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

SEVEN

Telien knelt beside the mare, rubbing dolba salve into the poor, swollen legs. The passage up the mountain had been hard on Meheegan, the weight of the unborn foal slowing her. The winged ones’ legs were not made for hard treks over stone and uneven ways, for climbing rocky cliffs. The mare watched her, head down, her breath warm on Telien’s neck, the relief she felt at Telien’s attention very clear.

Telien had followed blindly after the mare and stallion, could only guess where they might go, had come to the valley near dawn and found it empty, had stared uncertainly out over the emerging black ridges against the dawn-streaked sky, wondering if she had been a fool to think she could find them in these vast, wild mountains. She had scanned the bare peaks not knowing which way to take or what to do, wondering if she should turn back, when suddenly she had seen them high on a ridge, making their way slowly up along the side of a mountain. She had galloped after them eagerly, had come upon them at last to find the mare so spent she could not go farther, unable to get down into the sharp ravine where the stallion had found water for her. Telien had carried water in her waterskin, tipping it out into her cupped hand so the mare could drink; then she had doctored Meheegan’s wings where the tender skin had rubbed against stone until it bled. Now she rubbed in the cooling salve, smoothed it into the mare’s swollen legs, then watched as the mare went off slowly to find a patch of grass between boulders.

The stallion came to nudge Meheegan softly, caress her; then at last he, too, began to graze. Telien’s own mount ate hungrily where she had hobbled him. He stared at the mare and stallion sometimes with a look of terrible curiosity, but he did not like to be near them.

Telien made camp simply by spreading her blanket beneath an outcrop of stone. She drank some water, chewed absently on a bit of mountain meat as the afternoon light dimmed into evening. The immensity of the mountains was a wonder to her. She had lived all her life at their feet and never once climbed up into them. AgWurt would not have allowed such a thing. To slip away to the hill meadows was one thing, but to go as far as the mountains, that long journey, and not be found out had been impossible. But these dark peaks stirred her, she wanted to share this with Ram; she imagined his voice, close, so she shivered. You do not remember the thunder and the shaking earth? Then, If you do not remember, then that which I remember has not yet happened to you. Not yet happened? She lay in her blanket puzzling, but it made no sense to her. She wanted to remember, she wanted—her caring made her tremble with its intensity. They had been meant always for each other, the separation of their early lives had been a mistake of fate only now made right.

She was so tired. Dreaming of Ram, she turned her face to the mountain and slept, slept straight through the night and deep into the morning, woke with the sun full in her face and the thunder of the mountains harsh all around her. She stared across at the stallion, his wings lifted involuntarily as instinct made him yearn skyward, his nostrils distended, his ears sharp forward, his eyes white-edged. He blew softly toward the mare. Her head was up, staring wildly. Telien shivered, her mind filled suddenly with tales of burning lava flowing over the lands. And where was Ram, was he safe from the flow of fire? Ram—alone somewhere deep within the mountains. Ramad . . .

She did not see the winged ones passing high above her, did not see the glancing swirl of light made by the Luff’Eresi in motion, nor see the one winged stallion, silver gray, carrying a rider above her across Ere’s winds.

Suddenly she remembered, for no reason, her father’s face in death and was chilled, very alone. He had been a cold, unbending master who beat her, who tortured helpless creatures before her for the pleasure of seeing her distress. The powerful, mindless threat of the mountains was not like AgWurt’s purposeful threats; though the mountains could destroy her just as easily as ever AgWurt might have.

*

The winds swept and leaped around Ram, the gray stallion’s wings sang on the wind; on all sides the flying Luff’Eresi shone as if the stallion beat through a river of shattering light. Below, the jagged peaks lay brutal as death. Along a dark ridge Ram could see smoke rising in windborne gusts. He thought of Telien with sharp, sudden clarity, with a harsh longing, as above the wind came the rumble of shifting earth, speaking of fires deep within. Ram’s fear for her was terrible. But the Luff’Eresi laughed, a roaring, thundering mirth of great good will, and one swept so close to Ram his light-washed wings seemed to twine with the stallion’s feathered wings. He said his name to Ram, and it was not a word to be spoken but a handful of musical notes cutting across the wind. She will be hurt and afraid, Ramad. But there is likelihood she will live.

“Can’t you stop the fires!” Ram shouted. “Can’t you make a safe way for her! She . . .”

The Luff’Eresi roared in his mind, Cannot! We cannot do such a thing! And it is not the right of any of us to ask Telien to abandon what she is about. You must abide, Ramad! And no creature of Ere can stop a tantrum of nature! People—simple people, Ramad—believe we make the fires. We do not do that, no more than are we gods! To think we are gods makes them feel safe, for that is easier to understand than to try to understand our differences. And they think we make the fires because that is the easiest thing to believe. But humans grow, Ramad. They believe, then they question that belief. They find a new truth, then question again. They come at last, by a long painful route, to real truth. And that truth, Ramad, is more shot with wonder than ever was the myth.

Ram looked around at the light-washed bodies moving on the wind, so alien to him yet so right. “How does . . .” he began, and felt very young and unsure. “How do we know the truth when at last we find it, then? How do we, when some think each belief is truth?”

The Luff’Eresi’s laugh was a windswept roar. You prove it, Ramad. At each belief humans find ways to think they prove that belief. At last one day they will understand how to find real proof, to look at the small, minute parts of a thing and understand its nature from that. Even then, Ramad, even when he is able to prove, humans will only see the beginning of proof and think that is everything.

Ram puzzled over this and stored it away to ponder at a later time, felt awed by the thoughts it began to awaken within him. He could see Kubal now, off to his left, lit by the dropping sun. He turned, stared back toward the eastern mountains and saw smoke rising there and a stream of red lava winding down toward the Voda Cul, for there in the east, too, a mountain had erupted. Twisting around, holding a handful of mane to steady himself, he stared out beneath Dalwyn’s lifting wings to see five peaks spaced around the rim of the Ring of Fire, spewing smoke: all along the ring, then, some great underground force was belching up. He turned back, looked toward Carriol. The ruins did not seem threatened, nor the loess plains in the north. Blackcob, farther west, was the only part of Carriol that lay directly below the fires, and even there the lava was well to the north of her. Carriol’s coast lay untouched, softened in mists that rose from the sea. He longed for the peace of his cave room, with the rippling sea light washing across its ceiling, the roar of the sea like a second heartbeat. He imagined Telien there, then turned away from that thought.

They were past the mountains now and above the foothills near Burgdeeth. Ram leaned across the stallion’s neck to stare down at the grassy, empty hills, and at the great desert plain south beyond Burgdeeth that brought sharp memories. He had fled from the Seer HarThass’s apprentice across that plain, he and Tayba, he a child of eight, and Tayba caught willingly in HarThass’s web so she had nearly got him killed.

The stallion landed between rocky knolls, but the Luff’Eresi remained skyborne like a bright, swirling cloud above him. We leave you here, Ramad of wolves, but we will return. Now go you into Burgdeeth. Become Venniver’s captive there—if you believe in us, if you trust us to return, if you believe in what you want of us. Go, and allow yourself to be taken.

Ham slid down from the stallion’s back. The Luff’Eresi disappeared in a surge of iridescent light, were gone utterly; the sky was clear once more, unfractured by light, as if all matter had returned to its customary and familiar place in the world, mundane and lonely. A whole dimension had been suddenly removed, a dimension ultimately desirable. Ram stood with the stallion in the strange, lonely calm, rubbing the sleek, silvery neck. Then at last the gray horse leaped away too, to slip across winds. Ram watched him disappear, flying easterly away from Burgdeeth so he would not be seen from that place. He stared up at the mountains, stricken with a great emptiness, suddenly very much alone.

Smoke rose above the mountains like a gray smear, and there was, again, the muttering of the earth, then silence. He trembled for Telien; thought resolutely of what must be done, created a prayer for Telien that must be heard by something; somewhere there was that that could heed him, though it was not the Luff’Eresi. Then he looked down across the hills toward Burgdeeth and thought of the slave prison there and thought of facing Venniver, and his mind churned with apprehension. His memory of the slave cell, memory of Venniver’s sadistic cruelty, of Venniver’s whip across men’s backs, was not pleasant.

At last he shrugged as if to shake off demons, squared his shoulders, and began to make his way over the hills toward Burgdeeth.

The hill grass was dry and crunched under his boots. Hares leaped away. There were no trees. Occasional misshapen boulders, black and twisting, rose against the setting sun. Tangles of sablevine lay here and there, turning red to mark the dying summer. There was no sunset, the sky was strangely green as he stood on the last hill looking down on Burgdeeth. He buried the wolf bell there, deep among rocks, and covered it with earth. To become Venniver’s captive carrying the wolf bell would be to incite rage unimaginable from Burgdeeth’s dark leader.

Directly below him were some uncultivated fields, beyond them tall stands of whitebarley nearly ready for harvest, and beyond these the housegardens, running on to the back of the town. The town itself was three times as big as when Ram had left it, looked more permanent, with cobbled streets and all the stone buildings completed, where before many had risen roofless and empty above mud streets. The new temple was shockingly beautiful, all of white stone. Behind it, the Landmaster’s Set looked almost finished, with turrets and sloping roofs that hinted of rare luxury within. There was open ground before it, perhaps a parade ground, with some smaller buildings, then a high, wall around three sides and partially finished on the fourth where it would join the temple. All this stood upon what had been bare, rough land when Ram last saw Burgdeeth. The great pit had been filled in and gardens planted across it. And there, between temple and town, the town square was completed and the statue in its center even more awesome than Ram remembered: so tall, the falling sun striking behind it edging the god’s wings with light. The memory of the long years Jerthon had spent molding each piece tightened Ram’s throat. He thought of the secret tunnel beneath the statue, and wondered if he would need it in some wild escape from Venniver’s execution fire—but the Luff’Eresi would come; he had only to get himself captured.

He saw that the slave cell was gone, though the guard tower still stood. There was a garden beside it now as if someone lived there. With no slave cell, what did Venniver do with his captives? Or were captives not kept alive long enough to house in any cell? Did Venniver not keep slaves any more?

Ram saw that women and girls were working the gardens. Perhaps with enough women to do the heavy garden work, and with the building of the town nearly complete, Venniver had no need of slaves. And perhaps, after Jerthon’s rising against him and almost taking the town, he felt that the keeping of slaves was too risky.

Ram made his way across the fallow fields and through the stands of whitebarley, onto a path between the gardens. At once a woman, kneeling and half-hidden in the mawzee, looked up, saw his red hair and rose up frightened to run silently toward the Hall. Another woman slipped away and disappeared around the end of the Hall. “A Seer! A Seer comes!”

He looked across the gardens to the doorway of the storeroom where he and Tayba had lived those dark, unsettling months, and a sharp picture came to him of the cluttered room, of his cot wedged between thresher and barrels, of the low rafters hung with cobwebs and the smell of grain; then he saw the room washed with dark and confusion, disappearing into evil blackness as the Seer HarThass took his mind away, tortured his mind, tortured his very soul until he lay feverish and near to dying, not knowing where he was or what he was.

Guards were coming on the double around both ends of the Hall. Ram stood facing them, wanting to run, held himself still with great effort.

They were robed in red. He supposed they called themselves deacons now, according to Venniver’s grand plan. They surrounded him. One prodded him, one lunged to take his sword and Ram hit him, fought them then because not to fight would seem suspicious, because he could not help himself, kicked one captor in the groin sending him reeling, fought the dozen guards with mounting fury until they had pinned him at last.

They bound his arms and began to prod him toward the hall. He went slowly and sullenly, resisting them at every step, would not speak, would not answer their questions. They forced him past the hall toward Burgdeeth’s main street, and there they made a great show of his capture, roaring commands so all along the street heads popped out of windows, folk ran out to watch. A man hauling barrels pulled up his donkey to stare; two women with milk cans set down their burdens to watch Ram forced along the cobbled street toward the square. He could smell hot wax, smell cess and the sour stench of ale brewing. Men and women crowded the street now, their hands stained from their work, their faces flushed with sudden excitement and with the self-righteousness that lay thinly concealing their blood-lust. He could see the hunger in their faces for the death of the Seer come so boldly into Burgdeeth, could see their growing anticipation of the exalted, killing fire so soon to burn in the temple. A handful of children stared after him, their faces white with fear, then turned and ran. Ram was forced toward the square. Behind him the mountains rumbled faintly like a great animal yawning. Men turned, stared at the mountain, then stared back at Ram.

And then beyond the heads of the crowd he saw Venniver riding out from the Set and went weak with sudden fear; the sight of Venniver, the memories he stirred, sickened Ram. Broad of shoulder, black-bearded, his blue eyes cold as ice, he rode slowly toward the square where Ram stood, and Ram was a child again, defiant and afraid. Would Venniver recognize him? But perhaps not, for Ram’s hair had been dyed black then. The mountain rumbled again. Venniver glanced toward it, then returned his gaze to Ram. Behind him, smoke hung in the sky above the mountains. He jerked his horse up with a hard hand so the animal began to fidget and would not settle. Venniver sat staring down at Ram like a hunting animal regarding cornered prey.

Whether he recognized Ram or not, it was clear that Venniver intended that this Seer should die—here in Burgdeeth, very soon, and with impressive ceremony.

*

On the mountain, Telien listened with growing apprehension to the rumbling earth, felt its quaking with an increasing sense of confusion, felt as if the mountains themselves might come tumbling down on her. The air was hot and close, smelled of sulphur. She could not put from her mind the Herebian tales of people running before flowing lakes of fire, burned to death as they fled.

Below in the meadow, the mare moved restlessly, looking often toward the mountains. The red stallion had disappeared. Telien could not believe he had deserted them. The mare gazed at the sky and spread her poor naked wings in a gesture that tore at Telien.

Then suddenly a shadow dropped over Telien. The stallion was descending, plummeting down to nudge the mare wildly, as if he would carry her aloft. He was irritable, seemed strung tight with agitation, nosed at Meheegan with terrible, loving urgency, wanted her to move out—but where could she go? Telien snatched up her bit of food, her blanket, and when she turned she saw the sky behind her grown dark with smoke. By the time she reached the valley floor she was drenched with sweat. Her horse was gone, had broken his reins. She hoped he would find safety.

The stallion greeted her with his head against her shoulder, then nudged her too, began to force both her and the mare toward the opposite rim of the valley. Surely the mare was aware of what he wanted, but seemed too frightened to obey, terrified of her helpless crippled entrapment upon the earth.

The three of them climbed until darkness overtook them, the darkness of night or the darkness of smoke filling the sky, it was hard to say which. They went along a ridge as the moons rose, dull smears obscured by smoke and giving little light. The stallion forced Meheegan on up the stony crest as the earth trembled again and again. He seemed to be heading directly into the face of the fires. Now and then he would rise into the smoke-filled sky, and each time return to change direction, to hurry them faster up the rising ridge; to reassure the stumbling mare, so heavy and clumsy with her unborn foal. Once Meheegan laid her head against Telien’s shoulder, so tired, so driven and afraid.

As the ridge rose more steeply to join the mountain, the mare climbed by balancing with her poor naked wings. Telien pulled herself up by clutching at boulders, could not believe the mare could climb as she was doing up the rocky incline. The stallion’s wings, as he balanced, spread over them as if to shelter them from the violent sky. The earth rocked harder, its voice swept them with fear. Then the earth shook like an animal, and Telien stumbled, lost her hold; the mountain tilted, and she was thrown against a boulder, clutched at it, was torn from it—she was falling.

She fell twisting down the cliff, grabbing at dirt, and could not stop herself, heard the mare scream as the whole world rocked and spun.”

When at last the ground was still, Telien could not rise. She lay in the near dark, dizzy and confused. She could see the rocky slope down which she had fallen. She heard the mare groan close by. Finally she raised herself, began to crawl until she found Meheegan’s warm bulk sprawled above her up the slope, went sick at the thought of broken legs; how could the mare fall so far and not break every bone? The stallion nickered, a darker shape against the smoke-filled sky, nosing at Meheegan, caressing and reassuring her, trying to make her rise.

At last Meheegan threw up her head and began to struggle to get up. Telien forgot her own pain and confusion as she watched Meheegan’s painful effort. She could not believe it when the mare stood on all four legs.

Once the stallion had Meheegan up, he began to nose at Telien—though he drew back and snorted when his muzzle touched her forehead. She touched her head and felt blood.

She rose at last, very dizzy, leaned against the stallion and heard him nicker to the mare. He wanted to climb again, to be away. How could they climb again that rocky cliff? It was not possible. She was too dizzy to climb anywhere, too sick to climb.

But they did climb. With terrible effort, Telien and the mare climbed the dark, rocky incline with the stallion pushing constantly at them, nearly dragging Telien sometimes as she clung to him, forcing the mare, giving all his weight to brace her as she struggled upward, his wings supporting and buoying them, keeping them from reeling backward into the ravine. At last, at long last, they stood high atop a plateau on the mountain. Below them, red streaks broke the night where rivers of fire were flowing out.

Telien did not see the wolves above them in the darkness—wolves urging the stallion on—did not see the great dark wolf grin and his mate Rhymannie bow low as the three finally topped the slope. She did not see wolves swing away on noiseless feet to lead the red stallion ever upward between the fires of the mountains.

*

Ram stared at Venniver’s cold blue eyes and without warning the power returned to him, flooding him so he was suddenly and utterly aware of Venniver’s mind. How could this happen so abruptly? Were the powers of the dark drawn away in some effort that took all the force they had? Or were the Luff’Eresi doing this for him, using their own great powers to give him this clear vision of Venniver? To open Venniver’s mind to examination was not an easy task. Ram had never—when he had lived in Burgdeeth, when his powers had been full on him—been able to touch Venniver’s mind like this; for Venniver had the rare skill of mind-blocking without ever knowing he did so: latent Seer’s blood, of no use except for this. Now Ram touched Venniver’s greed for power, felt with all his being Venniver’s hunger to enslave, saw the intricate gilded web of religion Venniver had laid like a trap over the minds he ruled; saw Venniver’s fears as well, his awesome terror of Seers and his lusting hunger for their death. Venniver meant to call the service at once, to use the growing fury of the mountains to dramatize this sacrifice before his humble sheep. Ram grinned wryly. The dark leader’s sense of drama was very fine. Ram contained his rising terror with effort, tried in desperation to speak in silence with the Luff’Eresi, prayed to them without calling it prayer. Prayed to whatever might be out there to hear him.

He was led directly beneath the winged statue and made to kneel. Ironic, this statue he had seen a-building, this statue that hid its own secret. The sky was dark with smoke, and with coming night. The wind smelled of burning and of sulphur. You’re not going to die, Ramad my boy! Stop your quaking! He stared up at the statue and thought of Jerthon building it slowly piece by piece, of the slaves digging the tunnel beneath it slowly, every shovelful a triumph over Venniver. He was kneeling only inches from the tunnel’s hidden door. Could he slip down there under cover of darkness?

Of course he could, with six deacons and the entire populace of Burgdeeth crowding around him! And even if he did escape, what of his careful plan to save the Children of Burgdeeth? He clung to his faith in the Luff’Eresi as Venniver shouted for firewood and coal to be brought at once to the temple.

*

Skeelie slept sprawled out across her bed every which way, woke suddenly, sat up, saw that the moons outside the stone portal had risen but hung muted as if they were covered by gray gauze. She heard the distant rumbling then and felt sudden, sharp fear. And she Saw, in a clear vision, torches flaring and Ram forced through Burgdeeth’s square, and she knew he was meant to die. Her voice caught, was half scream, “Ram! Ramad!” Why was he in Burgdeeth, why had he gone to Burgdeeth? She rose to stare blindly out at the sea trying to bring a force that would help him, trying to turn away his captors, to force her power upon them. . . .

Uselessly. Uselessly.

Had the gods refused him, had he gone to Burgdeeth then, alone, with some wild plan? The vision ceased abruptly as Ram was forced up the steps of the temple. She stared blindly at the sea, then stirred, struck flint, and ran barefoot down the corridor to Tayba’s room.

The door was open. Tayba was pacing, her dark hair loose, her slim hands holding the runestone. The moonlight caught at it as she turned; Jerthon stood in shadow with Drudd and Pol. All of them had seen the vision. Tayba looked up at Skeelie, said softly, “Ram has spoken with the gods.” She shuddered, continued.

“The gods would have him do this, Skeelie. He is . . . Ram is a decoy. He . . . They will rescue him, they will not let him die. Or so—so Ram believes.” She turned suddenly to Jerthon. “Why did the vision come just now, so clear? What made the dark pull away? Is Ram—is Ram in such danger that in spite of the dark, the very force of his fear makes us able to See? Is he . . . ?”

Jerthon shook his head, his green eyes dark in the dulled moonlight; far off the mountains rumbled. “The earth speaks, Tayba, listen to it. The fires of the mountains speak.” How strange his voice was. “Maybe that is what gives us this sudden power. If . . .” He looked deeply at Tayba, his excitement leaping between them. “If the fires of the mountain can part the dark—can we use that force to help Ram?”

“We—we must try. We . . .

He seemed very remote for a moment. “I think that the power in the mountains is a force not of good or of evil. A force unknowing and uncaring of both. Somehow—perhaps by our constant vigilance, by our very concern for Ram, perhaps by Ram’s fear itself, we have drawn that power to the side of good. Now—yes, now we must use it for Ram.”

They stood in silence reaching with their minds and with the power of the stone, the five of them willing Ram’s safety. Skeelie clung with her very soul to that power of the mountain, bent her will stubbornly and humbly to draw upon that power, forced her own meager strength to battle for Ram’s life harder than ever she had as a child, when she had fought so desperately to keep the dark back.