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

FOUR

Zephy tugged at the gold band woven into her hair, loosed the braid and let it fall, then began to unbraid it. Her head itched, she disliked her hair done up so and needed badly to brush it. She sat cross-legged in their tent, Thorn lying stretched out beside her, already snoring. She turned the lamp wick down to a dull glow. She was so tired even her arms ached as she brushed, so weary from days of creating visions to add wonder and glamour to their every simple task, of surrounding their treatment of the sick with magical incantations, even of accompanying the doctoring by Carriol’s true healer, Nebben, with added ceremonies. All meaningless, but all creating wonder in simple minds, presenting to the cults an aura of magic and power like a golden cloak to heighten even further Carriol’s reputation of strength. The cults must come to believe in Carriol’s Seers utterly, must be awed by Carriol to the extent that at last they would speak freely of their warrior queen, she who lurked so mysteriously in the background. None would speak of her, even think of her except in involuntary fleeting shadows, vague darkness gone at once, without image.

Zephy sighed. They must learn the nature of this leader, for in her lay the true nature of the cults. So much deception, so much secrecy. Why? And now there was the worry over Meatha to nag at her, to try her own loyalties unbearably. Meatha, caught in some mysterious and urgent mission that she completely blocked from them. Why would she block? What secret need she keep? Meatha, closer to her than any sister could be. She knew she could not give up her trust in Meatha, despite her unease; at least for a little while. That she must give Meatha time to prove herself. And then tonight, such a sharp vision of Meatha standing on the cliff among the ruins calling out in the darkness, speaking across the mountains to the mare Michennann. Why such secrecy? She had blocked furiously as she called. What did Meatha plan, what did she intend? Stealth was not natural to Meatha.

Thorn woke with the turmoil of her thoughts. He sat up and touched her hair, felt her distress as his own, took her face in his hands and studied her, then touched the frown between her brows with a gentle finger. “It will come right, Zephy. Perhaps your unease is for nothing. Though—though no one knows Meatha better than you.”

“What is she doing? Why is she so upset, so secret? What is so urgent? Why does she call the mare now? Why does she block me so I can’t speak with her?”

He put his arm around her, drew her close.

“And why does she block from the council, Thom? Why?” She looked up at him in the dim lamplight. “I know I should speak to the council. But I can’t. At least—not yet.” She blew out the lamp. They heard the horses stir once above the pounding of the sea. She must trust in Meatha, she must have faith in Meatha. She could not abandon their friendship so lightly.

*

Meatha went to sleep at last. She was not at all sure the mare would come, was puzzled at her reluctance. They were close, they had fought battles together. What was the matter with Michennann? She could not forsake her now, Michennann who, above all the winged ones, could be trusted in this. She must call Michennann again and again, until it was settled.

She woke at first light to return to the cliff and renew her call across half of Ere to where the gray mare grazed. She felt Michennann’s resistance again, was hurt by it; but she pressed stubbornly on until at last she felt the mare soften.

Then Meatha drew away and let the mare be, to dwell on it, to come gently to terms with it as was Michennann’s way. She looked across the narrow sea channel to the isle of Fentress. Dawn touched the weathered cottages, and already half a dozen children had run out to scurry along the rocky shore with clam buckets, laughing and playing at tag before they settled to their morning’s work. She could not remember playing so as a child. In Burgdeeth, little girls were not encouraged to play. She left the cliff at last, eager to lose herself in her own morning’s work, and when she reached Tra. Hoppa’s chambers she found the old lady already seated at her table with the small leather-bound book Hux had brought open in front of her. Sea light played through the open window across Tra. Hoppa’s white hair, and a breeze stirred the pages over which she scowled. “It’s like hen scratching. I can make out so little.” The old lady’s thin fingers traced the nearly illegible text.

“But you’ve made notes,” Meatha said, looking down over her shoulder.

“I’ve made notes from the first part. That’s easier to read because it tells of what we already know. It speaks of Ramad of the wolves as a small child, battling the dark Seer HarThass. It tells how Ramad killed the gantroed atop Tala-charen, and how the forces spun around him so violently they cracked open the mountain and split the stone into nine shards. Then it tells how Ramad in later years battled the shape-changer Hape, clinging to its back as it flew over the sea, how the Hape dove into the sea and nearly drowned Ramad, and the runestone was lost. How Ramad and his companions burned the castle of Hape, and only one dark Seer escaped them. But then—do you remember the words Ramad’s mother wrote in the Book of Carriol soon after that battle?

“How could I forget? Tayba of Carriol wrote, Ramad is gone. The battle of Hape is ended and Ram is gone, I fear forever, from this place. I’ve never understood what she meant. Gone where? She can’t have meant that he died. There are tales of Ramad in later years, defeating NilokEm at the dark tower. And why would he go away forever from Carriol? But still, there is nothing more in her journal. The rest of the pages are blank.” Meatha looked at Tra. Hoppa, puzzling, then caught the faint sense of the old woman’s excitement. “What does this book say?”

“That Ramad carried another runestone,” the old lady said. “That after his shard of the runestone was lost in the sea, he came into possession of another—but then the book becomes muddled, for what I think it’s saying is not possible.”

Meatha studied the scrawling handwriting and could make out only a few words. Ramad’s name was repeated several times, making her feel strange, though she could not understand why. Tra. Hoppa followed the words with her finger, as if touching them would make them more legible. At last she sat back in exasperation. “Make us some tea, Meatha. All of this is so difficult. It makes no sense at all. It seems—there are parts of it that are like the ballad of Hermeth, and that simply adds to the puzzle.”

Meatha made the tea, replaced the tin kettle on the back of the clay stove, and found some seed cakes in a crock. When she returned to the table with the tray, Tra. Hoppa looked strange. “I’ve made out a few lines more,” she said, frowning. “But—what can it mean? I always thought the ballad of Hermeth was myth, embroidered from some incident long ago twisted out of its original shape. But perhaps . . .” She settled back, sipping the welcome tea. “Meatha, this book tells the same tale as the ballad, copied from an old, old manuscript. It tells of NilokEm and Ramad fighting beside the dark tower nine years after the battle of Hape—we have always known that NilokEm was killed in that battle. But now—this says that Hermeth of Zandour fought beside Ramad in that battle. Hermeth—who was not yet born. It says then that when Hermeth fought in that same dark wood eighty years later, it was the same battle. That the two battles were one. That men fighting in that later battle saw Ramad there, surrounded by wolves, fighting by Hermeth’s side. A young Ramad, no older than Hermeth himself.” She looked up at Meatha, her blue eyes lit with puzzled excitement. “What have we found, Meatha? Can we believe these words? That Ramad . . .”

“That Ramad moved through Time,” Meatha whispered, “just as the ballad says. That—that the ballad speaks truly.” She stared at Tra. Hoppa, shook her head uncertainly.

Tra. Hoppa rose and began to pace, slim and quick, her coarsespun gown whirling around her sandaled feet. She paused at last beside the window to stare down at the sea, and when she turned back, her face held that look of stubborn determination that both Meatha and Zephy knew so well. “Meatha, could you . . .” but her voice died, she clutched at the sill as the tower was jolted by earthshock. Meatha caught the cups before they slid to the floor.

It was only an instant, dizzying them. Then the tremor was past. They looked at one another, trying to put down their fear, for fear of the erupting earth was a powerful force in Ere’s heritage—fear of the Ring of Fire, whose eruptions had shaped men’s lives since times long, long forgotten. Quickly Meatha reached out to Carriol’s other Seers, felt them join and exchange their experiences of the tremor, and finally she relaxed. “It was only a small local one; there was hardly a shudder in the north.”

Tra. Hoppa nodded, took up her question as if nothing had happened. “Could you read more of the book through the power of Seeing? Could you decipher these pages with the Seeing?”

“I don’t—I’ve never tried such a thing.” And again a strange unease gripped her. “A stronger Seer could, perhaps, a master Seer . . .”

“There is more power in you than you know, child. Hux tried, when he bought the book from the little gutter lady in Zandour, but he—Hux’s skills run more to charming young women into his wagon than to such subtleties as taking the meaning direct from the pages of a book.”

Meatha grinned. Hux’s success with women was as much a part of Carriol as was fair day or the novice games. Hesitantly she picked up the little book of loosely bound pages.

Wind riffled the parchment sheets, then was still. She touched the script delicately, as if she touched a living thing. Reluctantly, and then with growing excitement, she tried to encompass the pages with all of her being, to encompass the sense of the writer as if she were one with him.

After a few moments she began to feel unusually warm. Her hands began to tingle. Then came strange smells, the dry, dusty smell of old wood, the smell of drying hay, then the shadowy sense of a small room, a wooden shed. Slowly she felt herself possessed by another who leaned over parchment, writing. The outlines of Tra. Hoppa’s room had faded until only shadows remained. Words were forming in her mind in dark flashes. An allusion to Time, to warriors— “Come together out of two different times!” She whispered, “Yes, Ramad!” and she didn’t know who she was speaking to. “Ramad came forward in Time.” She felt the shock of this—and the truth of it. The scenes of battle were sharp. The scenes of Zandour itself rang true for her. Her voice shook. “Hermeth gave to Ramad the runestone.” She felt as if she were writing the words. “Hermeth gave him the stone that had passed down from Hermeth’s great-grandfather who was NilokEm.” She spoke on, not even looking at the pages. “And Ramad carried a second stone taken from his true love, taken from . . .” but the words were fading in her mind now as a voice fades. Soon only the sense of some terrible grief remained with her.

She came awake in Tra. Hoppa’s room, stood staring at the old lady in confusion.

Then she said softly, and with infinite sadness, “Ramad hit Telien and took the stone from her. And Telien vanished from that Time and that place. . . .” She was shaking, felt cold and sick. “And Ramad wept,” she said. And she was weeping, too. Tears poured down uncontrollably; shuddering sobs shook her. Tra. Hoppa gathered her in. Meatha wept against the old lady’s shoulder until at last she was spent, shivering with anguish and cold.

“Come, child, you need rest. More than this vision alone is bothering you.”

She shook her head. “I can’t—”

“Come. I know you have not slept well. You do not look well. I saw you out early this morning. I saw you pacing the cliff the night before Zephy and Thorn left, in the cold wind with only that light cloak. Come, you can miss weapons practice for one day.” The old woman took her hand in a strong grip and led her from the room and down the stone stairs to her own room, where she kindled a fire, then called one of the girls whose turn it was to serve to fill a hot tub. When the jugs had been brought and the tub was steaming, Tra. Hoppa helped Meatha to bathe, to warm herself, then got her into her narrow little bed and covered her up warm. Meatha, torn with a storm of emotions, did not resist. Tra. Hoppa drew another blanket close, where she could reach it. “You are sickening for something. You must rest.” The old woman, without Seer’s skills, could only see the surface of her distress. “Try to sleep, I’ll see that an early noon meal is brought.”

“But I must—it isn’t even the middle of the day, I can’t . . .”

“Do as I say. Your morning’s work belongs to me, and I direct you to stay in bed. I will send a message that you will not appear at weapons practice. And Bernaden will take your class of children.” Tra. Hoppa touched her cheek lightly, more worried than she wanted to show, and left her. Meatha lay staring at her ceiling, numb and confused, not wanting to think, yet unable to stop thinking.

Why was something deep within her frightened by the tale of Ramad? Why were her new, exciting powers shaken by that tale? Oh, but those powers could not be shaken. They could not. Too much depended on her. Too much—she was so drowsy, relaxed at last, the revulsion and fear fading, not really important . . . One thing was important, one thing. The mission she would accomplish for Ere. Nothing, no imagined fear, could change that.

Was she asleep when the image came? She jerked upright and sat staring around her, not seeing her room but instead a deep chasm and a fiery river running between jagged cliffs, the sky heavy with smoke. She felt a presence, but she saw no one at first, only after a moment became aware of a wolf, gray against gray stone, watching her. Then she saw in the dark shadows beside him a second wolf black as night. They were terrifyingly beautiful, both staring at her with eyes as golden as Ere’s moons. She could feel the intricacies of their minds probing her thoughts delicately. She quailed before their stares, before the touch of those minds. But suddenly they turned and vanished, and in their place stood a tall young man with tangled red hair, every color of red, and eyes black and fierce. He seemed so angry, had the look of an animal, predatory as wolves, half ready to attack something—but half at bay, too. And she thought, with a burning purpose eating at him, a cold unshakable purpose—not unlike her own. She wanted to reach out, to speak to him. Something prevented her. She crouched on her bed not seeing her room, trapped by the seething abyss and by the sense of him wild and appealing. And then the force she knew so well blurred her mind, and she closed her eyes and knew nothing more of him.

She woke to noon sun flooding her room. A girl stood with her back to her, placing a tray by the bed.

“Clytey?”

Clytey turned. “Tra. Hoppa said you were sick. Too sick for company? I brought enough for two, but . . .” The younger girl hesitated.

Meatha was muzzy from sleep. She tried to smile. The scent of tammi tea and of broiled scallops brought her more fully awake. She found suddenly that she was ravenous. She sat up, tried to clear her mind, to clear away shadows. A sense of excitement lingered, a sense of power she did not want Clytey to see. Blocking, smiling at last, she gestured for Clytey to sit down.

Clytey shook her sandy hair away from her cheek and pulled up a stool. “You are pale, you . . .” Her blue eyes showed concern, then changed to unease, and she bent hastily to serve the plates. What did she sense? “You need some food, some tea. The scallops were dug this morning on Fentress.” When she looked up again, she was more in control and smiled quietly. Both were blocking, a gentle, polite wall placed between them.

Meatha sat admiring Clytey’s healthy good looks, remembering too vividly how she had looked when first they escaped the Kubalese caves, thin and ashen, sick from the long weeks drugged by MadogWerg. She supposed she had looked the same. Now Clytey was rosy and lithe—and fast becoming a young lady. Clytey had been only twelve when they came to Carriol. Now at fourteen she was nearly grown.

“Not grown enough,” Clytey said, touching her thoughts delicately. “Not grown enough so Alardded will let me dive.”

“I didn’t know you wanted to.”

“I do. Oh, I do, Meatha. He won’t let me go even to the bay of Vexin; he says I’m too young and frail. He got so angry. I’ve never seen Alardded so angry. Meatha, I’m not frail at all. You’ve seen me work the fields!”

Meatha stared at her. “That’s not like Alardded.”

“What could the real reason be? I couldn’t touch his thoughts. I’m as strong as Roth, or nearly. I’m as strong as Nicoli, even if she does train the horses. What is it about me? Oh—I’m sorry. I’m rattling on and you’re ill. I—”

“I’m all right, it’s . . . I don’t understand, either, why he won’t let you. Maybe I can talk to him, ask . . .”

Clytey’s eyes brightened, then dulled. “It won’t do any good, he’s like a rock.”

*

Meatha puzzled over Alardded’s attitude and knew she would speak to him about Clytey. Something about Alardded’s anger alarmed her sharply, though she could not imagine why. She wanted passionately now to know everything about diving, as if Clytey’s very distress had unleashed a heated flood of interest in every detail, in Alardded’s every purpose and intention.

She yearned to talk with Alardded, yet found no opportunity before he left for the bay of Vexin; she stood watching from the tower early one morning as he and Roth and Nicoli rode out, leading a dozen trained young horses and followed by Hux’s wagon. The well-trained horses led easily. It would be a different matter when the band returned leading young, untrained colts to be broken to the ways of saddle and sword and sectbow. Why was Alardded not taking Clytey, when she wanted so much to go? Meatha would have no chance, now, to ask until he returned in five days’ time.

It was mid-afternoon of the fifth day when she knew that Alardded’s party was returning home. On impulse, she saddled a horse and rode out to meet them, came upon them just at the mouth of the river Somat Cul where it emptied between marshy banks into the sea. They had stopped to mend a broken harness; and while Hux repaired the leather lines, Alardded and Nicoli and young Roth waded knee-deep in the surf, their trousers rolled up like children, laughing. The diving had gone well; they were in high spirits and anxious to be off to Pelli soon for the real dive, filled with eagerness to seek out the drowned runestone at last. She watched the three, concealing her own covetous interest in the drowned stone. They sensed nothing of her thoughts, grinned and waved at her and beckoned her to join them. Nicoli, with her legs bare and her short red hair blowing in the wind, looked no older than Roth. All three were sunburned. Roth deeply burned across his freckled nose.

A dozen young horses were tethered around the marsh on ground stakes, grazing the lush grass. Hux’s two older cart horses stood tied on long lines to the back of the wagon, grazing, too. Meatha looked with interest at the diving suit hanging to dry on the side of the wagon. It was like a big fat body, for the leather had been stuffed with cloth to keep the wax from cracking—a headless body, for the monster metal head was hanging alongside.

She wanted Alardded to tell her about the diving; but when he began to show her the journey, it was not the diving he brought in vision, but the three new waterwheels along the Somat Cul, the new grain huts nearby, the weaving sheds, the new breeding stock on the farms. Nothing at all of the diving. When they had saddled up once more, she rode alone with Alardded behind the wagon, for Nicoli and Roth had their hands full leading the strings of colts, tied head and tail to one another. At last she clenched her fist on the reins, took a deep breath, and looked across at Alardded. “Did the diving go well?”

“Oh, yes, very well.” No vision, no sense of what it had been like. His mind as closed as a clamshell.

“Alardded?”

He looked at her, his mind wary. Fear touched her for no reason, and she blocked with all her power, steeled herself to speak. “You did not take Clytey. Why not? She wanted badly to go. To dive with you. She—she is the same size as Nicoli or Roth. The suit would fit her, she—”

Alardded’s dark eyes flashed with warning. “Do not ask me, Meatha. I do not wish to discuss that.”

“But—” She plunged on despite his annoyance. “Why can’t you let her dive? What—?”

“Whether Clytey dives is not your affair. I do not like your speaking of it. This is my business, Meatha, and mine alone.”

She had never seen him like this, never seen him so unreasonable. His anger was like a tide. The sense of his mind was utterly closed. He gave her a stormy look, turned his horse, and rode away from her. She stared after him, dismayed and afraid. The fear that touched her spread, and a suspicion began to chill her. She tried to call after him and could not.

At last she kicked her horse into a gallop, caught up with him, and forced herself to speak, blurting it out before she could lose her nerve. “Would you let me dive, Alardded?”

He did not speak. His mind was like thunder.

“Would you let me dive?” She stared at him, willing him to speak.

“I will not let Clytey dive. I will not let you dive. I do not wish to speak of it. The diving is my business, not yours. You are behaving like an insolent child.”

“Oh,” she said in a small voice, “oh, but this is my business.” For now she knew that she had every right to an answer; and the knowledge terrified her. She tried to breach his shielding, pushing her power at him until his dark eyes turned on her flashing, the muscles of his jaw working as if he bit on steel.

“You take liberties, Meatha. You show the grossest discourtesy to try to breach my mind so! I am the master Seer!” He had never talked down to her before. Her face went hot-but beyond her shame, her uneasy suspicion would not let her turn away. She faced him boldly, her face flaming. “Would you . . .” Her voice came out like a croak. “Would you let Shoppa dive? Would you let Tocca, if he were old enough? Would you let—any one of us who was drugged in the Kubalese caves?”

Alardded’s silence was so complete it was as if they paused in the eye of a storm. Not a breath of air moved between them. He looked suddenly older. His eyes were filled with pain. He gave her one long look, then turned his horse away from her and did not speak nor answer her in his mind.

She sat her horse woodenly, her mind awash with the truth—with the horror of the Kubalese caves, as raw as if it had been yesterday, the feel of the cold stone where she had lain wanting only the drug, more of the drug, the cold terror when the drug was withheld from her, the sense of suffocation, of being crushed by cave walls as if they closed in on her, the terrible panic as she withdrew from the drug, wanting to lash out at the walls and run blindly, her terror of being crushed inside the cave, unable to bear the dark confinement of the cave.

Unable to stand the confinement of the cave. Driven to terror and to madness by confinement.

This was what Alardded knew. That the effects of the drug were not gone. That, given the right circumstances, panic would return. To Clytey; to herself. Given the dark, confining diving suit, given the confinement deep beneath the sea, a victim of the MadogWerg might go mad.

It was with them still, the effects of the drug, would always be with them, unseen and crippling.

She turned her horse away from die others and node back to the tower alone.