Runestone of Eresu

by Murphy, Shirley Rousseau

  His voice went silent. His face seemed carven once more, then collapsed as it began to recede back into the bark. Skeelie stood staring, shaken, wanting stupidly to cry out for him not to leave her. His eyes, dull and lifeless now, disappeared last. She backed away from the trunk. His fading voice breathed out once more, hollow now, hardly a whisper. “Follow through the maze of this cave as your mind bids you, Seer.” She strained to hear. “Follow you the path of the starfires. Find the Cutter of Stones who made them, for he will give you strength. Follow to the source of Ramad’s beginnings, touch the place of his childhood and his strength. And know you that Ramad must search through Time for more than his lost love, know you that he must search for the lost shards of the runestone of Eresu if he be true to himself.” She could hardly make out his words, leaned closer to the hoary bark; and one question burned in her.

  “How do I know I can move into Time? I do not carry starfires. I do not touch Time’s secrets, nor have I found a rune.”

  “You are one of the few born to weave a new pattern into the fabric of the world. Those so born are not anchored to a single point in Time.”

  “I do not understand.”

  But he was gone. The ancient tree slept, retreating into a million years of repose whence its core had risen. Skeelie moved past it into the darker shadows, wondering, trying to make sense of his words. How could the old man know of Ram, of the starfires? Surely he was a Seer. A Seer trapped, his immortal soul taken. A Seer of evil? A traitor as had been BroogArl, and HarThass before him? A traitor trapped so, never to be born again? She shivered. And his white-haired children . . .

  Could Anchorstar be one of Cadach’s children? Anchorstar—my white-haired children . . .

  Anchorstar had carried the starfires, had given one to Telien, had given three to Ram. Follow you the path of the starfires . . .

  Her stomach was knotted. Her hand clutched her sword hilt. Her mind raced eagerly ahead between the dark reaches, seeking now with awe, pushing toward those other worlds that had begun again to shine around her, toward the cries of men in battle, listening for Ram’s voice. Voids and piercing space threatened to swallow her. She left each scene behind her for she could not find Ram. She sought deeper and deeper into the mountain.

  There she came suddenly to a pillar carved with runes that made her catch her breath, for three words shone out at her. Words so familiar, so very painful: Eternal. Will sing. Those words had been carved on the splinter of the runestone that Ram had brought with him out of Tala-charen, the splinter that now lay at the bottom of the sea, lost when the Hape had nearly killed Ram. They had never known the whole rune that appeared on the complete, unbroken stone. Ram had not had time to read it in that instant before it shattered. But these three words were part of it, and they blazed at her like fire from the pillar.

  Eternal quest to those with power.

  Some seek dark; they mortal end.

  Some hold joy; they know eternal life,

  Through them all powers will sing.

  Were these words the whole rune that was carved into the runestone? Who had carved it here in this buried place? She reached out, shaking, to touch the carved pillar. What linking did this tablet have to the runestone? What linking to Ram, in whose hands the stone had shattered? She turned suddenly, feeling watched, feeling another presence.

  Or was it only the old man, still watching her? Her nerves were strung tight. Imagining things. Imagining for a moment a sense of dark evil drawing in around her; and then gone. She returned to puzzling over the carved tablet. The lantern was burning low, would soon need refilling. Were the words on the tablet the key for which she searched, the key into Time? She stood repeating the words, then turned away at last confused and dizzy, and felt space wheeling around her and sudden heat searing her. Then winds came, and scenes overlapped in wild succession. She felt she could not breathe. She saw children running in terror before a river of fire, saw volcanoes spewing out against the sky. She searched wildly for a glimpse of Ram as a hundred scenes overwhelmed her. She knew she must move, must launch herself into this melee if she was to hurdle Time’s barrier—but into which scene? She dared not fling herself a thousand years from Ram, yet how could she know? She searched frantically, could not see his face, was stifled by fear, by indecision. Her lantern sputtered, the flame died. But the scenes were dimly lit, taunting her, terrifying her. She dropped the lantern, heard the precious glass shatter. She wheeled around in impotent panic—and felt something brush her arm, solid and huge; leaped back in terror, sword drawn.

  The flashing scenes were gone. Dim light shone above her from a star-struck sky. A black cliff rose beside her. She touched it again. The cliff of a mountain. She let out a long breath. She was no longer in the cave, had been swept without volition across the abyss. She was ashamed now of her fear and confusion. Looking up at the sky, at the stars, she felt their vast distance. A cold wind touched her face. The caves were gone, perhaps centuries gone. She had come at last into the unfathomable, where she could search for Ram.

  Then she saw the fire.

  It was some distance away, down to her left, a very small fire, like a campfire. Her heart was beating wild and quick with the knowledge that she had come through the impossible barrier. That campfire might mean anything: people or creatures beyond her comprehension.

  The fire flickered, then was lost for a moment as something dark moved across it. Surely it was a campfire. The sharp tang of painon-wood smoke made her press her finger to her nose to keep from sneezing. The smell of searing meat brought water to her mouth. She was wild with hunger suddenly, like an animal. She stood staring down at the bright, small glow, trying in vain to make out figures or a shelter. Surely someone must be sitting huddled in shadow waiting for supper to cook. When a sharp, high noise cut the night, she startled terribly, swallowed, her hand tight on her drawn sword in quick mindless reflex.

  But it had only been a goat, the high shrill bleat of a doe goat. The fire blazed bright as if its builder had laid on more wood. The meat smelled wonderful. She could see no one. She stood quietly, but her pulse still pounded wildly with the realization that she had at last left her own time. Suddenly a voice spoke. She spun and stared at the man before her, her sword pricking his chest.

  “Good even,” he repeated.

  How had he come so silently, slipping up on her? Her muscles were tense and ready to thrust, her blood surging with warlike reflex. Then she felt embarrassment, for he was only a small, elderly herder staring up at her, gentle of face, surprised by her quick, violent action. His voice was soft and even now, as if he spoke to a nervy beast.

  “Sheath your sword, lad.” He stepped back away from the tip of her blade. “Sheath it, I’ve no quarrel with you, nor mean you harm.” He watched her lower her blade a trifle. “Hungry? Are ye hungry? Come on to the fire, then, lad. Don’t be standing here staring, riling my goats all to thunder. Come down to the fire and settle. Who be ye, lad, coming out of the night so?”

  TWO

  The herder turned his back on her, plainly expecting her to follow as he made his way back toward the fire. He must be simple, turning his back on a sword. Or could this man be a Seer, know she meant no harm? She sought into his mind warily. But no, only a simple man. Trusting her. He led her to the fire, stooped to turn the roasting meat. Her sword swung against a boulder, ringing sharply, and a buck, startled, snorted. The animal stood just beyond the fire, a big Cherban buck with horns as long as her sword and nearly as sharp. Maybe this herder had more protection than she had guessed. The man had turned, was surveying her with surprise, now that he could see her clearly in the firelight. “Why it ain’t a lad at all!” He took in her knotted dark hair, the curve of her breast beneath her tunic, her thin-boned face. “A lady—in fighting leathers!” He studied her with interest. “Old, scarred leathers, and stained with blood, looks like.” He reached to touch her sword, took it from her in a gesture innocent and bold.

  She, always so quick an
d careful, let him take it with quiet amusement. He held it close to the flame where he could make out the intricate carving of birds and leaves with which the handle was fashioned, the clean, sharp blade. Then he raised his eyes to her. “A fine sword, lady. Fine. It was made with great skill. And with love.”

  His words brought unexpected pain. She looked away from him, felt gone of strength, wanting to weep for no reason. Made with love. Brotherly love, maybe. No more. She straightened her shoulders and stared at him defiantly, reached out for her sword. “How would you know if it was made with love? That is skill you see. Only skill in the casting of the silver.”

  “All skill, lady, is a matter of love. Have you not learned that? I hope you know more about the use of the sword than you do about a man’s mind.”

  “I know about its use. And I know more about men’s minds than—” She stopped, had almost given herself away in anger. Stupid girl. Shout it out. Tell him you know all about men’s minds, can see into men’s minds, tell him you’re a Seer! And who knows what they do to Seers in this time. Kill them? Behead them? Better collect yourself, Skeelie, find out where you are—and when—and stop acting like an injured river cat.

  “Ain’t never seen a lady got up so in fighting leathers.”

  She wanted to say, Where I come from it’s common enough. She wanted to say, What year is this that women don’t fight beside their men? But even in her own time, the women of the coastal countries had not fought so. Only the women of Carriol. She cast about for some question she might use to find her way here and realized how little she had prepared herself. So engrossed with getting into Time, she had given little thought to coping once there, or to an explanation for stepping out of nowhere. What plausible excuse did she have for traveling in these mountains when she did not know the customs, or where she was? Eresu knew, she was glad it was night. In the daytime she would have had some hard explaining to do, had he seen her appear suddenly from thin air.

  “Not much of a talker, are you lady? Hungry? The haunch should be ready soon.” The little man had a lopsided grin, and as he moved to turn the meat again, she could see he was lopsided in the way he walked, with a deep limp. He fussed about the meat, then at last settled down against a boulder. “Sit yourself down, lady. There’s a log there. I am called Gravan.”

  She sheathed her sword and sat down astraddle the log so she could look away from the campfire, behind her. She did not give her name. That smudge of dark against the stars was tall mountains. Surely she was in the Ring of Fire.

  Or on the edge of it. “The deer meat smells good,” she said quietly. “The deer are plentiful?”

  He gave her a puzzled look. “Scarce as teeth in a frog. Came on this one crippled.” He paused, rummaged in his pack for a wineskin, took a swig and passed it across to her. “Things in those mountains that kill deer, lady. Wolves. Fire ogres. Chancy traveling for a lady,” he said without malice. “Chancy—if you be traveling alone. . . .”

  She took a sip and handed the skin back. “I travel alone, herder.” Her heart had leaped at the mention of wolves. Could there be great wolves here? Or did he mean only the common wolves? She tried to hide her eagerness. “The wolves are killers,” she said casually. “Killers . . .”

  He nodded, grunting, took another sip.

  “Are they very bold? Do they raid your herds?”

  “Sometimes, lady. We kill some, and they do not return for a while.”

  She let out her breath, disappointed. Common wolves, then. Only common wolves raided the herds of men. The great wolves did not.

  “How do you come here, lady, traveling alone?”

  “It—was silent and peaceful in the deep mountains. I—I have a sorrow, I wanted to travel in solitude.” She gave him a long, deep look, eyes soulful. Her brother Jerthon would have said it made her look as if she would cry any minute. The little man nodded with quick embarrassment, obviously hoping she wouldn’t burst into tears. She studied him beneath lowered lashes, trying to remember where men had ever herded goats on the mountains. The Cherban had grazed their goats on the hills of Urobb farther south, and down in the rich marsh pastures of Sangur, where few men dwelled, but not here, not on the mountains of fire. When had they come here? Surely she was in a future time—or else in a time so ancient it had been all but forgotten when she was growing up. She stared past him trying to make out more of his herd, trying to see if there were other herders.

  “The village is down along that lower ridge,” Gravan offered, pointing. The moons had begun to lift in the east, fingering their gentle light across low hills. Could those be the hills of Carriol? Her pulse quickened. Or the hills along the Urobb? Running as they did, away from the mountains, they had to be one or the other. She gazed off toward the east where Carriol must lie, with a painful sweep of homesickness, thought of the twin moons rising over Carriol.

  “Do you come to Dunoon with a purpose, lady?”

  Dunoon? There had been no place called Dunoon in her time. And that faint rushing noise must surely be a river. A mountain river could be any one of four, but in this location, with such rounded, low hills on its east, it was either the Owdneet or the Urobb. She watched Gravan in silence. If she could know what river, she would know where she was, even if she did not know when. “I—I must confess I was lost. I saw your fire—I guess I wanted company.” She unslung her waterskin and tipped it up to drink, then shook it, frowning. “Stale. Tastes of rock.”

  “Fill it in the river, lady. You don’t seem to mind a little walk in the darkness. There,” he said, pointing. “Just where that darkest ridge rises, the Owdneet flows deep and white. Sweet, good water, lady.”

  The Owdneet. She felt a thrill of excitement. To hear its name engulfed her at once in the fabric of her childhood, made her long for something she could not put to words. She rose slowly, casually, trying to hide her eagerness, slipped her waterskin over her shoulder and walked away toward the sound of the river; wanting to run, wanting to shout some crazy, wild welcome to the churning, ranting Owdneet.

  As she drew close to the river, its roar nearly deafened her. Excited her. Her memory of the Owdneet was a memory of smells: wild tammi and sweetburrow and the smell of coolness on hot summer days. Now, though she had not yet reached the river, the smell of tammi came to her so strong it might have been crushed under her own feet passing along the bank of the river. To her left and below her, she could see the faint lights of Dunoon. It was only a tiny village, a few thatched roofs catching the moonlight. And steep down the mountain, a faint smear of light that must mark the city of Burgdeeth. This place called Dunoon lay just above Burgdeeth, then. Burgdeeth, where she had grown up. Where first she had met Ram, where they had been children together. There had been no village here on the mountain then, only the wild stag and hare, and the great wolves roaming silently. How many times had she and Ram slipped up across these meadows in secrecy to the caves of Owdneet, where the great wolves denned.

  Were tyrants still in control of Burgdeeth? Was Venniver still Landmaster? Or was he long dead and turned to dust, and another Landmaster risen to rule? And what relationship was there between this herding village and Burgdeeth? She stood staring down the mountain at Burgdeeth, caught in emotions she thought had died long ago. And was there a reason why she had been drawn to this place where she and Ram had been children? Some meaningful linking to Ram here? She could see white water now, catching the moonlight, soon stood beside the river watching it plunge down the mountain. Twelve years since she had stood here. How many years, in Time, was it? How many generations?

  She emptied her waterskin on the ground, then knelt and let it fill with the Owdneet’s foaming brew. She drank long from her cupped hands, then rose and stood lost in the roar and beauty of the river, moonlight like white fire over its rapids. Only slowly did she become aware of another’s presence, of the feeling that she was watched.

  Had old Gravan followed her?

  No, this was not Gravan, this presence was powerful and
disturbing. She turned, drawing her sword without sound, looked back into the darkness. But something made her swing around again to stare toward the river.

  She could make out nothing on the far shore but a wood, was confused, felt the presence behind her cold and waiting. She turned to face it again and sudden visions overwhelmed her, a dizzying confusion of visions plunging and assailing her sense so she could not be sure what moved before her and what moved in the places of her mind. Surely what watched her was giving her the visions, for she could feel the strong sense of another being as a part of them. And then one vision came more sharply and she saw the village of Dunoon at dawn, the straw-roofed huts catching early light, herds of goats between the houses, children playing. She saw a tall, white-haired man come from one of the huts and recognized him. Anchorstar. Anchorstar, traveler in Time. Anchorstar, the last man in her time to have seen Ram. He stood beside a brightly painted wagon with two fine horses in the shafts. Then he vanished; it was night and the village was on fire, the roofs ablaze, and dark Herebian horsemen circling the burning huts, laughing.

  The vision went. The night lay clear and empty, except for the presence that surely had drawn closer. The sense of something behind her across the river was gone now; only this strong, powerful being that had given her visions remained, and that being stood solidly between her and Gravan’s fire.

  Whatever it was, she could only face it, for if she circled, it would follow her, and if she ran it would be on her. She felt clearly it was agile and swift. The glow of Gravan’s fire seemed very far away. Anyhow, what could old Gravan do to protect her that she could not do herself? She began to move away from the river, seeking in the dark, searching out for something she could attack before it attacked her.