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

“The stone!” Thorn said with sudden conviction, gripping her hand so tightly she winced. “Zephy, she has the stone, she has taken it from the citadel.”

“The runestone? But she can’t, she—”

He stood up and hung the lamp from the tentpole. Light caught across his red hair, across his bare chest. He looked down at her, still scowling with disbelief and anger.

“The master Seer would never let her,” she said stupidly. “Never send one alone . . .” She did not want to believe what he was telling her. She looked up at him until at last she had to believe. She tried to touch Meatha’s mind and to know Meatha’s intent.

She could sense great calmness from Meatha, a sense of lightness, a sure, purposeful feeling that what she was doing was necessary and right, was essential to the salvation of Ere. She Saw truth in Meatha’s purpose: She knew well enough that the master Seers would never let the stone leave Carriol—knew in this moment so close with Meatha, that to carry the stone into battle, to wield it in battle, as Ramad of the wolves had once done, and with it vanquish the Kubalese troops and their dark companions, might be the only sure way to stop the slaughter and to destroy Kubal. She felt uneasy at the theft of the stone, but she felt with Meatha the urgency and lightness, too. She looked up at Thorn. He was watching her intently. They must trust Meatha for a little while, bear with her for a little while. Give her fair chance, not withhold their trust from her. Not yet.

Thorn gave her a questioning look, nodded at last, then blew out the lamp and lay down beside her. Almost at once he was snoring. Zephy scowled at the ease with which he slept, and she lay worrying for a long time. Should she alert the council? Thorn had withheld his judgment in this in deference to her. She felt unease at the strength of Meatha’s power. And yet if Meatha was right, if the fate of Ere could lie in that one stone carried into battle—Zephy sighed and tossed and could not sleep. And knew, beneath all her arguments, that she must be silent at least for a while. She could not do otherwise. She could not betray Meatha so easily.

She slept at last, restlessly, tossing, then woke again before dawn to find Thorn wakeful beside her, both of them gripped as one in a vision that lifted and excited them, and brought hope. They Saw sleek, fast-running shapes slipping into Zandour and felt the sense of them lusting to destroy dark warriors: wolves, flowing into the ravaged villages, seeking out the drunken, sated Kubalese troops and killing them. Dozens of wolves killing silently then moving on to kill again.

*

Dracvadrig the man sat atop the broken tower seething at the vision of wolves. Wolves! Great Urdd, how he hated wolves. Fury overwhelmed him at their slaughter of RilkenDal’s troops. They could not waste troops on wolves. Writhing with fury, he grew nearly without volition into the dragon form, forgot the girl who slept among boulders there on the sea cliff, forgot Kish sleeping in the iron bed near him, thought only of the destruction of wolves. Hunched atop the tower, he spread his wings onto the night sky and leaped into darkness to circle once then head for Zandour, left Kish sleeping.

He came down on Zandour screeching with such fury that the very dawn seemed made of dragon screams, swept low back and forth above the hills. But below him lay only emptiness. No wolves to be sensed or seen. Nothing. He dove and raked to death a dozen surviving Zandourian troops and their mounts and tore apart their camp, but his heart wasn’t in it. He could think only of wolves and of his own thwarted fury. He snatched one of the horses aloft and carried it back toward Pelli, sucking its blood as he flew, crushing it in his terrible anger.

He returned to the tower to consume the rest of it, spitting the heavier bones into the lake below. The sound of his eating soon woke Kish. She stared at him, half with repugnance, half with fascination, as the horse’s head disappeared. “So you save the head for last.”

He smiled a bloody smile and sat digesting horse in silence, hating the wolves in secret. Where had they come from, those cursed wolves?

Kish said nothing, but as she watched him eating, she felt his thwarted fury growing around her. She slipped inside the armor of his blocking as cleverly as the serpent slips between stones. She sat quiet, soon Seeing his thoughts clearly. “Wolves!” she hissed. “How did they come without your knowing! How did you let them! Why didn’t you . . . ?”

He was sated with horse, his belly distended, in no mood for a tirade. He hunched up across the top of the tower in his haste to be away from her, snarled at her once, then launched himself heavy as lead. He would find somewhere else to digest his breakfast, where he could have peace and silence.

*

When Dracvadrig did not return, Kish went down through the dark tower, treading ancient stone stairs around and around past tiers of battered cells where bones lay rotting inside. The drawbridge was down, lying broken and crooked across the black water.

Soon she had passed through the ancient wood and stood at the far edge, surveying her encampments beneath a muddy sky. She saw the four hide tents that housed Carriol’s Seers, but she went not to those tents, but to the tall, elaborate bower that her people had raised for her.

There she dressed herself in the finery kept ready for her, then called the cultists out of sleep to gather before her. The queen was come, the warrior queen. After ordering the Carriolinian Seers bound and brought to her, she stood scowling impatiently, waiting for her orders to be carried out, for the cultists hardly stirred. They seemed as confused and mindless as a batch of chidrack. What was the matter with them! Only a handful moved toward the Carriolinian tents, then even they were held back forcibly by their neighbors. Kish stared at them, unbelieving, then brought powers down on them that sent them to their knees. But still they would not move to fetch the Seers. Their eyes blazed with the old reverence when they looked on Kish, but they would not do her bidding.

And in their tents, knowing what she intended, Zephy and Thorn and the twelve strong young Seers brought their powers, in turn, against Kish. They had been building for this: nursing the sick, conjuring magical ceremonies, doing everything they could to win the awe and love of the cultists. Now they joined together in all their power, in an effort so strong it might not be long expended, but that must wed the cults to the light while it held.

Again Kish made her subjects kneel, flashing pain through them. But some rose in spite of the pain and moved toward her. Alarmed, she spoke out in silence to Dracvadrig: She would bring the dragon here and see them all dead before they defied her!

But Dracvadrig did not answer her. He had gone on to the north, beyond Zandour, where now he glided above the high desert, immersed in the hunt like a harrying kestrel, searching over the hot sands and into shadows for wolves, and he had no time for Kish and her toys.

The cultists watched Kish coldly. Her power locked and held against the power of Carriol’s Seers. Neither gave. She strained harder until at last, two dozen men broke from the ranks and joined her, taking up weapons to face the rest. But the Carriolinians’ power in those brief moments was strong indeed. Who would have thought a handful of Seers . . . ? She needed the power of a runestone. Then she would make the cultists crawl. Blast Dracvadrig for not coming to help her. He could have fetched his stone here, could . . . Well, she would have a runestone all right, a runestone much nearer than the one Dracvadrig carried. Maybe even two stones. And with that power she could destroy the puerile Seers. Yes, perhaps she could retrieve the second stone, too, she thought smiling, for already the girl Meatha crouched among boulders watching the divers prepare to bring it up out of the sea.