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

“You know of the runestone?”

“Many in Ere knew of the runestone long before I—before I touched the unknown lands. I know of Tala-charen and of the splitting of the stone.” Anchorstar leaned back and touched his empty bowl lightly, then pushed it aside. “I know that Ramad of—Ramad of wolves is . . . He paused for a long moment, studying Ram, “is of great importance to Ere, to what—to what will happen in Ere.”

Ram searched his face, could not discern his exact meaning. Whether of hidden sarcasm—though he thought not—or of prophecy; or of something else far more certain. Anchorstar’s steady eyes seemed very certain.

“With the whole runestone,” Ram said, “perhaps I might be of importance to Ere. Perhaps. But the runestone is destroyed. Only a shard remains.”

A shift in the light of Anchorstar’s eyes might have been only the dance of firelight. “You are—one dedicated to the good, Ramad of wolves. Whatever comes to your hand will be used to the good of Ere. And if the runestone—the whole stone . . .” But he did not finish, turned away almost as if in sorrow, and sat gazing into Klingen’s fire.

At last Ram stirred and spoke. “And you, Anchorstar. What are you dedicated to?” For this tall white-haired man, whose look Ram could not fathom, was more than a traveler, more than a wanderer upon Ere. There was a dedication in him, a purpose in him strong as steel.

Anchorstar turned back to look at him. “A trader, Ramad. I am a trader.” He held up one of the amber stones. “What I traded for these stones was little. What I will trade them for could—could be much.”

*

In the cold dawn, with the rain abated but the sky dull gray, Blackcob looked forlorn indeed. The Kubalese attack had left burned huts and sheds, burned fences, grain stores scattered uselessly where the side of a shed had been broken away, very few horses in the corrals, and they the dregs of the lot. Ram found Anchorstar out well before him tending to his mount, and that mount made Ram stare with wonder. He had had no glimpse of him last night as they rubbed down and fed their horses in darkness. A tall, beautifully made stallion, dun in color, as steel gray as the morning sky.

Never had there been such a horse in Ere, such a magnificent, long-legged, short-coupled stallion; he was exactly what Ram and Jerthon had dreamed of, the fine wide eyes, the strong light bones—he could have been a product of their own breeding program many years hence. This dun stallion was not of Ere, never. Had Anchorstar found him somewhere beyond the far mountains; were there men there to breed such as this?

And when he questioned Anchorstar, Anchorstar’s confusion made him press his querying obstinately. Did the horse come from Moramia or Karra, or from somewhere on the high desert where the secretive tribes dwelt? Anchorstar would not say. Did he come from the far lands? Were there men there so skilled at the breeding of horses?

“He comes,” Anchorstar said at last, “from very far. Farther than you imagine.” Again there was the sadness, like a darkened cloak swirling around Anchorstar. “Yet this stallion is closer to you, Ramad, than you know.”

“And will you sell him to me, then? He would be the finest blood in our breeding, he . . .

“I know, Ramad of wolves, what he would do. But I cannot sell him. I cannot part with him in—I cannot part with him now.” Anchorstar would say no more, Ram could not get him to speak further of the stallion and gave it up at last.

They rode out of Blackcob together after Klingen’s huge breakfast, Anchorstar huddled in his cape but sitting his mount lightly, hardly needing to touch the reins.

Ram’s wound, freshly bound, did not pain him now. He had slept dreamless and deep, warmed by Klingen’s fire without and by Klingen’s numerous cups of hot honeyrot within, lulled by old Klingen’s snoring like wild hogs rattling—Anchorstar had snored not at all. Ram did not lead the pack mare now, had left her for the men of Blackcob. They would need every mount they could get to make the ride into Kubal two days hence.

He parted from Anchorstar at the forking of the rivers Urobb and Voda Cul. Ram headed up the eastern shore of the Urobb toward the dark mountains, on toward the valley of the gods, keeping well away from Kubalese eyes. Anchorstar rode direct for Kubal, against both Ram’s and Klingen’s advice.

“They will kill you for the stallion, if nothing else. And those stones; if the Kubalese see the starfires . . .”

“I must take my chances. I would—I would see this Kubal that has risen on the hills.”

He would say no more. Ram stared after him puzzling. He rode at a gallop toward the low, western hills, his white hair like a flag on the morning.

Surely he did not travel to Kubal merely from curiosity. Klingen had described the Kubalese raids adequately, described their brutality with sufficient clarity to belay any idle curiosity a man might have.

Ram forded the Voda Cul at the shallows, then veered north of the Urobb, farther from Kubal’s prying eyes. He took his noon meal from the saddle while his gelding drank, and soon was among high foothills and narrow valleys where the rich grass was crossed by small wandering springs. The dark humping mountains rose directly over him, gigantic peaks laid about by deep shadow and blackened by falls of volcanic stone, empty wild mountains peopled only by the wolves and, here and there, by the winged horses transient as moths on the wind. There were caves in the mountains, immense and twilit and filled with the wonders of a time long past. Ram thought of the caves he knew, and longed for the warmth of shaggy muzzles thrust deep into his hands, for the rank musty smell and the deep voices of the wolves, for Fawdref’s knowing grin. He slipped the wolf bell from inside his tunic and held it for a long painful time, staring at the rearing bitch wolf holding the bell in her mouth, remembering. Remembering so much. Fear, terror. Such warmth, opening his mind to wonders he had not dreamed. The sense of brotherhood, greeting the great wolves and knowing, always, that he had come home. He longed to go to them. But he could not pause nor turn aside, he must go quickly into Eresu lest, while he tarried, another child should burn at Venniver’s abominable sacrifice. He pushed the bay gelding restlessly toward the dark peaks where lay the hidden valley. Soon he would stand facing the gods, their bodies glinting and ever changing as if they moved in another element. He went weak with awe and with apprehension. Could a man approach the gods? His appalling effrontery at considering he could do so, could solicit the gods’ help, nearly undid him.

Yet it must be done. Nothing else short of war—and Carriol was not strong enough now, crippled by the dark, to make such war—could prevent Venniver’s slaughter of the Seeing children. Could prevent Venniver’s insane and false religion from creating untold destruction and pain.

And if he had ever thought, as a child, that the gods were not truly gods, were, as he had once told Tayba, only different from men, he trembled now at that thought.

Soon he entered a valley that rose steeply toward a grove of young trees thrusting up between stones of black lava. Beyond the trees rose steep grassy banks. He saw the winged horses suddenly, for they were standing in shadow by the grove, motionless, watching him approach, five winged ones, their dark eyes knowing, their wings folded tight to their bodies to avoid the low branches of the wood. They seemed—they were waiting for him, yet their thoughts did not touch him. His horse stared uncertainly, smelled them, saw their wings, and wanted to bolt A big russet stallion came forward lifting his wings, touched Ram’s cheek with his muzzle, ignored Ram’s mount utterly. He pushed at Ram’s red hair with his nose, a gesture of respect and love. They had some need, these winged ones, some trouble. Ram tried to understand and could not, the dark held impenetrable silence over them, silence between those who should speak with one another as easily as breathing. At last, unable to communicate, the stallion led Ram deep into the wood. The four other winged ones followed.