The Ring Оf Fire. The Wolf Bell

ONE

Thorn readied an arrow against the string of his sectbow and searched the moonlit mountain above him. The guard buck stirred again, restlessly. Wolves, likely, moving in the darkness of the lava crags. And yet the herd’s unease was different than when they faced approaching wolves. The buck’s spiralling horns caught the moonlight as he shifted nervously. Thorn tried to see movement in the dark images cast by the moons but nothing stirred.

Finally the buck settled and turned to grazing. Thorn lowered his bow, keeping the arrow taut with one hand. Below him the village slept. He moved stiffly: his body still pained him from the beating he had taken. He scowled as he looked down past his own village to the far lights of Burgdeeth: the larger town lay so steep below he could have spit on it. “Goatherd!” The three boys had shouted, taunting him. “Goat dung burns on your hearth!” No older than he, strapping lads they were for all their city ways. “And your mother’s a fracking brood milker!” He had piled into them, had fought well enough until the six red-robed Deacons dragged him away to beat him with a ceremonial staff, at the Landmaster’s direction. The townsfolk of Burgdeeth had crowded into the square to smirk and whisper, remembering their own beatings, Thorn supposed, so taking great pleasure in his.

Ere’s two moons hung low in the sky, washing their light across the eleven nations. The dark smudge in the south would be heavy cloud lying over the far sea. He watched the river Owdneet slip rushing down the mountain past his own village, then past Burgdeeth, and on toward the two more southerly Cloffi cities. The buck stirred again; a doe bleated; Thorn could hear the hush of tall grass disturbed. He turned quickly, but saw no shadow move. The animals acted as if something alien were there above them, yet they did not show fear; nor did they bellow the quick challenge the Dunoon goats were famous for. One buck muttered softly, then was still. Thorn stared up at the shifting, moonwashed clouds riding above the mountain and felt a familiar eagerness grip him, a longing for the sky that, though forbidden, he would never quell. Once again something stirred, he took a breath—then his blood went cold as a tall man stepped silently from the shadows and stood staring down at him. He had come without sound; Thorn’s sect-bow sought the man’s middle; the moonlight shone full on him, a slim, well-made figure. But old; his hair white and shorn close to his head. His eyes, in the moonlight, looked yellow.

The man came silently toward him, disappearing in shadow then appearing again. He said no word, but Thorn divined a sense of urgency about him, and when he challenged the stranger it was almost reluctantly. “How did you come here? What do you among our herds? You do not come from Burgdeeth, I would have seen you climb the mountain.”

“I came from there,” he said, pointing to the jagged crags, “along the mountain from the east. It is a lonely way. I like the loneliness. I have come seeking you, Thorn of Dunoon.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your name came to my thoughts just as the scent of rain speaks on the wind. I sensed it, long ago. I could not have done so had you not possessed the gift for which I search.”

“What gift?” Thorn said, stiffening.

The stranger paused and studied him. “I search,” he said slowly, as if weighing his words, “I search for those with the gift of seeing. I search for the Children of Ynell.”

Thorn stared, his blood turned to ice: to pronounce a man a Child of Ynell was to condemn him to die.

“In Cloffi they call it the Curse of Ynell,” the old man said. “I do not call it that. But you have the true gift, Thorn of Dunoon, as surely as I stand before you.”

How could this man know such a thing? Yet Thorn could not refute it. The gift of seeing had come on him three times in his life, without warning, though it was inaccessible when he would try for it.

“I think you do not know, yourself, the strength you have within you.”

Thorn looked deep into those disturbing yellow eyes and said nothing.

“Oh yes, I know how it is in Cloffi. I, too, have read the Edicts of Contrition. I know that the Gift of Ynell is considered a sin without redemption. I, too, have seen the Children of Ynell dressed in rags and filth and strapped across the backs of donkeys and carried up the mountain to the death stone. But I do not come to you to carry word of your talent to Cloffi. Nor to ask anything of you—not yet.”

“What commerce would you have with me, then?”

“I come seeking the runestone of Eresu. And the spark for that stone is in you, young Cherban, for surely it is that spark that has led me here. I seek the lost runestone, a shard of jade of great power. There is a taut linking between it and you, a strength I can almost touch. Do you not know the stone, have you never seen it?”

“Never. I don’t understand what you speak of.”

“It is a stone that will bring the true gift of seeing strong in one who holds it, if such gift is in the blood. You are Cherban, red-headed Cherban. So was Ynell. And so are many of the true Children. A stone greener than Karrach jade, greener than your own eyes, and hidden here in the north of Cloffi, it is sworn. Hidden in a dark place.” He glanced above him at the mountain. “In the caves of the ruined city of Owdneet, perhaps. Or perhaps not.

“The stone can grant a great power. And the time to wield that power may be soon, for there are rumors across the land that Kubal may soon be on the march.” The old man’s gaze was flinty, with a strength Thorn liked.

“We have heard one such rumor,” Thorn said slowly. Then, “You know I would be killed in Cloffi for what you have just said of me.”

The old man lay a hand on Thorn’s shoulder. “I said I would not tell your secret. Why do you think I came secretly, and not marching up through Burgdeeth in the middle of the day, past six Deacons and the Landmaster and that staring populace? But remember, Ynell had the power and found it nothing to be afraid of. Ynell knew joy all his life.”

“The Cloffi tale of Ynell does not tell that, old man.”

“No, but my tale does. And so does yours, the old Cherban telling. The Cloffi tale has been altered by the Landmasters to suit their own desires.”

“Tell it your way then. Let me hear it,” Thorn challenged, for few knew the story. He had never heard that it was told outside of Dunoon—except perhaps in far Carriol.

“It is an ancient tale, as old as the tribes of Ere.” The old man seated himself against a stone outcropping, and a doe came to muzzle at his pack. He fondled her ears and spoke to her until she lay down at his feet; the moonlight caught across her pale spiralling horns and bleached his hair whiter still.

“It came that Ynell, while tending his goats, saw the grazing covered with darkness as if the sun had gone from the sky. In the sun’s place was a movement as of hundreds of dark clouds, and Ynell was sore afraid. He kneeled, and the blackness above him writhed and shifted. His goats bleated in terror and ran away down the mountain.

“Then one ray of sunlight touched Ynell. A crack had been cleft in the darkness, and he could see what the darkness was. And so wild was Ynell’s amazement that he forgot his fear as a hundred winged gods descended to the field beside him.

“Now the field was bright with sun, and the sunlight shone upon the gods. They were the colors of saffron and otter-herb and evrole, and the leader stepped forward. ‘Be not afraid, Ynell of Sap Vod,’ He spoke not with words that Ynell could hear, but with words that rang silent between their two minds. And the god said. ‘You are the first, Ynell of Sap Vod. The first who can speak with us in our own way. You are born blessed. You may come with us and dwell in our cities.’

“And so Ynell went with the Luff’Eresi, and he dwelt with them, and he served them, and he was blessed for all of his days. He flew on the backs of their winged consorts through the endless skies, and he saw all the lands, and the men below him. He heard men’s thoughts, and he knew their sorrows, and he knew their fleeting joys.”

The old man ended the story and sat silent, his head bent. Then he looked up at Thorn. “Ynell was the first. But there have been others with the sight. The Landmasters of Cloffi fear them. The Kubalese fear them, too, perhaps even more at present, if Kubal is preparing for war. Tell me what you know of the lone Kubalese who has come to live in Burgdeeth. Why is he there?”

“They tell in Burgdeeth that he has come to improve his skill at iron working. He is apprenticed to the Forgemaster. It’s true the Kubalese are clumsy smiths, but it seems strange. The Landmaster of Burgdeeth seldom allows an outsider to bide overnight, yet this man, Kearb-Mattus, he is called, has lived in comfort at the inn all summer. My father does not trust him, nor do any of us.”

“Your father is Goatmaster of Dunoon?”

“Yes, my father is Oak Dar,” Thorn said, pondering the old man’s knowledge. Then he added, “It is said that the widowed inn woman of Burgdeeth finds the Kubalese companionable, but that is only gossip. And that would be no cause for the Landmaster to make him, welcome.” He studied the stranger and felt the man’s calm sureness. “Why would the Kubalese fear the Children of Ynell if they plan war?”

“Those with the sight could fathom their plans and could spread warning, might even thwart the Kubalese intentions. With the runestone,” he added softly, “that might well be made to happen. With the runestone, more might be saved than you can guess.

“It is said the stone will be found by the light of one candle, carried in a searching, and lost in terror. That it will be found again in wonder, given twice, and accompany a quest and a conquering. That is the prophecy. A shard of jade that was part of a stone as round as the egg of the chidrack, a stone that was split asunder by a great power. And each shard bears the runes of Eresu and the power of Eresu. With the runestone, Thorn of Dunoon, one would have the true sight which is in him—which has touched you three times in your life.” A hint of longing lit the old man’s stern face. “One who holds the runestone will touch the sky one day.” Thorn started; the old man had known what no man could have known; of the three visions certainly—but had he only guessed at Thorn’s longing for the sky?

The stranger’s look turned dark. “The stone’s power would demand much of one. In weak hands, it could surely be turned to evil.”

The old man took his leave at the first hint of dawn, as the star Waytheer set on the horizon, following in the wake of the two moons. No one else in Dunoon saw him, nor did he go down through Burgdeeth. He went back up the mountain, losing himself almost at once among the outcroppings as if he knew them better than the wolves who roamed there.

Before the stranger turned away, Thorn said, “Will you tell me how you are called?”

“I am Anchorstar.”

“And do you go now to the caves above Dunoon, to search further?”

“I will search to the west of Dunoon, on into the unknown lands,” Anchorstar said, making Thorn start. “You, Thorn of Dunoon, will search these crags well enough. When we meet again, perhaps the stone will link our two hands,” he said, placing his hand over Thorn’s for a moment, then turning to fade into the shadows.

Thorn gathered the goats in a preoccupied manner and came down the mountain. He was quiet all through breakfast. His father looked at him quizzically, for Thorn was not usually so silent. His mother gave him an anxious glance. His little brother Loke was too busy planning how to spend the silver he would earn on market day to notice Thorn’s preoccupation.

All day his thoughts were troubled by the old man, and by the thought of the runestone; and when evening came he stood staring absently down over the land, only to turn every few minutes to look up the mountain as if Anchorstar would reappear—though he knew that would not happen. He watched the river Owdneet lose its sheen as the sun sank. Its foaming plunge down the mountain always sounded louder in the silence of dusk. The thatched roofs of his village shone pale in the last light, and smoke from the supper fires rose on the windless air. In the east, Ere’s two moons tipped up low against the hills that bordered Kubal. Thorn could hear the younger children splashing in the river behind him. The mountain dropped away, the eleven nations at his feet; and the sky swept up in vistas that towered and breathed above him, that stirred in him the longing the old man had seen, that terrible longing for the sky that was forbidden as sin in Cloffi. Darkness came briefly, then the land was lit by the rising moons.

*

Down the mountain, in Burgdeeth, the thatched roofs were struck across with black chimney shadows, and the cobbles gleamed like spilled coins in the moonlight. The stone houses, crowded close, had been shuttered against the night air. Beyond the houses, the Husbandman’s cow and chicken pens were a tangle of fence stripes; the patchwork of housegardens appeared as intricate as a quilt, plots of dill root and love apple and tervil, of scallion and mawzee and charp all shadowed patterns in the slanted moonlight.

Beyond the housegardens stretched the neat whitebarley fields of the Landmaster; and such a field, too, separated the town from the forbidden joys of the river—though the Landmaster’s private Set, in the clearing in the woods south of town, had a fine view of the water. Next to the Set, the dome of the Temple shown white, rising alone into the sky. And behind the Temple stood the burial wall, with one small grave open, gaping.