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

Part Three: The Lake of Caves

From the Fourth Book of Zandour, Writer unknown.

Dark mysteries surround the history of Hermeth and surround his victory in the wood of the dark tower south of Dal. Time-flung raiders died in that wood and turned to bone ages old, crumbling before Hermeth’s eyes. And a Seer of light came out of a spell-casting to fight by Hermeth’s side. Some said the Seer was Ramad of wolves, as the song of that battle tells. Most folk say that could not be. But surely that Seer led wolves: two score great wolves fought by his side to defeat the street-bred rabble and to defeat mysterious warriors. Some say that Hermeth defeated on that battlefield his long-dead ancestor, NilokEm.

Surely Hermeth returned victorious to Zandour with a dark-eyed Seer riding beside him and surrounded by running wolves. And there was celebration in Zandour for the victory of free men. But then in Zandour came tragedy to Hermeth. A tragedy no Seer could undo.

EIGHT

It was a rare good night of feasting and singing. The hall of Hermeth’s rough stone villa was crowded with tables laden nearly to overflowing with meats and breads and delicacies brought from all around the city by the townsfolk: shellfish from Zandour’s coast baked in leaves of tammi; breads of mawzee grain and whitebarley and wild grass seed; and great custards of tervil and vetchpea and dill. A huge fire blazed on the hearth, roasting chicken and chidrack and wild pig from out the marshes and haunches of deer and sheep. Folk heaped their plates high and carried them to the courtyard, where singing and gay music stirred the night, and the dancing was wild and fast, celebrating Zandour’s victory.

How long they had awaited this day; how eagerly they had anticipated the time when they could tend their flocks on Zandour’s green hills without fear of Herebian raiders, could sleep at night beneath the peaceful silence of Ere’s cool moons, not listening every moment for the sounds of raiders descending from dark hills to burn and steal and kill. There would still be danger. Zandour must still maintain guards and patrols, and the army must train as ever. But not danger as it had been. The street-rabble Seers were slaughtered. Neither Hermeth or Ram could sense any lingering taint of them. The only evil that threatened now was the common strain of straggling raiders never caught up in the Pellian warring, small Herebian pilferers that Zandour could easily deal with.

Zandour showed its pleasure in joyful celebration. The songs sung were mostly the old songs, “Smallsinger Tell Me,” “Jajun Jajun,” “The Goosetree of Madoc,” songs from the coastal lands. Then a young bard made a song about the war in the dark wood, sang the words amidst a sudden stillness as Zandour’s people went hushed; and long would it be sung in Zandour. It told of the two stones that were one stone, of Ramad of wolves come out of Time to fight by Hermeth’s side; of NilokEm, the dark ancestor, and of Telien, who was mother to Hermeth’s grandfather, come suddenly into that wood. It did not speak of the wraith, for only a few had seen that shadow and understood what it was. The song did not tell where Telien had gone, once she disappeared from the wood.

Ram did not join the festivities. He took supper alone beside the hearth in the great hall, his back to the crowds that came to load their plates. He ignored Skeelie, who lurked by a window watching him. He wished she would go away, wanted only his own lonely company. He ate quickly, hardly tasting the deer meat and the carefully prepared dishes, then wandered out of the hall and through the crowds, unaware of the music and jostling. It was to the quiet dark beyond the stables and outbuildings that he was driven by his taut, violent agitation.

Skeelie wanted to follow him and knew he would not tolerate that. He was utterly closed to her in a remoteness that not even friendship could bridge; so awash with suffering for Telien, so deeply grieving. She saw him disappear into shadow and stood in the courtyard for a long time alone after he had gone. Like him, she was unaware of the crowds around her, of the gaiety; and at last she found her way to the room Hermeth had given her.

She shut the door, stood with her back to it, letting the tension ease, letting the sense of isolation, the emptiness of the big square room soothe her. A bathing tub had been brought in, which steamed invitingly. She sat for a while in a deep chair beside the fire, admiring the tapestries and the bright Zandourian rugs, thinking of Ram and of Telien, too lazy even to get into the bath, then began at last to strip off her boots and her borrowed dirty leathers.

The steaming tub felt so good; the aches of battle and the tired stiffness were slowly eased away. She took up the thick sponge, then the ball of perrisax soap, sniffing it with delight, and in a pleasant fog began to scrub off the blood and dirt of battle. When finally she dozed, the water in the tub grew cold and the low fire burned to embers.

*

Ram wandered alone in the dark between the outbuildings and pens. He could smell the pigs plainly, and the goats. The music and singing faded to an almost-tolerable blur. He could have done without it altogether. Hermeth had taken one look at his black expression and left him. Skeelie had hung around, annoying with her silent concern. He felt a twinge of guilt. Well, but Skeelie understood. She always knew his pain. Yes, and that in itself was annoying. He stared up at the sky, immense and distant, and cold desolation touched him, the reality of Telien’s fate sickening him nearly to madness: Telien, captive in a horror worse than any death could be; Telien trapped now as he had never dreamed possible. Was she aware of her possession yet unable to battle it? Or had her spirit been crippled, or destroyed?

*

Hermeth found Ram some time later still among the sheep pens and sties. He went to stand beside him, stared absently at the waning moons, watched pale clouds blow across the stars. The singing came faint and cool, muffled by stables and grain rooms. Neither spoke. Ram leaned tiredly against the sty fence, and Hermeth watched him. Ramad of wolves. Ramad, hardly aged since he fought by Macmen’s side twenty-three years gone. The clouds shifted to cover the moons, then uncovered them suddenly so moonlight marked the flaming hair of the two Seers. Ram’s olive skin and dark eyes and the slight dishing of his face were in sharp contrast to Hermeth’s paler, square face and clear blue eyes fringed with pale lashes. Hermeth uncapped a flask of honeyrot. Ram sipped at it absently. Hermeth frowned. “You cannot tear yourself from the image of her, Ramad, from the horror of her possessed. You will not rest until you have followed her. But you . . .” Hermeth took a sip of the honey-rot and capped it. “You do not know how or where to look, how to find your way into Time in the direction she—the wraith—has taken.”

Ram nodded, caught in misery. He stared bleakly into the night.

“There is a story in Zandour about a man called the Cutter of Stones. It is said by some that he is evil. I do not believe that. I think he is a magical person.”

Ram turned for the first time to look directly at Hermeth.

“A Seer, yes,” Hermeth answered his silent question. “But a Seer with special skills. It is said that he cut, from one large stone, five golden stones called starfires that could . . .” He was stopped by Ram’s look. “What did I say? Why does the mention of starfires—?”

“Don’t stop! Get on with your story!”

“It—it is a tale from herders in Moramia. Five starfires that can hurl a man into Time and carry him—well, just carry him. . . .” Hermeth swallowed. “But you have already been carried into Time.” He watched Ram with slow realization. “You—you carry the starfires! You . . .”