The Ring Оf Fire. The Wolf Bell

FOUR

Skeelie was stealing iron spikes from the forgeman. Ram watched her in his mind, saw her slip behind the man as he worked at the forge, slip out of the forgeshop to pile the spikes in the alley. Ram kept his mind closed from her, sneaked up behind her, surprising her so she nearly cried out, his hand quick over her mouth to silence her. She was clever as a house rat at stealing. They grinned at each other, froze as a guard went by the end of the alley, then together they carried the spikes around behind the town to the pit and down into it when the guard was turned away.

Nightmarish objects peopled the pit, parts of horses cast in bronze: heads, bodies, wings. But not nightmarish when you looked. They were beautiful, the wings sweeping and graceful, the horses’ faces filled with a wonder and exaltation that made Ram stare.

Jerthon turned the forge fire, his tunic and red hair dark with sweat. His eyes roved above the pit. He watched the guard walk away, assessed the one guard in the pit who slept against a pile of timbers, then gestured toward a heap of stone. The children slipped the spikes into a space between the stones, then Skeelie clung to Jerthon. Jerthon gave Ram a quick wink and hugged his little sister close. Ram could feel their warmth and closeness. It made disturbing feelings in him. Jerthon said, “The visions are not so bad now? You are learning to control them, Ram?”

“Thanks to you. I didn’t—I didn’t know how much I hadn’t learned, until—until you showed me. The deep blocking, the turning away from the Pellian Seer’s force. He is strong, Gredillon could not show me how strong—maybe even she didn’t know. It has helped to learn to turn away, and yet not seem to turn. . . . He looked at his teacher quietly. They had come very close, and quickly, when Ram lay so ill—possessed by the Pellian Seer. It had seemed a miracle the first time he had felt the touch of Jerthon’s mind helping him, supporting him, when he had thought he was all alone against the Pellian.

Jerthon said, “I can only help to teach you, it is you who does the hard work.” His green eyes searched deep into Ram’s. “Be careful, Ramad of Zandour. Be careful of the Pellian Seer, of how you deal with him. He would kill you—he can kill you with that power if you waver. . . .

“Yes. But I must learn from him—you know I must. I will be careful, Jerthon.” Ram searched Jerthon’s face. “Only by letting him try to mold me can I . . . can I learn to better him. There is something hidden. Something I cannot touch. The Seer quests after something, even besides controlling the power of the wolf bell. He has a great need for it and has no idea where to look. It—it has nothing to do with me, but if I could—if I knew what it was, and where. . . .” The sleeping guard stirred suddenly, and at Jerthon’s silent command the children scrambled up out of the pit and disappeared into the alley, were away quickly from that warm touch with him. He took her small, bony hand. Could feel Jerthon’s satisfaction in their silent, hasty retreat. When the guard slept again, they came out to walk innocently along the edge of the pit, just to be near Jerthon. They could see part of the wooden model of the statue, a full-sized carving Jerthon had made from which he now cast the bronze pieces. It rose behind piles of stone and timbers, its lifting wings catching at the wind as if the god and the two horses would lift suddenly and fly. It thrilled Ram, that statue, gave him a sense of wonder and space that held and excited him. He gazed down at it, standing there among the rubble of the pit, “Why must Jerthon work in a pit? It’s so—well, he is private and sheltered I guess, but—oh, I see. To block the forge fire from the north wind.”

“That, but mostly to hide the work from any chance travelers. Beyond the mound, you can’t see into the pit. Venniver is secretive about the statue, about the religion he plans for Burgdeeth. He doesn’t want questions asked. He just wants to do things his way with no one outside knowing. He—he says that when the stone and timbers are all moved out one day, the pit will be a root garden for winter food. Maybe it will. . . .” she said doubtfully. “That is a Moramian custom and not a Herebian’s way.”

“Where did he come from?”

“Venniver? From the hills along the Urobb, I heard. Down near to Pelli. He—” She turned to stare at Ram. “He has Seer’s blood, Ramad. He cannot use it, except to block. But it makes—it makes a fear and a hatred in him. Something—something twisted in him. He’s afraid; he’s afraid of the dark mountains and what lies in them. He’s afraid of the wolves. There is evil in him, and he thinks the wolves there on the mountain know and would stop him from building this town if he angered them. He thinks they prowl here at night to watch him.”

Ram stared at her. Did the wolves know about Venniver? Did they care? He could not tell. He could reach out to them, but the touch was often faint and unclear. Only his terrible stress in running from EnDwyl and the Pellian Seer had made a force that drew them so strongly. “I must go there,” he said quietly. “The power of the bell, of what is in me is stronger close to them. I want to be there on the mountain with Fawdref. He—he comes when I am afraid. But I want just to be near him.”

“He was there helping—in your mind—when the gantroed almost killed you.”

“Yes. And so was Jerthon.”

The gantroed had risen dark in Ram’s night visions to twist writhing around him, its coarse hair patched and scurvy; had coiled thick as five men, tall as a hill, its curdling cry shaking the air in waves around it. In his vision Ram had fled without volition, heedlessly trampling the living bones of men beneath his feet, careless of their screams as ribs and fingers were torn apart; and the gantroed pursued him so close its fetid breath sickened him. But then at last he could trample those dead-living bodies no longer, could not tolerate their pain, and had turned to face the gantroed; and had felt the Seer’s wrath when he chose to challenge the monster. He had brought every power within him against the looming worm, knowing this was not a dream, that he could die at the Seer’s hands, suffocated in his own bed from HarThass’s dark powers. One tendril snaked along his face cold as death. Jerthon and the wolves had been with him, pushing the gantroed back, forcing the worm until at last it recoiled. But Ram knew that he must become strong enough to defend himself alone.

Yes, Jerthon whispered in his mind. But be patient, Ramad of Zandour. The learning takes patience.

Skeelie looked at him, puzzling. “What is it you must do? That you know in your dreams you must do?” Her eyes held his as she pushed back a thin wisp of hair. “Where must you go, Ram?” She was only a little taller than he; he would catch up to her soon. “It is the mountain. But it is more than the wolves calling you.”

“I—I must go to the mountain. Yes, more than the wolves. I don’t know what. . . .” He felt it in him like a voice, something pulling from the mountain, something there in the Ring of Fire, heavy with urgency.

*

Tayba’s first night serving table in the dining hall left her frustrated and confused. She had worn the amber gown. The light apron hid very little of its clinging ways. She had bound her hair on top her head, had, Dlos said, overdressed herself. But she’d paid no attention to Dlos. “You are there to put food on the table, not to advertise your charms. He’ll know right away what you’re after.”

She wished afterward she had worn the coarsespun. Venniver’s eyes had shown cold amusement, and she’d known that Dlos was right. Her anger made her so clumsy she had spilled a tray of brimming ale mugs over three guards, drenching them, and had felt Venniver laughing at her; had been too ashamed to look in his direction.

She had gotten through the night at last, embarrassed and chagrined, to return thankfully to the storeroom. She wriggled out of the amber wool and tried to sponge the stains from it, then stood staring out the window until the wind became too cold to bear. She crawled into bed cross and uncomfortable and lay hearing the guards again, shouting as the ale spilled over them.

Unable to sleep, she flung on her cloak and began to pace. She glanced at the sleeping children and was glad they were not to awake to see her helpless rage. She stared out at the night and the empty plain, watched clouds scud coldly across the moons. What stupidity had brought her to this forsaken place? She and Ram were only strangers here, no one cared how they felt or what happened to them.

I was a stranger to EnDwyl, too, she thought suddenly. He never cared for me. I was only some virgin he could ruin in a huge joke and laugh about in the drinking halls later. And I am nothing more in this place. Nothing. I mean nothing to anyone.

Well, Ram and I have each other, she thought with defiance.

But even that thought was uncomfortable, for there were things Ram needed more than he had ever needed Tayba. I don’t need anyone! We are born alone and we are always alone and we don’t need anyone else!

She stiffened as Ram cried out, thrashing wildly and tangling his covers; she heard the wolves then, high on the mountain. Skeelie rose to go to him, calmed him, felt his face and gave him water; knelt there uncertainly then slipped back to bed at last. Tayba pulled her cloak closer and went to sit beside his cot. His face was warm; he was worse again, and so suddenly. She sat puzzling. The wolves howled again, chilling her. Ram stirred, then struck out at something in his dreams, his hand grazing her.

The wolves did this to Ram. It had been the wolves that sickened him before. He had been well, and now they had begun to howl again in the night and again he was feverish. She hated them. Why didn’t they leave him alone?

She thought briefly that it might not be the wolves stirring him so, that it might be the Pellian Seer reaching out. But she didn’t believe that. What good would it do for a Seer to reach out and sicken him? If the Pellian wanted Ram, why didn’t he send a band of warriors for him? This made her shudder; if such happened, would Ram see them coming in time to escape?

Surely he would. Surely.

No, this thing that stirred him and made him reach toward the mountain even in sleep was the wolves; the wolves howled, and he stirred and became restless. And if he should go to them, she thought shuddering, he would be helpless without the wolf bell. They could kill him. She touched his face and straightened his covers, pulled away some straw that was tangled in his dark hair. Well, she would not let him go up to the mountain. She would keep him from the wolves somehow.

*

In sleep Ram felt her touch but was swept away into darkness; and something shone out from the dark. Paths of silver crossed in a giant web. In the center, a silver spot grew larger. He fell spinning toward it. The silver grew, was a robed figure; the Seer HarThass, his arms raised, his face hidden in darkness beneath the silver cowl. Ram tried to turn away and could not move. The silver skeins bound his feet, and began to grow into snakes.

The Seer grew taller. He threw back his cape and still his face was darkness. The web of snakes was crushing Ram. The Seer cried, “Save yourself if you will! Save . . .” Seven naked men stood in the blackness, each with a knife raised to the next, terrified and waiting for Ram to direct them. “Save yourself!” The Seer showed him blood and pain, and Ram knew what he must do. The silver snakes were so tight around his chest he could not breathe. He tore at them helplessly.

“Save yourself or die, Ramad of Zandour! Make them kill!”

“I won’t!”

But he struggled for breath, and then in utter terror he willed one man to slash the next. Blood flowed; and his bonds were loosed at once. Quickly they grew tight again, and again Ram made one man cut the next. Again the bonds loosed.

“Make them kill, Ramad! Make them kill, if you would live.”

“No! No!” And he felt Fawdref then, the dark wolf grown immense to loom up before the Seer, felt Fawdref’s power lashing out with his own . . . and he woke.

Woke in the storeroom seeing Skeelie bent over him, seeing his mother, Dlos, their faces harsh with concern. Saw their relief as he reached to touch Mamen’s face. He tried to speak and could not, felt the Seer pulling at him still, felt the cold cloak of oblivion waiting so close. Felt Fawdref standing guard; then felt Fawdref waver, his power slacken as the Seer of Pelli brought the power of his apprentices too, down against Ram; felt Jerthon there standing with Fawdref, both locked against the Seer’s cold darkness.

*

Tayba touched his face; it was like fire. Dlos began to wrap him in cool, damp cloths. They were all touching him as if they could pour life into him from themselves. Skeelie whispered, “He is pulled so far away. He . . . I can’t . . .” She reached to take Tayba’s hand; and when their hands linked Tayba could see a dark vastness and see Ram spinning in its vortex as in a black river where time had no meaning. He was tumbled to a shore where the bones of dead men rose and walked.

Skeelie’s vision vanished. Tayba turned away shuddering. The little girl knelt there terrified for Ram. Even with Jerthon to help him, with Fawdref, the tides of power he touched were so dangerous. Skeelie put her arms around him, wept against him and could not stop.

But when Ram woke the next morning he was quite well, as if he had never been sick. He said to Skeelie, “I am going up into the mountain.” They were alone, she having brought him mawzee cakes and fruit.

“But—all right. But why are you?”

“There is something there, Skeelie. A wonder is there. Something—something of terrible importance. Fawdref knows. He would show me—but when he tries to, the Seer of Pelli sees, too. I will go up among the great wolves where the power of the bell will be strongest. Then—then I think I can block the Pellian’s Seeing.”

“I will steal the bell for you. I know where it is.”

Ram said smugly, “I already have.” He drew the bell out from beneath his blankets. “I got it this morning before anyone was awake. That old chest—Dlos has everything in there.” He felt comforted, very sure, having the wolf bell near.

“Why didn’t you take it before? Wouldn’t it have helped against HarThass?”

“I expect so. But HarThass wanted me to have the bell, wanted to make me do his bidding with the bell.”

“Ram, I don’t understand. Why hasn’t HarThass sent soldiers to capture you and take you to Pelli. Wouldn’t he—”

“He thinks—he thinks to train me so well I will come to him on my own,” Ram said, smiling. “It has become a game with him. Oh, he will send soldiers if . . . when he finds he can’t train me so. But not yet. He is like a hunting cat with a small creature, teasing it.” He grinned, winked at her. “Well, that small creature can turn around and bite. Only he doesn’t believe that will happen.”

They left Burgdeeth in late afternoon, thinking they would not be missed so quickly if all Skeelie’s chores were finished so no one would look for her.

“Dlos wouldn’t care,” Ram said.

“No, but your mother would. She doesn’t want you on the mountain. But she won’t follow us though. I—I didn’t bring a waterskin,” she said hastily. “There’s water on the mountain and in the caves, Dlos told me.”

“How does Dlos know about the mountain? No one goes there.”

“Dlos’s husband was a Seer. He told her.”

“A Seer? But he . . .” Ram stared at Skeelie. “I never—I’ve never seen that in her mind. How come he was here? A slave?”

“No, he was Venniver’s spy. He was the man who taught Venniver to shield his thoughts and helped him come unseen on Jerthon and Drudd and our other Seers and capture us. I was only small, but later Jerthon showed me how it was. You didn’t . . . Dlos blocks very well. I suppose she learned it from him.”

“But he—I can’t believe that Dlos—she wouldn’t have “

“She knew what he did.” Skeelie pulled her cloak closer against the sharp breeze. “Dlos loved him in spite of his treachery. She couldn’t stop what he did. I think she—she was almost relieved when Venniver killed him. They had disagreed about something, and Venniver grew angry and killed him. She felt—it’s awful to say, but she felt he was better dead than a traitor, selling his own people into slavery.”

“Still she loved him though,” Ram said.

“Yes.”

Ram frowned. “That is why Dlos has such sadness. Her humor is all on top, hiding the sadness.”

The shadows spread out from the boulders in dark misshapen pools. It was a game to slip from one shadow to the next and keep boulders between them and Burgdeeth. Ram said, “What do you mean, Mamen won’t follow us? If she finds me gone, she. . . .”

“She won’t come this night.”

“Why not? Oh yes, she will. You don’t know how she hates the wolves. What are you grinning about?”

“She won’t come tonight, Ram.”

“You’re shielding. Why are you shielding? What. . . .”

She was grinning fit to kill and wouldn’t let him in. At last she said, her face reddening, “She won’t come this night. She’ll be busy with Venniver. He is planning a supper for two, in his chambers.”

He frowned, turned away, and was painfully embarrassed. “I see.” At last he turned to look at Skeelie. “How do you know? You can’t—Venniver is nearly impossible to See! His mind is—he blocks. You can’t. . . .”

She seemed to find it all very funny. “I didn’t See. I overheard him in the corridor. I was—borrowing—some linens from the cupboard. They don’t give the slaves anything! And I heard him telling old Poncie what to make for supper and how to serve it and . . .” she fell into a fit of laughter, “. . . and to bring new, scented candles. Oh my, how elegant. She won’t follow us tonight, Ram.”

He didn’t think the thing so funny. “How do you know it’s for her! Maybe a slave—”

“He doesn’t have special supper for slaves,” she said. “You have to admit, he has looked at her. You told me yourself you caught his thought once and. . . .”

“Yes. All right.”

“And she—”

“All right!” He was really angry. “She must have been busy these last three nights. Parading herself.”

“Yes. And he was busy looking.”

They left the plain and began to climb between steep black cliffs, a narrow way that would lead to the heart of the mountain. Ram could feel the sense of the wolves, knew they were waiting.

And he could feel another power well beyond this mountain, somewhere in the sea of wild peaks that spread out into the unknown lands. A power that made him stare off toward those lands, wondering and eager.

*

They had been scrubbing down the sculler and kitchen, Tayba and two old women. The other three had taken sick and, she thought crossly, were probably lying in luxury in their beds listening smugly to the clank of buckets. She was sweating from the hot water. Tendrils of damp hair hung in her face. She had slipped out twice to look for Ram, wanting him and Skeelie both to help, and had found neither. The kitchen smelled of lye soap. They must start supper soon. Where had Ram gotten to? He wouldn’t hide from work. Nor would Skeelie. She couldn’t understand her unease, like a voice whispering. As if she knew something, but did not know it. It is nothing. They are all right. What makes me so edgy? It’s nerves. Stupidity. But when Dlos came with clean rags and she had not seen them either, Tayba began to listen to the voice.

“Not anywhere, Dlos? Not near the pit?”

“I was just there. They’re all right. What could happen to them?”

“They could go to the mountain,” Tayba breathed softly, staring across at the two old women. “They could—Dlos, I know he has!”

Dlos studied her. “And what if he did, child?”

“They—the wolves made the sickness in him. I am going after Ram! I am going up the mountain!”

“You cannot go alone, you wouldn’t know where to search,” Dlos said scornfully.

“Yes. I . . .” She saw Dlos looking past her, and turned.

Venniver was standing in the doorway. He came into the kitchen. “You will clean yourself up,” he said quietly. “Dress yourself in something besides that coarsespun. I don’t want to dine with a kitchen drudge. Poncie will prepare our supper.” He glanced toward Poncie, who smirked. “Well, get moving woman, dress yourself in something pleasant to look at, you know you’re to take supper with me! What are you doing scrubbing the kitchen!”

“No one told me—Poncie said—”

“I don’t care what Poncie said. I’ll deal with her! Now . . .”

She tried to speak calmly and could hear the tremor in her voice. “Please.” She drew herself taller. Of all nights for Ram to wander off. “Please—my child is lost. I must find him. I will take supper with you tomorrow night. Willingly.” The two old women, who had scuttled into a corner, began to giggle.

“Lost child! What do I care for a lost child!”

“Just—just for tonight. I would rather be with you. He’s out there alone in the night. I can’t . . .”

Scowling, he pulled her close, hurting her, stared at her with fury. She looked back at him directly. “I will not be pleasant company tonight, Venniver.” She held his eyes, willing him to listen. Why tonight of all nights? Why had Ram . . . just when Venniver had finally noticed her. “Let me go to find my child,” she breathed, “and tomorrow night I will come to you, Venniver.”

“I care nothing for any child. I care nothing for your problems.” His fury terrified her. But then suddenly he seemed really to see her. A cold smile touched his lips. “But I care for a woman with enough spirit to say no to me. I’m sick to death of silly, terrified females,” he said, glancing in the direction of the slave cell. “All right, go on, woman! Get yourself out of here!” He spun toward the door, leaving her free.

“Wait!” she said evenly.

He turned back, his eyes burning through her.

She swallowed, then said boldly, “I want a horse. I want a horse to use, to search for Ram.”

“You want—what?”

“I want a horse to search for my child. I will need a horse to cover any ground, to find Ram, to keep from getting lost in the night.”

“Great fires of Urdd!” He turned back toward the hall. She stared after him, her courage sinking. He would leave her there unanswered, defeated. Behind her old Poncie laughed quietly and cruelly. Tayba stood clenching her fists, then heard him bellow suddenly, “Mardwil! Mardwil! Get this wench a pack animal. Be quick about it! Put a saddle on it and bring it around to the sculler!”

She went weakly out of the kitchen, the taste of bile coming in her mouth. She hurried through the sculler into the storeroom, searching for Dlos.

Dlos was in her little room kneeling before the painted chest that stood at the foot of the cot, her short hair askew, her square, wrinkled hands hastily replacing folds of linen and wool—she seemed not to be thinking of Ram at all. She looked up at Tayba. “It is not here.”

“What is not? This is no time to—”

“The wolf bell,” Dlos said. “Ram has taken the wolf bell.”

There was a long silence while Tayba stared at her. The wolf bell? But he could not have taken it from here. It had been lost on the plain—or EnDwyl had . . . And then she understood. “Oh! It was you! You took the wolf bell from Ram. You—”

“I took it from the child where he lay beside the river. I hid it in this chest, but Ram—Ram is a Seeing child.”

“The wolves . . . Ram could be dead by now.”

“The wolves will not harm Ramad. They will not harm one who holds the power of the bell.”

“What do you know about the bell? You can’t be certain. Ram’s only a child. And look how sick he’s been. The wolves caused his illness, they . . . maybe they made him come to them.”

“The wolves caused no illness. And they will not harm Ramad. Ram is more than a child, young woman. There are things you cannot deny such a one as Ram.”

“Perhaps,” Tayba said, unable to cope with her. The guilt Dlos made her feel was ridiculous, she had no reason to feel guilt. “I must go after him,” she said shortly, turning away toward the door.

“I will go with you.”

“There is only one horse.”

Dlos stared at her angrily. “How would you know where to search, alone up there! Not that search is necessary. However, perhaps it will do you good to face those wolves, young woman. Now if you can get one horse, however you managed, you can get another.”

So when Mardwil brought the pack pony, Tayba went back with him and helped him saddle another, against his will. “Venniver said only one,” the man grumbled.

But she defied him, got the horse at last and led it back to the sculler, where Dlos had the first animal’s pack tied on and was already mounted. She tied on her own pack, and soon they were above the town. Dlos said, “How did you manage to get horses, young woman?”

“I asked Venniver for them,” Tayba said quietly.

Dlos stared at her, then looked away.

They could hear the river far on their left. The horses wanted to move slowly in the dark and shied at the looming boulders. Dlos slapped her mount and dug in her heels, and the animal settled into a pulling trot. Dlos handled her horse well, seemed to know what she was about. It was like the old times with Gredillon, when the older woman had taken charge and Tayba had only to follow. Gredillon had said once, with fury, “You must learn to do for yourself, girl. You can’t expect to follow someone else ail your life.” Tayba had been tempted to reply, I did for myself to get away from my father, to keep from being sold like a prime ewe, didn’t I? But she had thought better of that remark.

Now she eased herself up off the jarring trot, with one hand on the horse’s withers, and looked ahead to where Ere’s moons threw a wash of light across the peaks above them. They were making good time on the rough ground, would be among the peaks soon. The air grew colder, the wind cut down at them. Fissures on the mountain shone black as the moons rose higher. She pulled her cloak tighter around her. Where was Ram in this black night, in the immensity of those mountains?

Dlos kicked her mount into a gallop across a flat, unbroken stretch, and they pulled the animals up at the far edge to rest among boulders. The jagged peaks rose directly above them, dark with shadow. Wolves could be watching from anywhere. Tayba watched Dlos dismount and hobble her horse, then did the same, for the horses could go no farther up the steep, narrow ways. Tayba thought of climbing into that mountain on foot and shivered. “Who’s to say the wolves won’t kill the horses while we’re gone?”

“No one is to say that. We must simply pray the wolves—that they will leave them unharmed.”

They began to climb in among the cliffs in shadow black as death. “There are caves above,” Dlos said. “Do you have your lantern?”

“I have it.” Tayba followed the sound of Dlos’s footsteps until the old woman struck flint to tinder, illuminating the stone walls and low ceiling of the first cave.