Runestone of Eresu

TWO

The herder turned his back on her, plainly expecting her to follow as he made his way back toward the fire. He must be simple, turning his back on a sword. Or could this man be a Seer, know she meant no harm? She sought into his mind warily. But no, only a simple man. Trusting her. He led her to the fire, stooped to turn the roasting meat. Her sword swung against a boulder, ringing sharply, and a buck, startled, snorted. The animal stood just beyond the fire, a big Cherban buck with horns as long as her sword and nearly as sharp. Maybe this herder had more protection than she had guessed. The man had turned, was surveying her with surprise, now that he could see her clearly in the firelight. “Why it ain’t a lad at all!” He took in her knotted dark hair, the curve of her breast beneath her tunic, her thin-boned face. “A lady—in fighting leathers!” He studied her with interest. “Old, scarred leathers, and stained with blood, looks like.” He reached to touch her sword, took it from her in a gesture innocent and bold.

She, always so quick and careful, let him take it with quiet amusement. He held it close to the flame where he could make out the intricate carving of birds and leaves with which the handle was fashioned, the clean, sharp blade. Then he raised his eyes to her. “A fine sword, lady. Fine. It was made with great skill. And with love.”

His words brought unexpected pain. She looked away from him, felt gone of strength, wanting to weep for no reason. Made with love. Brotherly love, maybe. No more. She straightened her shoulders and stared at him defiantly, reached out for her sword. “How would you know if it was made with love? That is skill you see. Only skill in the casting of the silver.”

“All skill, lady, is a matter of love. Have you not learned that? I hope you know more about the use of the sword than you do about a man’s mind.”

“I know about its use. And I know more about men’s minds than—” She stopped, had almost given herself away in anger. Stupid girl. Shout it out. Tell him you know all about men’s minds, can see into men’s minds, tell him you’re a Seer! And who knows what they do to Seers in this time. Kill them? Behead them? Better collect yourself, Skeelie, find out where you are—and when—and stop acting like an injured river cat.

“Ain’t never seen a lady got up so in fighting leathers.”

She wanted to say, Where I come from it’s common enough. She wanted to say, What year is this that women don’t fight beside their men? But even in her own time, the women of the coastal countries had not fought so. Only the women of Carriol. She cast about for some question she might use to find her way here and realized how little she had prepared herself. So engrossed with getting into Time, she had given little thought to coping once there, or to an explanation for stepping out of nowhere. What plausible excuse did she have for traveling in these mountains when she did not know the customs, or where she was? Eresu knew, she was glad it was night. In the daytime she would have had some hard explaining to do, had he seen her appear suddenly from thin air.

“Not much of a talker, are you lady? Hungry? The haunch should be ready soon.” The little man had a lopsided grin, and as he moved to turn the meat again, she could see he was lopsided in the way he walked, with a deep limp. He fussed about the meat, then at last settled down against a boulder. “Sit yourself down, lady. There’s a log there. I am called Gravan.”

She sheathed her sword and sat down astraddle the log so she could look away from the campfire, behind her. She did not give her name. That smudge of dark against the stars was tall mountains. Surely she was in the Ring of Fire.

Or on the edge of it. “The deer meat smells good,” she said quietly. “The deer are plentiful?”

He gave her a puzzled look. “Scarce as teeth in a frog. Came on this one crippled.” He paused, rummaged in his pack for a wineskin, took a swig and passed it across to her. “Things in those mountains that kill deer, lady. Wolves. Fire ogres. Chancy traveling for a lady,” he said without malice. “Chancy—if you be traveling alone. . . .”

She took a sip and handed the skin back. “I travel alone, herder.” Her heart had leaped at the mention of wolves. Could there be great wolves here? Or did he mean only the common wolves? She tried to hide her eagerness. “The wolves are killers,” she said casually. “Killers . . .”

He nodded, grunting, took another sip.

“Are they very bold? Do they raid your herds?”

“Sometimes, lady. We kill some, and they do not return for a while.”

She let out her breath, disappointed. Common wolves, then. Only common wolves raided the herds of men. The great wolves did not.

“How do you come here, lady, traveling alone?”

“It—was silent and peaceful in the deep mountains. I—I have a sorrow, I wanted to travel in solitude.” She gave him a long, deep look, eyes soulful. Her brother Jerthon would have said it made her look as if she would cry any minute. The little man nodded with quick embarrassment, obviously hoping she wouldn’t burst into tears. She studied him beneath lowered lashes, trying to remember where men had ever herded goats on the mountains. The Cherban had grazed their goats on the hills of Urobb farther south, and down in the rich marsh pastures of Sangur, where few men dwelled, but not here, not on the mountains of fire. When had they come here? Surely she was in a future time—or else in a time so ancient it had been all but forgotten when she was growing up. She stared past him trying to make out more of his herd, trying to see if there were other herders.

“The village is down along that lower ridge,” Gravan offered, pointing. The moons had begun to lift in the east, fingering their gentle light across low hills. Could those be the hills of Carriol? Her pulse quickened. Or the hills along the Urobb? Running as they did, away from the mountains, they had to be one or the other. She gazed off toward the east where Carriol must lie, with a painful sweep of homesickness, thought of the twin moons rising over Carriol.

“Do you come to Dunoon with a purpose, lady?”

Dunoon? There had been no place called Dunoon in her time. And that faint rushing noise must surely be a river. A mountain river could be any one of four, but in this location, with such rounded, low hills on its east, it was either the Owdneet or the Urobb. She watched Gravan in silence. If she could know what river, she would know where she was, even if she did not know when. “I—I must confess I was lost. I saw your fire—I guess I wanted company.” She unslung her waterskin and tipped it up to drink, then shook it, frowning. “Stale. Tastes of rock.”

“Fill it in the river, lady. You don’t seem to mind a little walk in the darkness. There,” he said, pointing. “Just where that darkest ridge rises, the Owdneet flows deep and white. Sweet, good water, lady.”

The Owdneet. She felt a thrill of excitement. To hear its name engulfed her at once in the fabric of her childhood, made her long for something she could not put to words. She rose slowly, casually, trying to hide her eagerness, slipped her waterskin over her shoulder and walked away toward the sound of the river; wanting to run, wanting to shout some crazy, wild welcome to the churning, ranting Owdneet.

As she drew close to the river, its roar nearly deafened her. Excited her. Her memory of the Owdneet was a memory of smells: wild tammi and sweetburrow and the smell of coolness on hot summer days. Now, though she had not yet reached the river, the smell of tammi came to her so strong it might have been crushed under her own feet passing along the bank of the river. To her left and below her, she could see the faint lights of Dunoon. It was only a tiny village, a few thatched roofs catching the moonlight. And steep down the mountain, a faint smear of light that must mark the city of Burgdeeth. This place called Dunoon lay just above Burgdeeth, then. Burgdeeth, where she had grown up. Where first she had met Ram, where they had been children together. There had been no village here on the mountain then, only the wild stag and hare, and the great wolves roaming silently. How many times had she and Ram slipped up across these meadows in secrecy to the caves of Owdneet, where the great wolves denned.

Were tyrants still in control of Burgdeeth? Was Venniver still Landmaster? Or was he long dead and turned to dust, and another Landmaster risen to rule? And what relationship was there between this herding village and Burgdeeth? She stood staring down the mountain at Burgdeeth, caught in emotions she thought had died long ago. And was there a reason why she had been drawn to this place where she and Ram had been children? Some meaningful linking to Ram here? She could see white water now, catching the moonlight, soon stood beside the river watching it plunge down the mountain. Twelve years since she had stood here. How many years, in Time, was it? How many generations?

She emptied her waterskin on the ground, then knelt and let it fill with the Owdneet’s foaming brew. She drank long from her cupped hands, then rose and stood lost in the roar and beauty of the river, moonlight like white fire over its rapids. Only slowly did she become aware of another’s presence, of the feeling that she was watched.

Had old Gravan followed her?

No, this was not Gravan, this presence was powerful and disturbing. She turned, drawing her sword without sound, looked back into the darkness. But something made her swing around again to stare toward the river.

She could make out nothing on the far shore but a wood, was confused, felt the presence behind her cold and waiting. She turned to face it again and sudden visions overwhelmed her, a dizzying confusion of visions plunging and assailing her sense so she could not be sure what moved before her and what moved in the places of her mind. Surely what watched her was giving her the visions, for she could feel the strong sense of another being as a part of them. And then one vision came more sharply and she saw the village of Dunoon at dawn, the straw-roofed huts catching early light, herds of goats between the houses, children playing. She saw a tall, white-haired man come from one of the huts and recognized him. Anchorstar. Anchorstar, traveler in Time. Anchorstar, the last man in her time to have seen Ram. He stood beside a brightly painted wagon with two fine horses in the shafts. Then he vanished; it was night and the village was on fire, the roofs ablaze, and dark Herebian horsemen circling the burning huts, laughing.

The vision went. The night lay clear and empty, except for the presence that surely had drawn closer. The sense of something behind her across the river was gone now; only this strong, powerful being that had given her visions remained, and that being stood solidly between her and Gravan’s fire.

Whatever it was, she could only face it, for if she circled, it would follow her, and if she ran it would be on her. She felt clearly it was agile and swift. The glow of Gravan’s fire seemed very far away. Anyhow, what could old Gravan do to protect her that she could not do herself? She began to move away from the river, seeking in the dark, searching out for something she could attack before it attacked her.

She felt the silent laughter then, stood staring around her, frowning. Then she started toward that presence with sharp, unspoken challenge.

It laughed silently at her wariness, its voice exploding in her mind. You need not be wary of me, sister. A pale, huge wolf showed itself suddenly against dark boulders. But it moved into darkness again without seeming to move, was cloaked in shadows. Was it a wolf? Certainly no common wolf. Her pulse pounded. No common wolf could speak to her in silence. Were the great wolves here? Fawdref’s band? Was Ram here, traveling with the wolves who were his brothers? Tense with excitement, she reached out in silent speech, hoping, praying, this wolf band had to do with Ram. Do you come from Ramad?

I come alone, without Ram’s bidding, sister. Though he would have me here if he knew. We are far from Ramad. Far in years, sister. Far in generations. I followed you in the caves, you sensed me there. Then 1 followed you in Time. I was alone in the caves when I knew you wandered there. I was alone there with a sadness. The wolf closed her mind without revealing more and slipped once again into the moonlight where Skeelie could see her deep golden coat, her wise, ageless face, the broad forehead of the great wolves, the darker stripe running from forehead to nose between wide-set golden eyes, the great breadth of shoulder. A huge wolf, carrying herself with pride and wisdom. She lifted her head to stare across at the campfire, then pulled back into shadow with, it seemed to Skeelie, more of humor than of fear as Gravan rose to stand silhouetted against the fire, his bow drawn. Your friend has seen me, sister. He would protect his herd. Her laughter was silent and gentle. Skeelie stepped toward Gravan, past where the wolf stood hidden.

“Slack your bow, Gravan.”

But the man stood frozen, staring at the boulders waiting for the wolf to attack. The sense of him was not of fear, but only of protectiveness for his herd. Could this man, raised all his life in the protecting of the herds, stay his hand against one he thought a predator?

“This wolf will not harm your goats, Gravan.”

Did Gravan know what the great wolves were? Had he ever heard of them?

The goats themselves, those battle-wise, wary bucks, had made no move of alarm. Skeelie could see three bucks standing calmly, gazing unafraid toward where the wolf stood hiding in shadow. Gravan stepped forward meaning to seek the wolf out. Skeelie raised her bow. “Lay it down, Gravan! Lay down your bow!”

Slowly he lowered his bow, watching her. When he had laid his bow aside, the wolf came out and stood crowding close to Skeelie, the great broad head pushing against Skeelie’s waist. Skeelie spoke to her in silence. How are you called? Where have you come from? Was it—was it you who opened the warp of Time for me? Both Skeelie and the wolf watched the herder, who stood unmoving, utterly engrossed with the sight of the huge wolf that seemed as tame as a pup. Then the wolf looked up at Skeelie, her eyes appraising.

You are very full of questions, sister. I am Torc. I moved through Time when you did, but for my own reasons. I can control Time no more than you can. In that cave were talismans, things of power that helped us. The rune. The limited powers of Cadach. Things of which you did not know. You did not know that by your very presence, by your terrible wanting and searching, you made those talismans more powerful. You did not understand Cadach’s words about the accident of your birth.

And you? Did you understand them?

I am not sure, sister. I will think on it awhile.

Skeelie knelt, laid her head against Torc’s warm shoulder, nearly weeping with the pleasure of the wolf’s closeness. She felt like a child again, hugging another bitch wolf, pressing her face into the bitch’s thick coat, feeling her love and power. Torc licked her arm, then raised her head. Skeelie could feel her sudden wariness, and she grew quiet too. What is it, Torc? What do you sense? Not the herder. He is harmless.

There was another presence, sister, when you first went to the river. Did you not sense it when you stood beside the river? An evil presence—but perhaps it now is gone.

Skeelie felt every sense grow taut with questioning, but could feel nothing. There was something, Torc. I cannot sense it now. What was it?

I do not know how to call it. A dark shadow. It is the shadow I have followed, it is what brought me here. I must study it, sister, before I can know what it is. I do not like studying it. It sickens me.

Skeelie stood up, glanced at Gravan who still stood frozen, staring at Torc. The moons, risen higher, cast their light across his lined face. He began to limp toward them. Skeelie tensed, for though he had laid aside his bow, surely he had a knife. She felt Torc’s amusement. I could kill him with one quick slash, sister. But he means no harm. Skeelie saw that Gravan’s face was filled with wonder now. She reached to touch his thoughts, felt his awe; his voice was filled with awe. “She is no common wolf, lady.”

She hardly paused, but lied smoothly. “No, Gravan, she is not. She is quite unlike her wild brothers. I found her on the mountain and raised her from a cub.” Why did she feel it necessary to be so secretive about Torc’s true nature? Yet the fewer who knew what Torc was, and so what she herself must be, the safer they would remain. Only a Seer could speak with the great wolves.

“You trained her? A wolf from the mountains? But she is so big. She is not . . .”

“I found her orphaned. I fed her as the herb woman bid me, to make her grow large. I trained her just as I have trained horses. Folk tell me I have a gift for such, for training the dumb brutes.”

She felt Torc’s silent laughter.

Gravan stared at her only half-believing, then settled once more by the fire, content, it seemed, to let her words lie. He said nothing more for a long time, then at last he drew his knife and began to slice meat from the roasting haunch and lay it on thick pieces of bread. She was ravenous, found the meat tender and juicy, and did not talk for some time—though she spoke in silence to Torc. Where are we Torc? Into what time have we come?

I do not know, sister. Nor do I care. I only follow the shadow.

But you gave me visions, back there by the river. As if you—

Visions that came to me, sister. I cannot say why. Some linking, something here that has to do with the powers you and Ramad have touched. Visions that came because of that power. But nebulous, sister, she said, feeling Skeelie’s rising excitement. Ramad is not here, nor does he come here, that I can surely sense. I do not know in what time we are. You must learn that from the herder.

Skeelie accepted another slice of bread heaped with deer meat, then began to reach into Gravan’s mind. She did not receive at once any sense of time, for his thoughts were filled with the knowledge of goats, more knowledge than she wanted. Finally she began to touch on Gravan’s childhood. He had come to these mountains when he was very young, she could see the child’s vision of his family and the Cherban tribe making their first rude camp. Yet something more interesting lay at the edges of his mind„ something shadowed, half-forgotten. Something she could not sort out unless he were to bring it directly to his own attention. Something to do with darkness, with Seers. Some old bitterness, a tribal bitterness that lay half-buried.

“Your people settled Dunoon, Gravan?”

“Yes, lady.”

“And where did they come from? Why did they come to this spot?”

“Oh, from the Bay of Pelli, lady. From the marsh country.”

“But why? That is fine pasture, Gravan.”

“Surely you know that Pelli was all but laid waste when the Hape ruled there, lady.” She stared at his mention of the Hape. “My grandparents left Pelli at that time, a young couple with small children, herding their goats, their livelihood, up into the hills of the Urobb.”

Gravan’s grandparents had been young, then, in the time of the Hape. In the time that she had left less than an hour ago. And his sense of darkness came from that time, from tales told and retold. Fear of the Hape and of the dark Seers lay like an ancient shadow on his mind.

“After the Hape was slaughtered by the Seers of Carriol, lady, there were no more dark Seers save the one who escaped that battle. My family could have returned to Pelli, but they had not the heart. They worked their way northward up into these pastures. They were raided many times by the Herebians while they lived along the Urobb. This land, these high pastures, seemed to hold some terror for the raiding Herebian tribes. They would not come here.”

So a dark Seer had escaped from the battle of the Castle of Hape. She had not known that, nor had Ram. None of them had known. He must have spun a strong mind-shielding indeed, to hide his escape as well. How had he managed it? And where had he gone? Which Seer had it been, among those dark, evil ones? “Tell me of that dark Seer, Gravin. There must be many tales of him.”

Gravan produced the wineskin and passed it to her. “Surely you know, lady, how NilokEm fogged the minds of the Carriolinian warriors so they did not know he escaped, how he and his kin after him rose to power.” He watched her drink, accepted the wineskin. “But of course there are no dark Seers of power any more. A handful of alley-bred street rabble, some with Seer’s blood among them, that is all. There has been no power since the twin grandsons of NilokEm were defeated by Macmen, and by a mysterious warrior. It is said their grandmother was a spell-cast woman come out of some enchantment, bred by NilokEm like a ewe on the hill, then never seen more. NilokEm died some years after his son’s birth, with a knife through his heart. Some say that he died by the hand of Ramad of the wolves.” Gravan stopped speaking abruptly and stared at her. “What is it, lady? What did I say to startle you so?”

“Nothing, Gravan. Nothing.”

“Folk tell that Ramad returned nine years after the battle of Hape, to kill NilokEm. Surely you have heard of the battle of the Castle of Hape. That is an old, old tale.”

The excitement made her stomach churn. “I—have heard it. Tell me what happened after Ram—Ramad killed NilokEm. You speak very well of these things.”

Gravan sipped reflectively. “The land was peaceful until the dark twins rose.” He settled back against the boulder. “The twins’ younger brother, Macmen, was a Seer of light, raised apart from them. It is told there was a streak of goodness come down from the grandmother. When Macmen came to power in Candour, the dark twins were enraged by his gentle leadership and brought Pellian armies to attack Zandour. Then there came a young man, out of some spellcast place, to fight by Macmen’s side.” Gravan looked across at her, caught by the wonder of the tale. “A young man with a great band of wolves by his side, lady. And the winged horses of Eresu come down out of the sky like a tide to help him. Just so did Ramad of the wolves, before him, fight at the castle of Hape, mounted on a winged horse, and with the magical wolves slaughtering the dark Seers. Wolves some say are only myth.” Gravan stared at Torc, his eyes kindling with the knowledge of what Torc must surely be. Torc looked back at him blankly, then rolled over on her back with utter lack of dignity, as if she had no idea what human speech was about. Skeelie reached idly to rough her fur, hiding her apprehension at Gravan’s interest. But Gravan was not put off. “She is one of them, lady. You—you fondle a great wolf as if she were a kitten. Only a Seer can command the great wolves, lady. You—you are of Seer’s blood.”

Skeelie looked back at him uneasily. But his look was only eager, filled with wonderful curiosity. What difference would it make for this little man to know the truth about her? He stared so openly, so eagerly awaiting her answer.

Be careful, sister. Take care.

But he knows. It’s no good lying now.

Then say nothing. Divert him! Torc thought sharply.

“Surely there are Seers among your tribe, Gravan. You are of Cherban blood, the very blood of Seers.”

Gravan seemed utterly in awe of her now. “Not so many Seers, lady. Not like the old times. The Seeing is not as strong as the old tales tell it once was.” He could not disguise his fascination with both Skeelie and Torc. He stared at Torc until the pale wolf thought cryptically, Oh well, the little man is harmless. He thinks 1 am beautiful, sister.

Skeelie scowled at Torc, laid a hand on the wolf’s broad head, gave Torc a push. You are insufferably vain. Then, “Who was that Seer, Gravan? The Seer who appeared so suddenly to fight by Macmen’s side?”

“What folk tell is impossible, lady. Folk believe that Seer was Ramad of the wolves, returned upon Ere sixty-six years after he defeated the Hape.”

Skeelie sat frozen. Ram was alive then. He moved through Time, moved through Ere’s history undaunted. Somewhere Ramad lived. Or, he had been alive at least in the time of Macmen. “How long has it been, Gravan, since the battle of Macmen?”

^”Why, twenty-three years, lady. But no one—no one living in Ere could help but know these things—to know all that I have told you. And you, a Seer—but forgive me, lady. I speak too freely, perhaps.”

Why had Ram come out of Time to battle NilokEm, and then again to battle the dark twins? It was Telien who had drawn him into the swirling fulcrum of Time, Telien he sought, not battles. Had the very existence of the dark Seers turned him from his search for Telien? How could that be? How could he be turned aside from the search for his love? Or had he been pulled out of Time without volition? Had the power of the runestones moved him to other needs here, beyond his commitment to Telien?

“And now,” Gravan said, almost to himself, “now perhaps evil rises anew. Perhaps people were foolish to put off the street rabble of Pelli as of little consequence. There are rumors, now, that the Seers among that rabble may have more power than men thought. That they may be the sons of the dark twins, street-bred from whores. That perhaps they are not only tricksters and petty thieves, that maybe they are to be feared. That perhaps they are the cause of new disagreements and small skirmishes between the several countries. Even the poor senses of the few Seers in Dunoon stir sometimes to waves of evil, to a breath of darkness off somewhere among the coastal countries.”

“But if this is so, if they should rise, won’t Carriol march against them?”

“It is all Carriol’s Seers can do to keep their own borders strong. They have no runestone now, lady. Have not had since the stone that Ramad brought out of Tala-charen was lost in the sea.”

Nearly ninety years, she thought, since the stone was lost. Yet to her it was but a handful of days. She felt empty inside, lost and afraid. Everyone she knew was dead, was dust now. Her brother, Jerthon, Tayba, all the Carriolinian council. All those she had loved. All but Ram. She bent her head to her knees, swept with desolation, with a loneliness too vast to deal with, sat so in silence for some time.

He said gently, seeing her misery but not understanding it, “Carriol will shelter any who come to her, lady—Seers in fear for their lives. But she will not march forth to right the wrongs across Ere, to depose the tyrants from Burgdeeth and other cities that enslave.”

“If Burgdeeth is a place of slavery, Gravan, why have your people remained so close to it, on these pastures? Doesn’t the Landmaster try to rule you?”

“We trade with the Landmaster, lady, but we keep an upper hand in that matter. And only here will the Herebian raiders not come, for fear of the old city of the gods.” Gravan leaned back and grinned, showing a missing tooth. “If the landmaster becomes difficult, we disappear among the mountains for a time, and Burgdeeth is without goat meat and hides.” Skeelie caught from his mind a clear picture of a hidden valley rich with grass, and at its center a lake of molten fire. A hidden place; but a place of meaning beyond anything Gravan imagined it to have. A place that she knew, instantly, she must touch. That lake—liquid fire, red as blood, reflecting a sullen sky. Reflecting more. Hinting of images she knew she must hold in her mind and examine. Gravan prattled on comfortably, but she hardly heard him. There was a message there, in that place. Perhaps a way to Ram there.

Torc raised her head to look at Gravan. The wolf held in her mind sharply the image both she and Skeelie had taken from his thoughts, the lake of flame hidden among rising hills in a valley flanked round by sharp black peaks. Yes, there was something in that place, something they must seek, something that held as vital a meaning for Torc as it held for Skeelie.

We will go there, sister.

Yes, Torc, we’ll go there. But she was afraid, though she was eager to see what that place held. Would it tell her news of Ram that she could not bear to hear? She studied Gravan, hardly able to form the question she must ask, yet knowing she could not rest until she had. She watched the shadows around the fire, watched the dark red embers of painon wood pulsing with their heat, then looked back at the old man. “When—when the battle of Macmen was ended, Gravan, what do the tales tell happened to Ramad? Do they—do they tell that Ramad died there battling by Macmen’s side?”

“Oh no, lady, they do not tell that.” Gravan peered at her, puzzling at her interest. Why couldn’t she learn to hide her feelings more carefully? “The tales tell, lady, that after the battle, Ramad stood by the side of Macmen with the great wolves around them and that—that the next minute Macmen stood alone on the silent battlefield, Ramad and the wolves gone as if the wind itself had swallowed them.”

Skeelie slept that night beside Gravan’s fire with her hand couched on Torc’s flank, replete with roast deer meat and Gravan’s mawzee bread, and perhaps more wine than was necessary. In the early dawn, while the old herder rounded up his bucks and their does to go down into the village, she made a quiet departure, wishing him well, and headed up between black peaks in the direction his thoughts had shown her, toward the lake of fire. Torc shadowed her unseen, hunting, returning now and again or speaking to her from a distance. A silent journey back .into the wild mountains.

When Torc returned from her hunt at midmorning, she lay waiting for Skeelie stretched out in a patch of sunlight between black, angled boulders, licking blood from her muzzle. Two fat rock hares lay by her side. For your noon meal, sister. In the sharp daylight, Skeelie could see plainly that Torc had recently nursed cubs. Torc raised her head. My cubs are dead. They were small and helpless. I had gone to hunt.

Skeelie looked back at her, could only offer the silent sympathy that welled in her at the bitch wolf’s pain.

I will follow the creature that killed them until I destroy it.

“What is it, that creature?”

It is a dark, unnatural shadow dwelling within the body of a dead man. Or, a man made mindless, as good as dead. When I returned from hunting and found my cubs, found the creature crouching over them, it vanished. Disappeared, sister. I could feel it later somewhere in the caves.

Then, I could feel it following you. And so I followed it. I could feel it, sister, stepping into the whirling of Time as you stepped. It follows you, but I do not know why. And I will follow it, and kill it.

A litany of hatred and suffering. Of promise by a great wolf that both frightened and heartened Skeelie. She felt the sense of the formless dark thing. It was this she had sensed in the caves and across the river. “I cannot sense it now, Torc. Not near to us.”

No, sister. But it will return. I think it follows you as mindlessly as a skabeetle seeking prey.

“But why?”

I do not know. It came into those deep caves blindly, seeking something there, sensing something it seemed to need. I do not know what. It was confused and weak and fit only for killing cubs. But there are powers hidden within that creature, sister. Powers that can grow. After it disappeared from my den, I felt you come. I felt it begin to follow you. As if you, sister, held about you that which it sought. It came here seeking you, but now it is gone again. What do you bear, Skeelie of Carriol, that such a dark shadow yearns after? What weapon, what magic or what skill? Or, perhaps, what knowledge?

Skeelie gazed into the wolf’s golden eyes and did not know how to answer. Had that creature followed her because of Ram, thinking she would lead it to Ram? But why? Yet well she knew that evil was attracted to Ram because of the power of the runestones, that evil coveted those stones perhaps beyond all else. Torc’s thoughts had plunged into an abyss half of wild emotion and half of conscious thought; and Skeelie plunged down with them through blackness to where the sense of the shadowy creature, and of its dark, latent powers, came cold around her.

She shook herself free of the vision at last, stared at Torc, touched the wolf’s shaggy face with need and tenderness. And suddenly the thought of the tree man came into her mind, his words echoing . . . One of the few born to weave a new pattern into the fabric of the world. Those so born are not anchored to a single point in Time.

“What did Cadach mean? Why do I think of those words now?” She knelt and laid her head against Torc’s shoulder, drew strength from her. She began to feel, with Torc, the incomprehensible patterns that formed life as together they reached to touch that web, needing to trace some new strand of meaning into their own fragile existence.

At last Skeelie rose, took up the rock hares and cleaned them, and tied them to her belt. They started on up between black cliffs, pushing deep into the mountains as the afternoon sunlight thinned behind them, sending long shadows up the lifting peaks of the Ring of Fire.