Ширли Мерфи - The Shattered Stone [calibre]

Seven wolves lay dead. The others were going away as if—as if they had been called, were slinking away up the dark plain. Venniver was holding her, pressing something to her throat trying to stop the blood. She shivered as he lifted her.

*

The powers that stayed the wolves pulled back and separated, hung poised for moments as one assessed the other; then all three turned away. Skeelie watched Ram, but could make little of what had happened. “Why did the Seer of Pelli help you? Why would he . . . ? And help Jerthon? Why would he care if Tayba died or Venniver either?”

“Sometimes I wish you were a boy and didn’t talk so much.”

“I only . . .” She looked back, saw the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand, that’s all.”

“HarThass—HarThass thinks to use Mamen—against Jerthon,” he said sickly. “And he needs Venniver. If Venniver dies, Jerthon will take Burgdeeth at once.”

“But why would Jerthon help her then, if Venniver would use her against him?”

“I think Jerthon—that Jerthon is a fool sometimes. Go to sleep, Skeelie! It’s the middle of the night!” He threw some goat dung on the fire and snuggled closer to Fawdref. The dark wolf sighed in his sleep. “Old dog! You never even woke. I never even needed you!”

Fawdref opened one eye and pushed his nose into Ram’s shoulder.

And in Pelli, HarThass paced, puzzling over how easily his powers had blended with those of Jerthon and Ram. Puzzling how to turn this to his advantage.

He saw Tayba’s fear and pain then and stopped pacing to touch her mind, very vulnerable now, to weave a spell that soothed her, took away her dark thoughts—that warmed her toward him, destroyed suspicion. . . .

In the slave cell Jerthon paced too, disturbing everyone. Well, his thoughts alone would have disturbed them. He was not thinking of HarThass or of Ram. He saw the Pellian soothe Tayba, then saw Venniver bandage her and cover her. He felt his pulse quicken in anger and was disgusted with himself.

He rose at last, wound tight as a spring, and jerked the hides away from the tunnel opening, lit a lantern and went down to where they had been setting new supports. He stood beneath the last timber and reached to touch the place where they would soon cut through into the statue’s base. Then he turned back to the niche he had carved into the tunnel wall, stood remembering the vision he and Tayba had seen here, the gods, the brown-haired girl bending to retrieve something. . . .

Had he carved the niche because of the vision? But he had not; he had always intended to put it there to hold the small relics Derin had collected: a basket of pot-shards, pieces of jewelry, a locket, three gold belt links, all found as they dug stone near the grove. It was as if the grove itself had been linked to the sacred city and to that time when Seers lived freely here. The relics themselves brought vibrations, brought visions of splendor and peace that stirred them; they would be left in this place for others, for slaves who might come after them and need such gentle reminders of a better time. He felt Drudd behind him, was annoyed that Drudd had followed him down.

He turned, looked at Drudd a moment in anger, then went to sit beside him on a pile of stone. Drudd said, “You watched Venniver make up with her. You torture yourself watching them.”

“She—there is a goodness in her, a strength in her. HarThass would destroy that. I want—I want the power in her to come right.”

“You lust after her. Be honest.”

“That too, I suppose.”

“HarThass would use her to kill you. Can’t you see it, man! Have you taken leave of all your senses?”

“He will use her only if she lets him.” He looked at Drudd unhappily. “Don’t you think I know what she is? But beneath that—there is something more. I don’t mean to let HarThass destroy it.”

Drudd turned away muttering.

So he sat there deliberately watching Venniver and Tayba, forcing his mind to hold them, letting all of it twist inside him, saw and heard them so clearly he could have been standing in Venniver’s ornate rooms, before the fire Venniver had just knelt to light.

Venniver had pulled a chair up beside the bed. Jerthon had a terrible desire to sit in it to make himself be there, make her know he was there. Instead he watched Venniver return to it and put his arms around Tayba. She woke from a light doze and lay looking at him quietly. “You really didn’t know,” Venniver said, “what the bell was. What it could do.”

“How could I have known?”

“Once,” he said, “I went up the mountains and into the ancient caves. The wolves came out from everywhere, were there suddenly all around me. I turned and walked away from them, and they followed me down the mountain. They never touched me, they just walked behind me—looking.”

Jerthon could feel her effort to understand him.

“They looked at me the way a man would. I—I wanted those wolves. I wanted them! Can you understand that? Once—once wolves like that were slaves to men. I wanted that, Tayba. And—and tonight I wanted you to give me that.”

Jerthon sickened, feeling her response. She understood Venniver exactly. She was not repelled by his lust, quite the opposite. She drew him to her and kissed him. Jerthon turned his mind away in disgust. Maybe Drudd was right. And yet—and yet he could not let that other part of her go.

TEN

The way grew too narrow and steep for the donkey. Skeelie had her arms around his shaggy neck, trying to hide tears. “We can’t just leave him, Ram. He’ll starve. Or something will kill him here.”

“You should have thought of that.”

“I did, but I thought—well, that there would be a valley somewhere with grass and water, and he’d stay. But there’s nothing here, only stone. And now—now we’ve seen the other wolves, the common wolves that would kill him—oh, he’s been a good donkey, Ram. Couldn’t you—couldn’t you lay a spell on his mind? Make him go home again, and quickly?

“I can try,” Ram said uncertainly. He rubbed the donkey’s nose and fondled it in the way it liked. Then, slowly and warmly, he let his mind flow into Pulyo’s as if they were one. As if they shared all memory, all feeling. He thought of the trail back, and of Burgdeeth, warm and safe. He thought of Pulyo going back hastily, cautiously, along that wild trail.

At last Pulyo raised his head, put forward his ears, stared back down the trail, and began to bray.

Ram loosed him and patted his rump. The little animal set off at a trot, soon had broken into a gallop. As he rounded the first bend of the narrow path, his braying echoed back and forth between the peaks. Skeelie said, “I hope he gets that out of his system. He’ll have every wolf in twenty miles following.”

Ram thought of silence, stealthy silence. The idea might be foreign to a donkey, but the braying stopped at last. “Go in safety,” Ram whispered.

They moved up along precipices now. And then at the edge of a sheer drop, the ground cracked suddenly beneath Ram’s feet; Skeelie grabbed him, Fawdref lurched, pressing him back. They stood pushing against the wall of stone behind them, Skeelie very white, Fawdref unwilling to move away from Ram. The wolf’s warmth, so close, was comforting. Ram looked at the broken precipice, and down to the mile-deep valley into which he would have fallen. Into which the rock had fallen clattering, then, without sound. They had not heard it hit. He picked up a stone, meaning to drop it down, but the thought sickened him. Skeelie said, “I thought the ground moved—before the cliff broke.” She was chilled into silence. They stared at the edge where stones had sheered away as cleanly as if they had been hit by an ax. And Fawdref looked at Ram with pain. Ram knew he felt the agony of not having foreseen that falling stone.