The Ring Оf Fire. The Wolf Bell

SEVEN

“But I only went into the street! You were out there, Venniver! Wolves couldn’t hurt me with you there.”

“Wolves were in the street! They could have killed you!”

“But they didn’t kill me.”

He stared at her with helpless fury. She had never seen him so angry. “Those wolves were devils, disappearing and—and the arrows didn’t . . .” He began to sweat. “For all I know they were straight out of Urdd, come down from the fires of those cursed mountains! You hadn’t any business out there! Why were you there, you—”

“I told you! I just wanted to see, I just—you know I didn’t go far into the street, you can see I scratched my leg running back, falling on the steps. . . .”

“I can see you scratched your leg.” He stared at her suspiciously. “Next time—next time stay in here. I don’t want you eaten by wolves.”

Already it was growing light, the night gone in chasing phantoms. Old Semma had brought tea and bread and cheese. Tayba had just poured out the steaming dark brew when a guard came pounding. Venniver rose, furious, to fling open the door. “What the tracking Urdd do you want!”

“There are timbers missing, a whole pile of them. They were—there must have been twenty there in the pit. Not just a few this time. They—”

“Where in Urdd do timbers go? What in the Urdd—well, get out and look for them. There ought to be tracks. Get on out of here.” Venniver slammed the door, threw on his cloak and went out. Tayba could hear a good deal of shouting and swearing outside. When he returned at last, his mood was so black he yelled at her for no reason. She snapped back at him, but was greatly amused at his fury—and quite pleased to know something Venniver did not. Though why timbers would be missing was a puzzle. “What difference does it make, a few logs?”

‘The point, my dear Tayba, is who took them? And why? Where in Urdd,” he said with cold fury. “Where does someone hide timbers? You don’t slip timbers into your tunic! And there’ll be so damned many wolf tracks and hoofprints from last night we’ll never—those wolves! Those fracking damned wolves!” He stopped speaking to stare at her. “There couldn’t be a connection!” he said, puzzled. He began to pace, whacking at a chair as he passed.

“Could—could the guards have miscounted, forgot someone moved them?”

“If Pennen miscounted, I’ll have his ears on a stick!”

She shivered, thinking of last night in the pit, of that line of silent men carrying the timbers into shadow. What was it all about? And Ram had been a part of it, surely, had used the wolves to distract Venniver and his guards while the timbers were moved. And Jerthon—he had stood watching her so intently, had caught her unguarded, looked at facets of herself that—that did not exist. That were none of his affair!

Well she was certain of one thing. She was not going into that slave cell again. Not where Jerthon could study her once more. She would not subject herself to that. She watched Venniver until he stopped pacing and turned to look at her and saw her rising color. His temper faded. She said sleepily, “Must I—must I take food to the slaves today? It is such a bore.”

He scowled. “It only takes a few minutes.”

“But it—I don’t like going there. It’s smelly, for one thing. All those unwashed bodies. And—and I don’t like the guards so—well, so familiar,” she said carefully.

He stared. “What do you mean, so familiar?”

“They—it’s the way they look at me,” she said softly. “They—as if they’re thinking things.”

He roared. ‘That better be all they do, is look!” His laughter was raucous. “You can’t blame a man for looking—But if they do more than look . . .”

“One did once. He touched me.”

“Which one?” His fury flared, frightening her. He was suddenly, passionately, jealous.

“I don’t remember which, I never look at their faces. I just walk behind them to that damnable cell . . . Couldn’t someone else take the food? Couldn’t just the guards take it? Why must a woman . . .”

“It’s not a man’s work; it’s demeaning for guards to carry food to slaves. It’s a privilege for you; it’s part of the rituals of Burgdeeth, you know that. And, my dear Tayba, it is also a sign that I trust you.” He took her chin, turned her face to him. “I can trust you, Tayba?”

She stared at him boldly. “If you could not, Venniver, what would you do?”

“If I found I couldn’t trust you, my dear Tayba, I’d lock you in the slave cell.”

She caught her breath; her eyes blazed with anger.

He burst out laughing. “I like you when you’re angry. I like to see fight in you. You’re a fiery, beautiful creature.” He stared at her as if he could never get enough of looking.

Later she said softly, “May I stop carrying food to the slaves?”

“Great Urdd! Yes, all right!”

*

It was some nights later that she stole the hidden key to Venniver’s books, lit a lamp, and seated herself boldly at his desk. She didn’t understand why she wanted suddenly to see what was written in those locked volumes, but she had hardly been able to wait until the sound of hooves died as Venniver and Theel rode out to hunt the stag. She had become, in the last days, obsessed with the books. Had watched him, while he thought she dozed over her wine, take the key from behind a tapestry, fit it into one of the locks, and quickly enter some accounts. She felt almost as if something unheeded inside her directed her to take up that secreted key.

She scanned dull pages of accounts, of crops and materials, until she came at last to a book marked, Edicts and Commandments of the Gods. She pulled the lamp closer.

Here were the laws that would rule Burgdeeth when the town was opened to craftsmen and their families come up from the coastal countries seeking a new way of life. Well, she thought, her eyes widening, they would find a new way of life all right. More than they ever planned.

Venniver had woven a whole religion for Burgdeeth to live by. Temple services, special prayers and festival days. Special taboos. Women could not touch a horse, except Landmaster’s wife. There were laws of contrition, laws against all kinds of sinning. But all couched in beautiful prayers and rituals. His writing was compelling. He was clever at shaping intricate ceremonies that would fascinate men: would soothe and entrap them, make them want to obey.

Only slowly would Venniver’s laws take shape. Only slowly would the religion unfold itself. But at last a generation of people carefully bred to his commandments would live in Burgdeeth. People who had made themselves slaves willingly, in the name of his religion. People who would bow before gods they thought demanded human sacrifice, before Deacons who would burn Seers, burn little children and even babies if they were born Seer, in alarming and compelling Temple rituals.

A religion of terrifying cruelty, couched in righteousness. A religion that made the birth of a Child of Ynell the mark of the whole town’s sinning. A religion, she thought, that would steal over men’s minds slowly, artfully, to hold them trapped in false beliefs. He painted with strong words. He was a leader few would resist, had a power that appalled and excited her.

She sat shivering, thinking of the rich web of commandments and ceremonies, then started suddenly and turned as if someone had spoken her name in the empty room, stood up and drew on her cloak, needing suddenly and desperately to be with Ram. She hurried out into the dark, empty corridor and along it to the storeroom to find a lantern lit, and Dlos bending over Ram. Tayba caught her breath, knelt beside him, shocked. He was so very white. He was awake but unaware of them.

“He woke screaming,” Dlos said. “Rose up in bed flailing against something, crying out.”

“What—what did he say?”

Dlos looked at Skeelie. The child’s eyes were huge and frightened. She said, “He thinks—he said HarThass would see him die first. Just that.” She shivered. “I don’t—I can’t . . .

Tayba put her arm around Skeelie, pulled Ram tight to them, trying to warm him. “We must help him. Something . . .” She turned to look at Skeelie. “A Seer! Could a Seer help him, Skeelie? Could . . .” She caught her breath at her own raging madness. “Could—Jerthon?” Her hands were trembling.

“Jerthon is helping him,” Skeelie said quietly. “Jerthon is . . .” She stared at Tayba, searching for something in her face. “You don’t—Jerthon, all our Seers, are holding against HarThass. They—it is not enough. HarThass—the powers are balanced. Only—I think only you can help now.”

“But I—I can’t . . .” She was almost dizzy, so faint. “What—what about Fawdref? Doesn’t Fawdref—”

“Fawdref, all of them, hold HarThass away. Even wolves need help,” Skeelie said patiently. “The bell—there is power in the bell itself. You—” she was crying. “You must take the bell to the mountain. There is magic in closeness. If the bell could be close, it would draw Fawdref and Ram together, close where your own power can strengthen the bond, not here where Ram is too sick to reach out. Jerthon—Jerthon waits to see if you will do this for Ram.”

“To see—what did he think I would do! What did he . . .” She rose, furious, snatched up her cloak, took the wolf bell from Skeelie in a whirl of temper; did not stop to wonder what Skeelie meant about her power. Ran away up through the gardens, out onto the plain in the night hoping Venniver’s hunt was not near, wishing she had a horse and not daring to go back. She stumbled over boulders, wrenched her leg, ran up the empty plain pulling her cloak close against the wind.

The night darkened as the moons dropped. Her sandals were torn and her foot bleeding. Anger, and fear for Ram, flayed her on like a beaten horse until she came at last to the first peaks.

She swallowed the fear that lay like gall in her throat, and held up the bell, thought of Fawdref in a desperate, tearing cry of silence.

*

In the slave cell Jerthon, Drudd, Runnon, Pol, and young Derin sat unmoving, their evening meal untouched, every breath concentrated on quelling HarThass, on lifting Ram, holding Ram safe. Drudd’s broad shoulders hugged the shadows beyond the flicking light of the candle. Little Derin, the only woman Seer among them, hunched small and nearly lost in darkness, her red hair pushed back under a knotted cloth. Jerthon scowled, feeling Tayba facing the mountain, seeing her distress and fear. You’d think—didn’t the girl—why did she deny the power in herself? Deny it now in Ram’s need when the two forces hung, evenly matched, with Ram’s life balanced between?

He felt Tayba move uncertainly toward the cliff. Why was she so hesitant? He reached out, came into her mind to force her, to push his own call for Fawdref into her. She must be made to cry out to the wolves, to use the power of the bell in Ram’s name. To command the wolves’ greater strength. He paused, lifting his hand, then dropped it in his lap. She was so stubborn. And why did she stir him so? Why did a woman whose selfish desires ruled her, who could think of little but her own passions, stir him like this? Her selfish needs were the only urgency she knew; and yet her hidden, unwanted power was so fine. Was she going to let the stuff of her mind reach out now to help Ram, or was she going to stand there like a strictured ewe, staring stupidly at the damned mountain?

Ram lay dying, couldn’t she . . . Ram, whose mind could open like the sweeping winds; the boy would one day be a Seer without peer. Already he wove patterns so intricate even Jerthon had trouble following. Ram could not die, the child who had clung to Jerthon in terror when the Seer of Pelli tore at him, who lay balanced now on an abyss of such peril. Ram who had woven the images of wolves into the night air and made Venniver’s guards follow them. Jerthon looked across at Drudd, thinking angrily, He will not die this night. He will not.

But Drudd stared back at him coldly. “You should have slipped out of the tunnel and taken the bell yourself. She is not reliable.”

“She will call Fawdref. She—Ram is her child . . .

“She doesn’t care enough. She cares for Ram, but not for what he is. She does not care that to lose Ram would be to jeopardize—Ere itself. That means nothing to her, would not if you told her.” Drudd scratched his bearded cheek irritably. “The damned girl is a danger. To you, to Ram, to us all. And she will defeat all we’ve worked for. You wait and see. The statue . . .”

“We can’t argue now, we haven’t the strength for it. There is something in her, something—she has power, Drudd.”

“She has a power better left alone. She doesn’t want it. If you force her to it, we will all be sorry. There is betrayal in her. This plan—four years breaking our backs for it, and she could destroy it She stinks of betrayal like a bad cheese.”

Pol looked at Jerthon, his thin freckled face showing alarm; and Jerthon turned at once to the business at hand, felt the Seers of Pelli forcing in stronger, felt Ram’s breathing falter. And Jerthon locked with HarThass in a straining hold of powers, weaving tangles of empty darkness to distract and confuse the Pellians, conjuring black holes in space beyond the Pellian’s powers to balance . . .

*

Tayba crawled up the cliff’s side, crying out in fear and desperation to Fawdref. Her hands and legs were bleeding. She groped upward onto cliffs like black abysses above her, holding the bell, protecting it from harm. Her desperation for Ram was terrible. Fawdref must come. He must help. She could not command the bell. Would her desperate need be enough? And then suddenly she felt a force surrounding her, pressing upward with her as if she battled shoulder to shoulder with others. She felt her own strength and the strength of others as one, forcing back the darkness, shattering the desolation. She felt their power together—all of them—holding Ram, making Ram live; pushing the cold Seer back.

She stood on a summit calling out, commanding Fawdref now; and knew she was one with Jerthon and the Seers. She did not question; felt her own power rise in her in a surge that brought tears . . .

And as she began to move upward again, clinging to stone, the boulders above her moved, and a bloodcurdling cry broke the night. Fawdref stood above her, his golden eyes on her. His voice terrible and powerful, his wild cry vibrating across the breadth of the night.

The pack was ranged around him on the cliff. Sentries stood out at either side. Fawdref started down the cliff toward her. He was an entity to himself, a ruler here; she was nothing. There was no gentleness in him now, as he had shown with Ram. She wanted to turn and run wildly and uselessly, was sick with fear as he moved catlike down the cliff; felt his disdain for her. He looked at her coldly, with contempt.

She felt Jerthon urging her, supporting her. Fawdref paused on the ledge above her. Her hands shaking, she held up the bell, then knelt in the wolves’ symbol of submission, the bell a talisman thrust up to him. She made a picture of Ram, of his fever and weakness; and she knew that Fawdref knew too well, saw all of it; she felt the wolf’s heavy power as he battled with the dark forces alongside Jerthon, felt his cool command of her, felt again that sense of many forces poised in an intricacy of balance that she could not comprehend; knew that somehow she was the fulcrum on which they waited, that now she alone could tip that balance, in bringing the power of the bell close, in augmenting Fawdref’s strength, in giving of that power in herself that she had so long denied. She clutched the bell in a cold grip, swung between terror and wonder. And suddenly Fawdref’s howl filled the night, stunning her anew. The pack wolves echoed, their voices shaking the wind, opening a vast realm. She felt Ram reach out to her in desperate need. She felt something within her rise up in surging power, saw spaces open and tumble, break around her in terrifying vastness. She felt her own power come whole and strong at last. It terrified her. The wolves cried out, touching stars unborn and souls unmade in a powerful animal lament. In raw prayer they were linked, all of them, and infinity vibrated in the wolves’ howling voices; infinity twisted inward into something larger than infinity, and she was part of it, she spoke beside Jerthon and Fawdref to command a vastness of space that left her breathless as they tore life from the cold realms of the dying to give it back to Ram.

And in the tumult, suddenly, Ram whispered.

His whisper stilled them like a shout. The wolves waited, heads lifted. Ram spoke fuzzily—then he shouted out in all his fury at the Pellian Seer, shouted with sudden, terrible strength.

She could feel the Pellian fall back, she could feel life fill Ram, feel the Seer turn away into blackness. In defeat.

She stood up, reached to touch Fawdref’s muzzle. The wolf came down to press against her, nuzzle her. She laid her hand on the broad dome of his head. He looked up at her and grinned a fine wolf grin, amused and cruel. Very knowing. Then he turned away from her in one liquid movement and slipped up into the night. He vanished, the pack vanished; and she stood alone high on the black cliff.

*

Ram rose from his bed and stood looking toward the mountain, sobered after his close brush with death. He could not feel Fawdref with him now, could not feel Tayba, though he was filled with wonder at her sudden power unleashed, a power so long hidden. And he knew that already it was becoming a dream to her, that in a few minutes more she would have convinced herself it had never existed, that what she experienced had been Fawdref’s doing, and Jerthon’s.

He returned to his bed very tired and curled up to sleep, warm under the blankets that Skeelie drew over him.

The slaves ate a little of their cold meal, then slept too—all but Jerthon. He could not sleep, but lay in the dark cell thinking of Tayba. Why did she deny what she held within her? Selfish, Drudd was thinking drowsily. Jerthon closed his mind to Drudd. But it was true; if she admitted to such a power, then she must align herself either with good or with evil. And if that choice were for good rather than evil, she would not be able to pursue her own whims regardless of their consequences. Not when she could wield such power over others. A selfish, small view of the world she took, he thought with fury.

It was a waste to ignore such power as hers. It angered him. He felt Ram, half waking, probe in with childlike curiosity. Why do you care? Why, Jerthon? Why do you care what Mamen does?

It is a waste, Jerthon repeated. Such power ignored is a waste.

I see. Ram slept again, only puzzling a little at what Jerthon held back from him, an interest in Tayba that was not purely one of righteous anger.