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

NINE

Four days brought them up into Esh-nen. It was so cold now, they rode with their blankets around their shoulders and slept close together at night, with the wolves crowded around in a warm cluster. Sleeping close, as she and Ram had sometimes done as children out of fear or in the icy nights on Tala-charen, Skeelie could feel the sense of their friendship grow steadier. She would lie wakeful with the pleasure this gave her, and with annoyance at her own dependence on Ram; but with, sometimes, a longing for him that even this closeness could not quiet. Then she would turn away from Ram and huddle into Torc’s shoulder, choking back tears; and Torc would turn and lick her face and lay her muzzle into Skeelie’s neck. You suffer too violently, sister. Time will take away the pain.

It never can.

Torc could not answer her, for her own pain, the memory of her dead cubs and the pain of her lost mate, had not abated. Together they would lie miserable and wakeful in the cold, still night, sharing their loneliness. Ram slept beside her unknowing, and Anchorstar, if he knew, did not speak of it. The very beauty of the night in this barren place, the moonlight like crystal on the jutting rocks, seemed to make her misery even sharper.

The world seemed to have grown larger and more remote as they ascended. And while at first this had increased Skeelie’s loneliness, soon the immense spaces began to fascinate her, as if they held within themselves powerful and hidden meanings. She began to touch within herself new plateaus of strength that came sharper still as the peaks rose higher and wilder around them.

The ground over which they rode seemed never to have known spring, seemed always to have been as now, frozen and barren of life. The snow, which had at first lay in patches on the frozen ground, increased to a heavy blanket. They dug moss from beneath the rock cliffs for the horses, and Anchorstar took from his pack precious rations of grain for them, but still the animals began to grow gaunt. It was a bleak, heartless mountain. The few trees stunted along the edges of the rising cliffs might have clung there forever, unchanged. The sense of their own smallness became nearly unbearable. The mountain stretched around them white and cold and silent.

Anchorstar, too, became silent, as remote as the spaces surrounding them, so Skeelie felt that at any moment he might fade altogether to become a part of the empty vastness through which they traveled.

Soon the snow was so deep the horses had to fight their way. Then the riders dismounted to trample down a path and make the way easier for the mounts. They kept on so, walking, their feet growing cold, their boots sodden, stopping again and again to dig packed snow from the horses’ hooves. The wolves alone found it easy to move swiftly across the whiteness. They brought meat—rock hare and a small deer—so there was no need for the travelers to hunt.

They came, at evening of the sixth day, up over a rising snow plain to a ridge. Beyond it, the land dropped suddenly, falling down to a deep blue lake far below. A lake not frozen over, but breathing hot steam against ice-covered cliffs. They began to descend, the horses slogging through deep snow sideways, held back from overbalancing by a short lead. Soon they could feel the lake’s warm breath. The rising steam grew thick around them, turning to fog in the cold air, hiding the snow-clad mountains. They descended into a cauldron of fog, of shifting pale shadows and then of unexplained darknesses rising and stretching away like voids between the clouds of mist.

Skeelie could feel Anchorstar’s tenseness. He seemed reluctant suddenly, and at the same time almost eager. She heard him whisper words indistinguishable, then speak a name. “Thorn!” Then, “That Seer is Thorn of Dunoon!” A wind caught the heavy fog and swirled it into patterns against darkness. Suddenly they were not standing in snow, but on a narrow rocky trail winding along the side of a bare, dark mountain, black lava rock rising jagged against the sky. The horses were gone. The air was warm, a warm breeze blew up from the valley below. Time lay asunder once again, twisted in its own mysterious convolutions, and they had been carried with it like puppets, swept away from their destination. Skeelie responded with anger, this time with a sense of betrayal.

Below them lay pastures green as emeralds, and a little village, its roof thatch catching the last light of the setting sun. Below that village, down at the foot of the mountain, they could see a city. Surely they had come to the mountains above the village of Dunoon. No city that Skeelie knew, save Burgdeeth, lay so close to the foot of the Ring of Fire. A flock of goats was being herded up into the high pastures, the herder a young redheaded Seer; and suddenly Skeelie went dizzy. Time shifted again, darkness was on the mountain. Though they could still see the herder, who stood in moonlight now, his goats grazing among black boulders. Anchorstar sighed.

“We are in my own time, and I know I must move in this time.” His words came heavy, as if he were very tired. Then his voice lifted. “That young Seer—can’t you feel it? Yes—he is linked with the runestone!” He was tense with excitement, now, stood staring down eagerly. “He is linked with the runestone that Telien carried. The runestone that Telien brought out of Tala-charen.”

Ram had caught his breath, stood watching, sensing out.

“He will touch that stone,” Anchorstar continued. “I feel certain of it. He is linked with your prophecy, Ramad. Found by the light of one candle, carried in a searching Linked in a way I cannot fathom. But

Ram . . .” Anchorstar laid a restraining hand on Ram’s arm.

“Telien is not in this time, nor does he know of her—nor do I feel that she will come to this time. That young Seer— I think he is hardly aware of his gift. It is an ignorant time, ignorant!” And then, his voice fading, “Kubal is rising. Can’t you feel their dark intent?”

He was gone, mountain and valley gone. Ram and Skeelie stood alone in fog and snow, freezing cold, the blue lake below. Anchorstar’s horse was gone, its hoofprints ending suddenly in the deep snow just where Anchorstar’s footprints ended. Their own two horses pressed close to them, shivering.

An after-vision filled their minds with Anchorstar, not on that dark mountain now but riding the dun stallion along a flat green marsh next to the sea. “He is in Sangur,” Ram breathed. “Surely those are the marshes of Sangur. How . . .? He stared at Skeelie. “What mission must he now endure, in order to make his way back to the mountains, and to that young Seer? Is there sense of it, Skeelie?”

She could not answer him. They stood staring at one another, caught between wonder and fear at the forces that moved around them, that flung them so casually across Time. Was there sense to it, reason? She remembered, suddenly and vividly, standing with Ram inside the mountain Tala-charen, could hear his voice, a child’s voice, yet very certain of the words he spoke. There is one force. But it is made of hundreds of forces. Forces balance, overbalance—that is what makes life; nothing plans it, that would take the very life from all—all the universe. It is the strength of force in our desires for good and evil, Skeelie, that makes things happen. . . .”

He touched her thoughts. She whispered, “Do you still believe that?”

“I—I don’t know. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I’m not sure how much. I guess—I guess I have more questions now than I did then. Anchorstar is gone. He brought us to this place and is gone. What forces . . .?” He looked at her long and deep, then at last they turned in silence, the sense of their wondering flashing between them, but no words adequate to answer such questions. They looked down at the lake, wreathed in mist, then started down toward its shore.