Shattered Stone

by Murphy, Shirley Rousseau

  “But how can Meatha and I get them away?” Zephy said. Then she saw Meatha frozen into that inner speaking. Zephy paused and delved deep into the silence, into the voiceless words; and she saw the tunnel. Meatha was showing Anchorstar the tunnel that ran beneath Burgdeeth.

  She understood that the Children could be taken there, hidden there until the small hours of darkness when they could be led away to meet Anchorstar beyond the house-gardens. Yes, perhaps it could be done. If only their talent for seeing were stronger. And then she saw the stone, lying in its niche, and she knew they had the power. The power was there, the stone was the key, the weapon that would strengthen their talents. Meatha showed it to Anchorstar, and his exaltation was great, his look intense as he examined the experience they had had with it; the vision Zephy shared with Thorn now, so he was there with her seeing the gods, feeling the immensity of space and of light.

  Then Anchorstar’s voice rang deep in their minds, as a prophecy would ring, and Zephy knew he spoke the words he had spoken to Thorn on the mountain when first he came into Cloffi.

  I seek a lost runestone, a stone of such power that the true gift would come strong in one who held it. Found by the light of one candle, carried in a searching, and lost in terror. Found in wonder, given twice, and accompanying a quest and a conquering . . . And the time to wield that power may be soon, for there are rumors across the land. . . .

  Zephy stared at Thorn and felt, a chill touch her, of fear and of anticipation. They stood looking at each other, linked, shaken, lifted into a dimension that exalted and terrified her.

  Part Three: Fire Scourge

  From The Covenants of Cloffi, Book of Fire.

  There shall be five days of worship at Harvest. On the fifth day, the last Worship of Fire Scourge shall be conducted under the full moons. The fields shall flame unto the sky, and the people shall turn their faces upward. We will see your flaming prayer, and we will judge your worthiness. You shall kneel down before the fire. You shall give the gods proof of your willing destruction of the earthly and unworthy. You shall show your innocence.

  Only the innocent will be granted absolution. The guilty will burn for all time at the fires of Urdd lit by the Luff’Eresi to cleanse evil from the hearts of mortals.

  TWELVE

  “You were not in the west field,” Feill Wellick said. He stood over them, cold as winter. They looked back innocently, trying to hide their apprehension. “You were not in the west field all day, not since early morning. Where were you?”

  “There were too many,” Zephy said. “When the other girls came, the line was so long the wagons couldn’t keep up with us so we went to the north field, we . . .” His expression cut her short. She stared up at him, her heart like lead.

  “No one saw you in the north field.”

  “We were there,” she said boldly. “They would lie to get us in trouble, those girls.” She had never talked to a Deacon like this. Her heart pounded; but she tried to look puzzled at his concern.

  He couldn’t prove anything; not that he needed to, of course. In the end he sent them to pray, so they missed supper. They prayed until after dark on their knees in the square, giddy with the knowledge that he had sent them exactly where they wanted to be. They were so close to the runestone, so close. Their bodies ached from the one position. They longed for darkness to be complete so they could slip down. It would be so easy to retrieve the stone.

  Though the thought of bringing the stone up into Burgdeeth was terrifying. It seemed to Zephy that the runestone would send a brightness out from itself that nothing could hide.

  And then when darkness came, Feill Wellick sent two Deacons with lamps to stand over them to hear the Prayers of Contrition. They had no chance to slip into the tunnel. They were sent home to bed very late, with the Deacons watching them go. Zephy climbed into her cold bed feeling utterly defeated.

  They don’t know anything, she thought uneasily. How could they? It’s just that we’re too defiant, both of us, and they caught us once for swimming, so now they’re always suspicious. But how will we get the stone now? Will they watch us all through harvest?

  The next day they worked in separate fields, to allay suspicion, then came together innocently at noon to share their dinners. They sat a little way from the crowd of gossiping women and the clusters of girls. A Deacon rode by and stared at them and went on.

  Three children had been taken by the Kubalese. Nia Skane, carried away behind Kearb-Mattus’s saddle. Little Graged Orden, who had run away when he knew where the red rag was hidden, drowned with his friend, Gorn Pellva. Or so it had appeared. Had Gorn been a Child of Ynell, too? And what about Elodia Trayd? Zephy could still see Elodia’s defiant gray eyes staring up at her. Would Elodia be next?

  “And there’s Toca Dreeb,” Meatha whispered. “He knew where the coin was hidden on the black buck.” The sun struck across Meatha’s cheek as she turned. “And Clytey Varik, maybe. We mustn’t let Kearb-Mattus take any of them. Clytey’s such a strange girl I can’t be sure. But there’s something about her . . .”

  “But she’s always so lively. And with other children.”

  “All the same, I feel it. Clytey Varik. Elodia Trayd. Toca Dreeb,” she said with certainty. “And one other. Did you ever watch Tra. Thorzen’s baby?”

  “A baby? But how could you tell?”

  “Tra. Thorzen was working beside me this morning and the baby—Bibb’s its name—was lying in a patch of vetchpea to one side, gurgling. I thought things at it. I could make him smile. And I could make him cry.”

  Zephy stared at her. “It could have been . . .”

  “Coincidence? I don’t think so. I thought of food and he gurgled and reached out toward me, then when I thought of someone coming up behind and hitting him, he turned around very afraid and began crying. But when I thought he was warm and comfy and fed, he settled back and smiled and went to sleep.”

  Zephy frowned. “How will we steal a baby?”

  “And what will we do with him? I’ve never taken care of a baby.”

  “The first thing is to get the stone. We’ll have to try tonight, after harvest. When you take the donkeys back, turn Dess loose and slap her.”

  “We’ve done that before.”

  “She can jump the fence, though. We’ve seen her.”

  So they let Dess loose, heading her toward the plum grove, and in the search for her, Zephy slipped down into the tunnel while Meatha searched for the donkey above, in the opposite direction from Dess.

  With the boulder rolled over the opening, the weight of blackness took hold of Zephy, making her shiver. She struck flint to candle, and in that trembling moment before the flame steadied, she knew, coldly, that if they were caught with the stone they would be killed for it; that somehow the Deacons would know what it was.

  Yet the quest gave her a feeling that nothing in her life had ever done. She touched the cool walls, passed the first timber support, brushing dirt and stone with her fingers. When she reached the niche at last, she had convinced herself the stone would be gone and could hardly bear to look. Then when she held the stone wrapped in her handkerchief, she had to unwrap it to be sure. Her desire to touch it overwhelmed her, but she wrapped it again and made haste to get back; she could put them both in danger with her dawdling.

  They caught Dess knee-deep in Tra. Llibe’s vetchpeas, gorging herself, and dragged her away toward her pen as if they were very angry, elation and terror making them nervy. Then they crept into Zephy’s mawzee patch, and she unwrapped the stone, couching it in her handkerchief.

  “Touch it, Zephy. Touch it once with me.”

  “I’m afraid. Wait until we can use it on one of the children.”

  “Maybe we could see if the Kubalese plan to attack. Maybe from Kearb-Mattus’s mind. Anchorstar said—”

  “But Anchorstar said you have to be close—”

  “Not with the stone. With the stone we can do it. Oh, please let’s try. Think of Kearb-Mattus as hard as you can,
think of his face.”

  Zephy touched the jade reluctantly and felt Meatha’s hand next to hers. She tried to see Kearb-Mattus’s face. She could not, but she could feel the sudden sense of him so strong that she started. Whether that was the seeing, or only her memory of him, she didn’t know. She tried to go in, like drifting smoke, as Anchorstar had shown them. She tried to mingle her own self with Kearb-Mattus and in a moment of dizziness she knew that she had—and then she saw the soldiers.

  They were mounted on great horses, their sectbows and swords slung over their saddles. She saw them riding hard over broken ground; she saw them making camp; she saw them assemble before a leader. Then there was only grayness, she could see nothing—but now a knowledge was growing in her mind, fledging out as if it had been there all the time unseen, now unfolding itself as a moth unfolds from the cocoon. And she knew, in that moment, the Kubalese plan. She knew the dark partnership into which Kubal and Cloffi had entered. She saw the exchange of strengths of the two countries, and she knew their intent.

  To rule all of Ere! A ruling oligarchy powerful beyond any man’s dream. An oligarchy made of Kubalese and Cloffi leaders. She stood gripping the stone, her knuckles white. In return for Kubal’s strength in fighting men, so much fiercer, so much crueler than the Cloffa, Kubal would receive—had been receiving—the Children of Ynell, to use as spies.

  And she saw that Kearb-Mattus was more powerful than she had supposed. The Children of Ynell must be very important, indeed, for Kearb-Mattus, as one of the Kubalese leaders, to come seeking them himself.

  The Children had been feared by the Landmasters lest the day come when they broke away from the false Cloffi religion and made others see the truth. And now they were feared, too, lest they discover this new plot against Cloffi’s freedom.

  But why couldn’t Cloffi and Kubal just have joined, without the threat of war? The Cloffi citizens were not strong enough to prevent it. And then she saw that if there were war and Cloffi seemed to be conquered, the Landmaster could feign honesty, could treat the alliance as making the best of a bad situation. Where if he simply joined Kubal, even the docile Cloffa might become too angered or disgruntled to be tractable.

  And then she saw the last ironic part of the puzzle, and knew that Meatha saw it, too. The missing piece that even the Landmaster didn’t know, that only the Kubalese leaders knew. She saw plainly that when—not if, but when—the Kubalese conquered Cloffi, the Landmaster and his family and the Deacons would be enslaved or put to death.

  She stared at Meatha, sick. How could the Landmaster be such a fool? Meatha’s eyes blazed; and then she began to smile, a twisted, bitter little smile, and she said coolly, “The Landmaster has baited his own trap.”

  The low sun glinted through the mawzee stalks in shafts of light that moved constantly on the wind; the scent of mawzee was strong, like baking bread.

  “Could we—could we speak to Anchorstar?” Meatha whispered at last. “Could we speak to him with the stone?”

  They tried, but they could not; it was all of darkness.

  “We must try to see the Children,” Zephy said nervously. “We must find the Children . . .”

  They started with surprise at the ease with which the vision came. It was Nia Skane, and Zephy caught her breath—but this was Nia before she was taken. Zephy saw a montage of children playing and running in the street, and she knew she was seeing through Kearb-Mattus’s eyes, for she could still feel the sense of him strongly. She saw Nia walking alone down the lane from Temple, and she knew Kearb-Mattus’s intentions. There was a wild flashing of scenes as Nia ran, was grabbed, as something was forced over her face. Zephy saw the child fall, saw her lying pale and still and twisted beneath the painon tree. She dropped the stone and turned away, sick.

  “You can’t let go like that!” Meatha turned on her in a fury. “You can’t, not and be able to help!”

  “I—I’m sorry. I’ll try.” But the vision had shaken her terribly.

  “Don’t you see?” Meatha said more gently. “We saw him do it. Now you know Anchorstar was telling the truth.”

  Zephy stared at Meatha, ashamed she had lost control, ashamed she had doubted Anchorstar. Ashamed that Meatha knew.

  *

  They found Clytey Varik sitting on her sculler steps shelling out some vetchpea pods. Twelve-year-old Clytey had a sliding blue-eyed glance that made her seem as devious as the older girls. She was wily and gay and popular and was always surrounded by her peers and by a good many boys. But still there was an odd quality about her that made her different somehow. Of the Children Meatha had named out to Zephy, Clytey was the most puzzling. “The others,” Meatha had said, “little Toca, Elodia Trayd, the baby—we could almost be sure of them without the stone, though I know we must try it. It’s Clytey I don’t understand. She flirts like the older girls, she laughs and—and yet I don’t know. It’s just something different. We’ll see,” she had added with more confidence than Zephy had felt. I wish, Zephy thought, I wish . . . but what was the good of wishing?

  Clytey tilted her head and looked at Meatha now with an expression almost of defiance. Zephy paused, but Meatha went to her with the stone cupped and hidden, then bared it suddenly and held it against Clytey’s fingers.

  Clytey looked puzzled. Then slowly her eyes widened. She laid her hand over Meatha’s, covering the stone. She grasped the stone and pulled it away, and her expression had come alive in a way Zephy had never seen—then suddenly a darkness crossed Clytey’s face, too. Her look turned from awe to terror; so alarming a terror that Meatha reached for the stone. But it was too late. Clytey was staring at something behind them. “The fire, they’re coming through the fire,” she screamed. “They’re behind the fire, the swords . . .” Her cry catapulted between the stone buildings.

  She flung away from Meatha into the street, dropping the stone in her agitation. But it seemed to make no difference, whatever the stone had summoned held her in a white terror. “They’ve killed them,” she cried, staring at empty space. “Oh, the blood . . .” Zephy reached her first and clamped her hand over Clytey’s mouth. Meatha grabbed up the stone, wrapping it hastily. Zephy had Clytey in her arms now, but it was too late; others were coming, running, drawn by the commotion, then stopping to stare at this child who was obviously having a vision. The word rumbled among the onlookers.

  Zephy muffled Clytey with her arms, but Clytey flung away from her in a pale, panting terror that seemed to see nothing else, crying, “The fire—great Eresu, the fire, they defile the fire . . .” Clytey covered her face with shaking hands as others pulled at her, at Zephy and Meatha. Zephy fought, turned to bite, and sunk her teeth into someone’s arm. People were flocking into the street shouting. She was held, pushed and trapped in the crowd, could not see Meatha; saw Clytey’s face once more, then she was dragged, flailing, into an empty alley and she saw Kearb-Mattus’s face close to hers. She felt herself jerked and twisted, forced down the alley away from the mob. Clytey screamed; the crowd’s cry rose; she could hear the Deacons’ voices. She kicked to get free, and thought she heard Meatha’s scream, too. She hit out, and Mama was there holding her hands, dragging her up steps. . . .

  They forced her through the sculler door. She could hear screaming, still, and she cried in response, “Let me go! Let me . . .” Something in her told her to be still, not to fight, but her fury was too great; her fury, and her terror for Meatha.

  Kearb-Mattus wrenched her arm behind her and forced her through the longroom and up the stairs—one flight and the next, brutally. She could not resist completely and feel her arm broken, she was not strong enough, the pain defeated her. She felt herself pushed up the ladder, shoved, heard the trapdoor close behind her and heard the old bolt, forever unused, wrench free and slide home with a scraping noise.

  Then there was silence in the loft.

  She crept to the window.

  Below, the crowd was thick. All Burgdeeth was there in the street. Zephy could not see Meatha or Clytey, but
two donkeys were being led up toward the place where the Deacons stood: Dess and Clytey’s little gray donkey.

  The crowd parted slightly for them, then parted very wide, in deference, as the Landmaster rode up. Elij was with him.

  Now an opening was made in the center of the crowd, before the Landmaster and the red-robed Deacons. The donkeys were brought up, to stand with their ears back, not liking the excitement. Then the girls were there, being stripped of their clothes by the head Deacons.

  Clytey and Meatha stood naked and ashamed before all Burgdeeth.

  Slowly, then, they were dressed in rags, the filthiest rags the Ragsinger could produce. Clytey’s mother came running, crying, and Zephy could see that Meatha’s parents were being held back by the crowd. Clytey fought as they dressed her, but Meatha held herself like steel, cold, frozen. Zephy’s heart lurched for her, she wanted to cry out, she wept inside in a sickness she had never known, as if all her insides bled in one terrible quailing illness for Meatha.

  The girls, rag-dressed and smeared with muck and dung and butcher’s blood, were lifted up in a macabre ritual by four men each, and laid across their donkey’s backs, face down, like sacks of meal. They were tied, then the crowd began to smear on more muck from the gutter, and to dump buckets of slops on them. Zephy turned away and was sick into her chamber pot.

  When she came back to the window, the donkeys were being led away toward the Temple for the last sacrificial rites.

  Zephy knelt on the stone sill, shivering, for what seemed hours, until the procession came back down the street. It was led by the Landmaster riding his gray stallion, his red robe garish above the children’s rags. The donkey’s heads were down as if in shame, though more likely it was the commotion. The crowd that followed chanted the dirge with a strength and vehemence that made Zephy shake with fury.

  Long after the procession had gone, long after the town had stilled, Zephy crept shivering into her bed and lay curled tight around herself, unable to drive the pictures from her mind. When Mama pushed open the trapdoor and came to her in the darkness, she turned her face to the wall and held herself rigid.