Ширли Мерфи - The Shattered Stone [calibre]

“That, but mostly to hide the work from any chance travelers. Beyond the mound, you can’t see into the pit. Venniver is secretive about the statue, about the religion he plans for Burgdeeth. He doesn’t want questions asked. He just wants to do things his way with no one outside knowing. He—he says that when the stone and timbers are all moved out one day, the pit will be a root garden for winter food. Maybe it will. . . .” she said doubtfully. “That is a Moramian custom and not a Herebian’s way.”

“Where did he come from?”

“Venniver? From the hills along the Urobb, I heard. Down near to Pelli. He—” She turned to stare at Ram. “He has Seer’s blood, Ramad. He cannot use it, except to block. But it makes—it makes a fear and a hatred in him. Something—something twisted in him. He’s afraid; he’s afraid of the dark mountains and what lies in them. He’s afraid of the wolves. There is evil in him, and he thinks the wolves there on the mountain know and would stop him from building this town if he angered them. He thinks they prowl here at night to watch him.”

Ram stared at her. Did the wolves know about Venniver? Did they care? He could not tell. He could reach out to them, but the touch was often faint and unclear. Only his terrible stress in running from EnDwyl and the Pellian Seer had made a force that drew them so strongly. “I must go there,” he said quietly. “The power of the bell, of what is in me is stronger close to them. I want to be there on the mountain with Fawdref. He—he comes when I am afraid. But I want just to be near him.”

“He was there helping—in your mind—when the gantroed almost killed you.”

“Yes. And so was Jerthon.”

The gantroed had risen dark in Ram’s night visions to twist writhing around him, its coarse hair patched and scurvy; had coiled thick as five men, tall as a hill, its curdling cry shaking the air in waves around it. In his vision Ram had fled without volition, heedlessly trampling the living bones of men beneath his feet, careless of their screams as ribs and fingers were torn apart; and the gantroed pursued him so close its fetid breath sickened him. But then at last he could trample those dead-living bodies no longer, could not tolerate their pain, and had turned to face the gantroed; and had felt the Seer’s wrath when he chose to challenge the monster. He had brought every power within him against the looming worm, knowing this was not a dream, that he could die at the Seer’s hands, suffocated in his own bed from HarThass’s dark powers. One tendril snaked along his face cold as death. Jerthon and the wolves had been with him, pushing the gantroed back, forcing the worm until at last it recoiled. But Ram knew that he must become strong enough to defend himself alone.

Yes, Jerthon whispered in his mind. But be patient, Ramad of Zandour. The learning takes patience.

Skeelie looked at him, puzzling. “What is it you must do? That you know in your dreams you must do?” Her eyes held his as she pushed back a thin wisp of hair. “Where must you go, Ram?” She was only a little taller than he; he would catch up to her soon. “It is the mountain. But it is more than the wolves calling you.”

“I—I must go to the mountain. Yes, more than the wolves. I don’t know what. . . .” He felt it in him like a voice, something pulling from the mountain, something there in the Ring of Fire, heavy with urgency.

*

Tayba’s first night serving table in the dining hall left her frustrated and confused. She had worn the amber gown. The light apron hid very little of its clinging ways. She had bound her hair on top her head, had, Dlos said, overdressed herself. But she’d paid no attention to Dlos. “You are there to put food on the table, not to advertise your charms. He’ll know right away what you’re after.”

She wished afterward she had worn the coarsespun. Venniver’s eyes had shown cold amusement, and she’d known that Dlos was right. Her anger made her so clumsy she had spilled a tray of brimming ale mugs over three guards, drenching them, and had felt Venniver laughing at her; had been too ashamed to look in his direction.

She had gotten through the night at last, embarrassed and chagrined, to return thankfully to the storeroom. She wriggled out of the amber wool and tried to sponge the stains from it, then stood staring out the window until the wind became too cold to bear. She crawled into bed cross and uncomfortable and lay hearing the guards again, shouting as the ale spilled over them.

Unable to sleep, she flung on her cloak and began to pace. She glanced at the sleeping children and was glad they were not to awake to see her helpless rage. She stared out at the night and the empty plain, watched clouds scud coldly across the moons. What stupidity had brought her to this forsaken place? She and Ram were only strangers here, no one cared how they felt or what happened to them.

I was a stranger to EnDwyl, too, she thought suddenly. He never cared for me. I was only some virgin he could ruin in a huge joke and laugh about in the drinking halls later. And I am nothing more in this place. Nothing. I mean nothing to anyone.

Well, Ram and I have each other, she thought with defiance.

But even that thought was uncomfortable, for there were things Ram needed more than he had ever needed Tayba. I don’t need anyone! We are born alone and we are always alone and we don’t need anyone else!

She stiffened as Ram cried out, thrashing wildly and tangling his covers; she heard the wolves then, high on the mountain. Skeelie rose to go to him, calmed him, felt his face and gave him water; knelt there uncertainly then slipped back to bed at last. Tayba pulled her cloak closer and went to sit beside his cot. His face was warm; he was worse again, and so suddenly. She sat puzzling. The wolves howled again, chilling her. Ram stirred, then struck out at something in his dreams, his hand grazing her.

The wolves did this to Ram. It had been the wolves that sickened him before. He had been well, and now they had begun to howl again in the night and again he was feverish. She hated them. Why didn’t they leave him alone?

She thought briefly that it might not be the wolves stirring him so, that it might be the Pellian Seer reaching out. But she didn’t believe that. What good would it do for a Seer to reach out and sicken him? If the Pellian wanted Ram, why didn’t he send a band of warriors for him? This made her shudder; if such happened, would Ram see them coming in time to escape?

Surely he would. Surely.

No, this thing that stirred him and made him reach toward the mountain even in sleep was the wolves; the wolves howled, and he stirred and became restless. And if he should go to them, she thought shuddering, he would be helpless without the wolf bell. They could kill him. She touched his face and straightened his covers, pulled away some straw that was tangled in his dark hair. Well, she would not let him go up to the mountain. She would keep him from the wolves somehow.

*

In sleep Ram felt her touch but was swept away into darkness; and something shone out from the dark. Paths of silver crossed in a giant web. In the center, a silver spot grew larger. He fell spinning toward it. The silver grew, was a robed figure; the Seer HarThass, his arms raised, his face hidden in darkness beneath the silver cowl. Ram tried to turn away and could not move. The silver skeins bound his feet, and began to grow into snakes.

The Seer grew taller. He threw back his cape and still his face was darkness. The web of snakes was crushing Ram. The Seer cried, “Save yourself if you will! Save . . .” Seven naked men stood in the blackness, each with a knife raised to the next, terrified and waiting for Ram to direct them. “Save yourself!” The Seer showed him blood and pain, and Ram knew what he must do. The silver snakes were so tight around his chest he could not breathe. He tore at them helplessly.