Ширли Мерфи - The Castle Оf Hape. Caves Оf Fire Аnd Ice. The Joining Оf Тhe Stone

He knelt beside the creature, half-man half-dragon, mutilated and dead, and picked up a shard of the runestone and wiped the blood from it, retrieved another and another until he held all five and the starfires. Then he turned and stared at Shorren, filled with emotions he dared not examine. She knew. She saw it in him. She looked back at him steadily.

The hatred of a lifetime was satisfied. And the emptiness it left laid a terror on his heart that he did not understand.

Your quest is ended, Lobon. Dracvadrig is dead. Is your reason for being ended, too?

He stared at her, puzzled. He did not know how to answer such a question.

Finally he stirred himself, looked again at the tangled body, stiffening now to cleave around boulders in coils and twisted human limbs. Then he began to examine the stones and to read one by one the runes carven into them. But the runes were only scattered words. None, alone, made sense. He started to fit stone to stone, but something made him cease abruptly. He stared down at the stones, puzzling. “What do these words mean, Shorren? What does the whole rune say?”

Shorren did not answer.

He turned and saw her lying sprawled across her chains, her coat wet with seeping blood where a sword protruded from her chest. His shock froze him, he could not speak or cry out. He stared dumbly at the two figures that stood over her, reached out desperately for some contact with Shorren, knowing she was dead. There was no answering touch from her mind, only emptiness; and his mind, his spirit, could not believe that she was dead.

When at last he looked directly at the figures, the sense of them chilled him through. The man was dark-haired and bearded and stood crookedly: a Farrian Seer. This was RilkenDal, surely. The woman was a pale, bloodless creature, watching him as a snake watches its prey. The dark Seers moved suddenly, swords flashed; he parried, fought with terrible fury, wild at the murder of Shorren, wanting to scream out in agony for Shorren. The woman was strong as a man. The two forced him in the direction of the cell; as he struck at the woman, RilkenDal brought a blow across his neck that jarred his vision and flashed hot pain through him.

He knew no more until the woman’s cold hands lifted and forced him through the cell door. Half waking, dizzy, he knew she had the stones. He saw Feldyn lying against the cell wall bleeding, saw the woman advance on him then draw back hissing and felt Feldyn’s power and Crieba’s, driving her back. With the last of his strength Lobon forced protection for the wolf bell pressed so painfully against his ribs, and felt the wolves do the same.

She did not come near him again. Her expression alone, he thought, might easily kill. She was white with hatred, her lips pulled back. “We will have the bell soon enough, Ramad’s brat!”

She stood beside the dark Seer, just inside the iron gate. In a moment a fire ogre appeared, pushing the girl Meatha ahead of it. She seemed confused, her face flushed from the fire, her arms painfully burned. She glanced at him, pleading, then lowered her gaze. The warrior queen took hold of her arm in a grip that made her wince, and shoved her toward RilkenDal. The Seer steadied his knife against the girl’s chest, and the warrior queen lifted her hands and began to draw signs above the girl’s head.

“What Dracvadrig began,” the warrior queen said, “we will consummate.” Lobon could feel the woman’s power, hypnotic and intense. Her incantation was in words foreign to him, in words that soothed him strangely, then made his blood burn hot, brought a wildness leaping in him and a passion that he saw reflected in the girl’s face as she turned to look at him. What was this spell? Emotions like flame pummeled him; Meatha’s cheeks were flaming; she bent her head as if in shame. A power flowed between them like a river, a yearning between them, the warrior queen’s words drowning them in desire; and then they began to understand the words. The woman’s voice was low and compelling. “As lovers need, so lovers cleave. And in cleaving bring new life. As Seers need, so Seers cleave. And in cleaving bring more than life: Bring to me blood meant to rule the bell. Bring to me blood meant to join the stone. New blood will join the stone in darkness, join the stone to darkness to hold and to wield beyond challenge.”

He was dizzy with desire. Meatha held herself steadier. He watched her, saw her tense suddenly with another emotion sharp and predatory. Help me, Lobon! Now! She spun, her silent words shouting in his mind, she struck the warrior queen in the stomach and groin and grabbed her sword, but the woman spun away. Meatha was after her as Lobon snatched up a rock. He closed on RilkenDal as Feldyn passed him, leaping against the man, and together they toppled the dark Seer. Lobon raised the rock to strike, but the man’s power stayed him, weakened him; RilkenDal’s power closed over his mind so he fought for consciousness and could strike only glancing blows; then he began to drop into blackness, was half conscious of Feldyn tearing at the Seer’s throat in a thrashing, bloody combat.

He woke hurting and confused, and looked around him. The cell gates were locked, they were captive. The warrior queen was gone, the sense of her gone. Meatha leaned against the bars, weak with pain. He stared beyond the locked gate into the abyss and saw RilkenDal there lying dead with his throat torn away. He rose and put his arm around Meatha to help her, but the emotion that gripped him made him step back as if he were burned. She looked up at him. “I tried—I tried to get the stones.”

He felt against his tunic for the wolf bell and drew it out. “She could not touch the bell,” he said quietly, knowing the wolves had protected the bell, feeling their authority, the two here in the cave aligned now with the anger of the great pack that roamed the high desert lands.

But Kish too had power, she carried the mightiness of six stones. Still, the fury of the wolves, the passion of the wolves, was greater. He stared at Meatha and knew at last the true importance of the commitment of the stones’ bearer. Remorse at the possession of the stones by the dark powers sickened him; he also knew, painfully, that far more mattered to him than avenging Ramad’s death.

“And now it is too late,” he said, searching Meatha’s face. He turned away from her, torn with self-disgust; but beyond his anguish there was the sense of the warrior queen near to them, he could feel her cruel pleasure in the power she now wielded, felt the strength of the spell she cast and knew he should feel revulsion, rage, yet felt only desire. He needed this girl now, needed her to drive out the storm of self-reproach, didn’t care about reason or anger or spells, knew he must hold her, was sick with desire for her. He could see her own desire reflected in her eyes.

“If we are to die at Kish’s hand,” he whispered, “might we not die together, die close together, as one—

“Stop it, Lobon! Stop it! She doesn’t want us to die! Don’t you see. She wants . . .”

“An heir,” he said, facing the truth of Kish’s plans.

“Yes. An heir. The stone is not yet joined. We must not give her an heir, must not let it be joined as long as it can be held by the dark powers.” Her face was flaming, her fear and confusion at the strength of her own desire making her wild with anger. “There must be no heir! There must be no joining of the stone in darkness!”

Still he felt Kish’s powers twisting his thoughts.

“Come,” she said. “Feldyn needs us.” She knelt before the dark wolf, ripped a long hem from her tunic, and began to wipe blood from the wound. “If we had birdmoss, salve . . .”

He took the bloody rag from her and went deep into the cave, where he rinsed and moistened it. When he returned, she was sitting with Feldyn’s head in her lap. He stared down at her, then looked at the locked gate.