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

Think not the gods to meddle. To twist and warp your path through Time, and so destroy your freedom. You are thrown into Time alone, and so alone shall you travel. And if you come, one to another swept on the tides of Time, and if you cleave one to another, perhaps you cleave then to the power that carves out all life, to the spirit that has birthed you. And if you cleave so one to another, then shall you cleave to joy though Time itself spin you broken as flotsam upon its eternal shore.

NINE

Blackcob, scarred from the Kubalese raids, now stood sullen indeed with the ravages of the mountain fires. For, though the lava had not touched her to set her aflame, the volcanoes’ refuse lay around her feet, lava boulders scattered as far as one cared to look, spewed out by the Voda Cul in a tidal flood when the blocked river had finally broken free: black, twisted rock lying now all around the foot of Blackcob’s stumpy hill. And the settlement itself covered with ash, the ruined houses and sheds, the rooftops gray as death, and the ash still drifting down like dirtied snow.

Skeelie and Berd were unsaddling, Berd’s pale beard catching in the harness as he leaned forward. The two young soldiers were bringing hay. Skeelie stared with dismay at the patched fences and sheds, at the great patch of blackened boulders below, ruining the town’s whitebarley fields and gardens. She paid no attention to Berd watching her, she could have been alone, felt far too upset by the condition of Blackcob and by her premonitions about Ram to be civil to anyone.

No one knew where Ram was, she could not sense him now as she had so short a time ago, but the feeling that he would come was intense; and her awful sense of pain remained, pain soon to be known; and she felt she could not face its coming.

Maybe she was imagining it, maybe the fighting and strain of these last days had put wild ideas into her head, maybe Telien was not the same girl at all. But she knew better, knew Ram would come and that with his coming something in her life would change, would die; that she would be truly alone. And—it seemed to her that something terrible waited, something beyond her own pain, but she could not sense its shape, could not put a name to it.

Curse the fettering destruction of their Seers’ powers. The sense of strength she had felt in the ruins, when Ram was freed at last of Burgdeeth, the power she had sensed then when they had all beheld that vision—now it seemed to be fading. What had it been, that power? Was it a strength of the mountain, fading now that those thundering peaks had quieted? A vision would come so suddenly, then be cut away again. Maybe . . . did it come clear while BroogArl’s attention was focused elsewhere, perhaps? While he was strung taut with the conflict of some battle? Did Pelli raid Farr and Aybil, too? Perhaps for supplies? Was it only then, preoccupied, that BroogArl loosed his powers? And then, in his sudden rousing to their increased strength, did he lay hard on them again to destroy that strength?

And the sense of something else bothered her, too. As if someone else were blocking her powers of Seeing, someone . . . Was there something unfinished in Carriol? Was Jerthon hiding something from her, blocking her senses? But why would he? Oh, it was her imagination run loose. What would Jerthon hide from her, and why?

She removed her saddle with mechanical motions, plunging deeper into despair, turned away from Berd when he reached to take her saddle, his old, wrinkled face twisted with concern for her. She was rubbing saddle marks from her horse’s back when a farmer standing high on his shed roof waved his hammer and shouted, “Winged one! Winged one and rider. A Seer . . .”

Skeelie stood frozen, saw one soldier running, saw Berd drop the saddles; she began to run too, toward the gray stallion winging down on the wind, dropping in silence between cottages. She saw Ram slide down, pale with fatigue. She felt the sense of Telien strongly. He was awash with concern for her. Telien, lying in a cave, hurt. She went to him then, began, with the soldier and Berd, to gather the stores he needed.

Mechanically, painfully, but with efficiency, she put into a pack herbs and salve, dried meat and new bread, roots, a pot to cook in, blankets, waterskins. She saw one soldier tying firewood into bundles, saw one preparing grain and feed. She worked dully, mechanically, caught in desolation.

When Ram stood looking down at her, prepared to depart, she could only look back at him and did not trust her voice to speak. His brown eyes were dark with pain—for Telien, but for her, too. And that made her feel worse. He pitied her, was trying to be gentle with her! She could not bear pity and gentleness, swallowed, could not speak. Choked back tears she would not let him see.

He extended his hand. “Friends, Skeelie? Skeelie . . . ?” He touched her arm. She turned away from him, then turned back with effort to look him straight in the eye.

“I hope she—that she will be well quickly, Ram. That you will care—care well for her.” She took his hand then with a solemnity she had not intended and could not avoid. “Good-by, Ram. Ramad of wolves . . .”

She turned and walked away. She did not run until she was out of sight beyond the sheds. Then she ran straight down the hill to the river and among the boulders to a sheltered place, pushed her face against a boulder, choking back sobs until she could no longer choke them back, until she could not help the sobs that escaped her aching throat.

*

The flight of the silver stallion was heavy now, loaded with bundles such as no winged one before him had ever had to suffer. Like a pack donkey, he let Ram know with some humor as he thundered aloft on straining wings. And Ram, so lost in remorse for Skeelie, so ridden with her pain, gave back little of humor, could only quip weakly that perhaps pack donkeys should grow wings.

The sun was low in the west, the dying afternoon stifling as heat rose from the cooling lava. Smoke drifted up, still, in the north between far peaks, and ash drifted down, burning Ram’s throat and making Dalwyn cough. At last they winged over above the cave and dove for its lip—and on the lip of that drop, Telien stood poised as if she would step into empty space. Before her, nearly without foothold, Fawdref couched. Ram could feel the wolf’s furious growl before he heard it.

The stallion remained motionless on the wind above her, weighted, struggling. One step and Telien would be over. Fawdref edged into her, forcing her back with bared teeth. She stared at him uncomprehending, and Ram felt her whisper, ‘They are waiting in the garden. I don’t . . . I must go to them!” Ram tried wildly to reach her mind, to awaken her, and could not. Fawdref pushed her another step back. The stallion dropped down to the ledge, and Ram leaped clear, was beside her lifting her away, saw Rougier winging down from the sky then, answering Fawdref’s summoning from some far distant grazing.

He laid Telien again on the stone shelf. Her ash-covered hair fell around her like dulled silver. She looked up at him blankly, her green eyes far away, seeing beyond him into—into what?

When he had stripped the packs from Dalwyn, seen the stallion leap skyward beside Rougier, he made a small fire, put a pot of water to boil, added herbs for tea, and began to prepare a meal for her. He laid out fresh bread and cold roasted meat, cicaba fruit that Skeelie had carried from Carriol, then put into his pack.

When the tea was ready, he led her to the fire. She knelt, held her hands to the warmth. Her eyes were softer now, very needing; she seemed so very frail. Yet beneath that frailty must lie an indomitable strength, to have brought her through that burning land; and, too, to have sustained her those long years living under AgWurt’s rule. He poured out tea for her and held it so she could drink strong, aromatic tea. “You were far away, Telien. Can you tell me where?”