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

Eternal quest to those with power.

Some seek dark; they mortal end.

Some hold joy; they know eternal life,

Through them all powers will sing.

Were these words the whole rune that was carved into the runestone? Who had carved it here in this buried place? She reached out, shaking, to touch the carved pillar. What linking did this tablet have to the runestone? What linking to Ram, in whose hands the stone had shattered? She turned suddenly, feeling watched, feeling another presence.

Or was it only the old man, still watching her? Her nerves were strung tight. Imagining things. Imagining for a moment a sense of dark evil drawing in around her; and then gone. She returned to puzzling over the carved tablet. The lantern was burning low, would soon need refilling. Were the words on the tablet the key for which she searched, the key into Time? She stood repeating the words, then turned away at last confused and dizzy, and felt space wheeling around her and sudden heat searing her. Then winds came, and scenes overlapped in wild succession. She felt she could not breathe. She saw children running in terror before a river of fire, saw volcanoes spewing out against the sky. She searched wildly for a glimpse of Ram as a hundred scenes overwhelmed her. She knew she must move, must launch herself into this melee if she was to hurdle Time’s barrier—but into which scene? She dared not fling herself a thousand years from Ram, yet how could she know? She searched frantically, could not see his face, was stifled by fear, by indecision. Her lantern sputtered, the flame died. But the scenes were dimly lit, taunting her, terrifying her. She dropped the lantern, heard the precious glass shatter. She wheeled around in impotent panic—and felt something brush her arm, solid and huge; leaped back in terror, sword drawn.

The flashing scenes were gone. Dim light shone above her from a star-struck sky. A black cliff rose beside her. She touched it again. The cliff of a mountain. She let out a long breath. She was no longer in the cave, had been swept without volition across the abyss. She was ashamed now of her fear and confusion. Looking up at the sky, at the stars, she felt their vast distance. A cold wind touched her face. The caves were gone, perhaps centuries gone. She had come at last into the unfathomable, where she could search for Ram.

Then she saw the fire.

It was some distance away, down to her left, a very small fire, like a campfire. Her heart was beating wild and quick with the knowledge that she had come through the impossible barrier. That campfire might mean anything: people or creatures beyond her comprehension.

The fire flickered, then was lost for a moment as something dark moved across it. Surely it was a campfire. The sharp tang of painon-wood smoke made her press her finger to her nose to keep from sneezing. The smell of searing meat brought water to her mouth. She was wild with hunger suddenly, like an animal. She stood staring down at the bright, small glow, trying in vain to make out figures or a shelter. Surely someone must be sitting huddled in shadow waiting for supper to cook. When a sharp, high noise cut the night, she startled terribly, swallowed, her hand tight on her drawn sword in quick mindless reflex.

But it had only been a goat, the high shrill bleat of a doe goat. The fire blazed bright as if its builder had laid on more wood. The meat smelled wonderful. She could see no one. She stood quietly, but her pulse still pounded wildly with the realization that she had at last left her own time. Suddenly a voice spoke. She spun and stared at the man before her, her sword pricking his chest.

“Good even,” he repeated.

How had he come so silently, slipping up on her? Her muscles were tense and ready to thrust, her blood surging with warlike reflex. Then she felt embarrassment, for he was only a small, elderly herder staring up at her, gentle of face, surprised by her quick, violent action. His voice was soft and even now, as if he spoke to a nervy beast.

“Sheath your sword, lad.” He stepped back away from the tip of her blade. “Sheath it, I’ve no quarrel with you, nor mean you harm.” He watched her lower her blade a trifle. “Hungry? Are ye hungry? Come on to the fire, then, lad. Don’t be standing here staring, riling my goats all to thunder. Come down to the fire and settle. Who be ye, lad, coming out of the night so?”

TWO

The herder turned his back on her, plainly expecting her to follow as he made his way back toward the fire. He must be simple, turning his back on a sword. Or could this man be a Seer, know she meant no harm? She sought into his mind warily. But no, only a simple man. Trusting her. He led her to the fire, stooped to turn the roasting meat. Her sword swung against a boulder, ringing sharply, and a buck, startled, snorted. The animal stood just beyond the fire, a big Cherban buck with horns as long as her sword and nearly as sharp. Maybe this herder had more protection than she had guessed. The man had turned, was surveying her with surprise, now that he could see her clearly in the firelight. “Why it ain’t a lad at all!” He took in her knotted dark hair, the curve of her breast beneath her tunic, her thin-boned face. “A lady—in fighting leathers!” He studied her with interest. “Old, scarred leathers, and stained with blood, looks like.” He reached to touch her sword, took it from her in a gesture innocent and bold.

She, always so quick and careful, let him take it with quiet amusement. He held it close to the flame where he could make out the intricate carving of birds and leaves with which the handle was fashioned, the clean, sharp blade. Then he raised his eyes to her. “A fine sword, lady. Fine. It was made with great skill. And with love.”

His words brought unexpected pain. She looked away from him, felt gone of strength, wanting to weep for no reason. Made with love. Brotherly love, maybe. No more. She straightened her shoulders and stared at him defiantly, reached out for her sword. “How would you know if it was made with love? That is skill you see. Only skill in the casting of the silver.”

“All skill, lady, is a matter of love. Have you not learned that? I hope you know more about the use of the sword than you do about a man’s mind.”

“I know about its use. And I know more about men’s minds than—” She stopped, had almost given herself away in anger. Stupid girl. Shout it out. Tell him you know all about men’s minds, can see into men’s minds, tell him you’re a Seer! And who knows what they do to Seers in this time. Kill them? Behead them? Better collect yourself, Skeelie, find out where you are—and when—and stop acting like an injured river cat.

“Ain’t never seen a lady got up so in fighting leathers.”

She wanted to say, Where I come from it’s common enough. She wanted to say, What year is this that women don’t fight beside their men? But even in her own time, the women of the coastal countries had not fought so. Only the women of Carriol. She cast about for some question she might use to find her way here and realized how little she had prepared herself. So engrossed with getting into Time, she had given little thought to coping once there, or to an explanation for stepping out of nowhere. What plausible excuse did she have for traveling in these mountains when she did not know the customs, or where she was? Eresu knew, she was glad it was night. In the daytime she would have had some hard explaining to do, had he seen her appear suddenly from thin air.

“Not much of a talker, are you lady? Hungry? The haunch should be ready soon.” The little man had a lopsided grin, and as he moved to turn the meat again, she could see he was lopsided in the way he walked, with a deep limp. He fussed about the meat, then at last settled down against a boulder. “Sit yourself down, lady. There’s a log there. I am called Gravan.”