He stood silent, seemed to have forgotten them. Then at last, “When I held her, there was a sense of mountains, dark peaks rising. I could feel her despair. I saw the stone in darkness for an instant.” He paused, seemed drawn away suddenly, then he looked across at Anchorstar with surprise. “Words come into my mind. Words—unbidden.” He began to repeat slowly, then with more assurance, in a kind of prophecy that none of them ever afterward could put a name to except, simply, a moment of Seer’s prophecy. “It lies in darkness somewhere, in the north of Cloffi, or in the mountains there.” And then his words became trancelike. “Found by the light of one candle, carried in a searching, and lost in terror. Found again in wonder, given twice, and accompanying a quest and a conquering.” The cold wind touched them, the fire guttered then sprang bright. Never, even in all the violent visions of his childhood, had words of prophecy sprung clearly into Ram’s mind, ringing in his head almost as if spoken by another. Visions had come, scenes, direct knowledge. But not words thundering to be spoken.
He repeated softly the prediction, then turned to Skeelie, suddenly needing her. “Did—could Telien have spoken this into my mind? Could she remember—somehow know . . .?” But then his eyes went dark, his expression turned grim once more. “Telien could not speak such a prediction. She is not a Seer. Such a prediction comes—within a pattern I cannot even imagine. Can any Seer know the pattern by which he takes power?”
Anchorstar emptied the kettle, began to pack up the remains of the meal, then stopped to look at Ram. “A Seer can know the pattern as well, as he knows the pattern of the heavings of the earth and the birth and rebirth of souls. We are a part of something, Ramad. The runestones are a part of it. But what that pattern is, or what made it, we do not know. Why can we three move through Time when all men, even all Seers, cannot?” The white-haired Seer fell silent, caught in his own private sadness.
Skeelie said softly the words of the ancient tree man, “. . . born to weave a new pattern into the fabric of the world. Those so born are not anchored to a single point in Time.” The words of the man who was surely Anchorstar’s sire. Anchorstar looked at her a long time, a deep, puzzled look. She could not read his thoughts, but his face held infinite sadness, as if those words touched a remote place within his soul, a place of everlasting pain.
NINE
Four days brought them up into Esh-nen. It was so cold now, they rode with their blankets around their shoulders and slept close together at night, with the wolves crowded around in a warm cluster. Sleeping close, as she and Ram had sometimes done as children out of fear or in the icy nights on Tala-charen, Skeelie could feel the sense of their friendship grow steadier. She would lie wakeful with the pleasure this gave her, and with annoyance at her own dependence on Ram; but with, sometimes, a longing for him that even this closeness could not quiet. Then she would turn away from Ram and huddle into Torc’s shoulder, choking back tears; and Torc would turn and lick her face and lay her muzzle into Skeelie’s neck. You suffer too violently, sister. Time will take away the pain.
It never can.
Torc could not answer her, for her own pain, the memory of her dead cubs and the pain of her lost mate, had not abated. Together they would lie miserable and wakeful in the cold, still night, sharing their loneliness. Ram slept beside her unknowing, and Anchorstar, if he knew, did not speak of it. The very beauty of the night in this barren place, the moonlight like crystal on the jutting rocks, seemed to make her misery even sharper.
The world seemed to have grown larger and more remote as they ascended. And while at first this had increased Skeelie’s loneliness, soon the immense spaces began to fascinate her, as if they held within themselves powerful and hidden meanings. She began to touch within herself new plateaus of strength that came sharper still as the peaks rose higher and wilder around them.
The ground over which they rode seemed never to have known spring, seemed always to have been as now, frozen and barren of life. The snow, which had at first lay in patches on the frozen ground, increased to a heavy blanket. They dug moss from beneath the rock cliffs for the horses, and Anchorstar took from his pack precious rations of grain for them, but still the animals began to grow gaunt. It was a bleak, heartless mountain. The few trees stunted along the edges of the rising cliffs might have clung there forever, unchanged. The sense of their own smallness became nearly unbearable. The mountain stretched around them white and cold and silent.
Anchorstar, too, became silent, as remote as the spaces surrounding them, so Skeelie felt that at any moment he might fade altogether to become a part of the empty vastness through which they traveled.
Soon the snow was so deep the horses had to fight their way. Then the riders dismounted to trample down a path and make the way easier for the mounts. They kept on so, walking, their feet growing cold, their boots sodden, stopping again and again to dig packed snow from the horses’ hooves. The wolves alone found it easy to move swiftly across the whiteness. They brought meat—rock hare and a small deer—so there was no need for the travelers to hunt.
They came, at evening of the sixth day, up over a rising snow plain to a ridge. Beyond it, the land dropped suddenly, falling down to a deep blue lake far below. A lake not frozen over, but breathing hot steam against ice-covered cliffs. They began to descend, the horses slogging through deep snow sideways, held back from overbalancing by a short lead. Soon they could feel the lake’s warm breath. The rising steam grew thick around them, turning to fog in the cold air, hiding the snow-clad mountains. They descended into a cauldron of fog, of shifting pale shadows and then of unexplained darknesses rising and stretching away like voids between the clouds of mist.
Skeelie could feel Anchorstar’s tenseness. He seemed reluctant suddenly, and at the same time almost eager. She heard him whisper words indistinguishable, then speak a name. “Thorn!” Then, “That Seer is Thorn of Dunoon!” A wind caught the heavy fog and swirled it into patterns against darkness. Suddenly they were not standing in snow, but on a narrow rocky trail winding along the side of a bare, dark mountain, black lava rock rising jagged against the sky. The horses were gone. The air was warm, a warm breeze blew up from the valley below. Time lay asunder once again, twisted in its own mysterious convolutions, and they had been carried with it like puppets, swept away from their destination. Skeelie responded with anger, this time with a sense of betrayal.
Below them lay pastures green as emeralds, and a little village, its roof thatch catching the last light of the setting sun. Below that village, down at the foot of the mountain, they could see a city. Surely they had come to the mountains above the village of Dunoon. No city that Skeelie knew, save Burgdeeth, lay so close to the foot of the Ring of Fire. A flock of goats was being herded up into the high pastures, the herder a young redheaded Seer; and suddenly Skeelie went dizzy. Time shifted again, darkness was on the mountain. Though they could still see the herder, who stood in moonlight now, his goats grazing among black boulders. Anchorstar sighed.
“We are in my own time, and I know I must move in this time.” His words came heavy, as if he were very tired. Then his voice lifted. “That young Seer—can’t you feel it? Yes—he is linked with the runestone!” He was tense with excitement, now, stood staring down eagerly. “He is linked with the runestone that Telien carried. The runestone that Telien brought out of Tala-charen.”
Ram had caught his breath, stood watching, sensing out.
“He will touch that stone,” Anchorstar continued. “I feel certain of it. He is linked with your prophecy, Ramad. Found by the light of one candle, carried in a searching Linked in a way I cannot fathom. But
Ram . . .” Anchorstar laid a restraining hand on Ram’s arm.
“Telien is not in this time, nor does he know of her—nor do I feel that she will come to this time. That young Seer— I think he is hardly aware of his gift. It is an ignorant time, ignorant!” And then, his voice fading, “Kubal is rising. Can’t you feel their dark intent?”
He was go
ne, mountain and valley gone. Ram and Skeelie stood alone in fog and snow, freezing cold, the blue lake below. Anchorstar’s horse was gone, its hoofprints ending suddenly in the deep snow just where Anchorstar’s footprints ended. Their own two horses pressed close to them, shivering.
An after-vision filled their minds with Anchorstar, not on that dark mountain now but riding the dun stallion along a flat green marsh next to the sea. “He is in Sangur,” Ram breathed. “Surely those are the marshes of Sangur. How . . .? He stared at Skeelie. “What mission must he now endure, in order to make his way back to the mountains, and to that young Seer? Is there sense of it, Skeelie?”
She could not answer him. They stood staring at one another, caught between wonder and fear at the forces that moved around them, that flung them so casually across Time. Was there sense to it, reason? She remembered, suddenly and vividly, standing with Ram inside the mountain Tala-charen, could hear his voice, a child’s voice, yet very certain of the words he spoke. There is one force. But it is made of hundreds of forces. Forces balance, overbalance—that is what makes life; nothing plans it, that would take the very life from all—all the universe. It is the strength of force in our desires for good and evil, Skeelie, that makes things happen. . . .”
He touched her thoughts. She whispered, “Do you still believe that?”
“I—I don’t know. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I’m not sure how much. I guess—I guess I have more questions now than I did then. Anchorstar is gone. He brought us to this place and is gone. What forces . . .?” He looked at her long and deep, then at last they turned in silence, the sense of their wondering flashing between them, but no words adequate to answer such questions. They looked down at the lake, wreathed in mist, then started down toward its shore.
As they descended, snow turned to ice, for all was frozen here where the lake’s steam melted the snow again and again, then cold winds froze it. The far steep shore glistened with ice, rising up to the mountains. Their boots broke through the thin layer of constantly melting and refreezing crust, and the horses pawed, sidestepping, uncertain and suspicious, moving one wary step at a time. Across the lake, the shore was riddled with caves, visible now and then through the mist, and there seemed to be caves beneath the water, too, dark, indistinct patches.
At the lake’s edge Skeelie knelt, scooped warm water into her cold hands, then plunged her face in, came up dripping. The wary horses settled to drink at last as the wolves crowded around them to lap up the clear, warm water. For some moments, no one saw or sensed the man who stood in the shelter of a snowbank watching them, a big man swathed in white furs, nearly invisible against the snowbank. Fawdref sensed him first, sprang around suddenly, snarling, ready to leap. But then he stopped, did not advance on the stranger.
The man pushed aside the flap of white fur that had covered his face and stared down at the wolf with eyes like fierce black embers. Within the white hood, his face was a dark oval, sun-browned, creased with lines, craggy, his black beard clipped in a square manner, sharply defined. His dark eyes smiled suddenly, eyes filled with depths that seemed to engulf them all as completely as the warp of Time could engulf them. Skeelie fought his power, wanted to pull away; yet his strength remained aloof, did not crush her as she felt it could easily do. He said abruptly, without preamble, “Come then,” turned from them and started around the icy shore, never doubting that they would follow him.
They went in single file, Ram leading his mount, then Skeelie leading hers, the wolves coming behind, austere and silent. The only sound was the crunch of frozen snow as they made a solemn journey around the lake to where a white hill lay, a long mound with smoke rising from its center. The power of the man drew and enfolded Skeelie until she no longer wanted to be rid of it. She did not attend to how his power affected Ram, so caught was she in the sense of this man who was the Cutter of Stones.
As they drew close to the white mound, they could see a white door in its side. The Cutter of Stones pushed that door open, and they entered through the wall of snow into an inner court, open to the sky. Log outbuildings and stables stood on three sides of the court, their roofs covered with high banks of snow. A long, low house of heavy logs flanked the right side, snow roofed.
Two stalls had been made ready for their horses, with dry grass and grain and leather buckets of fresh water. The goats and sheep in the other stalls watched with marble eyes as Skeelie led her bay gelding into a stall and unsaddled him. She was tired suddenly, aching with weariness. Perhaps a weariness born of the intense isolation of this place—outside of Time, outside of any world they knew. Or perhaps it was a weariness born of her sure knowledge that she and Ram moved now, inevitably, toward crises in their lives, toward turning places. She was not sure she was ready for any kind of crisis. At this moment, all she wanted was a drink of something hot and supper and a warm bed. She began to rub the saddle marks from the gelding’s back. He ate greedily. When she turned from him at last, Ram was leaning in the doorway.
She studied him, his brown eyes, his olive skin glowing now from the cold, the long, thin bones of his face, unruly thatch of red hair. Wanting to touch his cheek, she shielded her thoughts from him, feeling stupid and ashamed of her love for him, because he could not return it.
“We are farther than the end of the world, Skeelie. Farther than any world, maybe. Farther . . .” His jaw clenched, pushing back the pain of Telien.
“You let it eat at you, Ram! What good—you . . .” She turned from him, furious, then was ashamed all over again. What was she so angry about? He couldn’t help it. She was tired, needed a hot meal, a bath. She turned back, took his hand and pulled him out into the courtyard. It was starting to snow. The wolves rose from around the door like a pack of great dogs, grinned and were off through the court and up the side of a hill to hunt. Ram dropped her hand, was unaware he did so, or that he had been holding it. She stared at him reproachfully. There was nothing she could do to make him aware of her when he did not want to be. And nothing she could do to relieve his pain for Telien. She could only stay beside him and help him search and do whatever was needed. Doormat! she thought angrily. Doormat! But it was what she wanted to do, must do, or life would have no meaning. When he had found Telien, when they had gone off together—if they could save her, if they could release her from the wraith—then, Skeelie thought, she could dissolve into self-pity, and after that make a new life for herself. Now there was only the search for Telien, and it didn’t matter if she was a doormat.
They entered the hall. Skeelie dropped her pack by the door, thankful to be rid of the weight. The warmth of the great room and of the blazing fire engulfed them. It was a huge, square room with three log walls, and a fourth of stone where a fire blazed beneath a deep stone mantel. Rafters thick as a man’s waist caught the reflection of leaping flames. Cushions were stacked before the hearth, and beside them a low table made of some dark, dull wood. There was no other furniture. Fur hides and fur cushions were strewn in piles about the room. A black stewpot hung to one side of the fire. The Cutter of Stones was stirring this.
He had removed his white furs, was clad now in a plain brown tunic and trousers. His dark eyes saw Skeelie clearly, saw her aching tiredness, her hunger, her discouragement. He held out steaming mugs to them, a heady brew scented with spices. And all the time, he looked directly at Skeelie. His voice was deep, comforting. “I am called Canoldir.” Then, “Come Ramad, make yourself comfortable before the fire.” Ram turned from them.
Canoldir looked at Skeelie so long she felt a blush rising. At last he took her arm and guided her through the hall to a corridor and down this to a chamber. He did not speak, but his very presence seemed to rest and strengthen her. “This room opens onto the lake. There is no one about, you may bathe. Supper will be ready when you are.” He turned away, was gone; she felt only the sense of his mind, for a moment still watching her. Then she was quite alone. She pushed the door closed behind her and stood surveying the room.
It was
large and square though not nearly so huge as the hall. There were a few pieces of simple furniture, a big bed covered in a red woven tapestry, other tapestries hanging against the log walls. In one wall was a great window, opening nearly to the floor, made of hundreds of small panes of precious glass. It looked out on the lake and the icy shore.
There was a fur robe lying across a bench, along with fur slippers and linen towels. She stripped down at once, pulled the robe around her and stepped barefoot through the window out into the snow. Her feet began to tingle from the cold, a strangely exhilarating, comforting feeling. She stood for a moment at the edge of the lake, staring up through scarves of steam at the white mountains, watching the first stars come in the deepening sky, her mind on Canoldir. At last she slipped out of the robe and dove in one motion into the water, luxurious in its warmth, rolled languidly, then dove deep, felt the aching tiredness leave her. Finally she struck out in a long line across the lake, sharply aware of the contrast between the warm water and the icy bite of air across her cheek and lifting arms and shoulders.
At the far shore, close to the caves, she dove again and peered into shadowed grottoes. Then, in a little pool beneath snowbanks she floated on her back staring up through steam and past ice-crusted cliffs at the first stars. When she rolled over again, a vision came so suddenly and sharply it shocked her. So clear, so very real! She stood in a hut made all of saplings, stood beside a center fire pit and held a babe in her arms; the love and warmth that filled her was nearly too much to bear. A babe urgently important, not only because of the love she felt, but because of much more; though what, exactly, she could not sense.
Runestone of Eresu Page 28