The Ring Оf Fire. The Wolf Bell

Part Three: The Stone

NINE

The Seer of Pelli turned from the window to stare at EnDwyl. Below him along the bay, where a handful of wharves fanned out, the boats were bringing in a catch of sherpin. Farther down, some farm wagons had set up to trade grain and vegetables, ignoring the more conventional vender’s stalls. He was scowling. His faded red beard, cut into two points in the style of the Pellian Seers, made him look like a goat. His eyes, blue when he was young, were nearly colorless. He threw his cape over a chair as he spoke.

“It does not pay, my dear EnDwyl, to be too certain. You do not understand the skills—or the limits—of Seers. You think we can do more than we are able.”

“Common Seers have limits, perhaps. But you are the Seer of Pelli.” EnDwyl, having come directly from the sea baths, seemed the cooler of the two, his yellow hair brushed smooth and his white tunic immaculate. “Pellian Seers are not limited, surely. The descendants of the wolf cult—”

“We, my dear EnDwyl, are not descendents of the wolf cult. That is the problem. Urdd knows, if we were we’d not have to go to all this flaming trouble for the boy and his cursed bell.”

“Cursed? You’d give the entire fortune of Pelli for the blasted bell—and for the boy. What kind of business is that for the ruler of Pelli, all this fuss over a toy to turn wolves into pets.”

“Not pets, EnDwyl. Do you forget the wolves that greeted you outside Burgdeeth? Accomplices, EnDwyl! Powerful accomplices! Do you forget the forces the boy and wolves called forth, the skill with which they battled us? And you,” he added, “you are the descendant of the bell. You should have some feeling for it, even if the blood in you is latent. It is your blood that created Ramad—yours, and the Seer’s blood in your—in Tayba. That boy—that boy holds a power out of the ancient past that even I do not fully understand. The bell has served only to focus his force. And the boy’s power, and the power of the bell, are powers I mean to control. Though if we do not wrest it from the pup soon, he will command a far greater power. And I will not have that, EnDwyl! The stone on Tala-charen is a force that boy must never possess.”

EnDwyl said insolently, “You have tried to subdue the boy and failed. And there are these slaves—they shield their plans too well, HarThass. You don’t know—”

“I know their plans. I could easily use those plans against them, if it weren’t for that boy scrambling up Tala-charen. But if the boy reaches Tala-charen’s peak first, and so controls the stone . . .”

“And so we ride to Burgdeeth,” EnDwyl said irritably. “With twelve fighting men to battle Jerthon and the slaves while the Pellian Seers use their forces on the boy. I don’t think—”

“You don’t think, EnDwyl. That is your problem. Do you have a better plan? Are you more skilled than Seers? Can you bring the horrors of those mountains against Ramad as I can?”

“Do you really believe, HarThass, that even without the stone’s power against you, you can defeat the boy and Jerthon and that lot? I—”

HarThass’s gaze burned into him. “Yes EnDwyl? You what?”

EnDwyl swallowed. “I don’t know. I—maybe the slaves’ power even without the stone is too great. And now—and now, with this thing you say is awakened in Tayba . . .”

HarThass selected a cicaba fruit from the silver tray beside him. “That hasn’t lasted. Already the girl has nearly hidden it from herself. She is terrified of having such power. She may . . .” He smiled coldly. “She may help us more than you can imagine. She is afraid of this power of hers, she is afraid of Jerthon because he sees it. If we can turn her against him—she has the fine instincts of a traitor. Jerthon represents a challenge to her she cannot bear to face. She might well be persuaded to destroy that challenge under certain circumstances.”

“But Venniver has treated her shabbily, maybe she won’t—”

“She likes his treatment, don’t you see that? She will come crawling back to him with very little encouragement.” He turned away, then turned back to stare at EnDwyl. “You leave the girl to me. And you, EnDwyl—you be ready to ride as soon as those cursed soldiers get here with the mounts from Sangur. Why you let them—”

“They art better horses. You traded for them yourself. How was I to know . . .”

“You could have sent down for them a month ago. Well,” HarThass raised an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you relish riding back into that plains country, EnDwyl.” He stared pointedly at the jagged scar across EnDwyl’s jaw, and the mass of welts that crippled his legs. “I don’t suppose you relish meeting wolves again.”

EnDwyl’s hand was drawn to his cheek, but he did not respond to HarThass’s rudeness. “I don’t understand why the slaves wait. Why did they not leave Burgdeeth as soon as they had that tunnel open? What keeps the fools there? If they want to capture and rule Burgdeeth as you say, they would not even need a tunnel. If their power is so great they have simply to warp Venniver’s thoughts until he sets them free and gives them the cursed town.”

“There is something in Venniver that makes his mind unreliable. He can be moved for a few moments, then he is impervious to most skills. You cannot keep him controlled, you can only direct him on occasion. Some latent Seer’s blood, like you, EnDwyl.

“But beyond that, those Seers are an odd lot. They remain quite willingly, with some wild idea about completing the tunnel.” HarThass snorted. “Something to do with visions of the future. What rubbish. The future is to be manipulated regardless of visions—to be bent to the strongest will in spite of all the wild visions you can name. This Jerthon and his slaves are dreamers, they have no real sense of value. Visions! They only show you what might be, not what will!

“At any rate, we will have Burgdeeth for ourselves soon enough.

“But I tell you this, EnDwyl. I will not allow that boy to scale Tala-charen. I will ride up Tala-charen to retrieve that stone!” He smiled. “How fortunate that the boy discovered where it lay. Once we have the stone,” he said lightly, “once we have subjugated Burgdeeth, that town will become our first outpost. From it we can work southward at our leisure. We will ease Zandour and Aybil and Farr into positions that will destroy them so slowly they will never know they have been taken. We will use Venniver’s own plan, his books, the religion he has invented, his statute—and we will use the stone. No one will resist that combination. But we will do it slowly. I like to do things slowly and see men twist in the coils of the stricturing I put on them.” He leaned back, crossing his legs and flicking some lint from his sandals.

“Is that why you did not march into Burgdeeth long ago? Because you want to do it slowly?” EnDwyl asked sarcastically. “Not because you failed in manipulating the boy into coming to you willingly, HarThass?”

“You had best watch your tongue, EnDwyl. I didn’t see you and that cursed Seer who died on the plain having any great success with the boy—or with the wolves he commands.” HarThass smiled and leaned back. “Well, the wolves will soon be ours. And I like the idea of the boy walking before us down Tala-charen with his wrists bound and those wolves grovelling around him. We will walk with wolves then, EnDwyl. And we will use their powers at our pleasure.

“But that boy won’t be easy to—”

“When I finish with the boy, he will have no choice in the matter.”

*

No trail was visible save, sometimes, a vague cupping or turning that might mark an ancient path. Ram traveled by instinct, by the pull of power that so beckoned to him, and by Fawdref’s sure guidance. They crossed meadows where dead sablevine was frozen into ice and the ice itself torn up and tumbled as if something huge had spent its fury here, ripping with claws like knives at the frozen ground. They were cold, always cold. The wraps Dlos had so stubbornly bundled them into were never quite enough to keep out the freezing wind. They climbed between monster shapes of twisted black stone, between clusters of columns like headless trees, formed by some wild excess of the volcanoes. They passed deep through narrow sunless canyons flanked with walls like black glass, so smooth they could see themselves. “We look,” Skeelie said, bending and dancing about so her reflection was thick then thin and long, “like—like die souls of the dead.”

Ram bent to hug Fawdref, who had turned away from his own reflection in disgust. The wolves seemed to find no humor in their distorted images. “Old dog! Can’t you laugh at yourself?”

Fawdref touched Ram’s cheek with his muzzle, then looked again into the deep black mirror. He was, he let Ram understand, considering that.

As they rose higher up the mountain, the power of something dark increased, watching them relentlessly. Yet it never showed itself, if indeed it had any form to show. Late the second afternoon the wolves killed a buck, and they stopped early to roast the haunch. It was difficult to find firewood this high on the mountain, but the droppings of wild goat and stag made a hot blaze. The children lay back against the packs, smelling the roasting meat, watching the wolves gorge on the carcass and little Pulyo grazing beyond them. Pulyo raised his head once, laid his ears back and snorted, rolling his eyes so the whites showed. At once the wolves were alert, staring up toward a mass of black stone.

“Did it move?” Skeelie said. “Did the stone move?”

“I—I don’t know.”

They watched for a long time, but nothing moved. The animals settled down to feed; but Fawdref’s message was plain in Ram’s mind. An evil was there, stirred from sleep by the Pellian Seer. Not yet fully alive, but malevolent and very able to breathe life into itself when it chose.

Ram felt the forces building around them. And the very sweep of opposing forces seemed to be pulling a curtain aside, through which another realm of existence could be glimpsed. That realm, to which his spirit had always yearned blindly, was so immense that its very size made it invisible, as a gnat would view a great, fierce animal and be unable to comprehend what it was. This journey, these forces building, were as a key to that other world, which in time would show itself to all people.

All around them the forces converged, the Pellian’s evil preparations, Jerthon’s long plan coming to its crux, Venniver’s stubborn self-interest—Tayba’s precarious balance between self and something more than self. The power of good on Tala-charen, and the powers of all the evil of Ere, seeking . . .

*

Jerthon and Drudd supported the bronze wing between them over the coals, heating the edge to be braised. Sweat ran down their faces, and little black gnats buzzed maddeningly. Jerthon looked up occasionally to watch the line of slaves carrying the cast pieces up from the pit. Derin appeared, bent nearly double under the weight of a bronze head, and Tayba struggled up behind, supporting the neck. Girls bent like work animals, their hair plastered with sweat.

The forge fire flared up. He rearranged the coals. This new fire, laid in the square, caught the wind and displeased him. He turned to adjust the metal baskets filled with coals that hung along the body of the Horse of Eresu, where the wing would be attached. The horse stood hollow and alone, headless, wingless, secured to the base; and the hollow base was set deep into dragon bone, ready to open itself secretly to the tunnel. He watched Tayba climb back down the pit, her dark tangled hair falling over her face, and felt her tiredness as if it were his own. Drudd said, “Does it please you that the women work like donkeys?”

“It can’t be helped.”

“It could if we were long gone from this place.”

“Keep your voice down. They would be working just as hard, clearing land.”

“But what is it all for!” Drudd whispered, scowling. “The future can change. You’ve no—visions show only what might be. To stay here, building this statue, when—”

“A vision of the future can change. But five visions? Or five different times?” Jerthon looked at Drudd across the edge of the wing. “And more important, in all times—if we do not succeed in taking Burgdeeth and stopping Venniver—the statue will be needed. You know as well as I that those few who question Venniver’s teachings will need something to tell them that there is another way. Do you think . . . a way of truth, Drudd! They will not know, those children born and isolated here, that there is a way of freedom. They will think their own instincts are evil, just as Venniver teaches them. Unless—unless they can see something that tells them differently. Something that excites their true instincts, makes them yearn—”

“But won’t Venniver realize . . . ?”

“Venniver sees what he wants to see. He sees a statue denoting power, a statue that will put the seal of truth on his teachings, will help to subject men. He will see no more than that.”

“So you build a symbol,” Drudd said. “And he means to kill you when it’s finished.”

“We will be out and beheading his guards when he comes to kill me.” Jerthon turned away, and when he looked back Venniver was entering the square, came at once to stand beside the statue, appraising it silently.

Then he turned to watch Tayba struggle up over the rim of the pit with the end of a cast wing. Jerthon tried to probe his mind, but the man could not be touched. Seer’s blood. Yet the man had no skills, only this mindless blocking as if by instinct.

Well, he hadn’t blocked enough to hide the wolf bell; Ram had winnowed into his thoughts as cleverly as a mouse in the mawzee, seen and stolen the bell, and Venniver did not even know it was gone—yet.

When he found it gone, though, his rage would bring bellows that ought to be heard clear in Sangur. Jerthon hid a smile.

At least Venniver couldn’t blame Tayba. She hadn’t been near his fancy room in some while. Jerthon watched the man step toward her, then stiffened as he jerked her up from where she had knelt to set down her burden. She lost her balance, the bronze wing tipped, throwing its weight on Derin, and the child fell beneath the wing.

Jerthon moved to help her, but Drudd held his arm in a steel grip. They watched as Saffoni stepped out of line to lift the wing, her dark hair hiding her expression. Derin rolled free and seemed unhurt.

Venniver had paid no attention to Derin; she was nothing. He stood gripping Tayba’s shoulder. She stared back at him with hatred, her color rising, her fists clenched. But there was something more than fury in her eyes. Jerthon watched her with cold apprehension.

“Look at yourself, my fine Tayba! Look at your matted hair and your dirty face. You look—you’re no better than an animal!” He pushed her toward a guard. ‘Take her and have the old women bathe and dress her, then bring her to my rooms.” He turned away, dismissing them both. The guard wrenched Tayba around, grinning at his fellows, then marched her off through the square accompanied by the guards’ rude catcalls. Jerthon held his fury with great effort and turned once more to the brazing.

*

Ram built up the fire. The goat dung was growing short, but he dared not let the blaze die. The wolves paced endlessly, staring out at the night. Pulyo brayed, and Skeelie pulled him farther back among the boulders and hushed him. The mountain at their back felt solid and protective.

After supper they had moved on, climbing up into a land of enormous upheaval, great cliffs of stone ripped away and lying tilted. As the evening light had faded, the climb grew colder, and they had begun to see flows of ice cutting away between the stone. They had made camp and the small fire in a cupped place against the mountain, sat watching the tilted cliffs of stone lighten as the moon rose. Suddenly the wolves growled, and Skeelie paused with her hand half lifted, staring.

There, where moonlight touched a thick bed of ice, something moved within the ice. An immense shape, trapped in the frozen mountain of white. The children looked and could not move, saw its eyes behind the ice. It faded, the ice seemed to ripple; then it reappeared closer to them. Skeelie said, The fire—will the fire keep it away?”

“Maybe,” Ram said doubtfully. He looked at the pitiful fire, fed with dung. “Maybe,” he said again, and knelt, held the wolf bell over the flame so the flicking light caressed the rearing bitch-wolf—and slowly he began to draw the fire out, to take it into himself and into the bell, to make it a part of the bell’s power.

The wolves moved beyond the firelight toward the ice. Ram made the fire rise to run along his fingers, his arms, in a wild blaze.

The ice cracked sharply as the creature began to push up through it. Ram made fire leap and blaze out of his hands. The white monster slid up out of the ice. It was huge, weasel-like, big as seven horses. Ram cast fire up at it, gave fire to the wolves so they were flaming death-wolves. Together they stalked the creature as it slid down toward them, its belly slipping over the ice and down onto stone, its eyes never leaving them as it sought the warmth of living blood. The wolves were flaming giants raging toward the slinking weasel. It reared, hissing, its icy tail lashing, its huge pale eyes gleaming—and the flame washed over it so it cried out its rage in a shrill scream. Fire tore at it, burning, melting.

Wolves leaped, blazing. Ram threw fire on it, was a human tower of fire.

At last defeated, the ice-weasel slunk away. Ram could smell its burning flesh. It shrank, twisted, down into the ice. Ram stood high on the ice watching it disappear and could feel HarThass’s black rage. The ice drew together. The wolves’ teeth shone white against their lolling tongues.

Ram returned soberly to the fire and sat staring into it with wonder at what he had wrought—and with the lonely cloak of fear wrapping him. For he had felt HarThass like a dark incubus choking away his power so it had taken all his strength to bring the fire. Could he, as they drew closer to Tala-charen, continue to hold against the dark Seer? Yet beneath that straining effort, beneath the limits he had fought to extend, lay a power still greater in himself, untapped and dormant; a power he had not yet learned to reach. A power he must reach.

*

Tayba was locked into Venniver’s rooms and left to herself. She had been bathed and dressed, like a child. Old Semma and Poncie had found the whole episode very amusing. Her temper raged. She stood looking at the fine room wondering what to destroy first. She was well bruised. She’d left scratches on the guard’s face deep enough to kill the man if they festered, and she hoped they would. She stood staring at the cold fireplace, then knelt and laid a fire from the wood in the basket She wasn’t going to sit in a cold room shivering. She crouched there warming herself, trying to decide what to do. She hated Venniver. She thought she would kill him. What did he have in mind, bringing her here? She sat looking around the room, letting its luxury touch her in spite of her anger.

She didn’t want to go back to that cell. She didn’t want to have to face Jerthon’s assessments of her, which had become so very painful. Maybe . . .

She looked up as the lock turned.

Venniver entered and stood looking down at her. She stayed where she was, crouching, warming herself, undignified and not caring. To Urdd with him. His hard eyes made her swallow. She stared up at him coldly. His voice was measured. “Now that you are clean . . .” He moved toward her. “We will talk. Where did you get the bell? We will start with that.”

“You could have asked me that when you found it instead of beating me. I would have told you; there was nothing about it to hide. I found it on that cursed mountain, in a cave, and I wish I never had.”

“You said you weren’t on the mountain. You said you were walking in the moonlight”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t on the mountain. You didn’t give me a chance to tell you anything. I had been on the mountain. I’d walked all night, praying for Ram. Out there—near the gods—”

“I don’t want your lies! Tell me where you got the bell!”

“I am telling you where. In a cave. I thought it was—what is it? Why do you go on about it? What is so important about it?”

He stared at her for a long time. She looked back defiantly, her heart pounding. At last he said, “We will go up on the plain. You will call the wolves, my fine Tayba. You will use that bell. If the wolves come to you and do not kill us, then I will know that you lie. If they attack us, then. . .” He smiled. “Then I will know you speak truly.” He took up his sectbow and knife. “Get up.”

She looked at him coldly, but afraid. He was quite mad. Well, the wolves were not on the mountain, could not be called. They were all with Ram. And didn’t he know the bell was gone? She stared at him with rising fear. “If I could bid wolves—if I had such power as that, you would never have locked me in that cell. Did you think of that? If I were a Seer, you would never have found me on the plain, Venniver.”

“You will bid the wolves come down. You will bid them lie down before me—”

“I cannot! Don’t you understand! I know nothing of such things. What makes you believe anyone could call wolves?”

He turned to the chest at the foot of the bed, opened it, removed the key, then fit that to the lock beside the fireplace. She watched him, terrified.

He opened the safe, reached—and stared, his hand poised. Then at last he swung to face her. “You have taken it!” His shout filled the room. “The bell is gone—you . ..

She stared at him dumbly when he hit her, went limp under his hands.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t have it! I don’t understand . . .”

He pulled her up and marched her to the window, unlocked the shutters, threw them back and forced her to climb through. He prodded her with his sectbow, then when she resisted, drew his knife to force her on. The wind was bitter cold, whipped the thin dress around her. The moons were pale slivers, the stars small and icy. They walked until Burgdeeth’s lights lay well behind them; he prodded her cruelly when she turned to look. When they stood between twisting stone giants, where even Burgdeeth’s lights were not visible, he stopped, halting her with a rude hand on her arm, pulling her around to stare down at her, his face grim and determined. “Call the wolves. You need no bell—if you have the skill.” And when she cringed from him, “You will call the wolves down. Or you will die here.”

She tried to think what to do. His knife flicked close to her face. “You have the knowledge of Seers. Call them. Bring them down to me.”

“I cannot, Venniver. I told you.”

“The bell comes from Zandour. You brought it here. Why else would . . .” His voice died as he stared past her. She turned slowly to look.

Wolves were there. Dark slinking wolves coming in between the boulders, beginning to circle them, their heads lowered, their eyes cold; they made no sound, must have watched in hidden silence as Venniver forced her up the plain. She tried to contain her panic, looked for Fawdref among them, for pale Rhymannie—and then real terror swept her.

This was not Fawdref’s band. These thin, creeping animals were not his wolves. They were smaller, their eyes not the knowing eyes of the wolves she knew, but the cold eyes of hunters moving intently forward to the kill.

She spun on Venniver. “Draw your bow. Shoot them. They’ll kill us, Venniver!” She wanted to run, knew they would leap at once. “Kill them before they kill us!” The circle drew in, complete. Their eyes never looked into her eyes, but shifted, appraising each movement. Now she felt Venniver’s fear, saw his sudden realization. “You can’t . . .” He raised his bow. His look was incredulous. “But you are a Seer—you . . .”

“Kill them!” She jerked his knife from its sheath and turned to face the snarling band as a wolf leaped. She spun and plunged her knife in; its teeth caught her arm. She struck again and again in terror, its weight on her, trying to keep her balance—it fell at last as others leaped. She heard the bowstring sing, saw a wolf twist and fall, another. A wolf lunged against her shoulder nearly toppling her, its teeth at her throat. She stabbed and stabbed into the soft stomach as she fell, felt the animal go limp on top of her, heard the bow snap, saw wolves tearing at Venniver, dragging at him. She was torn and bleeding, dizzy. She thought the wolves had backed away. She felt Venniver beside her, trying to pull her up.

Seven wolves lay dead. The others were going away as if—as if they had been called, were slinking away up the dark plain. Venniver was holding her, pressing something to her throat trying to stop the blood. She shivered as he lifted her.

*

The powers that stayed the wolves pulled back and separated, hung poised for moments as one assessed the other; then all three turned away. Skeelie watched Ram, but could make little of what had happened. “Why did the Seer of Pelli help you? Why would he . . . ? And help Jerthon? Why would he care if Tayba died or Venniver either?”

“Sometimes I wish you were a boy and didn’t talk so much.”

“I only . . .” She looked back, saw the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand, that’s all.”

“HarThass—HarThass thinks to use Mamen—against Jerthon,” he said sickly. “And he needs Venniver. If Venniver dies, Jerthon will take Burgdeeth at once.”

“But why would Jerthon help her then, if Venniver would use her against him?”

“I think Jerthon—that Jerthon is a fool sometimes. Go to sleep, Skeelie! It’s the middle of the night!” He threw some goat dung on the fire and snuggled closer to Fawdref. The dark wolf sighed in his sleep. “Old dog! You never even woke. I never even needed you!”

Fawdref opened one eye and pushed his nose into Ram’s shoulder.

And in Pelli, HarThass paced, puzzling over how easily his powers had blended with those of Jerthon and Ram. Puzzling how to turn this to his advantage.

He saw Tayba’s fear and pain then and stopped pacing to touch her mind, very vulnerable now, to weave a spell that soothed her, took away her dark thoughts—that warmed her toward him, destroyed suspicion. . . .

In the slave cell Jerthon paced too, disturbing everyone. Well, his thoughts alone would have disturbed them. He was not thinking of HarThass or of Ram. He saw the Pellian soothe Tayba, then saw Venniver bandage her and cover her. He felt his pulse quicken in anger and was disgusted with himself.

He rose at last, wound tight as a spring, and jerked the hides away from the tunnel opening, lit a lantern and went down to where they had been setting new supports. He stood beneath the last timber and reached to touch the place where they would soon cut through into the statue’s base. Then he turned back to the niche he had carved into the tunnel wall, stood remembering the vision he and Tayba had seen here, the gods, the brown-haired girl bending to retrieve something. . . .

Had he carved the niche because of the vision? But he had not; he had always intended to put it there to hold the small relics Derin had collected: a basket of pot-shards, pieces of jewelry, a locket, three gold belt links, all found as they dug stone near the grove. It was as if the grove itself had been linked to the sacred city and to that time when Seers lived freely here. The relics themselves brought vibrations, brought visions of splendor and peace that stirred them; they would be left in this place for others, for slaves who might come after them and need such gentle reminders of a better time. He felt Drudd behind him, was annoyed that Drudd had followed him down.

He turned, looked at Drudd a moment in anger, then went to sit beside him on a pile of stone. Drudd said, “You watched Venniver make up with her. You torture yourself watching them.”

“She—there is a goodness in her, a strength in her. HarThass would destroy that. I want—I want the power in her to come right.”

“You lust after her. Be honest.”

“That too, I suppose.”

“HarThass would use her to kill you. Can’t you see it, man! Have you taken leave of all your senses?”

“He will use her only if she lets him.” He looked at Drudd unhappily. “Don’t you think I know what she is? But beneath that—there is something more. I don’t mean to let HarThass destroy it.”

Drudd turned away muttering.

So he sat there deliberately watching Venniver and Tayba, forcing his mind to hold them, letting all of it twist inside him, saw and heard them so clearly he could have been standing in Venniver’s ornate rooms, before the fire Venniver had just knelt to light.

Venniver had pulled a chair up beside the bed. Jerthon had a terrible desire to sit in it to make himself be there, make her know he was there. Instead he watched Venniver return to it and put his arms around Tayba. She woke from a light doze and lay looking at him quietly. “You really didn’t know,” Venniver said, “what the bell was. What it could do.”

“How could I have known?”

“Once,” he said, “I went up the mountains and into the ancient caves. The wolves came out from everywhere, were there suddenly all around me. I turned and walked away from them, and they followed me down the mountain. They never touched me, they just walked behind me—looking.”

Jerthon could feel her effort to understand him.

“They looked at me the way a man would. I—I wanted those wolves. I wanted them! Can you understand that? Once—once wolves like that were slaves to men. I wanted that, Tayba. And—and tonight I wanted you to give me that.”

Jerthon sickened, feeling her response. She understood Venniver exactly. She was not repelled by his lust, quite the opposite. She drew him to her and kissed him. Jerthon turned his mind away in disgust. Maybe Drudd was right. And yet—and yet he could not let that other part of her go.