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

He had shouted, “I don’t care about Ere! I care only to avenge Ramad!”

“Then you are not man enough to be Ramad’s son! You will leave this house without my blessing, and without Canoldir’s blessing!”

He had not spoken to her again, had gone out of the house of Canoldir in a rage, the three wolves leaping to join him unbidden. He had found his way down the ice mountains, warmed by his own terrible anger, had come at last to the lands where Time flowed forward like a river, had crossed the mountains to the range below the glacier, driven by rage and by the sense of the runestone there coupled with the sense of Dracvadrig, and never once had he thought or cared that he could not even have left Canoldir’s house without that man willing him back into the mainstream of Time.

The wolves had censured him constantly for his temper. “And why,” he said now, scowling, “why, Shorren the wise, why does Dracvadrig seek out that one stone in Carriol, when the four stones I carry are so much nearer to hand? Answer me that riddle!”

Dracvadrig thinks to have your stones easily enough. He considers them already in his hand, to be plucked when he is ready. He is most pleased that you bring them closer to him with each step we take. Dracvadrig lusts after the more unattainable stone—that stone that hangs in Carriol. And he wants, also, the stone that lies in the sea. Shorren stretched and stared down at the broken crevices below them, then looked back at Lobon. Her white coat caught the slanting light. You, Lobon, he considers but a plaything. If you knew Dracvadrig as you should, you would see him taking the form of the dragon simply for the pleasure of catching a fire ogre and tossing it, teasing it, letting it run, then snatching it up and, much later, killing it. Just so does he play with us, just so does he watch us descend to him, just so does he send fire ogres and serpents to harass us.

“Why do you remain with me, then?” he said sarcastically. “And how do you know more of Dracvadrig than I, bitch wolf?”

We follow because we must. We are linked to Ramad just as you are. And we know Dracvadrig because we attend to the subtleties of his presence, Lobon, while your mind is fogged by his thoughts, and by your fury, and by your preoccupation with the girl.

“The girl could be useful! You don’t—”

Useful to you in gaining revenge. Not useful in preventing Dracvadrig from having Carriol’s stone. Not useful for the good of Ere.

“You talk drivel! Revenge is all that is needed.” He was sick to death of her censure. He snatched the wolf bell from his tunic. “All three of you talk rubbish.” He stared at them in fury, his dark eyes flashing, his unruly red hair gone wilder, as if the very power of his anger made it flame. He hated the wolves in that moment. They were arrogant, filled with senseless dreams. They did not understand or care how he felt. He didn’t need them; he would be better off without their haranguing. He raised the wolf bell and brought a power to banish them, to drive them away. Let them return to Skeelie and the rest of their cursed band. “You will—”

A black streak leaped, Feldyn’s teeth gripped his arm, Feldyn’s weight crashed into him. He went down, the black wolf’s teeth inches from his face, Crieba and Shorren crowding over him. He could feel their breath, see nothing but killer’s teeth. He stared up at them unbelieving. Never had the wolves acted so, never. He was their master. He was master of the wolf bell.

Feldyn’s thought came sharp: You are not our master, Lobon! Not as Ramad was, though you hold the wolf bell. You have not Ramad’s level of power, or his caring, yet to master us. You are our brother, yes. And because you are, we speak truths to you, and we command that you listen to us!

Crieba’s voice was cold behind his silver snarl. The great wolves have power of their own, Lobon! You will not banish us. This mission is ours as much as it is yours. Our sire died by Ramad’s side battling Dracvadrig, and we too will avenge. But there is more to avenging, Lobon the hot-tempered, than you are willing to admit. You will fail, Lobon. You will ultimately fail unless you accept the whole of Ramad’s commitment, as do we; unless you strive to win that which Ramad himself would win.

The wolves turned away from him then and left him sprawled. You can stay or follow us, Shorren said, just as you choose.

He stared after their retreating backsides. Their tails swung jauntily. He looked down at the wolf bell clutched in his sweating hand. His fury was spent, his doubts painful and raw. He cursed them silently and ground his fist against the wolf bell.

He rose at last and started on. They could die in the blasted pit for all of him. He would seek Dracvadrig alone.

*

In a land of ice that lay beyond Time, in a villa walled by banks of snow, a woman watched in sharp vision Lobon’s rude and foolish defiance of the wolves. When she let the vision go at last, she stood staring into the cold ashes of the fireplace, her fist pushing against the stone mantel in a gesture very like Lobon’s. A tall woman, thin, inclined to stand stooped unless she remembered and straightened. The knot of her dark hair was half-undone, twisted over her shoulder. Lines of care and loss creased her face. She was alone in the raftered hall, for Canoldir was hunting far back in the ice mountains; though even at such a distance he touched her now and again with a warmth that helped to ease her distress. The seven wolves who hunted with him touched her mind, too, whispering now, Sister, be of cheer, sister of wolves: We tell you that not Shorren nor Feldyn nor Crieba will leave Lobon. They will see him safe, in spite of his surly ways.

But their assurance did little good. Skeelie worried for Lobon and was furious with him. She turned away from the mantel at last, her light fur robe swirling around her long legs, and began to pace the room. She was a woman bred to sword and saddle, she carried the difficult years well, as trim and agile as she had ever been. She seemed self-contained, but the younger, vulnerable Skeelie was there, the distress and love she had felt for Ram ever since she was a child pouring out now over his son to leave her shaken. What had she done or failed to do, that Lobon should grow to manhood with such shortsighted purpose?

He will grow out of it, Canoldir whispered to her, touching her mind from afar. Ramad’s blood is in him, and your own blood, my love. Lobon will come through, to be what he was meant to be.

She bowed her head, warm in Canoldir’s gentleness; but she knew she had failed Lobon. Had she not expected enough of Lobon the child? Not loved him strongly enough? Not praised him enough for successes and been strong enough with him about failures? Eresu knew, she had tried to be a gentle mother, yet give him the strength that Ramad would have given.

Since they had come to Canoldir when Lobon was eight, fleeing from the city of cones, Canoldir had been as strong and fair a father as Ramad himself would have been. Where then did that wild angry streak in Lobon come from? Certainly not from Canoldir’s treatment. And not, alone, from the child’s memory of his father’s death, she knew.

For Lobon’s anger had shown itself much earlier than Ram’s death, from the time he was a small babe demanding to be fed, demanding to be comforted, never asking or gentle. Ramad had laughed at—and wondered at—the child’s temperament. And frowned, disturbed, sometimes. For Lobon was too much like Ramad’s mother. He was, Skeelie admitted, far too much like Tayba, who had conceived Ramad out of angry defiance, borne him in anger, and nearly killed him when he was nine because of her own willful and traitorous greed. Tayba, who with her fiery temperament had been one cause of the violent clashing of evil against good that had shattered the runestone of Eresu there on Tala-charen. Yes, surely Tayba’s violent spirit was mirrored in her grandson. Could I not, Skeelie thought, could I not have prevented Lobon’s growing up to be what he is?