not be sensed. Why had they felt him before they ever reached the caves, but not now? Their efforts brought an increased feel of evil only, an aura of malignancy. Their great fear was that, drugged and perhaps unfed, Anchorstar had died. Or that he had been deliberately killed, as too threatening in some way.

“I could not sense him here when we came to the caves,” Meatha said. “We could feel nothing but the evil. But we could feel no Children either, though we knew they were here. You saw them in your visions but we never did, we only had the knowledge of them. Maybe you did because you had the stone. When we came, there was just the feel of evil. And then almost at once a dozen Kubalese soldiers were around us, forcing us down to drink of the drug, making us swallow, holding our mouths open and pouring it so we choked—and they laughed, they were doing that to us and laughing. We could not resist them. Then afterwards I wanted the drug. I wanted it again and again,” she said, ashamed. “And when I was in that sleep, I didn’t care about Anchorstar, about anything. I—I wanted him to be like us . . .” She hid her face in her hands, torn with sobs.

“But I don’t understand,” Zephy said. “What made you come here from Eresu? Why didn’t the Children come before, if they knew about the captive Children?”

“They didn’t know. They could only feel the darkness, the danger. They don’t know everything, even in Eresu. They felt the evil, but they didn’t know what it was, where it was.

“But when you drew near Eresu on the mountain, I could sense you. I knew I had left the runestone for you to find, and now I began to feel that you had it. As you came nearer I began to see you sometimes. It was only after we began to sense you and the strength of the stone, that we began to feel that the darkness came from these hills in the south, and that there were Children here. It was as if before, with the Children drugged, there was nothing strong enough to reach out to us. The drugged Children were as dead; there was nothing in them to reach out and echo in our own thoughts. Perhaps when the runestone was closer, and magnified it, the sense of them in the darkness was clear.

“And then it seemed to me all at once that it was Anchorstar, too, who led us. Suddenly I could feel him here in the south. Maybe he had just been brought here as captive, I don’t know. But all at once, there was the presence of Anchorstar in my thoughts and of Children in danger, Children sleeping, drugged. It was all around us suddenly, and we started out at once. I know Anchorstar was here. But when we came into the cave there was only the darkness again.” She pressed her fist to her mouth. “We must find him. Have you searched everywhere? But you can’t have.”

“We have,” Zephy said. “But we’ll search again.”

They set about it systematically, each person taking a tunnel, scraping at the walls, examining the stone for loose mortar on the chance that there lay, behind a wall, a tunnel they had not discovered. Still there was the feel of dark around them, indecipherable, threatening.

“He must be very special,” Yanno Krabe said, looking down at Meatha as they sat at supper, “a very special man.” Tall, dark-haired Yanno had taken to Meatha at once, had followed her since she awakened, seemed to idolize her so that the others smiled a little, watching them, feeling his eager worship.

“Anchorstar is very special,” Meatha said. “He is . . . If it were not for Anchorstar, you would have died here; all of us would.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because it was Anchorstar who told us what the Kubalese had in mind, what they were doing. It was Anchorstar who determined to search for you and to get the others away from Burgdeeth. And then it was Anchorstar’s message that told us of the danger and drew us here. He, and the sense of darkness that we felt.”

Zephy watched them and thought Yanno a handsome boy. But he was too worshipping, his mind too full of Meatha. She tried to keep her thoughts private, a thing she was learning was very necessary with so many living close together. Necessary and difficult. They all tried to shut away and not intrude on each other, but sometimes it could not be helped. Now she saw a slight twitch come to Yanno’s eyebrow and thought, guiltily, that he knew of her disgust. She glanced up and knew her thoughts had been open to Thorn. He grinned. And later when they were alone he said, “Wouldn’t you like a pandering man to follow you around making cow eyes?”

“Oh, yes,” she bantered, “would you care to do that? I would like . . .” But he didn’t need to be told what she liked. She stared at him and suddenly the emotion that had grown between them rose like a quick tide so she glanced down hastily. “Cow eyes,” she said with distaste, to hide her own confusion. “Thorn, do you think he felt my thought?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter.” He put his hand on her shoulder, leaned to kiss her, and their minds met in a tide so sweet, so engulfing that she could not pull away, felt lost in him as if they were one. He kissed her and held her, and when they parted they were together still in their minds. And they thought, How can we be like this, be so happy when Anchorstar may be lost.

They had tried not to think he could be dead. If Anchorstar was dead, if there was no point in searching further, they should all be away at once. For surely other Kubalese would come. And yet they could not bring themselves to abandon the search.

“The not knowing about Anchorstar keeps us here so we may never get out,” she said miserably. “It’s as if the very thought of him puts us in danger . . .” Then she broke off and stared at Thorn, appalled at herself. “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way, not really, not like it sounded.

“Or did I mean it?’ Oh, Thorn, did I? I’m so tired, my mind is so tired trying to revive the Children: trying . . . I think what I mean is, if we don’t get out now, will we ever be able to? Will we just grow weaker and tireder until—until the dark—until the dark . . .” She shuddered, collapsing in tears suddenly. And she knew only that he held her, was stronger at that moment, as she clutched at him as a drowning person would clutch. She cried in great heaving gulps, couldn’t stop, and when the tears went dry at last, she gasped and gasped for breath, heaving, panic taking her. . . .

He slapped her, set her reeling. He caught her against falling, pulled her to him, and held her so her sobs subsided at last. How could he remain so strong?

“Another time,” he said softly. “Another time, it’ll be me falling apart and you to hold me. The way you brought me out of Anchorstar’s wagon, with my festering leg. One will always have the strength for both when it is needed—one, we are one . . .” And he kissed her then so there was no darkness, there was nothing save themselves in a perfect sphere of time.

Then at last he lifted her face from his sodden tunic and kissed her again. “Now,” he said as she stared up at him, “now we have work to do. We must find him, Zephy. We must find Anchorstar before we leave this place.”

*

But it was not until there was danger on the hills that Anchorstar was found.

For suddenly in the night the Children who stood sentry both below and above sensed Kubalese soldiers on the move. The destination of the riders was uncertain. If they were to come to the caves, the caves must be cleared. The Kubalese rode hard, were tired, wanting rest. But they could rest on the hills . . . it was not certain . . .

The riders came up the flat valley at dawn, toward the hills, a dozen armed men. As they approached the caves, they slowed. Yes, the cave was their destination, it could be felt now, their thirst for liquor, their longing for hot food. A longing, too, for sport that made the Children look at each other and shiver.

In the cave the brewing room was left as it had been found, dice sticks scattered, bunks rumpled, smelly clothes on pegs, dirty plates. Some of the Children went back to the slabs where they had lain drugged so long, and laid down on them once again, going quite still when they heard the soldiers. The rest moved together into three short corridors near the cave’s entrance, and there they waited silently. They had left the captive guard, drugged with MadogWerg, lying on his own bunk looking drunk. They left food on the cookstove, aromatic and hot and laced with MadogWerg. And the liquor cask waited invitingly.

If Thorn had a twinge of revulsion at giving MadogWerg to anyone, even Kubalese, he put it down. He took Zephy’s hand in the darkness and knew she, too, wondered if they sinned, doing such a thing. Then he felt her resolve as she thought of the Children like living dead who had lined the walls of the tunnel.

They could sense the Kubalese outside, dismounting, hobbling their horses, ducking as they came through the low tunnel, hot and tired. They could smell their sweat as they lumbered past shouting for the Kubalese guards.

“Ag-Labba! Ag-Labba, rouse your filthy soul, you worthless Karrach! Fill the mugs, fire the stew pot, you’ve a crew here starving and lusty!”

“Sewers of Urdd, it’s a dark and stinking place!”

“Bleed it, man, bleed it! Roll out a new keg, we’ve had no drink in a dog’s tracking time, you suckers!”

“Bring ogre’s breath, you sons of Urdd! Roll out the ogre’s breath!” There was coarse laughter and much stamping, and a loud guffaw that ended in a belch.

Zephy felt Thorn laugh at their crudeness, then felt the cold fear they both shared with the others as seven Children slipped out the entrance behind them, to lead the Kubalese horses away quietly. Zephy sensed the care the Children took as they loosened the horse’s saddles, cooled them, watered them, and took them to graze and rest on the hills—it might be a long night for these mounts.

Then Zephy felt Elodia touch her in the darkness, felt the alarm of the others suddenly. Something was in the tunnel with them. It was the darkness they had sensed so often; but it was close now, not held back. Very close and real, and one of the Children was slipping away. The dark was there, concentrated in that one, they could feel it now as if, in unusual effort, the dark Child could not keep his evil diffused. Who was he? Which one of them? Zephy could feel Toca’s fear. She slipped out behind Thorn after the dark one. She could feel Meatha and Elodia beside her. Toca took her hand. She could feel Clytey and the others following.

They could hear the soldiers in the brewing room, grumbling because two guards were missing. “Where the fracking Urdd . . . ?”

“Dallying with the sleeping girls, I’ll guess! Ag-Labba! Rouse your filthy self. Poke him, Herg-Mord. Roll him out of that bunk!”

“Get up you fracking sot. Serve us up some supper. Pull yourself out of there!”

Behind the shouting Zephy and Thorn could feel the urgency of the Child who hurried through the dark passage, could feel the warning forming on his lips. Thorn was ahead, running, Zephy on his heels. They could hear the mugs clink, then Yanno shout—and Thorn had him, his fist in the young man’s mouth, his arm around his throat; it was Yanno! He spun back, his eyes terrified, the feel of darkness like a stench on him, to stare at Thorn in terror, then to grab at Thorn’s knife and twist it out of the scabbard.

Thorn hit him so he went limp.

They crouched there, listening, expecting the Kubalese to burst out of the brewing room. But the men were still cursing the missing guards, toasting each other loudly, laughing and swearing by turns. They had heard nothing.

They dragged Yanno into a side tunnel to question him, and Zephy could feel Thorn’s fury as he propped him against the wall. “Where is he?” He hissed, his fingers twisting into the man’s shoulder so Yanno cringed in pain. “Where is Anchorstar? What have you done with him?”

But Yanno, limp now with fear and pain, seemed to have gone as empty as a shell. No evil reeked from him now. Only fear. He would not answer Thorn. He seemed to have drawn into a place where Thorn could not reach him. He had given up, yet at the same time he clung to something that would not let him speak. Zephy felt that he would die soon, that they could not prevent it, that he would carry Anchorstar’s secret with him.

Then at last Meatha went into his mind in a way the others had not. She seemed suddenly able to strip away layers of emptiness and lay bare, at long last, the final dark kernel of Yanno—to lay bare the knowledge they had sought.

And they, going at once back to the entrance of the tunnel and through the cleft to the outside, found the second cleft, tucked behind the first like a wrinkle in the earth. And Thorn pushed in to find the second door.

This one seemed locked or bolted from within. Finally it gave slightly as if the bolt was weakening. Or as if the door was not bolted, but held. They pushed harder, ramming the door in unison until at last it gave and swung in. Two boys stood before them, the reek of evil strong about them. Yanno’s counterparts. Yanno’s dark partners, Children lost in their minds and turned inward around a kernel of evil that now ruled them.

And behind them on the slab lay Anchorstar.

Hardly a heartbeat had he. Zephy and Meatha knelt beside him, and Elodia brought water. Thorn, with Yanno dangling from his grasp, faced the two dark Children coldly. “Yanno. Ejon. Dowilg,” Thorn said in a flat voice, divining their names. The stench of their evil filled the cave. The three stared back at Thorn with empty, hate-ridden eyes. The other Children faced them in a circle, a small cold army. Zephy shuddered, and turned back to Anchorstar.

Meatha’s arms were around him, Meatha’s tears on his face. Then Tra. Hoppa was there, she had brought herbs and brew. But they could not wake him.

“He only sleeps,” Tra. Hoppa said. “He only sleeps, he’s not dead. You must wake him. You must make a strength between you that you have never made before, all of you. You must not let Anchorstar die!” Her voice rang cold and compelling in the cave: a command they could not have resisted. The Children, having trussed and secured the dark ones, gathered now, and commanded life, demanded life of Anchorstar as they had not done even for one another. They strained, they sweated with their effort as a man sweats moving boulders.

But they could not wake him. There was no stir, no sign of color or of change in his almost-imperceptible breathing—until at last, the prisoners were taken away and the darkness left the cave. The evil left with them, left the Children free to demand life of Anchorstar without the fetters that Yanno and the two others had put on them.

At long last, after many hours more, Anchorstar moved his hand. Then later his pale, weathered cheek seemed to have a little color. They knelt then, all of them, never moving, willing him to live. When it was clear that he would live, some of the children went to clear the brewing room of the drugged Kubalese soldiers, and Tra. Hoppa made a broth of rabbit, with the herbs. In the small hours of the morning Anchorstar was able, with his head supported, to accept a few drops of this. His eyes were open but dead-seeming. It tore at Zephy to see the blankness with which he regarded them.

They kept the stone beside him as they watched in shifts through the day and the next day and night. The deep, patient prodding was taken up by one group then the next, never ceasing.

And when he woke truly at last, and looked around him, the others who had gone to rest woke at once, were called out of sleep, and came to him. Meatha was there kneeling beside him, crying. Toca, all the Children hurried out of sleep to gather before him. With their silent urging, with the stone and with love pulling at him, Anchorstar looked around him at last with true recognition. With surprise. And then with great good humor.

It was several days more before he was strong enough to travel. Fresh rabbits boiled into soup strengthened him, and all the Children took turns caring for him. When Zephy sat with him one night, he told her how he had been captured, and she thought him very patient, for surely he had told many of the others. He had waited in the dark beyond the housegardens as they had planned, on the night of Fire Scourge. And he had been surprised as he crouched there in a low depression to hear a dozen Kubalese troops suddenly thundering down on him. They had not seen him, but were following the plan of attack. And he, having no way to escape running horses, for his own horses were farther up the mountain, had crouched lower, hoping he would not be discovered.

But one Kubalese horse had shied, startling others, and one of the soldiers dismounted to investigate. Anchorstar did not dare move, but remained frozen, hoping still he might be missed, his knife ready in case he was not.

He had been found, had killed one Kubalese soldier and wounded two before he was overpowered by the rest. He had been gagged and locked then in a tool shed and left there for three days, until some Kubalese corporal remembered he was there, and told his superiors.

Then Anchorstar had been force-fed MadogWerg and had waked days later in the dark cave longing nearly to madness for MadogWerg. He had not cried out for it and had refused it when the guard came. “But it was all I could do,” he said. “And in the end they forced it down me.” He looked at Zephy with such defeat—and then with that wry humor at himself. She had bent and kissed him, more touched than she could admit.

While Anchorstar mended, the Children waited patiently; and the Kubalese horses waited, hidden in the hills. Their masters, with the great quantities of MadogWerg they had imbibed, had needed burying on the hilltop. Then at the very last moment Toca and Thorn took the runestone and went down out of the hills into the valley, where Toca called the two Carriolinian mares and the larger horses into a band that submitted quietly to the rope and harness they found in the wagon there; the band of horses followed him docilely up the hills in the evening light.

Food and blankets had been packed onto the two donkeys, and now the Children mounted two and three to a horse on the big Kubalese animals. Anchorstar, with Thorn behind to steady him, was helped up onto one of the two mares. He handed the reins of the other mare to Zephy and Meatha, and they scrambled aboard so eagerly Thorn could not help but laugh.

The little group, double-mounted, triple-mounted, children’s legs sticking nearly straight out on the broad backs, moved up over the Kubalese hills in the darkness, the horses forged quickly on and the two donkeys pulled ahead in spite of their reluctance. Tra. Hoppa, astride a broad black Kubalese mount behind a tall young man, seemed to cling like a fly. Toca, squeezed between them, could hardly be seen.

They did not stop for rest or water, but kept riding hard, forcing the horses until the animals began to blow and fight them. With the heavy burdens, the horses were easily spent, and just before dawn, they were forced to rest. There had been a little light while the moon still hung in the sky, but now it was dark indeed. They had crossed the Kubalese valley and the river Urobb and were now at the foot of the mountains. They dismounted and removed some of their harness to rub the horses down and cool them; then watered them from the trickle of brook they had been following. When dawn began to come, they could begin to see the valley stretched out behind. Thorn was withdrawn and silent, thinking of the three dark Children he had executed. He had asked of them, “Why did you have Anchorstar captive? Why was he so important that you let him live? Did you guard him at the direction of the Kubalese?”

“Not the Kubalese,” Dowilg had croaked, as if he didn’t care what he told, as if it didn’t matter any more. “Our way,” he said, staring at the others. “It was our way . . .”

“He was a leader,” Yanno said as if leader were a filthy word. “There was light around him.”

Thorn had stared at them, feeling their revulsion for Anchorstar and for himself and the Children. “Then why did you let him live?”

“We thought to make use of him,” Ejon said. “We thought we could turn his mind and make use of him against you.” He had laughed with a bitter, cold sound that had turned Thorn’s hatred to disgust.

“But why didn’t you warn the guards of our coming? You were on their side, surely.”

“Not on their side,” Yanno said. “They would use us.”

“We were to ourselves,” said Dowilg. “Before the stone came we were someplace dark, to ourselves.” He seemed unable, or unwilling, to explain that other mental state but Thorn sensed it; the feel of it came strong around him, and he understood that when the stone came, these three had awakened to a new level, where their evil became concentrated once more on the Children and Anchorstar. “But he kept us bound with his mind even in sleep,” Dowilg said with cold hate. “We were not strong enough.”

Thorn had killed them quickly and buried them in the mound.

Now he sat by the little spring, holding the reins of five resting horses, feeling sick at the memory of what he had done; but knowing he had had no choice. To kill in battle was one thing, to kill in cold blood quite another; but to turn that evil loose on Ere would have been unthinkable. When one mare raised her head, then another, he paid little attention. The animal stiffened and began to fidget and stare down into the lightening valley. Then suddenly he was on his feet, fastening harness, shouting to the others . . .

A band of Kubalese soldiers roared up the valley toward them, yelling for blood.

Children leaped up; harness was secured hastily; the horses milling and shying. Thorn shoved Children onto rearing backs; three riderless horses pulled away and went plunging up the mountain. They heard the Kubalese shout as a darkness came over them all; the soldiers were blotted out by the darkness in the sky, all was seething confusion . . .

The darkness in the sky dropped around them; then flying dark shapes landed, pawing, snorting at the other horses. Thorn lifted Children up onto winged backs now, pushed Zephy up, saw the Horses of Eresu leap into the sky seconds before the Kubalese pounded up the last slope, shouting. The abandoned horses were milling, some heading for the mountains. A winged shape landed before him; he lunged to mount, felt a hand grab him from behind and pull him back. He whirled to face the Kubalese soldier. He lashed out, his fist hardly grazing the man, drew back grabbing for his knife, was hit so hard in the head he reeled; he found some mark with his blade, jerked away and leaped wildly for the winged back . . .

The others were specks above him, Zephy’s terror for him sharp in his mind as the winged horse lifted to meet her.

They were over Ere. They were on the wind, free; the wonder of the flight obliterated the terror they had felt. The land dropped below them, lit with the coming dawn. They saw the sweep of the valley from Kubal to Urobb. The sun, lying just below the sea, sent a sharp orange light onto the outer islands of Carriol far in the distance. Back toward the mountain, Thorn could see the Kubalese riding hard, only specks now, after the escaping horses. He caught a glimpse of the two donkeys, turning off into a protected ravine. Maybe they would be missed. He touched the runestone, safe in his jerkin, and smiled across at Zephy, sensing the wonder of flight that held her, the fierce joy. He could see Tra. Hoppa farther away clinging to a dark roan, holding Toca tight. The child gripped a handful of mane and stared down in wide-eyed wonder. All of them were safe; the sweep of dozens of pairs of huge wings before him, behind him, lifting and soaring on the wind so effortlessly, held him spellbound; the sweep of land beneath him, another world so far removed from this tide of wind, made him drunk with glory.

The river Voda-Cul cut below them now, through the pale loess planes of Carriol. A deep woods lay between the white expanse and the sea, and in the loess hills themselves he could see carven clusters of dwellings, with the smaller river Somat-Cul wandering down between them toward the lush green pastures that made up most of Carriol. He could see the sparkle of cities there as the sun lifted red; and the names Blackcob and Kirkfalk and Plea came to him, though he didn’t know which was which. He knew which was the city of Fentress, there on the largest of the three islands; and that must be the ancient ruin lying on the coast south of Fentress. He peered down between the sweeping wings, mane whipping in his face and the smell of the horse he rode warm and sweet. He laid a hand on the silken neck and felt the strength beneath, and the muscles pulling in flight. He turned to look at Zephy again, though he didn’t need to see her face to know her joy; she was thinking of the stone, too. Given twice? But it has not been. And carried in a search and a questing? Have we done both, Thorn?

You gave it to me once, he answered. When we found it in the saddle. We have had a search all right. Was that a questing too?

Or is there more? she thought.

There is always more. There is a whole lifetime of questing. He did not know whether the others heard their thoughts. It didn’t matter. Carriol was there below them, a sanctuary, a place of freedom, and new beginning; and they rode on the winds above it as they had dreamed, as all of them had longed to do. He laid a hand on his horse’s neck and felt again the warmth of the strong body beneath him, saw the horse’s ears go forward as he chose a distant landing. They descended, and he felt Zephy’s longing to stay windborne forever; their two horses swept close together, playing in the wind, nipping lightly, and then settled into a long glide that, Thorn thought, would take them down over Carriol’s islands. Crouching beneath the dark wings, he could see all of Ere for a moment, the deep Bay of Pelli, the deserts beyond. It was not so large and forbidding, seen from the sky; nor would it seem so large again, ever.

The winged horses descended, dropping down over the coast of Carriol. The sea swept away to the left Thorn felt his horse tense, saw the land come up quick, felt the great wings catch at the wind in a new way—felt the jolt as the Horse of Eresu landed on a high mass of stone and crumbling walls that rose from the cliffs above the sea. The stallion’s wings, at sudden rest, folded over Thorn’s legs and beside his body. The others were landing, plummeting down.

They were high above the sea and cliffs on a patch of green supported by ancient walls and towers. They were high in the ruined city, the ancient city Carriol. Below them the ruins crumbled away. Above them a broken tower rose into the clear sky. To the south they could see the pastures of Carriol, a city, farms, then a bay and far in the distance the huge neck of land running out into the sea; this would be Sangur. To the right of Sangur lay the wide Bay of Pelli. But this was all very distant softened by mists. Close at hand, on Thorn’s left, the sea beat a strange soothing cadence as breakers crashed upon the cliffs. Zephy came close and stood with him. They looked out at the three islands, Fentress and Doonas and Skoke, and at the dwellings clinging there, and the little winding streets; and to their right, below the broken walls, the sweep of Carriol. The winged horse still stood close to Thorn, nuzzling him now, then raised its head to look out over Carriol, too, with a soft nicker; nuzzled again, then lifted its wings. Thorn rubbed its neck, loathe for the stallion to leave but knowing he must. Zephy clung to her own horse and there were tears in her eyes. Then all in an instant the horses reared and were airborne, wings sweeping, were leaping into the wind, rising, were gone on the wind, a seething flock there above them, vanishing in cloud. The Children of Ynell crowded closer together, and gazed down over the waiting land.