She stood up, reached to touch Fawdref’s muzzle. The wolf came down to press against her, nuzzle her. She laid her hand on the broad dome of his head. He looked up at her and grinned a fine wolf grin, amused and cruel. Very knowing. Then he turned away from her in one liquid movement and slipped up into the night. He vanished, the pack vanished; and she stood alone high on the black cliff.
*
Ram rose from his bed and stood looking toward the mountain, sobered after his close brush with death. He could not feel Fawdref with him now, could not feel Tayba, though he was filled with wonder at her sudden power unleashed, a power so long hidden. And he knew that already it was becoming a dream to her, that in a few minutes more she would have convinced herself it had never existed, that what she experienced had been Fawdref’s doing, and Jerthon’s.
He returned to his bed very tired and curled up to sleep, warm under the blankets that Skeelie drew over him.
The slaves ate a little of their cold meal, then slept too—all but Jerthon. He could not sleep, but lay in the dark cell thinking of Tayba. Why did she deny what she held within her? Selfish, Drudd was thinking drowsily. Jerthon closed his mind to Drudd. But it was true; if she admitted to such a power, then she must align herself either with good or with evil. And if that choice were for good rather than evil, she would not be able to pursue her own whims regardless of their consequences. Not when she could wield such power over others. A selfish, small view of the world she took, he thought with fury.
It was a waste to ignore such power as hers. It angered him. He felt Ram, half waking, probe in with childlike curiosity. Why do you care? Why, Jerthon? Why do you care what Mamen does?
It is a waste, Jerthon repeated. Such power ignored is a waste.
I see. Ram slept again, only puzzling a little at what Jerthon held back from him, an interest in Tayba that was not purely one of righteous anger.
EIGHT
Alone on the cliff, Tayba stood looking down at the empty moon-washed plain, felt drained of all emotion and strength. No one spoke in her mind now. The power she had felt was gone—had never been there, was all illusion. Her aloneness stabbed at her like a knife. She started down the cliff trembling with apprehension and stood at last at the mountain’s base, gripped with terror at the emptiness, at the looming boulders. The eerie expanse panicked her—and she began to run suddenly and wildly toward Burgdeeth, dodging boulders and the reaching shadows, shivering, until at last she could see the lights of the town.
And a figure was riding toward her.
Venniver. Venniver coming to find her; riding in a fury, beating his horse, his shoulders hunched, coming straight for her. She imagined his quick, fierce anger and stared around her uselessly for a place to hide, a shadow to conceal her. What would he say, finding her here? What would he think?
Maybe he won’t be angry. Maybe . . . She remembered the wolf bell beneath her tunic and pulled her cloak across it. She could tell him that she . . . But he was on her, reining in his horse. She saw his face; fear sickened her. He swung down. She cringed away from him, tried to speak as he grabbed her arm. “Where in Urdd have you been! What are you doing out here!” His eyes were cold, appraising. “Who were you with? Who?”
“No one! I was with no one!”
“Don’t lie to me!” He jerked her to him, twisting her. “I can break that arm if I choose. Now where is he?”
“I’m trying to tell you! There is no one!”
“You didn’t come here alone! No one walks alone on this plain.” He stared at her with disgust. “Who were you with! Where is he!”
“Who would I be with when I could be with you? Don’t be stupid. Why would I . . .” She sighed, reached out to him. “I was walking alone, Venniver. Ram is sick, I was upset. The moonlight—there is nothing out here. It seemed so peaceful—as if a prayer, here . . .”
“A prayed Great Urdd! Don’t lie to me. You came here with some fracking guard!” He hit her full in the face, then spun her around to twist her arm behind her. “Some guard who—” His voice broke with fury. He slipped the stallion’s reins over a boulder; the nervous animal plunged and reared. His fingers bit into her arm; he threw her down so her cloak and tunic ripped, terrifying her. Then he stopped suddenly, staring.
He straightened up, to back away from her.
The wolf bell lay beside her, touched by moonlight.
Tayba swallowed blood, felt the cut on her mouth. She watched him helplessly. Well, he couldn’t know what the bell was. Why was he staring at it? Why would he . . . He bent to pick it up almost as if it would burn him. He examined it turned it over, held the clapper so it would not ring; looked for a long time with growing horror at the grinning bitch-wolf. Then he jerked her up, his fingers like steel, his voice shaking, nearly screaming. “What are you doing with this? I know what this is! I’ve heard the stories!” He stared at her, unbelieving. “You—you are one of them!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You are a Seer. This—this is the bell of the wolf cult! You’ve been on the mountain with—wolves!”
He beat her then until she went limp under his hands, her mind sweeping blackness into the pain, confusing her. She felt herself dragged, then was forced to walk. She felt the stallion plunge against her where Venniver led him. She was forced on and on down the plain. Burgdeeth’s lights swam before her. They were in the gardens, she thought; she could feel mawzee briars catch at her. She saw the back of the Hall but was not seeing properly, was so dizzy.
He forced her on. She was shivering, could hardly walk for the pain. She tried to pull her torn cloak around herself, wanted only to lie down. He stopped her at last. She saw the guard tower above the trees, heard the familiar ring of the iron door.
She was shoved into darkness, nearly fell, heard the door slam behind her.
She reached out and felt hands on her, felt the strength of someone supporting her. She hurt. Great Eresu she hurt.
*
She woke in the dim, close cell. She tried to roll over, went sick with the pain that struck sharp through her arm and side. Her face felt swollen. She touched it hesitantly. Her exploring fingers brought pain along her left side, her left eye. Her lip was big and scabbed over. The candlelight was very dim, flickering. Little groups of slaves reclined on piles of hides, were turned away from her talking softly, paying no attention to her. Out of kindness? Or because they didn’t care. She let her face drop down onto her arms. She would die in this place. She wanted to die.
“You will not die.”
She lifted her face and turned until she could see Jerthon where he sat beside her. She saw that she lay on hides, was covered with a thick goathide.
“You will not die. But you do look somewhat battered. Here.” He supported her head and held a mug for her. She drank greedily.
“More?”
She nodded, heard the water poured out, and drank again.
“That is enough, you’ll make yourself sick. Could you manage some bread?” Then, to her unspoken question, “Ram is all right. The fever is gone. The Seer has subsided into his black little hole—for the time being.” He broke bread for her. “Your right arm works. Take the bread. Sit up now and try to eat a little.”
Her ribs were very painful, were tightly bound. He helped her sit up. She leaned against the cell wall, nauseated with the effort. A few of the slaves looked at her, and a girl smiled. There was a warmth among them as they looked, a quiet solitude that reassured her. All but the stocky, short man there in the back. What made him scowl so? That was the man called Drudd, the other forgeman.
The girl who had smiled was younger than the other four girls, little more than a child. Her hair shone like fire even in the dim light. Jerthon beckoned to her, and she came to sit beside Tayba. Jerthon said, “This is Derin. She will sleep beside you, in case there is anything you want in the night.”
Derin said, “Dlos will bring herbs for the pain when she brings the morning meal. I put—I put what little we had in your water.”
> Tayba held out her hand. “Thank you. It does hurt.” Suddenly she remembered the bell lying in the moonlight remembered that Venniver had picked it up. She stared at Jerthon. “Does Venniver have it—the bell? What did he . . . ?”
“He has it. Ram—Ram wanted to charge into his rooms and take it. He’s stubborn, that boy. It was all I could do to make him wait awhile.” Jerthon searched Tayba’s face, looked as if he would say more, then was silent.
She lay trying to puzzle it out, putting pieces together. Why had Ram been so ill? Why? What did HarThass . . . ? And suddenly it all did come together, the grotto, the Seer appearing on the high bridge; Ram’s determined attitude afterward; the Seer’s fury at Ram for something she did not before understand. She looked at Jerthon quietly. “You were in the grotto with Ram,” she whispered. “You were there with him—just like tonight.”
“Yes. We are five Seers here. We . . .”
She laid her hand on his arm. “What—what did Ram See in the grotto? What was in that high cave that HarThass didn’t want him to see, that he did see and came down so full of? He means—he made some commitment there.” Her fingers tightened on Jerthon’s arm, and she half rose to look at him, ignoring the pain. “What was it? What does Ram plan that—that HarThass would stop him from doing?”
Jerthon paused, studying her, sat for so long in silence she wondered if he would ever speak. When he spoke, it was reluctantly.
“Ram saw, in that cave—he saw pictures of a procession. He saw the gods lay to rest a box containing something of great power. Containing—the Runestone of Eresu. Ram—something is leading him, something compels him to bring that power out into Ere. There is need for it now. He is drawn there, and no one—not you, nor I—can stop him, now, from that quest.”
“But he can’t just . . . where will it lead him? Why must he go! He’s only a child, he . . . Ram has the wolf bell. He has all the power anyone . . .”
He looked at her steadily. The others watched. The cell was very still. Drudd scowled. Derin took Tayba’s hand in her small one. Jerthon said, “It is not for himself that he wants power. You don’t think . . . it is a power that could help many, could change the lives of everyone in Ere for generations to come. Could stop what Venniver and those like him, what HarThass wants. Or could, in the hands of HarThass, bring havoc over Ere. It is so great a force . . .” The light from the candle marked the clean lines of his face, the high Cherban cheekbones. She remembered her awe of him last night as the dark vastness twisted around her.
“If Ram does not seek that power, the Seer of Pelli will take it, now that he knows where it lies. He will climb Tala-charen for it. And if HarThass should hold that power . . .” He took her hands. “I will show you what HarThass could do.”
His grip was warm. He willed her to close her eyes. She fought him for a moment, then began to feel weightless. Her pain vanished. She drifted out of herself to move above Ere as if—as if she flew. She saw Ere stretching below her, saw rivers flowing out from the black peaks to find their way to the sea.
She saw small bands of men, primitive tribes with precarious holds on their little patches of land, saw warring Herebian bands killing them and driving them out. She saw the activity of hundreds of years, saw countries begin to form. She saw the volcanoes boil down across the land bringing terror and death, destroying all that men had built. Jerthon held her mind in his until she had seen the huge pageant of Ere’s young history, seen Seers beheaded, seen them flee to the cities of the gods. She saw Seers ride out over Ere on the backs of the Horses of Eresu, filling men with hatred though they intended none of this. She saw evil Seers rise across the land to rule the little settlements, terrifying men into doing their bidding, and protecting men so they clung to them for leadership. Jerthon’s eyes held her. He lifted her chin to look deep at her. He showed her the Herebian tribes raiding the nations; changes in borders and inner ride as powers struggled one against the other. She was seeing into the future now. She saw Carriol become a nation, and Burgdeeth as part of a new country. She saw that, as a river could split into many streams, Ere’s future could take many ways. In one, the Pellian Seers ate up one country after another as HarThass and his successors, with the power of the Runestone of Eresu, enslaved peoples of Ere into one vast hierarchy of rule where men were as nothing.
In other streams of the future, men ruled themselves in a variety of activities, each as suited his own nature. The tangle of possible futures, of possible balances of power, dizzied her. And in all Ere’s future, the Runestone was the key. And Ram, who vowed to bring that stone out of Tala-charen, was the one who held the balance now. On Ramad of Zandour lay the future of the countries of Ere.
“You,” Jerthon said, beginning to pull her back from that infinite expanse, “you could not have seen all this, Tayba, were it not for the power you deny in yourself. When will you admit to it? When will you face the truth of yourself?” And she was too caught up in wonder to flare at him.
She woke from the vision quickly, was gripped by sudden pain from her wounds, watched Jerthon in silence as he drew her thoughts back from that terrible abyss of space and time. And one question burned in her mind. She groped at it, puzzled. If HarThass could change all of Ere’s history with the Runestone, why had he waited so long to seek it? She looked at Jerthon deeply. “The Runestone must have been in Tala-charen for generations. Why . . . ?” And then, suddenly, she understood. “HarThass—HarThass didn’t know before! He didn’t See it until—until Ram went there to the grotto.” She was twisting her hands; she scowled at them and put them in her lap. She could see by his face that she was right “HarThass didn’t see the Runestone until Ram—until he could see through Ram’s mind that something was there! Until Ram had gone to the cave!”
“Yes,” Jerthon said softly. “That is so.”
“And if Ram—if he hadn’t gone to the grotto. If he had never had the wolf bell, gone among the wolves, HarThass would have no idea . . .”
“Yes, that is true. And if,” Jerthon said softly, “if you had never lain with EnDwyl, Ram would not be here at all.”
*
Ram was dressed in such a bundle of clothes, forced on him by Dlos, he thought he could not move. He tried to keep the lantern from clinking against stone as he crouched beneath Venniver’s window, next to Skeelie. They could hear the men at supper, had seen Venniver quaffing ale at the long table as they slipped by. “I still say I’m the one to go in,” Skeelie said, “you—”
“I want,” Ram whispered as he pried the shutter loose, “I want to do it myself, Skeelie. Now be still—only, hiss if anyone comes.” He climbed over the sill, took the lantern from her, lit it, and shone the light around, catching his breath at the grand furnishings, the rich colors. He went quickly to the chest at the foot of the bed.
He lifted the lid, found the key stuck down between side and bottom. He took the key to the fireplace, pushed away a strip of molding, found the lock. When Venniver’s safe was open, he stared with wonder at the jewels there, the fine goblets and golden bowls. The wolf bell stood on the center shelf.
“Hurry!” Skeelie hissed. “Someone—hurry!”
He grabbed the bell, stuffed it in his tunic, replaced the key and was just over the sill when he heard voices. He dropped down on top of Skeelie, and they lay in a heap, not daring to move.
Two guards strode past arguing. One said something about a donkey that made them stiffen. But the guards went on, unheeding, passing their donkey right by where he stood hobbled in the shadows.
They sorted themselves out, unhitched Pulyo, and hastened through shadow up toward the plain. They had already said good-bye to Dlos, were loaded with mawzee cakes and bread the old woman had slipped out of the sculler, with smoked meat and some chidrack eggs carefully wrapped. Skeelie led the donkey, taking a proprietary air with him after her sore trial getting him out of the herd. “He’s mine now,” she said, hugging the gray scruffy neck. “I stole him, and he’s mine.”
�
�Will Venniver come after us, do you think, if he finds we’re gone?” Ram said.
“Why should he?”
“The donkey, for one thing. I still say, Skeelie . . .”
“Would you want to carry all of the pack, blankets and food?”
“I still say we didn’t need—”
“Yes we do. You don’t know anything. Besides, Venniver won’t come into the mountains. He’s terrified of them.”
They heard the wolves, then.
The wolves had begun to come out of the caves, crying out at the night, showing themselves for an instant then slipping away down the mountain toward the children, their eyes like ice as they paced and stared down across the shadows. Ram heard their cries and thrilled to them, remembering Gredillon’s words, read so long ago from an ancient book she had kept wrapped in silk in her cupboard.
For NiMarn shaped a bell of bronze that would call the wolves out of the wild night or send them cringing down among the shallow rock-caves where they denned; a magic of power concentrated in the metal and the fashioning. He stared up the mountain, heard Fawdref’s wild call, and quickened his pace up the plain, the little donkey trotting along as if he went every day to join wolves.
*
In the morning the slaves were taken out to work, and Tayba left alone in the cell. A guard, herding the others out, said, “You will be given a few days to mend. But hurry up about it, Venniver does not like to feed idlers. You will be expected to work like the rest.” When they all had gone, she felt the darkness of the cell close in around her, her wrists prickling oddly at the thought that she was locked in, trapped here like some wild thing caught in a furrier’s cage.
She lay huddled in the cell ignoring the bread and water Derin had left her, the herbs Dlos had brought She tried to remember all that Jerthon had shown her and could not. Some of it, yes. But a haziness came over the pictures, maddening her. There was something else, though. Something that lingered in her mind, secret and urgent Had she gotten the thought from Jerthon? It was as if there was something they would not trust her with, something they had shielded from her.
Shattered Stone Page 31