Ширли Мерфи - The Shattered Stone [calibre]

She could take them!

Yes, and be tracked from here to Carriol. And what could Kubalese horses do, climbing these mountains? Like a cow on a window ledge, she thought. She collected her wits and slipped quickly down toward the plateau where Dunoon lay blackened, listening for signs of their return. She must keep to the shadows until they were gone, lest they see her from above. She must keep close to the mountain.

When she came around the last stone spire that hid the plateau, she saw the other five. She could hear their voices but could not make out what they said, or what they searched for among the huts. Could they be looking for her and Tra. Hoppa, or perhaps for missing Children? She strained to understand their words, but only an occasional one was clear.

They mounted at last and went on up the river and into the black canyon. Zephy looked back and up, but could not see the first band. She ran headlong for the huts, then stood hidden in the doorway of the first, peering back up the mountain.

The stench of the burned thatch made her eyes water. The sight of the burned furniture, the broken crocks and blackened bits of clothing, sickened her. Did human bodies lie here? She could not bend down to look and backed out feeling sick.

Yet she knew she must look.

The thatch was all burned away above her head, only blackened wisps against the sky. She went from cottage to cottage not knowing what she expected to find, and unable to stop herself. Again and again she paused to stare up the mountain, thinking each time to see dark shapes descending.

She came at last to Thorn’s own cottage. She entered, staring around her helplessly at the mass of blackened rubble, the burned table, a chair. At last she went away again out along the edge of the village toward the river.

On the other side of the fast water, some little gray nut trees spread their branches to the ground, offering cover. She pulled off her shoes, ran to the river, and crossed it. The water was deliciously cool on her feet. She came out reluctantly and slipped behind some rocks, then started up along it in the cover of the trees.

Did the shadows of the cleft seem too dense? Did something move there? But in spite of her fear, she felt drawn to the cleft, and when at last she entered the dark canyon, it seemed quite empty; it was silent until, as she slipped through its shadows and turned into the cave, a whirring noise made her go cold.

But it was only a startled bird. She entered the cave, her heart pounding, and stood in the darkness to listen.

SIXTEEN

The light at her back cast her shadow into the cave to meet the heavy darkness. She tried to walk softly, so she could hear. Were the Kubalese waiting in there?

But where were their horses, then? She knew she was being silly and forced herself ahead, clinging to the left-hand wall as the darkness closed around her.

It was very different without Meatha’s steady guidance. The blackness could be a narrow trail, could be a drop of empty space, she had no trust in the fact that she had walked here before. She felt out with each foot before she was willing to take a step. And her fear of something unseen shook her so she could hardly force herself ahead. But the inner cave drew her; she pressed on, the blackness muffling her senses.

Perhaps even the wall she clutched would deceive her, would take a wrong turning so she would be led in a different direction. She tried to remember a break in this wall, but her memory of that other passage was mostly of Meatha’s sureness.

She strained to see in a darkness where no vision was possible, strained to hear where the fall of her own footsteps filled her ears.

And in her sudden blindness, she thought she understood better what Meatha must have felt all her life. Meatha, who knew that something more existed around her than what she could see. I could only guess at what she felt, Zephy thought sadly. I didn’t understand what she sought after, what she yearned so hard for sometimes that she was pale and lonely with it. I could never help her.

The darkness was growing less dense, she could see the walls a little; then the cave was there ahead. She ran headlong into the cave, loving the light, staring up gratefully at that far, small patch of sky overhead.

Then she turned and saw the wagon. Did that mean Anchorstar was here? But there were no horses, no sign of fire . . .

She stood still for a long time, a cold little fear stirring within her. At last she started toward the wagon. She stopped again before the red door and stared up at it, reluctant to climb the steps and push it open; yet knowing that she must. And when she did, there was a heaviness in her and her heart was pounding for no reason.

The wagon was lined with cupboards painted red and decorated with patterns of gold. The wood of the ceiling gleamed, and the bunk . . . how strange, everything so neat, nothing out of place, and yet the bunk’s covers were heaped and tangled as if . . . She stood staring—as if someone were sleeping. “Anchorstar,” she whispered. Yet she knew it was not Anchorstar, for now she could see a thatch of red hair beneath the goatskin robes.

She crept forward, afraid to speak, afraid to touch him. He lay so still as she pulled the robes back. His face was pale as death; but when she touched it, it was hot with fever. His lips were cracked, and there was a long slash across his cheek scabbed over with clotted blood. The red stubble across his cheeks made her think he had lain there for several days. “Thorn! Oh Thorn!” He did not stir. She knelt and picked up the waterskin from the floor. It was quite dry.

She felt panic, did not know what to do. While she tried to think, she searched the wagon for more water. She found none, nor any food, only a lantern. At least there was flint. She lit the wick, then took up the waterskin and hurried back through the tunnel as fast as she could manage without putting out the burning oil in its own sloshing. She could see now that the tunnel was quite safe, broad and flat.

When she drew near to the mouth of the cave she set the lantern down and shielded it with rocks so it made only a faint glimmer. Peering out, going quickly, she filled the waterskin at the dark, evil-looking little stream. It was the same water as lower down of course, it was just the light here in the cleft that made it so dark; yet she disliked taking that water back to Thorn.

When she stood once more beside the bunk, Thorn had turned onto his side so the gash was covered. She felt relieved that he had moved. It was some time before she was able to wake him, and then he was as groggy as if he had been drugged. She held the waterskin to his lips, and he drank thirstily.

“Is there pain?”

“In my leg.” His voice was gray and strange. “Pull the covers back and tend to it.”

She set the lamp in a niche above the bed and drew back the goatskin to reveal the dark bloodied bandage around his left calf. She searched for clean cloth, found a little, then went rummaging into Anchorstar’s cupboards for some salve, for crushed moss of dolba leaf to pound.

But she found only a little dried-up ointment of cherla in the bottom of a crock. She mixed the red paste with water, then began to remove the bandage. The wound smelled bad. When she had the bandage open at last, she went sick with the sight, for the leg was festering. It was a long deep wound running from below his knee down through the calf. There had been a lot of blood, the bandage was thick with it and impossible to remove entirely, and there was dried blood soaked into the straw mattress. She cut the bandage away as best she could, then began to wash the wound with water. Thorn winced with the pain.

“How did it get so festered?”

“I don’t know. The rags maybe—some filth. I took them off a dead Kubalese, it’s his tunic. I took it when we buried him.”