Yet it must be done. Nothing else short of war—and Carriol was not strong enough now, crippled by the dark, to make such war—could prevent Venniver’s slaughter of the Seeing children. Could prevent Venniver’s insane and false religion from creating untold destruction and pain.
And if he had ever thought, as a child, that the gods were not truly gods, were, as he had once told Tayba, only different from men, he trembled now at that thought.
Soon he entered a valley that rose steeply toward a grove of young trees thrusting up between stones of black lava. Beyond the trees rose steep grassy banks. He saw the winged horses suddenly, for they were standing in shadow by the grove, motionless, watching him approach, five winged ones, their dark eyes knowing, their wings folded tight to their bodies to avoid the low branches of the wood. They seemed—they were waiting for him, yet their thoughts did not touch him. His horse stared uncertainly, smelled them, saw their wings, and wanted to bolt A big russet stallion came forward lifting his wings, touched Ram’s cheek with his muzzle, ignored Ram’s mount utterly. He pushed at Ram’s red hair with his nose, a gesture of respect and love. They had some need, these winged ones, some trouble. Ram tried to understand and could not, the dark held impenetrable silence over them, silence between those who should speak with one another as easily as breathing. At last, unable to communicate, the stallion led Ram deep into the wood. The four other winged ones followed.
There, just in the dappled shade, a winged colt stood twisted into ungainly position, caught in a rope snare. Ram dismounted, drew his knife. The colt was big, a yearling, and had been cut cruelly by the ropes as he fought to free himself. Ram could see where the stout lines had been chewed by the other horses. He began to cut the snare away.
He had cut nearly all the ropes when suddenly his arm touched a rope yet uncut, saplings hissed and a second snare sprang, jerking and choking him as he fought, engulfing him in tangles. And he heard a human shout and suddenly five riders came plunging down the hill. He fought in desperation, slashed at ropes. The winged ones turned, screaming, to battle the riders. Ram, fearing more for them than for himself, shouted them away, saw the colt leap skyward, then the others, as bows were drawn against them with steel-tipped arrows, heard a mare scream as she took an arrow in the leg. The five horses lifted fast into the wind.
The riders circled Ram. A dark Herebian warrior swung down from the saddle, his leather vest marked with the black cross of Kubal, his brutal face close to Ram’s as Ram struggled in fury against the ropes. He was a head taller than Ram and stank of sweat. He jerked Ram up, signaled that Ram’s horse be brought, did not speak, seemed furious that the colt had escaped. But he was sharply interested in Ram, kept staring at his red hair and grinning. The other two men jumped at his bidding like puppets on a stick.
They brought Ram’s horse. Ram fought them uselessly, was too tightly bound to do little more than give them a bruise or two as they tied his hands and feet, then removed the snare and threw him over his saddle, tied him down like a sack of meal so tight the wolf bell pressed sharply into his ribs and the saddle tore at his healing wound. The men reset the snare, then led Ram’s horse lurching up the hill.
Ram’s wound burned like fire. Surely it was torn open. He thought he could feel blood running. Evening fell, the night deepened. Every bone in his body ached from riding belly down across the saddle. The journey seemed to go on forever. It was very late indeed when his horse was led at last into the Kubalese camp.
FIVE
Lights swung wildly in Ram’s face, voices shouted, more lights were flung up so men could stare at him. His horse shied and spun. He wanted to kill every man in the compound, but was helpless as a babe. Numb and cold, likely all his ribs broken after that abominable ride, and the wolf bell had gouged a raw place and his wound was a screaming pain. If he could get his hands on just one . . .
A lantern was shoved into his face, blinding him. When his vision cleared at last, he could see corral fences in the swinging lights, and some sheds. Men crowded around him. Someone poked his wound, bringing pain like a knife. Someone jerked his plunging horse until it stilled.
“Fires of Urdd, a Seer! AgWurt has brung us a Seer!” A hunk of Ram’s hair was pulled, bringing a roar of laughter.
“A better day’s work than one o’ them unnatural winged horses, I say!”
“Where’d they get a Seer?”
“Look, ’e’s a young one, looks—them’s Carriol clothes, this . . .”
“It’s the wolf one, Brage! They call Ramad! Ramad of wolves, this! Why . . .”
“They’ll pay a price for this one in Carriol! Better than a flying horse, AgWurt! Better . . .”
Ram was poked and exclaimed over, then at last was left to himself, still tied face down across the saddle. Much later he was cut loose and jerked roughly off his horse to drop in the mud, so stiff he could hardly roll away from the gelding’s hooves. Someone jerked him up, and he was dragged, still bound, to a pen of thick crossed bars, was shoved inside with such force that he fell against a post and lay with his head reeling.
No one bothered to untie him. The mud in which he lay was redolent with manure. He was too weary to try to rise. He heard a lock snap shut. He must have slept in spite of pain, for when he was aware of anything again the night was still and much colder and there were no lights, just the thin glow of the two moons that had risen higher and were reflected in puddles in the mud. What had waked him? His hands and feet were numb from the bindings, and icy cold. Someone whispered close beside him, a girl’s voice.
She was reaching through the bars, holding out a mug. “Try to move your hands, I’ve taken off the ropes. Try—can you move your feet?”
He reached out, could hardly feel the mug, had to consciously direct his fingers to close around it; drank greedily.
“You are in Kubal,” she whispered. “My father caught you in a snare meant for . . .”
“For the horses of Eresu.” Ram’s voice was hoarse.
“Yes. I tried—I can’t reach your bandage. It’s bloody. Is the pain very great?”
“I’m all right.” He touched numb fingers to his side, felt the wetness; then pulled himself up until he could lean against the wooden cage. She drew back, startled, seemed suddenly uneasy at his closeness. He caught the smooth, slim turn of her cheek, a brief glimpse in the thin wash of moonlight, then she was in shadow again; a strange, stirring glimpse that unsettled him for no reason.
She had lifted her hand, now she touched the fence, seemed lost in some depth of thought he had no way to follow. She said at last, urgently, “Why were you there in the foothills? Did you mean to come to Kubal, Seer?”
“I—I am of Carriol.” She was watching him so intently, almost as if he frightened her. Why was she here in the dark by his pen, why was she helping him? “I was traveling away from Kubal, I was traveling toward the mountains.”
She moved until she could see his face more clearly in the faint moonlight. He was covered with mud and dung, a pretty sight. She almost reached again, drew her hand back. “You are . . . you are Ramad.”
“How did they know me, those men?”
“There are fifteen Seers in Carriol. Jerthon of Carriol is older than you. There are some old men, some women. There is only one other young man, and he is thin and freckled, older. There is only one as young as you and red of hair. And brazen sometimes, so the captives say.”
He grinned. ‘Tell me your name.”
“I am Telien.”
“Yes, Telien. You freed a woman and her daughters and they came to us.” He wanted to tell her something, to share with her something, but he did not know what. He wanted to give her something. “I was riding toward Eresu,” he blurted, and he had not meant to tell anyone this. He saw her eyes widen: green eyes, cool green in the glancing moonlight. He wanted to touch her cheek and didn’t understand his feelings. She studied his face, and he was stirred by her, and restless and afraid. What was this strangeness? He felt a closeness t
o her like nothing he could remember, a closeness as brothers of blood would feel, yet not like that at all; the closeness of a woman, but unlike what he had felt for any woman.
How could a man feel tenderness, feel passion, kneeling in the muck of a corral, freezing cold? Yet he felt all this for Telien. She started to speak but a lantern flared nearby, and at once she was gone into the night as if she had never been.
When he woke again it was dawn, and some chidrack were screaming and pecking after bugs at one side of his pen. He rolled over, stared at the crossed bars. He had been sleeping in the mud like an animal. He rose painfully, saw the ropes lying half buried in the mud, and remembered Telien. He moved stiffly, every bone ached, and his wound pulled painfully. His stomach was empty as a cavern, his mouth dry. Hardly light, nothing stirred. There were no cobbled streets here, only mud. No stone houses. Rough wooden sheds, many pens. No smoke from the tin chimneys yet. He stood looking through the bars, knowing he should try to make a plan of escape and unable to think of anything but Telien.
At last he stirred himself, found the gate to his pen, and began to examine the lock, a huge heavy thing set into wide steel straps so it could not be pried loose. He gave it up finally and turned once more to sorting out his surroundings.
The nearby pens held horses slogging in mud so it was a wonder they weren’t all lame. In a far corral human captives slept on the ground like dead bodies—could have been bodies scattered, except some of them snored. In a corral to his left stood a great mare, her rump turned to him. She—he stared, not believing what he saw. When she turned, he caught his breath.
A mare of Eresu! And her wings shorn bare so he went sick at the sight of her. Wings clipped to the skin like some fettered barn fowl, wings made ugly and monstrous, misshapen, held tight to her sides in pain or in shame, ungainly bony protuberances that once had been graceful arcs commanding winds, commanding the skies of Ere. Her body was covered with the long welts of a lash, cruel and deep.
He tried to reach her with his thoughts, but she stood hunched and unresponding. How long had she been in this place? Had she been captured in AgWurt’s snares? What did AgWurt intend for her? To clip her wings like this, to cripple her—and the poor mare was heavy with foal. What did he want? Only to bedevil and degrade these wild creatures whose spirits he could not touch? Or to ride them, to become their masters in some sick-minded attempt at mastering that which no man could ever master.
He turned his attention again to the compound. He could not help the mare, not yet. But AgWurt shared now in the cold, purposeful hatred Ram held for Venniver who burned children, and for the dark Pellian Seers.
The sky was growing lighter, the compound taking fuller shape. There was a long shed beyond the pens that could be a central kitchen and sleeping hall, perhaps an arms store as well. How many men did the encampment house? He could see another row of sheds some distance beyond the first, and more corrals. He counted sixty-two horses, some of them very good mounts, many from Carriol. He caught his breath when he saw the dun stallion standing tall among the other mounts.
And where was Anchorstar, then? He could not see him among the prisoners. He stood looking, outraged, uncertain. Was the tall, white-haired man sleeping in the hall among the Kubalese? Was he friend to the Kubalese, had he spoken to Ram in deceit?
Had he alerted the Kubalese that Ram was near, traveling alone?
He could hardly believe that, and yet . . . why had Anchorstar come here? What business could the man have with the Kubalese?
In the closest prison pen, figures were beginning to rise stiffly from the mud where they had slept. Ram watched them, hoping to see Anchorstar among them, but assuming he would not; and Anchorstar was not there. When Ram turned, Telien stood beside his cage.
Her green eyes, the shock of recognition he felt for her held him frozen. Her face so familiar, he knew it so well; yet he had hardly seen her before this moment, seen only her moon-touched shadow last night. But he had seen her, knew well the tone of her skin, the curve of her cheek just there—and suddenly without warning he knew, went weak with knowing: Time spun, twelve years disappeared, and he was caught again in the vortex of Time spinning at the top of Tala-charen. Telien was there among the shadowy figures; thunder rumbled and the mountain shook; he saw her pale hair fall across her shoulders as it now fell, her green eyes watching him as they now watched; saw the jade shard in her hands turning slowly from white hot to deep green; and she disappeared.
And Telien stood holding out a plate of bread and meat, puzzled by his scowl, uncomprehending. He took the plate woodenly. She frowned, trying to understand, did not speak. He gripped her wrist so she stared back at him in alarm, then with pain; but she showed no sign of the recognition he felt.
He could not gather words. When he released her, she continued to stare, unable to turn away.
He swallowed, found his voice at last, stared at her pale hair, her golden skin, seeing her still as she was in Tala-charen—exactly as she was now. “Do you not remember, Telien?” How could she not remember? She had been there. “You held the runestone in your hands—the runestone of Eresu.”
“The runestone of Eresu?” She frowned, studying his face. “You make fun of me, Ramad of wolves. The runestone of Eresu lies in the sacred tower of Carriol. How could I have held it?”
“You did not hold that stone, Telien. You held its mate. You held it and you . . .” He stopped speaking, could not explain, was gripped with such longing for her; and with a sudden longing for Tala-charen and for that moment that had caused him such pain. She touched his cheek hesitantly; they saw a figure emerge from the hall and she left him at once slipping away, did not return until night.
He gazed after her, trying to understand. Why did she not remember?
She had brought bandages, salve. At last he busied himself with changing the dressing of his wound. He did not like the look of it, angry and swollen, torn open where it had earlier begun to heal; very painful. He was leaning tiredly against the wooden bars feeling light-headed when he saw, so suddenly that he jerked upright, the tall, lean figure of Anchorstar going across the compound led by two soldiers, the old man’s hair white as snow in the dull morning. Ram nearly cried out, held his tongue with effort, watched as the soldiers pushed Anchorstar roughly into the long hall and pulled the door closed behind them.
They had come from the direction of the prison pens. Surely Anchorstar was captive, then, and not a friend of the Kubalese as Ram had feared. He had thought of Anchorstar as friend, had trusted him even with so short a meeting, felt, for the old man a kinship it was difficult to explain. He remembered, now, Anchorstar’s words as they sat before Klingen’s fire. You are one dedicated to the good, Ramad of wolves. Whatever comes to your hand will be used to the good of Ere. No pronouncement at all of his own position, yet Ram had felt with every fiber of his Seer’s strength that Anchorstar was as committed as he to the good of Carriol, of Ere.
But was feeling, even a Seer’s feeling, ever enough?
He stood pondering this when the vision came, abruptly: Anchorstar kneeling before AgWurt, held like a dog, beaten by guards so the lashes cut through his leather jerkin and into his skin. Anchorstar, silent and ungiving; Anchorstar beaten raw and still unwilling to speak. What did they want of him? Ram gripped the bars, Seeing with terrible clarity. Saw, then, the small leather pouch in AgWurt’s fist, knew he had taken it from Anchorstar’s tunic, the starfire pouch, heard AgWurt’s words briefly before the vision faded: You will tell me where! I will know where they came from, or you will die in Kubal’s pens, old man!
*
When Telien returned, she came from the direction of the mare’s fence. He had not seen her go there in the dark; her hands were freezing, as if she had been standing a long time inside that corral. The night was broken by loud voices and laughter from the hall, as if AgWurt’s men sat drinking there. A thin fog lay across the moons. He wanted to look into Telien’s face, but she stood with her back to the dull
moonlight. She had brought meat and bread. He reached through the bars, touched her hand. She pushed the plate at him, seemed shy and confused. When she looked at him, it was with veiled, wary eyes; and yet he thought there was more. Something . . .
She said, abruptly, without greeting, “He keeps—AgWurt keeps the key chained to his wrist.” As if she had thought all day about how to set him free. “I—he almost never takes it off. Once, by the water trough . . .”
“Yes, when you freed Mawn Paula and her children.”
“Yes.” She moved along the fence until Ram had turned so the faint moonlight fell on his face. She reached as if she would touch his hair, then stilled her hand, remained silent, watching him.
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