Shattered Stone

by Murphy, Shirley Rousseau

  For four days they lingered in the valley, cooking sparingly and fanning the smoke into the wind so it would not be seen. Thorn grew stronger, and the wound cleansed itself at last. The fever left him, and as he began to feel his strength returning he told them of the conquering of Dunoon, and how he came to be lying wounded in Anchorstar’s wagon.

  “We had planned, long before, a ruse to deceive the Kubalese, and it would have worked,” he said, “if my father had not been wounded. We had taken food and stores to a secret valley we knew, high in the Ring of Fire, in a place no horse could climb, only the goats. We took the herds there, we had moved all of Dunoon when the attack came.

  “The refuge is a meadow whose only access lies narrow along the edge of a lake of molten fire. No Kubalese coming through that narrow pass could survive our arrows and the boiling lake as well. It is a dangerous place, animals—and children—can fall and be burned alive, and there are fire ogres still in the caves, though those caves still hold relics in some places of an old outpost of Owdneet, too. The heat of the lake warms the pastures so they are lush and green, and the rock cliffs rise sheer on every side for protection. The Kubalese could not stand against us there. This might once have been a secret place where the Horses of Eresu grazed, perhaps where the Children of Ynell came to shelter in times of war.

  “The herds and the women and children remained there, but the rest of us returned to Dunoon. We slept in the caves, but we lighted all the cookfires of the village each night to make it seem we were still in Dunoon. And we posted sentries.

  “When the band of Kubalese came—my father had counted on a small band, on most of the army staying in Burgdeeth, and he was right—when they came they set fire to the cottages. The village was in flames almost at once. They thought they would drive us forth and shoot those who did not burn to death, but there was not a man, not a woman or child in the village, and no herd to slaughter. When they discovered the ruse, they began to mill about and to go in forays among the rocks and up into the cleft, searching. When they had dispersed, we attacked. And we killed many.

  “But then in the midst of battle my father was wounded, swept up by the Kubalese and dragged to the center of the burned village. By his height and his leading of command, I suppose, they knew him for Oak Dar. He was crippled in the back and unable to move. If they had not carried him, the injury might have been less severe; I have seen animals wounded like that.”

  It was a moment before Thorn could go on.

  “If it had been any other man in Dunoon, the battle would have continued. The Kubalese demanded that the herds and all of Dunoon return. They ordered that we tend the flocks as we always had. And because my father lay paralyzed and helpless, all of Dunoon did return, the herds, every woman and child. We became slave to the Kubalese, for those few days that Oak Dar lived.

  “When—when my father died it was by his own hand. For though his legs were paralyzed, his arms were not. And his mind was clear. He waited until most of the Kubalese soldiers had returned to Burgdeeth, leaving seven of their cruelest guards in Dunoon. We found my father, on the morning of the third day, with the . . . with the skinning knife through his throat. He would not live captive and be the cause of the captivity of his people.

  “We covered him and let him lie there as if he were sleeping, until the two guards came to the cottage for their breakfast. Loke and I took them from behind and killed them. The other five gave us more fight, but we had all the men of Dunoon, and though they had left us no weapons we had slabs of painon wood and stones.

  “We buried my father on the mountain. We buried the Kubalese at the foot of Dunoon. I was bleeding so badly that I took the shirt off one to staunch the blood. That, I suppose, is how the festering began, with Kubalese dirt in my blood.

  “We laid them in a common grave and marked it with a message the Kubalese will not soon forget. Then all of Dunoon—all of the men who were left, and the women and children, and all the flocks—began the trek over the mountains once more to the lake of fire. My mother, too, mourning, and Loke beside her. I stayed, though she rankled at me about my leg. I told her I would rest a bit, and I went to the cave, to the wagon, to dress the wound again before I started out to find Anchorstar, and you. I never came out again until Zephy found me. The fever came on me as quick as a breath, and I woke to find myself sprawled on the wagon floor, freezing, not knowing how long I’d been there. I got into Anchorstar’s bed, and the next time I woke was when Zephy called my name.”

  Toca stared up at Thorn with a look of adulation; and that day, he began to bring Thorn’s plate when the meal was prepared in the evenings, and he kept Thorn’s waterskin filled in an urgent child’s ritual. He helped Tra. Hoppa each time she removed Thorn’s bandage to soak and treat the wound. How much of Thorn’s own thoughts the child reached in to take, Zephy had no idea. But all of them—except Tra. Hoppa, of course—were becoming more sensitive to each other’s thoughts.

  “You are very much a success,” Zephy said to Thorn when they were alone. “Toca worships you, and I think Elodia finds you very interesting, young as she is.”

  “Well, what else could they think of this handsome face, so beautifully scarred in battle? The children are not without taste.”

  “You’re a horrible Cherban.”

  “Zephy, the four of us are coming very close in our minds. Tra. Hoppa sees it, she watches us with that funny little grin. It’s as if some force is increasing, the longer we are together.”

  “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. A force that made the thoughts of each increasingly open to the others. And a force, too, that had strengthened Zephy’s dreams until they were vivid and unsettling. She dreamed of Meatha’s face in the darkness and woke overcome with grief. And she began to dream of other things, some frightening, and some as wonderful, as full of light, as the vision in the tunnel.

  In the dark dreams she thought she woke inside an enclosure, dank and sunless, a place that felt so evil she shuddered and drew back. Each time she dreamed it, she would see nearly lifeless creatures lying like cadavers on narrow shelves and feeling without hope, without sense of any kind, and yet as if something within them lived, a brief flicker . . .

  And then again she would be on a path of smooth white stone like something poured and hardened that wound its way up the mountain between the rough black lava; she would be climbing eagerly. Or she would be in a cave of sparkling light, with water cascading around her catching the glint of the sun, and there would be ice falls where the foam of the water broke, and she . . . Oh, they were dreams that made her wake with a lilting hope and wonder. And once she dreamed she stood by a crystal pool and saw Meatha coming toward her.

  Then there were the other dreams of Meatha, dreams she did not like to remember.

  Sometimes the others touched one of her dreams so they would wake knowing the same agony or joy that she had felt. But it was Thorn who, when she had a particularly bad dream of the dark place, gave her comfort when she woke, coming outside the cave to sit with her in the early dawn and hold her close against the fear that swept her. She knew he had seen, had felt the same fear and revulsion she did.

  “We have seen the captive Children,” he said quietly. “There is an evil there . . .” he looked at her steadily.

  “An evil we must battle with every strength we can find.”

  Then Elodia, sleeping with her head cradled on Nida’s, saddle, woke in the night to tell Zephy more about the dark cave—an enclosure made half of earth and half of stone walls, she thought—and the feeling of almost-death was rank and terrifying. Never a demonstrative child, Elodia pushed her face into Zephy’s shoulder and shook with dry weeping, this stoic little girl who always seemed so in control of herself. And she kept repeating, “I felt sick—so sick.” She stopped crying, her face white, and looked up at Zephy. “It was like something had hold of me from inside myself, making me the same as dead.”

  “The drugs,” Thorn said later, “the drugs the Kubalese use.”r />
  “In Carriol,” Tra. Hoppa said, “such drugs are well-enough known, dechbra and wellshing and epparoot. And MadogWerg. They make the mind sleep, make it unwilling to wake itself. They were given to stop pain; but when the pain was past, they were taken away again with great suffering. If they are used too long, they can kill. There were no roots or herbs to counteract their effects. But a Child of Ynell could make one whole again, make a mind want life again, by the strength of his thought. Some were trained for that work; it is harsh and very demanding, to reach in like that. It saps the strength of those who are able—and too few are able.”

  “But drugs,” Zephy breathed. “How can they make spies of the Children, train them to spy, if they must keep them drugged?”

  “Maybe that’s part of the plan,” Thorn replied, “to sicken them first, then bring them back when their will has been destroyed and they won’t resist any longer.”

  Zephy stared at him and felt sick.

  “It could mean permanent damage in their minds,” Tra. Hoppa said. “It could mean that some of them can never be whole again. The force that springs from that place, the way you two describe it, seems to me more than the cruelty and lust of the Kubalese—something even darker. Could those Children, perhaps one among them, have grown so twisted with the drugs that he has already turned his mind to the bidding of the Kubalese, turned to darkness itself?”

  “It feels like that,” Thorn said. “More devious even than the Kubalese.” He rose and turned away from them to stare out through the fog toward the shrouded mountain. Then he left them, needing suddenly to be alone, climbing the rocky barrier.

  Soon he was above the fog, looking down to where it lapped like a white sea to cover the land below. He thought of what lay ahead of them, and he knew he wanted to go into it alone. Yet he knew, too, that the girls had strengths he did not have. What lay ahead was a terrifying foe that took the body and mind from within. If there was only one thing that could battle that darkness, it might take the strength of all of them together. By their own stubbornness they must reach into those minds. Would they have the strength, even together?

  Thorn could not judge Zephy’s powers, not now, they had come too close. Their minds met now so easily that he could not be sure what was her own power and what his—or what had grown out of their increasing solace in each other.

  Who was to say that all of them would not end up bound in a living death like those they dreamed of, laid out on cold stone slabs, their minds taken from them?

  The fog was beginning to blow around him, to move higher on the mountain, though lower down it was still so thick it covered Ere. Soon wispy fog had surrounded him, and he found it somehow soothing.

  Something dark moved in the fog above him, high on the rocks. He stood looking, alarmed. There—the fog curled back; he could see the outstretched neck, the dark muzzle, the great wings, the Horse of Eresu snorted in alarm and thrust upward, his wings taking the sky . . .

  He was gone, into the fog-drowned sky.

  Thorn stood staring, his heart pounding.

  Then he climbed upward, scraping his leg so the pain came sharp. When he could go no farther for sheer cliff, he stood on a narrow, jutting rock no wider than his arms’ reach. He knelt and saw the sharp round hoofprint. One print where the Horse of Eresu had struck the hard earth between stone as he leaped away.

  When he returned to the valley enclosure, the donkeys were pressed against each other nervously, staring up at the mountain from which he had come.

  And Zephy stood waiting for him. She put out her hand and took his hand quietly. “What did you see?” she breathed. “Something—something wonderful and—some thing winged, Thorn. Near you. I felt it, I felt you turn. But it was gone too soon, it was gone . . .” Her eyes were tragic with the loss.

  The passion of the vision, of her intensity, gave him a passion for her, too, so he wanted to take her hi his arms. He stood staring down at her, his blood rising. And then Toca came running, shouting, his tousled pale hair every which way and his face wet from the scrubbing Tra. Hoppa had been giving him. Thorn saw Elodia, too, by the cave entrance, watching intently. Toca slammed into Thorn, his eyes huge. “Show me what you saw! Show him again, show him to me!” he demanded. And, when Thorn had, “More of him! I want more. Make him come down here!”

  “I can’t make him, Toca, it’s only what I saw.” What did the child think, what interpretation had he found in that six-year-old mind for the ability they had? “It’s only what I saw, not what I can make it be.”

  The little boy looked unbelieving. “I can,” he said, almost sullenly.

  “You can what? What can you do?”

  “I can . . .” The little boy stared at him hard. “I could make him come here, if I’ d seen him!”

  “What do you mean? That you can make animals do things? Like what?”

  “I can—I can make Dess kick Nida,” the little boy said slowly.

  “Why not make Nida kick Dess?”

  “It’s easier the other way. Nida doesn’t like to kick.”

  “Show me.”

  Toca turned toward the two donkeys and became very still. Nothing happened for a long time. He remained motionless; then all at once Dess turned, lay back her ears, and let fly so hard that poor Nida dodged only just in time.

  They all stared at Toca. No one said anything. Toca looked back at them with quiet superiority. At last Thorn said, “Can you do that whenever you want? Any time?”

  “Only—only since we ran away, more. It used to only work sometimes.”

  “What else can you do?”

  “Just with animals, mostly. I can make birds come to me.”

  “It’s as if,” Thorn said to Zephy later, “as if your very escape from Burgdeeth has in some way made each of you stronger. Or maybe it’s our all being together, maybe each of us draws strength from the others.”

  When they left the little valley, it was to travel slowly, Tra. Hoppa insisting Thorn ride when he wanted to be walking. Though as much as he growled at being treated like an invalid, his respites on Dess’s back were welcome enough, for his leg still throbbed when he used it much. Zephy had cleaned Nida’s saddle so it smelled better and mended the rent in the skirt so the straw had stopped coming out, using Thorn’s knife for a punch, and twine unravelled from their rope. But after a day of the sharp-cornered saddle. Thorn put it back on Nida to carry pack as it was intended, and rode the cantankerous Dess bareback. He would ride behind, watching Toca and Bibb wedged atop Nida’s pack, and watching Zephy’s dark brown hair, sleek as a river otter, where she walked beside him. The flush on her cheeks and the brightness in her dark eyes seemed to have increased since their journey began. He put it down to her sudden freedom, away from the stifling influences of Burgdeeth.

  Each day he was able to walk longer distances, but still their progress was slower than he liked. For one thing, they must stop early in the day, whenever they could find a resting place, for they were travelling along a steep, dizzying drop, and often there was no wide, safe bit to be seen for many hours. The mountain was blanketed with fog much of the time, so their way was more uncertain still. The drop looked less alarming hidden so, but in reality was the more dangerous. When the fog lifted briefly one day, they could see Kubal spread out just ahead, for they were now crossing above the low hills that separated Kubal from Cloffi.

  Their food was growing short, though Elodia was clever at finding morliespongs, and twice Toca had called down the fat otero so that Thorn could snare them. There had been wild scallions and tammi where the mountain was gentler; but on the precipitous parts, little grew. One night they slept head to toe in a thin line on the narrow path with the donkeys tied up short and the rock dropping away sheer and terrifying just feet from their blankets. They tied the baby to a stone outcropping to keep him safe.

  Zephy slept, that night—if I slept at all, she thought afterward—very conscious of their frailty there on the edge of the cliff. And conscious, too, of Thorn
’s closeness. She felt the warmth and protection of his thoughts surrounding her, touched an assurance in him that seemed to be sharper because of their danger.

  The next day the path began to drop, to make its way lower along the mountain; they were descending toward the banks of the River Urobb.

  The fog was only a mist when they reached the river’s edge, and dusk was coming on. They came around a sharp curve so that the river was before them quite suddenly; and Zephy caught her breath and stopped to stare. It was exactly like her dream.

  The river fell foaming between black rocks to swirl in pools, then fall again. The boulders that formed the pools were nearly white, smooth-washed. And along the river’s edge ran a path of pale stone, smooth, disappearing above in the mists.

  It was her dream; it spoke to her so she trembled. No one said anything. Thorn looked at her and felt a tightening of his throat as if something he feared, or longed for, lay up that mountain.

  At the sight of the river, Toca flung off his clothes and raced in, paddling about as happy as a river-owl. They were all in need of a bath, and Thorn had pulled off his bandage and his boots and was about to take off the rest when Tra. Hoppa and the girls hastily departed up-river.

  When they had bathed they made a small fire to cook supper, its smoke quickly lost in the fog, and the flame hidden by stones so it could not be seen from any distance. They were now almost halfway to the River Voda-Cul and the border of Carriol. And they were, all of them felt it, close to a place of meaning, perhaps coming closer to where the Children were held. For they were above Kubal now; and they were, in some way, attuned with the darkness that beckoned. Elodia felt it; she was so quiet, as if she reached out again and again in her mind toward that darkness, touching, probing. But all of them felt a lightness, too, a lightness about this place that had nothing to do with the dark—that was the opposite of the dark—as if two forces met here.

  When Zephy went to sleep, with her head cradled next to Elodia she dreamed of Meatha in the fog; and the dream was so real she could well have been awake, standing by the fog-shrouded river, then moving up the pale stone path.