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

ELEVEN

The stair rose directly into a large, rough room cluttered with garish furnishing: purple satin drapings; magenta bedcover encrusted with tarnished gold braid; black and lavender pillows; all of it soiled and worn; and covered with a heavy smell, sweet and disgusting. They did not see Telien at first.

When Ram saw her, standing still in the shadow by the hearth, he caught his breath and was with her at once, forgetting caution. He touched her arm, awash with the shock of seeing the parody she had become. Her soiled silk frock was pulled tight, so low her pale, tangled hair fell over half-concealed breasts. Wide bracelets covered her arms nearly to the elbow; her feet were bare, with toe rings and anklets; her face was painted with a hard flush over her pallor; her green eyes were dull and deeply shadowed, her face gaunt. She stood so still she might indeed have been one of the carved figures. Skeelie could feel Ram’s sick mourning, watched him reach out to hold Telien in spite of his horror. Only then did Telien move, to pull away from him.

Ram stepped back, but reached out in spirit to her trapped soul as if he sought an injured, frightened bird inside a dark, puzzling trap. His emotions were subdued, cool now and apprizing of Telien, touching then drawing back, reaching again, trying to awaken Telien, to make her fight from within.

The wraith watched him. It did not move or change expression, though its skin seemed to grow more sallow beneath the painted rouge. Telien’s green eyes, flat with the death-spirit, observed Ram and delved deep within Ram seeking weakness or fear.

Then suddenly it brought a power down upon Ram so violent he stumbled, then steadied himself against the side of a chair. Skeelie threw all her force against the wraith’s dark spirit. The stones, Ram! Use the stones! He seemed frozen, unable to think. She could feel the wolves’ force joining with hers. At last Ram reached into his tunic slowly, as if in a dream, and clutched the leather pouch in his fist. The wraith stared, lusting for those stones, then drew back as Ram righted his senses, as the power of Ram and wolves and Skeelie joined with the stones to rise to a crescendo that trembled the room. Fury flashed from the wraith’s eyes. And then Ram began to part the intricate shields with which the wraith guarded itself, so that for a brief moment Telien was there, soft and terrified and begging Ram for help.

But the wraith rallied, Telien was gone, the green eyes cold with hate.

Now Ram knew that Telien lived, he wanted to tear the wraith from her. He forgot everything in his black fury as his hands gripped its throat. He was intent only on releasing Telien. The wraith cowered, shrank down in pain beneath his clutching fingers—but it was Telien’s pain, too. “Don’t kill her, Ram!” Skeelie’s voice shattered him, shocked him. He stared at his hands on Telien’s throat and let her go. She slumped. He caught her and held her to him, could feel her heart pounding; could feel the wraith’s desperate rise of strength as it began to suspect that perhaps Ram could destroy it. It began to falter beneath the power of the several stones, beneath the power of this crew joined. They stood locked in a maze of powers while above the town the stars wheeled toward the horizon and the moons swam slowly down behind black peaks. A tableau of powers, motionless, Ram and Skeelie facing the painted parody of Telien, the wolves frozen into positions of attack, the mindless captive Ram had brought from the town huddled against the door. The moons set and a pale hint of dawn touched the night sky, and neither force gave quarter. Telien came forth sometimes, battling; but then weakening with the powers pulling at her. She would sink then, so the wraith emerged stronger in its desperation. Then the wraith began to reach into the room, to awaken the captive. The big man stirred and straightened and seemed to clutch at consciousness. Fawdref spun, snarling. The wolves moved as one. The captive struck out at them, and lunged. But there were too many wolves, they brought the man down at Skeelie’s feet. “Don’t kill it, Fawdref,” she whispered, and Ram echoed her.

“Don’t kill it! Drive it here to me.”

The wolves forced the injured man to crawl the length of the room. Skeelie watched, strung taut with fear. The formless shadow of the wraith must be released from Telien. Ram turned on the wraith with a fury yet unmatched, jerked it by the arm ignoring Telien’s pain. He was concerned now only with Telien’s life. He jerked her to him, stared down at her, then shoved her toward the prisoner, which cowered bleeding before the wolves. “Enter it,” he breathed to the wraith. “Enter the man you have destroyed. Finish what you began!” And when the wraith refused, Ram forced it against the wall, did not let himself think that if he hit it, he would be hitting Telien. Its parody of Telien stared back at him, hating him. “Make the captive stand up again, creature of shadows. Make it stand, and enter it!”

The painted face of Telien stared coldly back at him. But fear showed deep in its eyes. “Make it stand!” Ram repeated.

At last the creeping prisoner at Ram’s feet stood up slowly and stared at Ram, uncomprehending.

“Enter it,” Ram said. “Enter it, creature of dark. Or I will destroy both you and the girl, never doubt it.” His power was like nothing Skeelie had seen. She watched Ram bring the power of the stones around the wraith in a roaring burst of air that so nearly shattered their ears that a wolf cried out in pain and a wind tore at the room.

“Enter it or I will destroy your soul. Snuff you like a candle!”

The wraith cringed before him; Telien’s thin body shivering in the black gown. Dark fear welled in its eyes, and two images vied for reflection in that painted face, as in a deep-seeing mirror; the wraith’s cruel presence and the image of Telien.

“Enter the captive and leave Telien. Become this man, or I will crush your soul for you.”

Skeelie watched Ram and knew he had no idea whether he could destroy the wraith’s soul, though his power tore at the very fiber of the wraith’s being. The wraith cringed again, stared at Ram uncertainly, drew its spirit back, pressed its hands to its face in fear and confusion—to Telien’s face. It was Telien there.

Telien, alone. Telien, filled with sickness, slumping against Ram. And the tall, powerful captive rose and stared at Ram, its eyes the wraith’s dead eyes. It reached for Ram. He pushed Telien away from him and drew his sword in one swift motion, battled the creature knowing he dare not kill it and release the wraith again. As the wraith’s darkness touched his mind, he felt himself begin to weaken. He fought in desperation, driving the creature back until it plunged across a cushioned bench and fell, but it sprang up again, broke the leg off the bench as if it were kindling, and came at Ram. The wolves stood tensed, ready to spring.

Skeelie held Telien close to her, for the girl was so weak she could not stand alone. She was so very thin, her skin cold and damp. Skeelie smoothed her hair, talked softly to her as one would to a frightened child. She was so diminished it seemed that the sickness of the wraith had invaded her very blood. They watched the battle with growing fear. Then Ram slashed the bench leg from the wraith’s hand and began backing it against the bed. He struck and wounded it with a long sword slash down chest and belly, so it doubled up and fell.

“Don’t kill it, Ram! You . . .”

But Ram was backing away. Skeelie saw Torc surge past to stand over it, wanting to kill.

“Don’t, Torc! It would take Ram!”

Torc snarled deep in her throat, her bared teeth inches from the man’s face. When you are gone, sister, I will kill it. Go—get Ramad and Telien from this place, get away from here. This creature will die, and you must be away.

It could take you, Torc. Become you.

It cannot, sister. Such as this cannot enter into the soul of the wolf.

Are you so sure?

Torc did not answer, turned her mind to Ram, spoke her silent words to him. You will go away, Ramad. Send them all away, the people, the servants, so that I can be alone with this creature.

Ram hardly heard her; he had taken Telien from Skeelie and now held her close. Telien clung to him weeping, her hands gripping his arm as if she were afraid he would disappear, or that she would again be torn from him. Skeelie was filled with pain, with empathy for them both. The broken man that was now the wraith lay unconscious, bleeding badly. Skeelie stared at it, knew if it awoke it could yet possess Ram.

Get them out of here, sister. Turn the servants out, get Ramad and Telien from this place.

Skeelie knelt to hug Torc, then left her, grabbed Ram’s arm and began to pull him and Telien toward the stair.

When you are gone from this place, when everyone is away, I will kill it. Or I will wait for it to die from the wounds of Ramad’s sword and from thirst. I will not leave this place, sister, until the soul of the wraith, with no other body to enter, fades and dies. It is weakened now from battle, it must have a body near, or it will fade—to nothing, sister! To nothing!

*

By the time dawn lit the city of cones, the wraith’s hall was vacant. The simple folk were streaming obediently away, out through the city to take refuge in the surrounding hills until they could return to their homes. Already the domination of the wraith had begun to lift, and it seemed to Ram and Skeelie that the folk would return to their own natures unharmed.

Ram carried Telien. They left the folk of the city of cones at the foothills and began to climb the first ridge, rocky and steep. Telien weighed no more than a child. There were no trails in this wild land. They ascended jagged rock shoulders until they stood at last high above the wraith’s city on the crest of a range that looked not over the countries they knew, but over land completely unknown to any of their own peoples. They were tired nearly beyond bearing, and once over the mountain’s high ridge and a bit down the northwest side, they found a sheltered grassy place tucked between boulders where they could sleep. They rested until the noon sun, lifting over the ridge, woke them.

They took a light meal of mawzee cakes and mountain meat, though Telien ate only a few bites. She was very weak and pale, shivering even in the warm cloak Ram had found for her in the wraith’s hall and she remained silent. It was as if the effort to speak, or even to gather her thoughts, was too great. They started down the mountain at last, Ram tense with worry over Telien, carrying her most of the way. Below them lay a deep valley, green and dotted with lakes and spanned down its length by a river. The scent of green came up to them, a scent of wildness that made the wolves raise their faces to the wind, then go melting off down the mountain far ahead of them, heads up, seeking out over the new land. There were trees here none of them had ever seen, unfamiliar plants. They had no idea how far into the unknown lands they had been cast.

They reached the valley at dusk, Telien asleep against Ram’s shoulder. There was no sign of people, and the returning wolves brought no word of any. The land is empty, Ramad, Fawdref told him quietly. Empty as far as we ranged. The wolves had come streaming back drunk with new scents and bringing game such as Ram and Skeelie had never seen: a small red deer no bigger than the wolves themselves; a fat fowl larger than a chidrack, gray and long-necked, with a crest to its head like a great fan.

They found an outcropping of granite that formed a shallow cave. Ram laid Telien inside and covered her with his blanket, then built a fire. Skeelie thought with longing of the blankets and food they had in their haste left behind in the cone tower, snatching up only the cloak for Telien; then thought of Torc alone there and went silent with worry. Rhymannie came to press against her, knowing her fears; knowing Skeelie could not understand why none of the wolves had remained with Torc, why they had left her so very alone. As she wanted to be, Rhymannie said. As any of us would want. It is different with wolves, perhaps. Alone with the thing you have to do. Or perhaps not so different. But, sister, Torc will come to us in her own time.

“If she comes at all,” Skeelie said, turning her face away. She rose and went out of the cave to stand on a little rise, looking out at the darkening valley.

When she returned to the shelter, Telien lay with her face turned to the inner wall of overhanging rock, her breathing shallow and fast, her skin clammy. Ram knelt beside her holding the waterskin, but Telien refused to drink. The pain on Ram’s face was terrible. Skeelie knew that even had she herbs she was not sure what she might have attempted to use, so alien was Telien’s sickness. When Telien opened her eyes at last, to stare up at Ram, she did not know him. He took her hand, but she drew away, wincing. Gently, Ram began to feel into her mind. Skeelie followed and was shocked at her sinking, empty weakness, at the feeling inside Telien as if she were falling down into blackness and could not stop. “Where is Ram?” Telien whispered. “Ram has not left me?”

“I am here, Telien. I am holding you.”

Telien stared up at him, her green eyes dull with the inner sickness, with the knowledge that rose within her of her own wasting.

Ram slept close to Telien that night, warming her, the wolves all around warming her as well, for she complained of cold that cut deep into her bones. Skeelie lay stretched out at the edge of the shelter as far from Ram and Telien as she could manage, so painful was it to see the two of them torn apart, to see Ram hurting, and she unable to help either of them. She tried to give Telien strength with her own powers, but the sinking, falling sensation that gripped Telien all but defeated her. If she gave Telien anything at all, she feared it was not enough.

Dawn came sharp with a cool wind. Skeelie sat up and looked back into the cave where all lay still asleep. We will go on this morning, she thought. The three of us and the wolves. Then when Telien is better, I will turn back, find my way back—home. Home? And where is that?

Where would home be now, for her? Now that Ram had Telien?

A place out of Time, perhaps. A place with Canoldir, if he still wanted her.

She turned to look back into the shelter, feeling uneasy suddenly, feeling something very out of place. Ram and Telien lay as before, close but not touching, Ram’s arm thrown over his face as he was wont to sleep when he was exhausted or very worried. As she watched, the wolves stirred, and Fawdref rose suddenly to look across at her, his golden eyes dark with grief. She saw Ram wake from sleep and pull Telien closer, looking down at her. Saw him go pale, touch Telien’s cheek. Then he pressed his face into Telien’s lifeless shoulder, and clutched her to him so her arm dragged limp across the blanket.

He remained that way until the sun came bright. He might have remained that way much longer, wanting to die there with her, had not Fawdref nosed him up at last and made him rise and turn away from her. Ram’s face was twisted and unnatural with his pain. Skeelie could not speak or look at him.

*

They buried her high on an alpine meadow, in a grave that could look out over lands no man of Ere had ever seen. Ram would have buried the starfire with her, which they had found folded into her gown—for luck, for safe travel, or in some wild pagan notion that it might carry her back through Time and make her live again. But at Skeelie’s look, he knew that he must take it. It was the core of the runestone; without it, though he might someday find and bring together all the other shards, the runestone would lie incomplete. She will travel far without it, Ramad, Fawdref told him. She will know other lives.

“How can you be sure! Our lives will never touch again!”

Yellow wolf eyes watched him. Unfathomable. I cannot know if your lives will touch again, Ramad. Nor can you. I only know that she will live, perhaps in more joy even than this life gave her.

“More joy? She had no joy. She had only pain. Fear of her father. The beatings. Then carried into Time. The wraith—”

She had joy, Ramad. Joy in you. Fawdref turned away then and went up into the hills, a dark, shaggy shadow melting among boulders, carrying darkness with him. It did not settle well with the great wolves to feel human pain so closely, pain of friend, unless that friend were bent on mending the pain. Just now, Ramad was not.

Skeelie stood at the base of the hill looking after Fawdref and knowing his thoughts: Ram must mend himself and no one could do that for him. She was surprised to find that his thoughts lifted her suddenly, made her feel lighter.

Must Ram mend himself, was the great wolf right? She felt a presence, then, in her mind, and looked up into the sun-bright wind; a craggy, lined face, a bear of a man, black-bearded; dark eyes watched her in a vision so sharp it made her catch her breath. What will you do, Skeelie of Carriol?

I will go with Ram.

And if he doesn’t want you?

Only time will tell that.

I live with all of Time. I can wait, then.

You must not wait for me.

There will be others. A man does not well, always alone.

They will be transient ones. But if you come to me, Skeelie of Carriol, I will belong to you for all time. All Time will be yours to wander. If so you choose. Go with him now, and be happy. Even in his pain, make him happy. Beyond his pain, give him joy.

The sun shone strong. The figure was gone, the thoughts gone. Ram stood at some distance, where boulders crowned the hill, had turned, was watching her. He said nothing, just looked. Perhaps, she thought, he could mourn Telien without destroying himself with the pain. He came to her at last, stood looking down at her, the sun making his hair like fire. “You would go with Canoldir if it were not for me.

“I mean to go with you.”

They looked at each other a long time.

At last Ram shouldered his pack, cuffed Skeelie in a poor imitation of the old roughness between them, and looked up to where the wolves stood watching them. Then he started off southward, in the direction where home must be, for all the unknown lands lay to the north of the eleven countries of Ere. How far they were from the lands they knew, from a time that would have meaning for them, they had no idea. Skeelie felt Ram’s despondency, his deep mourning for Telien. But there was something else, a deep abiding purpose that lay strong within him. She watched him take the white goatskin pouch from his tunic and touch the runestones briefly, then clutch the pouch tight in his hand. He quickened his pace, striking off toward the head of the valley. She hurried beside him, the warmth of the lifting sun on her cheek.

But she stopped suddenly, hardly in her stride, to stare up at the eastern mountains.

She felt the high howling before she heard it. Felt in her soul the wailing that, in another moment, would split the air over the mountain. The wolves stood alert, sensing that vibration, looking eastward up the mountain, holding within themselves the vibration of that far, silent wail.

Then they heard it, far and clear. A keening of cold, lonely victory. And they lifted their muzzles and cried out a reply that sent chills rippling the still mountain air. She would come now. Torc would come.