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

What am I to do? Do the Luff’Eresi watch Lobon and the warring upon Ere? Surely they care. From what Ram told me, they care more than we can know. But they put their feelings aside in deference to our free-choosing.

Must I continue to wait, then? Is this what they, all wise, would tell me? Yet I suffer for Lobon. And I fear for Ere.

In my fearing, should I not move to help? Must I not tip the balance? Am I not a part of that balance anymore, since I move outside of Time? Yet if I do not go to him, will I shatter all hope?

If I could have a vision of the Luff’Eresi as I had once long ago, if a word from their greater wisdom could guide me . . .

But they will not tamper with human affairs. It is up to me to decide.

And I do not know what to do.

EIGHT

Beyond Esh-nen, beyond Time, in the villa of Canoldir, Skeelie stood staring into the dying fire, but Seeing only Lobon facing the firemaster. The dragon had changed to the form of a man. The wolf bell was bloodied, and Lobon’s dark eyes were blazing with hatred. She remembered sharply how Ramad had faced the master of Urdd, twelve years gone, felt again Ram’s anger. Her hand clutched convulsively at her sword as she felt again the pain of Ram’s death. “I must go to Lobon now. I must.”

“You cannot help him, Skeelie. Not any more than he can help himself.” Canoldir stood tall in darkened leathers before the stone mantel, taut with the visions and with her fierce need. His dark eyes caressed her, were filled with forces and wonders no woman could turn away from.

She drew a breath, watching him. “I must go to him. I can help him. I must be beside him to try.”

“Part of the force that drives you, Skeelie, is guilt. Because you were not beside Ramad to help him.”

She stared at him defiantly, knowing he was right.

“You think your Seer’s powers were not enough alone to save Ram, and now too late you would battle with your sword.” His look was uncompromising. “The sword alone will never be sufficient to destroy such as Dracvadrig. Try your Seer’s powers now, Skeelie. You have more than you know.”

“My power is not enough without the sword. You must let me go to him.”

“Perhaps I will not be able to bring you back. My own powers . . .” Their shared look was long and expressed their shared needs. I cannot let you go without tearing my soul from me.

“You must let me go. I cannot see him die as Ram died. Nor can I see the stones remain with the dark Seers. Nor—nor can you.”

“The fates will have their way regardless of what we do.”

“You do not believe that. You know you do not. Let me go. I will come back to you. I must come back to you. The Luff’Eresi—”

“The Luff’Eresi care nothing for this. They would not lift a finger to help.

“They helped Ram once. To save the Children of Ynell. You do not believe what you say! You can’t run away from the stones—from Ere—uncaring.”

I care only for you. He took her by the shoulders, pulled her to him. But she held the vision of Lobon facing the master of Urdd and would not yield to the gentleness of his touch or to his lonely need.

*

Dracvadrig’s voice was dry as wind. His form, diminished from dragon to man, seemed only the more horrifying in its sparsity and sepulchral stance. He took a sword from a fire ogre’s hand, and it reflected the flame of the ogre’s face red as blood. “Now I will have the bell, son of a bastard!” The firemaster’s power was the power of all darkness. Crieba leaped at his chain. Feldyn and Shorren crouched snarling, then lurched forward dragging their chains to stand beside Lobon, tensed to spring. Dracvadrig stood hunched as a bird of prey, sword poised, then moved forward. Lobon did not step back, was wild with the power in him, the power of that great pack of wolves, the power of the girl in a strange, warm closeness; he raised the wolf bell and felt another power and exalted, felt Skeelie there with him; he knew he could kill Dracvadrig now, at this instant. . . .

*

Kish’s sword was poised against the throat of a peasant, crouching among his dead companions, when the vision of Dracvadrig and Lobon struck her. Somehow, Dracvadrig seemed so small there in the form of a man, dwarfed by the abyss out behind him as if his human form had shrunk. She watched his expression coldly, watched the young Seer; and she knew suddenly and surely that Dracvadrig could die there in the next instant, die in the rising power the young Seer had found. Who was helping him? Curse Carriol and her Seers! She gored the peasant and turned from his fallen body, saw that RilkenDal had already snatched the bridles of two fettered mares of Eresu. She ran, snatched the reins, was mounted. No matter that she hated Dracvadrig, Lobon must not have the stones! They beat and spurred the reluctant animals until the creatures could only leap skyward, were soon pounding the wind in a frenzy of speed under the sharp sting of the whips.

The setting sun sent a streak of crimson along the underside of the clouds, and beneath that bloody sky the dark Seers held steady the vision of Lobon and the firemaster. They must not allow Dracvadrig’s defeat, must not allow the stones to be taken. What powers buoyed the Seer? They sensed a force from the captive girl helping him, and then Lobon had cornered Dracvadrig.

The bastard’s son must not have the stones! RilkenDal pressed his mount until the mare began to slaver, her eyes white with terror. Her wings did not want to hold her, she faltered, seemed ready to fall; he beat her until she strained harder, drove her on toward the abyss.

At last they were over Urdd, the heaving animals staggering against the wind, then dropping from the sky like stones.

The mares stumbled to the earth and fell on their knees, their wings splaying along the ground like injured birds. The riders leaped free and ran. They were too late, they felt Dracvadrig’s exhaustion, felt him take a mortal blow and stagger from the cell, trying in a final bid for power to take the dragon form, and too weak to muster that power.

“The Seer will have the stones!” Kish hissed, running hard. She was light on her feet and fast. “Those useless mares dropped us too far from the cells. Run! For the love of Urdd, he must not have the stones! Use your power! Help him change to dragon!”

*

Lobon followed the retreating firemaster into the twilight of the abyss, Shorren pushing close. Feldyn tried to follow, but fell, his injured leg and shoulder striking a painful dizziness to sap his conscious will. Shorren’s dragging chain made a harsh din in the silence; her spirit was predatory, thirsting for blood.

They found the master of Urdd lying among boulders in a form half-dragon, half-man, the long tail twisted around jagged rocks, the human legs half formed. They could feel his waning powers as he attempted to complete the change. His breathing was shallow and quick, his face gone in a horrifying mixture of shapes. The runestones lay scattered beside him, the broken gold casket smashed beneath the bulk of dragon shoulder from which protruded a man’s puny arm, its clawlike fingers clutching at his fallen sword.

Lobon jerked the sword from Dracvadrig’s hand and pressed the tip into the firemaster’s chest. Then he paused. He could pierce the firemaster’s heart now, he had lived twelve years for this moment. And suddenly he was numb with confusion and uncertainty.

Shorren growled; her voice filled his mind. Kill him! What do you wait for! She crouched, ready to spring, to tear out Dracvadrig’s throat. Do you lose your nerve, Lobon, after all your bragging talk of how you would destroy the master of Urdd?

He steadied his hand. Something lost and empty had stirred in him. He fought it back and plunged the sword home deep through dragon’s chest and man’s. Blood spurted like a river. The bloodied eye stared up at him blindly as the pierced heart ceased to beat.