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

ONE

The mare’s wings slashed and turned the wind. Ram clung to her back with effort, his fingers twisted in he mane to keep from falling, his blood spilling down across her shoulder. She lifted higher and the wind hammered at him; her wings tore light from the sun so it fractured around him, confusing him. He was hardly aware of the land below, blurred into a tapestry of green by her speed; was unaware of the river Urobb just beneath them and of the sea ahead. The bay and islands lay sun-washed, the towering stone ruins, but he did not heed them or the newly tilled farms, the herds of fat cattle and horses, did not see the carts going along the newly made roads toward the ruins to trade, was conscious only of pain, of sickness, of the raw agony of the sword wound in his side.

The bleeding increased. He loosed one hand from the mare’s mane to explore the wound, then bent again dizzy, hugging her neck to keep from falling. Only her mane, torn by wind to slash across his face, jerked him from unconsciousness. He pressed his arm tight to his side to staunch the blood.

The mare’s wings spanned more than twenty feet, her dark eyes swept the sky and land constantly. Her golden coat caught the high, clear brilliance of the sun, her ears sharp forward and alert. She was no tame creature to come to a man’s bidding, she had leaped from the sky of her own free will to lift Ram from the midst of battle, a dozen winged horses beside her sweeping down to lift the battered warriors from a fight that had turned to slaughter, so outnumbered were they; a battle they might have won had their Seer’s powers not been crippled so the attack caught them unaware, the Herebian hordes surging through dense woods a hundred strong against their puny band.

The mare lifted higher now. Light filled her wings like a golden cloak surrounding Ram, light ever moving as she soared then angled down. The fields rolled beneath him sickeningly; he went dizzy again, and she warned him awake with cool equine concern; then she dropped suddenly and sharply to meet the cold sea wind, dove through the wind in swift flight supporting Ram with the strength of her will—then folded her wings in one liquid motion and stood poised and still on the rim of a stone balcony high up the sheer side of the temple of the gods.

Ram slipped down to the stone, his mind plunging toward blackness, and felt hands catch him. He saw a flash of gold as the mare leaped aloft; then he went limp.

He woke swearing and flailing, thinking he was in battle, imagined men dying, could smell their blood. He was drenched in blood and sweat. He came fully awake at last, thrashing among the sweaty bedclothes. The wound in his side was a screaming pain. His bandage was soaked with blood. He felt hands lift his shoulders, saw white fingers around a cup. He swallowed the bitter draught gratefully, stared into Skeelie’s thin face for an instant, then dropped into sleep again like a stone, spinning down in deep water.

Skeelie stood over him scowling, shaken to see him hurt like this, grateful that he did not lie dead on some bloody battlefield. How many times had she stood so, wretched within herself at Ram’s hurt? Ever since they were children so long ago in Burgdeeth, ever since that first time when he had been found unconscious from some strange attack, the great bruise on his head, the wolf tracks all around him and he left untouched by wolves. And the dead Pellian Seer lying near. She had nursed him like a baby then, a big boy of eight, near as big as she. And she had loved him then on that first day; but with a child’s love, not as she loved him now. For all the good it did.

She was a tall girl. Her long, angled face, her dark hair pulled into a careless bun, her wrists protruding from her tunic sleeves made her seem gangling and awkward, though she was not. She stood praying to whatever there was to pray to that Ramad would not die. Half her life had been spent trying to heal the fool’s wounds. Only when they were children the wounds were not often so simple as those from arrow or sword; they had been wounds of a mind lashing out from darkness to contort Ram’s spirit and nearly drive him mad. She touched his shoulder gently, laid her hand on his cheek, a thing she would hesitate to do if he were conscious. “You will not die, Ramad of wolves! You can not, you must not die!”

Above the sea wind she heard shouting voices then and turned from him to stand in the cavelike window to see flocking across the sky a dozen more winged horses. They swarmed down, the second wave of rescuers, diving through the sea wind to sweep onto the balconies below her, then stand quietly as their wounded were helped to dismount. She watched with clenched fists, sick at the slaughter their men had endured, and behind her Ram came awake suddenly shouting, “No gods! There are no gods!” Then came to himself and hunched up on one elbow wincing at the pain, stared straight at Skeelie, and growled, “Do you think I can lie here all day with nothing in my stomach, woman! Get me some food!” His red hair boiled over his forehead like the fires of the mountain itself.

“You can’t eat solid food with a wound like that. ] brought soup, there beside you on the shelf.”

“I want meat! Get me some meat, Skeelie! I haven’t eaten for two days!” He glared at the soup then pulled closer and began to eat ravenously.

She went out, relieved at his stubborn strength, went down four stone flights to the great kitchen, among the clatter of women preparing poultices and herbs; she put cutlets to fry bloody rare and dished up some baked roots. Catching Dlos’s eye where the older, wrinkled woman was hastily passing out bandages, she saw Dlos’s concern for Ram, and grinning, put down her own concern. “He’s cursing me and shouting for food.” She saw Dlos’s relief, then turned away. The kitchen was a hive of activity. She poured milk, then carried the mug and warm plate up to him as quickly as she could—and found him asleep again.

She sat beside his bed waiting for him to wake.

The first time she had ever brought him food, when they were children, she had fed him with a spoon like a baby. His red hair had been dyed black then, to disguise the Seer’s skill that ran like fire in his veins. The swollen wound on his forehead had been meant, certainly, to kill him: his pursuers, if unable to take him captive, would surely have killed him. She could hear the sea crashing below, and a slash of afternoon sun caught across the foot of his bed; and all of an instant time seemed to flow together. The light-washed cave-room seemed one with the cobwebby storeroom where she had tended Ram so long ago, the two times seemed one time, the child Ram and the man he now was lay sprawled as one figure on the cot; she was as much a skinny frightened girl as she was a woman grown, no less afraid for Ram then than she was at this moment. Her hands shook. Then, seeing him wake, she reached for his plate, very practical suddenly, and began to cut his meat.

As his eyes lifted to her face, she felt the dark around them pressing at them, and she knew too well the presence of the dark Pellian Seers, their minds intruding unseen into the room. How she hated them: she sent hate back at them with a vehemence that at last drove the dark back until only a chill remained. She felt a brief fleeting satisfaction in that small power she had wielded; for her own skills were as nothing compared to Ramad’s.

The dark had grown so strong. It was the same dark that had gripped and twisted Ram’s mind when he was a child, only then it had been the Pellian Seer HarThass who had wielded it. Now, with HarThass dead, the strength of the dark had so increased under BroogArl’s manipulations that it was a new and terrifying force over Ere, a force dedicated to Ram’s destruction and to the destruction of all like him. The black Pellian’s powers twisted and crippled the Seers of light now as never before. Made Ram’s skills, the skills of the Carriolinian Seers, next to useless. An incredible force that blocked the Carriolinian skills so they could seldom, now, speak in silence even one with the other. They rarely had foreknowledge of the fierce Herebian attacks as hordes swarmed over Carriol’s borders to rape and burn and steal. Carriol’s Seers were little more sensitive now to the forces around them than was any ordinary man. Only occasionally did BroogArl’s powers abate for a few precious moments so their light was restored, like a sudden rent in the cloud-shrouded sky.

Ram ate ravenously. The wound seemed to make no difference to his hunger. She wished he had not bled so much; he was very pale. She took his empty plate at last and stood staring out again at the town, while behind her he stirred restlessly, thrashing the covers. Partly from the pain, she knew, but already wanting to get up. If he would just lie there sensibly and let the wound heal . . . If she were closer to him, close in a different way, perhaps she could bully him into taking better care of himself. Perhaps. She scowled, annoyed at her own thoughts, and stared distractedly down at the street, where the wounded were being led and carried to their homes. The most critical would be lying in rooms in the tower where they could be doctored more easily and drugged against the pain. The stone sill beneath her hand was smooth from generations of use. This tower had seen so much, the lives of the gods who had dwelt here, the lives of the winged horses of Eresu and of those Seers who had come here for sanctuary in ages past: for in no age had the Seers of Ere been ignored by common men. Revered, yes. Worshipped and given rule, or driven out and killed as emissaries of the fire-spewing mountains, driven out so they came for sanctuary to the cities of the gods. Innocent Seers blamed for the fires of the earth, just as the gods had been blamed. And always there were evil Seers, too, revered by the ignorant and feared so it was easy for them to retain rule.

But never Seers left to themselves. In times past, only in the three cities of the gods had the gentle Seers found sanctuary from their evil brothers and from human ignorance.

She caressed the smooth stone sill, and again a sense of Time slipping away gripped her so strongly she shivered. Suddenly she was very afraid, afraid for Ram—as if Time wanted suddenly to pull him into its wild vortex as it had done once when they were children. She turned to stare at him, stricken, was terrified in a way she could not understand. Where did this sudden sense come from of such danger? And, this sudden sense of someone reaching out to Ram with tenderness? Someone . . . She, Skeelie, was not a part of this.

Down on the street many of the wounded were beginning to come out again from doorways, their fresh bandages making pale slashes against sun-browned skin. They came toward the tower, came haltingly together beneath Ram’s window, stared up at his portal, and their voices rose as one, supportive of him and vigorous, “Ramad! We want Ramad!” They shouted it over and over; then they began to sing Carriol’s marching song, Carriol’s song of victory, “. . . beyond the fire she stands unscathed, beyond the dark she towers . . .”

Their voices touched Skeelie unbearably. This handful of men loving Ram so, loving Carriol so they must gather, wounded and half-sick, to sing of Carriol’s victory—to reassure Ram of her victory. Skeelie heard Ram stir again, and turned expecting to see him rising painfully to come and stand beside her, to join with his troops.

But he had not risen. He lay looking across at her with an expression of utter defeat. “I can’t, Skeelie. Tell them that I sleep.”

She stared at him, shocked and chilled. Never had he refused to support his men, to cheer them when they were discouraged. Below her they sang out with lusty voices of defeating the Herebian, sang a song as old as Ere, as heartening as Ere’s will was. For always had the Herebian bands laid waste the land, and always had men risen to defeat them. Renegade bands plundering and killing, and little villages and crofts fighting back. Though in times past the Herebian lust for cruelty had been simpler, for the dark had not ridden with them as it now did. In times past the Herebian bands had attacked the small settlements and infant nations, done their damage, been routed and weakened and moved on to attack elsewhere. Now all that was changed. Now the dark Seers led the Herebian hordes, and Carriol must defeat them, or die.

If ever Carriol should lie helpless before the Herebian tribes, the Pellian Seers would come forth to rule Carriol and to rule every nation of Ere. If Carriol and her Seers were defeated, it would be a simple matter indeed for the Pellians to manipulate the power of the small, corrupt families that dominated most of the other nations, manipulate the lesser, corrupt Seers there, and so devour those nations.

The singing voices rose to shout of victory; and when the last chorus died, its echo trembled against the ever present pounding of the sea. Ram’s men stood looking upward waiting for him to appear.

‘Tell them I sleep, Skeelie, can’t you!”

“He sleeps—Ram is sleeping . . .”

“Wake him! We want Ramad! Wake Ramad!” Indomitable, hearty voices. Indomitable young men needing Ram now in their near defeat, in their aloneness and their repugnance of the dark that had stalked and crippled them so unbearably. Needing their leader now; but Ram only sighed and turned in his bed so his back was to the portal.

“I cannot wake him, he sleeps drugged for the pain . . .” She felt Ram’s exhaustion, felt his inexplicable despair as if it were her own.

The silence of the men was sudden and complete. Skeelie stared down at them, sick at their defeat, and behind her Ram’s voice was like death. “I can’t, Skeelie. I think—I think I don’t believe any more.”

She turned to look at him.

“I’m tired. I’m tired of all of it. Do you understand that?”

“No, Ram. I don’t understand that.” She looked down at the men again, wanting to reassure them and not able. They began to sing simply and quietly, pouring their faith into words that might soothe Ram’s sleeping spirit. Ram did not stir at first. But after a few moments of the gentle song, the gentle men’s voices, he could stand no more gentleness; he stirred angrily at last and threw the goathide back.

She supported him haltingly as he made his way toward the portal, then leaned heavily upon the stone sill. The men cheered wildly, laughed with pleasure at his presence, then went silent, waiting for him to speak. He was white as loess dust. He stood for a long moment, the blood oozing through his bandage. She thought he would speak of failure. She trembled for him, trembled for Carriol. How could he lose hope? He must not, they were not that close to defeat. These were Herebian bands, rabble, they fought. Rabble! She watched him with rising dread of the words he would speak to his men as he leaned from the stone portal.

He shouted suddenly and so harshly that all of them startled. “Yes, victory! We are men of victory! We are a nation of victory!” They cheered again and stood prouder as if a weight were lifted. Ram’s voice was surer now. “The dark is ready for the grave! We will geld the dark, we will skewer the Pellians and bring such light into Ere as Ere has never seen!”

They went wild. “Death to the dark ones! Death!”

When at last they had released Ram, stronger in themselves, healed in themselves, Ram returned to his bed to lie with quick, shallow breathing, so very white. She sponged his forehead and smoothed his covers and could do nothing more. He lay quietly, staring up at her. “I have no idea in Urdd how we could skewer even one Pellian bastard, let alone pour light on what that son-of-Urdd BroogArl has wrought!” He closed his eyes and was silent for so long she thought he slept. Then he stared up at her again, his green eyes dark with more than physical pain, with a pain of the mind. “Something—there is something grown out of the Seers hatred into a force of such strength, Skeelie. Almost like a creature with a will of its own, it is so powerful.” He turned away then. But after a moment, “A power . . . a power that breathes and moves as one great lusting animal, Skeelie! That is the way I see the powers of the Seers of Pelli now.”

She wanted to comfort him, wanted . . . but she could not comfort him. It would take another to comfort Ram. She stood washed with uncertainty. Could they defeat the Pellian Seers who ruled now the dark rabble hordes? Could they—or did Ram see too clearly a true vision of Carriol’s defeat?

No. He was only tired, sick from the wound. Pain made him see only the grim side. She reached involuntarily to touch his cheek, then drew her hand back. She wanted to hold him, to soothe him in his pain of body and spirit, and she could not. Only another could do that.

And that other? He might never know her. Lost in another time and in another place, Ram might never know her. Skeelie turned away from him, furious at life, seeing once again that instant when she and Ram were swept out of time itself and Ram had looked, for one brief moment, onto the face of another and had been lost, then, to Skeelie forever.

When she looked back, he had risen and sat stiffly on the edge of his bed, seemed to be thinking all at once of something besides his pain and his own defeat. His look at her was pain of another kind. “Has there been no word of Jerthon? It is nine days since he rode to the north.” He said it with a dry unhappiness that was like a worse defeat.

“He—no word. Nothing.” A whole band out there fighting Kubalese troops and no message, no lone soldier riding back to bring news, no message sparking through Seers’ minds to soothe Carriol’s fears and to inform. Surely farms had been ravaged, captives taken, crops burned and farm animals driven across Carriol’s western border into Kubalese lands.

Were there, then, no surviving soldiers? With the Seer’s skills so destroyed by the dark, it was hard to know. Had Jerthon . . . oh, Jerthon could not be dead. Her brother could not be dead.

“No message? No news, no sense of the battle, Skeelie? Can’t you . . . ?”

“Nothing!” Skeelie snapped. “Nothing! Don’t you think I’ve tried! Don’t you think we all have!”

“But you—Tayba has the runestone. Hasn’t she . . .” But then his frown turned suddenly from Skeelie toward the door, changed to a look of concern, and Skeelie turned to look.

Tayba stood there, handsome even in faded coarsespun, but her dark hair wild, her cheeks pale. There was fear in her expression and something of guilt. Ram rose at once, catching his breath at the pain, and went to his mother’s side. “What is it? You . . .”

“Joheth Browden brought a woman and two children in from his little farm north of Folkstone.” Her voice was shaking. “Brought them in the wagon. They—they were nearly starved and they—they have been mistreated. They escaped from the Kubalese, but before—before that they . . .” She seemed nearly unable to speak. “Before that, Ram—they escaped from Burgdeeth.” She stopped, was almost in tears. Her dark hair lay tangled across Ram’s arm. She swallowed. “Those little girls saw their nine-year-old sister burned to death. Burned, Ram! Burned in Venniver’s fire! In Venniver’s cursed ceremonial fire!” She pushed her face against Ram’s shoulder so her voice came muffled. “It has come, Ram. A child has been burned alive. The thing we dreaded . . .”

Skeelie stared at them, her fists clenched, feeling Tayba’s awful dismay, and Tayba’s shame. Her own emotions were so confusing and unclear.

Tayba had been Venniver’s woman, in Burgdeeth. Tayba had nearly killed Ram, her own son, and nearly killed Skeelie’s brother Jerthon, too, with her treachery. If she had behaved differently, Venniver would be dead now and there would be no ceremonial fires, no children dying. Burgdeeth would be free and not ruled by a false religion. Tayba was suffering all of it now again, all the guilt and terror from those days, flooding out. “We thought to stop it in time,” Tayba whispered. “And we have not. A child has burned. A child—a Seeing child . . .”

Ram spoke at last, his voice strangely cold. “We have always known it, Mamen. We have always known it would come.” And then, bitterly, “We did not know our Seers would be blinded and unable to know when it was to happen.”

Skeelie stood watching them dumbly, then at last she pushed by them out of the room and went down the twisting stone flights to the kitchen.