“That’s our—” began Mylikki, but both Altan and Kevla hushed her. Jareth watched the little bird feed and felt a smile start to curve his lips. It was good, to give life instead of take it. Usually when the animals he summoned came, they came to die.
Others came, too; little sparrows, more songbirds in jeweled tones of blue and purple and green, and one brown, tufted-ear squirrel. Jareth let them all have some of the precious grain. When they had finished, he quietly asked:
I search for the people of dark skin, hair, and eyes. They wander the land, following the four-legged ones with white fur and golden horns. Be my eyes and ears, and let me know where they might be.
The yellow bird cocked its head. Many wingbeats to the place where the mountains brush the sky.
Moving steadily in this direction, so it seems, another one thought.
Isn’t there anything else to eat? The squirrel looked at him hopefully, brown eyes pleading, and Jareth’s smile grew.
I will travel in the direction you have suggested. Return with more news tomorrow, and I will have more food.
As quickly as they had come, the creatures scattered, fluttering into the cloudless sky or the shelter of piney green boughs. He felt an absurd surge of hope. At least not all of his abilities had deserted him.
“The birds say that the taaskali are currently in the north, but that they are heading our way,” he informed his traveling companions.
“How do you know that’s true? Wouldn’t they just say what you wanted to hear in exchange for food?” Mylikki asked.
He felt a rush of anger, but tamped it down. In a heartbeat, the offense had subsided to a sort of sorrow.
“Nothing of the earth can lie,” he said, “except us.”
They packed camp and the tentative harmony that had been established was quickly shattered when Jareth stated, “I am not getting on the back of the Dragon.”
“What?” cried Kevla.
“You heard me. And he’s not to fly overhead as we go, either. Or scout out in advance.” He threw the Dragon a look. Kevla expected the Dragon to reprimand the Stone Dancer, but the great beast remained silent.
“The taaskali are shy at best,” Jareth continued. He closed the straps on his pack and shouldered it. “I’m not going to frighten them or the selva by having that hovering over them.”
“The Dragon can cover many leagues in a short time,” Mylikki said. “It is foolish to refuse such a gift.”
“I didn’t ask for the gift,” Jareth retorted. “You want to travel with me? Then these are my terms. I think the Dragon understands.” He shot the giant beast a look. “Don’t you.”
The Dragon had cocked his head and regarded Jareth intently. “Actually, I do,” he said, surprising Kevla. She whirled on her friend.
“What?”
“I am not for him, Kevla,” the Dragon said, and Kevla suddenly took his meaning. “And he is right. I do tend to frighten people who don’t know me.” A thin stream of smoke trickled from his nostrils as he added, “And I even frighten those who do know me. When they need it. If what the birds said was right, and I have no reason to believe the information incorrect, then our paths will cross soon enough. In the meantime,” and he grinned wickedly, “you will have to learn how to use snow walkers and skelthas after all.”
Altan laughed.
23
Olar wondered how it could be that the Maiden looked as beautiful on her throne, cold and white, as she did when she moved among the men. Then, her hair was gold as the sun, her lips as red as wine, and now, there was no color to her at all.
She had chosen him to sleep at her feet while she dreamed. Two others had protested. She had ordered them to fight one another as punishment for their audacity—how dare they question, even out of love for her! Olar, thrilled with her choice, had watched as the men went at one another with spears until they both lay bleeding on the floor of her palace. He did not give them another thought.
He looked up at her, felt an unspeakable wave of love rush through him, and longed to share her dreams.
The fire’s light flickered and danced, casting leaping shadows. Smoke curled upward, filling the air with its unmistakable rich scent. The only sound was the pure, sweet voice of the huskaa and his instrument, as he sang heartbreaking songs of love found, then lost.
The girl was in love. With the song, with the performer’s looks, with the night that seemed to her made for opening hearts and whispered intimacies. His long fingers caressed the kyndela’s strings; she shuddered as he imagined them touching her. His lips curved around the words, kissing them; she touched her lips and pretended it was his kiss. His body was slender and well made, his locks fair and curling, his face like that of a hero out of legend.
The fire’s crackle and glow kept darkness at bay, and served as a gathering place in the evening. The red-gold flames had drawn the stranger here, to sing in exchange for a place to sleep and some food. He would bring them news from other villages, make them laugh and weep, and then move on.
But he would not leave alone.
His eyes opened and fastened on hers, and her mouth went dry even as moisture blossomed in other, more intimate parts of her body. At last he finished. It seemed an age. She thrilled to the melodious sound of his voice, but now she wanted him all to herself. He bowed, graciously accepting the applause, slung his kyndela over his back, and yielded his place to a local youth who launched into a bawdy drinking song.
He came directly to her and clasped her hands. He kissed them, one at a time, then turned them over and pressed kisses into her palms. She trembled at his touch, his lips like a brand on her skin. She curled her fingers closed over the kiss, claiming it, keeping it.
“Your songs are so sad,” she said. “Do you not have any happy songs? Any songs of true love?”
“Perhaps you could teach me some new songs, sweet lady,” he murmured.
“Songs of true love,” she whispered. It wasn’t proper, to be alone with a man she had only known a few days. But he had claimed her heart the moment he strode into the village. He was drawn to her as well, she knew it. And why not? She was one of the prettiest maidens in the village, with her long blond hair, large blue eyes, full breasts, and trim waist. Youths had come from leagues distant to court her, but she had wanted none of their callow attentions.
She wanted to be loved by a man, not a boy; a man who would claim her and take her away to a grand and glorious destiny. And now, he had come; no warrior with a spear or arrows to pierce her body, but songs aplenty to pierce her heart.
He released her only to shrug off the kyndela across his back, then his arms slipped around her once more and pulled her to him. She felt the strength of his chest and the bulge in his breeches. When he bent his head to kiss her, she was lost.
She clung to him, willingly opening her mouth to his. She’d never had such a kiss from the local youths, a kiss that made her feel weak and dizzy. His hand crept to the back of her head, taking control. She gave it to him gladly.
“Come with me,” he said, his voice deep and his breathing rapid. She went, her hand clutched in his, almost running to keep up with his long-legged, swift strides. He led her into the forest, well away from the fire and the sound of laughter and music.
Again he took her in his arms, bringing her to the soft, mossy soil which he had covered with his cloak. She reached up to him, helping his long, clever fingers undo the few ties on her dress. She felt as if she were on fire, consumed with passion, with a need to feel this man’s fingers and tongue and body on her, in her—
The pain was sharp, sharper than she had anticipated, and she gasped. He paused.
“I know it hurts. But it will pass, sweetness.” He kissed her lips, her throat, her breasts, until she again began to crave him. He moved, slowly and then more quickly, thrusting inside her. The sting between her legs had passed, as he had promised, and now there was only pleasure, hot and wild and liberating. She clutched at him, her fingernails drawing blood as s
he raked them across his broad back. His breath was hot and ragged in her ear. And then, before she could claim the burst of pleasure that she sensed she was building toward, he stiffened and cried out.
She held him through his moment of ecstasy, smiling against his cheek, and then he sighed and collapsed on her.
She kissed his ear, putting away her disappointment. No doubt that pinnacle of delight would be achieved next time. She looked forward to the striving.
Startled, the girl felt a sudden brush of cold across her naked body as he rolled off her and reached for his clothes. Of course; he would want to return before she was missed. She smiled at his thoughtfulness but said, “There is no need to worry, love.”
He paused. “What do you mean?”
“We will tell them tomorrow. They will have to know that I am leaving with you.”
He laughed, reaching and patting her cheek. “Oh, sweeting, that’s rich. I’m leaving, that much is certain, but only with my instrument.”
Her stomach clenched. “Wh-what?”
“Naught’s wrong with your ears. What, did you think I would marry you? That you were the first I’ve ever cast a lusty eye on? You were good for one thing, sweeting, and I’ve had it. Here, something to remember this night by.”
Fully dressed now, he tossed down his scarf. By the light of the moon filtering in through the trees, she could see that there were dark, wet marks upon it.
Her virgin’s blood.
The world swirled about her as she stared at the blood, black in the moonlight. She heard the crunch of his boots as he strode back toward the village.
She tried to stand, and couldn’t. She tried to cover her nudity, and couldn’t. All she could do was stare at the bloody scarf and slowly, numbly, begin to comprehend what he had done.
The blessed numbness shattered before the agony. She buried her face in the scarf and sobbed wildly. How could he have done this to her? She curled up into a tight ball, weeping as the pain swept over her. She loved him! She loved him!
So slowly she did not know when it happened, the pain turned to fury. It swept her along as an avalanche would anything unfortunate enough to be caught in its path. It made her blue eyes gleam, it stiffened her spine, it filled the ashy, empty place in her with purpose and resolve and hatred.
She would have her revenge. There were powers, dark and brooding, that could help her. She would grow strong in her hatred, and her vengeance would be terrible.
The heat and fury inside her turned to ice.
The travelers had eaten heartily at breakfast despite the dwindling supply of food because they had known they would need the energy. It was less difficult physically to travel on the broad back of the Dragon than it would be to move through the heavy snow step by step. Not for the first time, Kevla marveled at Jareth’s determination and physical endurance. He had been doing this alone for months.
Altan suggested that she try the snow walkers first. “It’s a more natural movement than the skeltha,” he explained as he and Mylikki tightened the sinew straps, securing the apparatus to her feet. “It’s still going to feel strange, but it’s much more like walking. You’ll get used to it quickly.”
It was indeed like walking—if one normally walked with enormous flat circles strapped to one’s feet, and took large, careful steps. But it was far better than sinking thigh-deep into the huge drifts.
She was surprised at how keenly she missed the Dragon. Since the day she had rediscovered him and learned her own identity, she had not been separated from him for more than a brief time. He had agreed to wait the day out where he was and rejoin them at night. Jareth had started to protest, but then apparently thought better of it at the look on the Dragon’s scaly face. He nodded his blond head once, and then strode off toward the north.
The day quickly assumed a pattern that Kevla felt certain would be repeated in the days to come. Jareth would move swiftly ahead of them, leaving a clear path in the curving drifts of snow, and they would follow, Kevla trundling awkwardly on the snow-feet. She bit back her resentment, her urge to scream out, We could have traveled ten times this far on the Dragon’s back!, her desire to beg, Wait, don’t go so far ahead.
She knew that she was slowing all of them down. If it had not been for her—
If it were not for you, Mylikki would still be in her village, Altan would be dead, and Jareth would be an angry madman blundering about in the snow.
She smothered a smile at the Dragon’s voice in her mind, and felt a little bit better.
By the end of the day, Kevla wondered if she would be able to smile about anything again. Her legs ached, burning from toe to thigh. She rubbed them as they sat by the fire, too exhausted from the day’s efforts to prepare dinner as she usually did. Mylikki and Altan stepped in; the geese the Dragon brought them were not difficult to cook. Jareth ate twice as much as any of them, but she did not begrudge him a bite, now that she fully understood the level of his exertion over the past several months. He was a big man and once had clearly been wreathed in muscle, though now he was gaunt.
Kevla forced herself to eat, although she was so tired she had no appetite. She leaned against the Dragon while Altan sang and played something that almost lulled her to sleep. She jerked back awake, though, when Mylikki said, “I don’t think Kevla has heard the last song in the Ice Maiden cycle.”
Uneasily, she glanced over at Jareth. She was not in the mood for songs about snow and ice, and she didn’t think he was either. He was sharpening his knife; the same knife he had pressed to her throat. He seemed completely unconcerned about songs, huskaas, or Ice Maidens.
“You remember the first two, Kevla?” Mylikki asked, her fingers moving gently over the instrument as she tuned it.
“Yes,” said Kevla. “One was a warning from an old man to a younger, the second was sung by that young man who did find the Ice Maiden.”
Mylikki nodded. The sky was clear and had been all day, for which Kevla was grateful. Soon enough, they would have to deal with more storms, but she was happy for the calm times when they came.
“That’s right. The third one is sung by the Ice Maiden.” Her blue eyes met Kevla’s. “It’s a very sad song, even though it’s sung by the Maiden herself.”
She began, in a soft, urgent voice.
On nights by the fire, when shadows grow long,
A huskaa may sing you a slow, haunting song;
He’ll sing of a Maiden with ice in her breast
Whose beauty kills some men, enslaves all the rest.
The Maiden is evil, the Maiden is cold.
The Maiden is heartless—or so you’ve been told.
The Maiden’s a spirit—but oh, ’tis a lie;
The Maiden was mortal; the Maiden is I.
Hark all ye lads who know nothing of pain!
Desire and longing shall be your refrain.
Take care ere ye love me—can you pay the price?
Come forfeit your soul to the Maiden of Ice.
Altan studiously looked at his own instrument, his long fingers still on the strings. Jareth seemed engrossed in sharpening his knife, but Kevla sensed he was listening. She herself was barely breathing, hoping this song would not unfold the way she feared it would.
My story’s an old one; a poor country maid,
I loved a young man, and that love was betrayed.
“Ah, sweetheart,” he told me, “I took ye to bed,
But you’re far too simple and plain to be wed.
“For I’ve loved a Maiden with eyes like the stars,
With pale, creamy skin that no blemish mars;
With lips that are wine-red, and hair like the sun.
That’s who I love, lass, and you’re not that one.”
Again, Mylikki launched into the bitter, harsh words of the chorus. Her pretty face was flushed with the passion of the words, her eyes closed. It was as if it was her own pain she was pouring out, not that of some mythical woman. And Kevla wondered, as she looked from one singer to t
he other, if that was not indeed the case.
Love, then, means nothing, for beauty is all.
In anguish and rage, on dark things I did call—
I called on the spirits, I called on the Dead,
Too full of hatred to feel any dread.
My softness, for vengeance I bargained away.
My laughter, for beauty as cold as the clay;
My soul, for the power to catch men like flies,
And watch as their manly pride withers and dies.
Kevla knew that by law, all formal huskaas were men. But clearly the Law did not forbid women from learning how to play and sing, merely denied them the title. She wondered, listening to the angry, heartbreaking song, if it had been a woman who had penned these words, long ago. She couldn’t imagine a man, even someone as sensitive as Jashemi, fully grasping the ache of a woman’s heart.
Even as the thought of her beloved came, she wished it away. His face rose up in her mind and, as always, guilt and pain raked her with merciless claws. Suddenly the song seemed slightly less tragic. Both this Ice Maiden and the pretty young maiden who was currently performing the song knew the shame and pain of rejection. She’d seen Altan by turns flirt with and scorn Mylikki, and knew how badly it had hurt. But the Lamali girl knew nothing of the agony of forever losing her beloved by her own actions—someone who had loved her with all his heart.
Kevla wiped at her eyes, grateful for the pain in the song, hoping that it might hide her own deeply personal grief.
Instead of one lover, I’ve legions of slaves.
My name’s on their lips as they go to their graves.
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