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

At last he stirred himself, found the gate to his pen, and began to examine the lock, a huge heavy thing set into wide steel straps so it could not be pried loose. He gave it up finally and turned once more to sorting out his surroundings.

The nearby pens held horses slogging in mud so it was a wonder they weren’t all lame. In a far corral human captives slept on the ground like dead bodies—could have been bodies scattered, except some of them snored. In a corral to his left stood a great mare, her rump turned to him. She—he stared, not believing what he saw. When she turned, he caught his breath.

A mare of Eresu! And her wings shorn bare so he went sick at the sight of her. Wings clipped to the skin like some fettered barn fowl, wings made ugly and monstrous, misshapen, held tight to her sides in pain or in shame, ungainly bony protuberances that once had been graceful arcs commanding winds, commanding the skies of Ere. Her body was covered with the long welts of a lash, cruel and deep.

He tried to reach her with his thoughts, but she stood hunched and unresponding. How long had she been in this place? Had she been captured in AgWurt’s snares? What did AgWurt intend for her? To clip her wings like this, to cripple her—and the poor mare was heavy with foal. What did he want? Only to bedevil and degrade these wild creatures whose spirits he could not touch? Or to ride them, to become their masters in some sick-minded attempt at mastering that which no man could ever master.

He turned his attention again to the compound. He could not help the mare, not yet. But AgWurt shared now in the cold, purposeful hatred Ram held for Venniver who burned children, and for the dark Pellian Seers.

The sky was growing lighter, the compound taking fuller shape. There was a long shed beyond the pens that could be a central kitchen and sleeping hall, perhaps an arms store as well. How many men did the encampment house? He could see another row of sheds some distance beyond the first, and more corrals. He counted sixty-two horses, some of them very good mounts, many from Carriol. He caught his breath when he saw the dun stallion standing tall among the other mounts.

And where was Anchorstar, then? He could not see him among the prisoners. He stood looking, outraged, uncertain. Was the tall, white-haired man sleeping in the hall among the Kubalese? Was he friend to the Kubalese, had he spoken to Ram in deceit?

Had he alerted the Kubalese that Ram was near, traveling alone?

He could hardly believe that, and yet . . . why had Anchorstar come here? What business could the man have with the Kubalese?

In the closest prison pen, figures were beginning to rise stiffly from the mud where they had slept. Ram watched them, hoping to see Anchorstar among them, but assuming he would not; and Anchorstar was not there. When Ram turned, Telien stood beside his cage.

Her green eyes, the shock of recognition he felt for her held him frozen. Her face so familiar, he knew it so well; yet he had hardly seen her before this moment, seen only her moon-touched shadow last night. But he had seen her, knew well the tone of her skin, the curve of her cheek just there—and suddenly without warning he knew, went weak with knowing: Time spun, twelve years disappeared, and he was caught again in the vortex of Time spinning at the top of Tala-charen. Telien was there among the shadowy figures; thunder rumbled and the mountain shook; he saw her pale hair fall across her shoulders as it now fell, her green eyes watching him as they now watched; saw the jade shard in her hands turning slowly from white hot to deep green; and she disappeared.

And Telien stood holding out a plate of bread and meat, puzzled by his scowl, uncomprehending. He took the plate woodenly. She frowned, trying to understand, did not speak. He gripped her wrist so she stared back at him in alarm, then with pain; but she showed no sign of the recognition he felt.

He could not gather words. When he released her, she continued to stare, unable to turn away.

He swallowed, found his voice at last, stared at her pale hair, her golden skin, seeing her still as she was in Tala-charen—exactly as she was now. “Do you not remember, Telien?” How could she not remember? She had been there. “You held the runestone in your hands—the runestone of Eresu.”

“The runestone of Eresu?” She frowned, studying his face. “You make fun of me, Ramad of wolves. The runestone of Eresu lies in the sacred tower of Carriol. How could I have held it?”

“You did not hold that stone, Telien. You held its mate. You held it and you . . .” He stopped speaking, could not explain, was gripped with such longing for her; and with a sudden longing for Tala-charen and for that moment that had caused him such pain. She touched his cheek hesitantly; they saw a figure emerge from the hall and she left him at once slipping away, did not return until night.

He gazed after her, trying to understand. Why did she not remember?

She had brought bandages, salve. At last he busied himself with changing the dressing of his wound. He did not like the look of it, angry and swollen, torn open where it had earlier begun to heal; very painful. He was leaning tiredly against the wooden bars feeling light-headed when he saw, so suddenly that he jerked upright, the tall, lean figure of Anchorstar going across the compound led by two soldiers, the old man’s hair white as snow in the dull morning. Ram nearly cried out, held his tongue with effort, watched as the soldiers pushed Anchorstar roughly into the long hall and pulled the door closed behind them.

They had come from the direction of the prison pens. Surely Anchorstar was captive, then, and not a friend of the Kubalese as Ram had feared. He had thought of Anchorstar as friend, had trusted him even with so short a meeting, felt, for the old man a kinship it was difficult to explain. He remembered, now, Anchorstar’s words as they sat before Klingen’s fire. You are one dedicated to the good, Ramad of wolves. Whatever comes to your hand will be used to the good of Ere. No pronouncement at all of his own position, yet Ram had felt with every fiber of his Seer’s strength that Anchorstar was as committed as he to the good of Carriol, of Ere.

But was feeling, even a Seer’s feeling, ever enough?

He stood pondering this when the vision came, abruptly: Anchorstar kneeling before AgWurt, held like a dog, beaten by guards so the lashes cut through his leather jerkin and into his skin. Anchorstar, silent and ungiving; Anchorstar beaten raw and still unwilling to speak. What did they want of him? Ram gripped the bars, Seeing with terrible clarity. Saw, then, the small leather pouch in AgWurt’s fist, knew he had taken it from Anchorstar’s tunic, the starfire pouch, heard AgWurt’s words briefly before the vision faded: You will tell me where! I will know where they came from, or you will die in Kubal’s pens, old man!

*

When Telien returned, she came from the direction of the mare’s fence. He had not seen her go there in the dark; her hands were freezing, as if she had been standing a long time inside that corral. The night was broken by loud voices and laughter from the hall, as if AgWurt’s men sat drinking there. A thin fog lay across the moons. He wanted to look into Telien’s face, but she stood with her back to the dull moonlight. She had brought meat and bread. He reached through the bars, touched her hand. She pushed the plate at him, seemed shy and confused. When she looked at him, it was with veiled, wary eyes; and yet he thought there was more. Something . . .

She said, abruptly, without greeting, “He keeps—AgWurt keeps the key chained to his wrist.” As if she had thought all day about how to set him free. “I—he almost never takes it off. Once, by the water trough . . .”