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

As they descended, snow turned to ice, for all was frozen here where the lake’s steam melted the snow again and again, then cold winds froze it. The far steep shore glistened with ice, rising up to the mountains. Their boots broke through the thin layer of constantly melting and refreezing crust, and the horses pawed, sidestepping, uncertain and suspicious, moving one wary step at a time. Across the lake, the shore was riddled with caves, visible now and then through the mist, and there seemed to be caves beneath the water, too, dark, indistinct patches.

At the lake’s edge Skeelie knelt, scooped warm water into her cold hands, then plunged her face in, came up dripping. The wary horses settled to drink at last as the wolves crowded around them to lap up the clear, warm water. For some moments, no one saw or sensed the man who stood in the shelter of a snowbank watching them, a big man swathed in white furs, nearly invisible against the snowbank. Fawdref sensed him first, sprang around suddenly, snarling, ready to leap. But then he stopped, did not advance on the stranger.

The man pushed aside the flap of white fur that had covered his face and stared down at the wolf with eyes like fierce black embers. Within the white hood, his face was a dark oval, sun-browned, creased with lines, craggy, his black beard clipped in a square manner, sharply defined. His dark eyes smiled suddenly, eyes filled with depths that seemed to engulf them all as completely as the warp of Time could engulf them. Skeelie fought his power, wanted to pull away; yet his strength remained aloof, did not crush her as she felt it could easily do. He said abruptly, without preamble, “Come then,” turned from them and started around the icy shore, never doubting that they would follow him.

They went in single file, Ram leading his mount, then Skeelie leading hers, the wolves coming behind, austere and silent. The only sound was the crunch of frozen snow as they made a solemn journey around the lake to where a white hill lay, a long mound with smoke rising from its center. The power of the man drew and enfolded Skeelie until she no longer wanted to be rid of it. She did not attend to how his power affected Ram, so caught was she in the sense of this man who was the Cutter of Stones.

As they drew close to the white mound, they could see a white door in its side. The Cutter of Stones pushed that door open, and they entered through the wall of snow into an inner court, open to the sky. Log outbuildings and stables stood on three sides of the court, their roofs covered with high banks of snow. A long, low house of heavy logs flanked the right side, snow roofed.

Two stalls had been made ready for their horses, with dry grass and grain and leather buckets of fresh water. The goats and sheep in the other stalls watched with marble eyes as Skeelie led her bay gelding into a stall and unsaddled him. She was tired suddenly, aching with weariness. Perhaps a weariness born of the intense isolation of this place—outside of Time, outside of any world they knew. Or perhaps it was a weariness born of her sure knowledge that she and Ram moved now, inevitably, toward crises in their lives, toward turning places. She was not sure she was ready for any kind of crisis. At this moment, all she wanted was a drink of something hot and supper and a warm bed. She began to rub the saddle marks from the gelding’s back. He ate greedily. When she turned from him at last, Ram was leaning in the doorway.

She studied him, his brown eyes, his olive skin glowing now from the cold, the long, thin bones of his face, unruly thatch of red hair. Wanting to touch his cheek, she shielded her thoughts from him, feeling stupid and ashamed of her love for him, because he could not return it.

“We are farther than the end of the world, Skeelie. Farther than any world, maybe. Farther . . .” His jaw clenched, pushing back the pain of Telien.

“You let it eat at you, Ram! What good—you . . .” She turned from him, furious, then was ashamed all over again. What was she so angry about? He couldn’t help it. She was tired, needed a hot meal, a bath. She turned back, took his hand and pulled him out into the courtyard. It was starting to snow. The wolves rose from around the door like a pack of great dogs, grinned and were off through the court and up the side of a hill to hunt. Ram dropped her hand, was unaware he did so, or that he had been holding it. She stared at him reproachfully. There was nothing she could do to make him aware of her when he did not want to be. And nothing she could do to relieve his pain for Telien. She could only stay beside him and help him search and do whatever was needed. Doormat! she thought angrily. Doormat! But it was what she wanted to do, must do, or life would have no meaning. When he had found Telien, when they had gone off together—if they could save her, if they could release her from the wraith—then, Skeelie thought, she could dissolve into self-pity, and after that make a new life for herself. Now there was only the search for Telien, and it didn’t matter if she was a doormat.

They entered the hall. Skeelie dropped her pack by the door, thankful to be rid of the weight. The warmth of the great room and of the blazing fire engulfed them. It was a huge, square room with three log walls, and a fourth of stone where a fire blazed beneath a deep stone mantel. Rafters thick as a man’s waist caught the reflection of leaping flames. Cushions were stacked before the hearth, and beside them a low table made of some dark, dull wood. There was no other furniture. Fur hides and fur cushions were strewn in piles about the room. A black stewpot hung to one side of the fire. The Cutter of Stones was stirring this.

He had removed his white furs, was clad now in a plain brown tunic and trousers. His dark eyes saw Skeelie clearly, saw her aching tiredness, her hunger, her discouragement. He held out steaming mugs to them, a heady brew scented with spices. And all the time, he looked directly at Skeelie. His voice was deep, comforting. “I am called Canoldir.” Then, “Come Ramad, make yourself comfortable before the fire.” Ram turned from them.

Canoldir looked at Skeelie so long she felt a blush rising. At last he took her arm and guided her through the hall to a corridor and down this to a chamber. He did not speak, but his very presence seemed to rest and strengthen her. “This room opens onto the lake. There is no one about, you may bathe. Supper will be ready when you are.” He turned away, was gone; she felt only the sense of his mind, for a moment still watching her. Then she was quite alone. She pushed the door closed behind her and stood surveying the room.

It was large and square though not nearly so huge as the hall. There were a few pieces of simple furniture, a big bed covered in a red woven tapestry, other tapestries hanging against the log walls. In one wall was a great window, opening nearly to the floor, made of hundreds of small panes of precious glass. It looked out on the lake and the icy shore.

There was a fur robe lying across a bench, along with fur slippers and linen towels. She stripped down at once, pulled the robe around her and stepped barefoot through the window out into the snow. Her feet began to tingle from the cold, a strangely exhilarating, comforting feeling. She stood for a moment at the edge of the lake, staring up through scarves of steam at the white mountains, watching the first stars come in the deepening sky, her mind on Canoldir. At last she slipped out of the robe and dove in one motion into the water, luxurious in its warmth, rolled languidly, then dove deep, felt the aching tiredness leave her. Finally she struck out in a long line across the lake, sharply aware of the contrast between the warm water and the icy bite of air across her cheek and lifting arms and shoulders.