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The Shattered Stone [calibre]

FROM THE REVIEWS

Of The Ring of Fire:

“An intricate adventure story with appeal for fantasy lovers.” --ALA Booklist

“Murphy's artistic talent is evident as she paints with words a lavish tapestry of the forces of good and evil in her fantasy land of Ere.” —Bookrags.com

Of The Wolf Bell:

“An adventurous tale full of action and suspense.” —ALA Booklist

“The enjoyable tale rises above the pack on the strength of the author's unique and compelling ‘warts and all’ portrayal of Tayba, a multifaceted, real, and fascinating woman.” --School Library Journal

The Shattered Stone

by

Shirley Rousseau Murphy

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 1977, 1979 by Shirley Rousseau Murphy

All rights reserved. For information contact webmaster@joegrey.com. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only, and may not be resold, given away, or altered.

This is the first of two volumes containing the Children of Ynell series. It includes The Ring of Fire and The Wolf Bell, and is followed by The Runestone of Eresu, which includes The Castle of Hape, Caves of Fire and Ice, and The Joining of the Stone.

Atheneum edition of The Ring of Fire (hardcover) published in 1977

Avon edition (paperback) published in 1979

Atheneum edition of The Wolf Bell (hardcover) published in 1979

Avon edition (paperback) published in 1980

Ad Stellae Books edition, 2011

Author website: www.joegrey.com

Cover art © by Corey Ford / 123RF

CONTENTS

The Ring of Fire

Part One: The Curse of Ynell

Part Two: The Runestone

Part Three: Fire Scourge

Part Four: The Luff’Eresi

The Wolf Bell

Part One: The Bell

Part Two: The Wolves

Part Three: The Stone

About the Author

The Ring of Fire

Part One: The Curse of Ynell

The mountains were jagged and black, a circle of volcanic peaks a hundred miles across. No man of Ere ventured far into them, or knew what lay beyond. Ere’s eleven countries crowded at their feet, pressed in by the empty sea and by the barren high deserts to the west; beyond the mountains were the unknown lands. Or perhaps nothing lay beyond. The countries of Ere were Cloffi and Kubal; Urobb and Carriol and Farr; Pelli and Sangur and Aybil and Zandour; and on the edge of the high deserts where life was barely possible, Karra and Moramia.

The history of Ere was violent with raiding and with war, just as the mountains themselves were violent sometimes in their eruptions of lava and fire that would spill across the warring nations, when the gods were angered.

In the old times it was the Herebian tribes who killed and tortured and took slaves, who hung the heads of their enemies from the center poles of their bivouac camps. But since the Herebian had formed themselves into a nation, driving out farmers and herders from a hilly section and naming this land Kubal, their warring had become less frequent. The eleven nations lay quiet: Ere was poised in a time of peace; though dark Kubal humped in eternal threat there between the borders of Cloffi and Urobb.

It is Cloffi where this story begins.

High up the mountain, above Cloffi’s three cities, lay the little herd village of Dunoon, its pastures scattered like green velvet among the black lava ridges. A small nest of freedom. Dunoon, maintaining stubborn truce against the tyranny of the Landmasters of Cloffi who ruled the nation below.

ONE

Thorn readied an arrow against the string of his sectbow and searched the moonlit mountain above him. The guard buck stirred again, restlessly. Wolves, likely, moving in the darkness of the lava crags. And yet the herd’s unease was different than when they faced approaching wolves. The buck’s spiralling horns caught the moonlight as he shifted nervously. Thorn tried to see movement in the dark images cast by the moons but nothing stirred.

Finally the buck settled and turned to grazing. Thorn lowered his bow, keeping the arrow taut with one hand. Below him the village slept. He moved stiffly: his body still pained him from the beating he had taken. He scowled as he looked down past his own village to the far lights of Burgdeeth: the larger town lay so steep below he could have spit on it. “Goatherd!” The three boys had shouted, taunting him. “Goat dung burns on your hearth!” No older than he, strapping lads they were for all their city ways. “And your mother’s a fracking brood milker!” He had piled into them, had fought well enough until the six red-robed Deacons dragged him away to beat him with a ceremonial staff, at the Landmaster’s direction. The townsfolk of Burgdeeth had crowded into the square to smirk and whisper, remembering their own beatings, Thorn supposed, so taking great pleasure in his.

Ere’s two moons hung low in the sky, washing their light across the eleven nations. The dark smudge in the south would be heavy cloud lying over the far sea. He watched the river Owdneet slip rushing down the mountain past his own village, then past Burgdeeth, and on toward the two more southerly Cloffi cities. The buck stirred again; a doe bleated; Thorn could hear the hush of tall grass disturbed. He turned quickly, but saw no shadow move. The animals acted as if something alien were there above them, yet they did not show fear; nor did they bellow the quick challenge the Dunoon goats were famous for. One buck muttered softly, then was still. Thorn stared up at the shifting, moonwashed clouds riding above the mountain and felt a familiar eagerness grip him, a longing for the sky that, though forbidden, he would never quell. Once again something stirred, he took a breath—then his blood went cold as a tall man stepped silently from the shadows and stood staring down at him. He had come without sound; Thorn’s sect-bow sought the man’s middle; the moonlight shone full on him, a slim, well-made figure. But old; his hair white and shorn close to his head. His eyes, in the moonlight, looked yellow.

The man came silently toward him, disappearing in shadow then appearing again. He said no word, but Thorn divined a sense of urgency about him, and when he challenged the stranger it was almost reluctantly. “How did you come here? What do you among our herds? You do not come from Burgdeeth, I would have seen you climb the mountain.”

“I came from there,” he said, pointing to the jagged crags, “along the mountain from the east. It is a lonely way. I like the loneliness. I have come seeking you, Thorn of Dunoon.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your name came to my thoughts just as the scent of rain speaks on the wind. I sensed it, long ago. I could not have done so had you not possessed the gift for which I search.”

“What gift?” Thorn said, stiffening.

The stranger paused and studied him. “I search,” he said slowly, as if weighing his words, “I search for those with the gift of seeing. I search for the Children of Ynell.”

Thorn stared, his blood turned to ice: to pronounce a man a Child of Ynell was to condemn him to die.

“In Cloffi they call it the Curse of Ynell,” the old man said. “I do not call it that. But you have the true gift, Thorn of Dunoon, as surely as I stand before you.”

How could this man know such a thing? Yet Thorn could not refute it. The gift of seeing had come on him three times in his life, without warning, though it was inaccessible when he would try for it.

“I think you do not know, yourself, the strength you have within you.”

Thorn looked deep into those disturbing yellow eyes and said nothing.

“Oh yes, I know how it is in Cloffi. I, too, have read the Edicts of Contrition. I know that the Gift of Ynell is considered a sin without redemption. I, too, have seen the Children of Ynell dressed in rags and filth and strapped across the backs of donkeys and carried up the mountain to the death stone. But I do not come to you to carry word of your talent to Cloffi. Nor to ask anything of you—not yet.”

“What commerce would you have with me, then?”

“I come seeking the runestone of Eresu. And the spark for that stone is in you, young Cherban, for surely it is that spark that has led me here. I seek the lost runestone, a shard of jade of great power. There is a taut linking between it and you, a strength I can almost touch. Do you not know the stone, have you never seen it?”

“Never. I don’t understand what you speak of.”

“It is a stone that will bring the true gift of seeing strong in one who holds it, if such gift is in the blood. You are Cherban, red-headed Cherban. So was Ynell. And so are many of the true Children. A stone greener than Karrach jade, greener than your own eyes, and hidden here in the north of Cloffi, it is sworn. Hidden in a dark place.” He glanced above him at the mountain. “In the caves of the ruined city of Owdneet, perhaps. Or perhaps not.

“The stone can grant a great power. And the time to wield that power may be soon, for there are rumors across the land that Kubal may soon be on the march.” The old man’s gaze was flinty, with a strength Thorn liked.

“We have heard one such rumor,” Thorn said slowly. Then, “You know I would be killed in Cloffi for what you have just said of me.”

The old man lay a hand on Thorn’s shoulder. “I said I would not tell your secret. Why do you think I came secretly, and not marching up through Burgdeeth in the middle of the day, past six Deacons and the Landmaster and that staring populace? But remember, Ynell had the power and found it nothing to be afraid of. Ynell knew joy all his life.”

“The Cloffi tale of Ynell does not tell that, old man.”

“No, but my tale does. And so does yours, the old Cherban telling. The Cloffi tale has been altered by the Landmasters to suit their own desires.”

“Tell it your way then. Let me hear it,” Thorn challenged, for few knew the story. He had never heard that it was told outside of Dunoon—except perhaps in far Carriol.

“It is an ancient tale, as old as the tribes of Ere.” The old man seated himself against a stone outcropping, and a doe came to muzzle at his pack. He fondled her ears and spoke to her until she lay down at his feet; the moonlight caught across her pale spiralling horns and bleached his hair whiter still.

“It came that Ynell, while tending his goats, saw the grazing covered with darkness as if the sun had gone from the sky. In the sun’s place was a movement as of hundreds of dark clouds, and Ynell was sore afraid. He kneeled, and the blackness above him writhed and shifted. His goats bleated in terror and ran away down the mountain.

“Then one ray of sunlight touched Ynell. A crack had been cleft in the darkness, and he could see what the darkness was. And so wild was Ynell’s amazement that he forgot his fear as a hundred winged gods descended to the field beside him.

“Now the field was bright with sun, and the sunlight shone upon the gods. They were the colors of saffron and otter-herb and evrole, and the leader stepped forward. ‘Be not afraid, Ynell of Sap Vod,’ He spoke not with words that Ynell could hear, but with words that rang silent between their two minds. And the god said. ‘You are the first, Ynell of Sap Vod. The first who can speak with us in our own way. You are born blessed. You may come with us and dwell in our cities.’

“And so Ynell went with the Luff’Eresi, and he dwelt with them, and he served them, and he was blessed for all of his days. He flew on the backs of their winged consorts through the endless skies, and he saw all the lands, and the men below him. He heard men’s thoughts, and he knew their sorrows, and he knew their fleeting joys.”

The old man ended the story and sat silent, his head bent. Then he looked up at Thorn. “Ynell was the first. But there have been others with the sight. The Landmasters of Cloffi fear them. The Kubalese fear them, too, perhaps even more at present, if Kubal is preparing for war. Tell me what you know of the lone Kubalese who has come to live in Burgdeeth. Why is he there?”

“They tell in Burgdeeth that he has come to improve his skill at iron working. He is apprenticed to the Forgemaster. It’s true the Kubalese are clumsy smiths, but it seems strange. The Landmaster of Burgdeeth seldom allows an outsider to bide overnight, yet this man, Kearb-Mattus, he is called, has lived in comfort at the inn all summer. My father does not trust him, nor do any of us.”

“Your father is Goatmaster of Dunoon?”

“Yes, my father is Oak Dar,” Thorn said, pondering the old man’s knowledge. Then he added, “It is said that the widowed inn woman of Burgdeeth finds the Kubalese companionable, but that is only gossip. And that would be no cause for the Landmaster to make him, welcome.” He studied the stranger and felt the man’s calm sureness. “Why would the Kubalese fear the Children of Ynell if they plan war?”

“Those with the sight could fathom their plans and could spread warning, might even thwart the Kubalese intentions. With the runestone,” he added softly, “that might well be made to happen. With the runestone, more might be saved than you can guess.

“It is said the stone will be found by the light of one candle, carried in a searching, and lost in terror. That it will be found again in wonder, given twice, and accompany a quest and a conquering. That is the prophecy. A shard of jade that was part of a stone as round as the egg of the chidrack, a stone that was split asunder by a great power. And each shard bears the runes of Eresu and the power of Eresu. With the runestone, Thorn of Dunoon, one would have the true sight which is in him—which has touched you three times in your life.” A hint of longing lit the old man’s stern face. “One who holds the runestone will touch the sky one day.” Thorn started; the old man had known what no man could have known; of the three visions certainly—but had he only guessed at Thorn’s longing for the sky?

The stranger’s look turned dark. “The stone’s power would demand much of one. In weak hands, it could surely be turned to evil.”

The old man took his leave at the first hint of dawn, as the star Waytheer set on the horizon, following in the wake of the two moons. No one else in Dunoon saw him, nor did he go down through Burgdeeth. He went back up the mountain, losing himself almost at once among the outcroppings as if he knew them better than the wolves who roamed there.

Before the stranger turned away, Thorn said, “Will you tell me how you are called?”

“I am Anchorstar.”

“And do you go now to the caves above Dunoon, to search further?”

“I will search to the west of Dunoon, on into the unknown lands,” Anchorstar said, making Thorn start. “You, Thorn of Dunoon, will search these crags well enough. When we meet again, perhaps the stone will link our two hands,” he said, placing his hand over Thorn’s for a moment, then turning to fade into the shadows.

Thorn gathered the goats in a preoccupied manner and came down the mountain. He was quiet all through breakfast. His father looked at him quizzically, for Thorn was not usually so silent. His mother gave him an anxious glance. His little brother Loke was too busy planning how to spend the silver he would earn on market day to notice Thorn’s preoccupation.

All day his thoughts were troubled by the old man, and by the thought of the runestone; and when evening came he stood staring absently down over the land, only to turn every few minutes to look up the mountain as if Anchorstar would reappear—though he knew that would not happen. He watched the river Owdneet lose its sheen as the sun sank. Its foaming plunge down the mountain always sounded louder in the silence of dusk. The thatched roofs of his village shone pale in the last light, and smoke from the supper fires rose on the windless air. In the east, Ere’s two moons tipped up low against the hills that bordered Kubal. Thorn could hear the younger children splashing in the river behind him. The mountain dropped away, the eleven nations at his feet; and the sky swept up in vistas that towered and breathed above him, that stirred in him the longing the old man had seen, that terrible longing for the sky that was forbidden as sin in Cloffi. Darkness came briefly, then the land was lit by the rising moons.

*

Down the mountain, in Burgdeeth, the thatched roofs were struck across with black chimney shadows, and the cobbles gleamed like spilled coins in the moonlight. The stone houses, crowded close, had been shuttered against the night air. Beyond the houses, the Husbandman’s cow and chicken pens were a tangle of fence stripes; the patchwork of housegardens appeared as intricate as a quilt, plots of dill root and love apple and tervil, of scallion and mawzee and charp all shadowed patterns in the slanted moonlight.

Beyond the housegardens stretched the neat whitebarley fields of the Landmaster; and such a field, too, separated the town from the forbidden joys of the river—though the Landmaster’s private Set, in the clearing in the woods south of town, had a fine view of the water. Next to the Set, the dome of the Temple shown white, rising alone into the sky. And behind the Temple stood the burial wall, with one small grave open, gaping.

TWO

Zephy sat alone in the deep loft window, four stories above the town, its pale, thatched rooftops washed with moonlight, and black shadows picking out doorways where the buildings crowded close along the cobbled streets. The cool wind felt good after the heat in the fields. She stared south past the houses to the gaping grave in the burial wall. Nia Skane’s grave. In the morning before first light, Nia would be sealed into that wall to stand forever motionless in death.

How could such a quick, bright child, even if she was only six, have fallen from a tree so simple to climb? One minute alive, her blue eyes seeing everything; the next minute death. Zephy shivered and remembered how she had tried to turn her attention away from the viewing services that had been held that afternoon. The open plank coffin with the little body strapped to stand forever upright. The light of the sacred flame playing across the dead child’s face in a mockery that made her seem to be listening to the Deacons’ Plea of Supplication that Nia’s spirit dwell with the gods in Eresu. Zephy felt a dismal uncertainty. Would Nia really dwell in Eresu? To question the edicts of the gods is a sin. To pry into the ways of the gods is to sin.

Nia’s death had focused all her questions into a painful rebellion; she stared up at the mountains above her: Eresu lay deep behind the peaks, the very core of the Ring of Fire. The very core of Ere’s faith, the core of life itself.

Clouds blew across the moons so the sky was a place of shifting images. She stared above her, searching, but she could never be sure: were there winged forms sweeping behind that shift of clouds? Or was it only blowing clouds? She sighed. To truly see the gods would be wonderful—though other Cloffa didn’t yearn so. They simply accepted the edicts, did as they were bidden, and had no time for the sight of wings: a good Cloffa didn’t yearn after things forbidden. But twice she had seen the gods’ consorts, the flying Horses of Eresu; far off, indistinct, and almost as wonderful as seeing the gods themselves.

Behind her, the loft was brushed with moonlight, the sparse furnishings, the two cots, the chest, the few meager clothes hung on pegs. Shanner’s empty cot. Her brother was still out, dallying with a girl again in the moonlight. Well, what could you expect? Let Shanner get a girl pregnant, that would fix him. Cloffi’s Covenant decreed marriage for such, and the Cloffi Covenants did not yield. She tried to imagine her brother married and settled to the stolid Cloffi ways. Wild as Burgdeeth’s young men were, once married they changed completely to dull, obedient, settled men as Cloffi custom decreed.

And for a girl, the quicker pregnant and married the less the trouble she was to the town. A woman was a vessel and a creature of duty, the Covenants said, commanded to submit, commanded to fulfill her role as servant of the Luff’Eresi, and of man, with humility and obedience. Zephy scowled. I’ll be servant to no man. And if that makes me sinning, I don’t care!”

“You’re not docile enough,” Mama said often. “You’ve had not one offer of marriage, Zephy, and you’ll be grown soon! What will you do if no man wants you! And no one will with that bold tongue in your head. And that bold stare! Look at you! And not only in this house. You stare at the Deacons too boldly, you look at everyone too boldly. And you say things—you . . .”

Tra. Eskar did not have to say, if you don’t marry, there’s only one place for you. Zephy knew that far too well. But to go into the Landmaster’s Set as a serving maid—never. And Mama knew she could never. The girls who went there to live were docile as pie. She could never be like that, nor would want to.

Grown girls, not allowed to stay in a Cloffi city unmarried, must go into the Set or were banned from Cloffi to make a living as best they could in some other country, though few girls left Burgdeeth. But, there’s something else to life, Zephy thought rebelliously. Something besides plant and hoe and weed, cook and scrub. Become a woman, put on a long skirt under your tunic, and be some man’s servant forever!

Not until this summer had she felt the agony of Cloffi’s binding ways so bitterly, nor rebelled so at Cloffi’s rules, and at the way Mama prodded her about them.

Was it because she was growing up that she was suddenly so crosswise with Mama? They had never been before. Or was it Mama? Maybe the gossip about Mama and the Kubalese made Mama at odds with everything, too, though she would never admit it. Zephy reached out with her foot, snagged Shanner’s blanket from his cot, and drew it over the sill to wrap around herself. Her brown hair, tumbled half out of the knot she pinned it into to work in the fields, shone tangled in the moonlight. Under her hearthspun nightdress she was as slim and lithe as a bay deer. There was a smear of dirt across one ankle, and a long scratch from mawzee briars down her arm. She pushed back her heavy hair, then stopped abruptly, her hand half-lowered—there were torches being lit at the Landmaster’s Set. She could hear men’s voices on the wind, and the faint jingle of spurs and bits. They weren’t out to hunt the stag on the night of a funeral!

But they were. She could see six riders coming up from the Set with their sectbows. Well, what was a dead child’s funeral to the Landmaster? A girl child—less than nothing.

In spite of her disapproval, the clatter of hooves made her yearn to be down there, mounted on that plunging steed in place of the fat Landmaster. The Landmaster’s pudgy daughter, Bagriba, sat her gelding like a sack of meal. Only Landmasters’ women were considered clean and allowed to ride a mount. A common girl could drive her donkey or lead him in the fields, but never straddle him, and must never touch a horse. For the horse was a creature that shared in a meager way the sacred image, and so shared its holiness, too. For woman to touch a horse was to blaspheme that which was akin to the gods.

“You could ride to the hunt if you married the Landmaster’s son,” Meatha had said once. “No other girl cares about horses the way you do, you would be . . .” Zephy had stared at her until Meatha broke off in mid-sentence. Her friend looked innocent and serious, her pale-skinned, dark-haired beauty framed by the greening mawzee stalks. “Elij will be Landmaster one day. A Landmaster’s wife—”

“Like marrying a trussed-up hog from Aybil!” Zephy had snapped, thinking Meatha meant it. “Besides, why would he want me!” Though sometimes she had caught Elij Cooth staring at her so strangely she became uncomfortable. Then she saw the laughter in Meatha’s eyes, and they collapsed together in a fit of mirth.

“Besides,” Meatha had said at last, “you’ll marry no man of Burgdeeth, neither of us will.”

The hunt was below her, the horses’ hooves striking sparks on the cobbles. The quick jingle of spurs made a fire in her blood. Elij, tall and blond, was having trouble with his horse, which had begun to shy and stare behind into the shadows. Zephy looked back down the street as two figures stepped out from an alley, glanced toward the hunt, then turned away as if the riders did not exist. The boy dangling the jug and walking unsteadily was Shanner. You might know! With the Candler’s oldest daughter again. Elij steadied his horse and laughed. “Swill the moons, Shanner, my boy. What do you feel for in those dark alleys! Does she feel up good, is she warm and soft on this cold night?” There was a roar of laughter from the hunters. Crisslia’s face would be red. Zephy felt embarrassed for her, though she didn’t like her much. Shanner must be drunk as a lizard to be so silent. Sober, he would have charged out to pull Elij off his horse, the fight ending in laughter.

Kearb-Mattus, the dark Kubalese, sat his horse silently, watching the episode with contempt. How elegantly he was dressed for a hunt. You’d have thought he was riding in a festival, the dark heavy cape the man wore flowing out over his saddle. The wind caught at Zephy’s night dress so she drew back. When she looked again, the Kubalese was smoothing his cape carefully. What was tied under it behind the saddle to make such a lump? Maybe it was a sling for the stag they hunted. The hunt moved on, and Shanner and Crisslia were alone on the street. Shanner stepped across the gutter, pulled the Candler’s door open roughly, slapped Crisslia on her backside, and was gone before she got the door closed. Zephy watched her brother come up the inn’s steps, heard the wrench of the door that would never close quietly, and could picture Shanner glancing at their mother’s door that faced the inner entry as he began to climb the stairs. Then she sat looking at the empty street, feeling a mixture of uncomfortable emotions she could not name or sort out.

The dallying of the boys—and most of the girls—was common enough. Why did it upset her so? Maybe it was the attitude of the boys, Shanner’s attitude. She felt a sudden surge of satisfaction at the black eye Shanner had earned testing young Thorn of Dunoon. Sometimes her brother was too arrogant even by Cloffi standards. Dunoon boys were not so self-important as the boys of Burgdeeth. Nor did they play so loose with their girls. They were laughed at in Burgdeeth, made fun of for their reticent ways. Well, Dunoon boys fought well enough all the same. There was a long black welt across Shanner’s cheek, and his lip was cut and swollen. Zephy thought of the beating Thorn had received in the square, fighting the Deacons, and her blood rose hot with anger. Her hatred for the Deacons had increased this last year too; though she had never loved them. She could see Thorn’s face, closed in cold fury as the Deacons struck him.

The Landmasters of Burgdeeth set little store by the goatherds of Dunoon, yet they must be tolerated or Burgdeeth would have little meat. The people would be living on old hens and an occasional rooster, and a meager few dairy calves tough as string. That, and the garden produce, which was the staple of Cloffi, of course. The Dunoon goat meat, rich and fine-grained, was a delicacy that Zephy suspected went on the Landmaster’s table more often than on the tables of the town. She fingered Shanner’s soft blanket woven of Dunoon wool and felt suddenly, for no reason, that without the knowledge of Dunoon, of that one free village on the mountain, life would be dull indeed.

When Shanner came up the ladder, ducking his head away from the slanting ceiling, she was sitting very straight in the moonlight. He hated that, hated her to watch him come in late. He was drunk. He staggered toward his cot, gave her a long resentful stare, slipped out of his pants and jerkin, snatched his blanket from her, and lay down wrapped in it with his hands behind his head. “Why aren’t you asleep? Why do you have to sit in that window and spy? Curiosity felled the Farrobb tribes, little sister.”

She couldn’t help but grin. Even drunk and angry, Shanner could charm the feathers off a river owl. “You’d think,” she said slowly, reflecting, “you’d think the Landmaster would wait a day to ride to the hunt, with Nia Skane’s burial tomorrow.”

“Go to bed,” he roared. “You can’t help the dead by mourning. Why do you take on so! Why is it always something? Why can’t you just leave things the way they are? If he wants to hunt, so let him!” He rolled over, sighed, then growled, “No man wants a wife who doesn’t know her place,” and was asleep almost at once. The stink of honeyrot filled the room. Zephy stared at him indignantly.

She slid down from the sill at last, satisfyingly chilled, and padded across the cold floor to her own cot. She fell into it, almost dead for sleep, and she slept at once.

*

The cry of the vendor brought her awake. “Roasted marrons, hot saffron, buy my marrons and brew.” The rumble of the coal and bittleleaf wagons from Sibot Hill could already be heard and the squeak of water carts coming from the river. She knew, guiltily, that she had dreamed and lay in the darkness wrapped still in a sense of wonder; she wished she could remember the dream, but only a tide of glory remained, slowly deflating as she worried that somehow the Deacons would know she had dreamed.

But that was silly. She rose, lit the candle, glanced at Shanner, still snoring, then washed herself in the icy water from the blue crock. She bound up her hair, dressed in her everyday tunic, and, carrying the candle, started down the ladder to uncover and feed the kitchen fire before Mama should rise.

The sculler opened off the kitchen and was the first room to catch the morning sun. The round wire basket of the mawzee thresher glinted in the brightness. The stone walls of the sculler were lined with shelves that held crocks of mawzee grain, some of yesterday’s loaves, a bowl of charp fruit turning golden, and some oddments of tools and jugs and crockery. Zephy knelt by the low stone ice safe, opened its drain and let it drip into a bucket, then took off the lid of the safe itself and settled the bittle-leaf packing tighter around yesterday’s milk bucket and around the crock of meat. Outside the sculler window, the Trashsinger called and began a tune Zephy loved. She sang it with him softly, “Jajun, Jajun, come to the winter feasting.” She longed to reach down her gaylute from where it lay atop the cupboard, but to play it this time of morning when she should be doing her work would only anger Mama, and she guessed she’d done enough of that lately. She got her milk pails from the sculler and went through the kitchen, then the longroom, where one of the chamber girls was setting out plates on the tables. In the entry she passed her mother’s room, heard her stirring, then pulled open the heavy outer door.

The street was busy though the sky was barely light. Wagons were unloading at the Storesmaster’s and water buckets were being filled. She tried not to think that the Deacons had already buried Nia Skane, in darkness, and were probably, even now, mortaring the stone that would seal her in forever. No one seemed to remember it, the town was far too busy with its morning chores.

By noon she had finished her work in the sculler, hoed the charp bed where weeds seemed to spring overnight, and packed Shanner’s noon meal to take to him in the forgeshop. She paused outside the doorway to the shop, for she could hear Shanner and the Kubalese apprentice arguing loudly. She heard the bellows huffing and saw the firelight flare up and saw the shadows of the two facing each other as the Kubalese mocked sarcastically, “What do I care what they say in the street! What do I care what the old women prattle—Kubalese in the Inn woman’s bed!” He laughed harshly.

“Well I care, you son of Urdd! I care for my mother’s name!” Shanner, usually in charge of a situation, was far from collected now.

The Kubalese’s voice was as cold as winter. “Like it or not, what have you to say about it? It’s none of your affair and none of your sister’s, either. If she doesn’t stop that nasty tongue, she’s going to get more than she bargained for.”

“She speaks less pointedly than the gossips on the street, Kubal!”

If it were a Cloffi man their mother was friendly with, people wouldn’t talk so. But a Kubalese. Though the men of the town found Kearb-Mattus pleasant enough to drink with, laughing around the longtables at the Inn. And the Kubalese was handsome, Zephy had to admit. He seemed more alive than Cloffi men, somehow, so that women often turned to stare after him. But there was a violence about him, too, something underneath the charm that made Zephy uneasy.

“The girl upsets your mother, boy. She thinks to mind grown-up business.” Then he laughed, seemed jovial suddenly—changeable as a junfish, he was. “Needs some ardent boy in her bed, that’d change her view of the world.” Zephy’s face went hot at his rude talk. “She’s not such a bad looking child, fix her up a bit. They’re right good before they’ve had other hands on ’em—shy and goosey as a wild doe on the mountain. And those dark eyes—too bold for a Cloffi man, I’d wager. Eyes like her mother,” the Kubalese said and roared with laughter.

Zephy dropped Shanner’s dinner basket by the door and fled.

The first time she had been teased about the Kubalese and Mama, she had gone into the sculler in tears, with terrible thoughts about Mama. And she had found Mama waiting, her brown eyes dark with fury, so Zephy knew she had heard the baiting.

Comely, her mother was, and slim, and she could look beautiful. But when she scowled, a storm seemed to crack around her. She had stood blocking the door between sculler and kitchen, her brown hair escaping from its bun and her hands floury from making bread. Zephy had stared back at her, dreadfully ashamed of the gossip—and ashamed of Mama.

“So you believe what they say in the street.”

Zephy couldn’t answer, could not look at her.

“Did you ever think they could be wrong! Did you ever think it could be lies!” There was a long pause, uncomfortable for Zephy. “It’s time you thought, Zephyr Eskar.” Then, seeing Zephy’s chagrin, Mama had taken her in her arms as if she were small again, pushing back her hair as she used to do.

The last time Zephy had heard remarks in the street, she had stormed in through the heavy front doors of the longroom only to face Kearb-Mattus, standing in the shadows, and she had not been able to keep her temper, and flown at him in a rage, screaming childishly, “No one wants you here. Leave my mother alone!”

The Kubalese had stared down at her, his dark eyes expressionless. Then he had caught her by the shoulder so hard that afterward it was bruised. He held her away, his words soft and menacing. “Whatever I do, pretty child, whatever I intend to do, it’s none of your affair. Understand me?” The threat in those soft words had chilled Zephy so she hung rigid, gaping at him, a black loathing and fear sweeping her. Wanting to hit him and afraid to and unable to pull away.

“Now come on, pretty little thing”—he had brought his face close to hers, his black beard like a bristling hedge—”Come on, pretty little child—Ha! Temper like a river cat!” He had roared with laughter, spit collecting on his lips.

When at last he let her go, she had whirled away from him and up the stairs to the loft, where she had burst into tears of helpless fury. Her tears were seldom of hurt, but rather of rage at something she was powerless to change.

Mama said once of Kearb-Mattus, “All the children in Burgdeeth follow him. How can you say he’s cruel when they all like him so. The children wouldn’t—”

“Sweets, Mama! You know his pockets are full of cicaba candy and raisins. He gives them sweets for their attention. Besides, it isn’t all the children! Nia Skane won’t have anything to do with him.”

“You’re not being fair, Nia is . . .” Mama had stared at Zephy, then finished lamely, “Well, most of the children like Kearb-Mattus.”

“Nia is what?”

“She . . .” Mama had faltered. Zephy had looked at her evenly. “She . . . oh, Zephy, Nia’s different, she’s a child that . . . she’s just different.”

“Different because she doesn’t run with the other girls her age and do all the stupid things they do? Different because she doesn’t giggle all the time? Different, Mama? Different like me and Meatha?”

And now . . . now Nia Skane was dead.

THREE

Thorn glanced at the yellow ball of sun halfway up the sky. The day was beginning to grow warm. He had been skinning out two wolves; they hung red and naked from the eaves as he began to stretch their thick-furred hides across the hut wall. Behind him the mountain glinted. His stomach rumbled with hunger. He could smell the noon meal cooking; soon enough there would be fried goatmeat and mawzee cakes—his mother fed him up good when he’d been on the pastures all night.

When he finished stretching the hides, he began to strip the meat from the carcasses—they were no longer animals now, writhing in the pain of dying so that he gritted his teeth and felt their agony. He had killed them as quickly as he could. Now, with the skins off, he had taught himself to think of them only as hanks of meat. He stripped off the meat in long pieces, sliced it thin, and laid it across the drying rack. It would be salted and cured and mixed with fireberries and otter-herb to make the squares of mountain-meat that would bide the winter nights when he or his father stood watch in the pastures, would bide them all, perhaps, if the winter should be harsh, or if there should be need of food taken hurriedly, without cook fires. He turned to shift the drying rack and saw his father standing silently at the corner of the house examining the hides.

“You got that big dog-wolf!” Oak Dar said, fingering the wide black stripe that decorated the larger hide.

“And his mate, I think,” Thorn said sadly.

“Better to go together than parted.”

Thorn nodded, feeling warm toward his father. The wolves killed because it was their living, and neither Thorn or the Goatmaster felt animosity toward them. But the wolves killed their herds, and must be taken in turn, that was the way of it.

The Goatmaster examined the striped hide more carefully. “The bucks gored him good.”

“Yes. The old wolf put up a battle.”

“And you finished him through the neck,” he said, putting his finger through Thorn’s arrow hole.

Thorn nodded. The older man took out his knife and began to work on the other carcass. Swifter and neater than Thorn he was, taking the meat off the bones clean and quick. Thorn tried to settle to his work but began to think of Burgdeeth for no reason so the unease within him stirred and rose as it had done again and again since his last trip down, a strong bristling of concern, as if a yeast worked there in Burgdeeth and part of it clung to him when he came away.

The feeling had to do with the Kubalese apprentice to Shanner Eskar. Thorn grinned at the thought of Shanner’s bruised face, though he held him no enmity—just that he’d gotten his own back, that was all. Shanner was the best of the Burgdeeth lot, and Thorn had a liking for him. But the Kubalese, Kearb-Mattus, that was another matter. I wish I had the sight really, he thought, instead of these niggling itches. Then I’d know why the Kubalese is there. He turned the carcass and began to strip the other side; the stripping went faster with two working.

He glanced up at the edge of the village once, where the does were being milked, and when he looked back he saw that his father had stopped work and was watching him. Silent, with that studying look. His father’s eyes were a rusty brown, and his thatch of hair over that square face as dark as the stripe on the wolf’s pelt. His look was unwavering. “You are troubled, son, and I think you do not know why.”

“Yes father. Something . . . something . . .”

“Some trouble you carried up with you from Burgdeeth. Is it the Kubalese? Have you heard more about his reasons for being there?”

“Only the story that he was a smith in his own country, and came to Burgdeeth to increase his art.”

Oak Dar snorted, unbelieving. “Likely the townspeople of Burgdeeth know no more than that. They believe pretty well as they are bidden. But there is a piece of news. A trader came up the mountain last night, he is staying with Merden’s family. He brought news that, if you had not been herding, you would know by now. It is like the rumors that have come, but sounding as if there are more facts to it. The Kubalese are arming heavy, he says, and have stockpiled supplies on the borders. It is thought they plan to work their way silently into Urobb and Farr. If this is true, they will take those two countries as surely as night drowns the sun.”

“But that will mean—”

“That Aybil is next. And then Cloffi.”

“Will the trader take this word to Burgdeeth? But he has come from there. Did he stop with it?”

“He did not stop, he came through silently under darkness. It is said in Sibot Hill that the Kubalese smith is thick with the Landmaster of Burgdeeth, and the trader thought to warn us first and to seek our advice.”

“And that is?”

“He must go to the Landmaster, he can do no less. I fear for him, but there is no other way but the direct one. To spread the word secretly would only stir fear and leave the men of Burgdeeth open to ridicule, unable to organize anything without their mounts and weapons that are all in the Landmaster’s Set. The men of Cloffi are not bold enough, or willful enough, to plan a good deceit against the Landmaster. They do not value their freedom sufficiently.” Oak Dar scratched his head, puzzling. “What good would it do the Landmaster to court collusion with the Kubalese? He would only lose his reign. Four times in the past the Kubalese had begun so, secretly, and each time has ended in conquerings. I can’t understand the Landmaster’s view of the world if he does not take warning from that.

“Keep your ears open, maybe you’ll hear something of value. Market day is soon—meantime we must lay some plans. Our best weapon will be cleverness. Eresu knows the Landmaster would lift no hand to help us, and we are but a small band.” He gave Thorn a clear look. “If you had the runestone of Eresu the old man spoke of, would you have the sight?”

“I would have it,” Thorn said with sudden conviction.

“It would be a great help to Dunoon. Perhaps to many more.” Then Oak Dar grinned. “We would be stoned in Burgdeeth for such talk.”

“Stoned, and worse. I have hunted the mountain caves, the old ruins and grottoes for the runestone.” Thorn’s eyes searched Oak Dar’s. “If it is hidden in the north of Cloffi, and if the power is in me to use it, then I mean to have it somehow.”

Ever since the old man had spoken his prophecy, Thorn had spent every free moment in the caves of the ancient city Owdneet; he had discovered caves he had not known, had pressed into narrow crevices and seams and searched pools cold as winter. He had tried to send some unbridled sense of seeing out to touch the shard of jade; but such skill had not come on him, had left him as blind.

And while he searched, the runestone lay somewhere in darkness. Found by the light of one candle, the old man had said. Carried in a searching. Lost in terror. What did it mean? He knew not, but he sensed that the stone would be needed soon, felt it in the very core of his being.

Once, exploring along a cave’s high natural ledge, he had been startled to see a clear vision; though it had not to do with the stone. He saw two faces, young girls, very frightened. One of them was crying. He knew her, though not her name. The other, brown eyed, thin faced, was Zephy Eskar. They were kneeling before the winged statue in Burgdeeth; and he knew that this quick, unexplained glimpse was important to him, though he had no clue to help him understand it. It faded quickly, and his feeling of bereavement afterward was strange and powerful.

FOUR

Zephy didn’t know what was the matter, only that Meatha had appeared in the milk line pale as death, and when Zephy asked her in whispers what was wrong, she had burst into tears. Now they knelt at the base of the god-statue, having come for privacy so they could talk; but three older women had pushed through the hedge to kneel in prayer, and they could say nothing; nor could they leave until they had been there an appropriate time. The statue towered above them, the winged god rearing into the sky, his human torso above the horselike body catching the sun, his arms reaching as if, indeed, he lifted on the wind; and beside him the two winged Horses of Eresu thrust skyward; the shadows of their wings swept across the girls’ heads and out across the cobbles. Meatha was trying to hide her tears from the women who knelt so near them.

They could not talk until at last they made their way to the housegardens through Burgdeeth’s narrow streets, the smells of tannery and candlewax and of baking bread marking the little shops; and the small of cess from a row of outhouses. The gardens were blessedly empty.

At midday, most women and girls found chores to do in the scullers, coming out again as the hot summer sun lowered. Beside Zephy’s vetchpea rows, their two donkeys drowsed in the pen, their ears twitching at the garden flies. The vetchpeas were getting ripe, their long pods dragging the turned earth. The smell of a rotten charp fruit, missed in the last picking, came sickeningly on the breeze.

They sat on the edge of the irrigation ditch. Meatha had stopped crying, but she looked terrified. Her dark hair was dishevelled, and her lavender eyes seemed larger than ever and were bleary from the tears.

Zephy was strung tight with impatience “Tell me! Whatever is it? Did some boy . . . ?”

Meatha shook her head and swallowed. When she spoke at last, her voice was only a whisper. “Not a boy. It—I had a dream. No, it wasn’t a dream.” She stared at Zephy, shaken. “It was a vision, Zephy. I was awake. I was standing in the sculler. It was a seeing. Like Ynell.”

Zephy caught her breath, fear rising; fear, and excitement.

“A vision as real as if I were there; the wind was cold and I could smell the mountains. I was awake, Zephy. I didn’t see the sculler, I saw . . .” Meatha became silent Zephy stared at her, waiting, shocked with the sin of it—and with the wonder.

When a dream occurred due to illness, it was supposed to be a gray colorless affair soon wiped clean from the mind with herbs and with sacrificial penances. To have a dream was a sin that could be cured—though Zephy and Meatha had never told anyone of theirs. But to have a true waking vision could only be dealt with through the sacrifice of death.

“At first, before the cold wind came, I was standing by a wagon. The most wonderful wagon, painted with birds and flowers in bright colors. An old, tall man was driving. Lean and sunbrowned, with very white hair. I thought he was a man of great wonder. He didn’t say anything, but sat looking down at me while the horses churned and snorted. They were butternut color, not a stroke of white, and beautiful—like Carriol horses. He said—not in words, but in my thoughts and silently—that he must speak with me. There was something happening around us, some activity with many people. He spoke to me in silence, so they never knew. There was someone with him, a boy, but I could not tell who. Then the old man was gone and there was terror all around me, people were pulling at me and jerking at me and at someone else too. It was—they were pulling off our clothes . . .” Meatha caught her breath, her eyes full of such pain that Zephy’s own breathing was constricted. “Then it changed and I was alone in a place all barren, with white round boulders humping and a kind of white stone path that climbed the mountain. I was . . .” Meatha’s voice shook. “I was tied to the death stone, Zephy.”

They had seen children dressed in rags and smeared with dung and filth, strapped across the backs of donkeys like sacks of meal, and taken away to the death stone. Children from Burgdeeth and from Sibot Hill and Quaymus, for only this one road led upward. Always the donkeys were accompanied by red-robed Deacons, and often by the town’s Landmaster himself, mounted and austere.

They sat staring at the swirl of water in the ditch. Beyond the green rows of dill and tervil, the misty hills humped along the border between Cloffi and Kubal. To their left, the black towering mountains shadowed the town and fields. Up behind those peaks lay Eresu, where the gods dwelt. And those who defy the powers of the gods, those who sin as Ynell sinned, shall know death.

Meatha was a Child of Ynell, they could no longer escape it. If discovered, she would die. Meatha, whose beauty was like the mabin bird, her pale translucent skin and dark hair, her incredibly lavender eyes. If Zephy had ever been jealous of that beauty, she could not be now. How could the Luff’Eresi be so cruel? What harm could Meatha possibly do?

Meatha roused herself at last. “There’s bittleleaf to haul this afternoon; we won’t have time to hoe.”

“We’ll be questioned about why we’re out here then. I wish . . . if we’d only be assigned to take a load of bittleleaf to Dunoon . . .” Zephy said hopefully.

“The Deacons would never pick us again, not after last time. My mother said . . .”

“I know. Both our mothers. And the Deacons mad enough to . . .”

“To make a curse-penance on us at worship,” Meatha said with shame. But though they had been punished for swimming in the Owdneet, no one had discovered that the seats of their underpants were hairy from the donkey’s backs. For in a fit of boldness they had ridden the little beasts along the deserted shore of the Owdneet, galloping wild and crazy with delight, the word forbidden shrieking in their heads. No one had thought to look at their underpants, the wet condition of their hair being quite enough to send them, red-faced, to crouch on their knees for most of the seven days afterward, their hands and feet smeared with red clay to symbolize the destruction by fire that the anger of the Luff’Eresi could bring down upon all of Cloffi because of their sinning.

Shanner had shouted with laughter when he heard. “Next time,” he had chided, “get the boys to take you; dallying with boys isn’t half so bad a sin as girls going by themselves to defy the Covenants. You could always say you fell in the Owdneet by accident in a fit of desire,” he had roared.

But there would not be another time. Other girls, dutiful girls or girls clever in biding their activities, would be sent on the occasional hauling trip. Boys and men did not do such work. If the bittleleaf was delivered from Sibot Hill and there was no one from Dunoon to take its share up the mountain, then someone from Burgdeeth must. The bittleleaf, used for storing ice, did not keep well. Its replacement was needed often.

For a long time, the shame the village had made them feel about that forbidden swim had been almost more than they could bear.

“Even so, it was worth it,” Meatha said now, quietly and passionately. “It was the best day of my whole life. Swimming naked in the Owdneet and galloping in the wind was like—like being someone else, something . . . Oh, I don’t know exactly. Something wonderful.”

“Yes,” Zephy said softly. And she remembered seeing Thorn of Dunoon there, high on the mountain above them guarding the flocks, his red hair catching the sun. She remembered the feeling it had given her of freedom—that one lone figure—remembered all the pleasure of that day, then the sudden weight of hatefulness that had nearly wiped it out when, returning home, they had been confronted by the Deacons. “Why is it that everything that’s a pleasure is a sin? When I was little, Mama used to tell me stories to make me forget the Deacons and their horrible meanness. Now I’m too old, I guess.” She missed the closeness with Mama, missed Mama’s understanding. Was Mama different because of Kearb-Mattus? Or did things just change when you grew up—is it me who’s different? She wondered.

Now, the only time Zephy could touch that sense of joy that Mama’s stories had created for her was when she and Meatha went secretly to visit Burgdeeth’s teacher; and she said now, fearfully, “Are you going to tell Tra. Hoppa about the vision?”

Meatha stared at her. “I don’t know. No. It would only put her in more danger. It’s enough that she teaches us secretly, tells us more than she teaches the boys, and that she’s told us about the tunnel. No one else in Burgdeeth knows about that, not even the Landmaster, and we would all surely be killed if he found out. But now this—I can’t tell Tra. Hoppa this, I shouldn’t even have told you. Oh, Zephy . . .” Meatha dissolved into tears again, and Zephy, her brown eyes wide with compassion, held her and let her cry.

But Meatha did tell Tra. Hoppa. She had needed desperately to tell someone older, and the little schoolteacher, who shared so many secrets with them, was the only adult they could trust.

FIVE

Tra. Hoppa’s house rose tall and narrow, alone at the edge of the village. Not attached to other houses, it found its own shelter in the ancient grove of twisted plum trees that had been there even before the Herebian Wars, before Burgdeeth was built.

People said Tra. Hoppa was the only woman in Burgdeeth who didn’t work for her keep. As if teaching a bunch of fidgeting boys wasn’t work! The Landmaster sent only the youngest girls to tend her housegarden, thinking they wouldn’t be curious about the history of Ere, wouldn’t hunger to learn to read. For no Cloffi woman could read or do more than the simplest ciphering.

Zephy had been only five when she tended Tra. Hoppa’s first garden; but Tra. Hoppa had made it easy for her, in her quiet way, to reach out: when the lessons began secretly they were wonderful to Zephy, who had been told all her short life that little girls did not yearn after reading and history, that only boys could attempt such tasks.

But now, it was getting more difficult each day for Zephy and Meatha to make their way to Tra. Hoppa’s unseen. The excuses, when they were stopped by a Deacon, had become harder to think up. “What are you doing away from your garden? Why are you not in your sculler, threshing mawzee, baking bread?” There was a limit to how many times you could blame it on a loose donkey or an errand for Mama that might be checked on.

Yet they needed these times with Tra. Hoppa. The Cloffi teachings in Temple were so depressing. Evil and sinning was all the Luff’Eresi seemed concerned about, and humans were weak vessels indeed, if you believed all the Covenants and rituals. Only when they were with Tra. Hoppa did they see, fleetingly, dignity and strength in humankind. Without Tra. Hoppa, they might have grown as sour as the dullest Cloffi woman.

Tra. Hoppa’s house had just one room to a floor, the ground floor making the kitchen with a sitting place and a table, the next floor the lesson-room, and the third floor, the loft, Tra. Hoppa’s bedroom and study. That a woman should have books and a study was suspect among the other women of Burgdeeth. Perhaps they tolerated it partly because Tra. Hoppa was not a Cloffa but Carriolinian, and those of Carriol had an aura about them that seemed to soften even the staid Cloffi women. Tra. Hoppa had been the only foreigner allowed residence in Burgdeeth—until the Kubalese came. She was the only woman who had ever occupied the position of teacher. But in spite of her sex and her learning, there was a grudging respect for Tra. Hoppa, for she spoke quietly, did not raise her voice in temper, kept her eyes cast down when in public. Only in the loft, where the real books were hidden, did she come truly alive. Then there was nothing docile about her, she was as bright and eager as a child.

The girls stood in her stone kitchen, out of breath as Tra. Hoppa closed the door behind them. Little and thin and wrinkled she was, her white hair tied in the traditional bun. But she moved with quick eagerness, and her deep blue eyes were not the eyes of an aged woman at all. “Come quickly, then. I’ve such a surprise for you.”

The furnishings of the loft were simple. Below the window was a long floor cushion covered with Zandourian weaving in bright colors and a low chair for Tra. Hoppa. At the other end of the room, Tra. Hoppa’s bed was tucked between the bookshelves.

Always in this room Zephy felt freed from Burgdeeth: here she felt she could touch the farthest shores of Ere and touch times long past Sometimes, here, she could nearly comprehend the vague plane on which the gods dwelt, the plane that came closer only in the years the star Waytheer was close. Here she could give rein to the feelings that made life in Burgdeeth tolerable; feelings which, at the same time, drove her into a passion to leave Burgdeeth behind forever.

The surprise must be a forbidden book; yet that was hard to believe, for it could only have been brought secretly by a trader, and there had been few in the last weeks. Zephy hoped that was it, though: Meatha needed something to take her mind off the vision that had haunted her constantly, turning her pale and silent

“It is the Book of the Drowning Land,” Tra. Hoppa said, drawing forth a frail, leather-bound volume. “I have it from that trader with oil from Sangur—we have . . . mutual friends in Carriol. It tells all the history and the myths of Ere from the point where the Book of Three Cities leaves off, just as it is told in Carriol; tells of the Drowning of Opensa. . .”

When Tra. Hoppa had finished reading to them, Zephy sat staring before her, seeing the island of Opensa, honeycombed with caves that made the ancient city; hearing the earth rumble and seeing it shake as the island began to crack. She could see the gods and their consorts leaping into the sky as the mythical sea god, SkokeDirgOg, sank Opensa in a shower of thunder.

Tra. Hoppa laid the book down and sat quietly studying Meatha. Meatha looked up once, then looked down at her hands again. Zephy started to speak, but the old lady stopped her with a look. “Meatha, you are troubled; will you tell me?”

Meatha fiddled with the fringe on the floor pad, hesitating for a long time. Then, “Do you remember when I had a vision and was too young to know I shouldn’t tell? And you stopped me?”

“Of course I do.”

“I never told you, Tra. Hoppa, but it happened to me twice after that, when I was old enough to understand. I didn’t want you to have to know. But now it has happened again, and it was so much stronger, not even like the others. It was as if I was there, first here in Burgdeeth and then on the mountain. I could feel the cold wind and smell the mountains, and there was sablevine rusty on the rocks as if it was early winter. I have to tell you, Tra. Hoppa. There’s no one else except Zephy, and I’m so afraid.”

Tra. Hoppa looked at Meatha for a long moment, then rose to stand staring out the window. When at last she turned back to them, she knelt down on the mat and took Meatha’s hands.

“Don’t ever be afraid, child. Not for yourself, not for me. Tell me now, you were on the mountain . . .”

Meatha, fragile and trembling, made Zephy want to hit out at something. How could the will of the Luff’Eresi demand that Meatha die at the death stone for something she could no more help than breathing?

When Meatha finished her story, Tra. Hoppa looked as drawn and pale as she. Had Meatha’s vision opened some private and uneasy place in Tra. Hoppa’s own thoughts?

“What am I to do?” Meatha asked quietly.

“Do, child?” Tra. Hoppa put her arm around Meatha. “You are to do as you have always done. You are to say nothing. You are to act in no way different from any other Cloffi girl, no matter how hard that is. And above all, you are not to be afraid. This is no evil that has visited you, it is something wonderful. You have no cause to be ashamed of it. Only you must be wary that no one learns what you have seen.”

Meatha stared back and bit her lip. “Maybe someone else already knows that I—what I am,” she said softly. “Maybe the Kubalese knows.”

“He couldn’t!” Zephy breathed.

“He watches me more than I ever told you, Zephy.”

“Yes he does,” Tra. Hoppa said. “I have seen him. And he watches the younger children, too. They take his candy, and some of them follow him, but they don’t like him much. And some of them, little Elodia Trayd for one, keep out of his way. Haven’t you noticed that?”

“Yes,” Zephy said. “And something else about Elodia. Yesterday she gave me such a strange look, so—so knowing.” She shivered. It had bothered her, she had waked in the night thinking about the child’s cool, gray-eyed stare. She had taken Mama’s shoes to be sewn, and Elodia was standing with two other little girls in front of the Cobbler’s, watching the old men play stones. The frail old men, retired from their masterships, had stood in a semicircle casting the stone across the cobbles in the sun, making bets. Half a dozen little boys had watched as they had been told, silent and docile as sheep.

Except Elodia Trayd. She wasn’t docile, she had stared up at Zephy boldly, her gray eyes kindling; and Zephy had seen something in that little face almost like herself there, something crying out wildly. “It was almost as if she felt my anger that the girl children had to be so docile, that they were so obedient,” Zephy said.

“There’s another one like that,” Meatha said. “And he stays away from the Kubalese, too. I was watching Kearb-Mattus play with some children, hiding red rags as they do in the Burgdeeth Horse mock hunt in the springtime. He had hidden one rag in a barrel. I could see it, but the children were too short. The little boy, Graged Orden, started for the barrel as if he knew the rag was there, then all at once he went pale. He turned, looked at the Kubalese watching him, and ran away out of the street as if he was terrified. He has avoided the Kubalese since. I’ve seen him slip around corners to get out of his way.”

“I wish the Kubalese had never come to Burgdeeth,” Tra. Hoppa said. “That trader brought me more than the forbidden book, he brought rumors that are unsettling. It is said in the south that Kubla is arming for war.”

“Against who?” Zephy said, going cold.

“It would not be Carriol,” Tra. Hoppa said. “They are too strong.”

“Cloffi,” Meatha breathed. “Cloffi and Urobb and Farr all lie on the Kubalese border.”

“And if they attack one,” Zephy said slowly, “they will attack all three.”

They stared at each other, the thought of war chilling them. “It is only rumors,” Tra. Hoppa said. “But I would wish you two away if such a thing should happen.”

Then she smiled. “Come, there’s otter-herb tea brewing, and nightberry muffins made with berries from the mountain. Young Thorn of Dunoon brought them down.”

Thorn of Dunoon?

But of course, he came to Tra. Hoppa for lessons. In turn, be taught the younger children of Dunoon. And, Zephy wondered suddenly, what kind of lessons did Thorn of Dunoon receive? Ordinary ones, like the boys of Burgdeeth? Or did Thorn come to the loft and read the secret books as she and Meatha did?

She had no reason to suspect such a thing. And she would never ask. Yet—perhaps Thorn of Dunoon was the kind of boy Tra. Hoppa would teach with great interest.

SIX

Ere’s moons waxed to brightness and waned again before the night that, while Cloffi lay sleeping, the Kubalese army rose up, and the little country of Urobb was destroyed.

The attack came down on Urobb on the first night of the Festival of Fish Taking, driving the Urobb tribes back from the river where they had gathered for the fish-rituals, and into the waiting platoons of the Kubalese Horse that had slipped like silent whispers in from the borders of Kubal. A long thin country, Urobb now was squeezed to nothing in the meshing of the two companies of Kubalese warriors, caught and trapped between them just as they themselves had planned to net the breeding shummerfins that swam the River Urobb.

The villages were burned and the women raped and put to labor at food gathering and cooking for the Kubalese bivouacs that remained behind. The hooved animals, horses and donkeys, were taken with the army as bounty, and the meager country, which had only its coal to sell and its fish and mountain crops to sustain it, lay fallen only a few hours after the attack began.

Now that Urobb was taken, Kubal’s land extended to the Urobb River. East of the river lay Carriol—Kubal would not attack her—then the sea. But to the west of Kubal lay Farr and Cloffi. Rivers are coveted, they water crops and herds, and they carry gold in their sands. Kubal had the Urobb. Now she eyed the Owdneet that ran down through the center of Cloffi then through Aybil and Farr to the sea.

The escaped and terrified miner who brought the message to Cloffi predicted in a breaking voice Farr’s certain demise, and then Aybil’s, his eyes red from lack of sleep and from fear and hunger. “And then,” he said, almost triumphantly, “and then it will be Cloffi. It will be Cloffi they rape and destroy.” His voice was filled with a passion of hatred as he stared up at Thorn—for it was Thorn who found him slipping along in the brush of the river outside Burgdeeth.

The little Urobb miner had come up along the river instead by the road, hiding in the bushes at night and eating of sablevine roots and of berries and morliespongs. When the distraught man saw Thorn, he stared at him as if he stared at death itself, and turned to run but Thorn grabbed him. Thorn saw the man’s terror and took him to a sheltered place behind a stand of wild vetchpea. He held out his waterskin, though the river was close, and gave the man his ration of bread and goatsmilk cheese, slicing them on the flat surface of a boulder. The miner ate as if he had not seen proper food for days.

Squally, his name was. When he had told Thorn his story, he wanted to be taken at once up the mountain, before he could be seized and held by the Landmaster. “And I will be, don’t doubt you that. I came secretly up the river to give my news freely to the common men of Burgdeeth, not to the Landmaster—there is a Kubal here, is there not, young goatherd?”

Thorn nodded and sat studying the small, wiry miner whose eyes squinted as if the light of common day was too bright after a lifetime in the coal mines.

“It was so in Sibot Hill, a Kubalese has come there. I had to slip away by night lest they imprison me. The Kubalese have made some bargain with the Landmaster of Sibot Hill. The Landmaster stood before his people and swore there would be no attack from Kubal. He would have sent me to sleep in the Sibot Hill cells, had I not escaped. It will be the same in Burgdeeth. There is no place left save Dunoon where a man can be safe, not this side of the Urobb, boy.”

“We’ll tell the people of Burgdeeth though,” Thorn said shortly. “We’ll get away before the Deacons hear of it.” If we’re quick, he thought. If we’re lucky. But he knew they had to try.

They made their way through the high stand of whitebarley that separated the river from Burgdeeth and into the back streets and alleys, then to the Inn. But the Kubalese was taking his noon meal there; Thorn could see him through the unshuttered window. He led the Urobb away, to the forgeshop.

Shanner Eskar lay sprawled across a bench, eating charp fruit. Thorn greeted him, then gave his attention to the Forgemaster, who sat at his work table drinking a bowl of broth. Old Yelig honored Thorn with a rare smile, and Thorn went to him and laid his hand on the old man’s shoulder. “We have uneasy business to speak of, Yelig. Business the Landmaster won’t sanction. Would you rather we went elsewhere?”

“I’ve not gotten so old and crusty by hiding from the Deacons of Burgdeeth. That is why I am still master of my shop and not playing stones on the street. A bit of serious business isn’t going to harm me, lad. Now what is it that brings you here with a face as long as a river-owl’s?”

“Urobb has been taken, defeated. This is Squally from Urobb; he brought the news. He feared to bring such to the Landmaster.”

Shanner was staring at Thorn, his eyes dark. “He is right. The Landmaster won’t let the news be known. He claims there will be no attack, even though we’ve been drilling the whole Burgdeeth Horse every day. He’s as touchy as a trapped weasel. There’s something afoot, and you’d best be out of it, Yelig.”

The old man’s streaked hair was a bristly thatch across his ears. He stared at Shanner for a long minute, then sat back and motioned the miner to make himself comfortable.

As the story was told, Yelig’s expression grew more grim, as did Shanner’s, and when it was finished, Squally, exhausted with his own emotion, they sat silent. Then at last Shanner glanced up though the window. “The Kubalese will be back after his meal. We’d best spread the word.” He looked at Thorn, motioned to the Urobb, and the three of them went out.

*

Zephy was scrubbing cookpots when she heard shouting in the street. She ran out, leaving the greasy water in the basin, her hands dripping—men had gathered in the street, it looked like all of Burgdeeth.

“Don’t let anyone tell you . . .”

“The Landmaster said they . . .”

“But it’s war.”

“—over the borders of Urobb like hunters taking the stag, the Urobb miner said so!”

“Well he got out, didn’t he? How do we know—”

“He was the only one. And they were headed for Farr. After that . . .”

She stepped back into the doorway as four red-robed Deacons converged on the group. The crowd drew back at once and stood silent and uneasy before them. The Senior Deacon, Feill Wellick, stood with his staff raised in anger.

Zephy saw Shanner in the crowd. Then she caught her breath, for Thorn of Dunoon was with him, his red hair bright against the stone wall of the Glassmaker’s shop. And she thought, He should wear a cap if he wants to go unseen.

What had made her think that? But yes, Thorn and Shanner were slipping away quickly behind the crowd accompanied by a third man: she felt a sick fear for no reason.

There was an ugly sound from the crowd, and when Zephy turned to see, there was Kearb-Mattus standing with the Deacons as self-confident as if he were one of them. No Cloffi man would stand so, head up and eyes brazen, beside Deacons. The Kubalese was going to speak to the crowd! Speak in place of the Deacons? Zephy stood staring.

The Kubalese’s voice was deep with confidence. The muttering of the crowd stopped at once. The man’s charm and assurance held them. “There will be no war, men of Burgdeeth. Listen to your Deacons. Kubal will not attack Cloffi; the Kubalese and the Landmasters of Cloffi have made a pact of friendship.”

“But what of Urobb?” someone shouted.

“Urobb is another matter and not of concern to you.”

There was cheering—but some muttering, too. Zephy felt an unease begin to grow in the crowd, and fear crept along her spine. But often another fear touched that one as two of the Deacons stared toward an alley: they started forward suddenly so the crowd drew back; they lunged, caught someone, were struggling to hold him captive, someone who fought them . . .

His red hair flashed as he was pummelled between the Deacons. His arms were pulled behind him, and he was prodded in the direction of the Set between four Deacons. Behind him came the little wizened man, led on a rope like a donkey.

“Might have suspected, a Dunoon goatherd . . .”

“It’s the Urobb behind him . . .”

“Why do they take the miner prisoner? Would the Landmaster keep the truth from us?”

“Hush . . .”

“Shanner Eskar was with them, where is Shanner Eskar?”

“It’s his mother got him free, I heard the Kubal say . . .”

Zephy stared, stricken, as Thorn of Dunoon was led away. When she could no longer see him, or see the cluster of red robes, she looked stupidly at the crowd, then fled to the sculler.

Shaken and trembling, she stood in the herb-scented sculler awash with emotions she could not name. Urobb had been defeated by Kubal. Cloffi might be next. But the spinning terror in the pit of her stomach had nothing to do with war. All she could see was Thorn of Dunoon’s face, and the fury in his eyes as he was forced away toward the Set.

When Shanner came home at last, late in the night, she sat up in the darkness of the loft. She would be all right now that Shanner was here. No one had told her anything, no one would speak of what had happened, of Urobb, of war—she had dared not ask about Thorn.

But Shanner was surly to her questions, as unwilling to talk as everyone else. He sat on his cot staring at his feet until she almost screamed with frustration. “What has happened? Tell me something! And why did they let you go and not Thorn?”

“They just let me go,” he said dully. “What do you mean, ‘and not Thorn’?” She could see he was tired. It took him a minute to realize what she had said. It took her only a second to wish she hadn’t said it. He stared at her, surprised. Then he grinned.

“I didn’t mean . . .” she began.

“I know what you meant, little sister.” He smiled knowingly. She could have hit him. “Well there’s nothing for it now, poor girl.” He gave her a look of mock pity. “Well, Zephy, it wasn’t me brought in the Urobb! What did you want me to do, demand to be taken? By Eresu, this is a blazing damned time to turn into a giddy woman!”

She stared at him, wishing he wouldn’t tease. She was awash with uncertainty, confused at her own sudden feelings, and needing him to talk to.

“Why couldn’t you just dally around like the other girls? Great flaming Urdd, Zephy, why do you have to make things so serious?”

“What will they do to him?”

“I don’t know. Lock him up—and the miner, too—for a few days.” His eyes were red and tired. She daren’t ask anything more.

She held her tears until Shanner was asleep, then she dissolved into a misery she didn’t understand and only wanted to be rid of.

*

Few Cloffa had seen the Landmaster’s quarters, except the serving girls who lived there. Though most Burgdeeth men came into the Set to train with the Burgdeeth Horse, their drilling ground was the enclosure itself where the mounts were stabled, not the sumptuous apartments. And Thorn had not seen even the drilling ground, for Dunoon men did not serve in the Horse. He was taken, now, through the parade ground, past the stables, and in through the thick double doors.

The ceiling of the room he entered was as high as the winged statue in the square, as tall as three floors of a common house. Around its upper third ran a balcony with a carved railing, where a fat young girl was standing with a dust cloth in her hand, looking down with curiosity. Below the railing, the walls were wonderfully smooth and were painted with scenes in colors beyond imagining, scenes of the gods, of the Luff’Eresi flying in the clouds. But there was something strange about the pictures, something . . . They were ugly! The Luff’Eresi were not beautiful like the statue in the square: they were heavy, with bold, cruel faces, their wings leathery and thick and their horses’ legs common and hairy. Their eyes were cold and cruel, and they held men in their hands, men as small as toys. They were flying with them and tossing them into the sky, they were . . . they were eating them! Appalled, Thorn stood frozen, staring.

A Deacon jerked him rudely, and Thorn tore his gaze from the paintings to see the Landmaster watching him.

“Those are your gods, Thorn of Dunoon,” the fat man said sarcastically. He gave the picture a proprietary glance, and his mouth twisted in a caustic smile.

“Why have you brought me here?” Thorn demanded. “What do you want of me?” If he were Oak Dar he would have been more subtle, his father could be very politic, but Thorn could squeeze out nothing but sore anger. “What Covenant have I broken against the Landmaster? What crime have you invented for me, to be dragged here like a trussed pig?”

The Landmaster swelled at Thorn’s insolence, his bald head and round stomach seeming to grow tighter; he motioned to the Deacons, who lined up on either side of Thorn. Thorn wished he could laugh in the crude ruler’s face, but his sullen fury was too great.

“You have defied the Covenant of Primacy. Or are you so ignorant you don’t know the Covenant of Primacy, goatherd?”

“Primacy! What has primacy to do with letting a poor Urobb miner say his piece?”

“Primacy entails that all news of Ere come first to the Landmaster, Cherban! You had no right . . .” Thorn stared at him with interest. The man’s cold demeanor was pretty thin. “You had no right to bring any news of Ere to the people of Burgdeeth! False news it was, and upset them unduly, goatherd! Take him away. Lock him where the Urobb was; we’ll see how the whelp likes cow dung and gutter-water for supper.”

Fury blinded Thorn. As he was forced at sword point through the Set, even the beauty of the inner gardens and fountains could not cut through his anger.

The cellhouse stood alone on the opposite side of the Set. As Thorn was thrust through the door, he spun around to see the Urobb miner coming toward him across the parade yard, led on a long rope by the Kubalese on his dark war horse. Kearb-Mattus’s crude laugh rang across the Set. “I’m taking your friend to Urobb, Cherban, as fast as my horse can gallop. If he can run faster, he might be alive when he reaches his homeland.”

Thorn gripped the door bolt helplessly as the Kubalese trotted off, Squally running behind.

*

It was five days that Thorn languished in the Landmaster’s jail; the floor was deep in filth, water was brought only once a day and that little enough, and the food was cold mawzee mush gone sour, not fit even for pigs. For two days he did not eat at all, then when he did eat, the food came up again. But on the third day, before dawn, he woke in the near darkness to see a silent figure standing outside the bars. Fear gripped him; but it was a small figure. He rose and went toward it, and could sense a quiet urgency beneath her stillness. Was it a girl? Or a young boy? The light was better on the basket: and the smell of food made his mouth water. But the hands holding the basket—yes, a girl’s hands.

He could barely see her face as she handed the basket and waterskin through the bars: dark eyes, dark hair pulled down inside her collar, and wearing something baggy and shapeless. “I can’t leave the waterskin or the basket,” she whispered. ‘They’ll find them. Take the food out, it’s in a napkin. Hurry!”

He reached out to do as she told him, felt her hand brush his. He glanced around the courtyard, but could see nothing else in the darkness. “How did you get in?” He put the basket down. “Zephy? Is it Zephy?” She was trembling.

“I slipped through behind the men coming to drill for the Horse. I put on Shanner’s clothes and walked behind him. He didn’t know, no one noticed. I—I have to go back so I can get out when the horses go through. I tried to come yesterday but there were Deacons by the gate.”

He took the napkin, drank deep of the fresh water then emptied the rest into the crock the guard had left.

As he finished he reached through again and took her hand, and a strange, quick feeling touched him; he felt her sigh rather than heard her, and the only thing he could think to say was, “Why? Why did you come?”

“It’s going to be light soon, the drill is making up, the torches are already lit” She reached hastily for the waterskin and basket. He touched her hair once, then she was gone into the shadows along the wall.

He stood staring after her, then put his strange feeling down to hunger, and turned eagerly to the meat rolls and mawzee cakes and bread. Why had she bothered about him? If she were caught . . . He had felt she was trembling almost before he touched her. Fear, he guessed. Fear . . .

He was unwilling to leave any food judiciously for later, afraid it would be found. He drank the rest of the water, too, and when the Deacon came with his sour gruel at mid-morning, Thorn threw the bowl in his face.

She came the next morning. He was awake and waiting for her, though he had supposed she would not come again. He heard the early morning grumbling of Burgdeeth’s men, then saw her dark shadow slipping along the wall. He heard the horses nicker and the sound of hooves on the cobbles, but he was aware only of her, close to him. “There’s only salt cow meat,” she whispered. “The goat meat is gone.” He knew, again, that she was trembling. The torches flared on the other side of the Set. He took the napkin and waterskin from her, then held her by her thin elbows, so she stepped closer and stood looking at him. In the near-dark the sense of her was strange and heady. He couldn’t ask, today, why she had come.

When she did not come the next morning, he tried to feign sickness so the Deacon with the key would come and open the cell—surely he could overpower one Deacon. But it didn’t work; they didn’t care if he was sick; they didn’t care if he died there. He was ashamed he could not devise a way to escape. He thought of Zephy again and hoped she was all right. Then on the fifth day when she had not appeared and his hunger was worse than before, he looked up to see Oak Dar striding across the Set Like a conquering lord came the Goatmaster, with the Deacons trailing sullenly behind.

It all happened in an instant The lock slid back, Thorn stepped out of the cell. By Oak Dar’s eyes he knew to say no word. He strode off by his father’s side in silence, and only when they were through the gate and free at last did Thorn turn to stare at him. “What did you have to do? You didn’t bargain for me?”

“I bargained,” Oak Dar said shortly. “I bargained all of Dunoon for you.”

“You did what?” Then he saw the laughter behind his father’s eyes. “You bargained what?”

“I bargained all of Dunoon. I told him if I did not take you home with me, there would be not a goat carcass nor a hide come to Burgdeeth and not a man or animal on the mountain in any place where Burgdeeth would ever find them. I told him they’d be living on their milk cows, for all Dunoon would furnish their meat.”

Thorn roared with laughter. “But how did you know I was there?”

“A little Urobb miner slipped into Dunoon bruised and bleeding, with a rope still around his waist

“Squally! How did he get away? He must have cut the rope.”

“He did just that—after killing that Kubal’s horse with a stone and slipping the Kubal’s knife out.”

“He didn’t kill the Kubal?”

“No, the fool.”

“Squally had better make himself scarce. If that Kubalese finds him . . .”

“He’s gone up over the Rim into Karra; no Kubal would be fool enough to hunt a man there.”

No sensible man would hide in the high barren deserts, either. And behind Karra the mountains were utterly unknown. Thorn felt a wave of sadness for Squally.

They made their way quickly through the whitebarley field to the river. Above them the mountain was washed with low rain clouds; Thorn thought he had never seen anything so welcome or smelled such a scent as the tang of damp sablevine that blew down to them. Cloud shadows lay dark against the bright pastures on the slope, and to his left over the highest peaks, something in the heavy clouds moved so he caught his breath—but then it was gone. He stood willing it back but it did not come, and at last he caught up with Oak Dar, eager to be home. As they climbed above Burgdeeth he glanced back once, feeling some disquiet; the clouds were very low so that even Dunoon was covered; and they lay down over Burgdeeth’s fields behind him.

*

Zephy knew when Thorn was released because Meatha saw Oak Dar striding into the Set and ran to tell her. By the time Zephy got to the square, Thorn and his father were going up through the whitebarley field toward the river, sun and shadow striking them. Thorn didn’t look back, he didn’t turn to see her standing there.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said fiercely, turning away from Meatha’s sympathetic gaze. She went back to her field alone, picked up her abandoned hoe, and set to work. Had Thorn felt nothing for her then? Had the way he looked at her meant only that he was glad to be fed? Her angry hoeing made the dry mawzee leaves rattle, and she knocked a grain pod to the ground so it split open to scatter its precious store. She looked up the mountain and saw the two figures, dark against a patch of sun. Thorn did not pause, and her longing was terrible. Was he looking back in her direction? Well he couldn’t see her anyway here among the crops in the cloud shadow.

Here in the cloud shadow?

The shadow was moving! Not drifting, moving! It was alive! She stared upward, reached upward as the wings swept above her surging against cloud and sun wings lifting—the beautiful Horses of Eresu, their necks stretched in flight, their wings knifing and turning the wind. She reached, loving them, searching for a god among them . . .

But they were gone in a cloud so suddenly, in the rising wind. Gone.

She saw them once more, a darkness surging over the Kubalese hills and vanishing quickly. She stood staring, her pulse pounding, her whole being enflamed.

And on the mountain, Thorn and Oak Dar stood frozen with the wonder of the flight as the dark cloud moved over Burgdeeth and receded beyond the Kubalese hills.

Part Two: The Runestone

From the Book of Fire, Cloffi.

In the beginning there was order upon the land and men were obedient. But mortals grew covetous: they lusted after the powers of the gods, and their blasphemy spread to infect many. They rose in violence against the gods; and they laid siege to the holy city Owdneet and all was evil upon Ere.

So the Luff’Eresi made the earth to tremble. They made fires to spew from the mountains and rivers of fire to cover the land.

Few men survived the Fire Scourge, and those few went in fear to the south. This was a time of shadow when cinders fell from the sky, and the sun shone only dimly, and the minds of men were dark. There were few flocks and few seed and few women to husband. But still men made further evil; men sinned, and in sin the women conceived Children of Ynell; and these changelings could speak with closed mouths, and they could see visions invisible to men. The gods’ powers were usurped; and the gods were sore angered. And to appease the gods, men burned the Children of Ynell in sacrifice.

Then on the Eve of Harvest, when men were standing in their cut fields, one black cloud came covering the sky. And a voice cried out, “You have sinned. Kneel down.” And the men knelt in their fields. And the voice said, “You have taken what is ours. You have incurred the wrath of the Luff’Eresi. Your fields will die, and you will be hungry. You must bring a tithing of your crops: and you must burn your fields after harvest to propitiate the Fire: and nevermore will you sacrifice what is ours to sacrifice. Henceforth you will bring the Children of Ynell to the Death Stone, for the Luff’Eresi to kill as we see fit.”

SEVEN

Burgdeeth did not talk of war at first, but then people began to whisper. Even when Zephy had slipped into the Set with food for Thorn, her danger had not seemed so great, her possible discovery so shattering, with the thought of real danger raw in her mind. And she could tell Mama was worried and upset. Though in spite of it, Mama was as friendly with Kearb-Mattus as ever.

No one ever expected war, she guessed. Certainly the men of Urobb hadn’t expected it as they spread their nets; how could they know they would be dead in the morning? Everything we do is hinged on war, she thought. If we’re not attacked; if there’s no war in Cloffi; if life goes on at all.

Would the prayers at Fire Scourge help? Could they help, as the Covenants taught? Would the gods intervene? Zephy didn’t know, she felt she didn’t know anything. But Fire Scourge, the most dramatic supplication of the year, when the cut fields were lit with the long line of torches and the gods propitiated with fire, would such a strong supplication help Cloffi?

The volcanoes had stopped war twice in Ere’s history. But then it was the sacred cities themselves that had been attacked; no wonder the fires spilled forth.

Do I believe that? She thought suddenly. Do I really believe the gods made the volcanoes erupt to stop the attacks on their cities? Do I believe the gods can do such a thing?

If the gods are real, why do they let war come at all? And why did they let their own cities be attacked in the first place?

After Fire Scourge the fields would lie black and burned-smelling until the snows came to cover them. She felt so unsettled—as if life were taking a turning she could not prevent, nor yet hurry, and the waiting was unbearable; yet the finality would be worse. She remained edgy and cross even when she and Meatha managed to slip into Tra. Hoppa’s kitchen. All three felt too oppressed by the fate of Urobb to have lessons. Tra. Hoppa looked very tired.

Meatha clung to the old lady, fearful and wan. “It makes you feel so trapped, Tra. Hoppa. How could we escape, really? If the attack comes so suddenly, from all sides, the way it did in Urobb . . .”

“You could go to the mountain,” Tra. Hoppa said sternly. “You don’t think they’d search all the caves. Those mountains are honeycombed with caves.”

“But you—”

“Never mind about me. I’m a wily old thing. And if you can’t get to the caves, slip into the tunnel until you can get away.” She grinned at them. “You two can outsmart a few clumsy Kubalese soldiers if you keep your wits about you. Though we may be in for some difficult times. If Urobb had had the strength and determination of Carriol, Kubal would never have attacked her. Nor would Kubal threaten Cloffi now, if Cloffi were strong. But strength can only begin inside, with its people, and with Cloffi as she is now . . .”

“How could anything ever begin with Cloffi’s people?” Meatha said bitterly.

“It would take those who truly cared.”

“No one cares!”

It won’t happen, Zephy thought desperately. War can’t happen to us. The light from the window cut across Tra. Hoppa’s gray hair and made her wrinkles, as she turned, show plainly. It was strange to think of Tra. Hoppa as old, for she was nothing like the old ladies of Burgdeeth. It was as if all Tra. Hoppa’s life lay in stages there inside, still to be seen and touched. The other old women of Burgdeeth seemed to have retained nothing of their pasts but the bitterness.

When they left Tra. Hoppa, it was quickly, for the Horse had begun to drill on the road beyond the grove. Such a drill outside the Set was most unusual. “I suppose the Landmaster has taken some heed of the defeat of Urobb,” Tra. Hoppa said bitterly. “At least the Horse is doing more than their usual playful sparring. You must go by the tunnel, they can see all over the housegardens from that road.”

The tunnel was as old as Burgdeeth. It began in the plum grove where the old prison had stood, and ended beneath the sacred statue. It had been the means of escape for the Children of Ynell who had, as slaves, built much of the original town of Burgdeeth. They had dug the tunnel secretly at night and, when they cast and erected the statue, had made a hollow opening in its base to join the tunnel opening. Only Tra. Hoppa knew of the tunnel, and she had learned of it in Carriol: the secret had been well kept from the landmasters of Burgdeeth. “It will be wanted one day,” she had said once, “as it was wanted before. It might be needed several times before Burgdeeth is free.”

Tra. Hoppa had them out the door before they could catch their breaths, the candle flame nearly invisible in the daylight. “Quick, Zephy, pivot the stone back. Hurry!”

The stone, a small pivoting boulder surrounded by humped gray rocks, moved with the pressure of Zephy’s shoulder. The tunnel would lead them, as it had those others, beneath Burgdeeth into the hollow base of the statue. When darkness had come, those Children had pushed back the bronze panel and fled Burgdeeth forever. Now Zephy and Meatha slipped down into darkness as, above them, Tra. Hoppa shouldered the stone back into place.

Beyond the light that the candle threw on dirt-mortared walls, the tunnel was utterly black. It smelled damp. They could just see the first supporting timber, a thick tree trunk sunk between the stones.

The weight of the earth above them seemed to press down intolerably as they made their way in the darkness, the candlelight dodging and shifting.

“I never liked it,” Meatha whispered.

“It’s better than getting caught.”

Why did they whisper? The tunnel made them do it. As if, if they spoke aloud, they might—what? Stir awake something alive in the tunnel walls themselves? Zephy snorted at herself and tried to concentrate on the little sphere of candlelight as Meatha pressed close behind, bumping her now and then in her impatience to get on.

The ceiling curved down into the walls, making the head room higher in the middle; but too low, still, to be pleasant. The candle guttered once, as if a breath had touched it—maybe Zephy’s own, though. Then it steadied, picking out the niche where the relics of Owdneet had once lain. The niche was empty, of course; they had long since ceased to explore it. But now suddenly Zephy wanted to reach in. She held the light up and felt into the hollow. The first Children of Ynell had put their hands in just so, had felt the rough dirt walls, had . . . she found herself scraping and working at something, some protrusion in the hard dirt . . . something smooth . . . something . . . It came away suddenly and fell into her hand, so heavy she dropped it. She fished it out and held it to the light.

It was a bit of green stone as long as her finger, sharp-pointed at one end and rounded at the other, with jagged sides. It looked like jade. On the round end were carvings—runes! The girls stood staring. The stone gleamed, stirring Zephy in a way she could not understand. It looked as if perhaps it had been part of a round and much larger stone that had somehow shattered. It had been completely buried in the dirt of the niche, though now it seemed to be shining more brightly, as if . . . Zephy looked up toward the end of the tunnel, where a cold light burned suddenly . . .

Where no light should have been!

The light reflected on the green stone: a light where a moment before there had been only blackness, a light that was growing brighter still, had grown into a brilliance so penetrating Zephy could hardly look. The tunnel walls had disappeared; the light glowed in an immense space ahead of them, an unbounded space.

They stepped forward into the vastness with no thought that they should not.

It was like a cavern of light, a cavern without walls, if such a thing could be imagined. The space seemed to cant and tilt to create the feeling of walls across the emptiness. There was no sound, no stir of air.

Then gradually they became aware of something else.

The space seemed to be expanding. It was growing lighter and rising; it was luminous, as if mists drifted; and though there was no color, all colors seemed to swirl around them as if colors had voices that could penetrate the soul. The spaces pulled at them, beckoned to them until at last Zephy thought she could see far distant walls. Then she realized they were mountains, mountains rising in a space that was larger than the world she knew, larger than the sky, as if the sky had swelled suddenly higher and everything was farther off. The sense of light behind the mists was of a terrible brilliance; she could feel the shadows moving, and yet they were not shadows, they were . . . Oh! the figures moving toward them had great, spreading wings; figures that hovered above them, around them—half-horse, half-man, with shining wings. You are come, they seemed to whisper, and laughed with voices filled with joy. You must reach out, you will reach outward—if you are the chosen, you must extend yourselves, you three—and three—and more. You will reach out . . .

Then they were gone; there was only blackness; and Zephy had dropped the stone.

If she found it and picked it up, the vision would return, and she wanted that desperately—yet she trembled with fear as she knelt and began to feel for the stone in the darkness. The candle, its light strangely snuffed, lay abandoned.

After a long while she had almost given up. Had the stone rolled completely away? She was frantic to find it now; then when she did at last, it was far from where it had fallen. She touched it and light flared around her so she drew her hand away as if it had been burned. She longed for the vision—and she was terrified of it.

Finally she took the stone up in her handkerchief. Again she was surprised at its weight She felt along the wall for the niche and laid it quickly inside.

Meatha said nothing. If she wanted the vision to return, she did not ask for it. They groped ahead, the walls pressing close around them; they did not talk, the vision still held them utterly. They were quenched with it, as if one moment of wonder, of such brilliance, was all they could manage without blinding themselves. It encompassed them completely.

When they reached the lighter hollow beneath the statue, Zephy felt she had come back from an infinite distance. Tiny points of light like little stars shone through the peepholes in the bronze base of the statue. Zephy peered out on one side, Meatha on the other, but they were reluctant to go. They stood silently holding the vision, yearning for it, nearly turning back into the tunnel. What had Zephy held; what was the stone? Had they seen a vision, or had they touched a reality they could not comprehend?

At last Meatha pushed open the bronze door in the base, and they slipped through. Voices brought them up short; they pushed the door back under cover of their bodies then knelt hastily before the statue, their arms crossed over their chests in servility, heads bowed, as two men came across the square.

Zephy stared at the ground and moved her lips in prayer. The shadow of a hoof cut across her hand as if the Luff’Eresi touched her in benediction; and it was in true prayer that she knelt, for she had stood on the brink of a world whose dimensions made her own world flat and colorless, a world outside of everything she knew, where the gods had drifted the way sunlight drifts through water—yet had been real beyond anything she had ever known.

When at last they rose to go, they walked close together, shivering. And once they looked back at the bronze Luff’Eresi sweeping above the square with his consorts leaping beside him. I have seen them, Zephy thought. I have seen the true gods. Then she thought suddenly, numb with surprise, and frightened: I am like Ynell. I, too, am a Child of Ynell.

For days afterward she would wake in the darkness of the loft knowing this and feeling terrified. Then she would come fully awake and remember the vision vividly, would lie staring out at the changing sky and seeing that other world instead. Ephemeral as gauze it had been, yet as real as stone. I am like Ynell, she would think again, amazed. I am a Child of Ynell.

Then one morning two small boys were drowned, and everything else was driven from Zephy’s head.

An older boy found them and ran at once to the Deacons. The two little bodies had been washed onto the bank of the river, and were mud-covered and icy cold. Zephy did not run with the crowd to see, and when she heard how the children had looked, she was glad she hadn’t. The horror of the ceremonial viewing was quite enough to turn her sick; sick at the deaths, sick with a fear she could not even name. And one of the boys was little Graged Orden. She and Meatha could only think of the game of search-and-seek and of the barrel with the red rag hidden and little Graged Orden running from Kearb-Mattus in terror. They sat together in Temple while the red robed Deacons said the Prayers and Covenants and the Ritual Mournings and held the burning chalice above the little coffins; while the citizens of Cloffi bent, one by one, before the coffins with their hands crossed over their shoulders and their heads lowered in submission to the will of the Luff’Eresi.

The coffins would be placed in the burial wall and covered with sacred mortar and stone. This funeral, so soon after Nia’s, was horrible.

Late on the night of the funeral, Zephy heard hoofbeats in the street, but when she rose to look there was nothing. She sat in the window for a long time, the fear of death clinging to her.

EIGHT

“Shanner, wake up. Shanner!” Zephy shook his shoulder, jostled him, but he continued to snore. She lit the candle and held it close to his face. “Shanner! It’s Market Day!”

“Mphh.”

“Come on! You know I can’t lift the barrels myself.” He would snore like a lump. She snatched the covers back and jerked his shoulder, pummeling him until he opened his eyes.

“Market Day,” She repeated.

“Last night. Could have done it last night Zephy . . .”

“You weren’t here.” She glowered until he sat up. The nearly full moons had gone, the only light was the sputtering glow from the candle. Even Waytheer could not be seen. The wind came in, and Shanner shivered. She pulled the shutters closed and latched them. “That’ll be warmer, it’ll be light soon.”

“It’ll never be light.” He reached for his pants and boots. “Cold!”

She snorted with disgust.

On the street they walked beneath the sound of banners snapping on the dark wind, Fire Scourge banners hung out last night from the windows and rooftops of Burgdeeth, flapping in the fitful gusts to mark the beginning of the five day celebration. And special banners, too, to mark this year of Waytheer. The star would not be so close again for ten years; the Luff’Eresi would not come again so strong or speak so clearly to man for ten years. Every prayer, every supplication put forth now would have more meaning.

They went in darkness to get Nida and her creaking wagon. Zephy could tell Nida from Dess only when Dess kicked her absently as she tried to pull the bridle on. Nida never would. She cursed Dess and let her loose, smarting and cross and cold; almost wishing she were back in bed and Market Day was past.

“Brewmaster’ll be livid,” Shanner said. “Couldn’t you have remembered last night?”

“I couldn’t find you. You were off with a girl, I suppose.” The whole town had been seething with wagons last night, waiting to get settled in the square. The Inn had been packed full. She had looked for Shanner everywhere when she should have been cleaning up in the late hours, washing mugs. “They emptied every barrel. You might have remembered; you might have known they would!”

He grumbled something unintelligible as they rounded the corner by the Brewmaster’s. A tiny light burned in the window. “He’s up,” Zephy breathed thankfully.

But the old man growled worse than Shanner and heaved the honeyrot casks onto the wagon so brutally that Zephy thought they would have it all spilled, the casks caved in, and the honeyrot flowing in the street.

The sky had begun to gray above the rooftops. At the sculler, Zephy held the door while Shanner hoisted the barrels through, seven barrels of honeyrot to set side by side for the noon meal. When she took Nida back to the fields, the sky was as yellow as mawzee mush, and the banners bright and blowing so Nida flicked her ears at them and snorted against Zephy’s cheek. In the shed, as Zephy hung up the harness, she paused to examine the rent in Nida’s packsaddle where the donkey had shied stupidly against a building. The straw was coming out. It should be mended. Zephy couldn’t get her mind properly on mending with Market Day at hand.

Thorn would be coming down the mountain this morning to trade hides and blankets at Market. Well, at least he always had. She glanced up at the mountain. Will he come to find me? Will he want to?

Will he even think of it?

Would she be bold enough to search him out? What, and stand staring like a sick calf? Wait for him to thank her for risking her stupid neck in the Set? Oh, Great Eresu, she thought. What’s the matter with me?

And, would Thorn stay for the Singing?

In Burgdeeth, public singing was sanctioned only at festival time, at Fire Scourge and Planting and Solstice. She glanced in the direction of the river where the road came down from Dunoon and felt her spirits lift. Thorn always stayed for the Singing. Later in the sculler, she reached down her gaylute from atop the cupboard, and stood carefully polishing it.

*

It was well before dawn when Thorn and Loke finished packing their hides and blankets across the backs of their four best bucks. The moons had already set. They worked by the light of the cookfire from the open door, for their mother had risen to lay a hot meal for them. The bucks were restless, wanting to be off but looking over their shoulders, too, toward their herds, nervy and light-footed and shifting about as they were saddled. The bucks stood as tall as Thorn when their heads were raised. Their spiralling horns were ridged intricately and sharp pointed as spears, rising as high as Thorn could reach; deadly if they pierced a man. Thorn glanced at Loke as the younger boy fastened a basket of cheese and mountain meat on top a pack, then looked up one last time at the mountain: they had patrolled it constantly since Urobb fell. Thorn spoke to the bucks at last, and they started down the dark slope.

Not until the morning sky began to grow light, so the boulders loomed clearly around them, did they feel easier. As the sky began to yellow, they sang a little, the old marching songs—songs of the Herebian tribes, songs forbidden in Cloffi. And well they might be, for the Herebian were father to the Kubal. But lusty songs and bold they were and the two sang them now with changed words, in rude defiance of Kubalese might

“What would they do to us?” Loke asked suddenly. “What would the Kubalese do if they conquered Cloffi?” The boy gazed at Thorn with trust The talk of attack must have upset Loke more than he had shown. Thorn studied his brother’s freckled face with a feeling of tenderness—and of fear. It was not for nothing that Tra. Hoppa had taught him Ere’s history; he knew what could happen to them. But there was something else, too, something on the side of Dunoon. ‘They could kill us all,” he said evenly. “Except for one thing.” He looked into Loke’s eyes and saw his own fears there. “We’re too valuable to destroy. The Kubalese could never herd our goats and make them produce, and they’re the only decent meat in Cloffi. Crude as the Kubalese are, I expect they are not foolish. They would likely keep Dunoon as slave, for food, for goat meat and milk and wool. They would keep us slave, Loke, slave to tend our own herds.”

“But we never would! I’d kill my herd first before I’d be slave to Kubal!”

Thorn said no more. The plans he had made with the Goatmaster were best kept just to the two of them. The more who knew, even his little brother, the more who could be forced to talk.

“Is that why . . .” Loke looked at him steadily. “Is that why Burgdeeth has tolerated us all these generations? Because of the meat and the wool?”

“What else? You know the Landmasters have always hated us. But even they know our herds would die under the bungling hands of Burgdeeth. Our mountain goats are not like the donkeys and the poor steeds of Cloffi, to be rough handled or to tolerate cruelty and indifference. You know as well as I they were never meant to be fenced or to live in the confines of the valley. And no Landmaster would permit his people to live on the mountain to herd them; there is too much of freedom there, to much of space, too much of sky to woo away Burgdeeth’s fettered manhood.”

‘Tolerated for our goat meat!” Loke said furiously.

“Well, we don’t have to stay on these pastures; though they are by far the richest. Maybe the Landmaster dreams that one day we’ll be brought to our knees and made as docile as the Cloffa. Anyhow, it all may come to nothing, this talk of attack.” He cuffed Loke across the shoulders. “It’s Market Day, boy! Good food and new sights, and a pocket full of silver.”

They stopped to water the bucks before leaving the river, the goats sloshing playfully, then took the narrow trail that crossed the lower whitebarley field and came into Burgdeeth by a side street. They could see the square ahead overflowing with bright wagons and banners, with horses and men milling about underneath the great bronze statue. Did the Landmaster ever really look at the grandeur and gentleness of the god towering there? What kind of twisted spirit could live with the pictures that were painted on the Landmaster’s walls?

Thorn took the black goat’s halter and led him forward to where Loke had found a spot to his liking just beside the hedge. The younger boy had already begun to spread out his wares on an old blanket, brown hides and rust, cream and black, and the blankets woven in the same tones, their patterns of song and myth catching a slash of light from between the feet of the statue. Thorn grinned at Loke; the boy could hardly wait to begin trading. Thorn left him to it, as his brother preferred, and began to walk among the wagons, wondering at the richness of the wares. He moved alternately in sun and in shadow, where canvas roofs had been spread to shelter the displays of silks and linens and copper pots, of enamelled brassware and carved chairs and fancy harness and bright-dyed leather goods, and of sweets—soursugar and saffron drops, bars of honeywax from Doonas, and even dates and onyrood pods from Moramia, dipped in crystalized sugar. Thorn’s mouth watered at the sight of them; he slipped two coins from his belt and bought soursugar and onyrood and took them to share with Loke, coming away again to prowl at more length among the crowds—a rare holiday, this, and the sun warm on his back. He felt an unaccustomed satisfaction with the color and the noise and the crowds, he who was usually happiest alone.

But there was a disquiet in him, too. He kept remembering the small figure standing in the darkness beside his prison bars. He watched for her in the crowd and thought of the line of her chin and the way her brown hair fell over her shoulders.

He remembered last year’s Singing, the way she had played her gaylute, and had sung “Jajun Jajun” and “Smallsinger Tell Me.” He remembered her dancing wildly while Shanner played for her.

She had changed a lot, he thought. She had been a child then.

He thought of her dark eyes, and wanted to ask her—ask her what? He looked up and searched the crowd as if he would see her suddenly then stepped aside as two Kubalese on great heavy horses came around from behind a wagon. How could they show their faces, with Urobb so lately slaughtered? Why did the Landmaster allow them in Burgdeeth? He stared after them coldly.

There was a Sangurian ballad troop in one wagon, and Thorn stood for a while listening to the man and his three women singing softly the stories of Bede Thostle and the Goosetree of Madoc, and of the Demon of Sangur Neck. Then when he turned away to wander once more, he came around a little tent with brass wares from Pelli, and he stopped suddenly, to stare.

The man was turned away from Thorn, but the set of his shoulders was familiar as he adjusted the harness of a fine butternut mare. His white hair caught the light. His tall thin frame seemed taut and hard as a sapling. The wagon the mare pulled was brighter than any on the square, painted with birds and flowers in every color you could name. And across its side, in letters lined with gold, were the words, JUGGLER AND MASTER OF TRICKS. As Thorn stood staring, the man turned; one quick motion, and he was looking into Thorn’s eyes; and Thorn knew at once he must not speak or recognize him in any way.

“Fancy my wagon, do you, boy?” the old man said lightly in a manner of speech that was certainly not his own and loud enough for people to hear. “Fancy a trick or two? Silver, boy!” The old man’s voice was loud and beguiling. “Silver will get you a trick . . .” But Thorn grumbled something rude and turned away as if he were not interested. He could feel Anchorstar’s satisfaction, feel his warm and silent greeting so his own pulse raced as he turned indifferently to examine a display of tin. The old man took the team’s heads and backed the wagon into an alley. Thorn turned in time to see the two horses’ noses bobbing as they guided their burden out of the way. He knew Anchorstar would speak to him later, speak privately.

It was not a snake’s breath later that he rounded the square and heard Loke’s voice raised in anger, heard one of the bucks bellow a challenge. Alarmed, he leaped across a wagon tongue and some barrels to come around the statue’s hedge.

A group of children had gathered around the bucks as children usually did, to admire them and to push their hands into the thick wool coats and grin at their warmth and silkiness, to pull a head down and feel the spiraling horns; the bucks could be bad-tempered with an adult, but were patient enough with children.

But it was not the children, laughing with delight, that had caused Loke’s shout and the angry bellow. The cream buck stood apart with his head lowered and his ears back, ready to charge. His quarry was the dark Kubalese, Kearb-Mattus. The man cowered, now, against a wagon. Had he been teasing the animal? The cream buck, the worst tempered of the lot, did not take to strangers. Thorn took his halter and settled him. Loke’s face was red with anger. “He was feeling in the pack, he said it was a game.”

Thorn gave Loke a restraining look and turned to face the Kubalese. “What were you doing?”

Kearb-Mattus smiled, his body relaxing now. “It was a game, friend. A game for the children—a game of hide-and-search. Come, let us have a game, it’s innocent enough. What say you, goatman?” A curious crowd had gathered. Thorn studied the Kubalese closely; then he caught a glimpse of Anchorstar moving in through the crowd, and the sudden command of Anchorstar’s thoughts was plain. Thorn swallowed his temper and stepped back.

“Play your game then, Kubal. One game.”

The Kubalese looked mildly surprised. Loke went pale with fury.

“Play your game,” Thorn repeated, at Anchorstar’s silent command. The Kubalese held up his hand and a gold piece flashed bright between his fingers; the crowd caught its breath; the children stepped forward with a sigh of longing. Such a coin would buy sweets they could not count. Kearb-Mattus smiled, turned his back, and began to rummage among the packs and into the bucks’ thick coats. You couldn’t tell where he hid the coin. Or did he still have it? The bucks shifted their feet and twitched their ears nervously, but Thorn spoke to them and they quieted. The children watched the Kubalese without blinking. When he was finished, be made a signal and they scattered at once, searching frantically.

All but three. Three children held back, stood close together to stare up at the Kubalese. Kearb-Mattus pretended not to see them, but Thorn thought his interest was keen. One of them, the smallest boy, darted a quick glance at the black buck then looked away at once; the other two followed his gaze. Kearb-Mattus’s voice rose, “Sweets it will buy, sweets and wonders . . . The little boy—Toca, Thorn thought, Toca Dreeb—had a hot pink look about him as if he could hardly contain himself. Then suddenly for no apparent reason he turned and melted into the crowd. The other two followed him.

Kearb-Mattus scowled, stood for a moment uncertain, then clapped his hands. “Hunt’s over, children! Time’s up! No one found the gold piece.” He walked to the black buck and drew the coin from deep beneath its saddle. “Game’s over,” he roared, “No one was quick enough this time.” He turned to go, but Thorn stepped into his path.

The Kubalese raised his hand to push past, making Thorn’s temper flare. He grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted the coin from his fingers. He felt Anchorstar’s distress too late, ignored it in his fury.

“It’s not over, Kubal! You said the finder would keep the coin, and that implies a finder. They had too little time. Hide the coin again. Or shall I?”

The Kubalese’s look was black. He raised his fist—it was like a ham . . .

But before he could swing, his arm was grabbed from behind and twisted until he knelt. Anchorstar stood over him; he scowled down at the Kubalese, then nodded to Thorn to continue speaking.

“Hide it,” Thorn said.

“Why should I?” The Kubalese was furious.

“Because you promised them. And because if you don’t, this trickster and I will break both your arms for you.”

The Kubalese accepted the coin with a look of hatred and flicked it carelessly into the air so it lit among the bucks’ feet; at once the children were on it, surging and scrambling—a big boy screamed his success and disappeared, running.

Zephy couldn’t see all that happened, the crowd was too thick, people too tall in front of her. She pushed and stretched, saw Kearb-Mattus raise his fist, saw Thorn’s red thatch, saw the white-haired man move quickly through the crowd, heard the voices raised in anger. Beside her Meatha was pale as milk, staring; but Zephy paid her little attention, until Meatha shook her arm and breathed, “Anchorstar. It’s Anchorstar! It’s the man I saw—on the wagon . . .”

Zephy turned. She stared at Meatha, uncomprehending. Then she understood what Meatha was saying. But Meatha must be mistaken: This was not the way Meatha’s vision had been. Where was the bright wagon, the horses? Then Meatha’s urgency was forgotten as Thorn’s voice rose in anger. Zephy pushed through the crowd frantically, trying to see, trying to understand what was taking place.

When the crowd dispersed at last, wandering off, she was little the wiser about what had happened, except that Thorn and the tall white-haired man had stood facing the Kubalese together. She turned shy and uncomfortable then and pulled Meatha away. She didn’t want to talk to Thorn; she didn’t know what to say to him.

Meatha seemed glad enough to go. Had she been wrong, then, about the tall man? They made their way to the other side of the square and occupied themselves among the wonders of leather and tin and weavings; and neither spoke for a long time. The colors of the wagons were like fire; indigo and saffron and crimson spilled upon the day. There was a display of sugar spinning and a wagon of glinting pearls and sprika shells from the Bay of Pelli. And an old woman wizened as a dried fig laid out wonderful needlework with her brown, trembling hands. There were ginger pies filled with clotted cream, to eat in the shade of a Sangurian wagon, and all the time Zephy was silent and preoccupied. Wanting to be with Thorn but too shy and making herself miserable.

Then it was noon suddenly, the sun overhead. Mama would be furious, serving up the meal without her. She fled through the crowded streets guiltily, tripped over a clutter of bright brooms, and burst in through the sculler to meet her mother’s hot, angry frown.

NINE

The kitchen was unbearably hot. Mawzee cakes and side meat were sizzling on the great black stove. Mama flipped half a dozen cakes onto the platter before she looked at Zephy. Her face was flushed from the heat. She pushed back a wisp of hair with that quick, angry motion Zephy dreaded. “The honeyrot, Zephy. Pour it out. Where have you been! Put some charp fruit in a basket and cut the bread.”

Zephy fled gladly to the sculler, grabbed up a basket, filled it with charp fruit, and laid six loaves on top. She hurried through the kitchen with her attention fully on the basket and pushed through the door into the long-room.

The clatter of voices and plates hit her like a blow. The two chamber girls were hurrying between the crowded tables with steaming platters, Sulka’s pale hair fallen around her shoulders, and Thara having trouble getting her bulk through the narrow aisles between the backs of the seated men, her platter held high. Zephy dropped her basket on the serving table and began to cut the bread, then stopped to pour out honeyrot as the men around her clambered for drink. The noise, trapped under the low rafters, churned so the voices came in scraps of shouting that seemed to explode around her. She loaded a tray with bread and brimming mugs and started down between the aisles. The food and drink were grabbed away by great hands with seldom a thank you or a notice of whether anyone carried the tray or whether it walked by itself. There were four Kubalese sitting with Kearb-Mattus. Where had they come from? How could they show their faces after sacking Urobb! Kearb-Mattus’s voice drowned out his neighbors. She watched them with hatred, listening in spite of herself.

“—of Fire Scourge, it should be a sight, all the pomp and fuss. You’ve never seen such a—” She lost some of it in the ruckus, then, “Five days of praying on their knees and wouldn’t you know—” She held her breath, straining to listen, her fury growing. “—on the last night!” Kearb-Mattus shouted, and the men laughed fit to kill. Zephy turned away, toward the serving table.

The Trashsinger and the Vendor were sitting on a bench out of the way, their backs to the wall, making themselves a part of the hubbub of market day; remembering, she thought, when they, too, were shouting young men strong in their bodies and boisterous in their ways. She smiled down at them and handed them honeyrot and bread.

And when she turned to look back at the room, Elij Cooth had joined the Kubalese. He sat among them laughing. She stared at him, her anger rising anew. Elij was as much a traitor as his father if he could pander to the Kubalese so. What was the pact that Kubal and Cloffi were supposed to have made, anyway? Did the Landmaster believe the Kubalese would honor any pact? She stacked dirty plates onto her tray, pressing through between the crowded rows. Elij was leaning over the table, reaching for bread. Zephy gave him a look of hatred as she passed—and suddenly she was jerked back and pulled around so she lost her balance and fell, groping, across Elij’s lap.

She kicked at him and struggled; the tray fell, the dishes clattering. Elij’s grip was like steel. He was drunk, drunk and pawing her. She twisted, kicked again; there was laughter all around her—then Elij had his hand under her tunic. She snatched up the tray and jammed it into his stomach, felt his grip loosen, then was on her feet, shoving the greasy tray in his face.

She stood in the sculler seething with rage, hating Elij Cooth, hating everything; hating a system where a girl could be pawed and everyone laughed. Hating, most of all, her own weakness for not being able to fight back.

At last, her rage hard and cold inside her, she straightened her tunic and went back into the kitchen.

Mama had left the pans soaking. Zephy began to scrub them, her anger driving her so she broke a nail at the quick and swore like a man. Thara came to help her, then Sulka with another load. They glanced at her and grinned, but she didn’t acknowledge their looks. Her anger was so great it kept even those two silent, and at last she escaped toward the square.

The sun was warm on the empty streets. Burgdeeth seemed utterly deserted; only the myriad smells—tannery, baking, tammi drying, outhouses—would tell you anyone lived there. The cobbles glinted in the sunlight, and ahead of her the colors in the square were as brilliant as Zandourian silk. She came around a wagon into the square—and stopped.

Coming down the street she had heard no sound from the square. Now she could only stand staring at the people who were crowded there utterly silent: the square overflowed with wagons and animals, and with people still as death, everyone staring in one direction.

They were watching a bright wagon, and Anchorstar, she thought wildly, her mind exploding with the word; for the man of Meatha’s vision stood tall in the open back.

She drew closer and could see flowers and birds painted on the sides of the wagon, and the words, JUGGLER AND MASTER OF TRICKS. The two Carriolinian horses were just as Meatha had described them: butternut, all butternut, not a stroke of white.

The back of the closed wagon had been opened out like a stage, and there above the crowd, the tall imposing man held the throng silent by his still presence, his hands raised. The sunlight slashed across his satin cloak so it shone with every shade of red; the gravity of his face seemed to hold the crowd in awe. . . .

Then suddenly he was juggling. She didn’t see him start, one minute he was still, and the next he was tossing a dozen glinting spinning objects high in the air. His expression and stance had not changed. Most jugglers—though they had few enough in Burgdeeth where the Landmaster hardly tolerated them—would be grimacing and frowning now, dancing around to keep their wares balanced, smiling and scowling as they performed their simple tricks. Anchorstar’s face was quiet, his eyes vivid and cool. His hands seemed hardly to move as the objects flew and twisted and fell to be tossed again, twelve tumbling golden cages glinting and winking in the sunlight And in the cages—birds! Bright little birds, each one lifting to the rise and fall of the golden cages with little lithe movements as if they had done this trick a hundred times and in truth were enjoying it. There was no frantic fluttering, only the graceful, delicate balancing as the cages tumbled and gleamed.

And then she saw Meatha, standing farther along the edge of the square. She was staring up at Anchorstar as if she had been turned to stone. And, though Anchorstar seemed to be looking beyond her across the crowd, Zephy felt sure it was Meatha on whom his attention really dwelt.

Meatha, pale as whitebarley flour. Meatha, caught in something—caught . . . And then Zephy knew: they were speaking. Like Ynell, silently speaking across the heads of the crowd. This was the vision Meatha had seen: the old man, the wagon, the silent communication.

When Anchorstar had finished juggling, the crowd remained quiet, as if it had been mesmerized with the flirting circle of motion and light; and then their silence broke, they roared with applause, stamping and shouting and pressing closer around the wagon.

Where the back of the wagon had been dropped to make the stage, and the sides folded back, you could see that the inside was painted in small intricate patterns of red and gold. The tailgate was supported on the carven legs. And there around the juggler’s feet was the paraphernalia he used to entertain, cages and boxes and jars, and a brightly painted barrel, which he now held up, pouring water out into three cups and passing them down into the crowd. He had ceased to look at Meatha; and Meatha herself seemed dazed, shrinking into the crowd as if she wished not to be touched or disturbed.

The banners in the square hung slack in the windless afternoon; the statue of the Luff’Eresi shone blindingly in the harsh sun, a small pool of shadow dark around its feet. Now the juggler was holding up the cask, and the liquid he poured was red wine; it was tasted, was passed around, and a sigh of wonder escaped the crowd. Zephy learned later that he had made an egg jump in the air from one hat to another, and then had put it into a yellow silk bag, handed it to a trader and, when the trader opened the bag, a full-grown rooster had flown out. He had made divvot cards appear in the hats and pockets of the crowd; and he had pointed out silver coins in empty pails presented to him, pails which he never touched. But the juggling—the juggling of the cages was the most wonderful.

He held up a silver staff now, and the noise of the crowd died as sharp and quick as if a knife had sliced it

And there . . . Oh, but the Deacons had ridden into the square. They paused as one, silent and ominous, their swords across their saddles and the purple flag of Burgdeeth hanging limp but commanding atop the color-bearer’s staff. The crowd began to shift and mutter, to glance around, some to leave the square.

And Zephy saw that in the opposite corner the Landmaster waited, his gray stallion pawing. The Landmaster’s girth and height were impressive; his uniform shone. The people glanced at him and shrank more quickly from the painted wagon, pushing and shouldering each other.

The space around the wagon widened. Soon the juggler stood alone.

Zephy pushed through the crowd to the hedge where Meatha stood staring in frozen panic. The shadow of wings darkened her face.

The Deacons surrounded the wagon. The girls watched as Anchorstar descended and began to tighten his harness, and to close up the tailgate and the sides. There were no harsh words, hardly any words. They seemed unnecessary. The Deacons’ intent was clear.

When Anchorstar climbed into the wagon at last, he looked terrifying in his calmness. He lifted the reins without comment, backed the horses, and turned them toward the south as the Deacons were directing—there was nowhere else to go. To the north lay only Dunoon. And that, of course, would be forbidden to him.

When Anchorstar had gone, when the wagon could no longer be seen down the road and people had at last begun to return to the square, Zephy and Meatha slipped out through the housegardens, past the plum grove, and into the Landmaster’s southern whitebarley field. The grain was tall and heavy-headed, ready for harvest, and they would be dealt with harshly if they were caught there, knocking heads off the stalks as they crept through. They slipped along as gently as they could, trying not to shake the stalks, planning that when they came out onto the road at the end of the field they would run to catch up with the wagon.

But three mounted Deacons guarded the road, Zephy’s blood went cold as she stared up at their closed, stern faces. “A donkey,” she cried, desperate for an excuse. “Have you seen a brown donkey? Dragging her halter rope. . .”

The Deacons did not comment They stared back toward the village in clear command as to the direction the girls should take. There was nothing you could do, there was no way to battle Deacons. Defeated, they turned around and started back up the road.

“I hate them!” Meatha whispered vehemently.

“They don’t have to be so overbearing just because—just because . . . Oh, to Urdd with the flaming Deacons!”

Meatha seemed utterly destroyed. Zephy watched her, concerned. Sometimes you couldn’t tell with Meatha; there was something about her, a kind of delicate, tight-strung stubbornness that . . . Then Zephy caught her breath as Meatha dissolved into sudden shaking sobs. Alarmed, Zephy shoved her into the whitebarley where she would not be seen, and put her arms around her. She could feel the wracking sobs, could feel Meatha’s heart pounding. She looked down the road, terrified that the Deacons would come, then pushed Meatha deeper into the field, propelling her away from the road until they were well out in the middle of the tall stand of grain.

Never in her life had she seen Meatha so out of control. She had seen her cry silent tears when she was hurt by someone, but never tears like this, crying as if her very soul was lost.

When it seemed Meatha could cry no longer, she stared up at Zephy, her face blotched, her eyes swollen. “He spoke to me, Zephy. Anchorstar spoke to me. He couldn’t tell me all of it, and now they’ve driven him away. There was something . . .” She pressed her fist to her mouth, then at last began again, “It was like a fog, when you know things are in it but you can’t see them. He said we must talk together. There is something I must do. For Anchorstar, something I must do for him,” she said with awe. And then the hopelessness of her defeat seemed to fill her and shake her utterly, and she dissolved into tears again, her face growing so white Zephy was frightened for her. “He said that the Children . . . that the Children . . . Oh, I wish I understood . . .

“It wasn’t anything in words, just in knowing. Then he made me go away from him in my mind. He wanted his mind free because he could feel the Deacons coming.

“And when he drove away I tried to speak with him, but I couldn’t. There was nothing. And now it’s too late.” She sat staring miserably at the whitebarley that made a wall around them.

“It’s not too late. We’ll think of something.” Zephy’s anger surged at the Deacons, at her own helplessness. “Don’t cry! It doesn’t help to cry/”

Only a faint rustle of the whitebarley told Zephy they were not alone; she blanched with fear as they crouched, frozen; it would do no good to run.

The heavy sheaves parted.

And Thorn of Dunoon stood looking down at them, his red hair catching the sun, his eyes quiet and concerned.

“It’s all right, the Deacons have gone back. You can come out now. Here . . .” He knelt and lifted Meatha as easily as he might lift a new fawn and began to make his way back through the whitebarley toward the road. Zephy followed him in silent confusion.

Then in a flash of memory she saw a picture of Thorn and Anchorstar beside the goats, facing Kearb-Mattus together. Thorn of Dunoon—and Anchorstar!

They went up the road quickly and through the plum grove to a vetchpea patch on the other side, pausing to talk only when they were at last sheltered.

And there in the shade of the heavy vines Thorn told them about Anchorstar and about how the old man had come to him at night on the mountain. If he paused sometimes, perhaps it was to remember.

He told them how Anchorstar had appeared suddenly, coming so silently in the night that even the guardbucks didn’t hear him, and had spoken to him about the Children of Ynell. He told how Anchorstar had known about the spark in Thorn’s own being that made him like Ynell. Did Thorn leave something out, hold something back, or did Zephy only imagine that? Yet why would he? He had given them his trust implicitly: for Thorn’s confession to them of his own skills put his very life in their hands.

He told them how he had slipped into Anchorstar’s wagon before Anchorstar started his act, had been there inside all the time the juggler was doing his tricks, then had ridden out with him, the two of them laying a plan to get Anchorstar to Dunoon. “For he would speak with you two,” he said matter-of-factly, brushing a gnat from his face—a flock of them buzzed among the vetchpea vines, annoying in the later afternoon heat. “He would speak with you both,” he repeated in answer to Zephy’s surprised look. “For you are the only two older ones in Burgdeeth.”

“The only two older what?” Zephy whispered, going cold.

“The only two . . .” He studied her as he waited for her to understand. But she refused to understand and only stared at him blankly.

“The only two Children of Ynell,” Meatha breathed at last her eyes never leaving Thorn’s.

“I’m not . . .” Zephy began. But she could not say more, she could not deny it not after the vision in the tunnel. “I’m not . . .” she tried again, almost inaudibly. Then she gave it up and sat staring at Thorn. She did not speak of the tunnel. Nor did Meatha.

“I have a trace of the gift,” Thorn said. “But only a trace. Anchorstar will need all three of us.” He would say nothing more. He bent the talk instead to laying out the plan he had discussed with Anchorstar. It sounded simple enough, to bring the wagon through Burgdeeth after midnight, after the Singing was finished and people had gone to bed. Simple, and dangerous. For if Anchorstar were caught Thorn felt he would be killed.

“Couldn’t he leave his horses and wagon somewhere and go on foot?” Zephy asked. “It would be safer.”

“But how?” Thorn said. “Near Burgdeeth they would be seen, and anywhere off in the hills there would be no one to care for the horses. Tied animals run out of grazing, loose animals stray . . .” he gazed at her, questioning, and she realized what a silly question it had been. His eyes were such a dark green, like the river where it ran deep and still. And direct, so direct they made her self-conscious—yet they made her trust him, too. She felt that the three of them were bound together suddenly in something as bizarre and terrifying as anything she could imagine. The three of them . . . You three—and three—the words seemed to echo from a long way off. You three—you will reach out—if you are the chosen. She stared at Thorn and felt her spirit twist in sudden confusion.

It was Meatha who seemed transported into a joy of spirit so absolute that Zephy was sobered by it, for Meatha was lifted into a passion that encompassed her utterly. Was this what Anchorstar was capable of? And then she thought, could he be other than what they believed, could he be leading them into something evil?

But Thorn—Thorn would not deceive them.

And when she thought of the stone in the tunnel she knew that an aura of otherness, of mystery and wonder, truly did exist. She thought of telling Thorn about the stone.

But she would wait. If Anchorstar had tricked them, tricked Thorn, then it would be too late; and she vowed to keep the thought of it hidden when at last she faced Anchorstar.

It was nearly evening when they left the housegardens and went to fetch Loke and the bucks. They took the bucks to be bedded down with Nida and Dess, watered and fed them, then stood leaning silently on the rail. “The Singing will begin soon,” Thorn said. “We’d best make a spectacle of it. More eyes than mine saw you two staring at Anchorstar in the square when everyone else had gone. And saw you leave it, too. We’d best make it appear that Anchorstar is well out of our thoughts, that we’re wild with the pleasure of Market Night. Do you remember last year, Zephy, when you danced ‘Jajun Jajun’ alone atop the Storemaster’s wagon, with Shanner and half a dozen clapping and playing for you?”

Did he remember that? She flushed, feeling as simple and hot-faced as any Burgdeeth girl. “Tonight,” he said lightly, “we’ll dance ‘Jajun Jajun’ as it’s never been danced before.” His smile was so full of easy friendliness that she couldn’t help but smile back. But she thought later, I’m not so shy with other boys. What’s the matter with me?

Well, you couldn’t be shy with the music playing; you couldn’t be shy when you were singing. Caught up in the rhythm of the music and the blaze of lantern light that drove back the darkness, they danced and sang and forgot everything else. Zephy forgot her shyness in the laughter of Thorn’s eyes, in his voice as they sang the old songs.

She played her gaylute for the singing but quickly handed it to Meatha when Thorn swept her into a Sangurian reel that lifted her, made her forget the danger that lay ahead of them—the music was a river that carried them churning wildly down its length so no other thought was possible.

Again and again she saw Mama dancing with Kearb-Mattus. She was embarrassed when Mama danced the wild, clapping Rondingly with him, for he did not know the steps and stumped clumsily beside her. In spite of his strange appeal, the Kubalese was not made for dancing. And Mama made a spectacle of herself, clapping and whirling like a girl. It was embarrassing to see her own mother behaving with such abandon.

Late in the night Elij presented Thorn with a sheaf of whitebarley and claimed Zephy as partner. He was so drunk he could hardly keep his feet Zephy tried to stay out of his way, but she was well-trodden on before the music stopped and she turned away from him—only to be pulled back to face him.

“What’s th’ matter, Zephy? One more dance—one dance . . .” His arm went around her too tight and when he saw Thorn approaching, his grip tightened further and his voice came loud and slurred. “How c’n you lower yourself to dance w’th a—w’th a goatherd!”

She stared at Elij, then pushed him away and went boldly to Thorn. Elij’s gaze followed her, his eyes like ice.

When the music stopped again, Elij was beside them, his voice carrying across the square, “A girl pregnant by a goatherd—a Cherban goatherd—would be driven from Cloffi in rags.”

Zephy’s face flamed. Someone snickered. She could not look at Thorn. Someone else hooted, and several boys began to laugh. When she did glance sideways at Thorn, she saw his fists clenched as if he were trying to hold his temper.

“C’me here, Zephy Eskar. Come over here and let’s see what the young goatherd finds so appealing. C’m on—let’s pass it around a little . . .”

Thorn had him down, pounding him, and Elij so drunk he could hardly fight back. Thorn’s fury made Zephy go cold as she grabbed his arm, dragged at him. “He’s drunk, Thorn, he’s too drunk . . .” And Thorn, comprehending finally, pulled back and stood up, ashamed, Elij crouching before him in the street. The catcalls and laughter were ugly, were all directed at Thorn; though no one made a move toward him. “Come on,” Zephy whispered. He stood belligerently, furious. Then he seemed to collect himself, and took her arm at last, and led her away from the street. She wondered if his fury would spill over and lash out at her, too. It was strange that the Deacons, who had watched from their elevated seats at the side of the square, had not come forward to beat Thorn. What devious punishment did they have in their minds for later?

Fog had begun to drift in from the river and settle between the buildings as they stood together in a side street “I’m sorry,” Thorn said, “to cause talk like that about you. Goatherd. It’s not a nice word in Burgdeeth.”

“It wasn’t you that caused Elij’s rudeness. If I’d been nice to him, if I’d danced with him—he stepped all over my feet” she said trying to make light of it.

“Does he—does he court you?”

“Me?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or to scream at him. “Me and Elij Cooth? Oh no, Thorn. I wouldn’t have him.”

“That shows good taste,” Thorn said, grinning. “I never thought you’d have him. But sometimes . . .” he paused and studied her. “Usually a girl has little choice.”

She grinned back. “I’d feed him painon bark and ashes and make him so sick he’d be sorry he ever known me.”

Thorn smiled. He was so close she trembled. Surely he would kiss her. She was terrified. Then when he didn’t, when he took her hand instead and turned back toward the square, there was an emptiness like lead inside.

In the square, the music was quieter. Elij had gone and interest in the fight had died away. Other couples had drifted off, and the crowd was smaller. Soon four of the Deacons retired. The fog settled down thicker, fuzzing the lantern light to a glistening haze, then growing brighter as the moons rose behind it.

When the music was stilled and the square empty at last, Zephy and Thorn and Meatha met in the housegardens, each going separately through back ways. There they woke Loke where he slept wrapped in blankets by the donkey pen.

TEN

The thin radiance of moonlight through fog made the street much too light, a diffused brightness. One couldn’t be sure whether there was clarity of vision or only the glittering haze masking things unseen. Zephy peered out of the alley. “Why couldn’t it be dark.”

“It wouldn’t be dark so close to Fire Scourge,” Meatha whispered reasonably. The full moons behind the fog were like two lamps in their brilliance. Meatha shifted deeper into the shoulder-narrow alley, pressing against Zephy who was, in turn, pressed against the damp stone.

The bright fog would surely set the wagon off too plainly, though Zephy guessed it was better than the bare full moons shining down. The night was utterly silent; strange, after so much music. She felt as if an echo of music still vibrated, unheard. Meatha sighed, nervy with apprehension, then slipped out of the alley and away, a dark shape beside the wall disappearing at once into the fog. She would stand watch between Zephy and the square, prepared to whistle softly if anyone appeared in the street. It had taken Thorn a long time to teach them the whistle of the river-owl. Thorn would be in the square now. And Loke, with the bucks, would be watching from the north end of town. Even in the silence the wagon should not be heard, for the wheels and the horse’s hooves would be wrapped with rags.

Alone, Zephy felt very exposed, even in the narrow alley. She hardly dared breathe for listening. Once she thought she heard a door open softly. But it could have been inside a house. She tried to see deeper into the mist. If someone were standing across the street, would she see them? But of course there was no one; all Burgdeeth slept after the night of dancing. The dampness of the stone against which she was pressed chilled her. She stood away from the wall shivering, disliking the fog suddenly.

Among the coastal countries, Aybil and Farr, Pelli and Sangur, fog was said to be the breath of SkokeDirgOg, and men kept to their closed houses. How much superstition men lived by. If it were not for Tra. Hoppa, would she and Meatha be the same? Were they being as foolish now, just as believing of falsehood when they put their trust in Anchorstar as they were doing?

But to speak to Anchorstar, to speak without words, that was not superstition. That was real, something they had done themselves—or, Meatha had.

And did Meatha see truly? Or was her vision as warped as the Cloffi history of Ere? Was what she thought truth just another falsehood?

A faint hollow sound shook her, a ghost of a sound. Then almost at once the wagon was looming out of the fog, its muffled hoofbeats like blunt whispers, the horses warm-smelling; the wagon was nearly on top of her, the muffled wheels and rag-shod hooves sucking strangely at the damp street. For an instant Anchorstar’s face was above her, his eyes looking into hers, speaking a message she could not doubt; how could she ever have doubted him, the direct, honest warmth of his gaze that seemed to see right into her, to bare his own soul for her. Then he was gone, swallowed up. From the back of the wagon Thorn reached down to touch her cheek, then he too was gone; the wagon had disappeared, gone as if it had never been. No sound remained. Ahead in the fog, had Loke joined them? They must meet the river high above the last fields where the path was rough and stony; to use the lower road would have been foolish. She shivered at what tomorrow would bring. It seemed a wild plan, to slip out of Burgdeeth during the reaping. To stand before Anchorstar in a meeting that, Zephy felt, would change her life in ways that terrified her.

She slipped out into the street. Meatha would be finding her way home now. The fog made distances seem different; she quailed as something moved close by, then saw it was her own fog-distorted shadow against a door. She found her stairway and climbed it, lifting the door with all her strength to keep it from creaking. She climbed the two flights and the ladder, undressed in darkness, and was in bed at last. But she couldn’t sleep. She thought of Thorn’s green-eyed gaze, and Anchorstar’s dark, penetrating look, that were in some way alike. Both challenged and both comforted her. Then she dropped into sleep as suddenly as a stone drops into water.

*

The chanting of Prayer Morning woke her. She tried to slip back into sleep, felt as exhausted as if she had not slept at all. She pulled the covers up, but the Deacons’ voices raised in unison were so insistent that at last she rose. She washed and dressed in a stupor with the chanting annoying her. The demanding voices seemed to destroy what little privacy she had. Outside, the fog still shrouded Burgdeeth, veiling the houses below her. She scowled down at the fog-muffled street and thought about dumping her dirty washwater down on the Deacons’ righteous heads; and that shocking idea made her feel a good deal better.

At least she wouldn’t have to start breakfast, for Prayer Mornings meant fasting. Her stomach rumbled in protest and she was at once ravenous. She pulled on her cloak and went down; maybe she could slip a little bread from the sculler.

But Kearb-Mattus was there before her, rummaging. He didn’t fast; he didn’t go to services. She went out again, feeling irritable.

In the street the banners hung limp and pale as if the fog had robbed them of their colors. The wet cobbles were slippery; and people, coming out of their houses, paused and stared at the cloistered morning in annoyance. Zephy shivered and pulled her cloak tighter. She glanced back to see Mama coming out behind her, joining the Cobbler’s wife. She went on ahead, not wanting to talk to Mama.

The six red-robed Deacons, marching at the head of the straggling procession, had backs as straight as painon trees. Zephy tried to walk straighter and more in time with them, as was expected. As the procession entered the square, the fog shifted so the fog-veiled god seemed to lift, turning; seemed airborne then disappeared behind a heavy wash of mist.

It was strange that the Horses of Eresu were tolerated there with the gods. But what an odd question; why wouldn’t they be? They were the gods’ own consorts. Yet the Horses of Eresu were only mortal, as humans were. They were truly of Ere, and the gods were not. What were the gods, then? Did they become fully visible only at Waytheer as the Covenants taught? Was Eresu a place of two worlds, the heavenly one and the earthly one overlapping? She could never understand how that could be. She felt half-asleep, yet questions were crowding into her head with sudden surprising strength. As if, while she slept, questions had been pulled forth from the very depths of herself, those questions that troubled her most.

The Deacons had knelt before the Temple steps; behind them the procession knelt, too, as the Landmaster, broad under his swirl of red silk, made the entry signs across the door. Zephy bowed her head in quick submission. But she felt as rebellious at the ceremony as she had ever been in her life.

The red robes were bright against the white stone as the Deacons rose and climbed the stair. Four Deacons entered the Temple behind the Landmaster. The two youngest stood beside the entryway, their sheaves of whitebarley raised, and began to say the blessing in monotonous tones as the citizens of Burgdeeth filed by to enter the holy place.

Inside, the women and girls turned to one side, and the men and boys to the other. The six Deacons knelt before the carven stone dais on which the Landmaster stood with his hands crossed over his shoulders to represent his nakedness without wings. The citizens of Burgdeeth bent their heads in holy submission. The candles, placed in niches along the wall, sent long shadows of the Landmaster and Deacons across the heads of the kneeling people. Zephy peered up under her lashes, searching for Meatha, but she could not see her, and became uneasy. Had Meatha gotten home unseen last night?

This Worship of the First Dawn, just as the Worship of the Last Day, laid upon Burgdeeth protection against the wrath of the Luff’Eresi for all the following year. It began the five days of ceremonies that insured good crops and fertility and protected all who were sincere against hunger and against the evils of avarice and pride and curiosity.

The prayers were rising now, “Oh bless us, humble we are. Bless us, weak we are and afraid.” She intoned the words without feeling—yet with a real prayer deep in her heart: Let them be safe, let Thorn and Anchorstar be safe . . . “And we bow our heads in submission, we kneel to the ground before you our gods who are not earthbound”—Let them be safe—”and we worship your sky and your land on which we are suffered to dwell . . .”

The grain and fruit were being offered now, lifted into the flame. Their burning smell began to fill the Temple. Zephy choked with its bitter sweetness, tried not to cough, and knew the eyes of the Deacons were on her. She felt her face go red with humiliation as people glanced sideways.

Across the aisle the men of Burgdeeth, row after row of grown men, were bowing and kneeling submissively, their lips moving in prayer. Zephy could not picture Anchorstar behaving so. And the few times she had seen Thorn and Loke come to Temple their heads had bent very slightly, and their backs, when they knelt, were straight as zayn trees so you could see no hint of submission.

As if something in her head had saved forgotten memories to fling at her now, a dozen scenes came back to Zephy suddenly and sharply. She was standing in the Candler’s watching him pour hot wax into molds all the same shape, the same size. Couldn’t they be different sizes, she asked him. Could you make a square candle? If you put in berry juice would it make the wax red?

“Candles’ve always been made this way; why’d you want any other? When one burns down you just pluck another on top. If you had all different sizes and shapes, how’d they fit the holders? And who ever heard of square candles? Talk like that don’t please the Deacons none.” He had stared down at her coldly from behind his work table.

And the Shoemaker. All Burgdeeth’s shoes were the same. Men’s. Women’s. Children’s. Boots the same only taller. There must be some other way for shoes to look.

“What way would you have ’em? Soles on the top and the lacing underneath?” The Shoemaker had guffawed and Zephy had turned away rigid with anger. Couldn’t anyone see what she meant?

She thought of last night, so the memory of the music caught her up, came into her head more real than the Temple prayers; she closed her eyes and felt the warmth of Thorn’s closeness, felt his hands holding hers.

The offering was flaming to blackness. The Deacons knelt and bent their heads until their foreheads touched the dais. Behind them, the citizens of Burgdeeth knelt as one.

At last the offering was ashes, the flame dead, the Temple gray with smoke. The Deacon’s voices rose in a cry like ferret-dogs as the Seven Prayers of the First Day began. This depressed Zephy, all the Five Days of Worship depressed her—until the Prayers of the Last Night. She could suffer the rest for that.

On the Last Night, after the kneeling, after the terrible shrill whining of the Deacons, the worshippers would rise and march out of the Temple, each carrying a torch lit from the blessed vessel, would march into the town square and around the great statue. Their faces would be turned upward toward the night sky and the stars, toward Waytheer and the full moons. Toward the gods. The Deacons would raise their voices in a gentler litany then, in a song of true prayer. And maybe, in the sky, dark shapes might move, windborne, across the faces of the moons.

Now, the sudden stirring around her brought Zephy back to the present as the worshippers rose. As they turned toward the door, she saw Meatha where she had been sitting behind her; and Burgdeeth’s citizens filed out into the bright morning and headed directly for the fields.

“Do you think the wagon got through all right?” Zephy breathed faintly as she caught up with Meatha.

“They are safe in Dunoon,” Meatha whispered without hesitation. Then she would say no more, nor look at Zephy, as if she were wrapped in some private cocoon of emotion she did not want to share.

The fog had burned away and the sun was coming as they took up their scythes and began to cut the heavy whitebarley stalks, swinging in loose rhythm with the other women and girls who formed a long line on either side of them. Then, as the slower reapers dropped back the line began to waver. Behind them came the wagon pulled by six donkeys and driven by a young girl, accompanied by two loaders: older women with strong backs who could throw the sheaves in such a skilled way that the grain was not disturbed.

The sun was well above the hills before there were changes in the harvest line, a girl dropping out because of illness, three coming late to join them after nursing babies—now two more missing might not be noticed by the patrolling Deacons. After all, three fields were being cut besides the main field where the men were working. As the harvesters cut to the edge of the woods that bordered the river, then turned back upon a new row, straggling, one or two stopping to rest, Zephy and Meatha were there one moment and gone the next, slipping through the underbrush, their hearts pounding.

They lay for a long time in the riverbank, and once a Deacon’s horse passed so close they didn’t dare breathe. But if they were discovered here, it would only be a matter of idling, of cooling off. Chastisement, a beating. At last, when they heard no other sound, no breaking branches, no voice calling out, they rose and started up the river.

They kept as well hidden as they could, staying close to the painon trees that lined the fields on their right, then to the cicaba grove, almost overpowered by the honey scent of the cicaba. At the end of the grove, Burgdeeth would end too, and the wild fields begin, the forbidden fields where no one was allowed save those on sanctioned business for Burgdeeth: the meat cart, the ice wagons, the loads of bittleleaf. They could still hear, faintly, the sounds of the threshing, the hush, hush of the scythes and the muttering of women’s voices, the occasional calls or laughter. They walked hunched over instinctively, though the cicaba trees were dense and shielding.

Thorn won’t be there, Zephy thought. He won’t be waiting.

But when they reached the end of the cicaba grove he was there, leaning idly against a tree trunk, a pile of forbidden cicaba gleaming red at his feet. His trousers were rolled to his knees, and his damp clothes clung to him as if he had pulled them on hastily after swimming. “Took you long enough,” he said lightly.

“Temple . . .” Zephy began, and felt herself go weak at his presence.

He grinned, and handed Zephy a cicaba, and one to Meatha. They sat eating the fruit messily, as casual about it—though Zephy and Meatha had never tasted cicaba—as if they had been the Landmaster’s own family. The rind was sharp-tasting, and the fruit inside as sweet as honey. It stained their mouths red so they would be hard put to deny their thievery, were they caught. We won’t be, Zephy thought. Not now, not with Thorn, we won’t.

Across the river, some vetchpea vines had gone wild and grown into tangles that climbed the painon trees and hung down in green curtains. Zephy stared, thinking someone might be watching from there, but Thorn shook his head. “I looked, there’s no one.” And when they went on at last, the hanging vetchpeas vanished quite soon as the river and path turned left.

Burgdeeth and the Landmaster’s fields were behind them now; the wild steep fields and back boulders rose toward the mountain, the river cutting swiftly down to pass them noisily. They were at the foot of the Ring of Fire; Zephy felt the strength of the land around her, felt its weight as it rose above her, the solidity of stone that seemed to have its roots deep in the world’s core. She turned and saw Burgdeeth, so small; then followed Thorn hastily as they slipped from boulder to boulder, staying in shadow. She remembered how stark a small figure, set against the pale grass of the mountain, could appear from below.

Last night at the Singing with the blackness driven back to the edges of the square, with the lamps and candles casting wildly dancing shadows across the stone houses and across the winged statue, with the fiddles and gaylutes and calmets making such a racket, she had felt that nothing could happen to Burgdeeth—or to them. Just as the blackness of night had been destroyed, so the fear of danger, the fear of war, had been put aside as if no harm could come as long as the music lasted. Now in the daylight she felt the reality of their danger once more, the reality of the Kubalese intent.

But such a mood could not last, for the lifting sun sent a clear light onto the mountain, picking out the silver river and, sharply, the black boulders that had been strewn over the land by the eruption of the volcanoes. When she thought of the volcanoes she felt the excitement that she felt in Temple sometimes, as if her thoughts were trying to break free, could almost free themselves. Had the river boiled dry in that terrible erupting heat? If it happened now, this minute, could they escape? She could imagine the lava pouring red and smoking over the little stone huts of Dunoon that perched far above them.

Thorn stared at her. “You’re frightened. Does the mountain do that?”

“Not the mountain. I was thinking of the volcanoes. Why did it happen? Really why?”

“Because there was fire in the mountain,” Thorn said, “a fire that had to come out just as surely as a boiling pot will shake off its lid.”

“But why then, just when Owdneet was attacked?”

He smiled. “Are you asking me if 1 believe in the Cloffi Books of Ere? Or are you asking if you do?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m asking.”

He looked at her, and she felt a weakness take her suddenly, a power between them that she could not resist, so that there was nothing real in all the world but Thorn and herself. His eyes darkened, he looked, and touched her hand—and then he turned away.

*

When they reached Dunoon, the stone huts were washed with sun, casting sharp shadows up the mountain. Zephy looked down to the valley, and it was as if she stood on the edge of the sky, so falling away was the land. The countries beyond Cloffi dropped until they merged into the far-off haze; space, infinite space fell away beneath her feet, and the wonder of it held her utterly so she stood staring until Meatha pulled her away, impatient to get on.

There were three orphaned fawns in the village tended by a small boy, and some women were grinding mawzee and wild grains while a young couple laid stone for a house. High behind Dunoon the herds of goats could be seen, and to the left a black cleft between two crags. It was into this cleft that Thorn would guide them. He led them across the village and up beside the river that had grown deeper and narrower as it flowed out from the cleft. The air was cold here. Small fish flashed in the cascading water, and once Meatha stopped and pointed, picking out a gray shape high above on the rocks.

“Wolves. They won’t bother in the daylight,” Thorn said. “There aren’t so many left now, not as there were when my father was young. Then they roamed the mountains in packs of fifty and more.”

“But how do you keep them away?” Meatha, like Zephy, felt a deep fear of the wolves of Dunoon.

“The bucks,” Thorn said. “Did you ever see a big buck goat charge a wolf? With five or six together, a pack doesn’t have a chance. That’s why we have several bucks to a herd. It took a good many generations to breed bucks that would tolerate sharing their does, but it was the only way for protection.”

“You could shut the herds up at night,” Meatha said.

“It was tried. They don’t like it, these goats want the night and the cold air and the moons to make good coats and strong breeding; they wasted away, shut in. That was why my ancestors came to this place in the beginning, because they thought the caves would be good protection and make their flocks safe.”

“It must have been frightening,” Zephy said, “with the volcanoes still smoking and the cinders falling.”

“Yes, they were afraid. The stories show it, the ones that have come down to us. But they came. They didn’t like the Herebian hot on their tails every minute. This was the only place the Herebian wouldn’t go at that time, on the site of the old city. There were fire ogres in the caves then, too. They must have been terrified sometimes—but it was better than the warring tribes.”

“Why was it better?” Zephy stared at him.

“Because the fire ogres and the wolves were only—well, it was their instinct to kill. But man—the Herebian, the Kubalese—theirs is a conquering out of lust. Humans don’t need to conquer and subjugate other humans. When they do, it’s a sickness.”

They came to the cleft; as they entered, the rocky cliffs closed around them and a cold breath like winter blew out of the dank, sunless fissure. The stream became black and narrow, silent flowing, and a weight seemed to press around them. Yellow moss grew up the sides of the stone walls, and something small scurried out from some rocks and disappeared ahead of them. Zephy glanced at Meatha—but Meatha was looking steadily ahead.

ELEVEN

Meatha seemed unaware of the dank, forbidding atmosphere of the fissure as she pushed farther in, leading eagerly. Boulders stood across their narrow path so they must force their way around them; the river slipped by dark as a rock-snake on their left, the cliff walls had little growth except the yellow moss. The fissure, cut by the ancient river and perhaps by lava flow, seemed to Zephy to breathe an evil life of its own.

Meatha whispered something Zephy could not make out, and reached back to take Zephy’s hand as one would take the hand of a small child. They came around a boulder with Zephy pulled close to Meatha, and they were standing before a cave that opened black in the fissure wall. Meatha entered it at once and Zephy was pulled along; Thorn followed, silent, watching Meatha with interest.

The blackness became absolute as they thrust themselves in. How did Meatha know where she was going that there was no drop-off? Zephy pulled back, but Meatha would not allow that; she dragged Zephy on, pushing ahead with calm certainty. Only when Zephy glanced behind could she see anything at all, and then just the rapidly shrinking cave opening; she felt they would leave the world behind completely when they left that feeble light. Meatha pulled too hard in her eagerness, pushing into the darkness as steadily as if she carried a lantern.

Zephy strained to see or to feel with some sense what lay ahead and around them, but she could not; there was only the heavy blackness as if she could remember nothing else, did not know what light was. At one point they heard water running and felt a cool surge of air. There was a wall on their left now, smelling of dirt and satisfyingly rough and real. But what lay on the right? Was there an abyss? Zephy clung to the left-hand wall and felt Thorn’s hand on her arm. But whether to steady her from a fall or from her own fear, she did not know.

If you lived in darkness all your life, she thought, and had never seen light, you would not be able to imagine what the world looked like. Do we, Zephy wondered, live in a world where there is something we can’t see, but is there around us just the same?

The vision in the tunnel had implied that this was so. And the Cloffi Covenants taught that there was another world invisible to them. Before, she had never really believed that. Could part of the Cloffi teaching be truth, while the rest of it was not? But of course, Tra. Hoppa had told them that, that the most successful lies had enough truth in them to lead you into belief. Well, she had seen the vision in the tunnel; she had seen that other world for herself.

But then that stubborn doubt nagged at her again: it could all have been imagined. Still she followed Meatha blindly, though her thoughts were confused and uncertain.

At last they began to see something ahead, black shapes in the blackness. The dark was less complete, and Zephy felt as if she could breathe again. After an interminable time more she was seeing the sides of the cave. And finally she could see that they were on a wide flat path walled by earth and stone. It seemed to Zephy now that she could define the murky spaces around her with other senses than her eyes, with the feel of the space, with some sense of air on her skin—though she had not been able to in the blackness.

The ceiling was twice as tall as Thorn in some places, and at others rose to a height Zephy could not judge. The tunnel was still growing lighter. It turned and twisted as if it had been cut by natural forces through the softer areas of rock, as if perhaps the river had run here once. She wanted to ask Thorn, but she could not bring herself to speak, even to whisper.

Then they turned a corner and saw brighter light directly ahead; the tunnel widened into a sweeping cave lit from above. Meatha had stopped, but now she broke away from them to stride quickly on. Zephy stood in the entrance, the space opening before and above her; space and light, for the walls of the cave rose to an incredible height and opened to the sky as if a plug had been cut deep down into the mountain, a round hole revealing a drift of clouds. The floor of the cave was sparsely grassed and the wagon stood at one side, its colors bright against the stone, the two mares grazing near it. A thin line of smoke rose from an open fire like a thread pulled taut to the sky, and on the fire a haunch of meat was browning. The smell of crisp meat filled the cave, making the saliva come in Zephy’s mouth.

The light seemed translucent, gave an other-worldly quality to the cave. She stood quietly, feeling the silence and the mystery, the rightness of it—and then she saw Anchorstar standing at the edge of the clearing.

Over his leather tunic and trousers he wore a brown cape against the chill. It swept the ground and was hooded, his white hair showing at the temples. He gave the impression of great height and strength. Meatha stood facing him. Neither spoke, but their expressions were changing softly, as if with shared thoughts, and Zephy was drawn to watch them in spite of the sense that she was intruding, for the silent speaking was wonderful and frightening to her. She stood staring, half-believing in him and half-afraid.

And then she turned and saw Thorn’s expression, and felt his trust and satisfaction in Anchorstar.

At last Meatha moved away and Anchorstar looked across at Zephy and Thorn and smiled, and the tenseness went from Zephy so she relaxed and was engulfed by a sense of warmth.

He was of Sangur, she knew that at once in a sudden flood of knowledge. He had come up from Sangur’s cape coast through Pelli and Farr, and then Aybil, singing and juggling in the villages, doing his tricks of magic. And she knew that he had come seeking. She had a blurred sense of faces, children’s faces, and of Meatha among them, then a sense of people running—faces full of fear, their open mouths shouting wordlessly: a sense of terror and repulsion . . . then of sadness.

Thorn steadied her, for he had seen it too.

When Anchorstar spoke to them, he spoke in silence from his mind, and they knew at once that he was pleased that each of them responded, had the skill for which he searched. There was a sense of his great wonder as their thoughts filled with his silent words, You have the gift of seeing, of true seeing.

“Ynell’s gift,” Thorn breathed huskily.

Yes, Ynell’s gift, Thorn of Dunoon. You think you have only a trace of it, young Cherban, only enough to tease you, but that is not the fact.

Thorn blanched, dropping his head as if he had been chastened.

“And Zephy Eskar does not understand,” Anchorstar was speaking aloud now. He clapped a strong hand on Zephy’s shoulder and stood looking into her eyes. His eyes were golden, flecked with light, and as she stared into them, Meatha and Thorn faded, the cave faded. There was brightness, a wind. She was swirling, weightless. She was lifted above the land, she was rising on the wind . . .

She was the wind; she was looking down on Ere. She was drifting and blown at a great height above the land, could see clouds swimming below her, and beneath them the green sweeping reaches of Ere, bright green hills washed with moving shadows as the clouds passed below in a space, in a distance, that was overwhelming. The land swept below her, the dark bristling stands of woods and forests, the twisting rivers. She could see how land touched sea in a lace of white beaches and foaming surf, see Carriol’s outer islands like green gems, see the Bay of Pelli curving in between two peninsulas. And in the Bay of Pelli, beneath the transparent waters, the wonder of the three sunken islands and the sunken city, lying still and secret. She could see the pale expanse of high desert with the Cut running through it like a knife wound, the river deep at its bottom lined with green—a trench of lush growth slashing across the pale dry desert.

How bright the other three rivers were, too, as they meandered down through Ere’s green countries from the mountains. And the mountains themselves, black and jagged and thrusting, that circle of mountains, the Ring of Fire, pushed up toward her as if she could touch the highest peaks—snow-clad, some. Then between the peaks a glimpse of a valley so beautiful she was shaken with desire for it, something . . . but it was gone at once, faded, the vision taken abruptly from her.

Something gone, something that had been hidden deep within that valley in the black stone reaches of the Ring of Fire. Something she wished with all her heart she could reach.

Then it was Thorn’s eyes she looked into. She felt drained, as if this cave and all in it was an indistinct dream. As if she had been torn away from reality. Thorn waited, and when she really looked at him, she saw that he, too, had seen the vision. And Meatha—she looked up to see Meatha’s flushed and trembling face.

Anchorstar stood a little way from them, waiting. They went to him, stood before him. 1 am a Child of Ynell, Zephy thought, shaken. Nothing can ever be the same, nothing . . .

“Yes,” Anchorstar said at last, “Nothing will ever be the same. You are Children of Ynell, and you are not to be afraid.”

No, Zephy thought with surprise. Fear was not a part of this; this was beyond fear. “And there are others,” Anchorstar added quietly. “Perhaps many. In Burgdeeth there are children who wait for you, though they know not what they wait for. All of Ere may one day depend on the Children of Ynell. Others have done their share before you, and now it is your turn. If you so choose. But it will be more painful than you know.

“And it may be,” he added slowly, “that time is running out.”

I should challenge Anchorstar, Zephy thought suddenly, and now was shocked at herself. But Tra. Hoppa had taught her well: to take nothing she was told as absolute truth until she had sought it out for herself. Yet she could not challenge him, there was not room in her. If this were to be a lie, then she would have to see it in its own time, in its own way. She could see naught but truth in this man, truth in the visions he gave them. “I am no god,” he said, laughing at Meatha’s unspoken thought. “I am mortal just as you. But a stubborn mortal, child. A mortal with something of your own talents, though latent in many ways. Though I can speak to you, my powers are not constant. They need the help that comes when I speak to another with the talent. For the gifts vary. And you must know that the seeing is stronger close at hand. It is a rare Child, indeed, who can speak at any distance. And a rarer one, still, who can read of the future as you have done, Meatha. The power is a force that, for most of us, takes close proximity, as if it is a spark that falls, dying, at a distance.

“And the power is stronger in these Waytheer years, when the star is close overhead. The star’s very presence seems to give a strength that is needed.”

“If the power is stronger in the Waytheer years,” Thorn said thoughtfully, “and if the Luff’Eresi can be seen more clearly then, are the two connected?”

“They seem to be connected. But there is too much that we do not know. Who knows, even, what a god is? Who knows what we ourselves are or are not? Perhaps the force that put us here has woven an intricacy beyond our understanding, beyond intention of our ever understanding.”

“Tra. Hoppa told us once,” Zephy said slowly, “that we can only see a very small portion of what there is to see or know. But that—that when the Landmasters deliberately prevented us from seeing, from trying to see, they were committing a sin. And that people who did not try to see were sinning, too.”

“Perhaps I should have said,” Anchorstar corrected himself, “beyond intention of our easy understanding. Perhaps we were meant to question and to seek after answers that would not come easily, that would stretch our minds in the seeking, stretch our very souls.” He paused and studied her; but the picture in his mind was of Tra. Hoppa, so that Zephy stared back in surprise.

“Yes, I know Tra. Hoppa,” Anchorstar said, answering her silent question. ‘Tra. Hoppa is an old and trusted friend. I saw her in the crowd on Market Day, and she saw me of course, but we dared not speak. To cast suspicion on Tra. Hoppa in that way would have been more than foolish. To go to her home secretly, watched as I was, would have been too risky. We will meet again, perhaps. I would like that; a meeting in safety, where she is not jeopardized. Do you not know her story?”

They shook their heads.

“Come then, let us sit by the fire. I will make a meal for you and tell you her history.” He led them to the fire and brought out cushions from the wagon, then began to carve off slices of the roasting haunch and lay them on new bread. As steam rose from the meat and the juices soaked into the bread, Zephy found she was ravenous.

When they had satisfied their first hunger and were content to eat more slowly, Anchorstar settled back against the cave wall and began to speak quietly of Tra. Hoppa.

“In Carriol when I was a young man, Tra. Hoppa and her husband lived on a promontory overlooking the sea, a wild place with the breakers crashing below. There was always a hearthfire that was welcoming, and they harbored Children of Ynell from all the more primitive countries. Children come to Carriol because there they could be free. The Children would stay there until they could find a place to work, a place to live, a bit of land to farm, or until they went on, perhaps to the unknown lands.

“Then Tra. Hoppa’s husband died, and she left this work to another. How she came to Burgdeeth is a long and complicated story in itself. She was in Zandour when she heard from a trader that the old teacher of Burgdeeth had died, and that his apprentice had suddenly left Burgdeeth. It was just what she had wished for, and she came at once up to Burgdeeth. The story was that the apprentice and the teacher had had an argument, something to do with silver and with trading in Aybil. I don’t know the rest of it. She came leading a pack animal, tall-seeming in her Carriolinian gown, I was told, and regal. She acted every bit the Carriolinian lady, and let herself be entertained at the Set in a manner that no other woman in Ere, save one of Carriol, might have expected. She helped the Landmaster to fashion some of the teaching myths, as much as she loathed doing that, and made herself useful enough so that, what with his need his natural abhorrence at engaging a woman was at last overcome. I had the story from a trader, shortly after she became teacher. I have not spoken with Tra. Hoppa since she left Carriol.

“And you three know the rest. That she has taught more than she was told to teach.

“Most of Tra. Hoppa’s special children have left Cloffi. A few of them, just as you, were the Children of Ynell. They have done much good in Ere, secretly, though some have left Ere, too, and gone into the unknown lands. Perhaps one day they will return to Ere and to Cloffi. Perhaps one day, together, we can bring truth to the Cloffi cities, make Ere a place where people can rule their own lives as they were meant to do.”

“That,” he said slowly, “is why the Children of Ynell are feared in Cloffi. Because they could reveal the Landmasters’ deception, the false history, reveal the twisted religion for what it is: a tool to enslave. And the Kubalese fear the Children too, as spies. But the Kubalese are clever. They fear them, but they use them.” He looked at them for a long time. “In what I am going to ask you to do, I want to make clear that each of you must choose or reject it for yourselves. I am going to ask you to go back to Burgdeeth with deception foremost in your minds, to do the work for which you are better suited than I. You will not be suspected there as I would be.

“I want the other Children of Ynell. I want the younger ones brought away safely, the ones I feel are in greater danger now than ever before in Ere’s history. I believe the Kubalese smith is there to take them if he can, and that it will be dangerous indeed to slip them away from him. I want you three—but Zephy and Meatha most, for you are of Burgdeeth—to help me in this, to help all of Ere and your true brothers and sisters in this. But I want you only willingly. If you have doubts, I do not want your promise.

“War may come to Cloffi, and if that happens, I believe that all the Children of Ynell, even you two, will die or be taken captive for the use of the Kubalese.

“On the day of Market, it was Kearb-Mattus who alerted the Deacons that I might be a menace, who encouraged them to drive me out at once. He trusts me no less[more?] than I trust him.”

Zephy thought of the gold coin hidden on the black goat, of the game of search-and-seek in the alley, and all at once she saw clearly the answer to the questions that had puzzled her. “He is searching for them!” She cried. “Kearb-Mattus is searching out the Children of Ynell!”

Anchorstar nodded.

“But he—but he . . .” she swallowed, and felt sick. “Three children have died in Burgdeeth. He has killed them!” She stared at Anchorstar. Meatha had gone white.

“No,” Anchorstar said softly, “Kearb-Mattus had killed no child.”

“But he . . . Nia Skane is dead! And the two little boys who drowned. They were all children who . . . bright children, different children! How can you . . .” her disappointment at Anchorstar flared too quickly.

He remained calm, his expression steady and appraising. “Not dead,” he repeated at last. “They were taken.” He banked the fire and poured wine from the flagon into pewter mugs.

“But I saw her body, Nia’s body, and the little boys—”

“Only taken,” he repeated. “They were made to seem dead, they were viewed as dead in the ceremonies, white as death with the drug MadogWerg that the Kubalese keep.”

Zephy remembered Nia’s white face. Surely it had been death she had looked upon. Then she remembered the hunting party in the street the night of Nia’s funeral, remembered Kearb-Mattus’s dark figure pulling the cape over something tied behind his saddle.

Anchorstar saw her thoughts and nodded. ‘Taken,” he repeated softly. “Made captive, prisoner for the uses of the Kubalese.”

“What kind of use?” She breathed, sweating with sudden fear. “And where? Where are they?”

“I do not know where. It is part of the work to be done, to find them. The mind drug is so potent that the children seem truly as dead, their minds inactive. No other Child of Ynell, seeking them out in their thoughts, has been able to sense the slightest hint of them. But I am certain they are alive. The Kubalese value the Children. They fear them, yes, as spies against Kubal. But they value them, too, as spies on their own side, if they can, with drugs and mind-forming, make the Children twisted in their thoughts so their allegiance is to Kubal alone.”

“That is what they want,” Thorn said. “That is what you have traveled across Ere to prevent. Spies. Faithful, mind-twisted spies.”

“But how can they!” Meatha breathed. “How can they make the Children—even with drugs . . . 1 wouldn’t, I never would spy for Kubal!”

“The youngest children will,” Anchorstar answered. “Those who can be made to believe untruths about Kubal, just as children are made to believe untruths about the Luff’Eresi by the Temple training in Cloffi. It is easy to train a young child’s mind into falsehood if you take time and skill with it and have nothing to counteract the training. The drugs will prevent their knowing the Kubalese intent until it is too late even for the Children of Ynell, until there has been subtle damage to their minds, so that they learn to love the corrupt. A Child of Ynell can be turned to evil just as anyone else can, can be made to lust after falsehood and evil, and desire to control others with his skill; never doubt it. But it would be difficult indeed to train you older ones, if you are strong-minded. Not without a good deal subtler effort than the Kubalese are prepared to put forth. The young ones are more malleable, and the young ones’ own passions can betray them. The young ones, and those older ones who are weak. Kearb-Mattus wants only the Children who can be made to want to use their powers for Kubal. He does not want you, you three are a threat to the Kubalese plans, if indeed Kearb-Mattus knows what your talents are.” He sighed and laid a hand on Meatha’s hair as if he, as Tra. Hoppa, found her delicacy and beauty a source of sadness.

“I believe the Kubalese will not attack Burgdeeth until all the young Children of Ynell have been taken by Kearb-Mattus. Though the last one or two might be taken at the very beginning of the attack. I would think that only a few are left in Burgdeeth even now.”

“But how can Meatha and I get them away?” Zephy said. Then she saw Meatha frozen into that inner speaking. Zephy paused and delved deep into the silence, into the voiceless words; and she saw the tunnel. Meatha was showing Anchorstar the tunnel that ran beneath Burgdeeth.

She understood that the Children could be taken there, hidden there until the small hours of darkness when they could be led away to meet Anchorstar beyond the house-gardens. Yes, perhaps it could be done. If only their talent for seeing were stronger. And then she saw the stone, lying in its niche, and she knew they had the power. The power was there, the stone was the key, the weapon that would strengthen their talents. Meatha showed it to Anchorstar, and his exaltation was great, his look intense as he examined the experience they had had with it; the vision Zephy shared with Thorn now, so he was there with her seeing the gods, feeling the immensity of space and of light.

Then Anchorstar’s voice rang deep in their minds, as a prophecy would ring, and Zephy knew he spoke the words he had spoken to Thorn on the mountain when first he came into Cloffi.

I seek a lost runestone, a stone of such power that the true gift would come strong in one who held it. Found by the light of one candle, carried in a searching, and lost in terror. Found in wonder, given twice, and accompanying a quest and a conquering . . . And the time to wield that power may be soon, for there are rumors across the land. . . .

Zephy stared at Thorn and felt, a chill touch her, of fear and of anticipation. They stood looking at each other, linked, shaken, lifted into a dimension that exalted and terrified her.

Part Three: Fire Scourge

From The Covenants of Cloffi, Book of Fire.

There shall be five days of worship at Harvest. On the fifth day, the last Worship of Fire Scourge shall be conducted under the full moons. The fields shall flame unto the sky, and the people shall turn their faces upward. We will see your flaming prayer, and we will judge your worthiness. You shall kneel down before the fire. You shall give the gods proof of your willing destruction of the earthly and unworthy. You shall show your innocence.

Only the innocent will be granted absolution. The guilty will burn for all time at the fires of Urdd lit by the Luff’Eresi to cleanse evil from the hearts of mortals.

TWELVE

“You were not in the west field,” Feill Wellick said. He stood over them, cold as winter. They looked back innocently, trying to hide their apprehension. “You were not in the west field all day, not since early morning. Where were you?”

“There were too many,” Zephy said. “When the other girls came, the line was so long the wagons couldn’t keep up with us so we went to the north field, we . . .” His expression cut her short. She stared up at him, her heart like lead.

“No one saw you in the north field.”

“We were there,” she said boldly. “They would lie to get us in trouble, those girls.” She had never talked to a Deacon like this. Her heart pounded; but she tried to look puzzled at his concern.

He couldn’t prove anything; not that he needed to, of course. In the end he sent them to pray, so they missed supper. They prayed until after dark on their knees in the square, giddy with the knowledge that he had sent them exactly where they wanted to be. They were so close to the runestone, so close. Their bodies ached from the one position. They longed for darkness to be complete so they could slip down. It would be so easy to retrieve the stone.

Though the thought of bringing the stone up into Burgdeeth was terrifying. It seemed to Zephy that the runestone would send a brightness out from itself that nothing could hide.

And then when darkness came, Feill Wellick sent two Deacons with lamps to stand over them to hear the Prayers of Contrition. They had no chance to slip into the tunnel. They were sent home to bed very late, with the Deacons watching them go. Zephy climbed into her cold bed feeling utterly defeated.

They don’t know anything, she thought uneasily. How could they? It’s just that we’re too defiant, both of us, and they caught us once for swimming, so now they’re always suspicious. But how will we get the stone now? Will they watch us all through harvest?

The next day they worked in separate fields, to allay suspicion, then came together innocently at noon to share their dinners. They sat a little way from the crowd of gossiping women and the clusters of girls. A Deacon rode by and stared at them and went on.

Three children had been taken by the Kubalese. Nia Skane, carried away behind Kearb-Mattus’s saddle. Little Graged Orden, who had run away when he knew where the red rag was hidden, drowned with his friend, Gorn Pellva. Or so it had appeared. Had Gorn been a Child of Ynell, too? And what about Elodia Trayd? Zephy could still see Elodia’s defiant gray eyes staring up at her. Would Elodia be next?

“And there’s Toca Dreeb,” Meatha whispered. “He knew where the coin was hidden on the black buck.” The sun struck across Meatha’s cheek as she turned. “And Clytey Varik, maybe. We mustn’t let Kearb-Mattus take any of them. Clytey’s such a strange girl I can’t be sure. But there’s something about her . . .”

“But she’s always so lively. And with other children.”

“All the same, I feel it. Clytey Varik. Elodia Trayd. Toca Dreeb,” she said with certainty. “And one other. Did you ever watch Tra. Thorzen’s baby?”

“A baby? But how could you tell?”

“Tra. Thorzen was working beside me this morning and the baby—Bibb’s its name—was lying in a patch of vetchpea to one side, gurgling. I thought things at it. I could make him smile. And I could make him cry.”

Zephy stared at her. “It could have been . . .”

“Coincidence? I don’t think so. I thought of food and he gurgled and reached out toward me, then when I thought of someone coming up behind and hitting him, he turned around very afraid and began crying. But when I thought he was warm and comfy and fed, he settled back and smiled and went to sleep.”

Zephy frowned. “How will we steal a baby?”

“And what will we do with him? I’ve never taken care of a baby.”

“The first thing is to get the stone. We’ll have to try tonight, after harvest. When you take the donkeys back, turn Dess loose and slap her.”

“We’ve done that before.”

“She can jump the fence, though. We’ve seen her.”

So they let Dess loose, heading her toward the plum grove, and in the search for her, Zephy slipped down into the tunnel while Meatha searched for the donkey above, in the opposite direction from Dess.

With the boulder rolled over the opening, the weight of blackness took hold of Zephy, making her shiver. She struck flint to candle, and in that trembling moment before the flame steadied, she knew, coldly, that if they were caught with the stone they would be killed for it; that somehow the Deacons would know what it was.

Yet the quest gave her a feeling that nothing in her life had ever done. She touched the cool walls, passed the first timber support, brushing dirt and stone with her fingers. When she reached the niche at last, she had convinced herself the stone would be gone and could hardly bear to look. Then when she held the stone wrapped in her handkerchief, she had to unwrap it to be sure. Her desire to touch it overwhelmed her, but she wrapped it again and made haste to get back; she could put them both in danger with her dawdling.

They caught Dess knee-deep in Tra. Llibe’s vetchpeas, gorging herself, and dragged her away toward her pen as if they were very angry, elation and terror making them nervy. Then they crept into Zephy’s mawzee patch, and she unwrapped the stone, couching it in her handkerchief.

“Touch it, Zephy. Touch it once with me.”

“I’m afraid. Wait until we can use it on one of the children.”

“Maybe we could see if the Kubalese plan to attack. Maybe from Kearb-Mattus’s mind. Anchorstar said—”

“But Anchorstar said you have to be close—”

“Not with the stone. With the stone we can do it. Oh, please let’s try. Think of Kearb-Mattus as hard as you can, think of his face.”

Zephy touched the jade reluctantly and felt Meatha’s hand next to hers. She tried to see Kearb-Mattus’s face. She could not, but she could feel the sudden sense of him so strong that she started. Whether that was the seeing, or only her memory of him, she didn’t know. She tried to go in, like drifting smoke, as Anchorstar had shown them. She tried to mingle her own self with Kearb-Mattus and in a moment of dizziness she knew that she had—and then she saw the soldiers.

They were mounted on great horses, their sectbows and swords slung over their saddles. She saw them riding hard over broken ground; she saw them making camp; she saw them assemble before a leader. Then there was only grayness, she could see nothing—but now a knowledge was growing in her mind, fledging out as if it had been there all the time unseen, now unfolding itself as a moth unfolds from the cocoon. And she knew, in that moment, the Kubalese plan. She knew the dark partnership into which Kubal and Cloffi had entered. She saw the exchange of strengths of the two countries, and she knew their intent.

To rule all of Ere! A ruling oligarchy powerful beyond any man’s dream. An oligarchy made of Kubalese and Cloffi leaders. She stood gripping the stone, her knuckles white. In return for Kubal’s strength in fighting men, so much fiercer, so much crueler than the Cloffa, Kubal would receive—had been receiving—the Children of Ynell, to use as spies.

And she saw that Kearb-Mattus was more powerful than she had supposed. The Children of Ynell must be very important, indeed, for Kearb-Mattus, as one of the Kubalese leaders, to come seeking them himself.

The Children had been feared by the Landmasters lest the day come when they broke away from the false Cloffi religion and made others see the truth. And now they were feared, too, lest they discover this new plot against Cloffi’s freedom.

But why couldn’t Cloffi and Kubal just have joined, without the threat of war? The Cloffi citizens were not strong enough to prevent it. And then she saw that if there were war and Cloffi seemed to be conquered, the Landmaster could feign honesty, could treat the alliance as making the best of a bad situation. Where if he simply joined Kubal, even the docile Cloffa might become too angered or disgruntled to be tractable.

And then she saw the last ironic part of the puzzle, and knew that Meatha saw it, too. The missing piece that even the Landmaster didn’t know, that only the Kubalese leaders knew. She saw plainly that when—not if, but when—the Kubalese conquered Cloffi, the Landmaster and his family and the Deacons would be enslaved or put to death.

She stared at Meatha, sick. How could the Landmaster be such a fool? Meatha’s eyes blazed; and then she began to smile, a twisted, bitter little smile, and she said coolly, “The Landmaster has baited his own trap.”

The low sun glinted through the mawzee stalks in shafts of light that moved constantly on the wind; the scent of mawzee was strong, like baking bread.

“Could we—could we speak to Anchorstar?” Meatha whispered at last. “Could we speak to him with the stone?”

They tried, but they could not; it was all of darkness.

“We must try to see the Children,” Zephy said nervously. “We must find the Children . . .”

They started with surprise at the ease with which the vision came. It was Nia Skane, and Zephy caught her breath—but this was Nia before she was taken. Zephy saw a montage of children playing and running in the street, and she knew she was seeing through Kearb-Mattus’s eyes, for she could still feel the sense of him strongly. She saw Nia walking alone down the lane from Temple, and she knew Kearb-Mattus’s intentions. There was a wild flashing of scenes as Nia ran, was grabbed, as something was forced over her face. Zephy saw the child fall, saw her lying pale and still and twisted beneath the painon tree. She dropped the stone and turned away, sick.

“You can’t let go like that!” Meatha turned on her in a fury. “You can’t, not and be able to help!”

“I—I’m sorry. I’ll try.” But the vision had shaken her terribly.

“Don’t you see?” Meatha said more gently. “We saw him do it. Now you know Anchorstar was telling the truth.”

Zephy stared at Meatha, ashamed she had lost control, ashamed she had doubted Anchorstar. Ashamed that Meatha knew.

*

They found Clytey Varik sitting on her sculler steps shelling out some vetchpea pods. Twelve-year-old Clytey had a sliding blue-eyed glance that made her seem as devious as the older girls. She was wily and gay and popular and was always surrounded by her peers and by a good many boys. But still there was an odd quality about her that made her different somehow. Of the Children Meatha had named out to Zephy, Clytey was the most puzzling. “The others,” Meatha had said, “little Toca, Elodia Trayd, the baby—we could almost be sure of them without the stone, though I know we must try it. It’s Clytey I don’t understand. She flirts like the older girls, she laughs and—and yet I don’t know. It’s just something different. We’ll see,” she had added with more confidence than Zephy had felt. I wish, Zephy thought, I wish . . . but what was the good of wishing?

Clytey tilted her head and looked at Meatha now with an expression almost of defiance. Zephy paused, but Meatha went to her with the stone cupped and hidden, then bared it suddenly and held it against Clytey’s fingers.

Clytey looked puzzled. Then slowly her eyes widened. She laid her hand over Meatha’s, covering the stone. She grasped the stone and pulled it away, and her expression had come alive in a way Zephy had never seen—then suddenly a darkness crossed Clytey’s face, too. Her look turned from awe to terror; so alarming a terror that Meatha reached for the stone. But it was too late. Clytey was staring at something behind them. “The fire, they’re coming through the fire,” she screamed. “They’re behind the fire, the swords . . .” Her cry catapulted between the stone buildings.

She flung away from Meatha into the street, dropping the stone in her agitation. But it seemed to make no difference, whatever the stone had summoned held her in a white terror. “They’ve killed them,” she cried, staring at empty space. “Oh, the blood . . .” Zephy reached her first and clamped her hand over Clytey’s mouth. Meatha grabbed up the stone, wrapping it hastily. Zephy had Clytey in her arms now, but it was too late; others were coming, running, drawn by the commotion, then stopping to stare at this child who was obviously having a vision. The word rumbled among the onlookers.

Zephy muffled Clytey with her arms, but Clytey flung away from her in a pale, panting terror that seemed to see nothing else, crying, “The fire—great Eresu, the fire, they defile the fire . . .” Clytey covered her face with shaking hands as others pulled at her, at Zephy and Meatha. Zephy fought, turned to bite, and sunk her teeth into someone’s arm. People were flocking into the street shouting. She was held, pushed and trapped in the crowd, could not see Meatha; saw Clytey’s face once more, then she was dragged, flailing, into an empty alley and she saw Kearb-Mattus’s face close to hers. She felt herself jerked and twisted, forced down the alley away from the mob. Clytey screamed; the crowd’s cry rose; she could hear the Deacons’ voices. She kicked to get free, and thought she heard Meatha’s scream, too. She hit out, and Mama was there holding her hands, dragging her up steps. . . .

They forced her through the sculler door. She could hear screaming, still, and she cried in response, “Let me go! Let me . . .” Something in her told her to be still, not to fight, but her fury was too great; her fury, and her terror for Meatha.

Kearb-Mattus wrenched her arm behind her and forced her through the longroom and up the stairs—one flight and the next, brutally. She could not resist completely and feel her arm broken, she was not strong enough, the pain defeated her. She felt herself pushed up the ladder, shoved, heard the trapdoor close behind her and heard the old bolt, forever unused, wrench free and slide home with a scraping noise.

Then there was silence in the loft.

She crept to the window.

Below, the crowd was thick. All Burgdeeth was there in the street. Zephy could not see Meatha or Clytey, but two donkeys were being led up toward the place where the Deacons stood: Dess and Clytey’s little gray donkey.

The crowd parted slightly for them, then parted very wide, in deference, as the Landmaster rode up. Elij was with him.

Now an opening was made in the center of the crowd, before the Landmaster and the red-robed Deacons. The donkeys were brought up, to stand with their ears back, not liking the excitement. Then the girls were there, being stripped of their clothes by the head Deacons.

Clytey and Meatha stood naked and ashamed before all Burgdeeth.

Slowly, then, they were dressed in rags, the filthiest rags the Ragsinger could produce. Clytey’s mother came running, crying, and Zephy could see that Meatha’s parents were being held back by the crowd. Clytey fought as they dressed her, but Meatha held herself like steel, cold, frozen. Zephy’s heart lurched for her, she wanted to cry out, she wept inside in a sickness she had never known, as if all her insides bled in one terrible quailing illness for Meatha.

The girls, rag-dressed and smeared with muck and dung and butcher’s blood, were lifted up in a macabre ritual by four men each, and laid across their donkey’s backs, face down, like sacks of meal. They were tied, then the crowd began to smear on more muck from the gutter, and to dump buckets of slops on them. Zephy turned away and was sick into her chamber pot.

When she came back to the window, the donkeys were being led away toward the Temple for the last sacrificial rites.

Zephy knelt on the stone sill, shivering, for what seemed hours, until the procession came back down the street. It was led by the Landmaster riding his gray stallion, his red robe garish above the children’s rags. The donkey’s heads were down as if in shame, though more likely it was the commotion. The crowd that followed chanted the dirge with a strength and vehemence that made Zephy shake with fury.

Long after the procession had gone, long after the town had stilled, Zephy crept shivering into her bed and lay curled tight around herself, unable to drive the pictures from her mind. When Mama pushed open the trapdoor and came to her in the darkness, she turned her face to the wall and held herself rigid.

“Did you want to die there, too!” Mama whispered.

“You could not have helped her. You could not have helped either of them. Did you want to die with them, for nothing?”

Zephy could smell the food Mama had brought. It nauseated her. She did not speak, or look at Mama, and Mama turned away at last. She must have paused, though; perhaps she turned back toward the cot. “Whatever you think of Kearb-Mattus,” she said evenly, “it was Kearb-Mattus who pulled you out of that. It was Kearb-Mattus who saved your life. For me, child. He did it for me. Not for the love of you.”

When Mama had gone, Zephy sat up in the darkness. She was sore with anguish and wanting Mama badly. But she would not call out to her.

She could not seem to sort anything out, could not come to grips with anything. Vaguely, she sensed that she was the only one left, that she must do what was necessary without Meatha, without the stone. And this was impossible. She stared at the black oblong window and wondered where the stone was. But it didn’t matter, it was over; the things that Anchorstar had told them, had shown them, they did not matter now.

The shock of her own thoughts stirred her at last. She knew the pain of Meatha’s death like a knife—and she knew there was no choice, that she must do as Meatha would have done. She rose, her hands shaking as she fastened her cloak against the night. Had Meatha dropped the stone in the street? She could not have kept it hidden, stripped of her clothes as she was. Had the Deacons taken it from her?

But Meatha would have flung it away somehow, she would not have let them know. Had she been able to cast it into the gutter? Zephy went to the window once more and leaned against the cold sill, waiting.

Much later Shanner came, looked at her strangely, flung himself into bed, and slept. He seemed like a stranger to her. When at last Burgdeeth’s lights were snuffed and the town was silent, she crept out and down the stairs and into the street, lifting the door to keep it from creaking. She kept to the shadows. Waytheer was caught square between the two moons. She thought it should give her courage, but it didn’t. She felt numb and mindless.

In front of Clytey’s house she knelt and began to search in the gutter. Her hands were immersed in cold dishwater, spit, little boys’ pee, animal dung, garbage. Her legs and tunic became splattered. Could the stone be here? Or would it be lying, still, among the cobbles even after that crowd?

When she finished the gutters on both sides she crossed and recrossed the rough cobbled street on her hands and knees. She was terribly exposed, alone on the moonlit street. She felt around the steps of each house and even searched hopefully in the bowls of grain that had been set out at each door for the Horses of Eresu, for luck on this night before Fire Scourge. Could Meatha have slipped the stone into one of the bowls before she was bound? All the doors had been decorated with tammi and otter-herb and the leaves of the painon, which gave off a wonderful scent, and with swords hanging point downward to show respect.

She searched futilely until first light, then crept back to her own sculler to scrub off the muck from the gutter. Then she stood watching the first rays of sun through the open window, listening disconsolately to the sounds of Burgdeeth stirring as people came out to begin the third morning of Harvest.

She knew the girls’ clothes had been burned at the last rites. Had the Landmaster found the runestone among them or perhaps at the bottom of the sacred fire, black among the ashes? If he had found it, had he any idea what it was?

And were there more Children to be gotten out of Burgdeeth than Meatha had guessed? Was Elodia Trayd too old for Kearb-Mattus to bother drugging, did he mean to kill Elodia as he must have meant to kill Meatha, at the time of attack? And me, too? Zephy wondered. Does he know about me? Or does he think it was only because I was Meatha’s friend that I tried to help her?

She went to harvest as she was expected to, sick and shaken. At midmorning she sought out Elodia in the fields, then Toca, and stood staring at each in turn, then went away again silently. Elodia had glanced up from her work, staring back for a moment with that steady gray-eyed gaze that made her seem so much older than a child of nine. But Toca, a rosy little boy, had only looked at Zephy and grinned and gone on snatching up bits of whitebarley behind the wake of his buxom mother.

Zephy did nothing more about the Children, on this harvest day or the next two. She could think of nothing else to do. Her mind seemed to be in limbo, resigned to the idea that she would fail, that she would be responsible for the deaths of the very children she was committed to save. By Fire Scourge night she felt so drained and uncertain of herself that she was constantly on the verge of tears. Mama, thinking she was grieving for Meatha, left her alone. Zephy could not have held up if Mama had put her arms around her, had asked her what was the matter. She thought of Anchorstar with the terrible knowledge that she would fail him, thought of Thorn with sick shame.

After supper on the eve of Fire Scourge, she dressed herself in her good tunic and her cloak and brushed her hair carefully, then went to join the procession to Temple. But her eyes were cast down in more than submission; and her heart scudded uncertainly as she followed along in the twilight, hastily making a plan.

THIRTEEN

One candle burned in the dark temple, in the center of the dais. When the first prayer began, the Landmaster’s voice rang out alone. Then candles were lit one by one, flame after flame leaping, and when a bank of candles burned across the dais, the Deacons’ voice rose. “Bless these our people, and bless this flame we raise to you. Bless this fire and bid it cleanse our lands. Lay your sanction upon your humble servants this holy night.” And the people answered in a quick staccato, “The fire, the sacred fire.” The Deacon’s voices raised an octave. “Bring upon our land the peace of resignation.” And the people answered, “Bless us, we are humble.” The flame burned higher. “Look upon our submission,” moaned the Deacons. Look down upon our reverence and bless this sacred flame. Oh Revered Ones, bless the ground this flame will sanctify.”

“The Fire, the sacred Fire.”

Zephy mouthed the prayers, but her mind was filled with a terrifying coldness. Would she be brave enough? She knew, as surely as the stone brought true vision, that tonight would come the attack. With all her strength she fought the very submission the Deacons were praying for.

What would happen if she failed? Or if the attack came too soon? There would be little time, there in the field as the fires were set. She had a wild, terrible urge to snatch the three Children out of Temple at once and make off with them. She sat with pounding heart, willing herself to be still.

She saw Elodia turn once and stare at her. Did the child sense something? Did she know? Was Elodia Trayd a Child of Ynell? Or was she only different? Brighter, rebellious, but without the sight?

“Bless our Master for he is holy. Bless our crops and our works. And keep our children from worldly affliction. Keep them from the Curse of Ynell. Pity us in our trials and sanctify us in our duties.”

“Bless us, we are humble.”

The sacred grain was poured into the chalice. The flame burst forth and was blessed. The Deacons’ voices rose in the litany, and in prayers to Waytheer, in special obligations and beguilings on this year of Waytheer.

“Bless us, we are humble. We kneel before Waytheer in humility.”

Then at last the Deacons’ hands raised in the final benediction. The grain was blackened now, but the flame still burned. The Landmaster took up torches and began to light them in the flame. The crowd rose, to file forward one by one and receive the burning torches. Zephy seized this moment to slip forward in line to just behind Toca Dreeb and his mother. The top of Toca’s head shone yellow in the light of the flame. The back of his childish neck looked tender, very sweet. She shivered for him; he was so small and vulnerable.

Elodia was at the beginning of the line. And the thin, bent figure of Tra. Thorzen was there in back, carrying little Bibb over her shoulder as if the baby had gone to sleep during the ceremony. Zephy wondered again if she should be so sure about a child yet unable to speak. It was lucky, she thought, that half the men of Burgdeeth would ride guard this night, and among them Tr. Thorzen and Tr. Dreeb—she had winnowed that information out of Shanner who, though curious, had talked freely enough. Shanner! she thought, and a pang touched her. What would happen to him this night in the attack? He rode front guard in the Burgdeeth Horse. Shanner could help me, she thought for the second time. If I’d asked him, somehow he could. But she would not have dared to ask him. And he would never have believed her, anyway; not about what Kearb-Mattus planned for the Children of Ynell; not about how he had stolen them. He would only laugh, in spite of his hate for Kearb-Mattus, and say she was imagining things. And he would never believe about Anchorstar or the stone; surely not that she was a Child of Ynell; nor about the wonder of the vision she had seen.

Where was Kearb-Mattus now? The Kubalese never came to Temple. What was he doing, had he slipped out of Burgdeeth to join the Kubalese army? Or was he lying in wait, to create havoc when the time came? She moved forward, received her taper, felt shaken with guilt for her thoughts, and followed the line down the steps.

Ahead, the moons touched the statue just behind the Luff’Eresi’s wings. The blowing, moonlit clouds were pale as silk. All their lives she and Meatha had walked this procession together, carrying their lit torches side by side. All their lives they had watched the sky, but on this night most of all, for sight of the Luff’Eresi or the Horses of Eresu, moving on the moon-washed clouds. And they had thrilled beyond speaking when dark winged shapes did move there, silent on the winds, looking down on Fire Scourge.

The marching line of guttering torches wound beneath the statue’s raised hooves, then moved away toward the cut whitebarley field that had been chosen for the ceremony this year; the other fields would be burned in secondary ceremonies after the flames from this field died. The chant of the Deacons was soft now, sibilant, their low voices making a prayer that was snatched away by the breeze and muted by the shuffle of feet. The line was beginning to curve, to make the circle of the field, winding like a fiery snake. Zephy’s heart scurried—not yet—not yet . . .

Her torch smelled of rancid oil. She followed Toca’s low-held torch, nearly paralyzed with fear. The stubble of the cut field crackled under her feet. She shivered, then suddenly bile came into her mouth and she ran, stumbling, and heaved her supper into the irrigation ditch.

The line had moved ahead. She hurried, swallowing the ugly taste as people near her turned to stare. She found Toca and slipped in behind him, sweating and shaken. Toca marched on, perhaps unknowing, perhaps not. She tried to shield her thoughts from him, to calm them, to think only of the ceremony, the fire, and not what she was about to do. But in her memory she saw Clytey’s pale face and heard her cry, “The fire, they are behind the fire.” She almost grabbed Toca and ran; not now, she thought. Not yet.

How could she get all three Children away when they were so spread out? And then she knew that she must try to speak to Elodia silently. Even without the stone, she must try. Could she make the younger girl understand? Washed with doubt, she stared at the licking flame of her torch and tried to center her thoughts, to bring her very being into Elodia, to feel she was Elodia . . .

She could not make words, words did not come. Only a feeling. Of desperation and fear and of challenge. She tried to give Elodia what she had felt with Anchorstar, to press a sense of urgency upon her. Elodia marched resolutely, staring straight ahead. Zephy had no idea whether she was reaching the child. She thought of Elodia slipping out of line and following her unseen, thought of her wanting to. But Elodia only walked on with her usual straight, light pace, her taper held high, away from the heads of her elders. Follow me, Zephy thought. Follow me when the field is lit. She tried to think of herself as someone else would see her, tried to make a yearning for herself in Elodia, a desire to follow. The procession had wound almost completely around the field now, the ring of fire wavering and bright. Zephy could see the dark shapes of the Burgdeeth Horse riding behind the marchers. Were the Kubalese there in the night too? But the moons were higher now, and brighter; wouldn’t such riders be seen? They could be in the groves, though, or behind the rises north of the housegardens. But the Captains of the Burgdeeth Horse must have thought of that. She shivered. In spite of the Landmaster’s traitorous plan, she felt sure the men of the Horse did not know. At least she felt Shanner didn’t. Could the Captains be part of it? Surely they must think that the Horse would all go free, then; that the battle would be but a mock one. And that was not the case.

She felt a cold terror for Shanner.

And Anchorstar was there among the hills waiting for her and the Children. Were the Kubalese there around him, had they discovered him? But she couldn’t think of that now. Her distress and uncertainty made her falter. I can’t do it, she thought suddenly. Think of Elodia, she cried silently. Bring Elodia to me . . .

The snake of fire had joined itself, the field was surrounded by flame. There was a hush as the Deacons stepped forward. They raised their arms to begin the blessing of the field. The Landmaster’s torch blazed high above his head against the sky. The cry of the Deacons rang out in a prayer harsh on the night breeze, high and piercing.

Then at last the gentler litany began, like a honey-song, like a true blessing, and the voices of Burgdeeth rose with it in unison and in joy, in thanks for the successful harvest and for another year of safety and surcease from the wrath of the Luff’Eresi.

When the prayer was finished and the Deacons had stepped back, the Landmaster knelt, and all Burgdeeth knelt as one around the edge of the field. They brought their torches forward and struck the fire in unison so the field burst into flame with a sharp crack. Zephy stood frozen, then dropped her taper in a panic and turned to little Toca. “Come with me, Toca, I have a surprise. It’s beautiful . . .” She searched Toca’s blue eyes, trying to think what would rouse him. He looked up at her blankly. This moment when his mother was praying and not attending to him would last but an instant. “Come on,” Zephy breathed, smiling. “We will go to Elodia and find the triebuck in the moonlight . . .” and she thought hard of the triebuck standing with his head lifted and his three horns gleaming the way she had always pictured it The little boy’s eyes grew huge. He put his hand in hers and stepped out of line, away from the blazing field.

They ran across the stubble in the darkness behind the line. When they reached Elodia, Toca flung himself at her shouting, “The triebuck, we’re going to see the triebuck,” so that Zephy dropped his hand and clapped her own hand over his mouth. “It’s a secret,” she whispered, terrified. “We must keep it a secret” A few heads turned and stared, but most were too caught up in the ceremony.

Elodia gave Zephy a strange, cool look and rose at once. She put her hand in Zephy’s without question and her arm around Toca and began to pull the little boy away. When they were somewhat back from the fire and the kneeling line, she said softly, “You spoke to me. You spoke like Ynell.” Zephy said nothing. She could feel Elodia’s trust and her fear mixed. She wished they could run now, at once, get away. But there was still the baby. “Bibb,” Zephy whispered. “It’s Bibb Thorzen, too.” She searched the younger girl’s face. “Can you see him?”

‘There,” Elodia said, pointing. “Lying on the ground by his mother . . .”

Bless Eresu, the woman was not holding him. “Wait for me!” Zephy put Toca’s small hand firmly into Elodia’s and was gone.

She came up behind the slight, kneeling figure of Tra. Thorzen, clapped a hand over the baby’s mouth, snatched him away, and ran—headlong into utter confusion, dark horsemen pounding toward her, the worship line broken and people running, women screaming, the clash of sword on sword, the fire flaring up behind. Zephy ran toward Elodia, grappling with the strong, struggling baby. He smelled of wet pants. She saw Elodia’s terrified face, grabbed Toca’s other hand, and they plunged away, half dragging the running little boy. Three huge Kubalese horses loomed before them, they swerved, there was a cry of pain and terror behind them.

The baby was fighting to get away. Perhaps his fear was magnified by Zephy’s own. Toca was pulled off his feet, she tried to scoop him up and nearly fell. They plunged into the housegardens where the attack had not yet come. The cries behind them were terrible.

They stumbled among tangles of vetchpea in their frantic flight, blundered into mawzee, terrified at the noise they made, but pushing frantically toward the north and the upper housegardens—they must get past them, to Anchorstar. Then a platoon of Kubalese horses filled the night before them, they turned and fled in panic. Had they been seen? Zephy pulled the Children into the Husbandman’s cow pens, but there were men there, soldiers. She dragged Toca and Elodia out, the baby heavy as lead in her aching arms. Where could they go? They must get past the upper housegardens, they must get to the north and Anchorstar; but the fighting was there now, trampling the gardens, and there was fighting in the village streets to their left. Frantically she pulled Elodia back in the direction they had come . . .

They ran, panting, toward the plum grove.

In the darkness of the grove she could not tell what might be waiting; but the grove was silent, no horses plunged, no voices shouted. She found the boulder at last, wrenched it free, and shoved the children through as a dark shape moved between the trees. “Hide,” she hissed. “There’s nothing to fear in the tunnel. Don’t come out, not for anything. I’ll come back for you.” She shoved the boulder back and ran. Could she lead whatever it was away from there? She dodged and nearly fell, could hear hooves behind her now. The air in her lungs was like fire. She swerved down the main street and into a group of fleeing women, then spun into the Candler’s open doorway, and stood gasping for breath. A horse pounded hard behind her, lurched past. She stood shaking uncontrollably. There was shouting and commotion ahead of her, screams. Then she watched as women were herded back down the street by a mounted Kubalese soldier.

Before she could flee again, a group of soldiers wheeled their horses into the street and began to jerk the swords from the doors and whack at the shutters with them, the horses trampling the little bowls of grain that had been set out for the Horses of Eresu. She watched as the shutters were wrenched off the windows and flung down, and pieces of furniture, clothing and pans and tools, were pulled out and trampled. She saw the weaver’s loom smashed, into sticks. She could smell honeyrot where a keg had been broken open, and she heard laughter as the soldiers sucked up the liquor. She heard a soft noise behind her, turned to run, and a hand was clamped over her chest and an arm encircled her. She was held tight. Then her captor lunged and fell, pulling her down beside him.

She was lying in wetness, in blood.

It was a Kubalese soldier. He stared up at her unseeing. Her only instinct was to crawl away from him. She pulled his tunic back and went sick at the sight of the wound then she freed herself and rose, to slip through the open doorway. The room smelled of wax. She tripped over a chair then at last found the back entry, and pushed it open to slip out into the narrow alley then along it in the shadows. She could hear women screaming again, and a sharp crack. She moved quietly toward the plum grove.

She had gone several blocks, was nearly at the edge of the housegardens when she came around the last row of houses and up against a Kubalese soldier standing silent in the shadows. She had no chance to escape. She struggled and he hit her hard so she saw flashing lights and blackness. He pulled her across the square between milling horses and men, past screaming women and a group of Burgdeeth men tied together—she sought for Shanner but could not see him. She fought and kicked and the soldier hit her again. She could taste blood. She was shoved into a group of women, cried out blindly for Mama, then was prodded with a sword as they were herded, stumbling, toward the Set.

At the Temple they were forced at sword point to spit on it, then were prodded through the gate of the Set, toward the prison.

*

Through the prison bars, Zephy could see the moonlit dome of the Temple. She was in the cell where Thorn had been kept. Women were huddled against each other, staring blankly. Some were bleeding, and a few had skirts blackened from fire as if they had tried to run through the flaming field. The smell of burned cloth mixed with the smell of filth. A woman began to weep, and someone began to whisper the Prayers of Contrition. They could still hear screams from the square.

Then Zephy saw, over the top of the Temple, the angry red sweep of fire on the mountain and knew without question that the Kubalese were burning Dunoon.

FOURTEEN

Dunoon was burning. The fire leaped high against the night as the Kubalese soldiers spurred their horses in a circle around the flaming huts.

While the main bulk of the Kubalese army had swept through Burgdeeth herding the populace like chickens, a small, select cadre had cut out fast up the mountain to enter sleeping Dunoon and, from ambush, lay fire to the thatched rooftops and pen the huts in a cordon to prevent escape. They narrowed and closed this circle until the Kubalese soldiers rode bridle to crupper, cheering the leaping flames.

But they saw no man run from the burning huts, heard no scream. When at last the flames died, the Kubalese soldiers dismounted, their weapons ready, to stamp into the huts to kill those left living or drag them out for their sport, to tear apart the furnishings and to loot, if there was anything worth the taking.

But there was no man, no child or woman there; the huts were empty, their contents smoldering untended.

Had Dunoon’s goatherds, at the first sound of hoofbeats in the dark, run away in fear? Or were the men of Dunoon hidden among the black peaks, laughing down even now at the Kubalese? Seething with fury, the Kubalese band spread out and up to search in the dark among the crags and shadows.

But on that rough terrain in the darkness, the Kubalese horses could only stumble and grow confused; they were struck from unlikely places, they leaped away in terror at strange sounds and thrusts, unseating their riders who, heavy in their war leathers, lashed out clumsily at nothing. The Kubalese soldiers fell and could find nothing but boulders with their flailing swords.

And the men of Dunoon advanced, quick and sure in the darkness, knowing their own land, attacking without sound, one here In the shelter of an outcropping, one to slip a Kubalese from his mount as silently as a breath. Thorn slaughtered three, and another; a quick knife to the loins, to the heart, a fallen body. The huts no longer flamed, were smoldering now, and the moons were cloud-covered.

When Thorn paused in the fighting to pull his sword free of a Kubalese body, he saw, down the mountain, that the flames had died in Burgdeeth’s field. If Burgdeeth had been taken this night, were the Children of Ynell safely away? He saw Zephy’s face in a quick, painful flash, then he plunged deeper into battle.

He dodged a Kubalese soldier and drove his sword into the lunging man just as the Kubalese horn of victory bellowed. Were the Kubalese mad, calling victory? Shouts rang across the night and made him swing around to stare. Then a Kubalese voice barked coldly, “Your leader is taken, men of Dunoon. We have Oak Dar. Lay down your arms or he dies.”

But it was a trick! How could the Kubalese have Oak Dar? How could they believe such a ruse would fool Dunoon?

He slipped forward past men arrested in battle, past Dunoon swords touching the Kubalese but waiting in their readiness to plunge. He moved toward the source of the shout and paused as a torch was lit in the clearing, then another. He could see the captive now, the man that two Kubalese soldiers held slumped motionless between them. He clenched his fists and stared at the sword lifted above his father’s throat.

He strode into the clearing.

Facing the Kubalese captain, he thought too late that if Oak Dar was dead, this gesture was stupid beyond measure, to have made himself vulnerable so. He stepped forward and put his hand on his father’s cheek. The Kubalese did not try to stop him. He felt along his father’s neck for a pulse. Yes, Oak Dar lived. He moved to take his father’s weight upon his shoulder, but the Kubalese leaders blocked this, staring down at him with merciless eyes.

“What do you want, Kubalese, in return for my father’s life?”

A slow smile spread across the evil face. “Son of Oak Dar, is it? So be it then. Now you rule Dunoon, lad. What say you to that?” The voice was deceptively soft. “Do you bring your people willingly to slave? Or does your father die this night?”

“No one brings my people, Kubal. They choose in those matters for themselves. And what do you mean, to slave?” Though he knew well enough what was meant.

“You will live here freely, son of Oak Dar. You and your people. Only Oak Dar will be held under guard. You will herd your meat goats for us and will slaughter them at our bidding to feed our camp at Burgdeeth. If you do not obey us, Oak Dar dies.”

Thorn stared at him and turned away. The plan his father had laid so well, had carried out with such quick skill, had come to nothing. They were defeated. And his father seemed injured in a way that terrified Thorn, so limp he was, near lifeless.

He bowed his head, looked up once more at the Kubalese, then gestured toward his burned hut. “I will accept your terms, Kubal. But only with my terms laid on. My father will have the care he needs, all that we can give him. We will come and go to his hut freely, as we choose. Otherwise—you are bidden to kill him at once.” His voice caught, infuriating him. “Our men still wait in the shadows. They will be more than glad to take up the battle once more. And glad to see you die.”

No emotion showed on the Kubalese face. The man stared at him for so long that Thorn thought he would surely kill Oak Dar. But then he nodded woodenly. Thorn stepped forward, motioned to another herder, and together they lifted Oak Dar and began to carry him toward his burned hut.

*

“No! Leave me alone. Let me go!” Zephy tried to twist away from the soldier who held her. His grip was beyond her strength. Enraged, helpless, she flung herself on him and buried her teeth in his arm.

He screamed; she tasted blood, he struck her across the face so she reeled backward sick with pain, nearly fainting.

When she righted herself the other girls were staring at her coldly. Not one of them had resisted being herded out of the cell. The older women, still behind bars, stared too, without expression. They had been huddled that way all night, silent and expressionless, as if the shock of the attack and of the capture of Burgdeeth bad left them dumb. Or was it only that used by men all their lives, they found this defeat not so different?

Mama looked at Zephy as if willing her not to fight She had been brought into the cell very late, and now was summoned out again, to cook for the Kubalese troops. The girls were to wait table, the soldiers said, snickering. When the guard reached for Zephy again she lunged at him, and when he turned to strike her she kneed him in the crotch. He let her go, bending over double. She dodged by him but was grabbed by another, and his blow on her ear made her head ring. She crouched at his feet, blackness engulfing her.

When she could again make sense of her surroundings, she thought she heard Tra. Hoppa speaking sharply beside her. “Let her be. If you take her for your sport, you’ll answer to Kearb-Mattus, soldier. She’s one of his, can’t you see that!”

Zephy shook her head, trying to understand. The soldier stood over her, staring at Tra. Hoppa. “One of his, old woman? What are you trying to say?”

“Don’t act stupid, soldier. This one is a Child of Ynell. Take her to Kearb-Mattus if you doubt me. Take her to him, or you’ll know what Kearb-Mattus’s anger can do to a common soldier—if you haven’t learned that before now.”

Zephy could only stare at her.

“You’ll come too, old woman. And if you lie . . .” the soldier jerked Tra. Hoppa into the line of girls and prodded Zephy with his boot.

She rose, still staring at Tra. Hoppa. But Tra. Hoppa would not look at her, the slight old woman stared straight ahead, ignoring Zephy. How could Tra. Hoppa do this? Surely she knew that Kearb-Mattus promised no good for a Child of Ynell. Though maybe she didn’t know that he would surely kill Zephy; Zephy had told the old woman nothing, had had no chance. There was nothing for her to do now but follow the Kubalese’s orders. What would happen at the Inn? If she was not killed, she knew she and the other girls would be used badly. She looked and looked at Tra. Hoppa, but the teacher would not look back. They were herded into a tight line and prodded along beside the wall of the Set, toward the gate.

This was the second time they had left the cell. Five days ago, the morning after the attack, they had been led out to bury Burgdeeth’s dead. The older women had gone, too, everyone in the cell. Only not all of them had come back: the prettiest girls had been taken up to the Inn. There had been screams in the night and drunken laughter.

But that was after they had dug the pitiful graves in the blackened whitebarley field. They had been joined by Burgdeeth’s surviving men, who came marching chained together like animals. All of them had been given spades. They had dug graves for all Burgdeeth’s dead, the soldiers, the women, and children. Shallow graves among the burned stubble where the bodies must lie forever prone in the bare earth.

Shanner’s grave, cold and lonely.

She had seen him lying dead, a crusted wound across his chest so she had turned away sick. Mama had not seen. And Zephy had not told her. Ill with it, she could not bear to think long of Shanner’s death; yet when her thoughts turned from it, they could only dwell again on the burning of Dunoon, and despair would grip her harder, a cold immobilizing fear.

It was growing dark as the soldiers herded them along the wall. The Kubalese horses, tied in a row, munched idly at their fodder, great dark shapes shifting and blowing as the group of prisoners passed. Ahead of Zephy, two girls turned as they went through the gate and stared boldly at the Kubalese guards.

The cobbled path was strewn with manure and straw, not spotless as the Landmaster had always demanded. Ahead in the square, the statue loomed bold against the darkening sky. Were the three Children still in the tunnel beneath it? But there was no food or water. Had they come out, hungry and thirsty, and been captured? Why hadn’t she thought, before Fire Scourge, to take provisions there, in case they would be needed? Two drunken Kubalese soldiers lounged against the statue just beside the secret door, their honeyrot jug propped on top the hedge.

Why did Tra. Hoppa call me a Child of Ynell? She doesn’t know that I am. And why would she say it anyway? Does she think, if they felt I had the gift, I would be used less harshly than the other girls? Tra. Hoppa knew nothing about what Zephy and Meatha had planned or about their visit to Anchorstar. Zephy had wanted to tell her, in the cell, but even a whisper had seemed like a shout in that crowded place.

The nudge on her arm was so soft; she turned, and Tra. Hoppa gave her a look of silence, pressing close. “Climb the statue, hide there between the wings. Go when I distract them. Wait until the small hours, then get away. Get away from Burgdeeth.”

Zephy gasped, started to speak . . .

“Shhh—watch me. Go when the soldiers run.”

Tra. Hoppa moved away from her, slipping between the girls. Then suddenly she broke free of the line and ran, her skirts and tunic flapping. The rear guard came running past, pushing Zephy out of the way. A big girl, taking Tra. Hoppa’s example, broke out in the other direction and others followed. There was shouting, someone screamed. Zephy thought she was frozen to the spot, looked around blindly. Then she ran, terrified.

She reached the statue and pushed between the bronze bodies. Were the two Kubalese still on the other side? She couldn’t see, hadn’t time to look; she clutched for the Luff’Eresi’s raised foreleg and scrambled to pull herself up. Her hands slipped on the smooth bronze; she gripped the edge of the Luff’Eresi’s wing and struggled, pulled, until at last she scrambled up between the god’s rising wings, sick with fear. His back was still warm from the heat of the day; she was hidden as if in a nest of bronze where his wings and human torso rose up. She could not see below her, could see only the wings rising like curved walls on either side of her.

Finally when no one clutched her ankle, when no face appeared, she relaxed and pulled herself forward on her belly until she could peer down between the Luff’Eresi’s wing and his waist.

The two Kubalese soldiers were gone from beside the hedge. There was still angry shouting from several directions; but she was well concealed, and the warmth of the statue felt good. Where the Luff’Eresi’s back changed from horse to man, the muscles were smooth and taut. His wings rose from this joining place, their feathers, as long as her forearm, overlapping in intricate patterns. And the wings themselves soared as if they felt the wind, the windblown clouds above seemed to stand still and the wings to move beneath them. Waytheer shone once between blowing clouds thin as gauze,, then was gone. She wished she had her cloak. She had sat on it in the cell, and left it there sodden with muck from the stone floor.

The soldiers’ voices faded, at last were gone. The line of girls who had not escaped, and Mama, had already reached the Inn. Had Tra. Hoppa been captured? If she was free, would she go to the tunnel? Zephy looked at the Horse of Eresu next to her, his dark shape lifting in the moonlight, then left her perch to climb onto his back, nearer to the tunnel entrance. His horse’s head rose above her, his mane flung out. She could see only one light near the square, in the Deacons’ house across the way. What had happened to the Deacons? And to the Landmaster? The Landmaster’s Set had been plundered. From her prison Zephy had watched as silver and carved furniture and Zandourian rugs had been thrown carelessly onto the cobbles, then loaded in bundles onto the backs of Burgdeeth’s own horses, to be carried to Kubal. Jewels had been tossed from soldier to soldier, glinting in the sun then stuffed into saddlebags. And the serving girls had been used cruelly by the Kubalese. Quiet girls who had spent most of their lives in the Set, living quite apart from Burgdeeth. Once, they had seemed only shadows to Zephy if she thought of them at all. Now she remembered them with pity.

When she had seen Elij grooming the Kubalese horses, she had felt only surprise that he was not locked in a cell or dead. And she had wished him dead instead of Shanner.

There was a dull pulsing of laughter from the Inn, and then shouts. She could slip down the side of the statue now, and go into the tunnel. But she knew she must not. She must wait until all the soldiers slept, then make her way to the Inn. For she could not leave Mama.

FIFTEEN

She slid down the side of the statue in shadow, and stared around her at the unsheltering, moonlit square. There was a long, unprotected distance before she could slip into darkness beside Burgdeeth’s buildings. It would be so easy to slide open the door to the tunnel now and hide herself there. She felt as if eyes watched from everywhere. She pulled off her shoes and raced headlong to the first deep shadows, by the Weaver’s. She crouched by the broken loom, her heart pounding.

She began to move carefully along the wall among the tangled, broken debris from Burgdeeth’s homes. At the edge of the moonlight, a carved doll lay forlorn atop a broken washtub. Food was scattered, good mawzee spilled and honeyrot sticky where casks had been smashed open. In front of the Forgemaster’s, smith’s tools lay covered with blood so she stood, shocked, for a long moment. She felt sick for Shanner, sick with his death, and sick that the tools he had loved were here like this. There was a child’s tunic hung from the corner of a building and some hides had been thrown into the street.

The Kubalese soldiers must have been very drunk, indeed, to destroy so wantonly. Even they would need tools, need food and equipment.

A tangle of brooms and cookpots and broken benches lay across the Inn’s porch, in full moonlight. From the shadows she stood looking, then quailed as she heard movement inside. In one of the upper rooms? A girl laughed, and a door banged. Maybe the girls didn’t all find the Kubalese so distasteful. She started forward then drew back in terror as the door opened noisily and a Kubalese soldier stepped out.

He stood on the porch looking around him. He seemed to look right at her. She thought he must hear her heart pounding; she felt like a trapped animal. He belched and scratched himself, then started down the steps. She shrunk from him, pressing herself into the rubble as he came toward her. But he kept on, lurching past her so close he could have touched her, and went on down the street toward the square. She watched him cross the square, a black figure striking across the pale cobbles toward the Set.

She listened for other noises from inside. When all had been silent for some time, she swallowed dryly, slipped up the stairs, and began to lift the heavy door. She got it open without sound and stood in the dark hallway. Where would Mama be? Not in her own room, surely. But she turned, and began to push open Mama’s door, willing her eyes to see.

The moonlight through the window cast itself across a sleeping form in Mama’s bed. Zephy crept in. The figure was big, and as she stood listening, it groaned. She edged backward, to get out. A whisper stopped her.

“Zephy?” Mama’s hand was on her arm, pulling her away from the bed, from the moonlight. Then Mama’s arms were around her.

*

At last, shaken with crying, they huddled in the far corner of the room away from the sleeping Kearb-Mattus who, wounded, had been brought to the best room in the Inn. It was to tend Kearb-Mattus that Mama had been sent for. He had awakened only once since Mama had arrived, but his bandages were clean now, and his wounds had been doctored with dolba leaf. “There are other wounded in the longroom. I am to nurse them and Kearb-Mattus. Tra. Hoppa cooked their supper.” They had caught Tra. Hoppa, then.

“Where is she?”

“In the loft. Sleeping in the loft.”

“Mama . . .”

“You must go away, Zephy. I don’t know whether what Tra. Hoppa said was true, I don’t want to know. But they will surely kill you, the Kubalese will kill you if they find you. They won’t wait for Kearb-Mattus.”

“We can go now, we—”

“I cannot go with you.”

Zephy froze, staring. “What do you mean?”

“I am needed here.”

“Needed! Needed by the Kubalese?” Her voice raised so that Mama grabbed and hushed her. “Needed by those who have destroyed us?” she hissed.

“I am needed by Kearb-Mattus. No matter what the Kubalese have done, I cannot leave him.”

“But you—”

“You can slip food from the sculler if you’re careful. Take Nida, she can carry blankets and a waterskin.”

Zephy clung to her. “What if he dies? What will they do to you then?”

“I will not let him die.”

“I could stay with you . . .” Did Mama feel for Kearb-Mattus the same pain that Zephy herself felt for Thorn? Would a grown woman suffer the same awful agony?

“You cannot stay with me. You must go now. Tomorrow they will kill you. It won’t be forever, Zephy. Go to Carriol, you can go along the edge of the mountain. You’ll be safe in Carriol. Cloffi—Cloffi cannot stay enslaved forever.”

Did Mama know about the Kubalese plan for conquering all of Ere? Had she known, before the attack? Zephy could not bring herself to ask. Mama’s back was to the window, Zephy could not see her expression. She clung to Mama, but at last Mama pushed her away. “Hurry, Zephy. You cannot stay here.”

“Then I must take Tra. Hoppa.”

Mama stared at her in the near darkness; Zephy could feel her concern. Then she turned silently, and led Zephy toward the door.

As they started up the dark stairs, it seemed to Zephy that Mama had pulled away from her in a subtle way; as if they were no longer mother and daughter, but were equal in something. As if each must do what she must, without taking heed of the other. It was hard, it made her ache inside. But it was fine, too. Mama was letting her go, shoving her out. If she was not ready to leave, that could not be helped. The time dictated the need.

Together they climbed the steps and the ladder. They found Tra. Hoppa sitting in the window just as Zephy had sat so many nights, staring down at the littered, moonlit streets, at the sacked town.

They stripped the beds of blankets and Zephy’s goatskin robe, then went silently out the front and down the alley to the sculler, where they gathered food to fill two baskets. At last Zephy and Tra. Hoppa were out on the street. It was but an instant since she had stood encircled by Mama’s arms, and now Mama was closing the sculler door between them for what might be forever.

Zephy went ahead. They did not speak. Each was loaded with bundles. Tra. Hoppa took her sleeve once, when she saw which way Zephy was headed. Zephy stopped to whisper, “There are Children in the tunnel.” They went on again in silence. The moons were sinking.

When they reached the square, they froze, then backed deeper into the shadow of a building, for there were soldiers there, dark shapes gathered before the statue silently working at something. They had tied great ropes to the extended arms of the Luff’Eresi, and around his wings, and around the heads of the Horses of Eresu. Now suddenly they began to heave forward on their straining mounts. They were trying to pull down the statue. They meant to destroy the people’s god-image—and in so doing, they would discover the tunnel. The men shouted, the horses hunched, the statue creaked. Zephy clutched Tra. Hoppa’s hand and they ran back through the narrow streets, then through the gardens, dropping their bundles there, ran on until they reached the plum grove.

Zephy wrenched the stone back, and they plunged down into the darkness, gulping for breath. “Elodia?” Zephy cried over the creaking of the statue and the wild shouting of the Kubalese. “Elodia!”

There was no answer from the tunnel. They ran blindly. Zephy thought unreasonably that if she could find the niche, the stone would be waiting, that it would help them. Despite common sense, she felt along the wall and stopped at last, plunging her hand in.

Of course it was not there. She was wasting time.

Then she heard Elodia speaking softly in the darkness. The baby whimpered. She heard Tra. Hoppa speak to him as if she had taken him from Elodia. She felt Toca’s small hand in hers, and they were running as the statue groaned above them.

The baby began to cry, then stopped as if Tra. Hoppa had clapped her hand over his mouth. They stumbled and bumped each other in the darkness, then at last they saw moonlight through the hole. Zephy pushed ahead and crawled up into the grove. Nothing stirred there; though in the shadows under the trees . . . She snatched the heavy baby from Tra. Hoppa; he was warm and soft against her, and he smelled bad. The others climbed out and they ran across the gardens, grabbing up their bundles, the dry mawzee rattling around them.

When at last they reached the pens, the donkeys were stirring restlessly. Zephy held the others back and stood listening. Could she see a shape in the blackness? Then Tra. Hoppa’s hand pressed her down. They crouched, hardly breathing. The smell of rotting charp fruit was strong around them.

There was a soft snuffling but that could be the donkeys. Then a low grumble, so muted that Zephy could not be sure whether it was human sound or animal. Then they heard a sharp snort, a pounding of hooves, a harsh Kubalese swear word; and a steady cantering away, toward the square. There had been a mounted Kubalese soldier there, the animal must have shied. Zephy removed her hand slowly from across the baby’s mouth. They could hear the horse brushing through the gardens, then clattering along the cobbles farther away. It must have been a guard, waiting out his stint there in the darkness. Would another come now, even though a predawn light had begun to glow in the east?

Then they heard the other sound. The groaning, a wrench of metal, and the crash. The statue had been brought down.

Zephy rose and found the shed, groped for Nida’s saddle and halter in the darkness, and began to saddle the fidgeting donkey. Dess, who wasn’t being touched at all, kicked at her evilly.

The saddle felt strange, mucky, as if it were coated with dirt. But it was surely Nida’s saddle, Dess’s pack bars were different. Besides, she could feel the tear in the skirt, where straw oozed out. Then she realized the Deacons must have taken Nida’s saddle instead of Dess’s to carry Meatha. She leaned over and smelled the leather. It smelled of the gutter, all right. She shuddered. But she continued to fasten the straps, there was no time to change. Besides, Nida was used to her own saddle, it fit her right. Dess backed up to kick again, and Zephy drove her off with a slap.

When the saddle was secure and the packages tied on, she lifted the fat baby on top—he smelled no worse than the saddle—and they started off through the upper housegardens; they must cross the northerly whitebarley field. Toca crowded close, stepping on Zephy’s heels. When the baby began to fuss, she covered his mouth with her free hand, lurching against the donkey.

“He feels our fear,” Elodia whispered. “Think of something safe and warm.” Zephy tried, but she was far too afraid to make her thought convincing. When they stepped out onto the stubble of the whitebarley field, the crackle alarmed her so she drew back quickly, pulling the donkey away. “We’ll have to go around,” she whispered, and started east along the edge of the -field. Already the sky was too light. She pushed Nida to a faster walk, then a trot. She could hear Tra. Hoppa’s quick breathing. It must be hard on the old woman, no sleep, the fear and tension, and now this lunging flight.

When Toca began to lag behind, Zephy set the little boy up behind Bibb. “Hold onto the baby, Toca. Not too hard,” she added, at Bibb’s indignant grunt. Then she froze . . .

Behind them a horse had snorted, and now there were galloping hoofbeats. “Run! Oh, run!” she whispered, pushing the donkey into a canter and trying to hold Toca and Bibb both as she ran along side; they ran until they were breathless, but when Zephy looked back she could see nothing; then the ear-splitting wail of a donkey rose behind her, and Dess lurched into view, running at full clip.

Zephy pulled Nida up, exhausted, exasperated, and glowered at Dess. The fool donkey had surely alerted the Kubalese.

Dess fetched up close to Nida, shoving Zephy aside. Quickly, Zephy stole a rope from the blanket pack, secured her, and gave the responsibility of her to Elodia. They went on to the top of the first rise as fast as they could and down it as the sky began to lighten in earnest.

They had put three rises behind them when the Kubalese patrol came riding out along the east edge of town and up in the direction of Dunoon. Three soldiers loomed on the skyline as the little band knelt in a shallow. Zephy could not make the donkeys lie down, never having needed to before, and only hoped their gray color would hide them. Tra. Hoppa held Toca’s hand, and winked conspiratorially at him. Elodia had taken the baby in her arms and was concentrating on keeping him still, pushing a feeling of quiet into him until he lay relaxed, staring happily up into the little girl’s face.

After an eternity, Zephy crept up the side of the rise and looked over, then sighed thankfully. The patrol was a dark line going up the mountain.

But what did they want in Dunoon?

When she looked back toward the east, the sun was coming up. They could not climb the rises now, it had grown too light: they must go around, in the low places.

It was a slow tedious business, making their way so, and the day was indeed bright when at last they slipped behind the first boulders at the foot of the mountain. Zephy half expected to see the Kubalese patrol waiting for them, but there was nothing, only the tall black boulders and some stunted grass, and the mountain, sheer as a wall. But there were breaks in that wall where the thrusting columns of stone overlapped. Now they could travel unseen, among those jutting columns. And now Zephy must decide: would they go east to safety or west toward Dunoon, where her heart tugged? To the east lay Carriol, and shelter. To the west was a burned, defeated village patrolled by the Kubalese.

She led the band straight into the mountain between tall black stones, then began to wind among the jagged pillars until she found, at last, a protected place where the donkeys could rest and graze. Dess lurched at once into the tallest stand of grass, her ears flat back to her head. Above them, the sablevine was already turning copper with the coming of winter. Zephy undid the food bundle and set it on a rock and passed Elodia the milk jug. The younger girl’s sandy hair and gray, steady eyes made her look older than nine. Or maybe it was her expression. There was a touch of sadness about Elodia that was not childlike. “How did you manage without water?” Zephy asked. “I half expected . . . I thought you might be gone, that you might have come out.”

“We did come out. In the night, late when it was quiet Or, I did. I took water and food from Tra. Hoppa’s house,” she said, grinning at Tra. Hoppa. She pulled up her tunic and showed them the lumpy linen package hanging from her waist. It contained scallions and dry bread and a bit of berry cake. She shared this out equally, and they sat eating and staring about them at the lifting, monolithic stones that stood black and silent around them.

They could see a bit of the valley, and Burgdeeth directly below. They could not see Kubal to the east or the low hills that separated it from Cloffi. And the desert lands on their right were cut off by an outcropping of stone.

Zephy watched Elodia as the child began to draw away from them in her mind, her face turning inward. She was seeing something, or she was hearing something. They all became very quiet; Zephy tried to make herself receptive, but she could not. Elodia’s hand stroked the dirty leather of Nida’s saddle as if she were stroking something else entirely, in another place. And when at last she came back to them, she did so suddenly, seemed to see Zephy so suddenly that she gave a start. Then she said flatly, “Dunoon is burned. The patrol rides through it, all black. There is no one. They are going to go back down the river. They—they make a fear in me.”

“No one?” Zephy said. “No one?”

“I don’t think so. Not in the village, the huts are empty!” But now Elodia’s voice was uncertain.

Zephy rose and went to stand among the boulders. When she came back to them at last, she could say only, “I must go to Dunoon. And you must wait for me.”

*

They climbed the rocks until they found a secure place so high it seemed nearly at the top of the Ring of Fire, though of course it was not. They pushed between boulders until they found a minute valley with a shallow cave at one side. They rolled several stones across the valley entrance, then turned the donkeys loose. The baby drank the last of the milk from the jug and went to sleep at once.

This was foolishness, to leave these four alone. But she knew she must go to Dunoon; she could think of nothing else. And she must not send them on ahead. Tra. Hoppa did not try to change her mind; it seemed to Zephy that Tra. Hoppa knew there were currents and forces moving around her that she herself could not touch. And Elodia—the feeling from Elodia was one of silent support. As if the younger girl read, could touch, the depth of whatever pulled at Zephy so strongly.

She had made no explanation to them about Anchorstar, about the stone. Something held her back. If something happened in Dunoon, if she did not return, they would be safe in Carriol. They had the donkeys and food. When she returned, she would tell them. She thought once that perhaps she should make her pledge Elodia’s pledge, too, so the younger girl could carry on. But then she turned resolutely away, looking toward Dunoon.

She took a little food, accepted Elodia’s cloak, and started off alone. She took no waterskin. She could move lighter and quicker without, and there were places among the black rock where little springs seeped down. She could hear the sharp call of a flock of otero diving after insects above her, and once the sweet clear cry of a mabin bird, filling her with a terrible longing. There was no other sound save an occasional pebble she dislodged. The sun was moving down toward the horizon ahead of her so its brightness blinded her except when part of the mountain cut it off.

Then she came around a tall stone shelf to see another group of Kubalese soldiers coming straight up toward Dunoon, riding fast; she was close enough to Dunoon now to catch an occasional glimpse of the clearing and the blackened huts. She stood in the shadow of a stone, watching the ascending riders; only when they were just at the lower pastures of Dunoon, below the village, did they spread out so some were riding directly toward her. She spun around, frantic for a place to hide.

She found only a small chink between outcroppings and she wedged herself there, where a horse could not come, and stood still, hardly breathing, wondering if her light tunic would be like a signal flag; she pulled the cloak around herself, wanting to run; but she knew she must be still.

She heard them come: a clatter of hooves struck stone close to her; she could smell the sweat of the horses and of the men. She heard them climb above her, then stop suddenly. There was a sharp command to dismount. She stood as helpless and palpitating as a bird caught in a net.

Then at last she heard the command to climb, and some swearing. They had not seen her after all. They were up there scrambling over the rocks and had left their horses tethered.

She could take them!

Yes, and be tracked from here to Carriol. And what could Kubalese horses do, climbing these mountains? Like a cow on a window ledge, she thought. She collected her wits and slipped quickly down toward the plateau where Dunoon lay blackened, listening for signs of their return. She must keep to the shadows until they were gone, lest they see her from above. She must keep close to the mountain.

When she came around the last stone spire that hid the plateau, she saw the other five. She could hear their voices but could not make out what they said, or what they searched for among the huts. Could they be looking for her and Tra. Hoppa, or perhaps for missing Children? She strained to understand their words, but only an occasional one was clear.

They mounted at last and went on up the river and into the black canyon. Zephy looked back and up, but could not see the first band. She ran headlong for the huts, then stood hidden in the doorway of the first, peering back up the mountain.

The stench of the burned thatch made her eyes water. The sight of the burned furniture, the broken crocks and blackened bits of clothing, sickened her. Did human bodies lie here? She could not bend down to look and backed out feeling sick.

Yet she knew she must look.

The thatch was all burned away above her head, only blackened wisps against the sky. She went from cottage to cottage not knowing what she expected to find, and unable to stop herself. Again and again she paused to stare up the mountain, thinking each time to see dark shapes descending.

She came at last to Thorn’s own cottage. She entered, staring around her helplessly at the mass of blackened rubble, the burned table, a chair. At last she went away again out along the edge of the village toward the river.

On the other side of the fast water, some little gray nut trees spread their branches to the ground, offering cover. She pulled off her shoes, ran to the river, and crossed it. The water was deliciously cool on her feet. She came out reluctantly and slipped behind some rocks, then started up along it in the cover of the trees.

Did the shadows of the cleft seem too dense? Did something move there? But in spite of her fear, she felt drawn to the cleft, and when at last she entered the dark canyon, it seemed quite empty; it was silent until, as she slipped through its shadows and turned into the cave, a whirring noise made her go cold.

But it was only a startled bird. She entered the cave, her heart pounding, and stood in the darkness to listen.

SIXTEEN

The light at her back cast her shadow into the cave to meet the heavy darkness. She tried to walk softly, so she could hear. Were the Kubalese waiting in there?

But where were their horses, then? She knew she was being silly and forced herself ahead, clinging to the left-hand wall as the darkness closed around her.

It was very different without Meatha’s steady guidance. The blackness could be a narrow trail, could be a drop of empty space, she had no trust in the fact that she had walked here before. She felt out with each foot before she was willing to take a step. And her fear of something unseen shook her so she could hardly force herself ahead. But the inner cave drew her; she pressed on, the blackness muffling her senses.

Perhaps even the wall she clutched would deceive her, would take a wrong turning so she would be led in a different direction. She tried to remember a break in this wall, but her memory of that other passage was mostly of Meatha’s sureness.

She strained to see in a darkness where no vision was possible, strained to hear where the fall of her own footsteps filled her ears.

And in her sudden blindness, she thought she understood better what Meatha must have felt all her life. Meatha, who knew that something more existed around her than what she could see. I could only guess at what she felt, Zephy thought sadly. I didn’t understand what she sought after, what she yearned so hard for sometimes that she was pale and lonely with it. I could never help her.

The darkness was growing less dense, she could see the walls a little; then the cave was there ahead. She ran headlong into the cave, loving the light, staring up gratefully at that far, small patch of sky overhead.

Then she turned and saw the wagon. Did that mean Anchorstar was here? But there were no horses, no sign of fire . . .

She stood still for a long time, a cold little fear stirring within her. At last she started toward the wagon. She stopped again before the red door and stared up at it, reluctant to climb the steps and push it open; yet knowing that she must. And when she did, there was a heaviness in her and her heart was pounding for no reason.

The wagon was lined with cupboards painted red and decorated with patterns of gold. The wood of the ceiling gleamed, and the bunk . . . how strange, everything so neat, nothing out of place, and yet the bunk’s covers were heaped and tangled as if . . . She stood staring—as if someone were sleeping. “Anchorstar,” she whispered. Yet she knew it was not Anchorstar, for now she could see a thatch of red hair beneath the goatskin robes.

She crept forward, afraid to speak, afraid to touch him. He lay so still as she pulled the robes back. His face was pale as death; but when she touched it, it was hot with fever. His lips were cracked, and there was a long slash across his cheek scabbed over with clotted blood. The red stubble across his cheeks made her think he had lain there for several days. “Thorn! Oh Thorn!” He did not stir. She knelt and picked up the waterskin from the floor. It was quite dry.

She felt panic, did not know what to do. While she tried to think, she searched the wagon for more water. She found none, nor any food, only a lantern. At least there was flint. She lit the wick, then took up the waterskin and hurried back through the tunnel as fast as she could manage without putting out the burning oil in its own sloshing. She could see now that the tunnel was quite safe, broad and flat.

When she drew near to the mouth of the cave she set the lantern down and shielded it with rocks so it made only a faint glimmer. Peering out, going quickly, she filled the waterskin at the dark, evil-looking little stream. It was the same water as lower down of course, it was just the light here in the cleft that made it so dark; yet she disliked taking that water back to Thorn.

When she stood once more beside the bunk, Thorn had turned onto his side so the gash was covered. She felt relieved that he had moved. It was some time before she was able to wake him, and then he was as groggy as if he had been drugged. She held the waterskin to his lips, and he drank thirstily.

“Is there pain?”

“In my leg.” His voice was gray and strange. “Pull the covers back and tend to it.”

She set the lamp in a niche above the bed and drew back the goatskin to reveal the dark bloodied bandage around his left calf. She searched for clean cloth, found a little, then went rummaging into Anchorstar’s cupboards for some salve, for crushed moss of dolba leaf to pound.

But she found only a little dried-up ointment of cherla in the bottom of a crock. She mixed the red paste with water, then began to remove the bandage. The wound smelled bad. When she had the bandage open at last, she went sick with the sight, for the leg was festering. It was a long deep wound running from below his knee down through the calf. There had been a lot of blood, the bandage was thick with it and impossible to remove entirely, and there was dried blood soaked into the straw mattress. She cut the bandage away as best she could, then began to wash the wound with water. Thorn winced with the pain.

“How did it get so festered?”

“I don’t know. The rags maybe—some filth. I took them off a dead Kubalese, it’s his tunic. I took it when we buried him.”

“We? If there were others, why didn’t they help you?”

“I sent them on, Loke and the others. I told them I was all right. It was only a wound, I didn’t think . . .” he stared at her. “Where is Anchorstar? You’re supposed to be with Anchorstar.”

“He—the attack came too soon, right as the fires were lit. I’m afraid something has happened to him.”

“Maybe—maybe he just couldn’t reach you. But the Children . . . Where are the Children?”

‘They’re with Tra. Hoppa. On the mountain. They’re all safe. All who are left. Meatha—Meatha and Clytey are dead.” She swallowed and looked at her hands. “Meatha tried the runestone on a girl, on Clytey Varik. She . . . Clytey had a vision of the attack and started screaming and . . .” she looked at him helplessly. “Oh, Thorn. They took them to the death stone.”

“I see,” he said, and they remembered Anchorstar’s words: It would be difficult to train the older ones—Kearb-Mattus does not want you, you three are a threat to the Kubalese. They stared at each other, the pain of Meatha’s death linking them.

“And Shanner?”

“Shanner is dead.” She swallowed. “I dug his grave, in the burned field.” Tears came then, and she knelt by the bunk, crying against him.

It was not until the wound was cleansed, Zephy fretting over what to do for the festering, that they realized they had been speaking to each other in silence, feeling revulsion at the Cloffi ways and at the Kubalese tyranny, and sensing a commitment, too, that increasingly grew and held them.

“And the stone,” she responded at last, though she had tried to avoid thinking about it. “The stone is gone.” And she knew he felt, with her, the searching in the gutters, her despair.

“The prophecy,” Thorn said, “the prophecy about the stone—found by the light of one candle, carried in a searching, and lost in terror . . .”

“It was lost in terror. That has all happened. And then,” she said, remembering Anchorstar’s words, “Found in wonder, given twice, and accompanying a quest and a conquering . . .”

“Found in wonder,” he said with an effort. His pallor had not diminished. “And who will find it? Given twice?” His eyes searched hers.

“And accompanying a quest and a conquering—”

Would they see the whole prophecy come to pass?

“I brought food,” she said at last. “Let me help you sit up.” She laid out the mawzee cakes for him. “But you can’t walk. I’ll have to soak your leg, it won’t be better until I do.”

“Soak it with what?”

“Birdmoss, maybe.”

“There’s birdmoss in the river near the village.”

“There are Kubalese on the mountain, searching for something—for your people, do you think? For you?”

“I don’t know.” He turned to look through the wagon’s little window. “We’ll wait until darkness. I can’t run, we’d be sitting targets. See what you can find in those cupboards. Weapons, rope . . .”

She gathered together everything that would be of use to them, and when darkness came, they made a pack with the blankets and slipped out. She had found a small hoard of mountain meat, and some tammi leaves to make tea.

“What if Anchorstar comes back? What if he needs this bit of food?”

“I hope he has gone on along the mountain or is waiting for us. I don’t think he would come back here very soon, with the Kubalese searching.”

If he is alive, they both thought. If they haven’t killed him.

Getting down the steps of the wagon was not easy, and when they had gone only a little way across the grass, she began to wonder if they could manage. Thorn’s weight against her was considerable, and his jerking pace jolted them both. His shallow breathing, from the fever, made her heart lurch with pity, and she could feel his effort and exhaustion increasing even before they entered the dark cave.

It seemed an eternity, that trip to the mouth of the cave. There they rested for a long time, Thorn exhausted and Zephy aching from her effort. But night was coming down; the darkness would protect them. They started at last along the river, and where it foamed in a pool above Dunoon she found birdmoss and knelt to wrap his leg.

“It stings.”

“It’s supposed to. Should we go through the village?”

“Up behind it at the edge of the rocks where there’s some cover, where it’s hard going for horses.”

It was hard going for them, too, and longer this way, the dark climb slow and difficult. She wished she had stolen the Kubalese horses. “Be careful, can’t you!” Thorn growled. “You jammed my leg against a boulder.”

“I’m trying, Thorn. You’re heavy as a dead donkey.”

She could feel him try to take more of his own weight then, and she was sorry she had said anything. At last, high above the plateau, they rested among the sheltering rocks. “Why would a wound make me so weak and give me such a fever? Even if it festers, it—”

“It’s filled with poison. That’s why it festers. The moss will draw it out.” She sounded more certain than she felt. His weakness made her afraid. She had kept seeing Thorn in her mind standing tall on the mountain, his face ruddy with health, his green eyes challenging her. Now his eyes were so pale, and he seemed to have little challenge left in him. Their blind hopping progress must make the pain a hundred times worse. If only they could have a light. But they could not have brought the lantern, it would have been like a fire on the mountain for the Kubalese to see.

At last the moons began to rise, lifting up over the sea beyond Carriol and lighting the stones ahead of them, casting a silver wash across the grassy clearings and up the peaks and cliffs on their left. Now with the moonlight they could go faster. They rested less often, surer in their progress and not blundering into boulders. They felt much easier when they were well away from Dunoon, pausing once beside a trickle of water to fill Thorn’s waterskin and sit on a boulder, staring down at the moon-touched land below them. A few lights still burned in Burgdeeth. Was one of them the Inn? Zephy had a terrible longing for Mama, was gripped by emptiness when she thought of her, alone at the mercy of the Kubalese; without help, if she should need it. Zephy turned away from Thorn, biting back tears.

“She wanted to stay,” Thorn said softly. “She’s a grown woman, Zephy. It was what she chose to do.”

She stared at him. He had seen it in her mind as if it were his own thought. She shook her head and tried to smile.

He put his arm around her, and they sat silently, the comfort of his concern washing over her. His strength, in spite of his illness, wrapped around her so she was soothed by it.

The moonlight made the cleared fields below look pale as ice, the land all awash with patterned silver like the dreams she had once cherished, as if Chealish castles lay there, and wishing springs and the towers of sacred cities.

“As it should be,” Thorn said.

“As Carriol is,” she whispered, her heart lifting.

He looked at her with surprise. “But Carriol’s not like that, not magic, Zephy. It’s only a country, it has bad as well as good. Don’t think to find it perfect.”

“I only thought—the way I always imagined it . . .” It had been magic, the way she’d thought of it. How foolish, she’d never realized. “Still . . .”

“Yes. Still it is free. It is a place to grow in, to become what you were meant to be, maybe.”

“Yes. What we were meant to be.” Then, “Where would Kearb-Mattus have taken the other Children? To Kubal, do you think? But that means,” she said slowly, “that we must go there too.”

“Yes. We must go into Kubal.”

It was nearly midnight when they came at last to the little clearing with the rocks across its entrance. Zephy strained to push them back. “No, wait, I can climb them,” Thorn said, pulling her away. He slid up, surprisingly agile on his hands and one knee, and she handed him the pack.

In the shallow cave three figures sat up in the darkness; the baby stirred and whimpered. Elodia took Zephy’s hand and Toca clutched at her tunic. But Tra. Hoppa looked only at Thorn. She put her hands on his shoulders and turned him so the moonlight touched his face. Then she led him to her goatskin robes and helped him to lie down. She prepared a drought for him, soaked the wrappings on the moss, then brought him bread and charp fruit. Zephy was hungry too, and bone tired, but the old woman’s concern was all for Thorn.

A thin rain had started, making Zephy shiver, and she was close to tears with fatigue. Elodia pulled her in under her own covers as if she were the older of the two; but even warmed by Elodia’s closeness, it was a long time before Zephy was able to sleep.

And when at last she slept she dreamed and woke in a cold sweat, but unable to remember; then she slept again, and when she woke the sun was shining into the green clearing and glinting off the black stone cliffs. And high up the cliff Elodia was clinging to the stone, picking morliespongs. Zephy lay half dreaming still and saw that Thorn still slept. She brought herself more fully awake and sat up to look at him. His color was better, and he seemed to breathe more easily. She smiled and lay back and was about to sleep again when she smelled their breakfast cooking.

She rose and found Tra. Hoppa laying breakfast on a stone in the center of the clearing. The fried morliespongs smelled wonderful, and there was mawzee mush and a little of the mountain meat. The eager donkeys had to be tied to a boulder to keep them out of the food. Dess, who had pushed in greedily, sulked now with her tail turned to them in fury.

The baby had been bathed and properly fed, his napkin washed and laid across a rock to dry while he sported a piece of Tra. Hoppa’s petticoat; he seemed much happier; certainly he smelled better. Toca held him solemnly, his blond head bent over the child, then looked up at last with a lonely, hopeless expression on his face. “He wants his mother,” the little boy said sadly. “It’s like . . . it’s an ache in him you can feel.”

Zephy put her arm around Toca. “And she must want him too. She must ache for him terribly.” She paused, studying the child. “But he is like you, Toca. He’s like all of us. We’re different. We would have been killed had we stayed, or made slave.”

“Children of Ynell,” Toca said solemnly, his six-year-old face serious and pale. She could see the fear in him; she thought the sin of his difference must have frightened him all his short life.

Part Four: The Luff’Eresi

From Prophet of Death, Book of Carriol

For the spirit moves onward, born yet again in a form we do not understand, born yet again on a plane farther removed from Ere than the plane in which the Luff’Eresi now dwell. So are the planes of the universe. One and another and another beyond all human counting. And each of you must move from the one to the other in lives that shine like hours in our mortal days. Must move or, trapped in a lust for cruelty that destroys the spirit, must die bound in one body forever.

SEVENTEEN

For four days they lingered in the valley, cooking sparingly and fanning the smoke into the wind so it would not be seen. Thorn grew stronger, and the wound cleansed itself at last. The fever left him, and as he began to feel his strength returning he told them of the conquering of Dunoon, and how he came to be lying wounded in Anchorstar’s wagon.

“We had planned, long before, a ruse to deceive the Kubalese, and it would have worked,” he said, “if my father had not been wounded. We had taken food and stores to a secret valley we knew, high in the Ring of Fire, in a place no horse could climb, only the goats. We took the herds there, we had moved all of Dunoon when the attack came.

“The refuge is a meadow whose only access lies narrow along the edge of a lake of molten fire. No Kubalese coming through that narrow pass could survive our arrows and the boiling lake as well. It is a dangerous place, animals—and children—can fall and be burned alive, and there are fire ogres still in the caves, though those caves still hold relics in some places of an old outpost of Owdneet, too. The heat of the lake warms the pastures so they are lush and green, and the rock cliffs rise sheer on every side for protection. The Kubalese could not stand against us there. This might once have been a secret place where the Horses of Eresu grazed, perhaps where the Children of Ynell came to shelter in times of war.

“The herds and the women and children remained there, but the rest of us returned to Dunoon. We slept in the caves, but we lighted all the cookfires of the village each night to make it seem we were still in Dunoon. And we posted sentries.

“When the band of Kubalese came—my father had counted on a small band, on most of the army staying in Burgdeeth, and he was right—when they came they set fire to the cottages. The village was in flames almost at once. They thought they would drive us forth and shoot those who did not burn to death, but there was not a man, not a woman or child in the village, and no herd to slaughter. When they discovered the ruse, they began to mill about and to go in forays among the rocks and up into the cleft, searching. When they had dispersed, we attacked. And we killed many.

“But then in the midst of battle my father was wounded, swept up by the Kubalese and dragged to the center of the burned village. By his height and his leading of command, I suppose, they knew him for Oak Dar. He was crippled in the back and unable to move. If they had not carried him, the injury might have been less severe; I have seen animals wounded like that.”

It was a moment before Thorn could go on.

“If it had been any other man in Dunoon, the battle would have continued. The Kubalese demanded that the herds and all of Dunoon return. They ordered that we tend the flocks as we always had. And because my father lay paralyzed and helpless, all of Dunoon did return, the herds, every woman and child. We became slave to the Kubalese, for those few days that Oak Dar lived.

“When—when my father died it was by his own hand. For though his legs were paralyzed, his arms were not. And his mind was clear. He waited until most of the Kubalese soldiers had returned to Burgdeeth, leaving seven of their cruelest guards in Dunoon. We found my father, on the morning of the third day, with the . . . with the skinning knife through his throat. He would not live captive and be the cause of the captivity of his people.

“We covered him and let him lie there as if he were sleeping, until the two guards came to the cottage for their breakfast. Loke and I took them from behind and killed them. The other five gave us more fight, but we had all the men of Dunoon, and though they had left us no weapons we had slabs of painon wood and stones.

“We buried my father on the mountain. We buried the Kubalese at the foot of Dunoon. I was bleeding so badly that I took the shirt off one to staunch the blood. That, I suppose, is how the festering began, with Kubalese dirt in my blood.

“We laid them in a common grave and marked it with a message the Kubalese will not soon forget. Then all of Dunoon—all of the men who were left, and the women and children, and all the flocks—began the trek over the mountains once more to the lake of fire. My mother, too, mourning, and Loke beside her. I stayed, though she rankled at me about my leg. I told her I would rest a bit, and I went to the cave, to the wagon, to dress the wound again before I started out to find Anchorstar, and you. I never came out again until Zephy found me. The fever came on me as quick as a breath, and I woke to find myself sprawled on the wagon floor, freezing, not knowing how long I’d been there. I got into Anchorstar’s bed, and the next time I woke was when Zephy called my name.”

Toca stared up at Thorn with a look of adulation; and that day, he began to bring Thorn’s plate when the meal was prepared in the evenings, and he kept Thorn’s waterskin filled in an urgent child’s ritual. He helped Tra. Hoppa each time she removed Thorn’s bandage to soak and treat the wound. How much of Thorn’s own thoughts the child reached in to take, Zephy had no idea. But all of them—except Tra. Hoppa, of course—were becoming more sensitive to each other’s thoughts.

“You are very much a success,” Zephy said to Thorn when they were alone. “Toca worships you, and I think Elodia finds you very interesting, young as she is.”

“Well, what else could they think of this handsome face, so beautifully scarred in battle? The children are not without taste.”

“You’re a horrible Cherban.”

“Zephy, the four of us are coming very close in our minds. Tra. Hoppa sees it, she watches us with that funny little grin. It’s as if some force is increasing, the longer we are together.”

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. A force that made the thoughts of each increasingly open to the others. And a force, too, that had strengthened Zephy’s dreams until they were vivid and unsettling. She dreamed of Meatha’s face in the darkness and woke overcome with grief. And she began to dream of other things, some frightening, and some as wonderful, as full of light, as the vision in the tunnel.

In the dark dreams she thought she woke inside an enclosure, dank and sunless, a place that felt so evil she shuddered and drew back. Each time she dreamed it, she would see nearly lifeless creatures lying like cadavers on narrow shelves and feeling without hope, without sense of any kind, and yet as if something within them lived, a brief flicker . . .

And then again she would be on a path of smooth white stone like something poured and hardened that wound its way up the mountain between the rough black lava; she would be climbing eagerly. Or she would be in a cave of sparkling light, with water cascading around her catching the glint of the sun, and there would be ice falls where the foam of the water broke, and she . . . Oh, they were dreams that made her wake with a lilting hope and wonder. And once she dreamed she stood by a crystal pool and saw Meatha coming toward her.

Then there were the other dreams of Meatha, dreams she did not like to remember.

Sometimes the others touched one of her dreams so they would wake knowing the same agony or joy that she had felt. But it was Thorn who, when she had a particularly bad dream of the dark place, gave her comfort when she woke, coming outside the cave to sit with her in the early dawn and hold her close against the fear that swept her. She knew he had seen, had felt the same fear and revulsion she did.

“We have seen the captive Children,” he said quietly. “There is an evil there . . .” he looked at her steadily.

“An evil we must battle with every strength we can find.”

Then Elodia, sleeping with her head cradled on Nida’s, saddle, woke in the night to tell Zephy more about the dark cave—an enclosure made half of earth and half of stone walls, she thought—and the feeling of almost-death was rank and terrifying. Never a demonstrative child, Elodia pushed her face into Zephy’s shoulder and shook with dry weeping, this stoic little girl who always seemed so in control of herself. And she kept repeating, “I felt sick—so sick.” She stopped crying, her face white, and looked up at Zephy. “It was like something had hold of me from inside myself, making me the same as dead.”

“The drugs,” Thorn said later, “the drugs the Kubalese use.”

“In Carriol,” Tra. Hoppa said, “such drugs are well-enough known, dechbra and wellshing and epparoot. And MadogWerg. They make the mind sleep, make it unwilling to wake itself. They were given to stop pain; but when the pain was past, they were taken away again with great suffering. If they are used too long, they can kill. There were no roots or herbs to counteract their effects. But a Child of Ynell could make one whole again, make a mind want life again, by the strength of his thought. Some were trained for that work; it is harsh and very demanding, to reach in like that. It saps the strength of those who are able—and too few are able.”

“But drugs,” Zephy breathed. “How can they make spies of the Children, train them to spy, if they must keep them drugged?”

“Maybe that’s part of the plan,” Thorn replied, “to sicken them first, then bring them back when their will has been destroyed and they won’t resist any longer.”

Zephy stared at him and felt sick.

“It could mean permanent damage in their minds,” Tra. Hoppa said. “It could mean that some of them can never be whole again. The force that springs from that place, the way you two describe it, seems to me more than the cruelty and lust of the Kubalese—something even darker. Could those Children, perhaps one among them, have grown so twisted with the drugs that he has already turned his mind to the bidding of the Kubalese, turned to darkness itself?”

“It feels like that,” Thorn said. “More devious even than the Kubalese.” He rose and turned away from them to stare out through the fog toward the shrouded mountain. Then he left them, needing suddenly to be alone, climbing the rocky barrier.

Soon he was above the fog, looking down to where it lapped like a white sea to cover the land below. He thought of what lay ahead of them, and he knew he wanted to go into it alone. Yet he knew, too, that the girls had strengths he did not have. What lay ahead was a terrifying foe that took the body and mind from within. If there was only one thing that could battle that darkness, it might take the strength of all of them together. By their own stubbornness they must reach into those minds. Would they have the strength, even together?

Thorn could not judge Zephy’s powers, not now, they had come too close. Their minds met now so easily that he could not be sure what was her own power and what his—or what had grown out of their increasing solace in each other.

Who was to say that all of them would not end up bound in a living death like those they dreamed of, laid out on cold stone slabs, their minds taken from them?

The fog was beginning to blow around him, to move higher on the mountain, though lower down it was still so thick it covered Ere. Soon wispy fog had surrounded him, and he found it somehow soothing.

Something dark moved in the fog above him, high on the rocks. He stood looking, alarmed. There—the fog curled back; he could see the outstretched neck, the dark muzzle, the great wings, the Horse of Eresu snorted in alarm and thrust upward, his wings taking the sky . . .

He was gone, into the fog-drowned sky.

Thorn stood staring, his heart pounding.

Then he climbed upward, scraping his leg so the pain came sharp. When he could go no farther for sheer cliff, he stood on a narrow, jutting rock no wider than his arms’ reach. He knelt and saw the sharp round hoofprint. One print where the Horse of Eresu had struck the hard earth between stone as he leaped away.

When he returned to the valley enclosure, the donkeys were pressed against each other nervously, staring up at the mountain from which he had come.

And Zephy stood waiting for him. She put out her hand and took his hand quietly. “What did you see?” she breathed. “Something—something wonderful and—some thing winged, Thorn. Near you. I felt it, I felt you turn. But it was gone too soon, it was gone . . .” Her eyes were tragic with the loss.

The passion of the vision, of her intensity, gave him a passion for her, too, so he wanted to take her hi his arms. He stood staring down at her, his blood rising. And then Toca came running, shouting, his tousled pale hair every which way and his face wet from the scrubbing Tra. Hoppa had been giving him. Thorn saw Elodia, too, by the cave entrance, watching intently. Toca slammed into Thorn, his eyes huge. “Show me what you saw! Show him again, show him to me!” he demanded. And, when Thorn had, “More of him! I want more. Make him come down here!”

“I can’t make him, Toca, it’s only what I saw.” What did the child think, what interpretation had he found in that six-year-old mind for the ability they had? “It’s only what I saw, not what I can make it be.”

The little boy looked unbelieving. “I can,” he said, almost sullenly.

“You can what? What can you do?”

“I can . . .” The little boy stared at him hard. “I could make him come here, if I’ d seen him!”

“What do you mean? That you can make animals do things? Like what?”

“I can—I can make Dess kick Nida,” the little boy said slowly.

“Why not make Nida kick Dess?”

“It’s easier the other way. Nida doesn’t like to kick.”

“Show me.”

Toca turned toward the two donkeys and became very still. Nothing happened for a long time. He remained motionless; then all at once Dess turned, lay back her ears, and let fly so hard that poor Nida dodged only just in time.

They all stared at Toca. No one said anything. Toca looked back at them with quiet superiority. At last Thorn said, “Can you do that whenever you want? Any time?”

“Only—only since we ran away, more. It used to only work sometimes.”

“What else can you do?”

“Just with animals, mostly. I can make birds come to me.”

“It’s as if,” Thorn said to Zephy later, “as if your very escape from Burgdeeth has in some way made each of you stronger. Or maybe it’s our all being together, maybe each of us draws strength from the others.”

When they left the little valley, it was to travel slowly, Tra. Hoppa insisting Thorn ride when he wanted to be walking. Though as much as he growled at being treated like an invalid, his respites on Dess’s back were welcome enough, for his leg still throbbed when he used it much. Zephy had cleaned Nida’s saddle so it smelled better and mended the rent in the skirt so the straw had stopped coming out, using Thorn’s knife for a punch, and twine unravelled from their rope. But after a day of the sharp-cornered saddle. Thorn put it back on Nida to carry pack as it was intended, and rode the cantankerous Dess bareback. He would ride behind, watching Toca and Bibb wedged atop Nida’s pack, and watching Zephy’s dark brown hair, sleek as a river otter, where she walked beside him. The flush on her cheeks and the brightness in her dark eyes seemed to have increased since their journey began. He put it down to her sudden freedom, away from the stifling influences of Burgdeeth.

Each day he was able to walk longer distances, but still their progress was slower than he liked. For one thing, they must stop early in the day, whenever they could find a resting place, for they were travelling along a steep, dizzying drop, and often there was no wide, safe bit to be seen for many hours. The mountain was blanketed with fog much of the time, so their way was more uncertain still. The drop looked less alarming hidden so, but in reality was the more dangerous. When the fog lifted briefly one day, they could see Kubal spread out just ahead, for they were now crossing above the low hills that separated Kubal from Cloffi.

Their food was growing short, though Elodia was clever at finding morliespongs, and twice Toca had called down the fat otero so that Thorn could snare them. There had been wild scallions and tammi where the mountain was gentler; but on the precipitous parts, little grew. One night they slept head to toe in a thin line on the narrow path with the donkeys tied up short and the rock dropping away sheer and terrifying just feet from their blankets. They tied the baby to a stone outcropping to keep him safe.

Zephy slept, that night—if I slept at all, she thought afterward—very conscious of their frailty there on the edge of the cliff. And conscious, too, of Thorn’s closeness. She felt the warmth and protection of his thoughts surrounding her, touched an assurance in him that seemed to be sharper because of their danger.

The next day the path began to drop, to make its way lower along the mountain; they were descending toward the banks of the River Urobb.

The fog was only a mist when they reached the river’s edge, and dusk was coming on. They came around a sharp curve so that the river was before them quite suddenly; and Zephy caught her breath and stopped to stare. It was exactly like her dream.

The river fell foaming between black rocks to swirl in pools, then fall again. The boulders that formed the pools were nearly white, smooth-washed. And along the river’s edge ran a path of pale stone, smooth, disappearing above in the mists.

It was her dream; it spoke to her so she trembled. No one said anything. Thorn looked at her and felt a tightening of his throat as if something he feared, or longed for, lay up that mountain.

At the sight of the river, Toca flung off his clothes and raced in, paddling about as happy as a river-owl. They were all in need of a bath, and Thorn had pulled off his bandage and his boots and was about to take off the rest when Tra. Hoppa and the girls hastily departed up-river.

When they had bathed they made a small fire to cook supper, its smoke quickly lost in the fog, and the flame hidden by stones so it could not be seen from any distance. They were now almost halfway to the River Voda-Cul and the border of Carriol. And they were, all of them felt it, close to a place of meaning, perhaps coming closer to where the Children were held. For they were above Kubal now; and they were, in some way, attuned with the darkness that beckoned. Elodia felt it; she was so quiet, as if she reached out again and again in her mind toward that darkness, touching, probing. But all of them felt a lightness, too, a lightness about this place that had nothing to do with the dark—that was the opposite of the dark—as if two forces met here.

When Zephy went to sleep, with her head cradled next to Elodia she dreamed of Meatha in the fog; and the dream was so real she could well have been awake, standing by the fog-shrouded river, then moving up the pale stone path.

EIGHTEEN

It was a dream that was not a dream. Afterward Zephy could not say whether it had been a vision, or whether she had been fully awake. And if what she saw was true, then somewhere in Ere, Meatha was surely alive.

In her dream she had risen and slipped out from under the blanket shelter and was standing on the bank of the river in the fog. She felt a sense of movement without effort that was dreamlike, and the fog swirled like water around her as she began to walk forward up the smooth path.

When the fog thinned, she could see that the sun was shining; and soon it became so bright she could hardly look. Then through the glare the dark shapes of mountains began to appear close around her. And she was approaching a rough spire, a monolith. It rose pale against the dark mountain; and as she drew near, she knew it was the death stone.

Meatha was there, tied to its base. She was dressed in smeared rags. Clytey was being led forward by red-robed Deacons. As Clytey was being bound, Zephy tried to go to Meatha, to speak to her; but she could not. She was held unmoving by something—as if she were not real there, as if she were on another plane.

The Deacons were saying a prayer over the captives, performing some last ritual unknown in Burgdeeth. They appeared to be genuflecting to each other rather than to the sacred valley of Eresu that she knew lay in the mountains above. They turned at last and, leading the two donkeys, started down the path toward Burgdeeth. They passed so close to Zephy she should have been brushed aside, but they did not see her. She saw Nida’s saddle on Dess, the straw sticking out, and both donkeys smeared with dung and blood. Then the vision was gone, the air shimmering and the mountain and death stone indistinct—all was clear again and it was late evening, the light soft and welcoming. Meatha and Clytey were still tied, looked exhausted as they slumped against the cutting bonds.

And there were gods there, standing huge before the two bound girls.

The Luff’Eresi surrounded them. Shifting and indistinct they were, but their human arms were outstretched, and their men’s faces stern—tall and awesome beyond anything Zephy could imagine. Was this the sacrifice, then? Zephy turned her face away in dread; but she could not help but turn back. She stood staring, in a terror of apprehension, trying to push forward, to somehow stop what would happen, but unable to move.

A god came close to the Children but did not touch them, she sensed that he could not: he seemed not real in the same way that Meatha and Clytey did, seemed not so solid. But then came a figure from beside the Luff’Eresi, a human figure stepping out dressed in pale robes. She came to the Children; Meatha’s face was white as the woman touched her. Yet as Zephy watched, Meatha’s face lost its fear. The woman released Meatha’s bonds, then those of Clytey, and stepped back.

Zephy watched Meatha and Clytey approach the Luff’Eresi as if they were enchanted, saw them reach up to the closest god in awe—and saw they could not touch him. It was as if they were touching air.

Then a Horse of Eresu came forward and bowed his head and knelt. Zephy could feel his warmth as Meatha and Clytey climbed onto his back. He rose in a gesture that was startling and beautiful: from his kneeling position he flowed to stand, then his wings took him into the sky in one liquid motion. She could feel, as if she rode there, the rough silk of his mane in her hands, the wind sweeping her. She moved with Meatha and Clytey as they were carried above the mountain, above incredible peaks; the Horse of Eresu’s strong wings knifed and turned the wind; the mountains, jagged, swept below. Then the valley came into view, a valley so terribly green . . .

She saw Eresu and it was as if her vision were many-faceted. She saw the green secret land honeycombed with terraces and bowers, saw the valley and inside the caves and bowers all at one time, moved within the lighted caves with their tumbling falls of water; and it was as she had dreamed. She saw the Luff’Eresi moving freely on the wind above the cliffs and terraces and on the low green hills. She saw Meatha happy among them and others like her. This was Eresu, so Meatha must be dead; yet Zephy didn’t understand how that could be, for the Luff’Eresi had not killed her.

Then something began to happen to Meatha, Zephy could feel the change in her. She gathered with the other Children of Ynell, Clytey, the girl who had released her, all of them. There were no more than a dozen—boys, girls, men and women—and they began to march out of the valley. Zephy could see them going along the white path and down along the river, down and down along the hills, walking silently. Then there was sudden darkness, and she heard Meatha cry out to her in her mind; then a silence that was terrifying in its emptiness. She could see Meatha no more; only the sense of her remained, and Zephy thought she was whispering, Now you will come. Now you must come to help us.

Meatha’s words faded so Zephy was not sure they had ever been. Her sense of Meatha became quickly contracted as in the darkness of an unhappy memory. As one might remember someone long dead.

Did Meatha live? Zephy had no sense of how to distinguish what death was. The atmosphere around her began to grow more solid. Then it was suddenly as if what had gone before could now be seen as a dream, and she had awakened at last to stand, fully in charge of her senses, in the valley of Eresu.

Five winged gods came away from the rest in the valley, and she trembled as they approached her. They were more magnificent than anything one could have imagined. The dignity and the joy in their faces was as if joy was the very essence of life. Their faces might have resembled human faces except for their perfect strength and for that joy. She was drawn to them so she could not look away, even had she wanted.

Their movement was like water over stones, their golden bodies shifting with light and their wings—their wings were tapestries of light glinting, shattering; it was as if she saw them through a curtain of shifting air, not steady as Meatha had appeared. Yet so real, more than real. And there were Horses of Eresu there among them. And though the Horses of Eresu mingled with the gods, they were solid to look at; Zephy could see them clearly, where the gods shifted as light shifts on blowing leaves. The wings of the Horses of Eresu were not blinding, but were wonders of velvet-toned grace. They still looked like horses despite their differences, while the gods were like no animal or man, not like any creature of Ere.

Then one Luff’Eresi shifted and was standing close above her, huge, his horselike body far taller than her head, his human face solemn, his eyes, from their great height, holding her completely. Above the silken coat of the horselike body—a dark, burnished shade—his torso was muscled and full of powerful grace, and his terrible strength made Zephy tremble. His expression and dark eyes sent a wave of awe and wonder through her that made her kneel; but his voice roared at once in her mind, Rise, child, do not kneel before me!

When he spoke, it was as Ynell, silently in her mind; and it was as if all her life she had waited for this. She rose and stood before him, and thought only, You are the god of Ere!

Mortal! His silent words thundered in her mind. I am mortal! Not a god, Child of Ynell. I am as mortal as you! She stood staring at him, not believing him. Yet he was forcing her to believe, to stretch her mind to believe him. Her thoughts would not come in any kind of order, only in the overwhelming sensations that swept her. If you are not a god, she thought at last, then there can be no god. There can be no being meant for us to worship if you are not he.

1 am a mortal creature. The Luff’Eresi spoke this time so sternly that she drew back, chastened. I am mortal just as you. I am only different. To call me a god is to humble yourself, human! And yet—and his voice-thought grew softer now, gentler. And yet there is the spirit, the spirit that all mortals yearn for. But it is not here on Ere, Child of Ynell. No god is here. The gods we seek—and all of us seek them, Zephy Eskar—the gods we seek are spirits so far removed from Ere and from this time and place, that few can guess at the reality of their beings. To be mortal is to understand mortality. But beyond that, the next step of your spirit’s life can only be grasped when you are ready.

Zephy felt as insignificant as a grain of mawzee—yet she felt, at the same time, a sense of continuity, of a stretching out before her, felt a lift and exultation as the Luff’Eresi showed her the meaning of his words, gave her the sense of layers of life, of intricacies she could not unravel but which laid a richness on her mind, a richness and maturity on her very soul.

At one moment she felt she could almost touch the varied planes of existence, the plane, different from her own, where the Luff’Eresi dwelt, the plane that came closer to Ere in the Waytheer years. She could almost understand the physical differences that made their two worlds not quite touch, not quite mesh. She could almost embrace, for a moment, concepts quite beyond her experience, could almost make sense of them.

But why—if this were true—why didn’t Cloffi and all of Ere teach this true wonder, make prayer for the reality instead of—instead of . . .

Instead of worshipping false gods! The Luff’Eresi bellowed into her thoughts. And the feel of his laughter overwhelmed her. Instead of worshipping us. You are right, Zephy Eskar. Your people have been led as donkeys are led. You have been given chaff when there was whole good grain to serve you. You have been lied to, to feed the evil lust for power that the Cloffi masters have nurtured like a sickness in their breasts.

“But why?” she said aloud. “Why, if you knew . . . ?”

He did not respond with a voice in her mind now, but with a surge of direct knowledge that nearly overpowered her, with a feeling that lifted her, made her see the life of Ere, all of Ere as the Luff’Eresi saw it: a slow, ordered—though there were times that seemed without order—rising and growing of the generations that came one after another. A slow laying on of knowledge and then in places the breaking down of that knowledge, and the destruction of it by falsehood, by deceit, so that people for many generations afterward foundered, led by falsehood and avarice and laziness, led by warped emotions where they should have seen clearly. Until, here and there, a few broke away, and knowledge was built again slowly, and stronger.

She could see those who understood come, over the centuries, to stand at the gates of Eresu. Like a tableau, Ere’s history flowed past and around her, a tapestry woven of the warp of truth, but laid over with the weft of human frailty and fear, with the human need for security even at the expense of truth; then with the brightness of the human spirit rising like flashing colors here and there against the easy dullness of human sloth and greed.

They must come at their own times, at their own terms, Child of Ynell. If we were to go into Ere and change the way men live, change willfully what they believe, we would destroy something in those men. Once we told men we were mortal, for generations uncounted we spoke to them of this and tried to give them truth. But they would not drink of it. The suffering men do to themselves in believing their myths can only winnow out the strong and the loving and make them stronger still. They who search for truth will come seeking. And they are welcome here.

“But the death stone—why . . . ?”

The death stone, Zephy Eskar—yes, we have influenced man sometimes. We have taken our liberties—to save those rare few who are the true wealth and hope of Ere. Before the death stone, they were killed in temple ritual with the populace looking on. Now they are brought here and they stay in Eresu or go elsewhere as they choose. Your Cloffi landmasters are not sure enough in their minds of any truth to resist us in this. And they may truly believe that the Children die here. At least they are conveniently rid of them. . . .

And she was suddenly awake, standing by the fogbound river shivering, longing for the Luff’Eresi, for the words she had lost.

She had wanted to ask more, so much more, to ask help. But she had been given all she had a right to ask. The saving of the Children through the use of the death stone had been all the help the Luff’Eresi found it fit to give. Any more would have weakened the very strength of the human condition that the Luff’Eresi, by their reticence to interfere, had nurtured over the generations.

Her feet were wet. She could hear the river churling. There were tears on her cheeks. She heard a stirring and saw the campfire come to life as if the ashes had been uncovered and tinder added. Thorn came through the fog and stood looking down at her, and she knew he had seen what she saw, for it was with him still.

“Yes,” Thorn said huskily. “I saw it. I was there with you.”

And then she was in his arms as if he could give her rest from that terrible longing for the almost known, rest from that terrible awe.

*

When they gathered before the fire with the others, Thorn was able to tell, more lucidly than Zephy, the sense of what the Luff’Eresi had said, the sense of wonder they both had known as they faced him.

He was able to describe better the sensation of cold dark that had pressed around them, too, with the last vision of Meatha. He watched Tra. Hoppa’s increasing excitement and eagerness, watched Toca’s pallor and Elodia’s serious, pale silence as the children tried to deal with the word pictures and the strong, direct thought sensations.

It was Toca, grasping at the vision and words as another child would grasp at a magical tale, who spoke a few words of the Luff’Eresi haltingly, taking them from Zephy’s mind, “. . . can only winnow out the strong and the loving and—and make them stronger still. They who search for truth will come seeking. And they are welcome here.” It seemed strange to hear the words from the little boy’s mouth. How had they come this close to each other in such a short time? Was it partly the fear they shared, fear of the Kubalese, of being captured? Fear of the darkness that lay ahead of them?

When they discussed Meatha, surely fear was there. And later as Zephy and Elodia tried more skillfully than Thorn to reach out for Meatha, a sickness came around the children, too. But there also came a sense of direction quite apart from that, a sense of something pulling from the low hills to the south, a taut insistence, heavy with urgency, as if the darkness wanted them, would swallow them.

Thorn grew increasingly uneasy. Tra. Hoppa and Bibb and Toca should go safely into Carriol now, and find shelter. But he felt Tra. Hoppa’s stubbornness. And Toca could be stubborn too. Even the baby seemed awash with the emotions of the others, for when their thoughts and talk were frightening, he cried. Much of his crossness could be the lack of milk, though. Dried mawzee mixed with water was meager food. “He needs milk,” Thorn said, “We can’t take him into Kubal.” He stared down the hills where the fog was lifting at last. “We can’t take a baby there.”

“We must stay together,” Tra. Hoppa said. “There are farms in Kubal. We can steal milk.”

“Get caught stealing milk, our throats cut, and never find the Children,” Thorn scoffed.

But Tra. Hoppa’s blue eyes flashed. “We must be together. We need each other now.”

“If something happens to me and Thorn,” Zephy said evenly, “why should it happen to all of you?” But Tra. Hoppa’s stare defeated her. The old lady, at least four times their years, had perhaps four times their stubbornness, too.

Elodia simply remained quiet, with no intention of being diverted.

*

There had been no trees on the mountain, only stone and grass. Now as they followed the downward trail beside the River Urobb, they left the stone boulders and outcroppings and came into a forest of zantha trees whose silk hung long and pale like a woman’s hair. They could not see the valley for trees and hills, but the river rushed beside them. The zantha branches cut off the sky, and the trail looked as if it was seldom used, tangled with dead branches and thick vines that would have tripped human and donkey if Thorn had not cut them away. They made slow progress, Thorn slashing at the heavy growth. Then late on the eve of the second day, the zantha trees disappeared and the hills became bare and rocky once more, dropping quickly to the valley of Kubal. Here the river left them in a sudden waterfall that tumbled to the valley floor.

They stayed hidden as best they could among the stony hills and dry grass. When they came to a place where two flat boulders met overhead, they made camp in their shallow wedge, setting the donkeys on the most sheltered grazing and rolling out their blankets under the stones.

They made no fire, but ate cold mawzee soaked in water. Then Thorn took Toca and set out, as darkness dropped down, to scout the country below for a farm.

As they started off down the rocky slope, they could hear the falls, then the river running, below them. Their progress was hesitant. Thorn, slowing to keep pace with the little boy, fingered the length of rope wound around his waist, felt for his knife and hoped he wouldn’t need it. It seemed, as they moved downward and darkness increased, that a strange unease reached up to touch them, though he thought it might only be his apprehension at going into the hostile land. Toca was very quiet. They came at last to a widening of the river and saw it curve off sharply to their left. It would meet the Voda-Cul farther on. The rich Kubalese pasture and farm land lay in this curve of the river.

It was perhaps an hour later, as they made their way along the edge of the hills, that Toca whispered, “There’s a farm there, cows are in the field. And horses in a shed, I think.” He took Thorn’s hand and guided him away from the shelter of the hills onto the open fields, then along them until they came to a fence, nearly ramming into it in the darkness. They stood there in the blackness, silent, while Toca tried to pull the cows to him. The little boy’s hand tensed in Thorn’s and grew sweaty. Then after a long uneasy time, “I can’t. There’s something the matter. It’s not like—like when we’re together. It’s not so strong now, I don’t know if I can.”

Thorn felt it too, as if something were awry; felt a weakening of the security he had grown used to as they travelled, the wholeness and gentle strength that had surrounded them when they were together. Now it was fragmented, shattered.

“Maybe you’re trying too hard.” But he knew that was not it.

“We have to go into the field. I can do it closer.”

But even in the field and quite close to the cows, it was perhaps half an hour before one reluctant animal, snorting softly with uneasy curiosity, came to Toca from the dark lump that marked the little herd, and let him put the rope on her. She stood tensely for some time until the two of them had soothed her, though when Thorn began to milk her at last, Toca, at her head, seemed to have endeared himself to her sufficiently so she let her milk down all right. They got nearly a full waterskin—a hard job, milking into the small mouth of the water-skin, and her fidgeting. As Thorn finished, a light burst out in the dark field, and they saw that a door had been opened, that there was a house there. A figure stood in the light for a few minutes, then the door was closed. Thorn and Toca slipped away, through the fence and up into the hills as quickly as they could.

“It was different,” Toca repeated. “It isn’t the same as with all of us together.”

“How different, exactly?”

“The strong is gone, the strong thing.”

“What strong thing?”

“The thing that makes—that helped me call the birds down, the thing that makes you stronger.”

Thorn looked down at the child and knew he was right. It was as if Toca’s increased strength, Zephy’s increased ability for visions had grown as the four of them grew closer together. Had grown as strong, he realized, as if they did indeed carry the runestone as they had intended to do. As strong as if they had had the runestone all the time—Zephy’s vision, Elodia’s dreams . . .

He stood staring into the night. What had Meatha done with the stone? Stripped of her clothing, then tied across Dess’s back, what could she have done with it? She had been so silent, Zephy said. Meatha had not fought back, she had not screamed as Clytey had . . .

Could she have held the stone in her mouth?

Could she have held it there all the way to the mountain, held it until she was left alone at the death stone? But Zephy’s vision had not shown that. He tried to see Meatha again as Zephy had seen her last in Burgdeeth, to see Meatha’s hands and feet being tied, to see her lifted across Dess’s back, see her face pushed into the dung and grime that was smeared across the donkey and saddle, see her face turning away, pressed against the leather . . .

And then he knew.

He pulled Toca up, and they began to run hard up the hills.

*

After Thorn and Toca had gone, Zephy lay for a long time beneath the rock shelter, wakeful and uneasy. The others were sleeping. The baby woke once and fussed, and she took him up and calmed him, then lay him back beside Elodia. Her growing restlessness made it almost impossible to lie still. She tried to feel if Thorn was in danger, but she could be sure of nothing. At last she rose and went outside, to stand gazing down at the dark valley and at the two rising moons.

Then when Thorn came at last, charging over the crest of the hill suddenly, with Toca some distance behind him, she could only stare. He pushed past her into the shadow of the shelter, she heard Elodia groan, then out he came dragging Nida’s saddle. She watched him, perplexed, as he pitched the saddle down where the faint light from the moons could touch it. His knife flashed, and she stared in amazement as he ripped open the stitching she had done. An excitement was growing in her; she knelt beside him eagerly as he reached into the straw. Toca stood over them, a silent little figure.

When Thorn drew his hand out, she reached to touch the stone that gleamed in his palm, and at once they were locked in the vision that rose and swept them, the moonlight gone, locked in utter blackness. Torchlight was drawing near them; there were figures dark and still on the stone slabs. Now they saw faces, though, saw Clytey first, then Meatha, saw the faces of Children they did not know. And dark thoughts were there among them. And there were grown men and women, the Children of Eresu who had marched out from the valley with Meatha. And then they saw the tall figure lying still and silent and alone, his white hair catching the torchlight. Zephy’s very soul cried out to him, tried to wake him . . .

The three of them knelt there as one, their hands touching the runestone, willing Anchorstar to wake, willing with all the strength they possessed to wake him. But he did not stir; and as morning began to come, they let go, exhausted and discouraged. They laid the stone down and stared at it, gleaming dully beside Nida’s saddle. Elodia, who had awakened, came to hide herself in Zephy’s arms. From the shelter the baby whimpered in a kind of sleeping panic.

At last Zephy picked up the stone in her handkerchief, tied it, and handed it to Thorn. He fastened it to his belt, and they returned to the shelter to prepare for the journey ahead.

NINETEEN

They had gone a long way by noon and stood at last where they could see an unnatural formation marring the hills below them. Where the hills dropped to the flat valley, the cleft between two separate hills seemed to have filled in: the broad mound was wider than any of the surrounding, rounded hills; it was grassed over, but it was flat on top and out of keeping with the rest. Was this their destination?

As they travelled, their sense of foreboding had grown stronger, drawing them on. Never had their attention wavered, not once had any of them gazed off across Kubal and wondered if they were going in the right direction. They had simply followed that feeling of darkness that had increased, that depressed them now so each was quiet and withdrawn,, staring down on that wide mound.

Thorn knew Zephy was frightened, her brown eyes were dark and calm, but she had begun to bite her lip at one side so it was drawn in, in a twisting pucker. Elodia seemed to have become hardened; the line of her face looked more determined. Toca was the same as always, a sturdy little boy following Thorn unquestioning, steady as earth.

They waited until it began to grow dark before they continued, coming at last to a shallow ravine where the donkeys could be hidden. It was nearly bare, though one end was blocked by a small stand of brush that would break the view of it from below. Tra. Hoppa could stay here with the baby—and with Toca, too, perhaps. Thorn dug out a trough below a trickle of water that came down the hill so it would collect for drinking. He settled the donkeys among the brush, and the children helped Tra. Hoppa hide the packs in brush, too.

They made a cold meal hastily, during which Toca made it clear that he was not to be left behind. Slowly, Thorn took up one waterskin, the knife, the rope. He looked at Zephy, and she nodded. There was no point in delay, it would only make them edgy. They could rest the night and start fresh, but none of them would sleep. They had the runestone, they had all the help they could have. He kissed Tra. Hoppa on the cheek and turned away.

When they started down the hill, the feel of darkness met them like a wall so all of them wanted to draw back. Thorn took Zephy’s hand, and when he turned to look at her, she was too calm and very pale. He wanted to say, Stay here, stay safe. But he knew that he could not. She had committed herself just as he had. She was biting her lip again. He stopped and put his arms around her and held her close. Her warmth dizzied him, he wanted desperately to stay with her there and keep her safe, to find his own safety with her. They stared at each other, stricken.

When they reached the mound between the hills, they could see no opening. Thorn began to wonder then if this was a natural formation after all. But the sense of darkness was too strong, and all of them had begun to catch glimpses of stone slabs and still figures, like mist across their vision. Over and over it came, the two places seen at once, the real and the vision seen together as the sky darkened and night came down.

There was no visible way into the hill. They skirted it expecting a door and found none. They examined the grass-covered earth where it rose abruptly from the valley floor like a wall, but there was only earth and grass. They climbed the hill then, uneasily.

On top it was like a flat field, with tufts and hillocks and rabbit holes. Nothing more, no opening. And the black rabbits themselves, long-tailed, wily creatures, darted away across the hills as they approached, then paused to watch them.

Then at last, in a hill removed from the mound, they found a narrow cleft like a scar, a wedge into which Thorn went alone to find a larger opening inside, then a tunnel and at the end of that a door, dirt encrusted and heavy. He pulled it open slowly, scraping dirt.

Beyond was darkness. He struck flint to a candle, then went cautiously along the bare tunnel, moving at last into the dark mound. The others followed him.

Once through the tunnel, they found themselves in a larger passageway that all of them recognized from the visions. Shallow indentations along the walls held stone slabs and silent figures. The shock of finding in reality what they had seen in the visions made them silent; reality and vision seemed confused suddenly, their minds could not cope.

Then Elodia stepped forward and laid her hand on the bare arm of a child her own age; and they all started at the sense of warm skin, of living flesh.

‘The stone!” Elodia breathed, her intensity like a knife. At once Thorn was beside her laying the jade in her hand; they touched hands and touched the runestone to the figure, willing the child to wake.

She was a pale, fragile girl of about Elodia’s age. Her skin seemed almost transparent, as if her life was frailly held, indeed. She stirred at last, and her face seemed to go whiter with the effort she made. Her chest rose in barely visible breathing; then a movement down the passage made them start. A greasy light came from around a corner of the passage and grew brighter. They could see the flame of a torch approaching.

They snuffed the candle and drew back into the smaller tunnel, clustering against its wall to stare toward the approaching light. They could hear a faint scuffing and an occasional grumble as if the torchbearer was not happy at being pulled from a cozy place, to walk the damp tunnel. If he was after them, if he had heard them, he was not being very quiet about it.

As he reached the first niche he stopped and leaned over. They could see him clearly now, a big Kubalese bending almost double to lift a child to sitting position and hold a cup to its lips. At niche after niche he stopped; but when he reached the little girl she drew back from his grasp. She must have refused the draft, for after a moment he growled in agitation, shook her, then held the cup again, her head higher this time. At last he grunted with satisfaction, released the figure carelessly, and came on down the passage.

When he had done all the sleeping figures and gone on, they followed him, moving in the opposite direction from the sleeping girl. Surely he was giving fresh drug. Now all would be harder to awaken. How often did he make these rounds? Was he the lone keeper or were there others? Passages opened both left and right, and Thorn knew they could easily become lost. It was time to act. He unsheathed the knife, loosed the rope from his belt, handing it to Zephy, then slipped ahead.

It was all done so fast, his thought to hers, no time to panic. Thorn loved her in that quick moment when she leaped ahead with him, steady and fast, never faltering; he crouched behind the Kubalese, jumped, plunged his knife in as Zephy flew to wind the rope around the soldier’s feet and pull it taut. The man cried out, Thorn found his face as he fell and muffled him, and he was down heavy as lead across Thorn’s legs. Zephy was binding him, but Thorn steeled himself and cut the man’s throat. They were safer that way.

“He might have told us something,” Elodia said, coming up. There was a quantity of blood. They all felt sick.

“He might have lied, too,” Thorn answered. He righted the torch and handed it to Toca. Then they moved the nearest figure, a half-grown boy, into another niche beside a young woman, and the three of them were able, just, to lift the Kubalese up onto the slab. The blood was slippery, and they were splashed with it, wiping it off on his clothes before they left him.

Now ahead of them lay half a dozen figures that had not had their dose from the cup. The cup itself Thorn protected carefully for there was an ample draft left that might somehow be useful.

Again they tried to awaken a drugged sleeper, and again there was a stir from the young woman, but she did not open her eyes. As they became more sensitive to the sleepers, they began to experience their need, their crying out for that draft that Thorn carried, an aching hunger that tore at them all in its intensity. They experienced the longing nearly as if it were their own, which perhaps weakened their own determination as they tried to rouse the Children of Ynell. But the need was stronger in some than in others, and in those from whom it came the weakest, their efforts to arouse were most rewarding.

After some time they had amassed a small band that followed them like sleepwalkers down the corridor, children and adults ambling, blank-eyed. Among them was Clytey Varik.

Thorn and Zephy, Elodia and Toca proceeded silently, their mental effort turned to reassuring those who followed, to keep them following, to make them yearn for life . . .

They found that the narrower tunnels leading off the main corridor were short for the most part, some going into empty rooms or caves and others simply stopping; some with a few niches, but most unoccupied. Most of the drugged Children had been kept in the corridor where they were easiest to get to. At the far end of the corridor was the place of most danger.

For by reaching silently forward together, by feeling outward together, sensitive to each other and to what lay ahead they had been able to see into the mound’s depths. And at the end of the corridor was a room where the MadogWerg leaf was brewed in a cold-still, and where two Kubalese guards played at a game of dice sticks. Thorn could feel Zephy’s fear of the place, of the guards, and feel her hatred too and her rising determination to aggression that was very like his own. He could feel Elodia’s singleness of purpose so finely steeled that her abhorrence and tenderness were shielded. And Toca—Toca simply went on, made his stoic effort one-minded, following Thorn. Thinking nothing of good or bad or distasteful, but simply encrusted with a small fierce discipline, soldier-like and so touching that Thorn, in spite of himself, put an arm around the little boy’s shoulder, then knew at once that Toca was better left untouched just now, that the shield was not that impenetrable.

The sleepers who had not been roused must be attended to later, yet the mental strength of the four to wake them was waning. Thorn thought that without the runestone they might never have been able to do it—might not yet, he thought. Won’t be able to if I don’t stop dreaming and pay attention to where we are. For the brewing room was around the next curve.

The possible plans were several, but they chose to divide the two guards. When they saw the wooden door ajar and the candle burning within, they all slipped back down the tunnel save Thorn, who moved quietly in the shadows to the other side of the opening and stood still.

When the mumble of voices continued and the click of dice and sticks did not cease—and when their minds were touching—Thorn thought that he was ready; and down the tunnel in the darkness Elodia let out a scream that made the blood go cold. A scream of pure terror that he had felt her building, getting ready to deliver, for some minutes. It was so good a scream he wanted to laugh with the pleasure of it, but there wasn’t time; the two guards boiled out. He caught the second in the knee, in the groin, felt him twist, pulled his arm behind him, and heard the other shout where he had bolted down the corridor into the children. Thorn stabbed again, felt the guard go limp, and pelted after the first, found him fighting rope and girls and Toca in a melee so confused it was all Thorn could do to sort out the right thing to hit, afraid to use the knife. The drugged Children stood looking on, like shadows.

When they had the man down, Thorn decided to let him live, tie him and question him. The man was gone in drunkenness; Thorn could smell the liquor. Disgusted, but glad for the advantage it had given them, he tied him well, and they dragged him onto one of the slabs.

Now the brewing room was empty. They made quick work of the MadogWerg, mixing the ground leaf with dirt, then burying the whole mess. There was quite a lot of it, the dry, bronze leaf crushed to a fine powder, and some not yet crushed, gathered into small sheaves, the round separate leaves quite beautiful, just as Tra. Hoppa had described—the most potent of all the drugs.

They poured the brewed liquid into the Kubalese’s liquor cask. A little welcoming draft for the next Kubalese who came along. But Thorn saved back that in the cup, he did not know why.

The drugged Children who had followed them stood clutched together like moon-moths in the doorway, clinging to each other. Thorn brought them in, pushing, gently cajoling until they were seated, close together still, on the lower bunk. Nine of them, frightened and pale and confused—even the four adults—by the lantern light and by being awake and walking, by the world which they all seemed to have forgotten. When they smelled the reek of drug from the cold-still, they stared toward it longingly until Thorn tipped it over with one blow and smashed the tin cups and the tubing under his heel. Then they looked terrified indeed, whether at his violence or at the destruction of the still, no one could be sure.

The cave was fairly large, with the table in the middle next to a supporting post, the bunks by the door, clothes on pegs, and a tangle of things at the back—crocks and barrels and a small cooking stove like an iron pot, with a bit of chimney that attached to three tubes in the dirt ceiling. Thorn examined these. “They’re no bigger than rabbit holes,” he said admiringly. “And there were plenty of rabbit holes up there. A little bit of smoke, carried off by the wind . . .”

There were half a dozen black rabbit skins hanging, dry, on one wall, and rabbit carcasses, dried and smoked, hung from the main beam of the room. Zephy opened a barrel to find it filled with golden-colored grain. “Would we dare to eat the food? We’ll have to feed the Children. They wouldn’t have drugged all this; they must have needed it themselves. What did they feed the Children? Besides the . . . besides the MadogWerg. It must have been liquid, they were hardly awake,” she said, touching a big iron pot. “They had to feed them, Thorn, they would have died otherwise.”

“Could you make some soup?”

She and Elodia set about it at once, tipping water from a barrel and adding the grain and dried rabbit and some tammi and kebbel-root. The fuel for the stove was dried cow dung, hot burning, that filled a linen bag. She wished she had milk for the children.

The Children’s eyes had followed her as she investigated the room, and at the words MadogWerg they had seemed to tense, their faces to harden and to become slyly eager—the most alive they had looked since they had been awakened. She could feel their thoughts, their increasing desire for the drug as they came more fully awake and felt the sharp pangs of withdrawal. She felt, with them, the ugly quick pains in her body, in her legs and hands. She should have felt sorry for them, but she could feel only repulsion. She wished they could be shut away, she realized with shock. Oh, how could she think such a thing. She stared at Clytey Varik’s blank face, and felt a horror at her own emotions. Yet the Children were so like something dead that the feel of them, sick and negative, was almost more than she could bear. It was as if their very spirits tainted everything around them with a heavy intensity of lifelessness, with such a pall that joy and love were made somehow indecent in the presence of their intense death-wishing.

She looked up and found Thorn watching her and knew they had shared this. And she knew that their very sharing was repugnant to these drugged, sick Children. She felt a passion to get away from them, and then a gripping pity that made her turn and stare at them, so she almost cried out in agony at what they were.

As one, Toca and Elodia rose, and the four of them took hands and stood as before touching the runestone and trying to waken the Children more completely, awaken them to life, to wholeness. They breathed such passion into their effort, into the Children, breathed the very souls of their spirits into them. But they pulled away at last exhausted, near dropping with fatigue and discouragement; for the Children had remained as they were, their eyes and spirits willfully unseeing; blank and defiant.

Now Thorn looked at Zephy for the first time without that spark of challenge and assurance. He seemed to have lost hope suddenly. She stared at him with chagrin. “They don’t want this,” he growled angrily. “They don’t want to be better. We can’t make them want it, we’re not strong enough.”

“We are! You’re stupid to say we can’t! You’ll undo everything!”

“Undo what? They’re dead—they’d be better dead. Look at them! They want to be dead!” He swung to face the silent row where they crouched on the bunk, staring dully. “Look at you! You’re nothing. You’ve lost your very souls, you’ve let them be taken from you. You can’t even fight for your life! All you want is a morass to wallow in. To die in!” He turned away furious, his eyes dark with anger and his fists clenched as if he would like to hit them.

And Zephy, watching the Children with apprehension, saw the blonde young woman’s eyes go clear suddenly, saw her looking back at Thorn with life in her face. Zephy caught her breath, cried silently to Thorn, saw him turn and take the woman’s hands.

The woman looked at Zephy now, and smiled. Tremulous, uncertain, but aware. Very much aware. Thorn pressed the stone in her hand and they held it, the three of them. Zephy could feel the change then, could feel that now, at last, the bodily pains and depression did not matter, that something else stronger had taken hold. That life had returned, the stubborn eagerness for life.

At last the woman said her name, Showpa, and that she was of Quaymus. And they set about, together, bringing the others back. For with Thorn’s anger, all of the Children had begun to reach out, to feel out toward his strength. And toward the runestone. Had begun to fight at last.

TWENTY

Zephy woke cold and stiff from sleeping on the stone floor. She could not tell whether it was night or day. The constant darkness of the cave depressed and upset her. She had awakened several times, longing to see daylight. She rose and went into a side corridor, where there were several holes in the cave ceiling to let in air, and stared up at the barely light sky. The cold, predawn air felt so good. She had a terrible desire to leave the cave and run across the hills, free.

Instead she hunkered down against the stone wall, waiting for some sign of life from the others, thinking that otter-herb tea would taste wonderful, wishing she could wash herself properly.

None of them had wanted to sleep on the stone slabs. Certainly the Children who had been drugged had not. They had all chosen the floor instead, with Tra. Hoppa and two of the women occupying the bunks in the brewing room. Thorn had brought Tra. Hoppa and the baby down, and Showpa had taken to Bibb at once, relieving Tra. Hoppa of him.

But now, instead of Bibb, Tra. Hoppa had Nia Skane and the two little boys from Burgdeeth to look after. All three children had been found in a deep, nearly closed tunnel with a supply of watered MadogWerg so diluted that they were semi-conscious. They lay bound, with their drug-water in bottles beside them, being used in some terrible experiment that sickened Zephy. Thorn thought it had been done to see at what level of consciousness these three young ones would keep themselves voluntarily, when the drug in the sweetened liquid was all the food or drink they had. Tra. Hoppa had taken them at once into her own care, until she fell asleep from exhaustion. No one realized, perhaps, what a toll the journey had taken of her. She had looked tired and drawn when Thorn brought her in.

Now, with twelve Children awakened from the drug, they should surely be able to wake the others. But Zephy felt an unease all the same, for the sense of evil that clung about the caves had not diminished as the Children were awakened one by one. On the contrary, the feel of dark had increased. They all felt it, the sense of dark they had touched from afar, now grown strong all around them. Why? Why? She scowled, perplexed and frightened, and found she was clenching her hands so tight they had gone quite numb.

She rose at last when she heard others stirring, and went to the brewing room to make zayn tea. And all through the day and the next day as the remaining Children were found and awakened from the drug, she puzzled over the feel of the foreboding that lay rank as a bad smell upon the caves. But it was not until she found Meatha at last that she felt the darkness surround and touch her like a live thing.

She had discovered Meatha quite unexpectedly, after she had nearly given up hope, in a crevice so deep she might well have missed her. As Zephy stood staring, then knelt so the candlelight fell full on Meatha’s face, she could see no indication of life, nor could she feel the sense of life that had come from the others. Furiously, she tried to force her own sense of living into Meatha, her terror making her frantic. She poured every ounce of her strength into the pale girl, but the darkness gripped Zephy and held her, and seemed to swing a curtain between herself and Meatha; and she could do nothing.

When Toca found her, she was close to tears and exhaustion, and she thought she had lost Meatha.

Toca came to her silently and stood quiet for a time. She was so preoccupied she paid no attention to him. Then slowly she began to sense a kind of animal need and possessiveness coming from the little boy, something quite beyond her own power, and directed at Meatha. Something so basic and simple—like a baby demanding its mother’s attention with righteous fury. She drew her own thoughts back and waited, letting Toca take hold as he would.

She sensed, as his very spirit gripped into Meatha, that part of what he was doing he had learned from the baby, from Bibb, that demanding, uncompromising indignation; and that part of it was from his own experience. He was still so close to babyhood that he could more easily bring it forth: a charged, young-animal insistence to life that could not be ignored.

Nor was it ignored. For at last, where Zephy’s strongest efforts had failed, Toca’s were responded to. Zephy felt the darkness drawing back, knew that it was being held off; and finally Meatha opened her eyes, staring blankly.

Zephy, shaken, could have wept over Toca. She took his hand in her own and knew that he was complete and special, and admired him—and let him know that she did.

When Meatha was able to rise, able to walk supported by them both, she clung to them as if the very touch of something living was necessary to nurture the flow of her own life forces. As if she had been very close, indeed, to dying. When she had been fed in that dormitory that the brewing room had become, leaning against Tra. Hoppa, taking a hesitant spoonful at a time, she was stronger. She and Zephy looked at each other silently, and a lifetime seemed to have passed. Truly a resurrection of life had taken place and neither could speak of it; and the strangenesses that lay between them brought them closer. For fear bound them; the gift of Ynell bound them; the darkness bound them.

Before the last Children were awakened from the drug, Thorn began to post guards—Children made well and willing to remain at the farther reaches of the tunnels, away from distractions of the mind, to sense anyone coming. above on the hills. But no one came, they were not disturbed; and finally Thorn wondered if the three soldiers—the two dead and the one still captive—had not been set to live here alone for a very long time indeed.

The bound Kubalese refused to talk. He would not give them any idea of when more guards were due or from what direction. When Thorn questioned him about the feeling of evil, of dark, he would only stare as if he didn’t understand. He accepted food grudgingly but told them nothing, so that Thorn half wished they had killed the man after all and saved the trouble. To pity the Kubalese, the drug giver, would have been hypocritical to Thorn, as it was not to Elodia, who felt some strange human kindness for the captive.

It was Elodia, though, who to save the others danger had successfully shielded her thoughts, taken a knife, and crept out into the night with Toca, through the hillside door. They went alone to locate a band of horses that Toca sensed, grazing untended, to the south. The little boy would have gone by himself, recklessly. They returned with the news of a small band of Kubalese horses and a wagon at what appeared to be an iron ore depot. And, a fact that shook them all, two smaller Carriolinian mares, butternut, all butternut. This news made them renew their search for Anchorstar, though he could not be sensed. Why had they felt him before they ever reached the caves, but not now? Their efforts brought an increased feel of evil only, an aura of malignancy. Their great fear was that, drugged and perhaps unfed, Anchorstar had died. Or that he had been deliberately killed, as too threatening in some way.

“I could not sense him here when we came to the caves,” Meatha said. “We could feel nothing but the evil. But we could feel no Children either, though we knew they were here. You saw them in your visions but we never did, we only had the knowledge of them. Maybe you did because you had the stone. When we came, there was just the feel of evil. And then almost at once a dozen Kubalese soldiers were around us, forcing us down to drink of the drug, making us swallow, holding our mouths open and pouring it so we choked—and they laughed, they were doing that to us and laughing. We could not resist them. Then afterwards I wanted the drug. I wanted it again and again,” she said, ashamed. “And when I was in that sleep, I didn’t care about Anchorstar, about anything. I—I wanted him to be like us . . .” She hid her face in her hands, torn with sobs.

“But I don’t understand,” Zephy said. “What made you come here from Eresu? Why didn’t the Children come before, if they knew about the captive Children?”

“They didn’t know. They could only feel the darkness, the danger. They don’t know everything, even in Eresu. They felt the evil, but they didn’t know what it was, where it was.

“But when you drew near Eresu on the mountain, I could sense you. I knew I had left the runestone for you to find, and now I began to feel that you had it. As you came nearer I began to see you sometimes. It was only after we began to sense you and the strength of the stone, that we began to feel that the darkness came from these hills in the south, and that there were Children here. It was as if before, with the Children drugged, there was nothing strong enough to reach out to us. The drugged Children were as dead; there was nothing in them to reach out and echo in our own thoughts. Perhaps when the runestone was closer, and magnified it, the sense of them in the darkness was clear.

“And then it seemed to me all at once that it was Anchorstar, too, who led us. Suddenly I could feel him here in the south. Maybe he had just been brought here as captive, I don’t know. But all at once, there was the presence of Anchorstar in my thoughts and of Children in danger, Children sleeping, drugged. It was all around us suddenly, and we started out at once. I know Anchorstar was here. But when we came into the cave there was only the darkness again.” She pressed her fist to her mouth. “We must find him. Have you searched everywhere? But you can’t have.”

“We have,” Zephy said. “But we’ll search again.”

They set about it systematically, each person taking a tunnel, scraping at the walls, examining the stone for loose mortar on the chance that there lay, behind a wall, a tunnel they had not discovered. Still there was the feel of dark around them, indecipherable, threatening.

“He must be very special,” Yanno Krabe said, looking down at Meatha as they sat at supper, “a very special man.” Tall, dark-haired Yanno had taken to Meatha at once, had followed her since she awakened, seemed to idolize her so that the others smiled a little, watching them, feeling his eager worship.

“Anchorstar is very special,” Meatha said. “He is . . . If it were not for Anchorstar, you would have died here; all of us would.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because it was Anchorstar who told us what the Kubalese had in mind, what they were doing. It was Anchorstar who determined to search for you and to get the others away from Burgdeeth. And then it was Anchorstar’s message that told us of the danger and drew us here. He, and the sense of darkness that we felt.”

Zephy watched them and thought Yanno a handsome boy. But he was too worshipping, his mind too full of Meatha. She tried to keep her thoughts private, a thing she was learning was very necessary with so many living close together. Necessary and difficult. They all tried to shut away and not intrude on each other, but sometimes it could not be helped. Now she saw a slight twitch come to Yanno’s eyebrow and thought, guiltily, that he knew of her disgust. She glanced up and knew her thoughts had been open to Thorn. He grinned. And later when they were alone he said, “Wouldn’t you like a pandering man to follow you around making cow eyes?”

“Oh, yes,” she bantered, “would you care to do that? I would like . . .” But he didn’t need to be told what she liked. She stared at him and suddenly the emotion that had grown between them rose like a quick tide so she glanced down hastily. “Cow eyes,” she said with distaste, to hide her own confusion. “Thorn, do you think he felt my thought?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter.” He put his hand on her shoulder, leaned to kiss her, and their minds met in a tide so sweet, so engulfing that she could not pull away, felt lost in him as if they were one. He kissed her and held her, and when they parted they were together still in their minds. And they thought, How can we be like this, be so happy when Anchorstar may be lost.

They had tried not to think he could be dead. If Anchorstar was dead, if there was no point in searching further, they should all be away at once. For surely other Kubalese would come. And yet they could not bring themselves to abandon the search.

“The not knowing about Anchorstar keeps us here so we may never get out,” she said miserably. “It’s as if the very thought of him puts us in danger . . .” Then she broke off and stared at Thorn, appalled at herself. “Oh, I didn’t mean it that way, not really, not like it sounded.

“Or did I mean it?’ Oh, Thorn, did I? I’m so tired, my mind is so tired trying to revive the Children: trying . . . I think what I mean is, if we don’t get out now, will we ever be able to? Will we just grow weaker and tireder until—until the dark—until the dark . . .” She shuddered, collapsing in tears suddenly. And she knew only that he held her, was stronger at that moment, as she clutched at him as a drowning person would clutch. She cried in great heaving gulps, couldn’t stop, and when the tears went dry at last, she gasped and gasped for breath, heaving, panic taking her. . . .

He slapped her, set her reeling. He caught her against falling, pulled her to him, and held her so her sobs subsided at last. How could he remain so strong?

“Another time,” he said softly. “Another time, it’ll be me falling apart and you to hold me. The way you brought me out of Anchorstar’s wagon, with my festering leg. One will always have the strength for both when it is needed—one, we are one . . .” And he kissed her then so there was no darkness, there was nothing save themselves in a perfect sphere of time.

Then at last he lifted her face from his sodden tunic and kissed her again. “Now,” he said as she stared up at him, “now we have work to do. We must find him, Zephy. We must find Anchorstar before we leave this place.”

*

But it was not until there was danger on the hills that Anchorstar was found.

For suddenly in the night the Children who stood sentry both below and above sensed Kubalese soldiers on the move. The destination of the riders was uncertain. If they were to come to the caves, the caves must be cleared. The Kubalese rode hard, were tired, wanting rest. But they could rest on the hills . . . it was not certain . . .

The riders came up the flat valley at dawn, toward the hills, a dozen armed men. As they approached the caves, they slowed. Yes, the cave was their destination, it could be felt now, their thirst for liquor, their longing for hot food. A longing, too, for sport that made the Children look at each other and shiver.

In the cave the brewing room was left as it had been found, dice sticks scattered, bunks rumpled, smelly clothes on pegs, dirty plates. Some of the Children went back to the slabs where they had lain drugged so long, and laid down on them once again, going quite still when they heard the soldiers. The rest moved together into three short corridors near the cave’s entrance, and there they waited silently. They had left the captive guard, drugged with MadogWerg, lying on his own bunk looking drunk. They left food on the cookstove, aromatic and hot and laced with MadogWerg. And the liquor cask waited invitingly.

If Thorn had a twinge of revulsion at giving MadogWerg to anyone, even Kubalese, he put it down. He took Zephy’s hand in the darkness and knew she, too, wondered if they sinned, doing such a thing. Then he felt her resolve as she thought of the Children like living dead who had lined the walls of the tunnel.

They could sense the Kubalese outside, dismounting, hobbling their horses, ducking as they came through the low tunnel, hot and tired. They could smell their sweat as they lumbered past shouting for the Kubalese guards.

“Ag-Labba! Ag-Labba, rouse your filthy soul, you worthless Karrach! Fill the mugs, fire the stew pot, you’ve a crew here starving and lusty!”

“Sewers of Urdd, it’s a dark and stinking place!”

“Bleed it, man, bleed it! Roll out a new keg, we’ve had no drink in a dog’s tracking time, you suckers!”

“Bring ogre’s breath, you sons of Urdd! Roll out the ogre’s breath!” There was coarse laughter and much stamping, and a loud guffaw that ended in a belch.

Zephy felt Thorn laugh at their crudeness, then felt the cold fear they both shared with the others as seven Children slipped out the entrance behind them, to lead the Kubalese horses away quietly. Zephy sensed the care the Children took as they loosened the horse’s saddles, cooled them, watered them, and took them to graze and rest on the hills—it might be a long night for these mounts.

Then Zephy felt Elodia touch her in the darkness, felt the alarm of the others suddenly. Something was in the tunnel with them. It was the darkness they had sensed so often; but it was close now, not held back. Very close and real, and one of the Children was slipping away. The dark was there, concentrated in that one, they could feel it now as if, in unusual effort, the dark Child could not keep his evil diffused. Who was he? Which one of them? Zephy could feel Toca’s fear. She slipped out behind Thorn after the dark one. She could feel Meatha and Elodia beside her. Toca took her hand. She could feel Clytey and the others following.

They could hear the soldiers in the brewing room, grumbling because two guards were missing. “Where the fracking Urdd . . . ?”

“Dallying with the sleeping girls, I’ll guess! Ag-Labba! Rouse your filthy self. Poke him, Herg-Mord. Roll him out of that bunk!”

“Get up you fracking sot. Serve us up some supper. Pull yourself out of there!”

Behind the shouting Zephy and Thorn could feel the urgency of the Child who hurried through the dark passage, could feel the warning forming on his lips. Thorn was ahead, running, Zephy on his heels. They could hear the mugs clink, then Yanno shout—and Thorn had him, his fist in the young man’s mouth, his arm around his throat; it was Yanno! He spun back, his eyes terrified, the feel of darkness like a stench on him, to stare at Thorn in terror, then to grab at Thorn’s knife and twist it out of the scabbard.

Thorn hit him so he went limp.

They crouched there, listening, expecting the Kubalese to burst out of the brewing room. But the men were still cursing the missing guards, toasting each other loudly, laughing and swearing by turns. They had heard nothing.

They dragged Yanno into a side tunnel to question him, and Zephy could feel Thorn’s fury as he propped him against the wall. “Where is he?” He hissed, his fingers twisting into the man’s shoulder so Yanno cringed in pain. “Where is Anchorstar? What have you done with him?”

But Yanno, limp now with fear and pain, seemed to have gone as empty as a shell. No evil reeked from him now. Only fear. He would not answer Thorn. He seemed to have drawn into a place where Thorn could not reach him. He had given up, yet at the same time he clung to something that would not let him speak. Zephy felt that he would die soon, that they could not prevent it, that he would carry Anchorstar’s secret with him.

Then at last Meatha went into his mind in a way the others had not. She seemed suddenly able to strip away layers of emptiness and lay bare, at long last, the final dark kernel of Yanno—to lay bare the knowledge they had sought.

And they, going at once back to the entrance of the tunnel and through the cleft to the outside, found the second cleft, tucked behind the first like a wrinkle in the earth. And Thorn pushed in to find the second door.

This one seemed locked or bolted from within. Finally it gave slightly as if the bolt was weakening. Or as if the door was not bolted, but held. They pushed harder, ramming the door in unison until at last it gave and swung in. Two boys stood before them, the reek of evil strong about them. Yanno’s counterparts. Yanno’s dark partners, Children lost in their minds and turned inward around a kernel of evil that now ruled them.

And behind them on the slab lay Anchorstar.

Hardly a heartbeat had he. Zephy and Meatha knelt beside him, and Elodia brought water. Thorn, with Yanno dangling from his grasp, faced the two dark Children coldly. “Yanno. Ejon. Dowilg,” Thorn said in a flat voice, divining their names. The stench of their evil filled the cave. The three stared back at Thorn with empty, hate-ridden eyes. The other Children faced them in a circle, a small cold army. Zephy shuddered, and turned back to Anchorstar.

Meatha’s arms were around him, Meatha’s tears on his face. Then Tra. Hoppa was there, she had brought herbs and brew. But they could not wake him.

“He only sleeps,” Tra. Hoppa said. “He only sleeps, he’s not dead. You must wake him. You must make a strength between you that you have never made before, all of you. You must not let Anchorstar die!” Her voice rang cold and compelling in the cave: a command they could not have resisted. The Children, having trussed and secured the dark ones, gathered now, and commanded life, demanded life of Anchorstar as they had not done even for one another. They strained, they sweated with their effort as a man sweats moving boulders.

But they could not wake him. There was no stir, no sign of color or of change in his almost-imperceptible breathing—until at last, the prisoners were taken away and the darkness left the cave. The evil left with them, left the Children free to demand life of Anchorstar without the fetters that Yanno and the two others had put on them.

At long last, after many hours more, Anchorstar moved his hand. Then later his pale, weathered cheek seemed to have a little color. They knelt then, all of them, never moving, willing him to live. When it was clear that he would live, some of the children went to clear the brewing room of the drugged Kubalese soldiers, and Tra. Hoppa made a broth of rabbit, with the herbs. In the small hours of the morning Anchorstar was able, with his head supported, to accept a few drops of this. His eyes were open but dead-seeming. It tore at Zephy to see the blankness with which he regarded them.

They kept the stone beside him as they watched in shifts through the day and the next day and night. The deep, patient prodding was taken up by one group then the next, never ceasing.

And when he woke truly at last, and looked around him, the others who had gone to rest woke at once, were called out of sleep, and came to him. Meatha was there kneeling beside him, crying. Toca, all the Children hurried out of sleep to gather before him. With their silent urging, with the stone and with love pulling at him, Anchorstar looked around him at last with true recognition. With surprise. And then with great good humor.

It was several days more before he was strong enough to travel. Fresh rabbits boiled into soup strengthened him, and all the Children took turns caring for him. When Zephy sat with him one night, he told her how he had been captured, and she thought him very patient, for surely he had told many of the others. He had waited in the dark beyond the housegardens as they had planned, on the night of Fire Scourge. And he had been surprised as he crouched there in a low depression to hear a dozen Kubalese troops suddenly thundering down on him. They had not seen him, but were following the plan of attack. And he, having no way to escape running horses, for his own horses were farther up the mountain, had crouched lower, hoping he would not be discovered.

But one Kubalese horse had shied, startling others, and one of the soldiers dismounted to investigate. Anchorstar did not dare move, but remained frozen, hoping still he might be missed, his knife ready in case he was not.

He had been found, had killed one Kubalese soldier and wounded two before he was overpowered by the rest. He had been gagged and locked then in a tool shed and left there for three days, until some Kubalese corporal remembered he was there, and told his superiors.

Then Anchorstar had been force-fed MadogWerg and had waked days later in the dark cave longing nearly to madness for MadogWerg. He had not cried out for it and had refused it when the guard came. “But it was all I could do,” he said. “And in the end they forced it down me.” He looked at Zephy with such defeat—and then with that wry humor at himself. She had bent and kissed him, more touched than she could admit.

While Anchorstar mended, the Children waited patiently; and the Kubalese horses waited, hidden in the hills. Their masters, with the great quantities of MadogWerg they had imbibed, had needed burying on the hilltop. Then at the very last moment Toca and Thorn took the runestone and went down out of the hills into the valley, where Toca called the two Carriolinian mares and the larger horses into a band that submitted quietly to the rope and harness they found in the wagon there; the band of horses followed him docilely up the hills in the evening light.

Food and blankets had been packed onto the two donkeys, and now the Children mounted two and three to a horse on the big Kubalese animals. Anchorstar, with Thorn behind to steady him, was helped up onto one of the two mares. He handed the reins of the other mare to Zephy and Meatha, and they scrambled aboard so eagerly Thorn could not help but laugh.

The little group, double-mounted, triple-mounted, children’s legs sticking nearly straight out on the broad backs, moved up over the Kubalese hills in the darkness, the horses forged quickly on and the two donkeys pulled ahead in spite of their reluctance. Tra. Hoppa, astride a broad black Kubalese mount behind a tall young man, seemed to cling like a fly. Toca, squeezed between them, could hardly be seen.

They did not stop for rest or water, but kept riding hard, forcing the horses until the animals began to blow and fight them. With the heavy burdens, the horses were easily spent, and just before dawn, they were forced to rest. There had been a little light while the moon still hung in the sky, but now it was dark indeed. They had crossed the Kubalese valley and the river Urobb and were now at the foot of the mountains. They dismounted and removed some of their harness to rub the horses down and cool them; then watered them from the trickle of brook they had been following. When dawn began to come, they could begin to see the valley stretched out behind. Thorn was withdrawn and silent, thinking of the three dark Children he had executed. He had asked of them, “Why did you have Anchorstar captive? Why was he so important that you let him live? Did you guard him at the direction of the Kubalese?”

“Not the Kubalese,” Dowilg had croaked, as if he didn’t care what he told, as if it didn’t matter any more. “Our way,” he said, staring at the others. “It was our way . . .”

“He was a leader,” Yanno said as if leader were a filthy word. “There was light around him.”

Thorn had stared at them, feeling their revulsion for Anchorstar and for himself and the Children. “Then why did you let him live?”

“We thought to make use of him,” Ejon said. “We thought we could turn his mind and make use of him against you.” He had laughed with a bitter, cold sound that had turned Thorn’s hatred to disgust.

“But why didn’t you warn the guards of our coming? You were on their side, surely.”

“Not on their side,” Yanno said. “They would use us.”

“We were to ourselves,” said Dowilg. “Before the stone came we were someplace dark, to ourselves.” He seemed unable, or unwilling, to explain that other mental state but Thorn sensed it; the feel of it came strong around him, and he understood that when the stone came, these three had awakened to a new level, where their evil became concentrated once more on the Children and Anchorstar. “But he kept us bound with his mind even in sleep,” Dowilg said with cold hate. “We were not strong enough.”

Thorn had killed them quickly and buried them in the mound.

Now he sat by the little spring, holding the reins of five resting horses, feeling sick at the memory of what he had done; but knowing he had had no choice. To kill in battle was one thing, to kill in cold blood quite another; but to turn that evil loose on Ere would have been unthinkable. When one mare raised her head, then another, he paid little attention. The animal stiffened and began to fidget and stare down into the lightening valley. Then suddenly he was on his feet, fastening harness, shouting to the others . . .

A band of Kubalese soldiers roared up the valley toward them, yelling for blood.

Children leaped up; harness was secured hastily; the horses milling and shying. Thorn shoved Children onto rearing backs; three riderless horses pulled away and went plunging up the mountain. They heard the Kubalese shout as a darkness came over them all; the soldiers were blotted out by the darkness in the sky, all was seething confusion . . .

The darkness in the sky dropped around them; then flying dark shapes landed, pawing, snorting at the other horses. Thorn lifted Children up onto winged backs now, pushed Zephy up, saw the Horses of Eresu leap into the sky seconds before the Kubalese pounded up the last slope, shouting. The abandoned horses were milling, some heading for the mountains. A winged shape landed before him; he lunged to mount, felt a hand grab him from behind and pull him back. He whirled to face the Kubalese soldier. He lashed out, his fist hardly grazing the man, drew back grabbing for his knife, was hit so hard in the head he reeled; he found some mark with his blade, jerked away and leaped wildly for the winged back . . .

The others were specks above him, Zephy’s terror for him sharp in his mind as the winged horse lifted to meet her.

They were over Ere. They were on the wind, free; the wonder of the flight obliterated the terror they had felt. The land dropped below them, lit with the coming dawn. They saw the sweep of the valley from Kubal to Urobb. The sun, lying just below the sea, sent a sharp orange light onto the outer islands of Carriol far in the distance. Back toward the mountain, Thorn could see the Kubalese riding hard, only specks now, after the escaping horses. He caught a glimpse of the two donkeys, turning off into a protected ravine. Maybe they would be missed. He touched the runestone, safe in his jerkin, and smiled across at Zephy, sensing the wonder of flight that held her, the fierce joy. He could see Tra. Hoppa farther away clinging to a dark roan, holding Toca tight. The child gripped a handful of mane and stared down in wide-eyed wonder. All of them were safe; the sweep of dozens of pairs of huge wings before him, behind him, lifting and soaring on the wind so effortlessly, held him spellbound; the sweep of land beneath him, another world so far removed from this tide of wind, made him drunk with glory.

The river Voda-Cul cut below them now, through the pale loess planes of Carriol. A deep woods lay between the white expanse and the sea, and in the loess hills themselves he could see carven clusters of dwellings, with the smaller river Somat-Cul wandering down between them toward the lush green pastures that made up most of Carriol. He could see the sparkle of cities there as the sun lifted red; and the names Blackcob and Kirkfalk and Plea came to him, though he didn’t know which was which. He knew which was the city of Fentress, there on the largest of the three islands; and that must be the ancient ruin lying on the coast south of Fentress. He peered down between the sweeping wings, mane whipping in his face and the smell of the horse he rode warm and sweet. He laid a hand on the silken neck and felt the strength beneath, and the muscles pulling in flight. He turned to look at Zephy again, though he didn’t need to see her face to know her joy; she was thinking of the stone, too. Given twice? But it has not been. And carried in a search and a questing? Have we done both, Thorn?

You gave it to me once, he answered. When we found it in the saddle. We have had a search all right. Was that a questing too?

Or is there more? she thought.

There is always more. There is a whole lifetime of questing. He did not know whether the others heard their thoughts. It didn’t matter. Carriol was there below them, a sanctuary, a place of freedom, and new beginning; and they rode on the winds above it as they had dreamed, as all of them had longed to do. He laid a hand on his horse’s neck and felt again the warmth of the strong body beneath him, saw the horse’s ears go forward as he chose a distant landing. They descended, and he felt Zephy’s longing to stay windborne forever; their two horses swept close together, playing in the wind, nipping lightly, and then settled into a long glide that, Thorn thought, would take them down over Carriol’s islands. Crouching beneath the dark wings, he could see all of Ere for a moment, the deep Bay of Pelli, the deserts beyond. It was not so large and forbidding, seen from the sky; nor would it seem so large again, ever.

The winged horses descended, dropping down over the coast of Carriol. The sea swept away to the left Thorn felt his horse tense, saw the land come up quick, felt the great wings catch at the wind in a new way—felt the jolt as the Horse of Eresu landed on a high mass of stone and crumbling walls that rose from the cliffs above the sea. The stallion’s wings, at sudden rest, folded over Thorn’s legs and beside his body. The others were landing, plummeting down.

They were high above the sea and cliffs on a patch of green supported by ancient walls and towers. They were high in the ruined city, the ancient city Carriol. Below them the ruins crumbled away. Above them a broken tower rose into the clear sky. To the south they could see the pastures of Carriol, a city, farms, then a bay and far in the distance the huge neck of land running out into the sea; this would be Sangur. To the right of Sangur lay the wide Bay of Pelli. But this was all very distant softened by mists. Close at hand, on Thorn’s left, the sea beat a strange soothing cadence as breakers crashed upon the cliffs. Zephy came close and stood with him. They looked out at the three islands, Fentress and Doonas and Skoke, and at the dwellings clinging there, and the little winding streets; and to their right, below the broken walls, the sweep of Carriol. The winged horse still stood close to Thorn, nuzzling him now, then raised its head to look out over Carriol, too, with a soft nicker; nuzzled again, then lifted its wings. Thorn rubbed its neck, loathe for the stallion to leave but knowing he must. Zephy clung to her own horse and there were tears in her eyes. Then all in an instant the horses reared and were airborne, wings sweeping, were leaping into the wind, rising, were gone on the wind, a seething flock there above them, vanishing in cloud. The Children of Ynell crowded closer together, and gazed down over the waiting land.

The Wolf Bell

At a crossing in time when good and evil balance

On the burned land where they balance

A nation will be wrought.

Freedom and slavery crosswise on a tilted sword.

The bell will mark the Seer

Whose lifted hand decides it.

And the bell’s shadow cast over all

With the wolves looking

From the mountain.

Conceived in vengeance to buy a life,

The Seer will come into the mountain.

But the woman will turn at the crossroads

And the bell’s shadow cast over all

With the wolves looking

From the mountain:

She will be the vessel,

The bell’s shadow cast tall across her,

The lives of men betrayed.

Part One: The Bell

ONE

In the early days of Ere wolves came down from the high deserts to raid the Zandourian sheep, slaughtering them or driving the animals up a sheer cliff to climb in terror or fall to their deaths. The Zandourian herders thought the wolves devils from the fires of Urdd itself and, helpless in their fear, turned to the Seers of Zandour. So the Seer NiMarn fashioned a bell of bronze held by a rearing bitch-wolf; with it, a man gifted in Seeing could call the wolves as a mother calls her babe, and they would come grovelling. After that wolves left the herds untouched and became slaves to the Seers of Zandour.

But with the bell and its dark powers, NiMarn ruled more than wolves. He ruled the cities of Zandour as well. The wolf cult held reign for five generations, until the volcanoes spewed fire and devastation across the lands of Ere. In the panic of sweeping rivers of fire, smoke-darkened skies and starvation, the wolf cult could not hold men. The cult crumbled, the wolves returned to the wind, and the bell was lost.

As the last leader of the wolf cult lay dying deep in the cave that would be his grave, he whispered a prediction that lived in that cave long after his bones had crumbled:

“A bastard child will be born, and he will rule the wolves as no Seer before him has done.” His words were rasping and hate-filled, his sunken eyes cold with seeing his own betrayal. “A bastard child fathered by a Pellian bearing the last blood of the wolf cult. My blood! My blood seeping down generations hence from some bastard I sired and do not even know exists!

“A child born of a girl with the blood of Seers in her veins. A child that will go among the great wolves of the high mountains, where the lakes are made of fire. Wolves,” he whispered, shivering, “that are more than wolves. And that boy will seek a power greater even than the wolf bell, a power that even I could not master.” Bile came into the Seer’s mouth. He died with a look of cold fury on his thin face, and his bones rotted there in the cave of the wolf cult and he was forgotten for seven generations.

The volcanoes came once again. The lands were swept by fire. Men died and women became barren, and the few children born, it was said, were touched with evil. As the fires subsided, a girl-child was born in Zandour. She who would be mother to the bastard.

In those days a maid was chattel like the beasts, purchased at puberty for wifely work and breeding. When Tayba was thirteen her father took bids for her. She was tall and dark with teasing eyes and a beauty men watched with fine lust and bid high for. The bidders were wealthy young men whose fathers’ herds blanketed the hills of Zandour and whose mounts and jewels were envied. Seven bidders, then twelve, each going higher until Elgend chose the most generous, chose jewels and gold worth a kingdom. So young Blerdlo was given the promise of Tayba; and if he was gross and fat-gutted and smelled bad, that was not considered, was of no consequence in these dealings. Elgend had done well enough with his other daughters; now Tayba would double his fortunes. And if she bore a healthy child, Blerdlo promised a bonus of such splendor that Elgend found the customary long wait for the wedding celebration nearly as difficult as did Blerdlo.

Tayba allowed her father’s wives to give her the final training for marriage. She was silent and yielding to the prenuptial rituals and the Worshippings. She knelt docilely before the gods—and burned inside at gods who would allow her sale to that pig, Blerdlo, seethed hot with fury at the promising and vowed she would never honor it. Alone in her chambers, standing before her silver mirror, she mourned the betrayal of her own cool beauty, mourned the handsome young men who had wanted, and lost, her. Well she would not be wasted on Blerdlo; she might prepare for her wedding bed, but she would not lie in it with him.

There was a fair young man in Zandour then, an unlanded drifter from Pelli lounging in the ale houses and gaming places. The servants said he was clever at bones and brittles and that he must be wealthy indeed, the way he used silver to satisfy his wants. Tayba managed many a trip to the marketplace, to the herb woman and the prayer fountain in preparation for her marriage. The young man began to watch her. He was sun-browned with pale gold hair, his eyes so compelling she found it hard to look away. When first he spoke to her, she looked down, letting her lashes brush her cheeks. She could feel his interest like a tide. She turned away, smiling a little. Soon they were meeting in the public places, then later in places where prying eyes would not follow. In Tayba’s father’s farthest sheepfold shelter, in the ogre’s wood where few from Zandour ventured. Then at last in the blackened caves of Scar Mountain that rose between Zandour and Aybil.

He made love to her greedily. But when she tried to ease him into promises, EnDwyl did not commit himself. He let her imagine what she might. He watched her passion for him grow and was satisfied.

Soon Tayba was with child. The illness of it made her pale and so queasy she could not sit at table, but the wives put it down to nerves. She stayed to herself in her room until the early sickness was past. Her tall, lithe frame carried the secret well. After the first weeks of sickness she felt strong again and continued to slip away to EnDwyl. The gowns she chose were flowing, they showed nothing.

She was growing heavy the evening she put on a smooth, revealing gown at last and stood before her father’s table to stare at him in cold defiance, the evidence of her betrayal mocking him. All up and down the length of the room there was silence, then a faint gasp from the wives who would be blamed for this: five days before the wedding and Tayba pregnant as a prize ewe.

Her father stared at her, the blood draining from his face. He rose, white as loess dust, and stepped toward her. “Is it Blerdlo’s?”

She gave him a cold smile and shook her head. His hand went to his skinning knife, and someone muffled a cry. She did not back away.

“You cursed . . . you worthless. . . . You’ve squandered a fortune with your willful ways! You’d have been bred soon enough to Blerdlo, but you couldn’t wait. You—”

Her eyes flashed. “You sold me to that pig, to the ugliest, the smelliest among them! Well he’ll never have me, and I’m as worthless to you now as a rotting sheep’s carcass. You could get a better price from a servant’s whelp!” Her smile was ruthless with the success of her revenge.

“Get out! Go with your unlanded lover and see how well he keeps you! You’re no longer welcome in this house!” He slammed out of the room, and she looked after him with triumph, stared slowly around the table then, keeping her face hard, and went away with the cold looks of the household at her back.

She snatched up a few clothes, took a handful of silver from her father’s stores before he thought to lock them, and ran barefoot through the night to the house where EnDwyl hired a sleeping room. She was drunk with her own freedom, giddy with her revenge. They would go to Pelli now, they would . . . But EnDwyl was gone, his room quite empty of anything that had ever belonged to him.

She stood staring at the bare room, sick with shock. All his clothes, his boots, everything. When she went to rouse the innsman to find out where, he stood in his doorway swearing. “I know he’s gone! And taken his horse and two roast ducks and a cask of ale as well and left nothing for the rent he owes!” He eyed Tayba speculatively, seeing her silk gown, the fur lining of her cloak.

She turned and left in haste, losing herself in shadow. The man wouldn’t get EnDwyl’s rent out of her.

She stood for a long while in the night-shuttered marketplace, near the fountain, swept by rage—and by a sudden cold fear. Her time was not far off. She had no desire to drop the babe on the open hills like a dumb ewe. She had counted on EnDwyl to take her to Pelli to bear his child. He had said he would. Well, at least he had said—what had he said? In the heat of temper she could not exactly remember. Tears of self-pity came, she did not try to quench them, stood tasting the salt on her lips in terrible rage, then bent, shaken with a hard bout of sobs that seemed to ease the anger.

When she looked up from crying at last, she saw an old woman standing in the starlit square near the fountain, watching her. A short, dumpy figure, a woman such as was seen rummaging in the gutters of Zandour. The woman’s voice was hollow as the night She said cruelly, “EnDwyl has ridden toward Pelli, wanting to be free of you.”

Tayba looked her over. “How would you know such a thing?”

“It is my business to know. And I have a message for you. You must go to the bell woman on Scar Mountain. She will help you. She says to bring honey and sow’s milk. You take the fourth path at the turning by the water cave and keep on until the sun has set.”

“The sun has not even risen,” Tayba said irritably. “And why should I go to Scar Mountain?”

‘To bear your child in safety. He was conceived on Scar Mountain, and on Scar Mountain he will be born.” The old woman turned away, then cast back softly, “It will be light soon. You’d better hurry. And don’t forget the sow’s milk and honey.” She was lost at once in the city’s depths. Tayba stared after her outraged. She wished she’d been born a man; she looked down at her swollen belly and wished she were lithe enough to ride hard and strong enough to kill EnDwyl. She wished for the first, but not the last, time that this creature she carried was gone, even wished the baby dead and herself free of the whole matter.

The morning dawned foggy and cold. Shivering, she pulled her cloak around her and stared up at the craggy mountain. She did not know where else to go or what to do. She left town at last, angry at everything, at EnDwyl, the old woman, the gods—and very hungry. She purchased sow’s milk and honey from a hillside farm wondering why she bothered, and some dry mawzee cakes to eat as she made her way up the rough path that cleaved around Scar Mountain.

The way up the mountain had been exciting when she rode behind EnDwyl. Now it was hostile and rough and seemed a good deal longer. When at last the morning mist blew away, the day became hot, the air heavy, and the path very steep indeed. She hadn’t remembered how steep. She put on sandals, but the thin soles were little help against the sharp rocks. Her bundles grew heavier, and the sow’s milk began to smell. She thought of her last ride here with EnDwyl, and she hoped a warring Herebian tribe would chop him into buzzard bait.

But when she passed the cave where they had lain, she mourned EnDwyl’s golden hair and knowing ways. Why had the gods let this happen? Why had they let him leave her? She stared up at the sky. If she had seen gods then, flying on the wind, she would have cursed them roundly.

How had that old woman in the square known about her and EnDwyl? And how had this bell woman known? She had never even heard of a bell woman—bells? What did she do with bells? And what made her think the baby would be a boy? I don’t want a boy! I don’t want any baby! What am I to do with a baby!

When the sun had set she stood before a house made of stone slabs set against the side of the mountain. The afternoon had grown chill. She could see firelight through the cracks around the shuttered window. The door stood ajar. Tayba entered.

The stone ceiling rose high. The house was large inside, carven deep into the mountain itself; and the pale stone walls were sculptured into shelves on which stood bells, hundreds and hundred of bells catching the firelight, bells of amethyst and brass and painted clay, of jasper and of precious glass stained in deep tones. A thin white-haired woman sat folded onto a stool before the hearth. She watched Tayba silently. It was impossible to tell her age. Her eyes were too wise, too full of knowledge. She didn’t need to speak to make Tayba feel so uncomfortable she turned away to stare with confusion around the stone room. Why had she come here? Why in Urdd had she come?

The evening light fell softly through the window to catch at the bells. Did they carry enchantments? There was nowhere else to look except at bells, or at the white-haired woman. Then she saw a bronze bell standing alone on the mantle, and a chill touched her. It was an ugly thing: a rearing bitch-wolf holding a bell in its mouth. She did not know why it terrified her, but she looked away from it, shuddering. She thought of the child she carried and stared at the woman sitting motionless against the stone mantle. Something dark in Tayba stirred then, some hint of things unspoken, things she did not want to touch or acknowledge, and she pushed them away from her mind in angry haste. The woman spoke.

“I am Gredillon.” Her voice was clear, precise. “I am called bell woman.” Her white hair seemed not to denote age so much as some strange condition of being. She looked long at Tayba, a detached, appraising look that did nothing at all to ease Tayba’s awe of her. Did the woman always have that piercing, unnerving gaze? “You will bear your child here.”

Tayba continued to stare.

“I will teach him what he needs to learn. I will teach you both, likely, for you are in desperate need of learning.”

Tayba scowled.

“And one day he will lead you, this child you carry. One day he will lead men.”

“No child will lead me! I do not even want this child!”

“Nonetheless, he will be born. And he will lead you into the Ring of Fire, and there you will find what you are made of. It is something you need badly to learn.”

“No one goes into the Ring of Fire. And how do you know what I need?”

“You will go there,” Gredillon said, ignoring Tayba’s question. “Your brother Theel went, as far as the foot of it. Is it not true he followed the raider Venniver to the foot of those mountains to build a new city?”

“I suppose so. It’s what he said. Who knows where Theel is.”

“If he followed the dark leader Venniver, he did as he said he would do.”

“If he followed Venniver to that place, he’s probably dead.” She laid her pack on the table. “Why did you bring me here?” Then, remembering the sow’s milk and honey that she had set down absently, “And why did you want those? Do you expect me to drink sow’s milk, old woman?”

Gredillon’s smile was unexpected. It softened her angled face. “The sow’s milk makes good cheese. The honey is to sweeten my tea.” Her mouth twitched with amusement, but her dark eyes flashed. “Honey will not be wasted on you, young woman! It would turn bitter as dolba root in your mouth!”

“Why did you bring me here?”

“I did not bring you. I offered you sanctuary. Without me you would have had to return to your father’s house and beg a herder’s shack in which to bear your child.”

“You bid me here,” Tayba argued. “You told that gutter woman—what do you want of me?”

“I want nothing of you. I want only the safety of the child you carry. I want the safe birthing of your son.” Gredillon rose and turned to the mantle so the bronze bell was cloaked in her shadow. When she turned back to face Tayba, her eyes were so fierce Tayba could hardly look. “I want him born safely, and you know nothing of birthing a child. You could die birthing this child and he could die with you. You are too young, they breed them too young. That is why the young women die, it is not from the will of the gods.” She clasped her hands lightly. “This child must be born in safety, and you must live to care for him. But mark you this. If I must choose between you, one life to save, I will save the boy.” She motioned to a low couch on the other side of the hearth. “You are too weary to contain such anger. Lie down now and sleep.”

Tayba felt the weariness then, like a tide. She did as she was bidden, though against her will, turned her face to the wall away from Gredillon and, against her will, slept at once. And in sleep the wolf bell burned darkly through the weft of her dreams, the bitch-wolf rearing tall, her mouth open in a toothy leer.

*

She birthed the child with Gredillon’s help as Ere’s two moons hung thin as knives low on the horizon, birthed painfully through the length of the night with the pains so white hot she thought she would die of them. She heard Gredillon’s words over and over, If I must choose between you, I will save the boy. Tayba hated the baby for this and for the pain he caused her, wanted only to be free of him, fought to be free of him. When she screamed with the pain, Gredillon stuffed a rag in her mouth to bite on.

Gredillon’s thin, long hands held an earthen cup to Tayba’s lips with potions, straightened her covers, or removed them when Tayba burned with the heat of her effort. The thin, patient woman was there as the pain came and went; the candlelight caught at her white hair and at the bells, and in delirium Tayba thought the bells were huge and saw Gredillon’s white hair flowing through them and Gredillon’s long hands reaching, reaching. . . .

At last, as morning came with a pale whisper of light across the little window, so came the babe slipping out onto the white goat blanket Gredillon held for him and crying lustily in the bright room. At once Gredillon laid the wolf bell beside him; and at once the baby clutched at it.

Tayba fed him, exhausted and half-gone in sleep, and did not look at the boy well until she woke at midday. Then she saw with shock that he was marked, the mark of the Seer, for he had hair like flame. Hair red as sable-vine. Burning red against the white goat blanket.

Gredillon ignored Tayba’s dismay. “He is a Seer born,” she said triumphantly.

“A Seer born, and marked,” Tayba replied. “It can’t be my blood. I have no blood of Seers.”

“Do you not?” Gredillon looked hard at her, and again Tayba felt discomfort, some knowledge forcing itself into her mind that she did not want there. Angrily she put it away from her.

“And why must he have red hair? Not all Seers are so marked!”

“I grant you, he will be easily known for what he is unless he is disguised. All Seers are not so marked, but all with red hair are surely Seers. Well, we must take care of that when the time comes.” Gredillon raised her face to the slanting light of the westerly sun that flooded the room, then touched the wolf bell that stood now beside the baby’s sapling crib. “What is that sullen look, young woman? You do not know, or even care, what you have borne here. This child—this child and the mystery he seeks may well reshape the history of Ere!” And without consulting Tayba, “You will name him Ramad, Ramad means ‘Of the Mountain,’ and surely this child is of the mountain. He is a love child—a spite child—conceived and born on Scar Mountain.”

Tayba held the baby close to her. Ramad? Ram? It seemed a strange name. She stared at Gredillon. “Who are you? How can you take the liberty even of naming him? What—what do you intend for him? Why should you . . . ?” And suddenly she felt the agony the babe would one day know, born a Seer—born to rule or to be killed by Seers. And she held him and nursed him tenderly then and loved his small, helpless body that curved so easily to her own. But she stared past him to Gredillon. “Who are you?” she repeated.

“Who am I? I come out of Pelli,” Gredillon said, “where the Seers rule so strongly. From this mountain I have watched the Seers of Zandour grow stronger, after generations of weakness. Soon again they will be as strong as the Pelli an Seers. As cold and unbending. One day soon Seers may rule all the coastal countries.” She rose to slice cold meat for Tayba, and new bread, and watched the girl eat as if she had not seen food in days. “There is little love between the Zandourian Seers and the Pellian, but their ways are too much alike for comfort. The simple days on Ere are past, young woman. The days when there were no nations, but only roving tribes with the land between falling to one group then another, then belonging to no one as the volcanoes swept down.

“Even the days when Zandour ruled all the coast clear to Sangur was a simple time compared to what lies ahead. Though those rulers were strong indeed, with the cult they brought upon Ere.” She looked down at Ram. The baby was staring at her intently, as if the sound of her voice stirred him.

“Well, the volcanoes helped end that rule. But now the Seers grow stronger again and begin to band together. All but the Seer of Pelli. He does not band with anyone. He is close in spirit to the old Zandourian rulers—he would take the coast if he could, as Zandour once did. And those Seers who are of goodness will continue to be driven out or killed.” She took the babe from Tayba then. “But this child—mind my words, young woman. This baby will one day help to bring together those Seers who cling to the good. He will, if no evil defeats him, bring a force of great wonder back into Ere, a force that will aid all men of goodness.” She stared at Tayba coldly. “Who am I? I am no one. I am one who cares.” Then she said, as if reluctant to speak of it, “I am of Herebian blood and also of the blood of Seers; the blood of the wild, raiding Herebian tribes that would have raped and murdered everyone in Ere if they could have managed it—and the blood of the Cherban Seers, some of whom hold great good and some of whom lust after evil as surely as the Herebian ever did. Perhaps I feel, because of my mixed blood, a need to see a stop to the evils, a need to help against the darkness.”

Tayba finished her meal in silence and accepted the baby from Gredillon. Too many thoughts crowded her mind. She settled Ram beside her for sleep. This tiny newborn thing—how could Gredillon speak of his changing all of Ere? That was ridiculous. The woman was quite mad. He was only a baby.

But Ram grew into a handsome, sturdy boy, healthy as a young animal, and when he was of an age to learn, Gredillon taught him his letters. Then she taught him the ancient runes of the gods that few men of Ere could decipher. She taught him the myths of Zandour and Aybil and of the coastal countries, and of Carriol and the high desert tribes. She bade Tayba sit at the lessons, though she was an unwilling, fidgeting student who gazed off toward Zandour and thought unruly thoughts. Ramad listened well and was embarrassed by his mother’s inattention, and by the sense of her thoughts that he caught and did not understand.

In time, Gredillon taught young Ram the skills to roam out of his mind into the minds of others, the minds of men down in Zandour, simple men at first whose thoughts were easiest to enter. Ram didn’t like that much. He found the minds of men cruel and unhappy. And the Seeing was never constant, often it would not come at all as was the nature of the art, so that Ram might spend days reaching out in vain. A small boy’s patience, even a small Seer’s patience, has its limits. But Gredillon’s own patience never flagged. She nurtured Ram’s Seer’s skills and built on them. She made him know that his salvation, his very life, lay only in the talents he could master.

She taught him the herbs and the simple potions, too, and taught these to Tayba and made her pay attention. Tayba and her child learned to find and gather and dry the herbs of Scar Mountain, and to use them.

Then Gredillon taught them the sword. She drilled them in mock battles until both Tayba and Ram were near exhaustion; and this practice held Tayba’s attention, pleased her. Then at last Gredillon began to teach Ram the use of the wolf bell, though there was little need to teach him. The boy was drawn to the bell, and quickly he became skilled with it. There were no wolves on Scar Mountain in those days, but soon enough Ram could call down the foxes and jackals. The foxes came slipping close to rub against his legs and eat from his hand, coy and appealing, with pink-tongued smiles that made Ram laugh. But the jackals were sly and ugly. Big, rangy animals, gaunt and slit-eyed, that hung their heads and looked up at Ram menacingly. They frightened Tayba. She went tense while Ram held them with the bell’s power, and when he loosed them they fled and did not hang back to clown as the foxes would.

At these times Ram seemed not a child. Scarce six years of life he had, then seven, but always when he brought the wild animals down to him, the man Ram would one day be shone out, calm and sure. His small boy’s face was filled, then, with light, with a strong intensity that spoke of power—and drew only unease from Tayba. Once when the jackals had fled, she stared after their slinking shadows and said crossly, “Why do you want to call them? They—they make me so uneasy.”

“They are brother to the wolf, Mamen. One day I will call wolves.” He turned away from her to stare out over the mountain, and she pretended she did not see the hurt in his face, see his disappointment in her.

He looked back at last. “One day,” he said, unsmiling, “I think the wolves will save you.”

“How could wolves save me?” But at his words she hastily pushed something away that rose far back in her mind, a picture of wolves leaping, a wild unbidden thought that she did not want, that could not be. There was nothing in her, nothing, that could call forth a vision; she had not the blood for that.

“I don’t know how they will save you, Mamen. But it comes into my mind that one day they will. It is the same as the visions of the gods. I See, but I don’t understand—yet. One day I will understand.”

She looked at him, her hand shaking. “Does—does Gredillon know you have visions of gods?”

“She knows. I see the winged gods. . . .” His eyes were alight now, eager. “They only seem half-horse and half-man, they are nothing like either. They are so beautiful!” The exalted expression in Ram’s dark eyes made her catch her breath. She sat down beside him on the boulder and touched his red curling hair and shivered. She wished—but what good did it do to wish? He was as he was. She could not change that

“I see the gods in the old cities. In Opensa and Carriol and Owdneet,” he said with wonder. “I see how the cities were, the mountains carved with bowers and caves. And, Mamen, men dwelled there with the gods. Seers like me, Seers. . . .” He stared up at the sky. She watched him and knew, bitterly, that he belonged to this more than to her. To this wildness, to the Seeing of gods. He stared past her, puzzling. “The gods dwell in one path of air, and the Seers in another. But they dwell together. I do not fully understand—yet It is like the fish Marga in the sea and the bird Otran in the air. They speak to each other, but each lives in its own world. Only—it is the same world.” He frowned, trying to work it out, looked possessed by this. Why was it so important to him? She wished they had never come to Gredillon, never seen the wolf bell. That bell—and Gredillon’s teachings—led him into worlds she could not touch, made him dream precarious dreams. He would be better off without it, might even be a normal boy and forget he was born a Seer.

He put his arm around her waist, leaned close against her, was so tender suddenly and sweet. She loved the little boy smell of him, his smooth bright hair—but wished it were dark instead of red. She held him close, loving him and wishing to change him.

He took her face in his small hands, was so close his dark eyes were the whole world. “I would not be better off,” he said, reading her thoughts so easily. “I am eight years old, Mamen. If we had not come here, I would be. . . . Without Gredillon to show me, I would not know what is inside of me, or what to do about it.” His whole being had grown fiercely intense. “I do not ask you to change, Mamen. I do not ask you to keep yourself from the trips you make at night down the mountain when you—when you are unhappy. When you think I am sleeping and cannot know.”

Shame rose in her like a tide. She wanted to look away and could not, he held her with his knowing gaze. She saw in his eyes knowledge far beyond a child’s knowledge. “I. . . .” She swallowed and turned away then, and could deny nothing. Could not deny that in the night when her own inner turmoil, when her terrible need became unbearable, she would slip away to follow the dark path down the mountain and go into the drinking halls and go with men into the night. Men who warmed her and made her whole again so she could return quietly, at last, to the mountain.

Gredillon never spoke to her of this. Her disapproving looks the next morning were always quite enough. And now here was Ram confronting her so bluntly she wanted to scream at him.

He hugged her again. “It’s all right, Mamen, I. . .” but he did not finish, stopped abruptly to stare past her, down the mountain. She rose to look, but saw only sky and the empty rock, and Zandour lying like a toy city below.

But Ram saw something, looked cold suddenly, and white.

“What is it? Ram. . . ?”

“A rider is coming. He is maybe two days away. A man—a man riding out of Pelli. A man . ..” He searched her face. “He is a man you know well. A man with yellow hair.”

Her heart leaped. EnDwyl. EnDwyl was coming.

“He is—he is the man who is my sire.”

EnDwyl was coming for her. Coming to, take them away, to care for her. . . .

“No, Mamen. He does not come for you.” He went to stand by some boulders where the land fell abruptly. “He comes to the mountain for me.” He turned to face her. “To take me away to Pelli. He would take me by force to Pelli. The Seer of Pelli has sent him—the dark Seer.” There was growing fear in his eyes. He stood silent for some moments as if listening, then said hesitantly, “They—they would make a ruler of me. Whether or not I want it. I will have no choice in the matter, if EnDwyl finds me.”

“I wouldn’t let him take you. I—”

“What could you do? He is stronger. You—you have no power against this man.” His knuckles were white. “Don’t you understand! The Seers of Pelli are forced to rule, are twisted. Their minds are all twisted. . . .” He stepped so close to the steep drop she gasped, reached to pull him back. He scowled, turning from her. “They need—there is something about me they want. Something besides just that I am a Seer.” He looked puzzled, fearful. “I will not go. And you will not make me go. I will not be their slave so that you—so you can live in comfort, Mamen!”

She stared at him, turning sick at something in herself, at the sudden truth he had touched. “Get Gredillon,” she said coldly. “Go and get her! She is in the field above the garden.”

Gredillon made the plan, took Tayba’s silver and went down the mountain into Zandour, to return the next morning leading a pack pony that bore a small, closed burial coffin on its back, the dirt still clinging.

They carried the coffin up beyond the garden. Gredillon pried up the lid and applied ironroot dye to the hair of the corpse until it shone bright red. Then she closed the coffin and buried it and made a wooden marker. Ram said, “We must hide the pony. The Seer of Pelli saw this place, the house and the garden, has made EnDwyl see it. EnDwyl knows we had no pony when he left Pelli. He will wonder why we do now.”

“We will hide her,” Gredillon said, “inside the mountain, just as you will be hidden.” So they stored dry grasses deep in a cave that opened from inside the stone house, and when EnDwyl was halfway up Scar Mountain, Ram took the pony there, hid in darkness, and Saw in his mind the approach of the man who was his sire.

Tayba stood alone in the doorway watching EnDwyl come around the last turn of the path, his horse sweating from the climb. His cape was gray with the grime of travel, his boots wrinkled and misshapen from long wear. He reined in his mount. The dropping sun touched his pale hair, his ice blue eyes. He watched Tayba intently. His eyes on her upset her, she turned away and busied herself drawing water as she might for any traveler. When she handed the mug up, his look made her remember.

He did not speak, but drained the mug in one swallow. At last he said coldly, “You have a child of me.” His abruptness shocked and hurt her. “He is a Seer born. I have come for him.”

He was so sure of himself, sitting there on the fidgeting mount. “I had a child,” she said quietly. “He is dead. Ram is dead.” She saw his eyes, not believing her, and her temper rose. “And even if he were alive, he—he would not be your property! You deserted us both when I—when. . . .” She dissolved into tears, half with true emotion at her desertion and half with the artful deceit she had practiced, turned away from him weeping and stricken with emotions she could not really sort out.

“You lie! My child is not dead!” He dismounted in one motion and took her by the shoulder. “Dead how? Not my son!”

“He is dead.” Her voice faltered. “My baby—Ramad died on the mountain. He fell from the mountain.”

“You’re lying! The boy was not dead when I left Pelli, the Seer of Pelli saw him. My son was born a Seer. No Seer would fall from a mountain.”

His anger was of such power she could hardly hide her fear. “It is a long ride from Pelli. It is many days ride since any Seer saw Ram alive. Yes, EnDwyl, he would have been a Seer. But a Seer, too, can fall from the mountain.”

EnDwyl hobbled his horse with such haste the animal snorted and reared. He flung past her into the stone house and began to tear it apart in his search, scattering and breaking the frail bells, throwing the bedding on the floor, ripping open cupboards. He found Ram’s small clothes and cast these onto the table. “You keep the clothes of a dead boy?”

“It’s all I have of him! It’s all I have left of him!” She grabbed up Ram’s tunic and trousers and clutched them to her.

“Where is his grave, woman? Where is Ramad’s grave?”

It was then that Gredillon spoke from the doorway, the low sun behind her making her white hair a halo, hiding her face in shadow.

“Can’t you see what you’re doing to her! The girl hasn’t eaten, has been beside herself with grief. I’ve done my best with her, and now you come along and undo it, now she will grieve herself to sickness again.”

“The grave, old woman. Where is my son’s grave?”

“It’s there beyond the herb yard. Past those three outcroppings, by the zayn tree,” Gredillon said angrily.

When EnDwyl had gone Tayba clutched Gredillon’s shoulders. “Will he believe it? He could have heard in the town that you bought a coffin, a body—”

“He did not hear such.”

“But the earth is raw where we buried it, new turned and—”

“The earth is covered with wet leaves, the same as the garden.”

Tayba waited in terror for EnDwyl to return.

And in the dark cave, Ram clung to the pony, his fear of EnDwyl like a sickness as he felt the man’s relentless, evil searching. Clearly, he saw EnDwyl take up a garden spade and unearth the little coffin and open it to examine the wrapped, moldering body. Ram clung to the pony where the animal stood quiet in the unfamiliar dark, and each was comforted by the other. The pony nibbled at his tunic, responding to the child’s soft touch and quick whispers.

In those moments, standing frightened in the darkness, Ram knew his father deeply, and hated him. And he felt Tayba’s fear of the man, and felt her desire for him in spite of fear. And that vision gave the child little comfort

*

EnDwyl left the stone house uncertain in his mind that Ram was dead and unable to find proof that he lived. The cave was well-hidden, Ram and the mare silent in the darkness—though Ram had begun to think he would forget what light was like, would come forth blinded from being so long in darkness. The mare did not eat well of the grasses they had stored, and when Ram led her, blinking, out into the light of Gredillon’s stone room, both were weary from the dark. “He is gone,” Ram said, staring around like a small owl. “It was awful in there. I am hungry for a hot meal.”

Gredillon made a meal for him of tammi tea and boiled roots and a fried rock hare from the snares she set. Then she put Tayba to preparing packs for a journey. At Tayba’s fretful look, she said, “Young woman, there is no help for it. You and Ram must leave this place as quickly as you can. EnDwyl will reach Pelli soon enough, and there he will learn of our lie from the Seer who sent him. He will return at once, and very likely he will bring an apprentice Seer with him—to track Ram. This is not a game. This is Ram’s life in the balance. Don’t you realize what they want of him? They would make a slave of him, would have his soul and leave a thing twisted and cruel as themselves to rule with them—to rule after they are dead. Ram is the tool they need; Ram and the bell he commands. They want . . .” Gredillon paused in folding the blankets and stared absently around the room. “They would rule wolves again. In the old killing ways, when men were torn apart by wolves for transgressions against the masters, and women were. . . .” she glanced at Ram and went silent. They exchanged a long look, then Ram began to eat again, slowly; very pale.

Gredillon put her hand on Tayba’s shoulder. “Ram is not strong enough yet to battle the Pellian Seers. One day he will be. One day, if he works at mastering his skills, he will be stronger than HarThass and all his cold apprentices.”

“No one is stronger than the Pellian Seers,” Tayba said, taking up mountain meat to wrap.

Gredillon ignored her remark. “When Ram is finished eating, get that dye on his hair. Keep it away from his forehead or it will stain.” She was talking to Tayba as if she were a child. “Put the dye in the pack, you will need it. When you reach the river Owdneet, there will be sweet-burrow thickets. You must pick enough to make more. Now give me that pack, young woman, and I will saddle the mare.”

Gredillon balanced the weight of the packs so the pony would travel well. When Tayba and Ram came out, cloaked and ready, she stared at Ram, his hair as dark as Tayba’s. His tanned skin seemed darker, his eyes . . . his eyes looked more like his mother’s now, under the dark thatch. Huge, black as cinders. Before, they had caught golden lights from his tangle of red hair. A dark-haired stranger of a boy. She turned to Tayba, inspecting her critically. “Go to the pump, young woman, and scrub the dye from those hands again—use sand if you must. I’ll wager my kitchen table is a mess.”

Tayba returned at last with clean hands, red and sore from scrubbing. Gredillon said, “You must go quickly over Scar Mountain, quickly down onto the black plain, for you won’t be safe until you are in the city where your brother Theel dwells. And if Theel cannot protect you, you must then go on, up into the Ring of Fire.”

Tayba began to lose patience. What good would it do to go into the Ring of Fire?

“You must prepare yourselves to live on the mountain if need be,” Gredillon said, frowning at her. “Do not fool yourself into thinking that is not possible. It is quite possible. The caves of the old city are there. They may be blocked from easy entrance, and some surely are eaten away by fallen lava, but they are there and safe. And,” Gredillon straightened the bridle, then turned to hold Tayba’s gaze, “the wolves are there. The great wolves. Ram’s power will be greatest among them.” She tightened the girths, then moved to rub the mare’s ears for a moment. “If Theel cannot protect you, the wolves of the mountain will.”

Tayba stared back at her and knew that she was crazy. They could not live among wolves. She said nothing.

Gredillon placed the bell in Ram’s outstretched hands, then pulled the boy to her. Then she turned away toward the cottage to hide tears, and Ram and Tayba started up along Scar Mountain. Ram kept his face turned from Tayba for a long time before he blew his nose and looked ahead.

Quickly they lost sight of the house and garden plot. The way ahead was wild and lonely, and above the first peaks otero birds wheeled and screamed against the wind-driven sky.

TWO

The path was rough, blocked by jagged outcroppings, narrow and uncertain; they climbed northward up over the rim of Scar Mountain, and as night came the wind blew wild and cold as if icy hands pushed at their backs. Ram trudged on silently, leading the willing pony. Tayba shivered, chilled through, aching from the long climb. She missed Gredillon’s warm hearth. Near dark they found a shallow cave for shelter and built a little fire from brush and twigs, to half cook the rock hare Gredillon had tied to the pack. This would be their last fire for some time. For on the following evening they stood well down the mountain’s north slope staring out over the black plain, both afraid to build a fire that would be seen by someone—something—that might be watching unexpectedly from that desolate expanse. The wind bit through their clothes bitter cold, the blackened plain swept away alien and immense. Ram pushed on, saying little, but Tayba stared out at the gathering dusk over that empty plain and knew, suddenly and painfully, that they could not go there. They would die there. They must turn back in the morning, while still they could.

“We will go on,” Ram said, looking at her coldly. “And we will go on tonight for a little while. It looks—it looks more sheltered there, farther down.” He frowned and looked away, then forced the mare on, holding her head so she wouldn’t stumble among the shadowed rocks. Mamen puzzled him. Why was she so reluctant? He could feel nothing but her hesitancy, her fear. Below them on the plain, dark boulders rose twisting into nightmare shapes, seemed to grow larger as the light faded.

Tayba followed him reluctantly, thinking they had too little food to cross that immense expanse, thinking of a hundred excuses. What if the mare should break a leg? The plain was wrought with malevolence, she could sense it. Perhaps an evil had been laid upon it by the gods to protect the ruined city that lay ahead in the black mountains. Surely the gods would prevent them from crossing to that place.

Ram turned, scowling at her, then stopped abruptly, turned to stare behind them not toward Zandour, but in the direction of Pelli. Fear touched him, cold and hard. EnDwyl and an apprentice Seer had left Pelli this hour. “They are following us, Mamen. They ride big, rough horses that can cover many more miles than we can. The Seer knows my fear. He knows, Mamen, he makes in your mind the fear you feel. It is hard to—I cannot block him. He is too strong.” He took the mare’s bridle and pulled her on down the slope so fast she nearly fell, then turned to steady her. Behind him, Tayba stared back at the darkening mountain they had crossed and felt the vast emptiness and their utter aloneness here and tried to put down her fear and could not.

They kept on until it was too dark to see, then crouched behind a shallow outcropping, made a cold meal of mountain meat, and wrapped in their blankets. The mare grazed as best she could on the sparse grass. They slept little, and Ram tossed restlessly, feeling the Seer’s cold presence, trying to strengthen his own forces against the man’s power. They were awake at first light. Ram watched Tayba stare out toward the far mountains, nearly lost in low cloud, and felt her increased conviction that they could never reach those peaks.

“We can’t go on, Ram. We will . . . we will die out there. Would it be so bad to be a Pellian Seer?”

He flung the saddle on the mare irritably and secured the packs. “We won’t die. Come on. Walking will warm you. You’ll feel better when we’re moving.” He watched her share out the meager meal, ate quickly, then set out. She followed him sullenly. They came down onto the plain at last between monster-shaped black boulders. The wind swept at them like knives of ice. They tried to walk in the shelter of the mare, and she in turn pressed against them and kept wanting to turn tail to the wind.

They had gone well out onto the plain among the twisted boulders when Tayba began suddenly to feel comforted and to know that it would be safe to turn back. Something so warm enfolded her, something so familiar and welcome. EnDwyl would care for them. EnDwyl meant only to help Ram, surely they should wait for him. Eagerly she looked ahead to Ram and saw him turn, stare back at her in anger. Well, she thought, he didn’t understand. EnDwyl would make the Seers of Pelli help him. Ram could come into his full power only through those Seers, she realized. He would learn skills with them that Gredillon could never have taught him.

Ram stopped and turned, and his dark eyes were filled with cold fury. But he said nothing. When he turned away at last, he slapped the mare so hard she was forced into a wild trot. Tayba had to run to catch up. As she followed Ram, she began to weave dreams around EnDwyl. She remembered the caves of Scar Mountain and being in EnDwyl’s arms. She stood again before the stone hut greeting EnDwyl, and this time he held her and caressed her.

Ram swung around. His white face was that of a stranger, his fury terrible. “Stop it, Mamen! Go back if you like, if it’s what you want! But you will go alone!”

She stared at him, shocked. “Don’t talk to me like that!”

“I’ll talk to you any way I wish, when it’s my life you would sell. EnDwyl does not care for you!”

“You don’t understand, you’re only a child! You don’t understand anything!”

“Oh don’t I understand! EnDwyl never loved you! EnDwyl made a fool of you!” His dark hair was jerked by the wind, his cloak pulled away from him. He spoke as an adult, wiser and harder than Tayba. “EnDwyl left you once. You were young and beautiful then. Why should he want you now? Can’t you see. It’s the Seer making you think like this. EnDwyl can’t send thoughts. It’s the Seer. Don’t you know what they are doing to you—to me, Mamen. They would kill me.”

“Oh surely not. They—”

His scowl silenced her, a terrible, dark scowl filled with fury—born of fear. She swallowed, tasted bitterness in her throat, said nothing more. She followed him, chastened and uncomfortable and wanting only to be left alone with her own feelings; to be warmed by EnDwyl—to turn back to him.

When again EnDwyl’s voice began to whisper, she thought of Ram’s fear and tried to put his words away from her; but they warmed her until soon she was clutching at them eagerly, could think of nothing else. Ram plodded ahead of her hunched and miserable as EnDwyl and the Seer drew closer.

Night after night, when they would rest for a few hours, Tayba would toss with dreams of EnDwyl and wake wanting him, her need for him a sickness. She no longer saw Ram’s fear, she began to rejoice that the riders were drawing close, felt elation when the mare turned to stare back over her shoulder, sensing her own kind there behind them.

Ram spoke not at all. Or, when he did speak, anger shaped his words. “Don’t you know I am fighting with all the strength I have? Use your mind, Mamen! Use something to resist him. Haven’t you anything in you but—but the instincts of a creature in rut?”

“You daren’t say that to me! You . . .” She lowered her eyes before him. “They want . . . they want only to help you,” she breathed, hating Ram then.

“Help me? They would train me like an animal, that’s what they want of me. An animal taught to rule as they rule, with a lust that thinks nothing of the feelings of men. They want my soul, Mamen.”

She followed him without volition, simply because he was stronger.

For three days more Ram forced her on. He was pale, pinched with the effort he made against the Seer. He felt hard and unchildlike and wanted comforting. He longed for Tayba’s tenderness and warmth, but she did not give it. Even when they lay close at night, each was drawn tight and did not comfort the other.

Sometimes in a brief moment of clarity, Tayba was appalled at her feelings and knew then that the Seer did, indeed, lay a sickness on her. Then her shame would wrap her in a cocoon of loneliness so she could not reach out to Ram. She was not sure how long it was since they had left Gredillon, or even why they had left.

They were always cold and could not rid themselves of the blowing sand that had worked itself into every fiber of their clothes and blankets, into the food. The mare grew weaker and slower with the meager grass she received and only scant water from the sluggish springs. They might have been on that plain forever among the black rock and emptiness. Ram held the wolf bell often, taking strength from it, from the vague voices like puffs of wind that came to him when he said the words of the bell. There ahead in the mountain something stirred and eased him, lifted his spirits and gave him hope.

Tayba watched him, uneasy when he touched the bell. She felt sick, felt old, wanted only to turn back. They came at last one late morning around boulders to where they could see a line of trees ahead instead of writhing stone. At once their pace quickened, the mare nickered. They drew closer and the mare thrust her nose out eagerly, and they could hear the churning of water. They had reached the river Owdneet.

They came through trees to the river and looked beyond it and beyond the trees and could see the roofs of Burgdeeth. The dark riders were close behind them; the mare’s ears kept turning back as she measured the sounds of their approach. The river raced white and foaming over stones, but was shallow enough to ford. The mare sucked up water noisily. Ram sprawled to drink, and Tayba stared at the cold, fast rapids, then leaned against the pony until her dizziness passed, sick with exhaustion and with her own overwhelming emotions. She looked at Ram and was swept with remorse at her behavior.

Ram had even stopped shouting at her when she was drawn to EnDwyl, when she could not help the tide of heat and yearning that swept her. He had pushed on and on across the plain as if he and the mare were quite alone, as if Tayba no longer existed. Small and sturdy, plodding on in the bitter cold, his dark hair and his desperate determination making him seem a stranger.

She had thought once that she must dye his hair again, but then she had forgotten.

The mare lifted her dripping muzzle to gaze downriver. They heard a horse snort. Tayba grabbed at Ram, pulling him up. “Get on the mare. Get across the river, into the town.” She shoved at him, forcing him.

But he pulled away, spun to face her. “No, Mamen. I will go no farther.” He put his hand inside his tunic, drew out the wolf bell now; the cold sun caught at the bronze, so the bell flashed with light He held it up and gazed past her toward the dark mountains. “The wolves will come. They speak to me.”

“You can’t call wolves! Jackals, a fox maybe. That can’t help us! Not wolves, Ram. They won’t . . .”

He whispered the words of the bell precisely and slowly and did not hear her. Downriver the brush rattled, and the mare shifted to look, pricking her ears with eagerness. Tayba tried to pull Ram away, heard a hoof strike rock.

“Get on the mare, Ram!”

He turned then and suddenly was quite ready to mount. “They will come,” he said quietly. There was a look on his face she had never seen before. He was not a child now, but something ageless. He mounted the mare slowly. Brush rattled.

“Hurry!” She had nearly lost patience with him. The mare nickered as riders came crashing through brush. Then suddenly the noise stopped, the riders were still. Ram hit the mare hard, forcing her into the river. Tayba ran alongside splashing, clinging to the mare against the swift current as the freezing water surged around her legs. The riders came crashing through bushes again. Icy water foamed around her thighs and washed the mare’s belly so she balked; Tayba jerked and jerked at her. At last she went on again and soon they were in shallower water. The mare scrambled wild-eyed up the bank as Tayba clung; and the riders plunged into the river. Tayba tried desperately to see the town ahead, but now it was hidden; she could see only the plain rising above the trees, cloud shadows blowing fast across the empty land. She saw Ram stare up at the rising land, heard him draw in his breath sharply. Those were more than cloud shadows. They were running shadows: dark animals racing down across the cloud-swept plain. Dark wolves running. . . .

Wolves, flicking from sun to shade, huge wolves sweeping down toward them, now, through the woods. The mare reared as they leaped toward her, spun away, pulling the rope in a sharp burn through Tayba’s hands; Ram jumped from the saddle as the pony veered under him. “Let her go, Mamen! Let her go!” The terrified pony leaped wildly past the approaching riders and disappeared into the trees—and the wolves surged around Ram, their eyes like fire. Tayba stood backed against a boulder, could not speak for the terror that held her. Huge shaggy wolves pressed against her, tall as her waist, rank-smelling; and their yellow eyes looked at her with a knowing that shook her.

She saw Ram put out his hand to the dark wolf leader, saw the wolf come to him, saw Ram thrust his hands deep into the wolf’s coat in greeting, then lay his face against the animal’s broad head as its tongue lolled in a fierce smile—the smile of a killer; saw the riders trying to approach, fighting their panicky horses.

Ram plunged his face against the warmth of the great wolf, smelled his wild smell, and felt whole suddenly, as if a part of himself had returned. Then he lifted his head to face EnDwyl and the Seer, pulling the big wolf close as he did so.

He sensed their fear with pleasure, saw the Seer’s hesitancy and how the dark wolf watched the riders with lips drawn back. Ram’s own lips twitched into a smile. “Fawdref,” he said, caressing the wolf’s ears. “You are Fawdref.” Fawdref turned his head to nudge Ram and to nose at the wolf bell. Ram held the bell, and together he and Fawdref made a power that lifted and amazed him, a power that held the Pellian Seer immobile, unable to touch them with his darkness, his thin face ashen, his pale eyes bulging with the effort—but then suddenly a new power surged within the Seer: Ram could feel it like a tide, something sweeping out of Pelli to support the Seer—the man beat his terrified horse so it plunged toward Ram, his sword raised. Ram cried out, the wolves leaped; they were wild with killing now, wild for blood. Behind him Tayba stood frozen, her sword drawn. The Seer’s horse went down with wolves tearing at it; the Seer screamed, and his scream seemed to echo beyond this place. Ram felt cold fear as EnDwyl flayed his horse through the pack, his face twisted with hate. As the animal reared over Tayba, EnDwyl shouted, “You told me he was dead! You . . .” Wolves leaped snarling to pull his horse down. He leaped clear, his sword flashing, slashed at wolves, forcing himself toward Tayba. She ducked his blade, her own blade blazing out And the pack was on the horses and tearing at the flailing Seer. The smell of blood sickened Ram. EnDwyl swung around to loom over him then. Ram felt a sharp blow, went dizzy, saw Tayba’s sword plunge into EnDwyl; he clung to consciousness, saw EnDwyl lash out—then saw EnDwyl poised over Tayba with the point of his sword at her throat.

The wolves, crouched to leap, held motionless, waiting for Ram to bid them.

EnDwyl looked coldly at Ram. “If I die, your mother will die.” Blood oozed from his side. “If the wolves touch me, she dies.” His pale hair was ribboned with sweat. He shivered. Ram tried to get up, readied to touch Fawdref s shaggy neck, was so dizzy that Fawdref blurred. He gripped the bell and spoke quietly, and the great wolf growled deep in his throat, did not take his eyes from EnDwyl.

“She will die, boy.”

Ram saw the fear in Tayba’s eyes. He saw her swallow, saw the blood soaking her tunic. He looked at the fear in EnDwyl that was different from Tayba’s fear, at the evil in EnDwyl. He touched Fawdref’s shoulder and felt the massive bone, felt Fawdref’s impatience, felt the tenseness of the pack of wolves—then felt Fawdref’s sharp dismay as he bid the animals draw back.

“Let her live,” he said to EnDwyl, “but go quickly. I can’t hold them long. The Seer is dead and your horses are dead, and they want you now.”

EnDwyl stared at Ram with hatred, his sword steady against Tayba’s throat. “You may be my son, but I waste no love on you. If you send the wolves for me after she is freed, you will die. The Seer of Pelli knows you have killed his apprentice. If I die too, he will send an army to kill you. An army no wolf could stand against.”

Ram smiled scoffingly. But he knew with dark certainty that what EnDwyl said was true. He crouched there, dizzy, and could feel a fury rise to him out of Pelli colder and more brutal than anything he had ever encountered. “Go in safety,” he said, swallowing. There was a bitter taste in his throat. The ground spun, he saw blood. He must send the wolves away. He saw EnDwyl go, knew that he caught the exhausted pony up there in the woods. He bid the wolves away then, as the earth spun under him. . . .

When EnDwyl had gone, the dark wolf stood staring after him with cold eyes, then bent to lick Ram’s face. Finally he turned and left Ram, his pack slipping up the plain beside him as silent as the cloud shadows they melted into, silent as the black boulders that shielded them from the town. Fawdref looked back once in a wordless promise that touched Ram even as Ram’s mind swirled in blackness.

*

The four old women were walking slowly downriver filling reed baskets with dolba leaf and evrole and lemon-tongue. They talked incessantly; or, three of them did, gathering exceedingly slowly, gossiping about nothing until Dlos, who led them, thought she would go mad. You couldn’t hear your own thoughts with those three prattling. She drew ahead, finding clumps of herbs the others might miss and marking them with rags tied to bushes. She was quite alone when she saw the two bodies, one bleeding, saw the gutted horses beside the boulder.

She saw the red roots of the little boy’s hair in one quick glance and knew that if the child were alive now, he might not be alive for long with that hair. Quickly she turned back, distracting the three slow cronies, got them turned aside to a bed of cherba they had missed. “I will search for perrisax for soap,” she said shortly. “Return here when your baskets are full. Be sure you pick all the cherba—but leave the roots! Don’t pull up the roots!”

She watched the women amble away, then hurried up the path and knelt by the little child. He was so cold. There was an ugly bruise on his forehead, going purple, swollen and bloodied under the skin. She covered him with her shawl, pulled off her woolen underskirt, and dipped it into the cold river to make a compress. She chafed his hands, trying to bring the blood up, to stir him. He must be seven or eight. A sturdy child. The red hair showed plainly where the roots had grown out beneath the dye. She pulled the compress on his forehead up to cover his hair and bound it.

At last she turned to the girl, a dark, stirring beauty of a girl, the kind that would light men’s souls—or goad them to hate and killing. Dlos examined the ugly wound in her side and washed and dressed it with dolba leaf hastily ground between stones. She dug into the pack on one of the dead horses, found clean cloth, and made a bandage.

The cloth in the pack was man’s clothing, this was a man’s pack. She examined the other pack, thick with blood and half-hidden under the dead, twisted animal and saw that it too had belonged to a man. No woman’s clothes or child’s things here. She found dye in that pack though, dye made from sweetburrow paste, a small stone crock of it She glanced again at the child. There was no doubt the child was a Seer. Had this rider, then, tended the Seer child, kept his hair dyed, seen to him? And where was that rider? She removed the boy’s bandage, opened the crock, applied the dye quickly until the roots no longer showed, then dropped the crock into her tunic pocket where it would not be seen. She wiped the dye from his forehead, being careful of the swelling bruise. Now his hair seemed as dark as the girl’s. Was this young woman his sister? His mother? Where were the men whose packs and horses these were? Surely there had been two men. What had happened in this meadow? Dlos rose and began to search.

She found the man at once, lying mangled beside the horses, his body nearly hidden by torn hindquarters. She looked more closely and saw the red roots along his hairline. His tunic and the amulet he wore were those of an apprentice Seer of Pelli. There were coarse animal hairs caught in his belt. She found the tracks of the great wolves among the gore and glanced toward the path. The cursed women would be coming.

Quickly she stripped the Seer’s tunic and amulet from his body and buried them in leaves, then applied the dye to his hair. That finished, she began to search downriver for the second man but found only the hoofprints of a third and smaller horse going away at a gallop, the marks very deep as if the animal carried a heavy weight.

She returned to the girl and child and the mangled body, to find the three women staring as uncertainly as she had expected. She put them to work stripping the dead horses of packs and saddles, of bridles. No sense leaving good leather for wolves to chew.

When she knelt to lift the child, she felt a hard lump beneath him. It was a bronze bell; she shielded it instinctively from the three women until she could look at it more closely. The rearing bitch-wolf made her stare and shiver. Suddenly and wildly the old fables from Pelli and Zandour filled her head, making her catch her breath.

What was this child, to carry such magic? Or had the older Seer carried it and the boy simply fallen where it lay? But, she thought puzzling, the wolves had attacked only the two men. They had not touched the girl or the child. That was a sword wound in the girl’s side, not the jagged tear a wolf makes.

Surely the wolves had moved to the call of this bell. Why had a Seer of Pelli been traveling here with such a boy? And why did the Seer lie dead? She knelt there staring at the boy in her arms. What sort of child was this that she held so close to her? And what havoc would he create if she brought him to Burgdeeth?

Dlos touched the child’s soft cheek, shadowed by dark lashes, looked at the bloody, swollen bruise on his forehead. She raised her eyes and summoned the other women. She would need help.

*

Ram felt himself carried, saw bare branches swing close above his face; then suddenly he fell away from the light sky into darkness again and was dropping down and down. There were voices fading. Once lightness blazed, and he saw his mother’s face close to him, rocking; the falling came again, tumbling him. He was so dizzy. He fell deep down beneath the earth into a cave so black. A man lay there. He lifted his head and whispered, and his face was thin and pale. The walls of the cave were painted with pictures of wolves leaping and snarling, bloodthirsty wolves that made Ram cry out in fear. He whispered, “Fawdref!” And didn’t know what he said, or why. The man held up his hands, and they had turned to white bone. He shouted, “Bastard! A bastard born. . . .” And he was a skeleton, white bone lying in rags. His skull gleamed. The wolves on the cave walls waited.

Ram felt hands lift him, felt himself covered, relaxed into warmth. But something pulled and lifted him away from the hands, lifted his very soul and plunged it back into the blackness so he was torn away, his mind torn from his body.

He was in the cave again, and a man in silver sat high on a dais looking down at him and laughing. The painted wolves crouched, slavering. Ram pushed past them into the very stone with all his strength, searching for the real wolf’s body, saw Fawdref leap snarling at the painted wolves as they came off the walls to slash and tear. Ram cried out, saw light come. The wolves all disappeared.

There was a plain stone wall beside him, low rafters overhead, the smell of mawzee grain. He could see the arch of a door. He came awake at last and clear in his mind and felt himself laid down and the cover drawn up over him. He stared up at a face, a wrinkled old woman.

Then the man in silver pulled at him insistently. Ram cried out, felt hands soothe him, heard a voice trying to reach him. He saw a child’s face close to him and wanted to touch her, then fell away and all was terror, the painted wolves leaping again and the man in silver striking out at him so he clung to Fawdref. He saw blood on the wolf and was dizzy, so dizzy. . . .

THREE

Tayba woke. She ached, every bone ached. She was in a dim room cluttered with objects she could only slowly make out. Kegs and tools, a loom. Cobwebs hung thick from the low rafters. The room smelled of dust and of grain. The one small window showed dull gray sky, whether of morning or evening she could not tell. Her mouth tasted stale. She tried to sit up and gasped at the pain, remembered EnDwyl’s sword ripping her side, blood flowing; she touched her side carefully and felt bandages. Then she remembered EnDwyl standing over her, his sword at her throat, and Ram—where was Ram? EnDwyl had hit him, had. . . . Swept with panic, she pulled herself up so pain tore through her side and stared around the room. She could not see Ram, could see nothing but the jumble of kegs and tools.

Had EnDwyl taken Ram? Had EnDwyl escaped the wolves with Ram held captive? Her thoughts were dizzy and confused. She pulled herself out of the cot, leaned against the stone wall until the pain became bearable.

She was naked, her garment not in sight. She shivered in spite of the warmth of the room and pulled the blanket around her, staring dumbly at the clutter and at the iron stove in the far corner with its low blaze. Her cot was rough-split timbers, a root bin with straw hastily stuffed in to make a bed. Her blanket was thick and soft, though, and well-made. She recalled Ram again, shook her head to drive out the fuzziness, and began to search the room for him.

He was lying in a little boxlike bed wedged next to the mawzee thresher, a bed so like a child’s coffin she gasped. She knelt beside him, her stomach heaving with pain, and could feel oozing as if blood flowed from her wound. The swollen purple lump on his forehead made her feel sick. He was so pale, so very still. She laid her face against his chest and, finally, could feel the faint, welcome beating.

When she stood up she saw a square little woman poised in the doorway watching her. Tayba started to speak, then found she was unaccountably lying on the floor, the woman trying to lift her.

When she was back in bed at last, the woman held a mug for her. Tayba studied the leathery face bent over her, then drank. The taste was bitter, the liquid dark and hot. She thought she remembered that she had been given some before. By a child, perhaps? There was no one else in the room. Her pain began to subside almost at once. She felt sleepy, deliriously floating.

Morning sounds brought her awake again, the clank of buckets, a stove being stoked. Her head ached, her side was sore. She thought longingly of a tub of hot water. The little window was bright with sun now, and she could hear milk cows and the screams of chidrack fowl, the creak of wagons. A man’s voice spoke beside the window, a shadow crossed it, then some steady pounding began and she could hear the harsh shouts of men giving orders.

She must have dozed, woke feeling dizzy as if she were falling, had to pull herself fully awake with a great effort, terrified suddenly of falling into sleep again. It was quite dark, though a few faint stars showed through the little window.

What had awakened her? She lay there confused and fearful, wondering if Ram had cried out for her. She slept and woke again and was being bathed, the square old woman leaning over her. The soap was perrisax, smelled spicy. She lay enjoying the warmth and luxury of the soapy cloth washing her body, felt the bandage removed, and opened her eyes to watch the woman binding fresh cloth around her, nudging her to move now and then. She did not want to look at the wound, the thought of it made her weak.

Later she woke in darkness not knowing where she was and the pain so bad she moaned, lurched against the stone wall so she scraped her arm and then swore. She saw a candle lit, was given a draught by someone small, little hands, a child’s hands holding the mug and candle. She slept.

Then she woke at last to a morning when her senses were sharp and aware and lay watching the sun slant bright through the cobwebs that hung from the rafters. This room with its clutter of tools and furniture was entirely comforting.

The square, small woman was sitting by the window holding Ram in her lap, feeding him spoonful by spoonful as if he were a baby. Tayba rose, the ache in her side making her wince. She pulled the blanket around herself, supported herself against a barrel, then the thresher as she made her way across the room. The pain seemed to have been with her forever. She sat down on the bench close to the woman. What a wrinkled, leathery face she had; yet her mouth and eyes showed the lines of wry humor. The woman lifted Ram into Tayba’s lap, and handed her the bowl so she could feed him. But she could only sit holding his chin and staring into his dull, expressionless eyes. Was he even aware of her? He looked like a stranger; and she had forgotten his hair was black. The swollen wound on his forehead sickened her unbearably; so tender a place to be injured. She cradled him close, nearly weeping in her distress for him.

“He is better than he was,” the woman said. “It’s been all I could do to get some food down him, some herb tea.” Her hands were square and as wrinkled as her face. She wore shapeless coarsespun, a tunic over a long skirt, both dull brown in color and smelling of lanolin from the sheep.

“I am Dlos. I serve the master, Venniver, as we all do in Burgdeeth. My room is there, off this storeroom. We are behind the sculler of the Hall.”

“How did Ram and I come here? I can only remember being by the river, lying there—how long have I been in this room, how long has Ram been so hurt and sick?” She stared with growing fear at Ram’s closed, mindless expression. “Did anyone come with us? A man? Anyone . . . ?”

“I brought you here five days ago, me and three old women. There was a man with you.” Dlos studied Tayba carefully, reading her fear. “A dead man.”

“Was he . . .” Tayba’s voice caught. “Dead? Oh—was he tall and fair? Pale hair? He—”

“He was old and swarthy. Thin-faced like a rat. A Seer. An apprentice Seer of Pelli lay dead there wearing his Seer’s robes and amulet and torn to shreds by wolves. Their tracks were there—wolves that did not touch you two. I stripped him, disguised him, and buried his belongings. We do not need the trouble that a dead Seer would cause.”

Tayba’s head spun. “Disguised him?” She saw shadows on the plain and the great wolves leaping and tearing at the horses, at EnDwyl and the Seer, wolves pinning her against the boulder so she stood frozen in fear. She touched Ram’s forehead with shaking fingers and raised her eyes to Dlos. “How could you disguise a Seer, his hair. . . .” Then her eyes widened, her fingers flew to Ram’s hair, parted it, searching.

Ram’s hair had wanted dying, she had meant to dye it. Now there was no red. She stared at Dlos, her lips parted in fear.

‘The Seer carried a crock of dye. I used it on him to avoid questions about who he might be. And I used it on the boy, before the old women saw him.”

“You dyed Ram’s hair? But you—why would you disguise him?” she whispered. “We are nothing to you.”

“I have my reasons for doing what I do.” The old woman straightened the blanket around Ram’s feet. “The other man, the fair one you spoke of—perhaps he rode back downriver. I found the tracks of a third and smaller horse, carrying a heavy load and trailing blood. Was that your horse, the small one?”

“Yes, our pack pony.” She held Ram tight to her, trying to think. “EnDwyl will return. He will follow us,” she breathed suddenly. “He will come—”

“The two men were pursuing you?” Dlos asked, puzzling. “And you and this child sought sanctuary here, where Seers are so hated? But didn’t you know . . . ?”

“I meant to keep Ram’s hair dyed. My brother—my brother Theel is here.” She looked at the older woman. “You know about us. You know what Ram is. Have you told the leader Venniver?”

“Why would I dye the boy’s hair, if I meant to tell his secret?”

“But if—if Venniver finds out, what will he . . . what will he do to Ram?”

“If the boy is found out, he will be enslaved to work the stone.” The old woman pushed back her untidy hair and glanced out the window. “Mark you, I will tell no one. I have my own reasons for keeping that promise. Now, just why were you running from a Pellian Seer and from this EnDwyl you speak of?”

“They wanted to—train Ram.”

Dlos’s hand came up from her lap as if of its own accord, to touch Ram’s cheek. She said nothing. Then at last she raised her questioning eyes to Tayba. “So Theel is your brother. Does he know you have a child? A Seeing child? Does Theel know there is Seer’s blood as his family’s legacy?” She smiled crookedly. “He has never acted as if he knew such a thing.”

“No one—there is no Seer’s blood in my father’s house,” she said quickly. “That’s not possible. We would have known, my sisters and I. A Seeing child. . . .” Why was her pulse pounding so? “A Seeing child would have brought a fortune. No! It’s his father’s blood. EnDwyl’s. I have always known that.

“But my brother Theel—I have not seen him for eleven years; he can’t know I have a child. How could he?”

“Yes. Perhaps. And do you and Theel have the same mother?”

“No, but—there is no Seer’s blood in our family. None!”

“I didn’t mean to anger you, young woman,” Dlos said quietly. “So strange,” she mused. ‘To have many wives in a household. I come from the Isles of Sangur where a man weds only one woman.”

“What—what made you come here, to this place?” Tayba tried to calm herself, sat clutching Ram too tightly.

“I came with my husband. He followed Venniver and a wild dream into this land.” The old woman paused to look out at the morning. “Then he died some years back.”

Tayba looked hard at her, and impulsively put her hand over the square brown one. She could smell meat boiling from the doorway that must lead to the sculler and hear the voices of old women there. Suddenly Dlos shook herself as if she had come to some decision, and she looked over toward the far corner of the storeroom. Tayba followed her gaze and saw, crouched in the shadows, a thin little girl hardly visible among the clutter of tools.

“That is Skeelie.” Dlos beckoned, and the child rose and came to her, pressing against her. “Skeelie goes quietly and becomes a part of the stone and the rubble, and that is the way we want it.” She hugged the child close. “If Venniver forgets about her, forgets he sent her to me, then all is well with us.”

Skeelie looked at Tayba without much expression, then turned her gaze on Ram. And at once her face softened, changed utterly. Tayba offered Ram, and Skeelie sat down beside her and took him in her lap. He was nearly as big as she, but she held him as if she were quite used to the shape of him in her arms.

“Skeelie has nursed him, too,” Dlos said. Skeelie cuddled Ram close, and when she looked up at last, her eyes were full of such pleasure—and full, too, of a strange, unsettling knowledge. When she spoke, Tayba was shocked at the intensity of her reedy voice. “He sees something.” Skeelie touched Ram’s bruised forehead and wiped a smudge of gruel from his mouth. “He sees something that came here with you. He sees a darkness.”

Some time later she whispered, as if she could not put it aside, “He sees an evil. There is an evil come here with you.”

In the days that followed, the child Skeelie became as necessary to Tayba as Dlos was. The wiry little girl moved quickly and silently to care for Ram, who still had uttered no word since he woke, and to care for Tayba, bringing food, bringing hot water in jugs to fill a bathing tub, then lugging out the dirty water, finding clean cloth for Tayba’s bandages and laving on the salve Dlos provided. Tayba’s wound was painful and slow healing. And Ram remained in that somnolent state between sleeping and waking that tore at Tayba. Sometimes she did not know whether he would live or die. She wanted to pull life from the world around her and force it into him. Only Skeelie seemed to understand the thing that possessed him. The child was sure and strong with him, seemed to know his needs despite the boy’s silence. Tayba woke one morning to see her standing by the window with Ram seated on the sill and heard Ram speak for the first time. His voice was small and still, cold as winter.

“There is something here with us. Something—can’t you feel it, Skeelie?”

“What kind of something?”

“Something dark that wants to speak inside me, to be inside me. I don’t want it there! I don’t want it!”

Tayba rose and came to stand beside them, to stare mutely at Ram. She wanted to hold him, but Ram did not reach for her. He clung to Skeelie. She turned away at last, feeling useless and afraid.

Gredillon had taught her nothing to deal with such as this. Was it only the blow on the head that made Ram like this? Or had the power of the bell turned on him? Had the wolves loosed some evil against him because he had called them? Some revenge that Ram did not understand and had no power against?

She had looked for the wolf bell among their washed and mended clothes. Their swords were there, the scabbards, a small knife Ram had always carried. The bell was not. The old woman had not found it.

Well, she was glad, she didn’t want it found. Unless—had EnDwyl taken the wolf bell while Ram lay unconscious? She could not remember, shook her head in confusion; could remember the blood and the great shaggy wolves all around her, but could not bring the rest of the scene clear in her mind.

And even if EnDwyl had the bell, he could command nothing of it. Or so Gredillon had believed.

She turned back to the window to stare uncertainly out at the mountains. Somewhere up among those peaks did the wolves wait, against their wills, for Ram to call them? They had terrified her. They had looked at Ram as if. . . . She shuddered. They might have saved Ram once, but surely they rebelled at being controlled by a human power. Wouldn’t they yearn to destroy that power, to free themselves from it? Surely the jackals of Scar Mountain had rebelled as Ram held them. She stared hard at the mountain. The bell is gone! She thought angrily. Ram can’t use it against you! Leave him alone! If you have laid a curse on him, leave him alone! He can’t touch you now!

The rising sun caught the edges of the low eastern hills, then the mountain. She knelt, pressing her forehead against the windowsill. Maybe the gods would hear her prayer, even if the wolves didn’t.

Then she rose and turned away from Skeelie, feeling embarrassed. But Skeelie put her hand out and drew her back to the window. “The slaves are coming,” she said softly. “The women will stop here to work the gardens.”

The line of slaves was marching single file, flanked by guards. The five young women were all handsome in spite of the rags they wore. They went bare-legged in the bitter cold. A guard separated them from the men, handed out hoes, and they began to weed the gardens that lay in a row behind the Hall. The men were marched away. Skeelie hung out the window, watching. “The tall one, the one with the knotted hair,” she said, “he is my brother Jerthon.” Tayba saw the tall young man clearly for a moment before the line turned the corner at the upper end of the Hall. His long red hair was knotted at his neck, his profile like Skeelie’s, clean and perfect. He walked too proudly, as if he did the guards a favor to obey them. There was a look of cold defiance about him, of anger—and of fine-drawn patience tautly held.

So Venniver kept Seers as slaves. There had been several red-headed men in the line, and one of the girls had red hair. A woman Seer, Tayba thought amazed. And how many more were Seers, without the red hair to give it away? And how, she wondered, did her brother Theel feel about keeping slaves? Well, she supposed it was all right with Theel as long as they were Seers. He had always rankled at being ruled by the Zandourian Seers, though they weren’t nearly as strong, or as cruel, as the Seers of Pelli—simply sated in the luxuries the Zandourian people provided in ritual offerings.

When would Theel acknowledge that she was in Burgdeeth? When would he come to her or summon her? Dlos had told him, she knew. Everyone in town must know there were strangers here, carried in nearly dead. Would Theel welcome them? He was a stern, unloving man; he had grown up and left home while she was still a child. And what would the leader Venniver have to say? Well, she thought, that would be up to Theel, Theel was his lieutenant; surely he would speak for her.

It took some days for Theel to acknowledge her. She grew nervous and irritable, waiting, would look up tensely when anyone entered the storeroom, convinced herself at last that he did not want her there. She had decided to find out, to seek Theel out herself—she had not been out of the storeroom into the Hall or the town yet—when at last Dlos came to say that Theel had summoned her. She stood staring at Dlos, feeling suddenly terrified. Would Theel turn them out? All at once she was very afraid that he would—and afraid of Theel himself.

She followed Dlos through the sculler then along the back corridors of the Hall, catching her first glimpse of kitchen, then dining hall, where some old women were laying the tables amidst loud clanging of cutlery. The dining hall smelled of ale. There seemed to be none but old women in this place—except for the young slave girls. They turned right into the bedroom wing. Where doors stood ajar, she could see small bare rooms. Dlos left her at Theel’s door as if she did not care to enter.

Theel’s room was sparsely furnished. Bare stone floors, bare stone walls. A narrow bed, a rough chest A sectbow hanging by the door. So chill she shivered.

Theel was even thinner than she remembered. A sour, unsmiling man, his face lined with bitterness where before it had been only cold and without laughter. He did not touch her, made no motion of warmth toward her. He sat on the chest and let her stand, waited for her to speak. When she could not find her voice, he said irritably, “Why did you come here?” He looked at her with distaste. “I heard once from a trader that my youngest sister was pregnant in sin and made worthless to our father. I suppose that is the child you brought with you, the bastard fruit of your dallying.”

“I brought my child. His name is Ramad.”

“I heard the child’s father took himself off and left you on your own. I’ll not ask how you have lived for nine years. I do not want to know. Why do you come to Burgdeeth?” he repeated.

She stared at him, her fury mounting.

“Answer me, girl! Why did you come to Burgdeeth? One does not cross that plain for the pleasure of the ride!”

“I am here because I want a new land,” she lied. “Because I was tired of the rule of Seers, of living under Seers! And I left our father before that because I was tired of being groomed like a prize ewe to increase his hoards of gold!” Theel’s eyes narrowed, studying her. She looked directly back at him. A lie mixed with truth, Gredillon had taught her, was the lie that would best be believed. “I wanted to bring my child to a place of freedom where he would not live under Seers! I want to be a part of something new, of a new land. I will be no bother to you. I will not even claim to know you if you like.”

“That is not necessary, or possible. However, you must make your own way here. No woman has ever come to Burgdeeth without a man.” He smiled dryly. “There are no unattached women here—except the slave women. And Venniver takes those as it pleases him. The guards—the guards get lonely sometimes.” He looked her up and down appraisingly. “I’m sure the guards will find you more palatable than slaves, my sister—if only because you are cleaner.”

She stared at Theel with fury and wondered why she had ever thought he would help her.

“There is only one set of rules in Burgdeeth. Venniver’s rules. If you are to stay here, you will mark those rules well.”

“I will mark them well,” she said stiffly, her whole being rebelling.

Her meeting with Theel left her distraught and unnerved. She guessed she had counted on his support more than she realized. Well, maybe Theel would change his superior attitude. All by Venniver’s rules, was it? And as for the guards, if they thought she was fair game, they had better think again. She wasn’t wasting her time on guards.

She did not go back to the storeroom, but went boldly out the front door of the Hall into the street and, holding her head high in spite of her bloodstained, mended tunic, walked the length of it, past guards, past slaves working at a stone wall. She surveyed the half-finished buildings coolly, as if no one at all turned to stare at her. There was not another woman in sight. It was strange that so many buildings were incomplete, their roofs still open to the sky, so few occupied by craftsmen and their families. She saw no children. She walked to the end of the cobbled street, to the open place that Dlos had said would one day be the town square. Now it was only a morass of mud and piles of timbers and stone. The long earthen mound behind it seemed to mark the end of Burgdeeth, for beyond that the plain began, broken only by the grove of trees to the left of the mound, where she could see a guard tower rising. She knew there was a pit on the other side of the mound where a bronze statue was being cast by slaves—by Skeelie’s brother Jerthon, Skeelie had told her with pride. A bronze statue that would be as tall as six men would stand one day in the center of the square. Venniver didn’t do things by half. She wanted suddenly to see it, but too many guards were watching her. She could not bring herself to walk that long way around the mound in the mud to where slaves were working and perhaps risk the guards’ challenge. She turned instead back toward the Hall.

As she turned, she saw Venniver himself come out of a side street with half a dozen guards and start in her direction. She felt exposed; her jaunty assurance left her, and she hurried along to an alley that joined the square and up between the buildings. She thought that Venniver watched her. He was a big man, who dwarfed the guards. Wide of shoulder, with curling black hair and beard and a strange litheness of step. His image burned in her mind long after she turned away. She thought of Theel’s arrogance, and smiled. Maybe she would show Theel a thing or two about how to gain acceptance in Burgdeeth.

She found her way back to the storeroom and went directly through to Dlos’s room, where she borrowed a small mirror from the old woman, and some perrisax soap. She studied Dlos appraisingly. “Dlos, I can’t wear this tunic, it—the bloodstains wouldn’t come out. It’s so patched from the sword tear, it . . . Do you have something that I could make into a dress?”

Dlos surveyed her in silence. At last she said, “I suppose I do. What sort of thing? Coarsespun, I imagine. Very plain. You’ll be working in the sculler, maybe serving in the Hall.” She opened a chest at the foot of her bed, removed several worn garments, and lifted out a faded coarsespun dress. “If you take this in a little, I think. . .

Tayba held it up. It was very ordinary, not at all what she had in mind. “This—this will be. . . .” She lifted her eyes to Dlos, waiting.

Dlos sighed. “All right. All right.” She rooted again and handed out a length of amber wool as soft as down. Tayba unfolded it and it ran like water through her hands.

She hugged Dlos quickly and fled before Dlos could change her mind.

Dlos bent to close the chest grumbling at Tayba’s departing figure, “You had best be careful, my girl.” But Tayba did not hear, nor would have heeded, her.

She found the scissors Skeelie kept in the storeroom and began to measure and lay out the fine wool. And late that night she sat peacefully sewing, as she watched Ram’s quiet sleep. He had grown much better. She rose several times to touch his cheek and cover Skeelie, who slept flung out every which way across her cot.

Much later she heard the wolves howl on the mountain. Ram stirred and muttered, rolled to face the window and reach out. She wanted to pull his hand back, tuck it under the covers out of harm’s way. But instead she drew the shutters closed, shivering. The wolves were not good for Ram. Why did he yearn for them so, even in sleep? She wished he had never heard of the wolf bell. Recalling the slinking jackals on Scar Mountain, Tayba saw their faces superimposed over the wolves’ faces and felt fear for Ram. Gredillon had been wrong—very wrong—to train him to the use of the bell and its dark powers. She was glad the bell was lost.

“You’d think,” she said to Skeelie the next day as they peeled vegetables in the sculler, “you’d think that Venniver—that he would just let us know we can stay. . . .”

“Why should he?” Skeelie countered, dumping peelings into a bucket for the chidrack. “The longer he waits, the more—you will be afraid of him and obedient to him when he does decide to speak to you.”

She stared at Skeelie.

“Oh, he’ll let you know, you needn’t worry. In his own good time.”

“How do you—how do you know what he’ll do?”

Skeelie looked at her oddly. The thin child was strung tight with intensity. “I know—because I hate him. My brother is Venniver’s slave. My people. . . . Ever since I was four, I’ve watched Jerthon slave for him, seen Jerthon beaten, felt Jerthon’s hate for him. I know Venniver very well.” Skeelie looked older than her twelve years; spoke with a hatred that was mature and cold. It made Tayba hesitate in what she planned—and yet, the slaves’ problems were not her problems.

And the slaves were strong, healthy people. Were Seers. Couldn’t they have found some way, in all these years, to escape Venniver if they had really tried? She looked at Skeelie and saw her face go closed suddenly, her eyes expressionless.

“How—how is it that he lets you go free, Skeelie?”

“I keep out of his way. He—he doesn’t see much of me.” She was peeling the roots so violently, Tayba was afraid she would cut herself. “When Venniver captured us, Dlos told him I was too little to be locked in the slave cell all day with no one to take care of me.”

“And he listened to her? But I would have thought—”

“He listened because once she saved his life. He—he had gone up into the mountains. He didn’t return. Dlos—knew where to look. She led three guards there. They found—found him trapped where a boulder had rolled across a cave. It took all three men to move it”

“But how did she . . .”

“No one . . . she said she had been up the plain picking herbs and heard the rumbling, that she—she thought she knew where it was. The guards said—I heard them talking once—that it must have been an earthquake. And that there were wolf tracks around the boulder—as if the wolves had come down tracking him. . . .”

Three old women bustled into the sculler with baskets of tervil and roots. Tayba and Skeelie stilled their talk, became absorbed in their vegetables.

Old Poncie pushed back her sparse white hair and glared at Skeelie, handed out a pail in her thin clawlike hand. “Here, child, take this pail and get us some water! Oh my, you’ve used this other bucket for scraps! Can’t you . . .”

Skeelie grinned at Tayba and went out swinging the two buckets. Tayba looked through the open window and saw Ram run to join her as if he’d been waiting. He looked fine and healthy now, as if he had never been sick. Behind her the old women began to whisper; she heard her name, could feel them looking at her, caught words that angered her. Well, she’d rather work at serving table in the dining hall than with this whispering handful of biddies.

*

They were at supper in the storeroom, Ram and Skeelie and Tayba, when Venniver came to look them over like some kind of new livestock. Ram knew he was coming and bristled, stopped eating and felt almost sick, the food nauseating him. Skeelie disappeared at once behind some barrels. Ram sat stiff and apprehensive as Venniver pushed open the outside door to stand silent, blocking out the moons, a dark blotch. They could not see his face, and when he did not move or speak, Tayba began to fidget. Ram wished she would hold still; her nervousness both annoyed and amused Venniver.

Still, the sense of him was so powerful Ram could understand her feelings. She could not continue to eat casually under the man’s steady, hidden gaze. She received the sense of him very surely, and Ram wondered, not for the first time, why she could not bear to accept, even in her private thoughts, that she had Seer’s skill. She hid from the idea utterly, turned from it in terror, and he could not understand that in her.

When Venniver stepped into the room at last, so the candlelight touched his face, Ram saw Tayba’s surprise. The man’s cold blue eyes and curling black hair and beard seemed strange against the clear, pink-cheeked complexion, rosy as a girl’s. He seemed too big for the room. Ram felt Tayba’s thoughts careening like a shrew in a cage, awed by him and frightened—yet drawn to him. She began to fiddle with her plate, and Venniver looked at her coolly, gave a snort of disgust that dismissed her entirely, and turned his attention to Ram.

He stared at Ram piercingly. He was a frightening man. Ram looked back at him steadily, unflinching, with a calmness that took a good deal of concentration.

“Ram—Ram has not been well,” Tayba said nervously. Ram wished she would keep still. “He is strong, he will be a strong worker. He was sick because he fell, you can see the lump, but he. . . .” Ram stared at her, trying to make her be still. “We—we came to Burgdeeth,” she said more calmly, “to be away from Seers. Perhaps Theel told you that. I—I am a good worker. We both are.” She looked back at him steadily now.

“What can the boy do?” Venniver said mockingly.

“He—he can learn to lay stone. He will grow to be a man well-trained to the work of the town.”

Venniver snorted.

Tayba looked down, keeping her hands still with great effort; when she looked up, she quailed anew before Venniver’s piercing gaze. “We have nowhere else to go,” she said softly. “We—we are at your mercy here.”

Ram was sickened at her submissiveness. She had nearly dissolved before Venniver.

When Venniver turned to leave, he looked back at her unexpectedly and spoke much as Theel had spoken.

“You may stay here if you work as you are directed. We have no food for idlers or for women and children who do not know their places. That means that you will keep our sanctions, both of you. There will be no favors because your brother is my lieutenant. You will hate the evils of Ynell, you will hate the Children of Ynell as I hate them. You will, if you value your life, young woman—and his life,” he added, jabbing a careless thumb toward Ram. “If I am displeased with you, I will send you to die on the plain. I have no qualms about doing so.” His look chilled Ram utterly. In one motion, then, he was gone into the night. The moons shone coldly through the empty doorway.

They stared after him in silence. “He means,” Ram said at last, “that you must hate the Seers, Mamen. That is what the Children of Ynell are. That is what I am.”

“Yes.” She drew him to her, and he let her hold him. He could feel her discomfort at the man’s cruel coldness. When she parted his hair to be sure the roots had not shown before Venniver, Ram turned his head away. And he stared up toward the mountain with a terrible need suddenly, a longing to go there, to be among the silent, pure strength of the wolves and away from the emotions that flooded and twisted around him like shouting voices.

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.

Part Two: The Wolves

FIVE

Ram and Skeelie groped through black clefts deep inside the mountain. “We are going clear through it,” Ram said. “We will come out into caves like an underground world. Fawdref is there.”

“Couldn’t the wolves have come and led us?”

“They lead us. It is all that is needed. The power gets . . . it grows stronger as we get closer.”

They moved through passages in the stone so narrow they must walk sideways, and when they came at last to light again, they shouted with surprise and pleasure at the sudden golden rays of the dropping sun and stood grinning at each other. Such an urgent thing, the need for light, when one has moved in darkness.

They were in a part of the mountains now where no men had been for generations—not since Seers dwelled there among the gods. Skeelie sat down on a ledge and stared out at the hundreds of peaks that rose beyond, considering the desolation and the strangeness of that wild land. Ram stood looking, feeling the power of something immense pulling at him, and facing Fawdref’s call. And he could sense forces meeting here in a conflict of which he knew he was suddenly the center. He could not settle, he was too eager to get on, was tight-strung and shaken.

When they did go on, they heard water falling and came into a tall cave lit by the sun’s golden light. A waterfall plunged down from the ceiling into a light-filled pool, casting rippling reflections on the cave walls. The pool’s breath was cool in their faces. Ram stripped off his clothes and swam, his body transformed in the lighted green depths into something pale and fishlike. Skeelie was drawn to that enticing world but was more modest. She turned her back to undress. They swam until they were numb with cold, then dressed and went on again through dark corridors and passages where only a dull gray light marked their way. In time they saw ahead dark shadows that seemed to move. Skeelie drew back, but Ram followed the silent shapes eagerly.

And suddenly the shadows were warm, huge bodies leaping all around them, wolves pouring around them, sweeping past each other to push close to them. Dark, rough-coated, huge. Their eyes glinted, they were as tall as the children’s chests, twice the children’s weight, their teeth like ivory swords. Fawdref pressed against Ram, and Ram clutched Fawdref in a wild hug. The great wolf grinned and licked his neck and cheek. His mate, Rhymannie, curved against Ram, her forelegs out, her head ducked, smiling up at him. He scratched her head and saw her yellow eyes laugh with pleasure.

Ram felt their power like a tide around him, and his own power seemed heightened so his pulse beat in a wild surge. Here, he was one with the wolves, linked in an ancient heritage of power and magic.

Yet something else stirred, too. Something dark in a different way from the wolves’ powers. Something insidious and threatening. “The Seer of Pelli reaches out,” he breathed. He brought all of himself to shield against HarThass’s searching. Then he understood that the wolves had been shielding since he and Skeelie left Burgdeeth; linking with Ram’s own shielding to hide this quest from the Pellian Seer. So much more came clear when he was near to the wolves. And there was so much more for him to learn, so much yet to understand, so much skill yet to master.

Beyond the rough arch where they stood, a deep underground world opened out. A softly lighted, mysterious world into which the children moved now, to stare around them with wonder, their footsteps echoing, their voices hushed. The grotto’s high roof floated in mists. The farthest walls and arches were all but lost. For an instant they saw a time long past, saw gods and Horses of Eresu soaring on silent wings, saw that some of the horses carried men on their backs, saw a time of wonder when anything was possible to men. Ram felt, then, that the powers he sought had to do with this—with a time when all was open to humankind.

The vision vanished. The wolves led them through the grotto to another opening, through which they could see the setting sun and a grassy hill rising up steeply to meet sheer, black cliffs, which swept on up to a mountain peak. Against the mountain stood a building made by men, a black stone structure so well conceived it seemed to have grown from the mountain itself. They went out of the grotto and up the grassy bank and in between the black pillars to a great hall. The grass underfoot gave way to thick moss that carpeted the interior, running up over stone seats and creeping in fingers up the stone walls. The walls themselves were carved from the living stone of the mountain. Only the front wall, through which they had entered, was made of great blocks of black stone set by men.

The hall rose to an incredible height. The thin arches that floated high above might have been carved by men, or might not: pale stone bridges crossing back and forth thin as threads. Ram felt tremendous power here, felt the essence of all the ages of Ere gathered here and understood there were picture records of Ere’s past sealed away and bark manuscripts of runes, and treasures beyond his dreams; and that he would return here someday, in some time yet to come.

The wolves led them through myriad openings in the hall, through chambers carved from the live stone in a labyrinth, flanked by huge slabs or by delicate filigrees of stone carven into the shapes of animals. The caves grew dim when the sun had set; but soon the moons rose, their light washing the stone walls and picking out caves high above that once had been sleeping chambers. And the ceiling was brilliant with motion, a moving panorama, a story told in pictures, that drew Ram as he started forward to climb to it, paying little attention to the narrowness of the steps or to the dizzy height. Six wolves went on with him and Skeelie. The rest turned back; many, Ram knew, because of waiting cubs. The steps were narrow and steep, carven into the cave walls with nothing to hold to. The height increased until the children could no longer look down without growing dizzy. Ram pushed on eagerly, for somewhere up there in the moonlit chambers at the roof of the grotto lay the answer to the question that burned in him with an intensity that nearly overwhelmed him.

He felt the Seer’s probing then and spent himself blocking HarThass’s seeking mind as the man quested blindly, not knowing where Ram was, or why, but knowing that an urgency occupied him. Like a scenting ferret, the Seer reached out. Ram felt his own powers strengthened by the wolves as they spread a cloud of darkness against the Seer.

When they reached the top of the grotto at last, they stood looking down that immense distance at the bridges of stone sweeping in arches below them, and at the one thin arch flung out across the grotto at their feet. Skeelie looked and was suddenly frozen with terror, unable to move, was convinced she would fall if she moved. She had not expected such fear as this, was confused and surprised at herself, was scarcely able to breathe for the fear that gripped her.

A wolf nudged her. She resisted, fear flaring into panic. Another pressed close, warm against her. She wanted to cry out.

Then the wolves began to push into her mind, into the white fear that held her. Gently, slowly they began to ease her, to take away the terror. She could feel Fawdref in her mind like some dark, happy troubadour shouting out his songs, so it was hard to be afraid.

At last the drop into space was no longer horrifying. She could look down comfortably and was able to move forward again without losing her balance, even to look above her at the pictures on the ceiling, so close. The bright panorama hung above them alive with wonderful creatures, with the gods lifting in awesome flight; showed them a fierce history of Ere, showed killings and fire and destruction. Showed them a procession of gods moving out across the ceiling that spoke to Ram with such urgency that he pressed forward onto the thin bridge to follow it.

Moonlight swam in through the far, arched windows to touch the narrow span. Ram started across, afraid for a moment, then drawn beyond fear to that far wall and to the cave there. Fawdref came behind him. Ram hesitated as he heard Fawdref growl, low and menacing.

There, in the center of the bridge, something had begun to glow silver.

It grew quickly brighter, terrifying Ram, holding him poised precariously over empty space.

The Seer’s cape became visible, the cowl hiding his face in darkness. He stood silently blocking their way. Ram’s new terror mixed with Skeelie’s terror, with Fawdref’s fury. The Seer’s intent was clear, Ram’s death was clear if he should move forward.

*

Farther down the mountain in the darkness of a tunnel, Dlos and Tayba stopped suddenly at the echo of a growl. Dlos turned her head, as if perhaps she heard more than a growl, looked upward toward the dark heart of the mountain. “We do not hear it, we hear a message. As we would hear a message of fear sent by a Seer.”

Tayba followed Dlos’s swinging lantern, now terrified for Ram. He should not have come here. Why had he? The smell of damp, cold stone had begun to nauseate her. Couldn’t they go faster? How could they help Ram against wolves? She touched her sword with a trembling hand. What had the wolves done to him? If she let her mind dwell on it, the terror would overwhelm her. Her throat ached with the tenseness that gripped her. She would harbor no thought except that the wolves endangered him. Felt a voice within telling her she must battle wolves.

Then suddenly something else was there in her mind, subtle and compelling. It eased her fear for Ram, soothed her; yet she quailed before it.

*

The silver cape moved on the night breeze that stirred through the grotto. Ram’s fists were clenched. Moonlight washed the cave, seemed to make the thin span shift sickeningly. The Seer’s voice was cold.

“Go back, Ramad. Go back before you die.” Cold and softly echoing, like some insidious whisper of death that could not be stilled.

Ram’s voice cut suddenly across space, sharp as a blade. “You are a fool, HarThass! You had better take yourself back to Pelli. We are coming across.”

“You cross and you die, Ramad of Zandour!”

Ram began slowly to walk toward HarThass across that thin span. He smiled. “Do you want me dead, Seer? Have you decided not to make a slave of me? Have you decided you do not want to rule the bell?” And with each step he drew closer to that faceless apparition, swallowing the fear that twisted inside him. “I think, HarThass, that you see your defeat so clearly you want to end it now. Before you must confess failure. You will end it by dying here, HarThass.”

The Seer’s voice rang. “You are no longer worth keeping to toy with, child of the mountain. I grow tired of you. I find your death more intriguing—death in a fall to that stone floor. Look down, Ramad. That will be your tomb, those hard rocks on which your body will lie crushed like jelly, a bloody smear on the stone and your tame dogs dead beside you!”

“It will not be my tomb, HarThass! What is there beyond this span, that you would prevent me from seeing? What is there that is so important to you, that you would give up your quest for the wolf bell forever?” Ram challenged. But his chagrin was terrible that his own blocking had failed, that in that instant when he faced the thin bridge and empty space, his fear had let the Seer slip by, let HarThass See the painted procession and know that it led to something urgent.

The Seer moved toward Ram. Fawdref growled and slipped up beside him on the narrow bridge, terrifying him, moved ahead of him lithe as a cat, to face the Seer. Ram lifted the bell, spoke its words urgently. The moonlight caught at the rearing bitch-wolf, making her seem to turn. “You are dust!” Ram cried. “You are only dust in this place, HarThass! You are bone and blood only In Pelli! If you do not return there, you will be only dust there, silenced in death, Seer of Pelli!”

The silver cape shifted. HarThass’s hate was terrible, a black tide that suffocated. Ram rang the bell, swallowing his terror; and a thousand bells rang, and the wolves cried out; and the Seer’s fury rose as he moved forward along the span. Ram could feel his force, knew that HarThass could, by his very power, catapult him and the wolves into space; his force, the force of all his Seers, must be joined in this. “You are dust, HarThass!” Ram shouted.

And then he felt it: that other power with him, that surging of strength that bolstered his own. And the Seer paused. Ram moved forward. “You are dust, HarThass! And to dust you will return!” Ram stood pouring all of his power with Jerthon, with the wolves, into a tide that could sweep HarThass from that place.

The silver cape began to grow dimmer, the Seer’s hands to fade. The Seer stepped back.

And the power within Ram lifted, Ram’s own power and the power of the wolves rising with Jerthon to sweep down on HarThass so hard the Seer cried out in fury, his sudden fear vibrating across the grotto fainter and fainter still until it clung in echoes of anger.

Clung, long after he had vanished.

At last the span before Ram was empty. Then, shaken, swept with relief, the little procession began to cross the thin bridge in the still wash of moonlight, Skeelie clutching gratefully at the pale wolf that walked so carefully just ahead of her. Across the span, they could see a small cave opening. And the procession on the ceiling traveled with them toward an unknown wonder of such urgency for Ram that he was almost sick with the need to reach it.

Below them two figures looked upward, could not call out, stood watching the children and wolves cross over the high span until at last they reached a stone ledge and turned into the cave, to disappear.

Tayba swallowed, exhausted by her own emotions and by her fear. That other power, that had spoken to her—it had been with Ram up there, helping Ram. She had no sense of what it was. But she was warmed and supported by it. Her mouth tasted of metal. She felt sticky with sweat, even in this cool place. What were they doing up there? She had never imagined that wolves would climb into heights like that, like great cats. She wished they would come back, wished Ram were there on the ground beside her, would not rest until he was.

*

Fawdref led the children slowly, letting them look. They both had cricks in their necks, could not stop gazing upward at the solemn procession where gods with folded wings walked solemnly beside men. The procession traveled up mountains and across valleys, was attacked by fire ogres, skirted lakes of fire. The gods could have flown in safety, yet they did not fly.

The Seer who led them carried a small carven box. And in that box lay, Ram knew, a power like nothing else on Ere, a power that excited and awed him. The gods marched out of the caves at last onto a high mountain meadow; and ahead of them across the meadow, a slim, tower-like mountain rose into cloud. ‘Tala-charen,” Skeelie breathed. “I thought—I thought it was only a story. The mountain like a castle, with jewels and beautiful things inside. What do they . . . ?”

The last picture showed a cave high in the peak of Tala-charen, where a Seer placed the box into a wall and covered it with stone. Then the gods turned and launched themselves into space like great wild birds soaring out.

And the procession of Seers turned back down the mountain. Ram knew then that because of the caching of the box there, men and gods no longer dwelled together. Had become at the moment of its placement apart from each other. This, then, was the cause of the parting. This box that held the most powerful force in Ere. This was why he was here, this force was, he knew, needed now upon Ere. And it was in his power to release it.

They climbed at last, quite silent, down a stair in the outer wall, reached a bay halfway down where the cold night wind came in over a wide ledge. The wolves from below had gathered here onto the stones and outcroppings. The children stood looking down over the moon-washed land. A half-dozen wolves stood boldly at the edge letting the wind whip their fur and flatten their ears, then raised their voices in a wailing chorus.

“I will go to Tala-charen,” Ram said. “And soon.” His blocking of the Seer was stronger now—yet it was too late. HarThass had seen too much; would be an increased danger in what Ram had to do. Yet for a few moments he held a curtain against HarThass that blinded and confused the Seer. “There is need for the power the gods placed there. Was I . . .” He stared at Skeelie, then his eyes searched Fawdref’s. “Was I born to this, for this one thing, to bring the stone out into Ere?”

Fawdref’s answer was shaded with meaning. He made Ram understand that no person was born to one thing. That there was no power that could make a babe come into the world for any purpose. There was only the coming together of powers and events, the linking into a whole that made time and need bring an urgency upon life. This was how he was born, a culmination to that urgency. There was no one intelligence that could dictate his birth or would presume to. If he succeeded in bringing that power out, the forces of Ere would be bent into a new pattern; if he did not . . . but Fawdref broke off and turned to stare out over the land, his mind dark and watchful.

*

Tayba lay watching the morning’s soft light flood the grotto, catching at the labyrinth and soaring spans; she remembered the silver-caped Seer up there last night, Ram balanced on the thin bridge, the ring of their voices echoing hollowly. She turned to see the children, already up, bringing water from a pool then burrowing in her pack for breakfast, for they had eaten all their own food. She saw Dlos crouch over the little fire against stone, to lay mawzee cakes to warm, strips of mountain meat to toast. She watched the wolves, some distance away, eating from the kill that part of the pack had brought in during the night. Even now she was fearful of them—though she understood at last that here lay Ram’s safety, that they did not threaten him. She understood at last—as she should have long before—where Ram’s real danger lay. Where else, she thought, wondering at her own confusion, but with the Seer of Pelli? Had her very confusion been a part of that dark Seer’s twisting, insidious ways? Had he meant to use her in some way against Ram and the wolves? But he had not used her. Perhaps some other force had prevented that. For it seemed to Tayba that a terrible balance of forces surged and tilted around her. She wanted only to turn away from the turmoil; this was nothing she could touch or have influence over; was nothing she wanted any part of.

She rose and folded her blanket, remembered the children curled against wolves last night, sleeping in perfect safety, Fawdref’s great head sheltering Ram’s small head so she had lain awake a long time, watching them. She was tolerated here with the wolves, but she was not a part of this, nor ever could be. The children had played with wolf puppies around the fire last night, laughing, squealing with pleasure, and she had only been able to watch the bitch wolves in silence as they, perfectly at ease, had lain beside the human children and the cubs. I haven’t the faith Ram has, she thought. Even yet, now that I know they will not harm Ram, I can’t have faith like that. I am empty inside me—and I do not know why.

When they had breakfasted, they left the grotto. The wolves remained behind. The sadness of parting between children and wolves made Tayba turn away, to go on ahead into the dark, low tunnels. The children caught up at last, following the lantern light, and were very quiet.

SIX

As Tayba dressed for Venniver that night, she heard the wolves high on the plain and saw again Fawdref facing her, tongue lolling in a terrible grin as if he made fun of her. She saw him sleeping beside Ram, their heads cradled together, saw the little cubs playing, snarling and chewing the children’s hands innocently, tumbling, chasing Ram through the shadowed cave among resting wolves. Saw the wolves watching her, watching.

She closed the shutters so the howls were muffled, tied the throat of the amber wool, took up her cloak and went out along the back halls, past the door to the dining hall. Though the building was closed tight, the cold wind pushed in icy streams through the ill-fitting shutters, to meet itself around her bare ankles. Doors had been left ajar, and she could see the austere rooms, impersonal as Theel’s room. She supposed Venniver’s would be the same, bare and rough. She faced his door, touched the thick wood slabs, and knocked. When he did not answer, she lifted the latch and stepped in—stood staring.

The room was not bare, nor austere. It was a huge, rich room, its furnishings elegant, its colors luminous. She had seen nothing like this since she left Zandour. Tapestries covered the stone walls, opulent scenes in red and garnet and amethyst like spilled jewels. The floor was strewn with mawzee straw and rushes, thick and soft to her tread. The supper table was set near the fireplace, laid with silver cutlery, and plates that must surely have come from Carriol’s white-clay kilns, plates painted with flowers and birds and small animals among leaves. And the wine goblets were of silver, finely chased. The room was huge and square, heavy-raftered. A second chamber opened off it. These rooms must occupy the entire northwest corner of the Hall. They were furnished with heavy pieces of carved furniture like nothing else in Burgdeeth, smooth, polished. Ornately colored oil lamps hung from the rafters, their flickering light catching at the brilliant colors of tapestries and polished wood.

The bed was immense, tapestry covered. There were carved chests, intricately fashioned chairs; and the splendor of the tapestries laid a richness over all. She might have stepped into one of the finest houses in Ere. A room designed for an elegance of living she had not thought of in connection with Venniver—yet thought of now quite easily. It fit the man—fit him perfectly.

There was another, narrower door at the left, but she knew instinctively that Venniver was not there. She pulled it open and saw a room for private bathing, with what must be a drain to carry the wash water away, and a tall cabinet for clothes.

She closed the door and crossed the room, stopping to run her hand over a chair covered with soft hides. She tried it, sinking down deliciously—then rose quickly. This was Venniver’s chair and very big, swallowing her. She didn’t like the sudden sense of being possessed by it.

In the smaller of the two rooms stood a huge painon-wood table with writing crock and quills, and with a row of leather-bound books at one end. Books with their own belted brass covers, each locked with a brass lock. She could imagine Venniver sitting at the table, ciphering, making up the accounts of the town, she supposed. But why would account books be so carefully locked?

She returned to the main room, found a striking stone on the hearth and lit the fire laid ready. And for no reason, the memory of the grotto filled her mind, and the dark wolves whose eyes searched hers with the intelligence of men; and an unease gripped her that took all her strength to put down.

She turned back to the fire at last, but her mind could not settle. The wolves seemed to reach, to watch her so she was not alone there. And there was something else watching, seeing too much, appraising her. She knelt quickly and flung a handful of kindling into the fire so it flared up, then rose to pace the room, scowling. Well if the room was peopled with wolves and Seers, let them see what they chose to see—she was not above being an exhibition if that was what they wanted.

Pacing, impatient now for Venniver to be there, not to be left alone with whatever forces crowded her, she stood once more before the locked books so neatly arranged. What could they contain of such importance?

Maybe one day Venniver would unlock them for her. Or perhaps she would unlock them herself.

When she turned, her hand trailing the brass binding, Venniver stood in the doorway looking at her. He moved into the room slowly, removing his cloak. “Do they interest you, my locked books?”

“They—they are beautifully made,” she said quickly. “As is everything here. To find this,” she said, indicating the room, then her eyes holding his, “to find all this in a city where everything else is—yet so unfinished . . .”

“So rough.”

“Yes.”

He came easily toward her. “You fit this room nicely. You have an elegance, my dear Tayba—when you are dressed for it, when you have washed the grease away—that goes very nicely here. Now come and pour some wine for us.” He set out an amber flask and two glasses and, while she poured, he laid aside his belt and scabbard of arrows.

And so her life became suddenly one of such contrasts as she would not have thought possible in so crude a town. If, in the daytime, she scrubbed on her knees and hoed, sweating, in the hot sun, her coarsespun scratching unbearably, nights were another matter. Then she bathed herself and dressed in something soft and entered into Venniver’s opulent apartments and into his overbearing and satisfying presence.

She did not speak of this new part of her life to Ram, nor did he. She hoped he had the decency to leave her some privacy. Besides, Ram seemed, since that night on the mountain, completely wrapped in some inner life. And he seemed so much stronger and surer of himself. Once he said, in a moment of confidence and quite casually, “It is not so hard to deal with the Seer of Pelli now. Fawdref has shown me many things.”

“What sort of things?”

“He shows me how to take what I want from HarThass and remain untouched by him.” His dark eyes were inscrutable. She dared not ask him more, but prayed to the gods for Ram, then wondered what good that did and felt helpless and inadequate.

“I must take what I need from the Seer of Pelli. When the time comes that he calls me, when he commands me to leave Burgdeeth, then I will be the stronger and need not follow his command.” He stared up at her, unsmiling. “Yes, Mamen. That is what he prepares me for—or thinks he prepares me for. To come to him. He has never ceased in that.”

“But you can’t—you cannot think to defeat him so easily. No one is stronger than the ruling Seers, Ram!”

“I do not do it easily. I work very hard at it And I will be stronger one day.”

“But if he knows what you plan . . .”

“He does not know. I can shield from him now. And I have help in that.” He looked at her steadily.

She could do nothing but believe in him and pray for him, whether the gods heard her or not.

Ram’s ninth birthday came, and she caught a bird for him in the traditional Zandourian way, in a trap Dlos provided, and let him free it at first light. He stood staring after it, wish making, but too solemn, the wish having a power in it that no normal child’s wish would have.

She knew Ram went to the mountain at night sometimes, and sometimes she heard the wolves’ chilling voices close to the town. If Venniver woke and heard them, he would sleep fitfully and be cross and irritable the next day, so the guards, and Tayba herself, avoided him. Why did the wolves upset him so? They should be—to Venniver—only wild animals no different from foxes or stag. But he never hunted wolves, Dlos told her that, though he went out after other game.

Once he said, “They are not normal wolves. Last year I cornered one in a canyon while I was hunting stag. I meant to kill it, but . . .” He scowled at her, seemed loath to reveal his feelings; but then he continued. “It looked at me the way a man would look. Wolves don’t—ordinary wolves don’t—look a man in the eye, Tayba. Never. This one did. Something—something prevented me from shooting, made me turn my arrow away. I wish—I wish they were not on the mountain.” She felt he was not telling her all of the reason for his fear. But she did not ask Venniver questions. She only listened when he wanted to talk.

He began to give her occasional gifts from the locked trunk at the foot of the bed, then from a safe hidden beside the fireplace. An amethyst ring, a deep rose pendant. He poured out amber wines for her late at night and unwrapped delicacies of soursugar and candied onyrood pods, treasures hoarded from his once-yearly trading in Aybil or Farr. Venniver’s pampering was heady fare; brought her really alive once more, his rapt attentions so very much what she wanted, what she needed to make life seem complete.

And when he told her of his plans for Burgdeeth, his eyes burned with excitement. She marvelled at his words. He had begun this town from nothing; only the plum grove had stood here beside the river Owdneet. He thought it an omen that the grove should stand, missed by the flowing lava. An omen prophesying good for Burgdeeth.

On this site he had found stone, trees for timber, dragon bone nearby. Everything except labor; and Venniver had taken care of that, had ridden into the wild hills to the east with an army of thirty men strongly mounted and routed families there, bringing out not only good slaves, but the gold they mined. Some years later when he rode out again down the river Urobb, he had taken two dozen more prime slaves, five of them Seers. Venniver smiled “I had a Seer of my own then. A willing man with a rare skill. He could block the minds of Seers so completely they never knew we were there. He died later. Died wishing he could go quicker than he did.”

He told her how he had captured the slaves along the river Urobb, slitting the sentries’ throats and driving the horses off to be rounded up later. “Fine horses, as fine a catch as those slaves, or nearly.” He lived the battle again, lustily. “They fought well. And fought the whole night before we routed them. We clubbed and bound them—a real catch, you can pick them out. The tallest, strongest ones. They’re the cleverest, too. And we have two bronze workers among them, just the thing to make the statue. That short, fat fellow, he’s of passable talent, and as strong as a bull. But the tall, defiant one with the long hair, the Seer. He’s a troublemaker, but he has real skill with the metal. He’s worth the extra trouble—until the statue’s done.”

“What—what will you do with him then?”

“Kill him, I suppose. He’s a nuisance to have around. Sell him, maybe.”

She felt a sickness grip her, then a sudden compelling desire to look at the statue, to look at Jerthon again. Felt a terrible sickness for Skeelie, who loved her brother too much. She tried to understand Venniver’s pride in the ownership of men. He looked at the slaves as if they were work animals. She rose from the deep chair, nearly spilling her wine, and began to pace. She couldn’t understand her own concern. For Urdd’s sake, what did she care! They were only slaves. “What were they doing anyway, riding along the Urobb?” she said irritably.

“I think they were fitted out for some expedition. Seeking new land, maybe. Well,” he chuckled, “they found their new land all right.” He laughed heartily, and she felt a moment of revulsion, but then watched him with increased interest. His lust for living, his cruel, headlong lust in taking life, in taking what he wanted, excited her.

And when he talked about his plans for Burgdeeth, she could see the town as he did, the grandeur of the finished city. He drew her to his desk one night to show her drawings of the Set he would build south of town, a sprawling white stone building with inner gardens and fountains where a man could live as he was meant to live. A Set with a high wall around it, and a gate that could be locked. With stables to house the mounts of the army he would keep. And at the gate of the Set, a white temple of worship for the people of Burgdeeth—but with all this, still he did not show her what was so carefully locked in those brass-bound books.

The bronze god-statue would stand in the square of the town, dominating all. She stared at the drawings, hardly believing the magnificence he dreamed. His plans were as opulent, as rich, as the apartment was. A rich taste for luxury, he had. A rich taste for women, too, so he wanted her powdered and perfumed, draped her in gowns of the softest Sangurian silk. She had not been so pampered since her father’s wives had groomed and dressed her, preparing her to be sold.

And he gave her the duty of taking food to the slaves, a privilege Dlos had enjoyed, though Tayba couldn’t understand why it was a privilege. “You will take the supper from now on,” he said. “It is part of the ritual I plan for Burgdeeth.” The idea of being chosen pleased her. The actual duty did not. She did not like marching behind guards the length of Burgdeeth with the supper basket like some Moramian chattel. Well, but if Venniver wanted it . . .

“It is an honor to carry food to the slaves,” Dlos said. “But do not speak to them. The guards will report everything.”

She set off several nights behind the two guards, feeling stupid and conspicuous, was glad when they entered the plum grove away from the stares of the other guards on the street, there by the brewhouse.

The ancient grove stood just beside the pit and mound. The twisted trees had been there long before Burgdeeth. How they could have escaped the ravages of the volcanoes was hard to see—unless the gods had so provided. Beyond the low cell building, the tall guard tower thrust up. Three guards lounged in its open loft, looking down. To her right was an outhouse and a washing shed with some tattered garments hung to dry.

At the door to the cell the taller guard took her basket from her, pulled back the cloth, and lifted each item to inspect it, the five loaves, the three boiled chidrack, some kind of pudding in a crock, then jumbled them carelessly back. On the third night he stripped the meat from the leg of a chidrack with his teeth as if he enjoyed defiling the slaves’ food. He stared at her insolently, a lump of meat clinging to his pale mustache, and motioned her forward as the other guard unlocked and swung open the iron door. As she passed him, he caressed her shoulder. She stepped farther into the dark cell than she had gone before, to hide her anger; and at once was caught up with curiosity.

The room was only dimly lit by the open door, and by the one tiny window at the far end. It smelled of too many people. She could see a mass of huddled figures, could pick no one out. She moved deeper into the room, wanting to see, and was stopped by the guard’s clipped words. “Far enough! Hand the basket out.”

She did as she was told and felt a hand brush hers as the basket was taken from her. Felt something touch her mind so she startled, caught her breath with shock. The guard pulled her away, and the door was slammed and locked. Only an instant had passed, she had heard no voice in the cell. But something had laid bare her mind in that moment, completely opened her most private self in an inspection that shocked and infuriated her.

She made her way back to the sculler unable to quell the helpless feeling of exposure. And in the sculler she dropped a plate, then stood staring at it stupidly where it lay in pieces on the stone floor.

In the past, Ram had touched her mind. The Seer of Pelli had touched it and nearly driven her mad. But nothing like this had ever invaded her. She felt betrayed; nothing, nothing had ever touched the skill in her that she feared so violently and did not want.

She dressed carefully for Venniver that night, wanting gaiety, needing to wipe away that powerful assessment of herself there in the slave cell. With Venniver, in the opulence of his presence and his attentions, she could, forget the slave cell. Nothing bad could happen to her as long as she was with Venniver.

Their splendid, rich nights were broken only occasionally by the sudden chilling voices of wolves on the mountain, or wolves crying close by on the plain. Chilling howls that would goad Venniver into irritability so that he became cruel with her, frightening and angering her.

And then one night when Ere’s two moons rose round and golden over the eastern hills, making all the plain shine with a pale, black-etched glow, the wolves came into Burgdeeth.

They came directly into the town and stood in the shadows, raising eerie howls that echoed between the stone walls. Doors were flung open, men shouted, candles and tapers were lit. Lanterns swung wildly in the streets, and the guards pulled bows taut; but the wolves moved so fast, were nearly invisible in the shadows. She could not believe Fawdref would come here, endangering his pack. And she was terrified for Ram, for surely Ram would rush to help them and could be shot. Cold with panic, she watched Venniver fling on his cloak and rush out; then she ran to the storeroom, terror-stricken—and found Ram gone. She returned to the front of the hall and stood shivering in the doorway trying to see, wanting to run into the night shouting for Ram and not daring.

Men were running in the street, moon-bleached then invisible as they passed through shadow.

There was squawking from the chidrack pens. But these wolves would not come into Burgdeeth to steal chidrack. A wolf howled close by, chilling her; sending a hush upon the town as men tried to locate its position; wolves were everywhere—and nowhere.

Terrified for Ram, she slipped away from the building into shadow as wolves howled from several directions: one then another as if they played games with the men. Arrows plunked against buildings as guards shot on the run, pursuing shadows. “Ram!” she whispered, wanting to scream out to him. Two wolves howled from opposite directions, drawing the men out; drawing them away from the town.

She heard a commotion above the gardens then, heard screaming as if a horse had been brought down. Wherever the wolves were, surely Ram was there. She began to run, stumbling, pulling up her skirt to keep it from her flying feet, dodging guards, hoping Venniver did not see her, keeping to shadow when she could.

She came at last around the hall to the gardens and saw black shapes of guards against the moons with bows drawn, and beyond them the leaping silhouettes of wolves. Arrows were loosed, the wolves began to run and leap in the moonlight, doubling back and forth. A second round was loosed, silver streaks—and not a wolf fell. Again the arrows sought them and missed.

Cries of disbelief rose among the men. She heard Venniver shouting and ducked back. Mounted guards thundered around the hall, and more wolves were streaming out now from the town pursued by mounted men.

Then the wolves began to retreat: those that leaped against the moons, and those that fled to join them. No wolf lay dead. Arrows silvered the ground. Venniver’s men thrust forward running, bows taut, the riders overtaking the wolves and passing them.

Near to Tayba, standing in shadow, someone—Ram was there. Silent, intent—yet when finally she had moved to join him he had disappeared.

Something drew her eyes to the white guard tower beyond the south gardens. It rose like a shaft of ice in the moonlight, well above the grove. Was that Ram running toward the grove? She ran too, in plain sight now, unsheltered from the moonlight.

*

Ram had stood in the shadows, held nearly mesmerized with the strength of the force he created as he brought the vision of wolves out from within himself, as he conjured running wolves leaping before arrows that could not touch them—a dozen wolves, twenty, twice that, until Venniver and his guards were nearly mad with impotent rage, firing and firing, shouting. Then at last Ram let his phantoms retreat, watched delighted as Venniver’s guards thundered after them. He felt Fawdref’s cool, silent wolf laugh from somewhere the other side of town.

When Ram slipped away from behind the Hall, he knew that Tayba was standing close by, watching, not understanding what she saw any more than Venniver did. He was disgusted with her for that; she could have understood, had she wanted—had she tried. He knew she saw him, followed him. He doubled back, nearly invisible in the shadows as he moved to join Fawdref and the real wolves above Burgdeeth.

*

When Tayba reached the dirt mound beside the grove, she stopped. She could not see Ram. There was stealthy movement down in the pit. She crept past the mound to see, stood staring into the blackness.

There were men down in the pit, moving something heavy. Carrying long, heavy objects between them down and down into somewhere black, into deep shadow. Then guards were riding toward her, spurs rattling. She dropped down the side of the pit, skinning her leg, and lay still until they passed. She was not certain why she hid, except she could never explain her presence here to Venniver.

When it was safe to move, she stood in the pit trying to make sense of the twisted, indecipherable shapes on every side of her. She could hear movement somewhere to her right. She put her hand out to something lifting in a curve and felt metal. It looked—it was a wing; she could feel feather shapes under her fingers. Yes, an immense bronze wing. And there, she could make out the head of a horse lying against a pile of timbers. She looked up and caught her breath.

Towering above her, pale in the moonlight, rose a god. He leaped skyward flanked by two winged Horses of Eresu, almost soaring already as they rose in flight.

But they could not lift in flight yet remain poised, so still. She crept forward to reach out, hardly daring . . .

They were made of wood. She let out her breath and found her heart was pounding.

She turned then and saw a line of men in the near dark, carrying long timbers between them. When she turned back she saw a man standing beside her, silent, so tall, his red hair loosely knotted. His eyes were full on her, terrifying her. Jerthon! There were sweat stains on his tunic, and his hands were scarred over with burns from the smelter. She wanted, unreasonably, to touch them.

He saw what she felt about the statue. She thought he knew everything about her, and she was so shaken she thought such probing was his right. He destroyed her, lifted her—in an instant he showed her a world of wonders that elated and terrified her, showed her the real gods, lifted her in flight as the gods lifted, showed her the sense of wonder and immense sadness that belongs to the Seer; showed her more than she could grasp. They stared at each other in silence; and then it was she who turned and fled.

She felt his disappointment in her as she climbed out of the pit to safety. He had made her see visions she could not cope with, concepts quite beyond her in their vastness. She stood in the empty square hearing the wolf hunters far away and feeling so desolate and lost she thought she could not move from that place, wanted to crouch there weeping, to bury herself there and never face anything again, to die there.

She should be searching for Ram and was unable to think where to search, heard men’s distant cries that meant nothing. She turned in confusion toward the hall, then stopped, staring.

The wolves stood in a circle on the plain above the hall, facing into Ram and Fawdref. The riders were drawing close to them—then Ram raised his arms, and a second mass of wolves appeared in front of the riders, running hard. The men shouted, closed the distance on straining horses, were almost up to the wolves when—the wolves vanished. Simply disappeared.

Ram’s wolves seemed to smile, their tongues lolling. She saw pale Rhymannie lift her head with cool pleasure, saw Ram grin. The riders were milling, shouting; and then the phantom band appeared again suddenly in the other direction. The riders wheeled after them.

They had not seen Ram or his wolves.

The fleeing band led them a chase, then she heard shouting again and knew that, again, the wolves had disappeared.

Wolves running on the plain one minute, and gone the next. She stood staring at Ram in awe. This child—her child; maker of visions.

He looked at her and grinned, then said softly across the night, “Yes, Mamen. Visions. Visions for our leader Venniver.” And his meaning made her shudder and turn away.

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.

EIGHT

Alone on the cliff, Tayba stood looking down at the empty moon-washed plain, felt drained of all emotion and strength. No one spoke in her mind now. The power she had felt was gone—had never been there, was all illusion. Her aloneness stabbed at her like a knife. She started down the cliff trembling with apprehension and stood at last at the mountain’s base, gripped with terror at the emptiness, at the looming boulders. The eerie expanse panicked her—and she began to run suddenly and wildly toward Burgdeeth, dodging boulders and the reaching shadows, shivering, until at last she could see the lights of the town.

And a figure was riding toward her.

Venniver. Venniver coming to find her; riding in a fury, beating his horse, his shoulders hunched, coming straight for her. She imagined his quick, fierce anger and stared around her uselessly for a place to hide, a shadow to conceal her. What would he say, finding her here? What would he think?

Maybe he won’t be angry. Maybe . . . She remembered the wolf bell beneath her tunic and pulled her cloak across it. She could tell him that she . . . But he was on her, reining in his horse. She saw his face; fear sickened her. He swung down. She cringed away from him, tried to speak as he grabbed her arm. “Where in Urdd have you been! What are you doing out here!” His eyes were cold, appraising. “Who were you with? Who?”

“No one! I was with no one!”

“Don’t lie to me!” He jerked her to him, twisting her. “I can break that arm if I choose. Now where is he?”

“I’m trying to tell you! There is no one!”

“You didn’t come here alone! No one walks alone on this plain.” He stared at her with disgust. “Who were you with! Where is he!”

“Who would I be with when I could be with you? Don’t be stupid. Why would I . . .” She sighed, reached out to him. “I was walking alone, Venniver. Ram is sick, I was upset. The moonlight—there is nothing out here. It seemed so peaceful—as if a prayer, here . . .”

“A prayed Great Urdd! Don’t lie to me. You came here with some fracking guard!” He hit her full in the face, then spun her around to twist her arm behind her. “Some guard who—” His voice broke with fury. He slipped the stallion’s reins over a boulder; the nervous animal plunged and reared. His fingers bit into her arm; he threw her down so her cloak and tunic ripped, terrifying her. Then he stopped suddenly, staring.

He straightened up, to back away from her.

The wolf bell lay beside her, touched by moonlight.

Tayba swallowed blood, felt the cut on her mouth. She watched him helplessly. Well, he couldn’t know what the bell was. Why was he staring at it? Why would he . . . He bent to pick it up almost as if it would burn him. He examined it turned it over, held the clapper so it would not ring; looked for a long time with growing horror at the grinning bitch-wolf. Then he jerked her up, his fingers like steel, his voice shaking, nearly screaming. “What are you doing with this? I know what this is! I’ve heard the stories!” He stared at her, unbelieving. “You—you are one of them!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You are a Seer. This—this is the bell of the wolf cult! You’ve been on the mountain with—wolves!”

He beat her then until she went limp under his hands, her mind sweeping blackness into the pain, confusing her. She felt herself dragged, then was forced to walk. She felt the stallion plunge against her where Venniver led him. She was forced on and on down the plain. Burgdeeth’s lights swam before her. They were in the gardens, she thought; she could feel mawzee briars catch at her. She saw the back of the Hall but was not seeing properly, was so dizzy.

He forced her on. She was shivering, could hardly walk for the pain. She tried to pull her torn cloak around herself, wanted only to lie down. He stopped her at last. She saw the guard tower above the trees, heard the familiar ring of the iron door.

She was shoved into darkness, nearly fell, heard the door slam behind her.

She reached out and felt hands on her, felt the strength of someone supporting her. She hurt. Great Eresu she hurt.

*

She woke in the dim, close cell. She tried to roll over, went sick with the pain that struck sharp through her arm and side. Her face felt swollen. She touched it hesitantly. Her exploring fingers brought pain along her left side, her left eye. Her lip was big and scabbed over. The candlelight was very dim, flickering. Little groups of slaves reclined on piles of hides, were turned away from her talking softly, paying no attention to her. Out of kindness? Or because they didn’t care. She let her face drop down onto her arms. She would die in this place. She wanted to die.

“You will not die.”

She lifted her face and turned until she could see Jerthon where he sat beside her. She saw that she lay on hides, was covered with a thick goathide.

“You will not die. But you do look somewhat battered. Here.” He supported her head and held a mug for her. She drank greedily.

“More?”

She nodded, heard the water poured out, and drank again.

“That is enough, you’ll make yourself sick. Could you manage some bread?” Then, to her unspoken question, “Ram is all right. The fever is gone. The Seer has subsided into his black little hole—for the time being.” He broke bread for her. “Your right arm works. Take the bread. Sit up now and try to eat a little.”

Her ribs were very painful, were tightly bound. He helped her sit up. She leaned against the cell wall, nauseated with the effort. A few of the slaves looked at her, and a girl smiled. There was a warmth among them as they looked, a quiet solitude that reassured her. All but the stocky, short man there in the back. What made him scowl so? That was the man called Drudd, the other forgeman.

The girl who had smiled was younger than the other four girls, little more than a child. Her hair shone like fire even in the dim light. Jerthon beckoned to her, and she came to sit beside Tayba. Jerthon said, “This is Derin. She will sleep beside you, in case there is anything you want in the night.”

Derin said, “Dlos will bring herbs for the pain when she brings the morning meal. I put—I put what little we had in your water.”

Tayba held out her hand. “Thank you. It does hurt.” Suddenly she remembered the bell lying in the moonlight remembered that Venniver had picked it up. She stared at Jerthon. “Does Venniver have it—the bell? What did he . . . ?”

“He has it. Ram—Ram wanted to charge into his rooms and take it. He’s stubborn, that boy. It was all I could do to make him wait awhile.” Jerthon searched Tayba’s face, looked as if he would say more, then was silent.

She lay trying to puzzle it out, putting pieces together. Why had Ram been so ill? Why? What did HarThass . . . ? And suddenly it all did come together, the grotto, the Seer appearing on the high bridge; Ram’s determined attitude afterward; the Seer’s fury at Ram for something she did not before understand. She looked at Jerthon quietly. “You were in the grotto with Ram,” she whispered. “You were there with him—just like tonight.”

“Yes. We are five Seers here. We . . .”

She laid her hand on his arm. “What—what did Ram See in the grotto? What was in that high cave that HarThass didn’t want him to see, that he did see and came down so full of? He means—he made some commitment there.” Her fingers tightened on Jerthon’s arm, and she half rose to look at him, ignoring the pain. “What was it? What does Ram plan that—that HarThass would stop him from doing?”

Jerthon paused, studying her, sat for so long in silence she wondered if he would ever speak. When he spoke, it was reluctantly.

“Ram saw, in that cave—he saw pictures of a procession. He saw the gods lay to rest a box containing something of great power. Containing—the Runestone of Eresu. Ram—something is leading him, something compels him to bring that power out into Ere. There is need for it now. He is drawn there, and no one—not you, nor I—can stop him, now, from that quest.”

“But he can’t just . . . where will it lead him? Why must he go! He’s only a child, he . . . Ram has the wolf bell. He has all the power anyone . . .”

He looked at her steadily. The others watched. The cell was very still. Drudd scowled. Derin took Tayba’s hand in her small one. Jerthon said, “It is not for himself that he wants power. You don’t think . . . it is a power that could help many, could change the lives of everyone in Ere for generations to come. Could stop what Venniver and those like him, what HarThass wants. Or could, in the hands of HarThass, bring havoc over Ere. It is so great a force . . .” The light from the candle marked the clean lines of his face, the high Cherban cheekbones. She remembered her awe of him last night as the dark vastness twisted around her.

“If Ram does not seek that power, the Seer of Pelli will take it, now that he knows where it lies. He will climb Tala-charen for it. And if HarThass should hold that power . . .” He took her hands. “I will show you what HarThass could do.”

His grip was warm. He willed her to close her eyes. She fought him for a moment, then began to feel weightless. Her pain vanished. She drifted out of herself to move above Ere as if—as if she flew. She saw Ere stretching below her, saw rivers flowing out from the black peaks to find their way to the sea.

She saw small bands of men, primitive tribes with precarious holds on their little patches of land, saw warring Herebian bands killing them and driving them out. She saw the activity of hundreds of years, saw countries begin to form. She saw the volcanoes boil down across the land bringing terror and death, destroying all that men had built. Jerthon held her mind in his until she had seen the huge pageant of Ere’s young history, seen Seers beheaded, seen them flee to the cities of the gods. She saw Seers ride out over Ere on the backs of the Horses of Eresu, filling men with hatred though they intended none of this. She saw evil Seers rise across the land to rule the little settlements, terrifying men into doing their bidding, and protecting men so they clung to them for leadership. Jerthon’s eyes held her. He lifted her chin to look deep at her. He showed her the Herebian tribes raiding the nations; changes in borders and inner ride as powers struggled one against the other. She was seeing into the future now. She saw Carriol become a nation, and Burgdeeth as part of a new country. She saw that, as a river could split into many streams, Ere’s future could take many ways. In one, the Pellian Seers ate up one country after another as HarThass and his successors, with the power of the Runestone of Eresu, enslaved peoples of Ere into one vast hierarchy of rule where men were as nothing.

In other streams of the future, men ruled themselves in a variety of activities, each as suited his own nature. The tangle of possible futures, of possible balances of power, dizzied her. And in all Ere’s future, the Runestone was the key. And Ram, who vowed to bring that stone out of Tala-charen, was the one who held the balance now. On Ramad of Zandour lay the future of the countries of Ere.

“You,” Jerthon said, beginning to pull her back from that infinite expanse, “you could not have seen all this, Tayba, were it not for the power you deny in yourself. When will you admit to it? When will you face the truth of yourself?” And she was too caught up in wonder to flare at him.

She woke from the vision quickly, was gripped by sudden pain from her wounds, watched Jerthon in silence as he drew her thoughts back from that terrible abyss of space and time. And one question burned in her mind. She groped at it, puzzled. If HarThass could change all of Ere’s history with the Runestone, why had he waited so long to seek it? She looked at Jerthon deeply. “The Runestone must have been in Tala-charen for generations. Why . . . ?” And then, suddenly, she understood. “HarThass—HarThass didn’t know before! He didn’t See it until—until Ram went there to the grotto.” She was twisting her hands; she scowled at them and put them in her lap. She could see by his face that she was right “HarThass didn’t see the Runestone until Ram—until he could see through Ram’s mind that something was there! Until Ram had gone to the cave!”

“Yes,” Jerthon said softly. “That is so.”

“And if Ram—if he hadn’t gone to the grotto. If he had never had the wolf bell, gone among the wolves, HarThass would have no idea . . .”

“Yes, that is true. And if,” Jerthon said softly, “if you had never lain with EnDwyl, Ram would not be here at all.”

*

Ram was dressed in such a bundle of clothes, forced on him by Dlos, he thought he could not move. He tried to keep the lantern from clinking against stone as he crouched beneath Venniver’s window, next to Skeelie. They could hear the men at supper, had seen Venniver quaffing ale at the long table as they slipped by. “I still say I’m the one to go in,” Skeelie said, “you—”

“I want,” Ram whispered as he pried the shutter loose, “I want to do it myself, Skeelie. Now be still—only, hiss if anyone comes.” He climbed over the sill, took the lantern from her, lit it, and shone the light around, catching his breath at the grand furnishings, the rich colors. He went quickly to the chest at the foot of the bed.

He lifted the lid, found the key stuck down between side and bottom. He took the key to the fireplace, pushed away a strip of molding, found the lock. When Venniver’s safe was open, he stared with wonder at the jewels there, the fine goblets and golden bowls. The wolf bell stood on the center shelf.

“Hurry!” Skeelie hissed. “Someone—hurry!”

He grabbed the bell, stuffed it in his tunic, replaced the key and was just over the sill when he heard voices. He dropped down on top of Skeelie, and they lay in a heap, not daring to move.

Two guards strode past arguing. One said something about a donkey that made them stiffen. But the guards went on, unheeding, passing their donkey right by where he stood hobbled in the shadows.

They sorted themselves out, unhitched Pulyo, and hastened through shadow up toward the plain. They had already said good-bye to Dlos, were loaded with mawzee cakes and bread the old woman had slipped out of the sculler, with smoked meat and some chidrack eggs carefully wrapped. Skeelie led the donkey, taking a proprietary air with him after her sore trial getting him out of the herd. “He’s mine now,” she said, hugging the gray scruffy neck. “I stole him, and he’s mine.”

“Will Venniver come after us, do you think, if he finds we’re gone?” Ram said.

“Why should he?”

“The donkey, for one thing. I still say, Skeelie . . .”

“Would you want to carry all of the pack, blankets and food?”

“I still say we didn’t need—”

“Yes we do. You don’t know anything. Besides, Venniver won’t come into the mountains. He’s terrified of them.”

They heard the wolves, then.

The wolves had begun to come out of the caves, crying out at the night, showing themselves for an instant then slipping away down the mountain toward the children, their eyes like ice as they paced and stared down across the shadows. Ram heard their cries and thrilled to them, remembering Gredillon’s words, read so long ago from an ancient book she had kept wrapped in silk in her cupboard.

For NiMarn shaped a bell of bronze that would call the wolves out of the wild night or send them cringing down among the shallow rock-caves where they denned; a magic of power concentrated in the metal and the fashioning. He stared up the mountain, heard Fawdref’s wild call, and quickened his pace up the plain, the little donkey trotting along as if he went every day to join wolves.

*

In the morning the slaves were taken out to work, and Tayba left alone in the cell. A guard, herding the others out, said, “You will be given a few days to mend. But hurry up about it, Venniver does not like to feed idlers. You will be expected to work like the rest.” When they all had gone, she felt the darkness of the cell close in around her, her wrists prickling oddly at the thought that she was locked in, trapped here like some wild thing caught in a furrier’s cage.

She lay huddled in the cell ignoring the bread and water Derin had left her, the herbs Dlos had brought She tried to remember all that Jerthon had shown her and could not. Some of it, yes. But a haziness came over the pictures, maddening her. There was something else, though. Something that lingered in her mind, secret and urgent Had she gotten the thought from Jerthon? It was as if there was something they would not trust her with, something they had shielded from her.

But she did know. She knew. She rose so quickly the pain brought tears and began to prowl the cell. What was it that Jerthon had hidden in his thoughts, did not want her to know? How could she know something he had not intended her to see? Unless she . . .

“No! I do not have that power!” She stood staring down at the pile of hides where Jerthon had slept trying to shake off the unwanted knowledge. And she knew, with perfect clarity, that if she pushed those hides away—she thrust the hides back with her foot and saw the loose, unmortared stones underneath. She knelt folded the hides back, and began to lift out the stones.

Beneath them was a wide plank. She lifted it out and knelt there staring down into a black pit.

Crude steps went down, to disappear m darkness. Three lanterns stood on the top step; she reached for one, and struck flint adjusted the wick. Now she could see the bottom step, and the beginning of a tunnel. She started down, then turned back, leaving the lantern on the stairs.

She covered the loose stones with hides, then pulled hides over the plank and pulled that over the hole behind her as she descended.

The tunnel ran on farther than her light reached. Heavy timbers supported the roof—Venniver’s timbers, she thought, grinning. And Venniver’s stones and dragon bone mortared into the walls.

She had gone some distance when she came to a pile of loose dirt where the slaves must recently have been digging. A side tunnel opened here, smaller and unmortared. A stack of long timbers stood at the mouth. She counted twenty exactly and could hear Venniver shouting, “Where in Urdd do timbers go! Where does someone hide timbers! You don’ t . . .” She went on, smiling to herself.

Soon her way was blocked by the tunnel’s end. Shovels had been left here, a pick, an adz. A sled for carrying dirt. There was everything here. How in Urdd had they gotten it all, right out from under Venniver’s nose?

“Skeelie stole it,” Jerthon said quietly. She spun at his voice, her lantern careening light up the walls.

“Skeelie is clever and quick. She could steal Venniver’s beard off his face.” He came toward her. His clear green eyes held her. “I wish I could—could be sure of you.” He made a barrier between them that she could not broach. “Well, what you have already seen is enough to get us all killed.” He took her lantern from her and held it up; and where the tunnel had stopped in a fall of dirt, now it was suddenly open in an illusion so real and sudden she gasped. It went further than the light could reach. “That is how it will be,” Jerthon said. “We . . .” he stopped speaking, startled, as two figures appeared there ahead, young girls, their hair long down their backs. This was not a vision Jerthon was giving her, this had come unbidden. She could feel his sharp interest as the brown-haired girl began to rummage in a crevice in the tunnel wall; Jerthon caught his breath as the girl drew her hand from the niche, closed around something small and glowing; and suddenly the tunnel began to grow light, to open out, the space becoming huge and so brilliant Tayba could hardly look.

An immense space opened out before them and seemed to be expanding. There were vague mountains in the distance; but the towering winged figures close at hand made her go weak with awe, want to kneel. Their human torsos rose above the horselike bodies, tall, burnished; and their wings flashed against the brilliance of expanding light. Their eyes, their faces held wonders that made her want to cry out, drowned her in a world quite beyond her.

You are come, they cried, and their voices held a terrible joy. You must reach out, you will reach out—if you are the chosen. She was clutching Jerthon’s hand.

The vision vanished. There was blackness. Tayba had heard something drop to the floor, saw dimly that one of the girls knelt to search across the dirt for it—then that, too, vanished. She stood staring, felt Jerthon beside her, looking up to see him as stricken as she.

He shook free of the vision at last. “I have to go back. I will be missed.” He seemed not to want to speak of what he had seen, to lock it privately within. He led her back along the tunnel, then turned away from her into the side tunnel. “This goes into the pit.” He smiled for the first time, then swung away, brushing the wall with his shoulder. Loose grains of dirt fell, then dirt fell from the roof—she didn’t know what was happening, she was covered by falling dirt; she couldn’t see, felt Jerthon grab her shoulder and push her roughly away—Jerthon was there in falling dirt she saw a timber fall. Dirt roared down, she dove under the timber reaching for Jerthon, jammed her shoulder under it so it nearly knocked her flat, the pain making her cry out.

She sprawled beneath the timber’s weight covered with dirt and could feel Jerthon buried beneath her.

She twisted over, clawing at the dirt beneath her. Jerthon! His face was covered, he could not breathe. She fought dirt, twisted down into an impossible position, digging, scraping dirt with her hands. The pain in her side tore at her. She felt Jerthon try to move his leg, felt his panic. She clawed like an animal, and at last could feel his shoulder, his neck, began to dig dirt away from his face; could feel his mouth at last, felt him suck in breath. The pain in her side was like knives. She clawed dirt away from his mouth, his nose. She could feel his breath on her hand. Nausea swept her. She began to clear dirt from his eyes, could feel dirt falling on her back.

Something touched her back, she started violently, then realized someone was clearing dirt from her body. She twisted around and saw Drudd pushing a block of wood in next to her to support the timber. He wedged another block in farther down, then began digging with a small spade as she held her hands to protect Jerthon’s face. Drudd cleared her first, to get at Jerthon, then she dug beside him. Jerthon kept himself quiet with great effort, she thought. He was sweating, his jaws clenched. She thought he wanted to fight the confining dirt mindlessly, as she would have.

When he was free at last, he stood in the tunnel looking at them, very white, collecting himself. There was nothing for anyone to say. Drudd and Jerthon soon went around the slide and back up to the pit.

Shaken, Tayba returned to the cell and began replacing the plank and stones. When she had finished, she sat down on the skins wishing the nausea would pass, wishing her hands would stop trembling.

What had caused the cave-in? Had it been a natural thing, there where the tunnel was yet unsupported? Or had the Pellian Seer brought it down on Jerthon in a moment of cruel retribution for Jerthon’s part in saving Ram? Meant, she thought, shivering, to kill both of them there?

She did not know. Perhaps neither did Jerthon. Perhaps he had been too terrified to wonder or to care.

And when she thought of Jerthon’s knowledge of her, of the power within her that she would give anything to be rid of, she wondered if, were it to happen again, she would be quite so quick to gamble her life to save someone who not only knew of that power, but expected her to come to terms with it in a way she could not bear to do.

Part Three: The Stone

NINE

The Seer of Pelli turned from the window to stare at EnDwyl. Below him along the bay, where a handful of wharves fanned out, the boats were bringing in a catch of sherpin. Farther down, some farm wagons had set up to trade grain and vegetables, ignoring the more conventional vender’s stalls. He was scowling. His faded red beard, cut into two points in the style of the Pellian Seers, made him look like a goat. His eyes, blue when he was young, were nearly colorless. He threw his cape over a chair as he spoke.

“It does not pay, my dear EnDwyl, to be too certain. You do not understand the skills—or the limits—of Seers. You think we can do more than we are able.”

“Common Seers have limits, perhaps. But you are the Seer of Pelli.” EnDwyl, having come directly from the sea baths, seemed the cooler of the two, his yellow hair brushed smooth and his white tunic immaculate. “Pellian Seers are not limited, surely. The descendants of the wolf cult—”

“We, my dear EnDwyl, are not descendents of the wolf cult. That is the problem. Urdd knows, if we were we’d not have to go to all this flaming trouble for the boy and his cursed bell.”

“Cursed? You’d give the entire fortune of Pelli for the blasted bell—and for the boy. What kind of business is that for the ruler of Pelli, all this fuss over a toy to turn wolves into pets.”

“Not pets, EnDwyl. Do you forget the wolves that greeted you outside Burgdeeth? Accomplices, EnDwyl! Powerful accomplices! Do you forget the forces the boy and wolves called forth, the skill with which they battled us? And you,” he added, “you are the descendant of the bell. You should have some feeling for it, even if the blood in you is latent. It is your blood that created Ramad—yours, and the Seer’s blood in your—in Tayba. That boy—that boy holds a power out of the ancient past that even I do not fully understand. The bell has served only to focus his force. And the boy’s power, and the power of the bell, are powers I mean to control. Though if we do not wrest it from the pup soon, he will command a far greater power. And I will not have that, EnDwyl! The stone on Tala-charen is a force that boy must never possess.”

EnDwyl said insolently, “You have tried to subdue the boy and failed. And there are these slaves—they shield their plans too well, HarThass. You don’t know—”

“I know their plans. I could easily use those plans against them, if it weren’t for that boy scrambling up Tala-charen. But if the boy reaches Tala-charen’s peak first, and so controls the stone . . .”

“And so we ride to Burgdeeth,” EnDwyl said irritably. “With twelve fighting men to battle Jerthon and the slaves while the Pellian Seers use their forces on the boy. I don’t think—”

“You don’t think, EnDwyl. That is your problem. Do you have a better plan? Are you more skilled than Seers? Can you bring the horrors of those mountains against Ramad as I can?”

“Do you really believe, HarThass, that even without the stone’s power against you, you can defeat the boy and Jerthon and that lot? I—”

HarThass’s gaze burned into him. “Yes EnDwyl? You what?”

EnDwyl swallowed. “I don’t know. I—maybe the slaves’ power even without the stone is too great. And now—and now, with this thing you say is awakened in Tayba . . .”

HarThass selected a cicaba fruit from the silver tray beside him. “That hasn’t lasted. Already the girl has nearly hidden it from herself. She is terrified of having such power. She may . . .” He smiled coldly. “She may help us more than you can imagine. She is afraid of this power of hers, she is afraid of Jerthon because he sees it. If we can turn her against him—she has the fine instincts of a traitor. Jerthon represents a challenge to her she cannot bear to face. She might well be persuaded to destroy that challenge under certain circumstances.”

“But Venniver has treated her shabbily, maybe she won’t—”

“She likes his treatment, don’t you see that? She will come crawling back to him with very little encouragement.” He turned away, then turned back to stare at EnDwyl. “You leave the girl to me. And you, EnDwyl—you be ready to ride as soon as those cursed soldiers get here with the mounts from Sangur. Why you let them—”

“They art better horses. You traded for them yourself. How was I to know . . .”

“You could have sent down for them a month ago. Well,” HarThass raised an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you relish riding back into that plains country, EnDwyl.” He stared pointedly at the jagged scar across EnDwyl’s jaw, and the mass of welts that crippled his legs. “I don’t suppose you relish meeting wolves again.”

EnDwyl’s hand was drawn to his cheek, but he did not respond to HarThass’s rudeness. “I don’t understand why the slaves wait. Why did they not leave Burgdeeth as soon as they had that tunnel open? What keeps the fools there? If they want to capture and rule Burgdeeth as you say, they would not even need a tunnel. If their power is so great they have simply to warp Venniver’s thoughts until he sets them free and gives them the cursed town.”

“There is something in Venniver that makes his mind unreliable. He can be moved for a few moments, then he is impervious to most skills. You cannot keep him controlled, you can only direct him on occasion. Some latent Seer’s blood, like you, EnDwyl.

“But beyond that, those Seers are an odd lot. They remain quite willingly, with some wild idea about completing the tunnel.” HarThass snorted. “Something to do with visions of the future. What rubbish. The future is to be manipulated regardless of visions—to be bent to the strongest will in spite of all the wild visions you can name. This Jerthon and his slaves are dreamers, they have no real sense of value. Visions! They only show you what might be, not what will!

“At any rate, we will have Burgdeeth for ourselves soon enough.

“But I tell you this, EnDwyl. I will not allow that boy to scale Tala-charen. I will ride up Tala-charen to retrieve that stone!” He smiled. “How fortunate that the boy discovered where it lay. Once we have the stone,” he said lightly, “once we have subjugated Burgdeeth, that town will become our first outpost. From it we can work southward at our leisure. We will ease Zandour and Aybil and Farr into positions that will destroy them so slowly they will never know they have been taken. We will use Venniver’s own plan, his books, the religion he has invented, his statute—and we will use the stone. No one will resist that combination. But we will do it slowly. I like to do things slowly and see men twist in the coils of the stricturing I put on them.” He leaned back, crossing his legs and flicking some lint from his sandals.

“Is that why you did not march into Burgdeeth long ago? Because you want to do it slowly?” EnDwyl asked sarcastically. “Not because you failed in manipulating the boy into coming to you willingly, HarThass?”

“You had best watch your tongue, EnDwyl. I didn’t see you and that cursed Seer who died on the plain having any great success with the boy—or with the wolves he commands.” HarThass smiled and leaned back. “Well, the wolves will soon be ours. And I like the idea of the boy walking before us down Tala-charen with his wrists bound and those wolves grovelling around him. We will walk with wolves then, EnDwyl. And we will use their powers at our pleasure.

“But that boy won’t be easy to—”

“When I finish with the boy, he will have no choice in the matter.”

*

No trail was visible save, sometimes, a vague cupping or turning that might mark an ancient path. Ram traveled by instinct, by the pull of power that so beckoned to him, and by Fawdref’s sure guidance. They crossed meadows where dead sablevine was frozen into ice and the ice itself torn up and tumbled as if something huge had spent its fury here, ripping with claws like knives at the frozen ground. They were cold, always cold. The wraps Dlos had so stubbornly bundled them into were never quite enough to keep out the freezing wind. They climbed between monster shapes of twisted black stone, between clusters of columns like headless trees, formed by some wild excess of the volcanoes. They passed deep through narrow sunless canyons flanked with walls like black glass, so smooth they could see themselves. “We look,” Skeelie said, bending and dancing about so her reflection was thick then thin and long, “like—like die souls of the dead.”

Ram bent to hug Fawdref, who had turned away from his own reflection in disgust. The wolves seemed to find no humor in their distorted images. “Old dog! Can’t you laugh at yourself?”

Fawdref touched Ram’s cheek with his muzzle, then looked again into the deep black mirror. He was, he let Ram understand, considering that.

As they rose higher up the mountain, the power of something dark increased, watching them relentlessly. Yet it never showed itself, if indeed it had any form to show. Late the second afternoon the wolves killed a buck, and they stopped early to roast the haunch. It was difficult to find firewood this high on the mountain, but the droppings of wild goat and stag made a hot blaze. The children lay back against the packs, smelling the roasting meat, watching the wolves gorge on the carcass and little Pulyo grazing beyond them. Pulyo raised his head once, laid his ears back and snorted, rolling his eyes so the whites showed. At once the wolves were alert, staring up toward a mass of black stone.

“Did it move?” Skeelie said. “Did the stone move?”

“I—I don’t know.”

They watched for a long time, but nothing moved. The animals settled down to feed; but Fawdref’s message was plain in Ram’s mind. An evil was there, stirred from sleep by the Pellian Seer. Not yet fully alive, but malevolent and very able to breathe life into itself when it chose.

Ram felt the forces building around them. And the very sweep of opposing forces seemed to be pulling a curtain aside, through which another realm of existence could be glimpsed. That realm, to which his spirit had always yearned blindly, was so immense that its very size made it invisible, as a gnat would view a great, fierce animal and be unable to comprehend what it was. This journey, these forces building, were as a key to that other world, which in time would show itself to all people.

All around them the forces converged, the Pellian’s evil preparations, Jerthon’s long plan coming to its crux, Venniver’s stubborn self-interest—Tayba’s precarious balance between self and something more than self. The power of good on Tala-charen, and the powers of all the evil of Ere, seeking . . .

*

Jerthon and Drudd supported the bronze wing between them over the coals, heating the edge to be braised. Sweat ran down their faces, and little black gnats buzzed maddeningly. Jerthon looked up occasionally to watch the line of slaves carrying the cast pieces up from the pit. Derin appeared, bent nearly double under the weight of a bronze head, and Tayba struggled up behind, supporting the neck. Girls bent like work animals, their hair plastered with sweat.

The forge fire flared up. He rearranged the coals. This new fire, laid in the square, caught the wind and displeased him. He turned to adjust the metal baskets filled with coals that hung along the body of the Horse of Eresu, where the wing would be attached. The horse stood hollow and alone, headless, wingless, secured to the base; and the hollow base was set deep into dragon bone, ready to open itself secretly to the tunnel. He watched Tayba climb back down the pit, her dark tangled hair falling over her face, and felt her tiredness as if it were his own. Drudd said, “Does it please you that the women work like donkeys?”

“It can’t be helped.”

“It could if we were long gone from this place.”

“Keep your voice down. They would be working just as hard, clearing land.”

“But what is it all for!” Drudd whispered, scowling. “The future can change. You’ve no—visions show only what might be. To stay here, building this statue, when—”

“A vision of the future can change. But five visions? Or five different times?” Jerthon looked at Drudd across the edge of the wing. “And more important, in all times—if we do not succeed in taking Burgdeeth and stopping Venniver—the statue will be needed. You know as well as I that those few who question Venniver’s teachings will need something to tell them that there is another way. Do you think . . . a way of truth, Drudd! They will not know, those children born and isolated here, that there is a way of freedom. They will think their own instincts are evil, just as Venniver teaches them. Unless—unless they can see something that tells them differently. Something that excites their true instincts, makes them yearn—”

“But won’t Venniver realize . . . ?”

“Venniver sees what he wants to see. He sees a statue denoting power, a statue that will put the seal of truth on his teachings, will help to subject men. He will see no more than that.”

“So you build a symbol,” Drudd said. “And he means to kill you when it’s finished.”

“We will be out and beheading his guards when he comes to kill me.” Jerthon turned away, and when he looked back Venniver was entering the square, came at once to stand beside the statue, appraising it silently.

Then he turned to watch Tayba struggle up over the rim of the pit with the end of a cast wing. Jerthon tried to probe his mind, but the man could not be touched. Seer’s blood. Yet the man had no skills, only this mindless blocking as if by instinct.

Well, he hadn’t blocked enough to hide the wolf bell; Ram had winnowed into his thoughts as cleverly as a mouse in the mawzee, seen and stolen the bell, and Venniver did not even know it was gone—yet.

When he found it gone, though, his rage would bring bellows that ought to be heard clear in Sangur. Jerthon hid a smile.

At least Venniver couldn’t blame Tayba. She hadn’t been near his fancy room in some while. Jerthon watched the man step toward her, then stiffened as he jerked her up from where she had knelt to set down her burden. She lost her balance, the bronze wing tipped, throwing its weight on Derin, and the child fell beneath the wing.

Jerthon moved to help her, but Drudd held his arm in a steel grip. They watched as Saffoni stepped out of line to lift the wing, her dark hair hiding her expression. Derin rolled free and seemed unhurt.

Venniver had paid no attention to Derin; she was nothing. He stood gripping Tayba’s shoulder. She stared back at him with hatred, her color rising, her fists clenched. But there was something more than fury in her eyes. Jerthon watched her with cold apprehension.

“Look at yourself, my fine Tayba! Look at your matted hair and your dirty face. You look—you’re no better than an animal!” He pushed her toward a guard. ‘Take her and have the old women bathe and dress her, then bring her to my rooms.” He turned away, dismissing them both. The guard wrenched Tayba around, grinning at his fellows, then marched her off through the square accompanied by the guards’ rude catcalls. Jerthon held his fury with great effort and turned once more to the brazing.

*

Ram built up the fire. The goat dung was growing short, but he dared not let the blaze die. The wolves paced endlessly, staring out at the night. Pulyo brayed, and Skeelie pulled him farther back among the boulders and hushed him. The mountain at their back felt solid and protective.

After supper they had moved on, climbing up into a land of enormous upheaval, great cliffs of stone ripped away and lying tilted. As the evening light had faded, the climb grew colder, and they had begun to see flows of ice cutting away between the stone. They had made camp and the small fire in a cupped place against the mountain, sat watching the tilted cliffs of stone lighten as the moon rose. Suddenly the wolves growled, and Skeelie paused with her hand half lifted, staring.

There, where moonlight touched a thick bed of ice, something moved within the ice. An immense shape, trapped in the frozen mountain of white. The children looked and could not move, saw its eyes behind the ice. It faded, the ice seemed to ripple; then it reappeared closer to them. Skeelie said, The fire—will the fire keep it away?”

“Maybe,” Ram said doubtfully. He looked at the pitiful fire, fed with dung. “Maybe,” he said again, and knelt, held the wolf bell over the flame so the flicking light caressed the rearing bitch-wolf—and slowly he began to draw the fire out, to take it into himself and into the bell, to make it a part of the bell’s power.

The wolves moved beyond the firelight toward the ice. Ram made the fire rise to run along his fingers, his arms, in a wild blaze.

The ice cracked sharply as the creature began to push up through it. Ram made fire leap and blaze out of his hands. The white monster slid up out of the ice. It was huge, weasel-like, big as seven horses. Ram cast fire up at it, gave fire to the wolves so they were flaming death-wolves. Together they stalked the creature as it slid down toward them, its belly slipping over the ice and down onto stone, its eyes never leaving them as it sought the warmth of living blood. The wolves were flaming giants raging toward the slinking weasel. It reared, hissing, its icy tail lashing, its huge pale eyes gleaming—and the flame washed over it so it cried out its rage in a shrill scream. Fire tore at it, burning, melting.

Wolves leaped, blazing. Ram threw fire on it, was a human tower of fire.

At last defeated, the ice-weasel slunk away. Ram could smell its burning flesh. It shrank, twisted, down into the ice. Ram stood high on the ice watching it disappear and could feel HarThass’s black rage. The ice drew together. The wolves’ teeth shone white against their lolling tongues.

Ram returned soberly to the fire and sat staring into it with wonder at what he had wrought—and with the lonely cloak of fear wrapping him. For he had felt HarThass like a dark incubus choking away his power so it had taken all his strength to bring the fire. Could he, as they drew closer to Tala-charen, continue to hold against the dark Seer? Yet beneath that straining effort, beneath the limits he had fought to extend, lay a power still greater in himself, untapped and dormant; a power he had not yet learned to reach. A power he must reach.

*

Tayba was locked into Venniver’s rooms and left to herself. She had been bathed and dressed, like a child. Old Semma and Poncie had found the whole episode very amusing. Her temper raged. She stood looking at the fine room wondering what to destroy first. She was well bruised. She’d left scratches on the guard’s face deep enough to kill the man if they festered, and she hoped they would. She stood staring at the cold fireplace, then knelt and laid a fire from the wood in the basket She wasn’t going to sit in a cold room shivering. She crouched there warming herself, trying to decide what to do. She hated Venniver. She thought she would kill him. What did he have in mind, bringing her here? She sat looking around the room, letting its luxury touch her in spite of her anger.

She didn’t want to go back to that cell. She didn’t want to have to face Jerthon’s assessments of her, which had become so very painful. Maybe . . .

She looked up as the lock turned.

Venniver entered and stood looking down at her. She stayed where she was, crouching, warming herself, undignified and not caring. To Urdd with him. His hard eyes made her swallow. She stared up at him coldly. His voice was measured. “Now that you are clean . . .” He moved toward her. “We will talk. Where did you get the bell? We will start with that.”

“You could have asked me that when you found it instead of beating me. I would have told you; there was nothing about it to hide. I found it on that cursed mountain, in a cave, and I wish I never had.”

“You said you weren’t on the mountain. You said you were walking in the moonlight”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t on the mountain. You didn’t give me a chance to tell you anything. I had been on the mountain. I’d walked all night, praying for Ram. Out there—near the gods—”

“I don’t want your lies! Tell me where you got the bell!”

“I am telling you where. In a cave. I thought it was—what is it? Why do you go on about it? What is so important about it?”

He stared at her for a long time. She looked back defiantly, her heart pounding. At last he said, “We will go up on the plain. You will call the wolves, my fine Tayba. You will use that bell. If the wolves come to you and do not kill us, then I will know that you lie. If they attack us, then. . .” He smiled. “Then I will know you speak truly.” He took up his sectbow and knife. “Get up.”

She looked at him coldly, but afraid. He was quite mad. Well, the wolves were not on the mountain, could not be called. They were all with Ram. And didn’t he know the bell was gone? She stared at him with rising fear. “If I could bid wolves—if I had such power as that, you would never have locked me in that cell. Did you think of that? If I were a Seer, you would never have found me on the plain, Venniver.”

“You will bid the wolves come down. You will bid them lie down before me—”

“I cannot! Don’t you understand! I know nothing of such things. What makes you believe anyone could call wolves?”

He turned to the chest at the foot of the bed, opened it, removed the key, then fit that to the lock beside the fireplace. She watched him, terrified.

He opened the safe, reached—and stared, his hand poised. Then at last he swung to face her. “You have taken it!” His shout filled the room. “The bell is gone—you . ..

She stared at him dumbly when he hit her, went limp under his hands.

“Where is it?”

“I don’t have it! I don’t understand . . .”

He pulled her up and marched her to the window, unlocked the shutters, threw them back and forced her to climb through. He prodded her with his sectbow, then when she resisted, drew his knife to force her on. The wind was bitter cold, whipped the thin dress around her. The moons were pale slivers, the stars small and icy. They walked until Burgdeeth’s lights lay well behind them; he prodded her cruelly when she turned to look. When they stood between twisting stone giants, where even Burgdeeth’s lights were not visible, he stopped, halting her with a rude hand on her arm, pulling her around to stare down at her, his face grim and determined. “Call the wolves. You need no bell—if you have the skill.” And when she cringed from him, “You will call the wolves down. Or you will die here.”

She tried to think what to do. His knife flicked close to her face. “You have the knowledge of Seers. Call them. Bring them down to me.”

“I cannot, Venniver. I told you.”

“The bell comes from Zandour. You brought it here. Why else would . . .” His voice died as he stared past her. She turned slowly to look.

Wolves were there. Dark slinking wolves coming in between the boulders, beginning to circle them, their heads lowered, their eyes cold; they made no sound, must have watched in hidden silence as Venniver forced her up the plain. She tried to contain her panic, looked for Fawdref among them, for pale Rhymannie—and then real terror swept her.

This was not Fawdref’s band. These thin, creeping animals were not his wolves. They were smaller, their eyes not the knowing eyes of the wolves she knew, but the cold eyes of hunters moving intently forward to the kill.

She spun on Venniver. “Draw your bow. Shoot them. They’ll kill us, Venniver!” She wanted to run, knew they would leap at once. “Kill them before they kill us!” The circle drew in, complete. Their eyes never looked into her eyes, but shifted, appraising each movement. Now she felt Venniver’s fear, saw his sudden realization. “You can’t . . .” He raised his bow. His look was incredulous. “But you are a Seer—you . . .”

“Kill them!” She jerked his knife from its sheath and turned to face the snarling band as a wolf leaped. She spun and plunged her knife in; its teeth caught her arm. She struck again and again in terror, its weight on her, trying to keep her balance—it fell at last as others leaped. She heard the bowstring sing, saw a wolf twist and fall, another. A wolf lunged against her shoulder nearly toppling her, its teeth at her throat. She stabbed and stabbed into the soft stomach as she fell, felt the animal go limp on top of her, heard the bow snap, saw wolves tearing at Venniver, dragging at him. She was torn and bleeding, dizzy. She thought the wolves had backed away. She felt Venniver beside her, trying to pull her up.

Seven wolves lay dead. The others were going away as if—as if they had been called, were slinking away up the dark plain. Venniver was holding her, pressing something to her throat trying to stop the blood. She shivered as he lifted her.

*

The powers that stayed the wolves pulled back and separated, hung poised for moments as one assessed the other; then all three turned away. Skeelie watched Ram, but could make little of what had happened. “Why did the Seer of Pelli help you? Why would he . . . ? And help Jerthon? Why would he care if Tayba died or Venniver either?”

“Sometimes I wish you were a boy and didn’t talk so much.”

“I only . . .” She looked back, saw the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand, that’s all.”

“HarThass—HarThass thinks to use Mamen—against Jerthon,” he said sickly. “And he needs Venniver. If Venniver dies, Jerthon will take Burgdeeth at once.”

“But why would Jerthon help her then, if Venniver would use her against him?”

“I think Jerthon—that Jerthon is a fool sometimes. Go to sleep, Skeelie! It’s the middle of the night!” He threw some goat dung on the fire and snuggled closer to Fawdref. The dark wolf sighed in his sleep. “Old dog! You never even woke. I never even needed you!”

Fawdref opened one eye and pushed his nose into Ram’s shoulder.

And in Pelli, HarThass paced, puzzling over how easily his powers had blended with those of Jerthon and Ram. Puzzling how to turn this to his advantage.

He saw Tayba’s fear and pain then and stopped pacing to touch her mind, very vulnerable now, to weave a spell that soothed her, took away her dark thoughts—that warmed her toward him, destroyed suspicion. . . .

In the slave cell Jerthon paced too, disturbing everyone. Well, his thoughts alone would have disturbed them. He was not thinking of HarThass or of Ram. He saw the Pellian soothe Tayba, then saw Venniver bandage her and cover her. He felt his pulse quicken in anger and was disgusted with himself.

He rose at last, wound tight as a spring, and jerked the hides away from the tunnel opening, lit a lantern and went down to where they had been setting new supports. He stood beneath the last timber and reached to touch the place where they would soon cut through into the statue’s base. Then he turned back to the niche he had carved into the tunnel wall, stood remembering the vision he and Tayba had seen here, the gods, the brown-haired girl bending to retrieve something. . . .

Had he carved the niche because of the vision? But he had not; he had always intended to put it there to hold the small relics Derin had collected: a basket of pot-shards, pieces of jewelry, a locket, three gold belt links, all found as they dug stone near the grove. It was as if the grove itself had been linked to the sacred city and to that time when Seers lived freely here. The relics themselves brought vibrations, brought visions of splendor and peace that stirred them; they would be left in this place for others, for slaves who might come after them and need such gentle reminders of a better time. He felt Drudd behind him, was annoyed that Drudd had followed him down.

He turned, looked at Drudd a moment in anger, then went to sit beside him on a pile of stone. Drudd said, “You watched Venniver make up with her. You torture yourself watching them.”

“She—there is a goodness in her, a strength in her. HarThass would destroy that. I want—I want the power in her to come right.”

“You lust after her. Be honest.”

“That too, I suppose.”

“HarThass would use her to kill you. Can’t you see it, man! Have you taken leave of all your senses?”

“He will use her only if she lets him.” He looked at Drudd unhappily. “Don’t you think I know what she is? But beneath that—there is something more. I don’t mean to let HarThass destroy it.”

Drudd turned away muttering.

So he sat there deliberately watching Venniver and Tayba, forcing his mind to hold them, letting all of it twist inside him, saw and heard them so clearly he could have been standing in Venniver’s ornate rooms, before the fire Venniver had just knelt to light.

Venniver had pulled a chair up beside the bed. Jerthon had a terrible desire to sit in it to make himself be there, make her know he was there. Instead he watched Venniver return to it and put his arms around Tayba. She woke from a light doze and lay looking at him quietly. “You really didn’t know,” Venniver said, “what the bell was. What it could do.”

“How could I have known?”

“Once,” he said, “I went up the mountains and into the ancient caves. The wolves came out from everywhere, were there suddenly all around me. I turned and walked away from them, and they followed me down the mountain. They never touched me, they just walked behind me—looking.”

Jerthon could feel her effort to understand him.

“They looked at me the way a man would. I—I wanted those wolves. I wanted them! Can you understand that? Once—once wolves like that were slaves to men. I wanted that, Tayba. And—and tonight I wanted you to give me that.”

Jerthon sickened, feeling her response. She understood Venniver exactly. She was not repelled by his lust, quite the opposite. She drew him to her and kissed him. Jerthon turned his mind away in disgust. Maybe Drudd was right. And yet—and yet he could not let that other part of her go.

TEN

The way grew too narrow and steep for the donkey. Skeelie had her arms around his shaggy neck, trying to hide tears. “We can’t just leave him, Ram. He’ll starve. Or something will kill him here.”

“You should have thought of that.”

“I did, but I thought—well, that there would be a valley somewhere with grass and water, and he’d stay. But there’s nothing here, only stone. And now—now we’ve seen the other wolves, the common wolves that would kill him—oh, he’s been a good donkey, Ram. Couldn’t you—couldn’t you lay a spell on his mind? Make him go home again, and quickly?

“I can try,” Ram said uncertainly. He rubbed the donkey’s nose and fondled it in the way it liked. Then, slowly and warmly, he let his mind flow into Pulyo’s as if they were one. As if they shared all memory, all feeling. He thought of the trail back, and of Burgdeeth, warm and safe. He thought of Pulyo going back hastily, cautiously, along that wild trail.

At last Pulyo raised his head, put forward his ears, stared back down the trail, and began to bray.

Ram loosed him and patted his rump. The little animal set off at a trot, soon had broken into a gallop. As he rounded the first bend of the narrow path, his braying echoed back and forth between the peaks. Skeelie said, “I hope he gets that out of his system. He’ll have every wolf in twenty miles following.”

Ram thought of silence, stealthy silence. The idea might be foreign to a donkey, but the braying stopped at last. “Go in safety,” Ram whispered.

They moved up along precipices now. And then at the edge of a sheer drop, the ground cracked suddenly beneath Ram’s feet; Skeelie grabbed him, Fawdref lurched, pressing him back. They stood pushing against the wall of stone behind them, Skeelie very white, Fawdref unwilling to move away from Ram. The wolf’s warmth, so close, was comforting. Ram looked at the broken precipice, and down to the mile-deep valley into which he would have fallen. Into which the rock had fallen clattering, then, without sound. They had not heard it hit. He picked up a stone, meaning to drop it down, but the thought sickened him. Skeelie said, “I thought the ground moved—before the cliff broke.” She was chilled into silence. They stared at the edge where stones had sheered away as cleanly as if they had been hit by an ax. And Fawdref looked at Ram with pain. Ram knew he felt the agony of not having foreseen that falling stone.

The near accident confused Ram. They both should have known, should have seen what HarThass was about. The Seer had ways of secrecy that were terrifying. Ram knew that to be tired decreased his powers, and that angered him too. There were such subtle skills yet to learn, ways to avoid his weaknesses—but how could he learn them here, when his job was to keep them safe on the mountain?

The clouds hung low and heavy. There had been rain farther down, their clothes were wet and cold. Resolutely they moved on, following the narrow precipitous trail along the cliff until, late in the afternoon, the trail ended suddenly and sharply. Only a steep drop lay ahead. The cliff wall on their right, which continued upward a long way, was sheer, broken only by wrinkles of stone inches wide, far too narrow for even an agile goat to climb. Ram swallowed. “We can’t go back! There isn’t time to go back, the Seer’s army will sweep into Burgdeeth, Jerthon—Jerthon will need the help of the Runestone. I must—I must hold that power against the Seer. . . .”

Fawdref stood leaning over the lip of the trail, staring down into the valley. Cautiously the children looked, and there across the far green valley floor an immense snakelike shadow writhed. “Gantroed,” Ram breathed. The shadow oozed closer to the cliff wall directly beneath them, then disappeared into the shadow of the cliff itself.

Skeelie whispered, “Can it climb the cliff?”

“Of course it can. You know what it’s like, those legs—they can grip anything.”

Fawdref turned his steady gaze on Ram, then looked upward. He spoke in Ram’s mind with an intention that chilled Ram; Ram touched the pale, soft fur along the wolf’s muzzle, then laid his head against the great rounded skull, swept by the power of Fawdref’s thoughts—swept by terror at what Fawdref meant to do.

“You could do it alone, but you can’t . . .” He stared at Fawdref. “You can’t balance with our weight. It’s too sheer, a goat couldn’t . . .”

Fawdref let him know that he could.

Reluctantly Ram shed his pack. He felt weak and uncertain. They could die here—and they must not die. He slipped the last of the mountain meat into his tunic, then began to remove his sword belt; but Fawdref nosed it back. They could hear a crunching sound from the cliff below, heard some rocks break away. Ram dared not look down at the valley again. He glanced at Skeelie and knew she felt the same. He felt Fawdref’s strength reach to steady him. He was weak with terror. He would rather fight the gantroed, he would . . . Fawdref nosed at him again. He looked into Fawdref’s eyes, then at last he climbed obediently onto the great wolf’s back, all power within him silent now, withheld in mortal fear; he was a tiny child again, wanting comforting.

He turned to look at Skeelie. She was so deathly white he thought she could not do it.

Skeelie shed her pack and laid herself atop Rhymannie’s back, her legs bent and gripping, her arms tight around the bitch wolf’s neck, her face in Rhymannie’s thick coat. Her eyes were closed tight.

Ram felt the lump of the wolf bell wedged between his ribs and Fawdref’s back and forgot helplessness then, beginning to pour all the skills he knew into the bell’s power—the bell was not a vessel to command wolves now, but a source of strength for them all.

*

HarThass dismounted. A soldier took his reins and led his horse onto the scow. The wind was still, the narrow inlet clear and calm. On the other side, Farr looked small and ragged. Both scows smelled so strongly of fish it was no wonder the horses balked. It had taken the fool Farrians half the morning to get their catch unloaded and the scows ready for passage. He boarded the larger scow and stood at the rail.

The water was the color of dead grass, but clear enough; he could see the dark shapes of the sunken islands deep down, and the outline of Opensa’s sunken towers. He caught a sense of alarm suddenly from the young Seer, AcShish, and reached out to see why the swarthy boy stood staring so intensely toward the mountains.

HarThass let the vision fill his mind; then slowly he began to smile. He saw the wolves crouching, preparing to scale the sheer cliff, the children clinging. He saw the gantroed hidden below them, seeking, sliding up the sheer wall, led and nurtured by the aura of dark that he, HarThass, had so skillfully woven around the children, taught his apprentices to hold. The aura moved with them constantly up the mountains, bringing the gantroed now, out from its slimy stone den into daylight it may not have touched for centuries. He raised his hand—he could flick wolves and children from that wall in one quick surge of power, into the gantroed’s jaws.

Yet, did he want to kill Ramad so soon? Might he not, even yet, seduce the boy into turning back? Or, better, seduce him into bringing the Runestone down the mountain to him? A moment of uncertainty gripped him. He stared blindly up toward Tala-charen, seeing the wolves crouched.

And then quickly he sent his powers in a dark sudden surge. The gantroed writhed more agilely up that rock wall toward the children. He would turn them back, delay them, weaken them further. . . . Let them live yet awhile.

But he met a jolt of violence, sickening him: his own force was gripped and twisted back. He stared into the element of dark and saw Jerthon facing him, laughing. Laughing! He trembled with fury; he would see Jerthon burn. He felt his five apprentices drawn taut against Jerthon, and still their power, all together, was not sufficient Those slaves! Those damnable, fracking slaves. And they stood as one with the wolves and with that impossible boy and his bell, grown stronger, grown beyond tolerating.

*

Jerthon forgot the pot of molten bronze in his hands as he knelt before the forge fire, his mind, his very soul on the dark peaks, caught in battle as he stood with Ram to drive HarThass back, to slow the gantroed as the great wolf crouched to leap. He pulled the silence of death from the far world of night and flung it down on HarThass, pulled the force of earth from the mountains themselves, from the morass of stone and sent it down on the Pellian to snarl his web of terror and the insidious illusion of uncertainty he spun. And Fawdref tensed.

Ram, his face against the great wolf’s shaggy neck, could see the sky out beyond the cliff, the peaks far below, see dark clouds rolling closer. He felt Fawdref measure the spans, one above the next, gauge where each foot would strike and cling. Once Fawdref made that first surging leap there could be no stopping or his weight and Ram’s would pull them back to spill them into the valley. His first momentum must keep them moving upward in one terrible, straining effort until they stood at last safe on the crest—or until they failed, and fell.

The wolf sprang suddenly upward in a rending surge of raw power that took Ram’s breath, an explosion from crouching haunches that lifted them high up the cliff, clinging, paws scrabbling, leaped again, straining up and up the mountain, leaning into the cliff’s side. Again upward . . .

Rhymannie mimicked him, came flying up. Each leap Fawdref made, she made also as Skeelie clung in empty terror.

Five leaps, six. Ram expected to feel the momentum reverse and know they would plunge down. He willed Fawdref upward, made himself as a feather on Fawdref’s back, weightless . . .

And at last Fawdref stood on the crest of solid rock.

Ram loosed his arms from the shaggy neck, felt his feet strike the ground. He turned to look at Skeelie. She slipped down off Rhymannie’s back and grinned at him.

They were on a thin, long ridge that ran through space to join a mountain and fell away on both sides to the valleys below. Mountain peaks lay below them like a carpet, fading into the far horizons. And beyond the first mountain they faced, rose a second: taller and very thin; symmetrical as a tower. Tala-charen. There was no mistaking it. It thrust above the mountain ranges and into the sky like a castle meant to rule clouds, meant to be approached only on the winds. And those winds bit at them with icy fingers as they began to cross along the crest of the ridge.

But the ground was warm, and ahead of them steam rose through cracks in the stone, and there was a red glow over the cracked ground and tongues of flame licked out. The other wolves had scaled the cliff and now began to slip past Fawdref light-footed, to go on up the ridge toward the first peak as if they wanted to get quickly away from the burning stone.

*

The scows pulled into Farr’s shore, HarThass swearing roundly at the ineptness of apprentice Seers who were no more help to him than a clutch of hens. To let the gantroed go sluggish as a garden worm, unable to climb to the ledge in time to turn the children back. When his horse was brought, he snatched at the reins with such violence that the animal reared and plunged away and had to be caught again, sending soldiers and apprentices alike into a flurry of confusion. He mounted, jerking the creature’s mouth so it nearly unseated him. The apprentices—seething at his anger and at their own failure at such a simple thing and shamed by their master’s failure—smirked at his discomfort and looked the other way.

They rode up through Farr’s southern village scowling at the staring populace until all but the bravest stepped back inside their doors out of sight. HarThass’s angry mood did not abate until they were well on up the river Owdneet and nearly into Aybil. This was low, marshy country. The soldiers killed some ducks for supper and a large water snake. They would eat, rest for two hours, and move on as soon as the moons gave them light.

*

Tayba knew Ram was in danger. She yearned to reach out to him, was frozen with fear for him and could do nothing. She did not know what danger, only that dark powers swung and tilted around him, tried to force her to stand with them against him; to give herself to them. But she had nothing to give, would never stand against Ram, was unable to deal with this. She felt herself torn, knelt weeping and did not know why she wept; felt gentleness touch her, seduce her, felt the darkness soothe and warm her, drug her. . . .

*

Where the ridge joined the first peak, a cave led into the mountain. The children, pressing close to the wolves, entered the cave gladly after so much height and empty space around them, sighed with relief at the closeness of stone walls. Even the dim light seemed pleasant, and the protection very welcome, for it had started to rain again and that high ridge had been terrifying in the sweeping rain.

They drew deeper into the cave, and deeper. The dim light took on a red glow, dull red pulsing along the cave walls. After several turnings they came to a lake of fire, red molten rock bubbling, sending out a heat that at first was lovely, then as they drew closer made them hesitate, was so hot they wanted to turn away from it. A narrow ledge ran beside the burning lake, against the sheer wall. Beyond the lake the cave widened. They saw dark shadows move there, then disappear. “We—we had best go on,” Ram said.

“But the shadows—”

He started across, his jaw clenched. It would be worse if they stayed. “The gantroed is still behind us somewhere,” he said quietly.

*

Tayba felt the dark soothe her, caress and join with her; and gently she gave herself to it. As the children and their companions started along the path beside the burning lake, she knew only the seduction of that unknown warmth and yielded to it, let it wrest a power from her she did not know she gave, felt herself lifted and reaching out with some greater strength than her own.

Jerthon, alarmed, came into her mind quickly and directly, made her see him, stared into her eyes so that they widened. Made her see Ram then, see what she was about: and the power within her exploded outward in a violent wrenching that sent a wolf sprawling toward the burning lake; she screamed, terrified, drew back, pulled back, twisting away from the dark. Saw Jerthon’s mind and heart reach out to catch the burned wolf and lift her to safety.

She knelt breathless and sick. What had happened? She did not want to see, to face it. She pushed Jerthon away in panic; and he turned from her willingly, sick at what she had done, allowed to be done. HarThass had shaped a skill over her that appalled him.

Ram saw, in that instant when he and Skeelie together snatched at the falling wolf and felt Jerthon’s power with them—in that instant he knew Tayba’s confusion and her betrayal. He went sick at the knowledge. Not only his life and the wolves, but so much more—she jeopardized it all. He could not bear to think she would, yet it was so. She had let the dark power in, had welcomed it simply by denying her own power. And now—now, for the rest of the journey up into Tala-charen, she was likely to betray them again. Tayba—Mamen . . . He was faint with the heat of the burning lake that boiled beside their hurrying feet, was dizzy with the hot, steaming air. His anger at Tayba seemed one with the heat, he was light-headed, dizzy and sick. . . .

*

It was growing increasingly difficult for the slaves to hide their plans from HarThass as the Seer drew closer to Burgdeeth—if, indeed, he did not already know of the tunnel and the importance they placed on it. A tunnel to lie like a talisman of freedom beneath Burgdeeth. A hidden place, a place of safety for generations yet unborn. If they failed to take the town, and Venniver’s religion became a reality, it would be there always to harbor those who would escape. And if they took the town, the tunnel would become a bulwark against attack, where women and children could hide from the cruelty and maiming that a later Herebian attack could bring. A tunnel from which the vibrations of the relics of the past and the vibrations of the statue would speak out to young Seers.

HarThass would destroy it if he knew; and HarThass was far too capable of digging deep down into one’s mind, to seek out just such knowledge.

*

“You see!” EnDwyl said. “Even with all that, she botched it. She’s too unpredictable. She—”

“Those cursed apprentices botched it!” HarThass scowled at the five rigid backs riding ahead of them, then looked at EnDwyl piercingly. He did not admit his own failure. “Given a little more time, I’ll have the girl as carefully fettered as this stupid animal I ride. Meantime, they are not past the burning lake yet—wait and see what my”—he raised his voice threateningly—“what my skilled apprentices will do to them before they are past it.” He kicked his mount brutally and sent it up into the bit to bow its neck in useless effort in HarThass’s idea of spirit

EnDwyl gave him a sideways glance, then looked away across the low hills that flanked the plain. The horses were growing tired, they didn’t need HarThass’s stupid treatment. He stared at the plain, the hills, and thought that if they—when they took Burgdeeth, they would take all this land as well. His thoughts were broken suddenly as HarThass jerked his horse to a clumsy halt and sat like a dead weight in the saddle. EnDwyl reined in beside him. The other five Seers had reined up too, turned, looking disconcerted. The soldiers turned in their saddles to eye them with patient annoyance.

HarThass, still as stone, began to sweat with the force he was using in some cold effort; at last he said, raising his eyes to the other Seers, “You fracking incompetents! Even without the girl to hinder you, you can’t—I did not mean for them all to get by that molten lake! Not all. What were you about? Daydreaming. You could have put a wolf or two in to boil!” He glared at EnDwyl as if it were his fault too and kicked the gray in the ribs to vent his anger, went lurching off at a gallop that nearly unseated him as the animal shied around a boulder.

He was no great horseman, the Seer of Pelli.

*

Ram and Skeelie stood some yards beyond the boiling lake, the wolves clustered around them. The wolf who had nearly fallen in lay licking her burned leg. They had barely made it across as the Seer of Pelli sent a second sickening force to topple and unnerve them; had clung creeping along the damp wall, the heat nearly unbearable, singeing whiskers and faces, the Seer’s force pulling them like a magnet toward that boiling mass; had tumbled at last onto cool, firm stone nearly breathless.

Skeelie said, “Well, at least our clothes are dry. We were cold, we wanted to be warm.”

“Warm. Not singed.” He knelt to examine Celic’s burned leg. They didn’t even have water to ease the burn—and all of them were thirsty now—no salve to help her, nothing. They stared back at the flaming lake, then turned away from it, sick at the close escape. The smell of burning flesh and hair filled the cave.

Red reflections from the fiery lake glanced across the cave walls. The hurt bitch moaned, then was still. She was a gentle, deep gray little wolf. “Celic,” Ram said. “Celic.” She looked at him with kindness in spite of the pain. They went on at last, Celic hopping on three feet. The cave grew smaller, then larger again, always lit by a dull light as if fissures opened somewhere above them. When they made a crude camp at last, the wolves paced guard, several at a time, as the children slept. They came, near to noon the next day, to a honeycombed expanse through which they must crawl. Blind white lizards scuttled away, stirred by their vibrations against the stone. Skeelie shivered. “We must be near the other side of the mountain by this time. And we keep dropping.”

That will make the climb longer, up into Tala-charen.”

“There’s nothing growing, no morliespongs, our food wont last long if . . .”

“Maybe—maybe between the mountains something will be growing. We’ll need water. There’s nothing, just those trickles in the rock.” The children had lapped at the damp rock just as the wolves had, absorbing every drop into their dry throats.

The cave grew narrower, the ceiling lower. They were so thirsty. The weight of the mountain above them was oppressive. Celic kept up on her three legs very well. Ram felt the powers converging on Burgdeeth, knew that the slaves would come out soon through the completed statue, to challenge Venniver. That the Pellians were drawing close to Burgdeeth. The power that lay in Tala-charen could help Jerthon; and without it, the battle would be bloody indeed, very close. He pressed on, pale and silent.

The tunnel grew very tight, almost completely dark. HarThass’s darkness rode with them; the mountain whispered with voices that touched their minds then vanished. “I’m afraid,” Skeelie said quietly, but did not slack her pace. Something cold pushed past them unseen; the air stirred suddenly.

Then in the distance they saw flame blocking the tunnel, a nearly human figure with fire playing over its warty hide. Ram felt out to touch its sullen cruelty; then slowly and carefully he spun a web of confusion, deluding, misleading until at last it turned away into some dark fissure. When they passed the narrow opening, they saw its red reflection moving. Fire ogre. “Cruel, but mindless,” Ram said to reassure himself; but it didn’t reassure him.

And he felt the gantroed, knew it crawled in caves directly above them, ever pacing them.

There’s a stair ahead,” Skeelie said. “Look.” They could just make out a narrow, twisting stair leading upward; they ran, began to climb at once, feeling their way with care, clinging to the stone steps. The wolves growled at something Ram could not sense and pushed on quickly upward.

Finally they thought the air was fresher; then they began to see the steps clearly, and there was light coming down from above them. Soon they could see the stormy sky and feel the damp wind in their faces. They came up out of the well of stairs into the sky; and ahead rose Tala-charen, its peak lost in cloud. They had only to cross the green saddle of valley that ran like a bridge across empty sky. The setting sun cast one harsh orange streak beneath the boiling clouds, then disappeared.

They started down across the meadow, and when their feet touched soft grass, the wolves lapped moisture from the blades. Ram turned to wait for them and felt the mountain lurch, the earth beneath them jolt sickeningly. He grabbed Skeelie, threw her down as the wolves went belly low. The mountain rocked. Ram felt the Seer’s power, knew HarThass would wait no longer. The ground rocked so hard he thought the earth would tear away. The empty spaces below them heaved up. “Crawl!” he shouted uselessly, for they were all crawling across the swaying meadow. “Get into Tala-charen.”

*

They could see its entrance, a thin opening, dark. And then suddenly fire ogres appeared in that dark hole, blinking as if the tumult of the earth had driven them from sleep. Ram tried to stand up, feet apart, and the valley shook, and the lower peaks tipped and swam. Thunder echoed. Fawdref pushed close to him. They were spun toppling again, clinging to the unstable earth.

The entrance to Tala-charen blurred, was lost in a burst of flame as more fire ogres emerged. The wolves moved forward, teeth bared. All the forces of Ere seemed to converge as the two mountains lurched. Stones broke away, went tumbling down. They heard a crack and saw flame burst from a peak far below.

At last they had crossed the rocking valley, knelt against the mountain in terror as boulders rolled and fell crashing. The fire ogres came toward them, ranked close, reaching. Skeelie’s knife was poised to strike; she screamed without sound. Fawdref leaped, and the stink of burning fur filled the wind. Ram grabbed him, wrapped his arms around him to extinguish flame, shouting the words of the bell: demanding. An ogre had Celic, flame covered her. Wolves cried out as they bit through flame. “Now!” Ram screamed, his fury more than his own; and caught his breath as rain came crashing, thundering down at his bidding.

The flames were drowned. Naked fire ogres like great toads fled falling over stones, back into the fissure. The wolves rolled in rain, killing fire. Ram stroked and stroked their poor burned faces.

They ran at last through the entrance, drenched, safe as long as they remained wet; ran past flame-filled caves, past staring eyes, fiery hands reaching then drawn back, to a spiral flight thin as glass; ran, loving the clammy feel of their wetness as they surged upward, wolves and children; and heard the ogres start up the steps behind them.

ELEVEN

Venniver reached to spear some roast stag from the tray Tayba held, then returned to his argument with Theel. He hardly noticed her. “. . . doesn’t matter, he’s of no use now, I’m finished with him. The statue . . .”

“He could be of use,” Theel said dryly. “Making tools. The forgeman—there’s a lot needed. One forgeman can’t—”

“We’ll have more craftsmen soon. Next time we go down into Zandour to trade.”

“I suppose so,” Theel said. “The Seer is a troublemaker.”

She turned away, sick at what Venniver intended; sick with the unease that had gripped her all afternoon, that held her now with such power that every movement seemed an effort. Her mind was hazy, confused. She heard Venniver say, “He could make problems. We . . .” Her thoughts turned coldly to the statue in the square.

She had stood beneath gathering storm clouds just before she came in to serve supper, led inexorably to the square to stare up at the complete statue, the rearing bronze god, the winged horses lifting against a last harsh slash of sun that died quickly. She had been touched with awe at its beauty, but had felt something else, too. Something imminent and secret and upsetting. The statue was completed. Something would happen now. Was happening. Ram’s danger was part of it—and a seething, terrible turmoil in the minds around her that she could not—would not—decipher. That was part of it. Forces looming, drawing in . . . the statue . . .

But her mind led her away from the statue in a morass of confusion, away from some knowledge. She could not settle, stood staring at the roast stag, the smell of it nauseating her. What force was all around her, pressing at her? She closed her eyes. What was it she should know? The statue—she felt Jerthon push into her mind suddenly, taking away that which she had almost seen, almost known. She stood scowling, her hands like ice.

Confused and frustrated, she left the dining hall at last to stand in the door to the street.

The damp rising wind changed direction, fitful as a cat. The clouds lay low, heavy as stone. Rain would come soon. The fading light was gray and dull. As she turned, she saw a figure slipping behind a building; a slave, she thought, a slave alone and free, hiding in shadow. Yes, the slave called Pol. Thin, freckled beneath a thatch of red hair. Hiding from the guards. Why was he . . . ? And suddenly and clearly, a vision flooded her mind. She stood hardly breathing; Seeing, knowing; knew the slaves had escaped; knew Jerthon’s plan, every detail in one terrifying instant.

They had come out of the statue’s hollow base through a little door. Even now while she stood staring at the empty street they were moving through the town unseen, attacking the guards in the tower, taking the weapons there, breaking the cell door from without to make it seem that was their way of escape; were sealing the hole in the cell floor with mortar, sealing the side tunnel into the pit they had left only a little hole up into the grove among boulders; that, and the entrance in the statue, its door so cleverly made that a man could stare right at it and never know it was there.

She knew where more weapons were cached. She knew where Dlos had hidden food in the storeroom. She turned, drawing in her breath. At that moment slaves were slipping down the corridors of the Hall behind her, stealing into rooms, snatching up weapons. She clutched at the wall, fear gripping her, and a terrible urgency.

They meant to take Burgdeeth. Her pulse was pounding. Venniver would die this night. She felt a terrible tenderness for him suddenly, a oneness with him that she had never felt for another—in spite of his cruelty. Because of his cruelty, perhaps. Because of his genius. Burgdeeth as he planned it would die this night. The Temple, the beautiful Set . . . Venniver’s dream.

She fled back into the hall. Venniver was laughing at some joke; she could not make him listen, shook his shoulder impatiently, driven by urgency and sickened by something that tried to silence her. Venniver turned, scowling, as she fought for breath.

“What is it? What?”

“The slaves, they . . . The battle within her was fierce, as if hands gripped her and twisted her away. She could hardly speak. “The slaves,” she choked at last, “the slaves are out—with weapons.”

The guards were on their feet snatching up swords and sectbows, Theel staring at her for a moment then hurrying away. Venniver held her wrist in a steel grip. “How? How did they get out?”

“I don’t know. I saw them in the street. I don’t know how, they—they will kill you!” She felt sick at what she was doing, could not control her trembling.

He loosed her wrist, rose, and swung away from her. She stood staring after him in turmoil; and she saw Ram suddenly in a vision against the boiling sky as if he stood on top the world, saw him thrown to the ground, falling, boulders pelting down, and felt immense forces battling there. Then she saw riders pounding fast up along the river toward Burgdeeth, their horses slick with rain, their wet capes whipping in the wind, their faces—EnDwyl. EnDwyl and the Pellian Seers approaching fast as Venniver’s guards battled slaves in the dark streets. She was Seeing, she thought, swallowing. Seeing—willing herself to See.

She saw Jerthon’s eyes then, demanding something of her, saw the danger she had wrought for him, his anger; didn’t know who was right or if there was a right. She saw men locked in battle, men fall in their own blood; she stood gripping the edge of the table, her knuckles white.

The slaves would die because of her. Would die. Jerthon would die. . . .

But the dark pulled at her and soothed her. She saw HarThass’s soldiers plunge across the river into the streets, saw Jerthon facing two guards in desperate battle. She heard Ram scream out in fury, fierce as death itself.

She ran out into the street, stood staring in panic at the bloody fighting, saw a slave lying dead beside the steps.

She knelt, opened the dead man’s fingers, and slipped his bloody sword from his hand.

*

The children ran up the spiraling flight past rooms open to the winds, and heard fire ogres screaming behind them; past bright rooms and saw only flashing colors as they ran, their breaths catching. The flight ended in a fall of water. They dove in, stood beneath the downpour as the red flame of fire ogres drew close outside, gibbering, unable to enter.

They came out soaking into a beautiful room, its window thick in the mountain wall, its curved benches deep with bright pillows. At one side a flight led up. They climbed. No one had breath to speak. In the next chamber, water fell again, and in the next twelve chambers led upward, and outside the windows the sky darkened, and rain came whipping to damp the thick sills. Lightning broke the night, and thunder; and that other dark rose with them, an incubus they could not shake. And as the wolves gazed upward, the lust of killing came into their eyes. Ram stopped on a stair and took Fawdref’s heavy head in his hands. The great wolf’s eyes were full of a need that chilled and excited him; and Fawdref’s mind gave back only silence.

“They want to kill,” Skeelie breathed, watching. She stared upward toward the unseen hollow peak of Tala-charen. “What is up there? They . . .”

“Whatever it is, HarThass—HarThass is there too. His forces are in Burgdeeth, are fighting Jerthon, bloody in the streets, in the dark rain.” He swallowed. “But he is there above us too—waiting.”

They hurried on, the wolves predatory and stalking. They came at last to the top of Tala-charen, into a cave lit softly by the glowing stone of the floor, as if they stood on a lake of bright water. Skeelie stared at it, hesitating to step, as if it would give way. “What is it?”

“Termagant. You know, in the myth of the sea god, the stone that catches daylight and holds it for the night.”

She stared, then stepped delicately. And as their eyes grew accustomed, the cave seemed to brighten even more. The walls undulated around the curved open space in the natural formation of the mountain, with a ceiling curving down, a smooth dome decorated all over with inlaid stone in the patterns of animals: the triebuck, mythical creatures, and stag and winged horses and birds, great golden lizards, flying snakes colored like jewels.

It was quite empty, a cool empty room; yet the wolves stood growling, heads lowered. And as the children watched, they became increasingly uneasy. A mist began to form. Only a darkness at first in the center of the cave. Then a deep shadow. Then a cloud, thick and growing heavy.

And it was more than a cloud: it was a shape growing thicker until soon its writhing mass filled the cave. Snakelike, coiling, pushing against walls and ceiling.

Its blunt head sought them, its tongue licked out, its tendrils reached to caress them. Its hungry mouth was fanged, its breath stinking of death. Its pale eyes watched them, and it knew why they had come.

*

Tayba wiped blood from the sword where the slave’s hand had held it, hefted it to get the feel of the grip, then slipped out into the street.

Men shouted, she could hear swords clash; rain swept in her face, dark shapes lurched, appeared suddenly in the downpour and disappeared. She dodged lunging men to search, nearly fell over a fallen, screaming horse. Her hands shook, she ran with fear crowding her—and the dark leading her; knew Venniver and Jerthon had met in battle, ran—there, in the alley.

The dark pulled her on. She felt horror, suddenly and sharply, and did not know why. She reached the alley, saw Venniver’s sword flash through rain. She gripped cold metal. Fury and eagerness took her. She stared at Jerthon. . . .

Then suddenly she went dizzy, was ignobly sick against the stone wall.

Afterward she crouched, drenched and shivering, very ill, staring at the battle; not knowing what she had wanted to do or why she had come. Metal rang as a sword struck stone. “Venniver,” she whispered, her lips numb.

*

The gantroed’s tendrils snaked out; its open mouth wanted blood. Ram dared not take his eyes from it, felt HarThass in it. Fawdref leaped again, the wolves tore at it. Ram hacked snaking tendrils from the great worm, then he raised the bell. His own power seemed small. The beast twisted, a tendril seared his arm. Tendrils flashed around Fawdref, choking him. The wolf fought, snarling, fangs cutting deep. The gantroed coiled tighter. Ram screamed the words of the bell, reached to tear power from Ere’s night; and the gantroed had Skeelie, pulling her flailing toward its hairy mouth. She knifed at the great tongue; the creature screamed and loosed her.

Ram saw Jerthon fall in battle, saw Tayba . . .

Wolves were knocked away by flailing tendrils, leaped again. The gantroed reared, Ram plunged his sword into its pale stomach. It coiled over them screaming. Ram went sick at Tayba’s intent. A wolf leaped, knocked him away as the gantroed struck, its teeth grazing him. He brought his sword across it, into the worm, but his mind was filled with Tayba, his power was with Tayba, turning her, forcing her. Wolves clung like flies to the stinking hide. The coils grew smaller, crushing them. The creature’s blood flowed yellow. Ram felt the dark forces sway; then he saw with surprise that Skeelie was far back in the cave, nearly crushed by the swinging coils.

She crouched beneath the gantroed, dodging as she searched along the cave walls. The snake slammed against her, slapped at her mindlessly with its wormlike arms as it fought Ram and the wolves. Ram rolled away from the churning wolves and ran. Behind him wolves leaped in unison for the gantroed’s head. He heard Skeelie scream, thought she was crushed; he slipped, fell, was pressed into a corner as tentacles lashed him—but he felt the power drumming, a different power now.

He rose, fought to reach her, saw her tearful, frantic face as she searched wildly along the wall with clutching hands. “I can—there is something. I can feel it, but it won’t come clear for me. Ram . . .”

He touched the wall, and it vibrated under his fingers. He felt along it, his fingers sensitive. The gantroed lunged into them, knocking them against the wall. Something—there. The power came strong. He drew out his knife and began to dig at the stone, a bull’s heavy form—yes. Behind it an empty space. He pried stones out, they fell away to lie scattered across the floor.

Inside lay the cask, carved of pale wood.

Ram drew it out, held it with shaking hands, oblivious to the battle, to everything. Felt the spell on it, saw his fingers try to lift the lid, watched his hands pry at it uselessly.

The dark reached, needed to blind him. He could feel HarThass close. He brought his forces trembling against the Seer; saw Tayba’s sword raised . . .

He shouted into the screaming storm. Wind lashed through the chamber.

*

Tayba faced Jerthon quietly, then looked down at Venniver, fallen and bleeding, looked with shock at her blood-covered blade. Jerthon said softly, “You meant to kill me. Why did you change your mind?

“I could—I could do nothing else.” She stared and stared at Venniver, could feel his pain. Was he dying? Had she killed him? Then she looked up at Jerthon and knew she truly could have done nothing, nothing else but save this tall, fierce man who stood before her drenched with rain and blood, searching her face with an honesty he had, at last, forced her to accept.

They saw too late the soldiers leaping through rain to block the alley, dark shapes in darkness, lurching forward; saw HarThass, cape blowing, sword drawn.

Tayba and Jerthon stood together to face the challenge as, behind them, Venniver rolled onto his side and tried to rise; and suddenly all was confusion, and time twisted with a jolting shock and held cold. Space and time were asunder. The alley and cave were as one. Soldiers were poised; Ram’s fingers reached to touch the stone; the mountain rocked. Lightning flashed in a jagged bolt that turned the cave pale, made the gantroed look white. The lightning seared Ram’s hand, struck the Runestone.

It shattered.

The stone lay white hot in his hands. Nine long shards of jade, glowing white.

Then they began to cool. Turned pale green, then darker until they were the deep color of the sea. The Runestone of Eresu, broken apart. The power shattered. Ram stared at the stones, shocked. Felt their terrible weight. Felt the power that remained; it was the same power, only divided. Not whole, not . . .

The mountain trembled again, and the floor beneath their feet began to crack, a long, jagged wound growing wider. They leaped back as the dark abyss widened. The dying gantroed began to slip down into the emptiness.

In Burgdeeth, Venniver rose slowly and painfully to his feet. Jerthon held him captive and held the soldiers back with his threat to Venniver. They watched silently as HarThass approached.

Ram reached to give Jerthon power from the stone he held. And in the cave hazy figures had suddenly appeared all around him, ghostly figures growing clearer. A girl with long brown hair leaped from the back of a winged horse to run toward them; a red-haired young man turned to stare at Ram; a man dressed in blue robes looked up in surprise; others, a pale, lovely young woman who gazed into Ram’s eyes with such recognition that he went giddy with a feeling he had never encountered.

The figures stood with hands cupped upward in ceremony. Ram’s hands were the same, palms up. And the terrible weight of the jade shards was lighter; for now only one section of the Runestone lay in his palm. He stood staring at it stricken with the shattering of the stone, the shattering of that perfect power. Felt the power of the one stone, though. Saw that in those other, ghostly hands, lay shards of jade. Two? Three? He could not be sure. But there had been nine.

Had some gone, then, careening down into the dark abyss? As he stared down into the emptiness, the jagged cavern began to narrow, to close. They all drew back, watching; the ghostly crew mingling quite comfortably among wolves.

The floor closed slowly until only a jagged black scar marred the cave floor. This remained. The gantroed’s bones, white and clean, protruded from it; wedged deep in the mountain, perhaps to mingle with the lost jade.

*

Jerthon held the soldiers frozen, felt HarThass’s power like a tide. He glanced at Tayba. “Are you with me? Help me hold them.” She felt him draw her out. She swallowed, brought her power stronger to lift and surge upward, catching her breath. How did she know to do this? Jerthon faced HarThass, swords clashed; their figures spun, were as one in the dark alley; she held the soldiers back, held Venniver back, straining; gasped as HarThass went down and Jerthon stood over him, his sword at the Pellian’s throat; turned away with shock at the Seer’s quick death.

But they could not hold Venniver long. He rose, came at them bleeding. She faced him sword drawn, as Jerthon whirled and had him in a grip like steel. She stared into Venniver’s eyes, could not speak, his hatred chilling her through. Would Jerthon kill him?

But Jerthon backed away from the guards, Venniver his captive. “He can’t hold that rabble forever.”

“Even—even with the power of the stone? Ram—”

“Even with Ram’s power, in that one shard of jade. HarThass’s apprentices are well trained—out there somewhere. Can’t you feel them?” He glanced at Venniver, held tight against him, then at her, appraising her. “This one will buy our freedom. If it is freedom you want.” He was watching her, but she could only look at Venniver. His hatred was terrible, she stared back at him, sick. Yet that hard, confining shell around herself had cracked away. Something new was determined to live, something beyond what she had known with Venniver. Something more real and urgent than anything in her life. She looked at Venniver and swallowed, looked away. Her tears were mixed with rain, salt and bitter.

She stood beside Jerthon and, in a power she had never admitted, never wanted, she held with him, held the soldiers back. A power that rose, now, from the very core of her being. She stayed the guards, the Pellian Seers, her mind coolly linked with Jerthon’s. They forced Venniver down the street toward the band of mounts that waited, guarded by Dlos. Some of the horses were saddled, some roped together. Derin and Saffoni led horses forward. Tayba could not speak for the effort she made to hold strong against the Pellian forces, against Venniver’s stifled guards. How long she could hold, she did not know.

Slaves were coming out of the dark, some leading the soldier’s horses. The rain had slacked, nearly ceased. She saw men carrying wounded, felt out with Jerthon in quick assessment. He said, “Drudd? Pol?”

“Yes. We are here,” Drudd said, lifting a wounded man up. “Trane is dead. And Vanaw. I don’t think . . . where are the women?”

Derin rode up, leading saddled horses. “They . . . Barban and Hallel are dead.” Her voice caught. “Cirell is here, with Dlos. We . . . must we leave our dead?”

“Yes,” Jerthon said shortly. The rain had ceased. The clouds began to part so that a little light touched the hurrying band as they mounted and sorted themselves out. Tayba could feel Jerthon’s effort with her own, holding their pursuers.

Were there still horses there in the dark street that could be used to pursue them? More slaves were coming. But they were not slaves, she thought suddenly. They were free now. At last, all accounted for, they rode quickly out of Burgdeeth, Venniver tied to his mount, furious and silent, his bleeding staunched with rags.

They turned him loose somewhere above Burgdeeth, to struggle home on foot as best he could. Then they loosed their waning hold on the soldiers and guards and heard them shouting back in the town for horses they would never find.

*

Ram and Skeelie lay on their stomachs in the deep window of the room where they had slept, staring down the steep side of Tala-charen at the wild, empty land. Ram said, “We’ll go down this way, come out in that long valley.”

“But we came the other way, into the other side of the mountain. How—”

“I think . . . I just feel that we can. We’ll have to see. Those stairs—didn’t you wonder how Tala-charen could crack apart but leave the rooms untouched? Didn’t you—”

“Oh, I figured that out,” she said offhandedly. “There, where the mountain bows out. The crack is in there, the other side of the caves.” She stared at Ram, giving him a picture.

She had waked at first light to climb up onto this sill and lie so, looking out at the sun-touched peaks of the lower mountains to the northwest, Tala-charen’s shadow cast long across them. She had seen where the crack in Tala-charen might be. She had slid down from the sill and gone down the spiraled flight to the next room, and the next below it. There the wall was cracked too, the gantroed’s bones pushing through. She had reached in among those bones to search with blind fingers; but no shard of jade had she found, had turned away at last disappointed. Nothing in that dark crack but bones and more bones. She turned to look at Ram.

“Why did the stone shatter? After all that climb and nearly getting killed, the cliff, the fiery lake—if you were meant to have the stone, why did it shatter?”

“It just did,” he said simply. “No one planned it. I wasn’t meant to have the stone—the time was just right that I seek it.”

She only stared at him.

“You don’t think . . . ? The forces on Ere . . . everything was right for me to seek out the stone, but no one planned that I do it. And no one said, ‘Now we will shatter it.’” He watched her, frowning a little. “Mostly it was HarThass’s power, though. He waited too long, he played me too long, like a clumsy fisherman. And then when it was too late he threw all his power into the shattering of the stone, to destroy it. And with the other forces there, wheeling, all that power . . .” He spread his hands. “It—is shattered.”

“But those others, those who came and held the stone then. That wasn’t accident, Ram!”

“Yes it was. It was accident. All—all those forces, balanced like that for an instant, threw—threw us outside of time. And those who desired the power for good—somehow they got through. Maybe—maybe there were others among them. I don’t know. Now,” he said with awe, “in other times there are shards of jade like this one. Power, Skeelie. All strewn across time. Because of accident, because of a clashing of powers—because of one Seer’s lust for power that tipped the scale.”

“What—what will happen because of it?”

He stared out over the mountains silently, longing to See all of time spread before him just as the nameless peaks were spread, but seeing only peaks. “No one . . . no one can know, Skeelie.”

“How can you be so sure? How can you be sure, Ramad of Zandour, that there is not one force making—causing all this to happen?”

“Nobody is sure,” he said patiently. “There is one force. But it is made of hundreds of forces. You can feel it—a Seer can. But it doesn’t make things happen. They just happen. Forces balance, overbalance—that is what makes life; nothing plans it, that would take the very life from all—all the universe.

“But something—something judges,” he said with certainty. “In all of it together, there is a judgment.”

Fawdref came to push close, and Ram put his arm around the great wolf’s neck. “But it is the strength of the force in our little desires for good and evil, Skeelie, that balances and counterbalances and makes things happen. Makes life happen.” He stared hard at her. “It is not planned! Like—like a recipe for making soap!”

He looked out across the unknown mountains, and she could feel in him the challenge of those forces. He tousled Fawdref roughly, making the great wolf smile. Out there—across the unknown lands and back behind them in the seething, warring countries—there was all of life: to explore, to come to terms with in his new power. What could he do, what good could he help to draw from the balancing, ever-changing forces of Ere? She wanted to be with Ram in this, wherever he went, whatever forces he touched.

He took her hand, and they started down out of Tala-charen toward the north.

They emerged on the other side of the mountain from the place where they had started, stood blinking in the bright sun.

The wolves tasted the air, gave the children a parting nudge, and went to hunt Ram and Skeelie started up the long valley, wishing they had horses. “I think,” Ram said, scanning the mountains on either side, “I think. . . .” He knelt found a small stone, scraped away grass, and began to draw on the ground. “Here we are in the valley.” He drew mountains, another valley, a narrow way around mountains and then a valley beyond that, very wide, dotted by lakes of fire and steaming geysers. And beyond that again, cliffs. Then at last a round valley through which the Owdneet flowed. “They are there; they are beginning to pack up. They will come this way, Jerthon knows we are here. Mamen . . .” He began to smile. “Mamen knows! Mamen Sees us, Skeelie!”

“She—she will be all right?”

“Yes. She will.”

*

“Now Venniver will go on with his plans for the town,” Dlos said, dishing out mawzee cakes, her face flushed from the fire. They had all slept late in the peaceful little valley; the night guards slept still, beyond a pile of pack saddles. She stared at Jerthon. “Is that what you want, Venniver building his little empire?” Her wrinkles deepened in a scowl.

Jerthon gave her a hard, steady look. “It is not what I want Dlos. Nevertheless, Burgdeeth may prove to be of value.”

Dlos stared. “How have you worked that out?”

“Burgdeeth might be,” he said shortly, “a place of tempering. A place of testing.”

“Testing? You are mad, Jerthon!

“No, not mad. HarThass is dead. I don’t think his apprentices will bother with Burgdeeth. They are—a weak lot. If they had the Runestone, they would. But without it, I think the power of the stone that Ram holds will be enough to stop them.” He speared some side meat from the fire, laid it on a slab of bread. “The town is different now. The statue is there. The tunnel is complete, has vibrations of its own. Strong ones. Young Seers born there—if they are of true worth—will have something to lead them, to draw them toward truth. And they will have—a liberal education in what sloth and evil are all about, if they grow up in Venniver’s town.”

Tayba swallowed her meat with a dry throat. She would not two days ago, have bothered to speak out or have cared. “He—he will kill them,” she said evenly. “Don’t you know he means to kill them, even the babies? To burn them on the altar of the Temple?”

“He means to,” Jerthon said. “But that will not come for a while. And before it does, perhaps we will be able to prevent it.”

She stared at him and didn’t see how anything could prevent Venniver from his plans, as long as he was master of Burgdeeth.

“There are ways,” Jerthon said. And would say no more.

*

The children came down a face of rough lava, half sliding, the wolves frolicking across it. Below, horses grazed. The smoke of a campfire rose. A rider spurred her horse out wildly up the hill. Ram began to run.

“Mamen!”

She plunged galloping up through the woods, pulled her horse up and slid from the saddle to hold Ram fast. She was crying, hugged him fiercely. Other riders came galloping. Jerthon rode up quietly and sat looking down at Ram.

Ram took the Runestone from his tunic and handed it to Jerthon.

Jerthon read the runes carven into the one side. Senseless words, for the rest were broken away. “Eternal . . . will sing.” He looked at Ram. “Did it sing?”

“If you call thunder a song. It thundered when it broke apart. It exploded in my hand, hot as Urdd!”

Jerthon handed it back.

“But where . . .” Ram said, watching Jerthon. “We don’t know, really, where it’s gone. The other parts. The Children out of time . . .”

“It went into time, and that is all we can know.” Jerthon dismounted and laid a hand on Ram’s shoulder. “Now, barring something we cannot foresee, in each age from which those Children came, time will warp again, once, in the same way.”

“There—there was a girl,” Ram said. “A young woman. She—”

“She was out of a future time,” Jerthon said.

“You saw her?”

“I saw.”

“Well, what . . .” He remembered the pale young woman’s look, as if she longed for him. Remembered his own strange feelings.

“Have you ever been in love, Ramad of Zandour?”

“Of course not!” he said indignantly.

“Well, you will be.”

When Ram looked up, Fawdref was grinning at him. Rhymannie raised her head in a sly, female look. Ram scowled at Fawdref. “Old dog, what are you laughing at?”

But then he grew sad, for Fawdref meant to leave them. “Not yet,” he said. “Jerthon goes to Carriol and so do I. You—you could journey with us. At least as far as the grotto.”

But Fawdref let him know his band could travel faster alone. That he would see them in the pass behind the great grotto when they reached it, would perhaps bring fresh meat for them. And so the wolves vanished, faded into the wood that flanked the lava flow and were gone as if they had never been; and if Ram had tears, he let no one see.

They made a feast that night of stag and morliespongs and wild tammi, fat otero roasted on the fire. For at dawn they would split forces, some to ride deeper into the unknown lands through which they were passing, to search for new country or to come, at last, back to Carriol with more knowledge of these lands than anyone now had.

Though most would go to Carriol with Jerthon.

“There is much unsettled land in Carriol,” he said, leaning back against stones besides the fire, Skeelie snuggled close. “The ancient city of the gods, the town that has grown around it—they are not a country. The time has come when Carriol must become a country or perish. It is not strong enough now to prevent the Herebian onslaughts that are surely coming.”

Ram would follow Jerthon. He would go nowhere else. He stared sleepily into the fire. They would go to Carriol and build a county of freedom and great pleasure.

They slept close beside the campfire, the night sentries keeping watch. Drudd snored, his head propped on his saddle. Derin and dark-haired Saffoni shared a blanket. It seemed strange to Ram to sleep without Fawdref’s shaggy warmth. He snuggled close against Tayba, but she was not furry, nor as warm. Ere’s two moons hung low in the clear sky; and the star Waytheer rode between them, its power speaking down to the Runestone, and to Ram.

Ram was nearly asleep when he knew Tayba was crying, holding herself rigid, trying not to wake him, shuddering as she swallowed her sobs. He turned over, touched her face, felt tears. “Mamen? What is it? What’s the matter?”

“I—I don’t know what’s the matter.” She pushed her face against him. “Everything’s the matter. I’m afraid.”

“But it’s all over. You—”

“It’s not all over. I’m afraid.” She sat up, stared into the dying fire, then turned to look at him. “We would be in Burgdeeth now. Jerthon would have taken it, if it hadn’t been for me. I’m scared, Ram. That’s all. Just scared of what I am. Go to sleep.” She lay down, pulled him close. “Go to sleep. It’s all right. I’m done crying.”

He could feel little of what tore at her. He guessed it would be all right. They would make it all right between them. He lay staring at the dying fire and now, once awake, could not go back to sleep. Lay thinking of Tala-charen and seeing those other faces, seeing the past and the future come together, hearing the thunder, feeling the heat of the stone in his palm, the mountain rocking. Smelling the stink of the gantroed.

He shivered with a terrible fear of what he was born to; but that passed, and he lay knowing in some depth of himself the strength he would one day hold. He touched the stone, lying warm in his tunic next to the wolf bell, and knew a sharp anticipation of what waited beyond this night; tried again to see forward in time, and again felt only the yearning he could not explain, could simply hold close as he drifted—and then slept.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Shirley Rousseau Murphy grew up in southern California, riding and showing the horses her father trained. She attended the San Francisco Art institute and later worked as an interior designer while her husband attended USC. “When Pat finished school, I promptly quit my job and began to exhibit paintings and welded metal sculpture in the West Coast juried shows.” Her work could also be seen in many traveling shows in the western States and Mexico. “When we moved to Panama for a four-year tour in Pat’s position with the U.S. Courts, I put away the paints and welding torches, and began to write.” After leaving Panama they lived in Oregon, Atlanta, and northern Georgia before returning to California, where they now live by the sea.

Besides the novels in this volume and the following one, The Runestone of Eresu, Murphy wrote the Dragonbards trilogy (also available as ebooks) plus sixteen children’s books before turning to adult fantasy with The Catswold Portal and the Joe Grey cat mystery series, which so far includes sixteen novels and for which she is now best known. She is the winner of five Dixie Council of Authors and Journalists Author of the Year awards as well as eight Muse Medallion awards from the national Cat Writers Association.

ALSO AVAILABLE

The Runestone of Eresu

An omnibus containing the last three novels of the five originally published as the Children of Ynell series—The Castle of Hape, Caves of Fire and Ice, and The Joining of the Stone—which tell of the adult lives of the characters in The Shattered Stone.

As a child Ramad of the Wolves had sought the potent Runestone of Eresu that could save his world from the dark, only to have it shatter at the moment it came into his hands. Now as a man, leader of his fellow Seers in their war against the dark powers, he knows it is up to him to find and rejoin the shards before evil Seers can do so. Following his true love Telien into far reaches of Time, he is followed in turn by the Seer Skeelie, who also loves him. The quest to make the stone whole again demands the commitment not only of Ramad but of others, ultimately including his son, for only far forward in Time can the final battle against the dark forces be fought.

Dragonbards Trilogy, Book 1: Nightpool

As dark raiders invade the world of Tirror, a singing dragon awakens from her long slumber, searching for the human who can vanquish the forces of evil—Tebriel, son of the murdered king. Teb has found refuge in Nightpool, a colony of talking otters. But a creature of the Dark is also seeking him, and the battle to which he is drawn will decide Tirror’s future.

Dragonbards Trilogy, Book 2: The Ivory Lyre

The bard Tebriel and his singing dragon Seastrider together can weave powerful spells. With other dragons searching for their own bards, they have been inciting revolts throughout the enslaved land of Tirror. Only if they can contact underground resistance fighters and find the talisman hidden in Dacia will they have a chance to break the Dark’s hold on the world.

Dragonbards Trilogy, Book 3: The Dragonbards

Only the dragonbards and their singing dragons have the power to unite the people and animals of Tirror into an army that can break the Dark’s hypnotic hold over the world. Before their leader Tebriel can challenge the hordes gathering for the final battle, he must confront the dark lord Quazelzeg face to face in the Castle of Doors, a warp of time and space.

Content

Мерфи Ширли Руссо The Shattered Stone [calibre]