Мерфи Ширли Руссо

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

FROM THE REVIEWS

Of The Castle of Hape

“The many episodes involving the race of winged horses are magnificently imagined.” --School Library Journal

Of Caves of Fire and Ice

“Moves into the past, the present, and the future . . . a mind-boggling time sequence.” --Alan Review

“Plenty of action here and a colorful, skillfully-depicted cast of characters.” —School Library Journal

“The well-delineated characters add life with the same effect that detail adds to a painting.” —ALA Booklist

Of The Joining of the Stone

“The dramatic climax in a series of five fantasies . . . Shirley Murphy satisfactorily draws together the strands (and her incredible images) of good and evil.” —Atlanta Journal and Constitution

“The portrayal of the evil forces, stark and frightening, is well balanced with Murphy’s theme about life being ‘flawed [but] . . . no less magnificent.’” —ALA Booklist

The Runestone of Eresu

by

Shirley Rousseau Murphy

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 1980, 1981 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 second of two volumes containing the books originally published as the Children of Ynell series. It includes The Castle of Hape, Caves of Fire and Ice, and The Joining of the Stone, and can be read independently of the first volume, The Shattered Stone.

Atheneum edition of The Castle of Hape (hardcover) published in 1980

Avon edition (paperback) published in 1981

Atheneum edition of Caves of Fire and Ice (hardcover) published in 1980

Avon edition (paperback) published in 1982

Atheneum edition of The Joining of the Stone (hardcover) published in 1981

Avon edition (paperback) published in 1983

Ad Stellae Books edition, 2011

Author website: www.joegrey.com

Cover art © by Corey Ford / 123RF

CONTENTS

The Castle of Hape

Part One: The Dark

Part Two: The Gods

Part Three: Telien

Caves of Fire and Ice

Part One: The Lake of Fire

Part Two: The Black Lake

Part Three: The Lake of Caves

The Joining of the Stone

Part One: Ramad’s Heir

Part Two: Heritage of the Dark

Part Three: The Joining

About the Author

The Castle of Hape

Part One: The Dark

The ages of Time rise and move onward as neatly as the waves of the sea move. Or do they? What is Time? Who is to say that each age moves forward in perfect symmetry and never is disturbed? Who is to say that Time cannot, as does the sea, tumble suddenly in a whirling rage so all is thrown asunder? So a time without end or beginning is formed spinning into itself, swallowing the unfortunate wanderer or displacing him.

To the countries of Ere, the ages are marked by rivers of fire belching from the dark mountains, fire that sends men to flee in terror then recedes to lie dormant once more, perhaps for generations.

Yes, in the beginning cities grew close to the sea away from the fiery mountains, and those few people who would venture inland were driven back by fire, or by maverick, blood-lusting raiders. No one would think to make a city or claim a nation at the foot of the Ring of Fire. Not until the man Venniver so ventured, laying out a town he called Burgdeeth at the foot of the willful mountains. He meant to build a city ruled by false religion, and he began with the labor of slaves: Seers, enslaved to work like animals. And when those Seers escaped Venniver’s shackles, they took themselves to the far coast, and they conceived a different kind of nation.

But the powers of dark fought that nation, fought its rise and its strengthening.

Was it that warring, between evil and light, that disturbed the warp of Time? Who can say? No man of Ere can say; and those snatched up into the spinning of Time do not speak to us now.

ONE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She sat beside his bed waiting for him to wake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He sleeps—Ram is sleeping . . .”

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

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

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

She turned to look at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TWO

In the kitchen the open fire had just been fed, its flames blazed up, lighting the faces of the three frightened refugees clustered around it: a tall woman, a girl perhaps thirteen, and a very little girl who was being bathed by Dlos in the wooden tub. The woman was half-undressed and washing herself in some private ritual as if to wash away all that had been done to her. A dozen Carriolinian women were bustling about preparing food, bringing clean clothes. Skeelie knelt by the tub and took the little girl from Dlos as the old woman fetched her out. The child was covered with sores. Skeelie dried her, then began to dress her. “What is your name? Can you tell me your name?” The child would not speak. Her lank brown hair was dark from the tub.

“She is Ama,” said her older sister. “I am Merden.” Merden had a long, thin face and lank hair like her little sister. They both looked remarkably like their mother. Little Ama spoke then, softly against Skeelie’s shoulder. “Our sister Chanet is dead in the fire. Why is Chanet dead? Why did the Landmaster burn her?”

The older girl touched her little sister’s shoulder, stared unseeing at Skeelie with an expression that brought goose bumps. “Chanet was only . . . she was nine years old.”

When Ram came to stand in the doorway, the tall young woman glanced at him, then carelessly pulled clothes around her as if she had been exposed so often to male eyes that another pair made little difference. As if her ablutions were more immediate than modesty. Ram turned away until she was dressed, then came to speak to her. Skeelie watched him in silence. He’d never begin to heal if he didn’t stay in bed, he had no more business coming down here—no more sense than a chidrack sometimes. She stared pointedly at his bloody bandages. He ignored her.

Mawn Paula told Ram her story quickly and almost without expression, as if she held her emotions very taut within herself, afraid to let them go. She and her three little girls had been kneeling in temple when, in the middle of the ceremony, Venniver rose from the dais and came down among the benches. Without warning he reached across Ama and Merden and pulled Chanet from her seat, jerked her into the aisle and stood scowling down at her, his black beard bristling, his cold blue eyes piercing in their study of the child. The temple had been silent. Those in front had glanced behind them uneasily then stared forward again. Mawn had remained quiet, terrified for the child, fearful that the least motion, the least whisper from her would jeopardize Chanet further. After a long scrutiny, Venniver had forced the child before him up the aisle to the dais. Mawn had remained with great effort in her place. She had not let herself believe the truth, even then, that Venniver knew Chanet for a Seer, that he meant to kill her, to sacrifice her on the altar of fire, could not let herself believe it. It was only when Venniver forced Chanet with brutal blows to confess to Seer’s skills, that Mawn must believe. And even then she had sat frozen, terrified, as Venniver made the child climb the steps to the top of the dais.

When Venniver began to tie Chanet to the steel stake, Mawn had screamed and leaped up, had run to stop him, fighting the red-robed Deacons. They tried to hold her as she bit and scratched and hit out at them, finally they had her in a grip she could not break. Ama and Merden had fought fiercely, but at last all three were held immobile and forced to remain still as nine-year-old Chanet was burned to death in the flames of Venniver’s ceremonial fire as appeasement to the gods.

Skeelie heard the story, sick with revulsion. A child burned to death as appeasement. Appeasement to the gods. She lifted her eyes to Ram to see her hatred of Venniver reflected in his face, see her pain reflected there.

Mawn and the two girls had escaped Burgdeeth late at night while the guards sat drinking in the Hall. They slipped down into the tunnel as soon as it was dark, the secret tunnel that no one but a Seer could know of. Then they left the tunnel again well after midnight to make their way out of Burgdeeth in the sleeping, silent hours. They took little with them but some vegetables hastily pulled from the gardens and a waterskin they had found in the tunnel.

Ram listened intently to this, and Skeelie nearly wept, so thankful was she now for the painful years her brother Jerthon had spent digging that tunnel secretly beneath Venniver’s very nose while he was held as Venniver’s slave.

“And then you were captured by the Kubalese?” Ram said.

“Yes, in the hills,” Mawn said. “We were digging roots.”

“It must have been bad.”

“Yes. It was bad.”

“Will you tell me what the Kubalese stockade is like? Will you tell me as much as you can about their camp?”

“The stockade is like houses for chidrack, thick boards with space between and the roof is the same so rain comes in. The soldiers watch you undress, do—do everything. The boards are far too thick to break without tools. The herd animals are in pens close by. You are fed once a day on gruel and stale water. We were . . . we were sick much of the time. The guards . . . they didn’t open the gate, they just shoved the food through. A girl . . . she was the leader’s daughter, though he treats her badly. She slipped extra food to us and fresh water. She helped us to escape. Ama and Merden, when we were away, both knew that she was beaten for what she did.”

“It was,” Merden said, “as if the thing that kept us from Seeing opened out all at once and we could See. All—all of a sudden. We—we didn’t want to see that. We didn’t want to see her father beat her.”

Ram stared at her. Her voice seemed to fuzz so he could barely understand her. He was growing weak, the room swam, seemed hazy around him. The pain and bleeding were worse. “Were you—were you the only captives?”

She hesitated at his obvious discomfort, then continued. “There were many captives. When—when Telien freed us she had the key for only a minute, when her father left it by the water trough as he ran to catch a loose horse. He had been—in our pen, making . . . been in our pen. Telien unlocked the lock then slipped it round so it looked locked. She whispered for us to wait until dark. She put the key back before he returned, and there was no time to free the others.

“We got out after dark and went up into the hills, then we came south and east until we saw the little settlements and knew we must be in Carriol.”

The mention of the girl Telien made a disquiet in Skeelie, though she could not think why. She had never heard of Telien, knew nothing of such a girl. But her uneven Seer’s sense reached out now to concern itself with this girl so suddenly and with such distress that Skeelie trembled. She did not understand what she felt, knew only that she was suddenly and inexplicably uneasy.

Merden turned from combing her little sister’s hair. “Telien—Telien told us about Carriol.” She stared at Ram. ‘Telien spoke of you, of Ramad of the wolves . . .

Skeelie stiffened.

Merden smiled, a faint, uncertain smile. “Telien said that you would care for us, that we could make a new life here, that all who want freedom can. She spoke of the leader Jerthon, too, and of a world—a world very different from what we have known.”

Skeelie hardly heard the child for the unease and pounding in her heart. Yet she had no reason to feel anything for a girl from Kubal. What was the matter with her? She was almost physically sick with the sense of the girl.

Merden said quietly, “Telien said the leaders of Carriol were close to the gods. That you—that you have more powers than we do. That maybe you will be able to stop the killing in Burgdeeth.” She looked at Ram with such trust that he wanted to turn from her—or shout at her. Mawn, seeing his look, whispered diffidently, “Telien told us you command—command the great wolves that live in the Ring of Fire.”

“No one . . .” Ram said, wincing, “no one commands the great wolves. They—they are my friends. My brothers.”

Skeelie said uneasily, angrily, “If a girl of Kubal know such things, surely she is a Seer.” What was wrong with her, why was she bristling so?

“No,” Mawn said, “Telien is not a Seer. She learned what she knows of Carriol, of you, from the other captives. From Carriol’s settlers taken captive. They say Carriol is the only place of freedom in all of Ere.”

Later, when Ram had allowed himself to be helped upstairs by two of his men coming in to raid the larder Skeelie asked Merden the question that would not let her be. “What is she like? What is this Telien like?” And whet Merden looked back at her, that serious, thin, child’s face quietly reflecting, then described Telien, Skeelie could not admit to herself the terrible sudden shock that gripped her.

“Telien has pale, long hair. She is slight and she—she is beautiful.”

Skeelie stared, stricken. “And—and her eyes are green, are they not? Green eyes like the sea.”

“Yes. That is Telien.” Merden watched Skeelie, puzzling. She said nothing more. Perhaps she saw in Skeelie’s face, heard in her questions, more than Skeelie intended to show.

And Skeelie stood remembering bitterly and clearly that moment when she and Ram had, as children, stood inside the mountain Tala-charen, had felt time warp, had seen those ghostly figures appear suddenly out of time, seen the pale-haired, green-eyed girl stare at Ram with such eager recognition, with a terrible longing as if she would cross the chasm of time to Ram or die.

Was Telien that girl? Was she here now, in Ram’s own time? But this time had been only a dim, unformed future when Ram was eight. This time had not yet happened. How could—She broke off her thoughts, her head spinning.

He had never forgotten that girl. Never. Though he had never once spoken of her.

Was Telien that girl? Had she lived in this time? Had she traveled backward in Time to the long ago day when Ram was nine? Was she here in this time, and would Ram find her? Skeelie turned away. Had the thing that she had dreaded so long at last come to pass? She went from the kitchen in silence.

She went down through the town to the stables, got a horse, and rode out along the sea at a high, fast gallop that left her horse spent, and at last, left her a little easier in herself. If this was Ram’s love, come to claim him, then she must learn to live with it just as she had lived with the knowledge that one day it would surely happen.

*

It was not until four days later, in the middle of the simple worship ceremony in the citadel, that Skeelie’s brother Jerthon returned from the battle in the north, coming quickly into citadel in his sweaty fighting leathers. A ripple of welcome went through the citadel, through the singing choir, and Skeelie wanted to run to him. She found it hard to keep singing as he sat down heavily in the back row next to Ram. Jerthon leaned against the stone wall as if he were very tired, stared up at the light-washed ceiling, and seemed to listen to the hush of the sea, to listen in sudden peace to the choir’s rising voices.

The citadel was the largest hall in the honeycombed natural stone tower that had once been the city of the gods. Here in the citadel the winged gods and the winged horses of Eresu had come together for companionship; a meeting place, a place of solace and joy where the outcast Seers had come too, in gentle friendship. A place where the moving light, cast across the ceiling by the ever-rolling sea, seemed to hold sacred meaning; and the cresting sea made a gentle thunder like a constant heartbeat. Skeelie saw Jerthon lift his chin in that familiar sigh, then turn to stare at Ram, saw Ram speak.

Ram stared at Jerthon for a long solemn moment, then grinned. Jerthon’s appearance in the citadel so suddenly was like the sun coming out. Not dead, not lying wounded in some field, but strolling nonchalantly into the citadel in the middle of the service. Ram wanted to shout and throw his arms around Jerthon. He cuffed him lightly. “Your face is dirty. You could do with a bath. Was it bad in the north?”

“Yes, bad.” There was a deep cut across Jerthon’s chin and neck. His red hair, darker than Ram’s, was pale with chalky dust. He was quiet as usual, contemplative. Had learned to be, with half his life spent in slavery to the tyrant Venniver. Had learned not to be hot-headed as Ram still was sometimes. Jerthon’s voice showed the strain of the last days. “We lost near twenty men, lost horses. The Kubalese took captives heavy in Blackcob, took men, women and children—took most of the horses roped together, and the captives made to run before them.” His jaw muscles were tight, his eyes hard. “We relied too long on the skills of Seeing, Ram, and now we are crippled without them. Our scouts saw too little, our border guards did not sense the Herebian scouts or the Herebian bands slipping in. Oh, we routed those that didn’t go riding off with captives and stolen horses before we could rally ourselves. They set on us in waves, there must have been bands from half a dozen Herebian strongholds. Raiders creeping out like rats to snatch and kill and disappear. And something—” Jerthon stared at Ram with a barely veiled slash of fear in his eyes. “Something rides with them, Ram. Something more than the dark we know, something . . . dense. Like an impossible weight on your mind so the Seeing is torn from you and your very sanity near torn from you.”

“Yes. I know that feeling. I had it too. We all did.”

“We must never again—never—allow our senses to be so dulled by reliance on Seeing alone. We must guard against that. We must train against it.”

“Yes. I know we must.”

Jerthon pushed back a lock of red hair so violently that a cloud of the white dust rose to drift in motes on the still citadel air. “I think the hordes will not march here, though I’ve given orders for double guard and for mounts kept ready.” He grew silent, as if he were drawn away. The choir’s voices rose to hit along the ceiling like the wash of sea light.

“. . . faith then, faith in men then, faith to do then, faith to be . . .” rising higher and higher, Skeelie’s voice clearly discernible now; but now that song seemed a joke in the face of the murder Jerthon had witnessed.

Ram hardly heard the voices that rang across the cave. He sat looking inward at his own failure. For if they had the whole runestone of Eresu in their possession, they could easily defeat the dark. That round jade sphere, which he had held in his hands, carried power enough to defeat every evil Seer in Ere.

He had held it, seen it shatter asunder, seen its shards disappear from his open palm—seen those shards vanish out of Time into the hands of others, mysterious figures come out of Time in that instant.

He had returned to Jerthon with one small shard of jade. That shard, that bit of the runestone, was now the only force beyond their Seer’s skills with which they could battle the dark.

That moment would burn forever in his mind. He had felt the earth rock, felt Time warp and come together, was shaken by thunder as Time spun to become a vortex out of Time. He had stood helplessly as the stone turned white hot and shattered in his hands. And something of himself had gone then, too. He had known, since that time, an oppressive loss, a loss he did not really understand.

He and Skeelie had come down out of the mountain Tala-charen the next morning to make their way across unknown valleys to meet Jerthon and Tayba, meet all those who had escaped from Burgdeeth and Venniver’s enslavement.

He had placed the jade shard in Jerthon’s hand, and Jerthon had looked down at him—a tall, red-headed Seer staring down at a nine-year-old boy who had so recently seen his dreams, his hope for Ere, shatter. Jerthon had read the two runes inscribed on the jade; “Eternal—will sing,” then had looked hard at Ram. “Did it sing, Ram?”

“If you call thunder a song. But where—the other parts . . . ?”

“It went into Time, and that is all we can know. Now, in each age from which those Children came, Time will warp again, once, in the same way.”

Ram stared at the choir unseeing, shutting their voices from his mind. Could he have prevented the shattering of the stone? And if he had prevented it, what would have happened differently these past twelve years?

They had begun their journey that morning from the wild mountain lands above Burgdeeth to Carriol, and to Jerthon’s home. Carriol then was a collection of small crofts and farms, of peaceful men and women holding their freedom stubbornly against the ever-threatening Herebian bands. Joyful, vigorous men and women ready always to battle for their hard-won freedom.

Now, twelve years later, Carriol was a nation. With the easy cooperation between the Carriolinian Seers and those who came from slavery in Burgdeeth, with an easy-open council, they had welded Carriol into a strong, cohesive country. The few crofts at the foot of the ruins had grown into a town. The ready bands that had ridden to defend neighbors’ lands had grown into four fierce, well-disciplined battalions of fighting men backed by women who were equally skillful at arms.

And as Carriol grew stronger, the wrath of the Pellian Seers had grown. The Pellian, BroogArl, had drawn the evil Seers of all nations into an increasingly malevolent unity directed toward Carriol, a unity of dark that breathed hate poisonous as vipers upon the air of that rising free land, rose in increasing anger that Carriol was a sanctuary where men could come in need to escape the evils of the dark Seers, and that Carriol was becoming too strong to attack.

All the political intrigue and manipulating among small-minded leaders in other countries that so increased the lack of freedom of an unwitting populace, all the atrocities done to common men for the pleasure and diversion of those leaders as their evil lust began to feed on itself—all of this was threatened if fearful serfs could escape to Carriol and be protected there.

There had been a great, concerted effort by Ere’s dark Seers to bring all the nations but Carriol under one iron-gloved rule, one dark entity that could devour Carriol: a war-hungry giant that could crush her. The Seers of Carriol had so far prevented that, with the help of the runestone. But if they had had the whole stone, had held that great power, what more could they have done?

Surely they would have prevented—made impossible—the burning of a Seeing child in Venniver’s fires.

Ram glanced at Jerthon and found him scowling. He touched Jerthon’s arm, seeking for some silent contact, but caught only a fleeting sense of unease, nothing more.

Jerthon loosed his leather tunic, looked as if he would like to pull off his boots. “Lieutenant Prail told me the winged ones pulled you out of that bloody trap in the south.” He stared at Ram. “The horses of Eresu did not come near us, we did not see them or feel their presence. It seems to me something goes on with them, but I can’t make out what—as if there is fear among them. I think that evil stalks the winged ones just as evil stalks us. Only once did we hear their voices in our minds for a moment—beseeching voices laced with fear. Then the silence returned.”

Ram shifted, easing the strain on his wound. It itched abominably now that it had started to heal. “The golden mare who brought me had a sadness about her. Also, Jerthon, something is amiss with them, as well as with the world of men.”

Jerthon stared across the citadel to where Skeelie stood tall in the choir, the sun striking her robe. His sister sang as if her whole soul were lifted and buoyed by the music. He said, with more heart, “I ride in a few hours to rescue the captives taken in the north; I came back only to get fresh mounts and more men. Arben’s battalion rides north of Blackcob now. They will wait for us just below the mountains, to come on the Kubalese camp from high ground. I ride south, and those few men left in Blackcob ride out direct over the hills eastward. We will come upon Kubal from three sides. But there . . . I think there is someone in the Kubalese camp who is in sympathy with us. I had only a fleeting feel of it, but perhaps he can help us if we can summon the power to reach him. It would be good to have a spy inside to loose horses, cut saddle bands and otherwise cripple the Kubalese.”

Ram felt a strange sense stir him, an unfamiliar excitement. He paused, feeling outward, but could make nothing of it; and it was gone so quickly. He brought himself back to Jerthon. “Yes—perhaps I know of whom you speak.” What was this pounding of his pulse? “Perhaps I know, for we have had news of Kubal . . .” And the very word Kubal seemed to speak to him in some way; but he could make nothing of it. He reached out, tried to sense whatever it was, and could not, frowned, irritated himself. “There are captives from Kubal come three days ago, brought in by wagon from Folkstone. They escaped from Burgdeeth after a child was—burned to death in Venniver’s sacrificial flames.”

“You . . .” Jerthon stared at him. “It has begun, then. The burning has begun.”

“Yes. What we feared has begun.” Ram looked away toward the portal. This defeat, on top all the rest, was nearly unbearable. Well, it must be told. Jerthon waited to hear. He sighed, continued.

“The mother and the child’s two sisters escaped through the tunnel, then later were captured by the Kubalese as they dug roots in the hills. They were helped to escape Kubal by a young girl—the Kubalese leader’s daughter, they said.” And again that strange excitement swept him, a sharp sense of anticipation. “The girl is AgWurt’s daughter, but they said she brought extra food and water to them, helped them. Perhaps it is she you touched, perhaps she . . .” Why did the very mention of the girl unnerve him? “If she could help us . . .”

“Perhaps. We can try.” Jerthon sat hunched, scowling. Then at last, “The burning of a child should never have occurred. We have waited too long. Curse the Pellian Seers, curse the blindness they put on us!”

Ram shifted, easing his wound. “I ride tonight to carry out the plan we made long ago. I ride for Eresu to speak with the gods, to beg their help in stopping Venniver.”

Jerthon stared at him. “With that wound? You can’t ride alone with that wound. We will go this night.”

“You are committed to meet Arben.”

“There are lieutenants who can—”

Ram shook his head. “It would be foolish for us to be together. And the runestone . . .”

“Tayba will guard the runestone well and use it if it is needed.”

“Do you trust my mother, Jerthon, even yet? After her treachery against you in Burgdeeth?”

Jerthon gave him a look that withered him. “That was twelve years back, lad! She has proven—since that time—her quality. You know I trust her—more than trust her. And she . . . Tayba has the most skill with the stone. A traitor, Ram—a traitor turned to love the cause he betrayed is often the steadiest of all.” He paused as the choir’s voices rose . . .

They touch the star. The force of Waytheer

Brings us closer, gods and men.

Ynell’s true Children never waver,

Though falter, Seers dark with lusting,

Falter you.

The voices echoed against the cadence of the pounding sea. Jerthon said quietly, “What makes us really believe the gods will help us in curbing Venniver’s lust for the burning of children?”

“. . . Falter, Seers dark with lusting, Falter you . . .”

“The gods must help. Even if they have never helped men except to offer sanctuary, even if their beliefs say that to help is to tamper with the natural conditions of men, still this time, Jerthon, they must! I will—somehow I will—see that they do. If—if they are truly gods they . . .”

“I have no patience with that old discussion!” Jerthon wiped dust from his cheek with the back of his hand. “It means nothing. Anyway it makes no difference, true gods or not, they are capable of helping—if they will.”

“. . . Falter, Seers dark with lusting, Falter you. . .”

Jerthon looked at him for a long moment. “It is up to you, then, Ramad of wolves.”

The last stanza died echoing inside the citadel, the last tones rising and lingering against the pounding heartbeat of the sea. Ram and Jerthon rose as one and left the citadel. Skeelie stared after them and knew from the look of them they would both be off on some wild business, and bit her lip in anger. Damn the Pellian Seers! Damn this ugly, useless, harassing, small-minded, terrifying war!

THREE

Ram rode out for Blackcob well before dusk. As he left the ruins, he turned in the saddle and saw Skeelie standing in a portal watching him. He waved, but wished she were not compelled to see him ride out, compelled to worry over him. She had sat with him while he ate an early meal, nagged him about his wound, as had Tayba. He turned his back on the ruins and made his way through the village. The low sun behind the stone houses made the thatched roofs shine, sent deep shadows across the cobbles. His horses’ hooves struck sharp staccato as he exchanged greetings with men and women coming in from work, from the drilling field. He could smell suppers cooking. Children flocked around his two horses, then stormed away like leaves blown. He left the town at last to pass occasional farms along the sea cliff, then soon the cliff was empty of all but the sweeping grass, the wind salt and harsh. Waves pounded up the side of the cliff bouncing spray into his face. He relished the solitude, needed this solitude to heal the sense of defeat that would not leave him, the sense of mounting disaster. The sense of wasted lives. They had lost some good men at Folkstone. He would be a long time forgetting it.

And the attacks kept coming. Not a large, full-scale battle, but small, bedeviling attacks first in one place, then another, harassing the farmers and herders, delaying what should have been the joyful, disorderly growth of the new country; destroying crops, stealing livestock . . .

Yes, and that was just what the Seer BroogArl intended. Delay and harassment, the wasting of Carriol’s resources, the disrupting of her peaceful pursuits, of building new craftsmen’s shops, of fencing rich pasture, breaking new farmland. All lay untended, interrupted as Carriol’s settlers went off to defend the land—and perhaps to die. Such harassment did BroogArl’s work most effectively. If it lasted long enough, Ram wondered reluctantly, could the Pellian Seers conquer Carriol?

And something else kept nudging him, a feeling of urgency that puzzled him. His senses seemed infected by it. As if, ahead, lay not only his mission to the gods, to the valley of Eresu, but something else—something beckoning. The very air around him seemed fresh with anticipation, the wind sharper, even the sea meadows seemed brighter in spite of his sickness at the recent battle, in spite of his mourning of friends. He had no idea what made such a feeling, but the sense of anticipation refused to leave him, and the ride along the coast seemed as perfect as the songs in citadel, rich and full of subtleties, glorious with the powers of sea and wind.

He must be growing foolish; this must be some twisting of his mind grown out of his relief at being still alive after battle. Some wild reverence for life so nearly lost.

Even when the pack mare grew edgy, snorting and pulling back, he was more amused than disturbed. He spoke only gently to his own mount when he started to sidestep and stare at emptiness. The waning day was clear as a jewel; there was nothing to disturb them.

They settled at last and Ram, lulled by the steady rhythm of the sea, thought with pleasure of the two-year-old colts that would be ready soon for breaking. Fine colts, near the finest yet of the new breed he and Jerthon had taken so much time with. Well-made, eager animals, sensible in battle—not like these two, gaping at nothing. Colts that would one day sire a line of the finest horses in Ere, quick, short-coupled horses, handy in battle and fast and brave in attack.

He left the sea cliffs with reluctance to head inland, down through low-lying fog into the marsh cut by the river Somat Cul as it bowed south to meet the sea. The river was flanked here by coppery reeds, the air very still. Even the suck of hooves was silenced by the press of fog. The marsh smelled of decaying life and of new growth. Ahead, the fog thickened into a mass as heavy as a wall. As he approached it, the pack mare snorted and plunged wildly, and his mount went spraddle-legged, staring. A hushing sigh came from the mass of fog, then all at once, where the fog was thickest, a shape began to form.

It was tall, seemed to swell in size until it loomed above him. Was it . . . was it winged? A winged figure? But it was too large to be a horse of Eresu. Was that a human torso rising between the great shadows of its wings? Not a god!

It was utterly silent, did not speak into his mind as a god would. As the fog thickened further, it all but vanished, yet the frightened horses plunged and fought him so wildly it was all he could do to keep the frantic mare from pulling away.

The figure darkened again, came clearer. Then it spoke to him. “Ramad! You are Ramad!” Its voice was hollow, void of expression or of kindness. And it spoke aloud, not in a god’s thought-language. He swallowed, waited in silence, clutching his sword and knowing a sword was useless.

“You are Ramad of wolves, are you not! Answer me, Seer!”

Ram did not answer, did not move.

“Afraid to speak, cowardly Seer? Well, hear me then! You pursue an unworthy mission, Ramad of wolves! You ride sniveling like a baby to whimper before gods! Ignorant mortal, would you lay the troubles of men before gods to solve?” Then the creature laughed, a terrifying, rasping thunder that echoed through the fog.

Ram fought it with his mind, tried with Seer’s powers to reduce it to the fog from which it must have formed, fought uselessly, all his skills unable to turn aside the dark being. It swelled larger, and the mist around it seethed, and it screamed at him, “Turn back, Seer! Turn back from your precarious quest lest you destroy the very cause you so covet!”

Suddenly the horses became strangely still. The creature shifted, and Ram felt himself grow dizzy. In spite of the fear that threatened to engulf him, he made his voice thunder in return. “If you give me honest words, show yourself!” Did he see the turn of a horse’s body, a man’s torso rising from its withers? All was so unclear, constantly changing. Was this a god with some enmity he had never imagined a god to have? Yet the sense that emanated from the mist was not godlike, was forbidding and cold. “If you Speak truly,” Ram challenged again, “show yourself to me!”

Its laugh was terrible. But it began to fade until soon its gigantic form was only a wash of dark. The mist thinned and receded. Coppery reeds showed through. And there was, suddenly, nothing before him. Only the river, reflecting Ere’s rising moons. Farther upriver, a heron screamed.

Ram sat staring at the marsh where the thing had risen. His wound throbbed. He felt spent, dead of spirit suddenly. When at last he started on again the horses walked as heavily as if they had already traveled the night’s distance. Ram felt as a child feels after a time of fever—as he had felt when he was small and his mind had been swept away during sleep into the dark Pellian caves by the Seer HarThass, possessed there by HarThass so he had battled for his life, was left so weak and listless afterward he hardly cared for life. Now he felt the same, weak, without volition. Without purpose. Too sharply he remembered HarThass’s lurid mind and inner worlds, which had spun him away from the living so he had been able to cling only tenuously to any strength within himself. Never, since that time, had he known complete freedom from the dark harassment of the Pellian Seers: a curse that, perhaps, had been welded into the fabric of reality generations before his birth, when a dark Seer lay dying in the caves of Zandour, predicting his birth, predicting his destiny.

Well enough he knew, from the teaching of Seers greater than he, from the words of the Luff’Eresi themselves in visions and written on the walls of a far cave among the Ring of Fire, that no man’s destiny was fixed. That no man danced to a pattern like a puppet on an invisible string. How had that long-dead Seer known then, that Ram would be born, that Ram would carry the blood of the cult of wolves? Had that Seer, before he died, been swept ahead on the living warp of Time to touch the fabric of Ram’s birth and life? He must have done; for others had known his words, though he spoke them quite alone in the cave of the wolf cult that would become his tomb:

A bastard child will be born and he will rule the wolves as no Seer before him has done. 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 . . .

In the throes of death, had that Seer swung into the fulcrum of Time for his vision, just as Ram and Skeelie had stood in that fulcrum when the runestone of Eresu split?

Always the memory of that prophecy, repeated to him out of the dark mind of the Seer HarThass, left him agape with wonder, weak with a knowledge of the incredible—yet he, too, had ridden the warp of Time, when he stood inside the mountain Tala-charen.

And his own experience had left him restless, with a fierce need that he could never make come clear. As if he were not whole suddenly, as if something had been left behind there in that spinning, thundering, echoing warp of Time; something that was terribly a part of him.

When he came at last out of the marsh where the river foamed over rocks, he was among scattered farms, fields of whitebarley and mawzee, fat grazing animals lifting their heads to watch him pass. A horse nickered, but Ram’s horses did not return the greeting, remained quiet and subdued. The sun had dropped behind hills, leaving a pale orange wash preceding nightfall. The council would be meeting now in the citadel, would sit around the meeting table, the jade runestone gleaming in the center. Outside the portal, the thin moons would rise. The council would lay careful plans for the protection of Carriol—plans perhaps destined to go awry, he thought bitterly. And they would discuss Jerthon’s attack on Kubal. Jerthon, riding out again so soon to battle. Jerthon who was more father to Ram than a real father could have been: Seer, teacher of Seer’s powers, his mentor since the days Ram first turned to him for protection from the dark Pellian.

Jerthon, whom his mother loved but would not marry because of the guilt she carried and refused to put aside.

Ram wished she would come to her senses. She need feel no guilt, she had proven that. He wished she would marry Jerthon and be done with this stupidity. Eresu knew, Jerthon wanted her. It was Jerthon who had drawn forth, from Tayba’s willful spirit, power undreamed; more power even than Ram had imagined his mother possessed. It was Jerthon who had taught her to use that power, who had loved her for the strengths he saw despite her weaknesses.

And he had seen her look at Jerthon. He knew what she felt for him. Yet she wouldn’t marry him, felt she alone was responsible for their partial defeat in Burgdeeth, for having to leave the town in Venniver’s hands; felt now, Ram knew, a burning guilt that a child had burned in Venniver’s fires. Believed that without her near-betrayal, her partial betrayal, Burgdeeth would now stand as a free city, and safe for Seers.

And she was, Ram knew, very likely right. Well, but you could not carry guilt all your life. She had made amends, made a new life; she was a fierce, willing fighter for what Jerthon and all of them stood for. Why in Urdd didn’t she marry Jerthon and give him, and herself, some happiness?

*

The cool light of evening washed the citadel. The sea roared like a large, slow animal, and wind hushed through the portals smelling sharply of salt and kelp. Tayba pulled her red cloak lightly around her shoulders and stared almost transfixed at the runestone: powerful talisman, shard of deep green jade, jagged where it had split away from the whole sphere, smooth and rounded at the large end and marked with incomplete runes. A stone that, if it had not been for her lusting, stupid hungers, might lie here whole now, round, perfect and immensely more powerful—though even this shattered shard could concentrate and strengthen the powers of the Carriolinian Seers. Only . . . not enough. Not enough power to battle the Pellian Seers in their new, incredible force.

And this jagged bit of jade was a symbol, too, of the frightening powers Tayba found within herself and which she had not, even yet, learned to deal with easily; though she tried. With Jerthon’s help, she tried.

There sat at the council table eight of Carriol’s fifteen Seers. Five of the eight had come to Carriol from Burgdeeth twelve years ago after freeing themselves from Venniver’s slave cell. They were Tayba; Jerthon, who sat with his back to the portal, the fading light casting a halo around his red hair; his sister Skeelie, her wrists protruding from her tunic as usual, her skewered hair awry, her dark eyes timed to some inward pain as she tried without success to See Ramad on his lonely journey—none of their skills were worth a spoon of spit since the dark Seers had learned to master such cold, impregnable force.

The fourth of the group was Drudd. He sat as far from Tayba as he could manage. Always he avoided her as deliberately as he had done in Burgdeeth. Then, he had had reason to do so. The short stocky forgeman, who had worked by Jerthon’s side to forge the great bronze statue they had left behind them in Burgdeeth, had never ceased to dislike her. But he was a true good man, loyal perhaps beyond all others to both Ram and Jerthon and their cause.

The fifth of those from Burgdeeth was young freckled Pol, a good-natured lad, skilled Seer, though he seldom said much. He was always there when one wanted something done, always there when a raid must be led or a scout sent out in the middle of a freezing night.

The other three Seers, two men and one woman, had lived on this land all their lives. They were good, kind folk who had used their Seer’s skills to protect their land and their families and had never had the need to delve into the dark compelling skills and acquaint themselves with lurid subtleties. The two men were older, bearded and creased and very much alike, except Berd’s hair and beard were white, and Erould was dark of hair and smooth-shaven. They were equally succinct and short in speech. The woman was young: a tall, square, dark-haired farmgirl who could wield sword and bow as well as any man and had a fun-loving way with the young, unmarried soldiers that added to the sharp-witted, rollicking pleasure of all concerned.

Jerthon leaned forward. They had been discussing the raids. His anger was deep, and searing. “No more than a handful of Herebian raiders—calling themselves a nation—Kubal!” His green eyes blazed.

“They would not be so free with us,” Drudd countered, “were it not for BroogArl and the cursed power he has amassed!”

“It will be a touchy job setting the captives free,” Jerthon said. “Even if the Kubalese prison is no more than a hog cage, it will be a job getting them out safe before the Kubalese shoot them from hiding, out of spite.” He unrolled a mat of blank parchment and began to sketch out quick plans for defending Carriol should the need arise. Drudd made a suggestion. Pol asked about horses in the north. They had nearly agreed to all the necessary details when Jerthon saw that no one was listening, all had turned to stare beyond him to the portal. He spun around, alarmed, as the wind, risen suddenly, swept into the citadel, lifting and tearing the maps, toppling chairs as the Seers rose to crowd around the portal, staring out. And in the wild sky Horses of Eresu were battling, tossed on the wind, their great wings torn by the gale; they were swept away, they beat against the wind, forcing themselves back, powerful animals buffeted like birds as they fought toward safety. A mare was blown to the ledge, fighting to keep her balance, two stallions were tumbled, descended at last, came in beside her. The Seers moved away from the portal as six more winged ones braced against wind, then pushed inside, heads down and ears back against the onslaught. Soon the whole band had fought its way down out of the seething sky to the ledge and into the protecting grotto. The winged horses came at once to the Seers, stood close; and the Seers spoke softly to them, made their minds open and receptive; but no thought passed from one to another. As if the horses had gone mute or the Seers deaf. Jerthon stood with his hand on a brown stallion’s cheek, trying to understand what had happened; what force had created such sudden chaos in the sky—though well enough he knew. Curse the Pellians! Curse this damnable silence! The dark made a web they could not penetrate. He tried to feel into the falling night for the shape and sense of the thing that had driven and buffeted the winged ones; he touched something dark and unyielding, and then his mind was torn and driven until at last he must withdraw.

A monstrous darkness lusting for blood, thriving on fear and confusion.

He sent for grains and the mild ale the winged ones so relished, and they made themselves at ease, some lying on the low stone shelves and outcroppings that had been worn smooth by their ancestors before them, some standing, still, beside the portal watching the darkening sky. When they were rested, Jerthon knew, when the danger was past, they would be off again, and the citadel would seem strangely empty.

The Seers moved among the winged horses caressing them and speaking to them with a reverence that came from awe, but too, from a gentle mutual understanding of this world that they shared so differently and yet with such like sympathies and fears. Skeelie stood beside a pale mare who seemed only slowly able to calm her terror. The winged horses had been, from her early childhood, the source of fierce wonder for Skeelie. Now, seeing them so distressed, her anger stirred painfully. Let the dark do battle with Seers, not with the gentle winged ones. BroogArl must hate everything beautiful, would kill all joy if he could. Surely the very essence of life, the wild freedom of the winged ones, offended him. She pressed her face against the mare’s pale neck, hiding tears of helpless anger—of rage at an evil they could no longer fight, rage at a force she did not know how to battle. She thought of Ram then, suddenly, Ram moving alone toward the dark mountains, vulnerable to attack, and she went sick with apprehension. What further evil would the dark be about this night? The mare shivered. Skeelie smoothed her neck, tried to reassure her; but her terrible fear was now for Ram. She prayed silently for Ram’s safety.

*

Ram watched darkness fall. The wind swept cold and damp down from the mountains and across the hills, flattening the tall ruddy grass, blowing the horses’ manes with sharp whipping motions. The darkness was early, hurried by heavy clouds. He looked toward the mountains, which were only a smear now in the falling night, and was gripped with a sudden sharp longing for the wolves, for Fawdref s wolfish grin and his cool wisdom.

It had been more than a year since they had met; Fawdref was growing old—even the great wolves grow old. Growing gray and thinner, Ram knew. He longed to go to him, to hold Fawdref’s shaggy head on his shoulder, to see gentle Rhymannie bow and smile at him; to be alone inside the dark mountains and the old grottoes, among the wolves once more. But he could not.

He had reached out again and again toward Burgdeeth, trying to sense something of what was occurring there. Had Venniver another victim for his fires? But Burgdeeth remained maddeningly locked away from him. He could only hasten, now, up toward the black mountains and into them, to seek as quickly as he could the hidden valley of Eresu, and then to use every skill he possessed to gain the gods’ help in stopping Venniver’s insane murders.

The wind blew clouds across the stars, hiding Ere’s slim moons. He could smell rain, and the wind chilled him through. He dug his leather cape from the pack none too soon, for thunder began to rattle; and then the rain itself came pelting sudden and sharp and cold. The pack mare lurched close to his knee, seeking protection. The night was black as sin, drear and damnably wet. His leather was near soaked through and the horses drenched when he sensed suddenly that a man rode beside him, just beyond his sight in the pounding rain. He felt the rider draw closer. He could see the darker shape then, in the heavy downpour. A tall man, on a tall horse, caped, he thought, and looking down at him. He could feel his stare like a lance. Ram slipped his sword from the scabbard, more irritated than afraid, and waited. He wondered that his horses gave no sign of fear, not a twitch from his mount He wanted badly to bark out a challenge, but held his silence.

The rider lurched suddenly so close to Ram that their boots touched, Ram’s sword poised inches from his chest. And though he had to shout above the driving rain, the man’s voice was uncertain and lost. “Can you tell me—I—what place is this? I seem . . . I seem to have lost my way.”

Ram frowned. “You are in Carriol. We—you ride toward her western border, toward Blackcob. Where do you come from, stranger, that you are so lost as that? Where do you come from that you are out on such a night?”

“I—from the mountains. I come from the mountains and—have lost myself and could . . . I could not stay where I was. You . . .” he reached out a hand then and touched Ram’s shoulder unexpectedly. Ram felt a sudden ease, a sense of comfort. “And you, lad? Unless a man were lost like me, only an urgent mission would bring him out on such a night.” They were both shouting, impossible to be heard otherwise, but their words might have been spoken quietly, almost shyly.

“I ride—I ride on a private mission,” Ran said warily.

“I see. And may I come along with you until I—until I get my bearings? I don’t . . . Or is your mission too private to allow me that?”

“You—you may ride with me.”

“There are—if we are riding toward the west hills of Carriol, there will be fences lad, in the dark . . .”

Ram frowned, puzzled. “There are few fences on this land. Though—though fences—stone walls perhaps, would be useful.”

“Few fences yet? But . . .” The man went silent for a long moment, and when he spoke again it seemed to be with some care. “Carriol—Carriol is not so large a nation, then.”

“Everyone in Ere, I would have thought, knows Carriol’s exact size and strength.”

“I have . . . I have been a long time in the mountains.”

Ram’s unease increased. “No man dwells for long in those mountains, stranger. No man I ever heard of.”

“I come—I have traveled far into the mountains for a time—into the unknown lands these—many years. I do . . . I do not know what has happened in any of the nations of Ere. I must have been wrong about the fences, about remembering. . . . You—you would favor me by telling me the news if you don’t mind shouting over this damnable rain.”

Ram studied the shadow that rode beside him. Who was this man? Why did he seem so confused? How could he remember fences that had never been? Ram knew he should challenge him further, question him, but he could not bring himself to do it. There was a sense of hurt about the man, as if he had suffered, as if his strange confusion came from some painful experience; he felt, suddenly, very gentle with the man, felt as if this man needed to know Ere’s history, as if to tell him would be to help him find himself.

Ram told him, shouting through the rain, of Carriol’s past from the time he had come there twelve years back, leaving out only those things that might, to the wrong ears, be harmful to Carriol. He told him something of the rising power of the dark Seers, though not all of it. The man’s questions were strange, disoriented. Ram thought he was old, the timbre of his voice was of an aged man. And some of his questions seemed strange indeed, given his confusion, implied a knowledge of Ere he should not have if he had been in the mountains for years. He puzzled Ram, but did not frighten him. They rode in silence for a while, each with his own thoughts, and Ram could not touch the man’s mind—though whether that was because of some skill he held, or because of the dark Seers, Ram did not know.

The heavy rain lasted full three hours across the hills to the river Urobb and did not abate as they rode up the last steep rise to the settlement of Blackcob that lay overlooking the river—though one could not see or hear the river, only driving rain. It was near midnight. Not a light shone anywhere; Blackcob was still as death and the rain likely never to end. Ram found Rolf Klingen’s corral only after bruising his shins on some piled barrels and swearing a lot. The stranger followed him obediently, and it occurred to Ram as he unsaddled the gelding that he had not even asked the man’s name; and perhaps he was foolish to bring him here into Blackcob, which had already seen more trouble than it wanted. Yet still he trusted the man. He unsaddled the pack mare under the shed, rubbed the horses down and, because they bumped one another in the dark, knew the stranger did the same. He felt reluctant to ask a name not given. They found grain at last and buckets; and when the animals were cared for, they went to wake old Klingen. Ram badly wanted a mug of something hot, and some food. Knowing he must have the stranger’s name if they were to spend the night with Klingen, he shouted, “How are you called, stranger?” and got a mouthful of rain.

“I am Anchorstar. And you, lad?”

“Ram. You can call me Ram.”

Ram felt the stranger pause in the downpour and stare, then come on again. “Ramad?” he cried, almost softly. “Ramad—Ramad of wolves, then?”

“Yes, I am Ramad. But how . . .” Cold and wet and hungry, Ram spent but little time wondering how the old man had known his name when all else about Carriol seemed so confusing to him. When the old man made no answer, he put it out of his mind and rapped sharply at Klingen’s door, stood hunched under the overhang shivering, the wound in his side paining him abysmally after the long ride. What in Urdd was taking Klingen so long? He pounded again, felt Anchorstar stir beside him and push closer to the log wall. He pounded a third time, fit to break the door, then reached to lift the latch.

FOUR

Some five hours ride to the west of Blackcob it was raining equally hard. The town of Kubal showed no light, gone in sleep except for a young girl standing in the darkness of a corral, drenched with rain, weeping so violently her whole body shook with sobs; yet weeping in silence, choking back the wail of anguish that rose and twisted her. She dared not be heard crying in the night or she would be beaten and the winged horse she clung to would be beaten again too. The big mare stood hunched and strangely twisted; Telien had to reach to caress her warm, wet neck, caress carefully so as not to touch the bloody wounds. She had staunched some of the blood, though it was impossible to bandage the whip-cuts across the mare’s back and legs, impossible to bandage, without further hurting, her poor maimed wings: wings once marvels of light-flung beauty, now clipped to the skin like a barn fowl’s, naked and bony and deformed-looking, with a few ragged feathers clinging, and bloody where AgWurt had cut too close. Telien could not erase the picture of her lying tangled in AgWurt’s snare, there in the valley, bound down with ropes; the picture of AgWurt’s face as he lashed her again and again so Telien turned away, sick. “My own father! I would . . . I would kill him if I could!” Though she knew, ashamed, that she was too terrified of him to try.

The mare reached around to nuzzle her in loving warmth. Telien hugged her gently, stood drenched by rain and felt only her warmth and her own sickness at what AgWurt had done.

There was no roof to shelter the mare, and Telien could not get her out of the corral, for it was locked and AgWurt carried his keys, always, chained securely to his wrist. She could not bring herself to leave her alone in the dark and rain, had been here since AgWurt went to bed. Perhaps the sound of her voice would help somehow. She thought that a wild creature, injured so, would only want to die. She began to speak, very softly, putting all the love she had into the words; though the words she used meant little for they could not understand one another. Only one who was Seer-born could speak with the winged ones.

“I used to come to watch you. No one knew I did. I came at night, or when they were all away raiding. I found the secret valley. You were the most beautiful of all, like a golden shaft of sun leaping in the sky and then winging to earth, then sweeping up again. I used to watch you drifting on the winds and then grazing in the deep grass, your wings spread out with the pure joy of being! Oh, it was lovely, you were lovely, you were like . . . You will be free again,” she said, her voice trembling. “Your wings will grow whole again, I promise. The muscles are not cut, he would not injure your wings, he wants . . .” She pressed her face against the mare. “I didn’t know. I never knew that AgWurt followed me! I would have died before I let him know!”

The mare moved her nose, shifted her weight as if the pain had increased. “Maybe he followed me the night the darkness came over the valley. You saw it, all of you saw that darkness, you flew away at once. Was AgWurt behind me then, was that the noise I heard and thought was part of the cold dark thing in the sky? What was that dark? Like a great monster, all cloudy and boiling along the top of the hills. So fast, so silent and black. The feel of it, so coldly evil!” She shivered, remembering. “AgWurt must have come back later to set the snares. “I’m glad the others got away, but you . . .” she glanced at the mare’s swollen belly. “You could not. Your colt—I wanted—I wanted to kill AgWurt. I wanted to cut you free but . . .” Shame engulfed Telien again. “I wasn’t brave enough. I thought he would kill me instead, and that he would kill you too.” Her voice shook. “I couldn’t watch him beat you, I turned my face away.”

For some time she was silent. She wished she had the power of Seeing so they could speak with one another. Sometimes, lying in the brush at the edge of the hidden valley, she had known just from their actions what the winged horses must be saying to one another with their silent, loving ways.

AgWurt meant to break this winged horse’s will. He meant to subdue her until she was as nothing, make of her a tame, domestic animal submissive to him. He meant to do the same to her colt, to clip its wings and make it slave to him. He did not dream that that was impossible—to AgWurt nothing was impossible if he put enough force to it. Telien knew such a creature would die first, before she would be slave; that she would likely kill her colt rather than let AgWurt lay hands on it. AgWurt envisioned himself mounted on a winged horse of Eresu; he thought he would be like Ramad of the wolves then, like Jerthon of Carriol. An invincible warrior. AgWurt’s dreams sickened her. “I saw you with your stallion,” Telien said softly. “He is—he is like fire! Like flame in the sky!” To think of a winged colt born to the captivity of AgWurt’s heartbreaking treatment, earthbound and fenced, was unbearable. “I will get you away from him somehow—somehow I will!

The mare shifted then and turned to look straight at her, lifting her head in pride, and Telien knew suddenly and with terrible joy that she did, indeed, understand her. She didn’t know how, without Seer’s skill to link them. She didn’t care how. The wonder of it made her tremble. She said softly, “Meheegan, Meheegan,” for the mare had given her her name. That sudden illuminating knowledge was like honey, like a song within Telien. “You will be free, Meheegan. I promise you will.” She knew she would kill AgWurt if she must and hoped she would be brave enough.

*

Ram pounded again, swearing. Klingen must sleep like a stone. He was chilled through, his temper gone, his wound painful from the long ride, his bandage soaked with rain or blood or both. Beside him Anchorstar was silent, lost in incredible patience. At last Ram lifted the latch and kicked Klingen’s door open, stepping back in case someone else was there. He had no taste for battling some errant band of Herebians in the middle of this cursed wet night.

No candle flared. No voice rang out. He edged in at last, cautiously, felt Anchorstar behind him, found flint and a small taper under his leather cape and struck light.

But the light showed nothing. There were no walls. He was not inside the cabin though the doorframe pressed hard and real against his arm. Anchorstar touched his shoulder, Ram felt the man’s fear. They faced not the homely cabin room but a void: inside the door vast space yawned, swallowing Ram’s light so the taper’s glow was only a useless pool lost at once in the emptiness. They had come through Klingen’s door, where Ram had come a hundred times—Ram knew a cot should stand just there, a cookfire there with a pot at the back—but he stood instead on the brink of empty blackness and felt Anchorstar draw his breath in fear. Incredible space loomed inside that door, empty space filled with a monstrous cold as if the world ended at their feet.

A voice whispered out, barely discernible yet echoing, a cold voice calling to Ram from no direction and from all directions, and it did not speak in words but soothed him and enticed him; the emptiness soothed and reached around him, holding him as a woman would, so his pain and hunger were gone and he was warm and incredibly comforted. He forgot Anchorstar. He just had to step forward, be soothed—he froze suddenly with the sense of BroogArl all around him, the sense of HarThass himself risen from death to haunt him with the bones of living skeletons from his childhood agonies. Drawn forward against his will, he clung to the doorframe sick and shaken as BroogArl reached, enticed—BroogArl would fling him into the endless dark, and Ram could not resist . . . He spun away from the door, jerked back into the rain, stumbled terrified into the welcome drenching.

He stood shaken and weak, clinging to Anchorstar, and felt hands on his shoulders then guiding him into the hut where a welcome fire blazed.

Anchorstar pushed him into a chair, and old Klingen held his arm as though he might fall. The kettle was boiling, the hut warm and homey. Klingen stared at him puzzled, his brown seamed face and brown hair hardly distinguishable from the rough wood walls of the hut, as if part of the hut itself had come alive to produce the old man, brown wrinkled skin, brown rough nightshirt like bark, even his voice creaking like too-dry wood.

“Iee, Ram, you give me a scare! What was you two doing standing there staring in at me like you’d seen a living ghost and me having to ask you five times to come in before you ever so much as heard me! Come, off with those clothes, both of you, and get yourselves up to the fire.” Klingen turned and began to stir up a pot hanging at the side of the fire, then reached an earthen jug from the shelf and poured out generous lacings into mugs, poured in hot water from the kettle. “Here, you two, this’ll take the chill off’n ya.”

Ram drank the hot liquor so greedily it burned all the way down.

“There, lad, take off the bandages too—I’ll rout out some clean rags.” Then, staring as Ram undid the bandages, “Sure you took one right in the liver near, didn’t you.” Ram was relieved to see that all the wetness was no more than rain, that no blood oozed. Anchorstar sat quietly at the table wrapped in something shapeless of Klingen’s, watching them both with a puzzled look; a tall thin man he was, with hair white as loess dust and eyes—Ram stared. He had never seen yellow eyes in a man. In a goat, perhaps, in a wild creature. The wolves had yellow eyes. But never yellow eyes in a man, eyes completely strange under that shock of white hair. And in spite of his quiet repose, he seemed ill at ease in a way, as if this world of log hut and friendly fire were almost foreign to him.

As Klingen stirred the pot, a fine aroma filled the hut, and soon enough the old man set bowls of steaming stew before them rich with gravy, and new bread, and refilled their mugs with the strong honeyrot and hot water, very little of the latter so that soon a fine maze filled Ram’s mind and, with full stomach, he wanted only sleep. But the two older men had set to talking, and Ram could not close his eyes for the strangeness of the conversation as Klingen tried to winnow out Anchorstar’s identity as a mouse would winnow out grain from sealed stores. Where had Anchorstar come from, and why? Anchorstar, at first reluctant, began at last to speak of the far mountains and of lands where none of Ere had ever ventured, to speak of the old mythical animals that still existed there, of the triebuck and the great dragoncats; and of the gantroed, which Ram knew well from the time on Tala-charen. He spoke of wonders Ram had only dreamed, but he did not speak of when he had gone into the far lands, of how many years ago, or from whence he came. When he rose at last to open his pack, he took from it a small leather pouch and spilled out across the table a cluster of shimmering jewels. Ram and Klingen stared. Never had Ram seen such, stones, deep amber, filled with light. Ram held one before the fire and its colors flashed as if it had absorbed the fire, and from its center a gleaming star shone out.

“How are they called?” Klingen asked, drawing in his breath.

“They are starfires; they are said to bring luck, though I cannot vouch for that. They are said by some to bring . . .” He paused, stared at Ram with that deep, yellow-eyed look that Ram could not plumb. “They are said to give to man a lightness of spirit, a lightness of being that will—that can do magical things. Though not,” he added, “not like the runestone of Eresu.”

“You know of the runestone?”

“Many in Ere knew of the runestone long before I—before I touched the unknown lands. I know of Tala-charen and of the splitting of the stone.” Anchorstar leaned back and touched his empty bowl lightly, then pushed it aside. “I know that Ramad of—Ramad of wolves is . . . He paused for a long moment, studying Ram, “is of great importance to Ere, to what—to what will happen in Ere.”

Ram searched his face, could not discern his exact meaning. Whether of hidden sarcasm—though he thought not—or of prophecy; or of something else far more certain. Anchorstar’s steady eyes seemed very certain.

“With the whole runestone,” Ram said, “perhaps I might be of importance to Ere. Perhaps. But the runestone is destroyed. Only a shard remains.”

A shift in the light of Anchorstar’s eyes might have been only the dance of firelight. “You are—one dedicated to the good, Ramad of wolves. Whatever comes to your hand will be used to the good of Ere. And if the runestone—the whole stone . . .” But he did not finish, turned away almost as if in sorrow, and sat gazing into Klingen’s fire.

At last Ram stirred and spoke. “And you, Anchorstar. What are you dedicated to?” For this tall white-haired man, whose look Ram could not fathom, was more than a traveler, more than a wanderer upon Ere. There was a dedication in him, a purpose in him strong as steel.

Anchorstar turned back to look at him. “A trader, Ramad. I am a trader.” He held up one of the amber stones. “What I traded for these stones was little. What I will trade them for could—could be much.”

*

In the cold dawn, with the rain abated but the sky dull gray, Blackcob looked forlorn indeed. The Kubalese attack had left burned huts and sheds, burned fences, grain stores scattered uselessly where the side of a shed had been broken away, very few horses in the corrals, and they the dregs of the lot. Ram found Anchorstar out well before him tending to his mount, and that mount made Ram stare with wonder. He had had no glimpse of him last night as they rubbed down and fed their horses in darkness. A tall, beautifully made stallion, dun in color, as steel gray as the morning sky.

Never had there been such a horse in Ere, such a magnificent, long-legged, short-coupled stallion; he was exactly what Ram and Jerthon had dreamed of, the fine wide eyes, the strong light bones—he could have been a product of their own breeding program many years hence. This dun stallion was not of Ere, never. Had Anchorstar found him somewhere beyond the far mountains; were there men there to breed such as this?

And when he questioned Anchorstar, Anchorstar’s confusion made him press his querying obstinately. Did the horse come from Moramia or Karra, or from somewhere on the high desert where the secretive tribes dwelt? Anchorstar would not say. Did he come from the far lands? Were there men there so skilled at the breeding of horses?

“He comes,” Anchorstar said at last, “from very far. Farther than you imagine.” Again there was the sadness, like a darkened cloak swirling around Anchorstar. “Yet this stallion is closer to you, Ramad, than you know.”

“And will you sell him to me, then? He would be the finest blood in our breeding, he . . .

“I know, Ramad of wolves, what he would do. But I cannot sell him. I cannot part with him in—I cannot part with him now.” Anchorstar would say no more, Ram could not get him to speak further of the stallion and gave it up at last.

They rode out of Blackcob together after Klingen’s huge breakfast, Anchorstar huddled in his cape but sitting his mount lightly, hardly needing to touch the reins.

Ram’s wound, freshly bound, did not pain him now. He had slept dreamless and deep, warmed by Klingen’s fire without and by Klingen’s numerous cups of hot honeyrot within, lulled by old Klingen’s snoring like wild hogs rattling—Anchorstar had snored not at all. Ram did not lead the pack mare now, had left her for the men of Blackcob. They would need every mount they could get to make the ride into Kubal two days hence.

He parted from Anchorstar at the forking of the rivers Urobb and Voda Cul. Ram headed up the eastern shore of the Urobb toward the dark mountains, on toward the valley of the gods, keeping well away from Kubalese eyes. Anchorstar rode direct for Kubal, against both Ram’s and Klingen’s advice.

“They will kill you for the stallion, if nothing else. And those stones; if the Kubalese see the starfires . . .”

“I must take my chances. I would—I would see this Kubal that has risen on the hills.”

He would say no more. Ram stared after him puzzling. He rode at a gallop toward the low, western hills, his white hair like a flag on the morning.

Surely he did not travel to Kubal merely from curiosity. Klingen had described the Kubalese raids adequately, described their brutality with sufficient clarity to belay any idle curiosity a man might have.

Ram forded the Voda Cul at the shallows, then veered north of the Urobb, farther from Kubal’s prying eyes. He took his noon meal from the saddle while his gelding drank, and soon was among high foothills and narrow valleys where the rich grass was crossed by small wandering springs. The dark humping mountains rose directly over him, gigantic peaks laid about by deep shadow and blackened by falls of volcanic stone, empty wild mountains peopled only by the wolves and, here and there, by the winged horses transient as moths on the wind. There were caves in the mountains, immense and twilit and filled with the wonders of a time long past. Ram thought of the caves he knew, and longed for the warmth of shaggy muzzles thrust deep into his hands, for the rank musty smell and the deep voices of the wolves, for Fawdref’s knowing grin. He slipped the wolf bell from inside his tunic and held it for a long painful time, staring at the rearing bitch wolf holding the bell in her mouth, remembering. Remembering so much. Fear, terror. Such warmth, opening his mind to wonders he had not dreamed. The sense of brotherhood, greeting the great wolves and knowing, always, that he had come home. He longed to go to them. But he could not pause nor turn aside, he must go quickly into Eresu lest, while he tarried, another child should burn at Venniver’s abominable sacrifice. He pushed the bay gelding restlessly toward the dark peaks where lay the hidden valley. Soon he would stand facing the gods, their bodies glinting and ever changing as if they moved in another element. He went weak with awe and with apprehension. Could a man approach the gods? His appalling effrontery at considering he could do so, could solicit the gods’ help, nearly undid him.

Yet it must be done. Nothing else short of war—and Carriol was not strong enough now, crippled by the dark, to make such war—could prevent Venniver’s slaughter of the Seeing children. Could prevent Venniver’s insane and false religion from creating untold destruction and pain.

And if he had ever thought, as a child, that the gods were not truly gods, were, as he had once told Tayba, only different from men, he trembled now at that thought.

Soon he entered a valley that rose steeply toward a grove of young trees thrusting up between stones of black lava. Beyond the trees rose steep grassy banks. He saw the winged horses suddenly, for they were standing in shadow by the grove, motionless, watching him approach, five winged ones, their dark eyes knowing, their wings folded tight to their bodies to avoid the low branches of the wood. They seemed—they were waiting for him, yet their thoughts did not touch him. His horse stared uncertainly, smelled them, saw their wings, and wanted to bolt A big russet stallion came forward lifting his wings, touched Ram’s cheek with his muzzle, ignored Ram’s mount utterly. He pushed at Ram’s red hair with his nose, a gesture of respect and love. They had some need, these winged ones, some trouble. Ram tried to understand and could not, the dark held impenetrable silence over them, silence between those who should speak with one another as easily as breathing. At last, unable to communicate, the stallion led Ram deep into the wood. The four other winged ones followed.

There, just in the dappled shade, a winged colt stood twisted into ungainly position, caught in a rope snare. Ram dismounted, drew his knife. The colt was big, a yearling, and had been cut cruelly by the ropes as he fought to free himself. Ram could see where the stout lines had been chewed by the other horses. He began to cut the snare away.

He had cut nearly all the ropes when suddenly his arm touched a rope yet uncut, saplings hissed and a second snare sprang, jerking and choking him as he fought, engulfing him in tangles. And he heard a human shout and suddenly five riders came plunging down the hill. He fought in desperation, slashed at ropes. The winged ones turned, screaming, to battle the riders. Ram, fearing more for them than for himself, shouted them away, saw the colt leap skyward, then the others, as bows were drawn against them with steel-tipped arrows, heard a mare scream as she took an arrow in the leg. The five horses lifted fast into the wind.

The riders circled Ram. A dark Herebian warrior swung down from the saddle, his leather vest marked with the black cross of Kubal, his brutal face close to Ram’s as Ram struggled in fury against the ropes. He was a head taller than Ram and stank of sweat. He jerked Ram up, signaled that Ram’s horse be brought, did not speak, seemed furious that the colt had escaped. But he was sharply interested in Ram, kept staring at his red hair and grinning. The other two men jumped at his bidding like puppets on a stick.

They brought Ram’s horse. Ram fought them uselessly, was too tightly bound to do little more than give them a bruise or two as they tied his hands and feet, then removed the snare and threw him over his saddle, tied him down like a sack of meal so tight the wolf bell pressed sharply into his ribs and the saddle tore at his healing wound. The men reset the snare, then led Ram’s horse lurching up the hill.

Ram’s wound burned like fire. Surely it was torn open. He thought he could feel blood running. Evening fell, the night deepened. Every bone in his body ached from riding belly down across the saddle. The journey seemed to go on forever. It was very late indeed when his horse was led at last into the Kubalese camp.

FIVE

Lights swung wildly in Ram’s face, voices shouted, more lights were flung up so men could stare at him. His horse shied and spun. He wanted to kill every man in the compound, but was helpless as a babe. Numb and cold, likely all his ribs broken after that abominable ride, and the wolf bell had gouged a raw place and his wound was a screaming pain. If he could get his hands on just one . . .

A lantern was shoved into his face, blinding him. When his vision cleared at last, he could see corral fences in the swinging lights, and some sheds. Men crowded around him. Someone poked his wound, bringing pain like a knife. Someone jerked his plunging horse until it stilled.

“Fires of Urdd, a Seer! AgWurt has brung us a Seer!” A hunk of Ram’s hair was pulled, bringing a roar of laughter.

“A better day’s work than one o’ them unnatural winged horses, I say!”

“Where’d they get a Seer?”

“Look, ’e’s a young one, looks—them’s Carriol clothes, this . . .”

“It’s the wolf one, Brage! They call Ramad! Ramad of wolves, this! Why . . .”

“They’ll pay a price for this one in Carriol! Better than a flying horse, AgWurt! Better . . .”

Ram was poked and exclaimed over, then at last was left to himself, still tied face down across the saddle. Much later he was cut loose and jerked roughly off his horse to drop in the mud, so stiff he could hardly roll away from the gelding’s hooves. Someone jerked him up, and he was dragged, still bound, to a pen of thick crossed bars, was shoved inside with such force that he fell against a post and lay with his head reeling.

No one bothered to untie him. The mud in which he lay was redolent with manure. He was too weary to try to rise. He heard a lock snap shut. He must have slept in spite of pain, for when he was aware of anything again the night was still and much colder and there were no lights, just the thin glow of the two moons that had risen higher and were reflected in puddles in the mud. What had waked him? His hands and feet were numb from the bindings, and icy cold. Someone whispered close beside him, a girl’s voice.

She was reaching through the bars, holding out a mug. “Try to move your hands, I’ve taken off the ropes. Try—can you move your feet?”

He reached out, could hardly feel the mug, had to consciously direct his fingers to close around it; drank greedily.

“You are in Kubal,” she whispered. “My father caught you in a snare meant for . . .”

“For the horses of Eresu.” Ram’s voice was hoarse.

“Yes. I tried—I can’t reach your bandage. It’s bloody. Is the pain very great?”

“I’m all right.” He touched numb fingers to his side, felt the wetness; then pulled himself up until he could lean against the wooden cage. She drew back, startled, seemed suddenly uneasy at his closeness. He caught the smooth, slim turn of her cheek, a brief glimpse in the thin wash of moonlight, then she was in shadow again; a strange, stirring glimpse that unsettled him for no reason.

She had lifted her hand, now she touched the fence, seemed lost in some depth of thought he had no way to follow. She said at last, urgently, “Why were you there in the foothills? Did you mean to come to Kubal, Seer?”

“I—I am of Carriol.” She was watching him so intently, almost as if he frightened her. Why was she here in the dark by his pen, why was she helping him? “I was traveling away from Kubal, I was traveling toward the mountains.”

She moved until she could see his face more clearly in the faint moonlight. He was covered with mud and dung, a pretty sight. She almost reached again, drew her hand back. “You are . . . you are Ramad.”

“How did they know me, those men?”

“There are fifteen Seers in Carriol. Jerthon of Carriol is older than you. There are some old men, some women. There is only one other young man, and he is thin and freckled, older. There is only one as young as you and red of hair. And brazen sometimes, so the captives say.”

He grinned. ‘Tell me your name.”

“I am Telien.”

“Yes, Telien. You freed a woman and her daughters and they came to us.” He wanted to tell her something, to share with her something, but he did not know what. He wanted to give her something. “I was riding toward Eresu,” he blurted, and he had not meant to tell anyone this. He saw her eyes widen: green eyes, cool green in the glancing moonlight. He wanted to touch her cheek and didn’t understand his feelings. She studied his face, and he was stirred by her, and restless and afraid. What was this strangeness? He felt a closeness to her like nothing he could remember, a closeness as brothers of blood would feel, yet not like that at all; the closeness of a woman, but unlike what he had felt for any woman.

How could a man feel tenderness, feel passion, kneeling in the muck of a corral, freezing cold? Yet he felt all this for Telien. She started to speak but a lantern flared nearby, and at once she was gone into the night as if she had never been.

When he woke again it was dawn, and some chidrack were screaming and pecking after bugs at one side of his pen. He rolled over, stared at the crossed bars. He had been sleeping in the mud like an animal. He rose painfully, saw the ropes lying half buried in the mud, and remembered Telien. He moved stiffly, every bone ached, and his wound pulled painfully. His stomach was empty as a cavern, his mouth dry. Hardly light, nothing stirred. There were no cobbled streets here, only mud. No stone houses. Rough wooden sheds, many pens. No smoke from the tin chimneys yet. He stood looking through the bars, knowing he should try to make a plan of escape and unable to think of anything but Telien.

At last he stirred himself, found the gate to his pen, and began to examine the lock, a huge heavy thing set into wide steel straps so it could not be pried loose. He gave it up finally and turned once more to sorting out his surroundings.

The nearby pens held horses slogging in mud so it was a wonder they weren’t all lame. In a far corral human captives slept on the ground like dead bodies—could have been bodies scattered, except some of them snored. In a corral to his left stood a great mare, her rump turned to him. She—he stared, not believing what he saw. When she turned, he caught his breath.

A mare of Eresu! And her wings shorn bare so he went sick at the sight of her. Wings clipped to the skin like some fettered barn fowl, wings made ugly and monstrous, misshapen, held tight to her sides in pain or in shame, ungainly bony protuberances that once had been graceful arcs commanding winds, commanding the skies of Ere. Her body was covered with the long welts of a lash, cruel and deep.

He tried to reach her with his thoughts, but she stood hunched and unresponding. How long had she been in this place? Had she been captured in AgWurt’s snares? What did AgWurt intend for her? To clip her wings like this, to cripple her—and the poor mare was heavy with foal. What did he want? Only to bedevil and degrade these wild creatures whose spirits he could not touch? Or to ride them, to become their masters in some sick-minded attempt at mastering that which no man could ever master.

He turned his attention again to the compound. He could not help the mare, not yet. But AgWurt shared now in the cold, purposeful hatred Ram held for Venniver who burned children, and for the dark Pellian Seers.

The sky was growing lighter, the compound taking fuller shape. There was a long shed beyond the pens that could be a central kitchen and sleeping hall, perhaps an arms store as well. How many men did the encampment house? He could see another row of sheds some distance beyond the first, and more corrals. He counted sixty-two horses, some of them very good mounts, many from Carriol. He caught his breath when he saw the dun stallion standing tall among the other mounts.

And where was Anchorstar, then? He could not see him among the prisoners. He stood looking, outraged, uncertain. Was the tall, white-haired man sleeping in the hall among the Kubalese? Was he friend to the Kubalese, had he spoken to Ram in deceit?

Had he alerted the Kubalese that Ram was near, traveling alone?

He could hardly believe that, and yet . . . why had Anchorstar come here? What business could the man have with the Kubalese?

In the closest prison pen, figures were beginning to rise stiffly from the mud where they had slept. Ram watched them, hoping to see Anchorstar among them, but assuming he would not; and Anchorstar was not there. When Ram turned, Telien stood beside his cage.

Her green eyes, the shock of recognition he felt for her held him frozen. Her face so familiar, he knew it so well; yet he had hardly seen her before this moment, seen only her moon-touched shadow last night. But he had seen her, knew well the tone of her skin, the curve of her cheek just there—and suddenly without warning he knew, went weak with knowing: Time spun, twelve years disappeared, and he was caught again in the vortex of Time spinning at the top of Tala-charen. Telien was there among the shadowy figures; thunder rumbled and the mountain shook; he saw her pale hair fall across her shoulders as it now fell, her green eyes watching him as they now watched; saw the jade shard in her hands turning slowly from white hot to deep green; and she disappeared.

And Telien stood holding out a plate of bread and meat, puzzled by his scowl, uncomprehending. He took the plate woodenly. She frowned, trying to understand, did not speak. He gripped her wrist so she stared back at him in alarm, then with pain; but she showed no sign of the recognition he felt.

He could not gather words. When he released her, she continued to stare, unable to turn away.

He swallowed, found his voice at last, stared at her pale hair, her golden skin, seeing her still as she was in Tala-charen—exactly as she was now. “Do you not remember, Telien?” How could she not remember? She had been there. “You held the runestone in your hands—the runestone of Eresu.”

“The runestone of Eresu?” She frowned, studying his face. “You make fun of me, Ramad of wolves. The runestone of Eresu lies in the sacred tower of Carriol. How could I have held it?”

“You did not hold that stone, Telien. You held its mate. You held it and you . . .” He stopped speaking, could not explain, was gripped with such longing for her; and with a sudden longing for Tala-charen and for that moment that had caused him such pain. She touched his cheek hesitantly; they saw a figure emerge from the hall and she left him at once slipping away, did not return until night.

He gazed after her, trying to understand. Why did she not remember?

She had brought bandages, salve. At last he busied himself with changing the dressing of his wound. He did not like the look of it, angry and swollen, torn open where it had earlier begun to heal; very painful. He was leaning tiredly against the wooden bars feeling light-headed when he saw, so suddenly that he jerked upright, the tall, lean figure of Anchorstar going across the compound led by two soldiers, the old man’s hair white as snow in the dull morning. Ram nearly cried out, held his tongue with effort, watched as the soldiers pushed Anchorstar roughly into the long hall and pulled the door closed behind them.

They had come from the direction of the prison pens. Surely Anchorstar was captive, then, and not a friend of the Kubalese as Ram had feared. He had thought of Anchorstar as friend, had trusted him even with so short a meeting, felt, for the old man a kinship it was difficult to explain. He remembered, now, Anchorstar’s words as they sat before Klingen’s fire. You are one dedicated to the good, Ramad of wolves. Whatever comes to your hand will be used to the good of Ere. No pronouncement at all of his own position, yet Ram had felt with every fiber of his Seer’s strength that Anchorstar was as committed as he to the good of Carriol, of Ere.

But was feeling, even a Seer’s feeling, ever enough?

He stood pondering this when the vision came, abruptly: Anchorstar kneeling before AgWurt, held like a dog, beaten by guards so the lashes cut through his leather jerkin and into his skin. Anchorstar, silent and ungiving; Anchorstar beaten raw and still unwilling to speak. What did they want of him? Ram gripped the bars, Seeing with terrible clarity. Saw, then, the small leather pouch in AgWurt’s fist, knew he had taken it from Anchorstar’s tunic, the starfire pouch, heard AgWurt’s words briefly before the vision faded: You will tell me where! I will know where they came from, or you will die in Kubal’s pens, old man!

*

When Telien returned, she came from the direction of the mare’s fence. He had not seen her go there in the dark; her hands were freezing, as if she had been standing a long time inside that corral. The night was broken by loud voices and laughter from the hall, as if AgWurt’s men sat drinking there. A thin fog lay across the moons. He wanted to look into Telien’s face, but she stood with her back to the dull moonlight. She had brought meat and bread. He reached through the bars, touched her hand. She pushed the plate at him, seemed shy and confused. When she looked at him, it was with veiled, wary eyes; and yet he thought there was more. Something . . .

She said, abruptly, without greeting, “He keeps—AgWurt keeps the key chained to his wrist.” As if she had thought all day about how to set him free. “I—he almost never takes it off. Once, by the water trough . . .”

“Yes, when you freed Mawn Paula and her children.”

“Yes.” She moved along the fence until Ram had turned so the faint moonlight fell on his face. She reached as if she would touch his hair, then stilled her hand, remained silent, watching him.

He wanted to whisper to her, to hold her.

“You can’t dig out, Ram. The posts are buried a long way and the ground is like rock.”

He touched her hand, her cheek—that face he had seen in dreams for half his life. Why didn’t she remember? He wanted to speak of Tala-charen and could not.

“I can steal a knife, though. If you . . .”

He searched her eyes. So direct, so concerned for him. “A knife, yes. If I could get AgWurt to enter this cursed pen . . .” Should he speak of this? AgWurt was, after all, her father.

“If you could do that, you could kill him and take the key. I want to kill him. I am—I am afraid. I have tried. He—he wakes in his sleep. It is the—the only way I know to do it, in his sleep, and I can’t even do that.”

“He will die,” Ram promised. “He needs to die. Is this . . . Telien, is this why you help me? Only so I will kill AgWurt?”

She looked shocked, drew back. “I—I suppose it is, in part. But . . .” She came close again. “But there is more to it than that, Ramad. I don’t understand. I would help you anyway, you are a Seer of Carriol. But . . .” She was so close to him. “There is something more that I do not understand.” She searched his face, trying to make sense of it. “We are together. In a way I do not understand.” Was there a glint of fear on her cheek? He seemed unable to tell her how he felt. They stood on the brink of wonder beyond any he had ever known, and he could not speak. The moment on Tala-charen was a part of it, he could almost feel again Time warping, space warping beyond comprehension to form new patterns—and then suddenly terror gripped him. Terror for Telien swept him as he Saw her sucked through the barrier of time, in a vision so abrupt, so lucid, a vision of Telien’s fate. . . . Gone. Lost in Time, perhaps for eternity.

It could not be! He would not let it be! He felt her stir and found he was gripping her hard, hurting her. He loosed her. She touched his clenched fist. For an instant she thought his pain was from the wound and then, watching him, she knew it was not; she saw his fear and her eyes were huge with it.

When he did not move or speak, did not draw himself from the vision that held him, she dug anxious fingers into his arm and reached to turn his face to her. “What is it, Seer? What vision holds you?”

His fear for her and his sudden rending pain for himself because of it, his pain for the two of them, shook him utterly. He could not touch the edges of the vision, nor grasp the causes of the chasm of time through which he saw her fall. He could only taste his own fear and then his terrible, unbearable aloneness.

She watched him with sudden growing understanding—at least of what he felt, of what she herself felt. Of what she had felt last night, this strangeness, this sense of having known him always. She was amazed and shaken by it. There had been men; this was not like that. This was as if a part of her had suddenly, irrevocably, come home. As if her very soul had come to her suddenly out of unimaginable space.

She bent forward so her cheek was pressed against the bars and drew him to her. He held her fiercely in a grip he could not quell, kissed her, was unaware of the bars pressing into his side and shoulder; they clung together wounded by the bars of his cage, clung with a terrible sudden knowledge; and a sudden awesome fear that would never again quite fade.

For long after Telien left him, he paced, could not settle to sleep. Long after the warriors’ voices died and lanterns were extinguished so the compound lay dark, he walked the perimeter of his pen, examining again and again his feelings for Telien.

Had they always been linked in some crevice of fate that had swept them incredibly to this place at this time? Had they always been one by some turn of their very spirits that neither one understood?

And why, then, did Telien not remember?

*

He woke. Something was screaming, he thought it was a woman, then knew it was not: Terrifying animal screams, nearly human, a scream more of rage than of pain. He flung up, trying to locate the direction while still half-asleep. The night was clear, the stars uncovered, the moons brighter. There was wild stirring in the winged mare’s corral. She screamed again, Ram saw her rear up, saw the broad figure of a man pulling at her rope. She reared again as he spun in a dance around her trying to throw a saddle on her back. Ram could smell honeyrot, watched AgWurt’s clumsy movements with fury. The man was dead drunk, meant to saddle a mare of Eresu and ride her. Ram tore at his bars uselessly, calling AgWurt every filth he could name, but the Herebian leader paid no attention. He had the mare snubbed now against the fence, had the saddle on in spite of her fighting, and was reaching to pull the girth under her belly when she kicked him so hard she sent him sprawling in the mud. But he was up again, animal-like in his rage. He set on her, beating her with the bridle. Ram tried with all his skill to weaken the man, tried and could do nothing, was sweating with effort, calling the powers of the wolf bell; yet could not touch AgWurt. The man had succeeded in getting the saddle girthed as the mare fought uselessly against the tight snub. He was trying to mount her and so drunk he fell twice. She struck at him, screaming. Ram could sense soldiers in the darkness watching, routed from sleep, sniggering. The mare’s poor wings flailed uselessly, pitifully.

Ram felt the wind, heard the rush of wings, looked up to see the stars blotted away as dark wings swept overhead, heard the stallion’s screams challenge AgWurt, saw the great horse descend in rushing flight.

The stallion dropped straight for her pen like a hunting falcon, then startled suddenly, leaped skyward again, great wings pulling as he sensed the pen too small and that he would be trapped there, his wings entangled. He hovered in confusion, wanting to get at AgWurt, then dropped down outside her pen striking at the fence in a frenzy, thrusting himself against the rails, his need to free her terrible, his need to kill AgWurt terrible. He would tear himself to pieces. Lights flared as running men struck flints, lamps caught. The great horse spun to face the shouting soldiers, pawed as they surrounded him. The soldiers fell back, their lanterns swinging wild arcs. Ram saw AgWurt slip out of the mare’s pen, stealthy, rope held low, could feel AgWurt’s lust as he leaped for the stallion’s head.

He tried for the stallion’s head and the horse struck him, he was down under its hooves, rolled free beneath the fence as the stallion lunged at him screaming with fury. Ram gasped as AgWurt drew his steel blade and came out under the bars crouched, stalking the winged horse of Eresu, meaning to kill; and then Telien was there snatching away a soldier’s lantern, facing AgWurt. The man swung around, his raised blade close to her, and she flung the lantern, splashing oil across him. Fire caught at once. AgWurt screamed, aflame. Soldiers threw him to the ground, stifling flame with their own bodies.

AgWurt rose at last, limping, white with fury. He advanced on Telien coldly, slowly. She stood her ground, staring at him, Ram could not tell whether in rage or in terror. Ram’s hands were bleeding from fighting the walls of his pen. AgWurt would kill her. He clutched the wolf bell in a desperate bid for power; but the dark Seers held him immobile, emasculated of all Seer’s power. It was then the winged stallion spun, struck AgWurt full in the face, struck again, felling AgWurt, towered over his fallen body pounding with hooves like steel, tearing him, screaming, his rage like the sky breaking open.

The soldiers had fallen back. One raised a bow. The stallion spun again and sent him sprawling. Several men dropped their swords and ran. AgWurt lay crushed beneath the stallion’s hooves, and the great horse loomed over him still, challenging soldiers, and then reared over Telien; and the soldier who held her loosed her and fled.

Now the stallion stood quietly beside Telien. She leaned for a moment against his shoulder, trembling. Then she turned to where her father lay.

AgWurt’s arm was bent beneath him, his body bloody and crushed. Telien knelt, her face twisted. Would she weep for her father now? Ram watched her steadily.

Slowly she turned AgWurt’s bloody body and pulled his arm from beneath him. She glanced up at Ram, removed the iron bracelet from the bleeding wrist, and let Agwurt’s hand drop.

She saw the lump under his tunic then, paused, then drew out the small leather pouch and pulled it open, spilling starfires into her palm, catching her breath. She looked up at Ram, this time with wonder, tipped the starfires back into the bag, and dropped the bag into her pocket. Then she rose without another glance at AgWurt.

She unlocked Ram’s pen first, then the mare’s. When she had removed the saddle, the mare nudged her gently, then broke away at once in a lame gallop up through the camp and out toward the dark mountains. The stallion remained facing the soldiers with flaring nostrils, his ears flat to his head. No man dared move before him. As Ram and Telien started toward the pens of the captives, one soldier tried to draw bow, and the stallion struck him down. He did not move again.

They released the prisoners. Men flocked to catch and saddle horses, to pack the food stores, to take up weapons. Telien found herbs and bandages for those who must be tended. Children too small to ride by themselves would ride before their elders; the sick and the injured would have the one wagon. A dozen men guarded AgWurt’s soldiers. The stallion had gone now, leaping into the sky to follow his mare and guard her, she who went helplessly earthbound through the night mountains heavy with foal and unable to fly to safety; for though the great wolves were her friends, the common wolves of the mountains were not, the common wolves would take pleasure in her flesh.

When Ram turned to looking for Anchorstar, he was gone. No one had seen him. The dun stallion was gone, Anchorstar’s saddle, every sign of him. Telien could not remember when she had last seen that white head among the prisoners, seen the dun stallion. When she reached into her pocket to draw out the little pouch of starfires, it too was gone; one stone gleamed with eerie light in her palm. She raised her eyes to Ram. “How could that be? How—who is he, Ram?”

“I don’t know. Nor do I know from where he came except—except I’m beginning to imagine he came from a distance farther than any place we know.”

“Then will we not see him again? He—I trusted him, Ram. He was—I thought he was very special.”

“Special? Yes, very special. With talents I have not mastered, Telien. But, see him again? I don’t know.” He looked down at her and a shiver touched him, of cold terrible wonder. If either of them were to see Anchorstar again, where would they see him? In what time would they see him? If Telien were to see him—he touched her hair and felt again that heart-rending fear for her.

When at last the prisoners were mounted, Telien kept herself apart from them, pulled her pony aside and held back to Ram. He touched her pack, tied behind the saddle. “You carry food, Telien. But there is food in plenty in the wagon. And this pony . . .”

“He is a sturdy pony for the mountains, Ram. I do not follow the rest.”

His heart lifted. “Do you mean you ride with me, then, into the valley of Eresu?”

“No, Ramad. You go where you are needed, and I must do the same. The mare will need me. She will need salves until her wings are healed, care the stallion cannot give her. She will need, very soon now, tending while she bear her foal, which no stallion, no matter how wise, can give her. I will follow Meheegan into the mountains.”

He took her hand, held the lantern up. “Still you do not remember the thunder, the shaking earth.”

“I remember nothing such as that. How can I remember something that has not happened to me?” Her eyes were huge, very green. “I’ll tell you this, Ramad of wolves. If that memory has to do with you, if it is something we should remember together, then I promise you I would never forget it.”

Ram reached to touch her cheek, said without understanding his own words until after he had spoken them, “If you do not remember, Telien, then—then that which I remember has . . . not yet happened to you.”

They stared at each other perplexed, and Ram went cold with the knowledge of what he had said. Time, for Telien, was yet to warp. The sense of her being swept away from him in Time was yet to happen. Yes, all of it, waiting for her somewhere in Time itself, as a crouching animal waits. What would happen to her after those few moments in Tala-charen? What would the warping of Time do to her then? He could not let her go, could not part from her now, knowing not when she would be swept away; when or if he would see her again.

She saw his fear for her and could not ask, saw that he would have her stay. She leaned and kissed him. “I—I will be in the mountains when—when you come to me.” There were tears on her cheeks. She swung her horse around suddenly and broke it into a gallop up through the muddy camp in the direction the mare had gone.

He turned, grabbed the reins of a saddled horse, had his foot in the stirrup when he stopped himself, stood staring after her with a new feeling, a feeling he would not have for another.

He had no right to stop her because of his fear for her, because of his own need for her. She must do what was necessary. But part of him was with her, would always be with her. He tied the horse, turned away desolate, turned to getting the captives started on their journey home.

He chose three men to ride south to intercept Jerthon. The rest of the band set out at once straight for Blackcob. Ere’s two moons had lifted free of cloud at last, to hang like slim scythes. With their light, the band would make good time. Two men remained in Kubal to meet the small band from the north and to dish out gruel to the penned prisoners, the soldiers of AgWurt. Once the two had left, releasing the prisoners, not a horse would remain in Kubal, not a weapon save one or two for hunting meat.

At last Ram headed out north, up toward the source of the river Urobb, for there, so the old tales told, so inscriptions in the caves of the gods told, he would find Eresu.

*

Alone in the night, Telien was stricken with a terrible longing for Ram. She tried with difficulty to keep her thoughts to guessing which way the mare might have gone. With AgWurt dead, Meheegan might well return to the cloistered, grass-rich valley in spite of her memory of the snare. Telien headed north through the land that AgWurt had taken from murdered settlers. Now that he was dead, could his men hold this land? AgWurt, dead—because of his own cruelty and blood lust. And for the first time since her mother had died when she was very small, Telien felt the sudden light, free sense of wholeness that comes with the absence of fear.

Nothing she could face in these mountains, nothing in the night or in all of Ere itself could make her afraid in the way she had feared AgWurt. She was suddenly made of light; she lay her reins on her mount’s neck and stretched her arms upward into the cold night, stretched her body up and felt the last harness of fear slip away as if she lifted herself into a world she had forgotten existed.

And she thought of Ram, now, with joy. No matter the future, her life was remade with Ram’s. How could you know someone so short a time yet feel you had belonged together forever? She spoke his name into the night like a litany, “Ram. Ramad of wolves.” An immensity of space seemed to surround Ram, the very air around him to break into fragments that revealed a world beyond, revealed wonders and freedom she could hardly imagine. The freedom of Carriol was a part of it, but more than that: a freedom of spirit such as she had never known. There would be no lies with Ram. If there was pain and danger, they would know these things together. She would accept pain gladly now, so that Ram should not bear it alone.

*

In the hills south of Kubal, most of Jerthon’s battalion slept soundly, their heads couched on saddles, their bows and swords close beside them—colder companions than women but sometimes steadier. Jerthon, riding guard, saw the signal fire first. It flared three times, then twice, then three. Ram’s signal. Jerthon and the other three who rode guard woke the battalion to saddle up, then all sat their fidgeting horses waiting to see what would come down out of the hills. Maybe Ram. Maybe something else. The journey through Folkstone had been strange, with dark, unsettling winds and a heavy blackness sweeping the stars above them, then gone; and something unseen running through the woods jibbering so the horses were strung tight with fear.

They waited in silence, the horses restive. The night wind had stilled and the cold increased. At last they could make out a rider moving down toward them, then another, finally could see three riders. And then Emern’s voice came suddenly, Emern who had been captive of the Kubalese; Emern’s voice light and questioning on the cold night air. “Captain? Is it Jerthon?”

“Yes! Great Eresu, man, where have you come from? Who rides with you?”

“Cald and Lorden, Captain!”

They rode down fast, their horses sliding and blowing. The three men leaped from their saddles to be embraced by their fellows and by Jerthon. “Shadows of Urdd!” Jerthon bellowed, “How did you get free? Where are the rest?”

He had the story quickly and with confusion from the three of them, how Ram had come captive into Kubal, how the stallion of Eresu had killed AgWurt. Ram had then ridden off into the mountains and the rest of the captives headed straight for Blackcob. The elation among Jerthon’s troops was as wild as if foxes danced, and a jug was passed, then soon enough the battalion was heading for home double-time across the night hills; and all of them knowing they would meet their comrades and brothers and wives safe in Carriol. They rode hard and forded the Urobb near dawn to come onto Carriol land, the narrow valley that marked her western border.

Strange that no herd animals could be seen, for the herds grazed heavily here. At the first farmhouse they found all the animals crowded into barn and sheds, gates locked. They approached the house, saw it was shuttered and bolted.

Jerthon dismounted and approached the door, bow drawn. A tiny opening in the door was bared, a face looked out, and then the door was thrown open and Jerthon could see the farmer’s family inside blinking in the sudden light like a bunch of owls; and they had nine young colts in there with them corralled between cots and table. He stood staring in, wondering if the whole tribe had gone mad. Old Midden Herm, the patriarch, said gruffly, “Something came here, Captain. Something dark and wild is come down out of the sky.”

Jerthon stared at Midden. “Out of the sky?”

“Yes, Seer. Out of the sky. Something dark and huge as the clouds and so fast you never see it. It is there and gone, and the animals lay stripped of flesh where they stood.” He led Jerthon out and showed him five horses’ skeletons stripped clean, scattered on the turf. “You see the darkness come, the wind goes wild, you see the dark that is its shadow maybe. It is all screaming wind, then it is gone and the horses are like that.” Midden stood staring sickly at the scattered bones. “Like that, Seers. Our animals—our poor animals.”

Jerthon put his arm around the old man. He had worked so hard with the breeding, had taken such care with the selection of a stallion, with the nurturing of the mares and the careful, gentle training of the colts. He felt the old man’s sickness as his own at this mindless destruction.

Mindless? Was it mindless?

“And the dark—the thing of dark moves eastward, Seer. Toward the ruins.”

Jerthon and his troops rode fast then to the east, pounding hard across the early morning hills, arrived on sweating, blowing horses to find the town shuttered and bolted just as Midden’s farm had been. Every house and shop closed tight. No animal to be seen, no person.

He stared up at the citadel and saw that the portals had been covered with the slabs of stone that slid across from within.

*

The council and the townsfolk all had gathered in the citadel, sealed the portals, had chambered the horses and cattle in the lower caves and sealed these portals, too, as the invisible dark murmured and swept round the tower.

At last the council drew together and began to make its way down stone flights toward the main portal that led to the town. Skeelie stared at Drudd’s broad back where he marched before her and thought she had never been this afraid, even in Burgdeeth. Behind her, behind Pol and the others, the people of Carriol crowded down the stairs too, all of them armed. And in front of Skeelie, Tayba held the runestone. Their minds—their every strength—were linked to it to create one power against the dark; and beyond the portals as they descended, the dark creature screamed out is fury, and it descended too, its great maw lusting after flesh. At the far end of the deserted town, Jerthon and his battalion came silently, walking their sweating, spent horses in between the farthest cottages.

And neither group of Seers touched the thoughts of the other, each blinded in silence by the dark; and the dark increased until morning was as night. And creatures began to be born from the dark, horned, slithering creatures that swept the blackened sky with leathery wings then descended without sound onto the thatched rooftops and began to creep in silence down the stone walls.

In the portal, the runestone glowed in Tayba’s hands as the Seers’ powers gathered, as slowly they tried to force the creature of dark back, to force half-seen monsters back and back into darkness; but still the dark advanced: their powers were not enough.

Without, the dark creatures lurched and faded, became winds raging. Became, then, a part of the sea, so waves lashed in fury upon the tower seeking to break it away. The sea pounded in tidal humpings against the lower caves, and they filled with rushing water then drained, then filled again and the frantic cattle and horses swam in the cave blindly and in terror, and the weakest among them drowned.

The runestone shone with the power of the Seers as Tayba held it high, battling the wind and the raging sea, battling the dark with every fiber she possessed. Then as Jerthon came closer, the dark swept down in the form of a huge bird-monster, silently above him, changeable as wind, brother to wind, and clawed, with great beak reaching; he did not sense it; it dropped low over Jerthon’s band and followed them, invisible to them, as the battalion came through the narrow streets in darkness knowing there was danger but blinded to its source, every man’s weapon drawn. The sweating horses cowed in fear as unseen creatures shadowed them and crouched waiting among houses and shops.

Tayba saw Jerthon come, a sudden glimpse, tried to cry out to him and could not, tried to run through the streets to him and couldn’t move, was held as if she were stone, and her voice would not come in her throat.

What was this power come so strong out of Pelli? She pushed at her dark hair with quaking hand as if it would stifle her; her every fiber strained, yet no sound or forward movement could she make, and when she turned she saw Drudd’s fury—did he think she wasn’t trying? Did he think—she stared at Pol, white beneath his freckles, at Skeelie, her thin face drawn with effort; then she turned back and felt the dark descending around Jerthon, and she tore with her very soul at it, with a will close to hysteria against the surging dark.

Part Two: The Gods

There stood in the heart of the Pellian nation a wood of ancient twisted trees so dense the air beneath did not know sun; a wood so old it had seen the first coming of men into Ere; a wood chill of spirit as death is chill. No one ventured there save the Pellian Seers. In the center of the wood rose a black stone wall, and inside this wall the Pellians had wrought a castle, grotesque in design, shaped like the jointed heads of a snake, an eel, and a horned man, their grinning mouths serving as high portals, their eyes leering windows. And a creature lived within the castle, a creature named Hape. This was the castle of Hape.

Below the three grinning heads that formed the upper castle ran three rows of windows narrow and dark, and beneath these again was an arched place whose door was carved with the Hope’s runes and with signs of death and adversity.

At first, three years earlier, the Hape had been no more than a whispering dark reaching from beyond the mountains to summon BroogArl. Heeding its call, BroogArl had sent Seers north into the dark mountains to seek the Hape out, an expedition that traveled past the gods’ city of Owdneet, past the mountain Tala-charen, and past Eresu itself, far, far into the unknown places, led on by the Hope’s soft urging: twelve Seers and apprentice Seers traveling two years, and returning at last to Pelli not alone. The Hape rode with them, rode the winds above them, nurtured on their dark thoughts as they traveled, and grew stronger than ever it had been. It ran beside their shying horses as a great six-legged cat, or it strode beside their cringing mounts as a giant with head of goat and deer’s horns; or it housed itself in the dark of their minds only and rode there. When the Seers arrived in Pelli, it housed itself in the castle they built for it at its own instruction, and BroogArl knew he had captured a creature of evil beyond his wildest dreams. There in the wood, Hape would come out at night in the shape of a horned man or an eel or snake, or in the form of a thousand chittering creatures slithering unseen. This was Hape, potent, feeding on the dark Seers’ minds and nurturing their evil wills, slave to their wills—or was he slave?

Who ruled now? The Seers of Pelli, or Hape?

Perhaps it did not matter who ruled in this coupling of evil.

SIX

Ere’s thin moons lit Ram’s way from Kubal toward the River Urobb; then he rode up along the fast-falling moonlit river, atop a ridge, toward the first jagged peaks of the Ring of Fire; rode, knowing that beneath those cold stone peaks the mountains’ bellies burned with molten fire tenuously contained, boiling rivers fettered now, but always eager to be free. All of Ere lived with this sense of the mountains’ captive fire; it was a part of Ere’s race-memory, the knowledge that the land might suddenly burst forth in rivers of fire. Such knowledge should have made Ere’s people close and kind with one another, but it never had.

As he rode, his vision cleared suddenly without warning in a way he could never understand. What made the dark leaders pull back of a sudden, so that those of light could see? Were their powers amassed elsewhere, and thus weakened for a few moments in the blocking of other Seers’ skills? He Saw the Hape suddenly and clearly, saw what it was and how the Seer BroogArl had brought it into Ere less than a year past, saw the Hape’s dark lust, saw the castle that was built for it. He pulled up his horse, turned, sat staring back through the night toward Pelli, the vision holding him. And he understood at last what the power was they had been battling, remembered Jerthon’s voice in citadel, “Something rides with them, Ram. Something more than the dark we know, something like an impossible weight on your mind so the Seeing is torn from you, your very sanity near torn from you . . .” He remembered his own feelings in battle, his words to Skeelie as she tended his wound, “A power that breathes and moves as one great lusting animal . . .”

It was an animal, this breath of evil that BroogArl had brought out of the unknown lands, a monster not of flesh but formed of hatred and lust.

He went on at last, shaken by the dark vision, afraid of it, and awed.

Toward morning he made camp high up a ridge, dozed over a small fire as his horse grazed, then came awake suddenly with a sharp sense of something amiss and saw the moon had set and in the east the sun was already casting its light across the far sea. What had waked him? He sat staring at his dozing mount and slowly, coldly, he began to sense a heaviness: a peril over Carriol. He felt the dark’s attack then, and in confusion, nothing clear, tried to See in a sharper vision and could not, but was gripped with a terrifying sense of disaster.

When at last the vision went from him, he did not know whether the dark had drawn away from Carriol in defeat, or whether Carriol lay defeated. Should he go back, should he ride for Carriol?

But that would be useless, he could not arrive in time. He strained to use his power against the evil monster and could touch nothing, was as blind. He turned desperately and saddled up; perhaps if he were in Eresu his power would come stronger, so he could help. He rode hard and was soon deep in a zantha wood where the leaves hung down like a woman’s hair, trailing tendrils wet from the night dew, drenching him.

He came out of the wood at long last to ride up along the Urobb until he found a shallow fording with a vein of smooth white stone skirting the other side. He forded here and followed that smooth trail quickly, with growing urgency.

He came at midmorning to a narrow, dark canyon with twisting black boulders rising against its walls, a place immensely silent, where his horse’s hoofbeats fell like blows. The land rose steeply, soon was too abrupt and rocky for any horse. Here Ram unsaddled the gelding and turned him loose, leaned his saddle inside a shallow cave out of the weather, shouldered his pack, and started ahead on foot up beside the fast-falling river.

The way grew narrower and steeper still, and distant rumblings began to speak inside the mountains. The sun was high when he came suddenly around boulders to where the river ended abruptly and he stood facing a barrier, facing the sheer rocky wall of a mountain.

The river vanished beneath the mountain; or rather, came flowing out from beneath it in a clear swirl. The water should have been dark but was not, was washed with light as if light itself flowed out from beneath the stone. The old songs spoke of just such a swirling pool washed with light, of the river’s end lighted from beyond: from Eresu. He began to search the mountain’s face for a way to enter into that fabled valley.

He could find no opening among the boulders and crevices, there was no cleft that might lead him through into the valley. As he searched, the mountains to the west rumbled again, spoke long trembling oaths deep inside their bellies, so he was distracted with sudden fear for Telien. He continued to search, but could see clearly only Telien’s face, was distraught thinking of her danger if the mountains exploded in fire.

He had no sense of being watched, no normal Seer’s quickening to the sense of another observing him, so skilled was the Seer who stood half-hidden in shadow against the stone cliff. When at last the figure stirred, lifted a hand, Ram started violently.

The man, sun-browned against brown stone, clad in brown robes like the stone, was hardly visible. When he moved, calling attention to himself, Ram stared, startled, drew his sword in reflex so its tip touched the tall man’s belly; but he looked into the face of the tall Seer, felt the sense of him, and lowered his sword, grinning almost sheepishly. This man meant him no harm. He was—he was as pure and unsullied as if he were himself a sort of god. Ram stood with lowered sword studying the man. He was old, his face thin and lined, his nose very prominent. The lid of one eye drooped. His beard and locks were stained with a ruddy hue that must once have been red as Ram’s own, but was pale now.

Ram knew at once the man’s name was Pender, knew he had come here to guide him; knew, with sudden shyness, that the gods waited his coming, felt utterly ignorant suddenly, as inept as a baby, leaden-tongued. So close to the gods now. So close. Felt a sudden fear of going on; but he must go on, and quickly. Must, when he entered Eresu, turn all his power to helping the battle in Carriol before ever he could turn to another mission.

The old man, watching him, said suddenly and abruptly, “Try now, Ramad. I will show you, help you.” And Pender gave him, with sudden jolting clarity, a vision of the battle in Carriol, so powerful a vision that Ram felt the grim determination of the Seers as they battled the Hape. He held the wolf bell, felt his own force grow within him; saw the runestone glowing in Tayba’s hands. He reached out with the council to try to turn the dark, saw silent creatures slithering among buildings, saw Jerthon’s battalion and the dark monster flying above them, its claws outstretched like knives; then saw Jerthon’s men fighting it, and his spirit fought beside them. Saw blood flow and terrified horses rearing and falling as the Hape swung low on buzzard wings, saw Skeelie start forward, and Tayba grab her wrist. Men and women were streaming out of the tower to do battle with the Hape. Ram was with them, felt the Seers’ total strength forcing upon the monster, the power of the stone like fire; felt the Hape unbalancing at last; saw Jerthon’s soldiers strike and slash as its beating wings struck them, its beak struck them; their horses were wild, cringing down, spinning and falling. Riders leaped clear, swords flashing. Ram saw Jerthon kick his mount into submission as he thrust his sword again and again at the bird-Hape, at the dark beak and neck, and Ram thrust with him—until at last the Seers’ powers began to weaken the Hape and confuse it, and for a moment its senses went awry.

A silent moment, the forces balanced. But then the Hape’s powers surged stronger in a last dying frenzy, and suddenly it was three-headed, the horned cat’s head lashing out with teeth like knives, the man’s head laughing, the eel’s head tearing a soldier’s face; but the heads even as they battled weakened in the strength of their images, came and went in clarity and vigor as the creature clawed at the horses so they fell stumbling among their fellows on bloodstained cobbles. The Hape rose surging with fury as the soldiers beat it back; it was mad with their attack now, flung men like toys as others cut and flailed its body. In the portal of the tower, the silent council of Seers hardly breathed in their terrible concentration, and the powers balanced, tilted—Ram brought his own power stronger, sweating, calling the power of the wolf bell; buoying the power of the Seers until at last the Hape weakened again, wavered, swung low in the air. Soldiers grabbed its wings, pulled it down; it thrashed, then it was suddenly wingless, was only a snake writhing and lashing among them, the leathery wings they had pinioned quite gone. They fell on it, striking steel blows, crowding it in their fury until it turned away screaming—but it carried the body of a man in its jaws.

It moved fast, thrashing, crowded on all sides by hard-riding soldiers, would not drop the screaming man, lunged out between buildings toward freedom.

But it was dying, writhed twisting in death as it fled. It lay still at last, in a field, the wounded soldier crumpled in its jaws, the soldiers’ swords thick in it as quills, their spent horses resting over it, blowing. And behind them all of Carriol advanced, horses foaming in fear, men and women on foot with weapons raised. The Seers, Ram, brought every power they possessed down through the runestone then, to destroy it utterly.

But it was not destroyed utterly. Suddenly the Hape was no animal but only an essence of dark, a shapeless darkness growing thinner and thinner until grass could be seen through patches of melting hide and blood. And then it was not there, was only a blowing blackness on the wind. Hape was the wind, was a darkness flung between earth and cloud.

The Hape had fled, and the soldier lay dead on the grass, his blood drying in the cold sun.

Ram saw less clearly now, as in a dream. Saw Skeelie running through the bloody streets to embrace her brother, Saw people surging out of the tower to tend the wounded. Saw Seers’ white robes smeared with blood, women and children kneeling over bodies. He saw Tayba standing alone in the portal holding the runestone in her shaking hands, saw Jerthon look up at her across half the town, his green eyes kindling, saw him go to her striding through blood, past wounded men and animals, past Skeelie, hardly seeing her. Jerthon leaped the three steps to the portal and took Tayba in his arms. Ram felt Jerthon’s love for her, and he felt her fear and trembling and her uncertainty.

Ram stood for a long time after the vision faded. So strong a vision. His gaze returned to Pender, to the drooping eye, the thin, lined face. “And,” Ram said, choking, “what—what of Telien?”

‘Telien—Telien I cannot show you,” Pender said. “You have no need, she must find her own way among the Ring of Fire. And you must abide, Ramad of wolves. Now you have seen the Hape at last, Ramad. Would you defeat the Hape?”

“I would, Pender. How—But can I defeat it?”

“Only you, Ramad of Zandour, only you can answer that.” The old man scratched his chin briefly. “And if you do not defeat it, what of Carriol, of Ere?” Pender turned without waiting for an answer and led Ram up along a nearly invisible ledge and into a crevice behind outcroppings of stone.

They entered into absolute darkness, continued to climb, and rose at last into an underground cave lighted from above by an opening where the sun stood flaring down.

Beneath their feet was an immense slab of stone hollowed underneath by the river, the river flowed beneath them into a triangular pool reflecting perfectly the high noon sun.

The cave walls were carved into wavelike shapes by long past action of the river, and the river’s flow now cast the sun’s flicking light back upon these, so the whole cave seemed to be moving underwater. A memory came sharp to Ram, of another cave filled with light, and he was nine years old; he and Skeelie stripped naked were swimming in just such a light-struck pool, in a cave in the old city of Owdneet. Pender turned to look at him.

“The Luff’Eresi await you, Ramad. They would hear you plead your mission.” Then he turned, led Ram in silence toward the back of the cave and through a high opening into a second, larger cave more brightly sun-washed still, and Ram saw far mountains beyond the portal and went forward to the brink of the drop, stared out upon a valley immense and green, so far below that it took his breath.

Below him, perhaps half a mile, the valley floor rolled in green fields and gentle hills and small copses of feathery trees. A river wound through, and across the valley in the cliffs that formed the opposite wall were caves, a city of caves one above the other in clusters, with balconies and windows, and some with steps leading one to another; though no steps led down to the valley so far below.

And then he saw the light shifting and changing in the valley as if something were there. Yes, winged figures barely visible in slanting light among the valleys and hills, shifting and indistinct as light on running water, iridescent shapes moving in and out of his vision, ephemeral as dreams, ever moving, ever flashing against the solid background of hills and cliffs. The Luff’Eresi were there, their images as elusive and compelling as music.

And suddenly near to him, filling the air before him, came the horses of Eresu, not light-washed like the gods, but solid, familiar animals crowding out of the sky to land around Ram and Pender, warm, familiar animals dropping their feathered wings across their backs as they entered the cave, pushing around Ram and Pender with great good humor, nickering, nudging them with velvet muzzles. A gray stallion knelt in the accustomed invitation to mount and took Ram on his back, stood at the brink of the cave, his wings flaring around Ram, catching wind; and they were airborne suddenly, sweeping down toward the valley so the rush of air took Ram’s breath. He turned to see Pender close behind; they swept low over the valley, and Ram could see the light-washed Luff’Eresi now, see a few clusters of white-robed men and women, too, and understood from Pender that, all through time, some few Seers had come into Eresu for sanctuary from the harsher world of Ere.

Horses of Eresu were grazing on the hills. Some leaped skyward now and again in bucking play. Ram watched a dozen colts run across a hill to launch themselves clumsily into the wind, flapping and fighting for height. Some dropped down in defeat, but two lifted onto the wind at last, kicking and bucking.

The silver stallion descended, and below, the Luff’Eresi were gathered and waiting. Ram looked with surprise, for there were females among the Luff’Eresi, women’s shapely forms rising from the softer curves of mare’s bodies. He felt the ripple of amusement stir among the Luff’Eresi at his amazement, felt Pender’s silent laughter. Had he thought the Luff’Eresi were of one sex and did not reproduce themselves?

Yes, he realized, he had thought just that, had believed the Luff’Eresi immortal in spite of his childhood reasoning that they were not. In his most private self he must have believed the Luff’Eresi immortal—or have wanted to believe this—for reproduction and birth, and thus dying, had never been a part of how he pictured them.

Their voices rang like a shout in his mind. Yes, we are mortal, Ramad of wolves! Their laughter rocked him. Mortal just as you! Not gods! Never gods!

The gray stallion landed on the grassy turf in a rush of wind and bid Ram remain on his back. Ram saw that even mounted he had to look up to the Luff’Eresi. From the ground he would have been a tiny creature indeed, staring upward to face the two dozen winged gods. No, not gods! But it would take him a while to get used to that idea. And, if they were not gods, what made them shimmer and seem to shift in space so they could not be clearly seen?

We dwell on a different plane, Ramad of Zandour. We live among the valleys and mountains of your dimension, but our dimension is different. So you do not see us clearly. You perceive us as we perceive you, as through a changing curtain of light-struck air. It is because of this, in part, that we have been thought gods. But we are not gods, we are mortal just as you.

“If you are not gods, then those of Carriol who pray to you . . .” he broke off. The beauty of the Luff’Eresi stirred a wonder in him so he wanted only to stare, to memorize every line, the lean, smooth equine bodies so much more beautifully made than horses, the clean lines of the humanlike torsos more perfect than the bodies of his own kind. Their expressions, their whole demeanor was of such joy, it was as if they found in life the very essence of joy, found pleasure and meaning that humans had not yet learned to perceive. As if they had no time for the small, trivial unpleasantnesses of humans, no time or patience for evil and its ways.

“If you are not gods,” he repeated, “then those who pray are praying to—a lie.” His words shocked him. He felt the wrongness of this and the discomfort it caused them. But he needed to know, he needed to sort it out.

We are not gods, Ramad, but there is a power beyond ours; prayers are heard not by gods as humans imagine them but by a higher level of power. There was distant thunder then, but the Luff’Eresi seemed not to heed it. Dark formless clouds—or was it smoke?—lay above the western peaks.

There are lives on many planes, Ramad of wolves, and powers in many degrees, power above power; but all depends on the freedom of each spirit to make its own choices. And Ram understood within himself quite suddenly the force that linked all life, touched each living being. Those who pray can touch it, Ramad, just as we touch it now as we speak to you. A Seer touches that power each time he reaches out. Ram saw, more clearly then than he ever would afterward, layers of life stretched out through all space and time, understood the wonder of being born again, and again, into new lives, each one reaching toward an ultimate brightness.

Born again, Ramad, provided one has not nurtured evil nor sucked upon the misery and pain of others. Such a one knows, through all eternity, crippling fear and pain. This is the choice of each. But that, Ramad, is not why you come to us. Now that you know that the children who burn in Venniver’s fire will likely be born anew to a higher plane, do you still wish to pursue your quest?

Ram stared at the tall winged being who had come forward and stood close to him, his color like light over gold, his torso bronzed, his eyes deep and seeing, compelling. He thought about children dying by fire and could feel their pain. He understood too clearly that what he desired was against all the Luff’Eresi believed. That to change the lives of humans was to destroy that which humankind had woven of the web of survival and of learning. To take away one evil from that web was to act as gods in altering human lives. He understood that this would weaken humankind, that people could be strengthened only by altering their own fate. But again he felt the pain and fear of children dying by fire, and he could not let that rest. “Yes,” he said at last. “I wish to pursue my quest. I wish to beg your help for the children, to beg you once to touch the lives of my people and change them. Will turning aside one evil destroy all of Ere? Venniver will not be destroyed, only discouraged from killing. The Seeing children, the Children of Ynell, can then survive to destroy him as they should. If those children do not survive, the power that fights against Venniver will be crippled perhaps beyond all hope.

“Without your help in turning Venniver aside from this destruction, the only other course is for Carriol to march into Burgdeeth and destroy her,” Ram said quietly. “And I do not know, with the dark so strong, with the powers against us at this moment so great, whether Carriol can destroy both Burgdeeth and Pelli. And we must, at all costs, destroy Pelli. Destroy the Hape, before it places all of Ere under its will. Burgdeeth—the Seers of Burgdeeth can survive if only a measure of fear is laid down upon Venniver. Something to prevent his senseless killing. We need you now, we need this one thing of you—in the name of freedom. In the name of kindness and love for those who are imprisoned.”

Do you ask it, then?

“I ask it. In the name of the innocent who suffer. In the name of the Children, those skilled above all others, who might bring great glory upon Ere if they are but given this one chance, this one small shift in Ere’s path of dark, I ask that you help us.”

The Luff’Eresi smiled, shifted; light flashed around them so Ram could not be sure they were still there. Then he could see them once more, iridescent, leaping skyward so quickly he could only stare. They were leaving him, they would not help; then suddenly the gray stallion leaped to join them, wings shattering wind, nearly unseating Ram. He was airborne suddenly, flying up over Eresu among the Luff’Eresi in one swift climb, and the Luff’Eresi said in his mind with one voice, So be it, Ramad of the wolves. You have had the courage to come to us, to ask of us when you doubted we would help you. So it is the doing of one man, of a man’s, caring, that turns the scale. One man, Ramad, has thus laid his change upon Ere.

Ram frowned, puzzling. “But that would mean—that anyone could come to you. With any kind of . . .”

No! They thundered. It is a matter of commitment, Ramad, a matter of truth, of the true right to ask. But Ramad . . . and their voices were as one in his mind . . . the deception upon Venniver must be done our way. And you may not like that way. You will be our decoy, Ramad. It will be you, Ramad of Zandour, Venniver’s old enemy, who will stand tied to the stake in Venniver’s temple waiting to die by fire.

Ram swallowed, felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of his stomach as if the stallion had dropped sharply in the sky.

Have you faith enough in our word to do as we direct you, Ramad of wolves?

He looked around him at the glinting, light-filled figures, huge, filling the sky around him so their wings overlapped in a torrent of shattering light. He felt the immensity of their minds, of their spirits, an immensity beyond any petty human concerns. He swallowed again, said without question, “Yes. I have faith. I will do as you direct. I would . . .” and he paused, wanting to be very sure he spoke truly. “I would, if it were needed, die to free those who are captive of Venniver.” And a sense of death filled him suddenly and utterly, and with it the sense of Telien, of her face, her cool green eyes; a sudden longing for her twisted and held him as nothing in his life ever had.

They moved fast over jagged peaks. Below, a gray stain of smoke rose to tear apart on the wind. A faint rumble stirred the air. The mountains were speaking; and again, with their voices, Ram’s fear for Telien came cold and sharp.

Could the dark be making the mountains stir? Did the dark have power enough, now, to draw fire from the very mountains? He was clutching the stallion’s mane, his palms sweating. Well, but the red stallion was with Telien, he could fly with her clear of sudden disaster—if he would fly clear, if he would leave his mare to perish. Or would the red stallion prefer to die with Meheegan, and so let Telien die?

SEVEN

Telien knelt beside the mare, rubbing dolba salve into the poor, swollen legs. The passage up the mountain had been hard on Meheegan, the weight of the unborn foal slowing her. The winged ones’ legs were not made for hard treks over stone and uneven ways, for climbing rocky cliffs. The mare watched her, head down, her breath warm on Telien’s neck, the relief she felt at Telien’s attention very clear.

Telien had followed blindly after the mare and stallion, could only guess where they might go, had come to the valley near dawn and found it empty, had stared uncertainly out over the emerging black ridges against the dawn-streaked sky, wondering if she had been a fool to think she could find them in these vast, wild mountains. She had scanned the bare peaks not knowing which way to take or what to do, wondering if she should turn back, when suddenly she had seen them high on a ridge, making their way slowly up along the side of a mountain. She had galloped after them eagerly, had come upon them at last to find the mare so spent she could not go farther, unable to get down into the sharp ravine where the stallion had found water for her. Telien had carried water in her waterskin, tipping it out into her cupped hand so the mare could drink; then she had doctored Meheegan’s wings where the tender skin had rubbed against stone until it bled. Now she rubbed in the cooling salve, smoothed it into the mare’s swollen legs, then watched as the mare went off slowly to find a patch of grass between boulders.

The stallion came to nudge Meheegan softly, caress her; then at last he, too, began to graze. Telien’s own mount ate hungrily where she had hobbled him. He stared at the mare and stallion sometimes with a look of terrible curiosity, but he did not like to be near them.

Telien made camp simply by spreading her blanket beneath an outcrop of stone. She drank some water, chewed absently on a bit of mountain meat as the afternoon light dimmed into evening. The immensity of the mountains was a wonder to her. She had lived all her life at their feet and never once climbed up into them. AgWurt would not have allowed such a thing. To slip away to the hill meadows was one thing, but to go as far as the mountains, that long journey, and not be found out had been impossible. But these dark peaks stirred her, she wanted to share this with Ram; she imagined his voice, close, so she shivered. You do not remember the thunder and the shaking earth? Then, If you do not remember, then that which I remember has not yet happened to you. Not yet happened? She lay in her blanket puzzling, but it made no sense to her. She wanted to remember, she wanted—her caring made her tremble with its intensity. They had been meant always for each other, the separation of their early lives had been a mistake of fate only now made right.

She was so tired. Dreaming of Ram, she turned her face to the mountain and slept, slept straight through the night and deep into the morning, woke with the sun full in her face and the thunder of the mountains harsh all around her. She stared across at the stallion, his wings lifted involuntarily as instinct made him yearn skyward, his nostrils distended, his ears sharp forward, his eyes white-edged. He blew softly toward the mare. Her head was up, staring wildly. Telien shivered, her mind filled suddenly with tales of burning lava flowing over the lands. And where was Ram, was he safe from the flow of fire? Ram—alone somewhere deep within the mountains. Ramad . . .

She did not see the winged ones passing high above her, did not see the glancing swirl of light made by the Luff’Eresi in motion, nor see the one winged stallion, silver gray, carrying a rider above her across Ere’s winds.

Suddenly she remembered, for no reason, her father’s face in death and was chilled, very alone. He had been a cold, unbending master who beat her, who tortured helpless creatures before her for the pleasure of seeing her distress. The powerful, mindless threat of the mountains was not like AgWurt’s purposeful threats; though the mountains could destroy her just as easily as ever AgWurt might have.

*

The winds swept and leaped around Ram, the gray stallion’s wings sang on the wind; on all sides the flying Luff’Eresi shone as if the stallion beat through a river of shattering light. Below, the jagged peaks lay brutal as death. Along a dark ridge Ram could see smoke rising in windborne gusts. He thought of Telien with sharp, sudden clarity, with a harsh longing, as above the wind came the rumble of shifting earth, speaking of fires deep within. Ram’s fear for her was terrible. But the Luff’Eresi laughed, a roaring, thundering mirth of great good will, and one swept so close to Ram his light-washed wings seemed to twine with the stallion’s feathered wings. He said his name to Ram, and it was not a word to be spoken but a handful of musical notes cutting across the wind. She will be hurt and afraid, Ramad. But there is likelihood she will live.

“Can’t you stop the fires!” Ram shouted. “Can’t you make a safe way for her! She . . .”

The Luff’Eresi roared in his mind, Cannot! We cannot do such a thing! And it is not the right of any of us to ask Telien to abandon what she is about. You must abide, Ramad! And no creature of Ere can stop a tantrum of nature! People—simple people, Ramad—believe we make the fires. We do not do that, no more than are we gods! To think we are gods makes them feel safe, for that is easier to understand than to try to understand our differences. And they think we make the fires because that is the easiest thing to believe. But humans grow, Ramad. They believe, then they question that belief. They find a new truth, then question again. They come at last, by a long painful route, to real truth. And that truth, Ramad, is more shot with wonder than ever was the myth.

Ram looked around at the light-washed bodies moving on the wind, so alien to him yet so right. “How does . . .” he began, and felt very young and unsure. “How do we know the truth when at last we find it, then? How do we, when some think each belief is truth?”

The Luff’Eresi’s laugh was a windswept roar. You prove it, Ramad. At each belief humans find ways to think they prove that belief. At last one day they will understand how to find real proof, to look at the small, minute parts of a thing and understand its nature from that. Even then, Ramad, even when he is able to prove, humans will only see the beginning of proof and think that is everything.

Ram puzzled over this and stored it away to ponder at a later time, felt awed by the thoughts it began to awaken within him. He could see Kubal now, off to his left, lit by the dropping sun. He turned, stared back toward the eastern mountains and saw smoke rising there and a stream of red lava winding down toward the Voda Cul, for there in the east, too, a mountain had erupted. Twisting around, holding a handful of mane to steady himself, he stared out beneath Dalwyn’s lifting wings to see five peaks spaced around the rim of the Ring of Fire, spewing smoke: all along the ring, then, some great underground force was belching up. He turned back, looked toward Carriol. The ruins did not seem threatened, nor the loess plains in the north. Blackcob, farther west, was the only part of Carriol that lay directly below the fires, and even there the lava was well to the north of her. Carriol’s coast lay untouched, softened in mists that rose from the sea. He longed for the peace of his cave room, with the rippling sea light washing across its ceiling, the roar of the sea like a second heartbeat. He imagined Telien there, then turned away from that thought.

They were past the mountains now and above the foothills near Burgdeeth. Ram leaned across the stallion’s neck to stare down at the grassy, empty hills, and at the great desert plain south beyond Burgdeeth that brought sharp memories. He had fled from the Seer HarThass’s apprentice across that plain, he and Tayba, he a child of eight, and Tayba caught willingly in HarThass’s web so she had nearly got him killed.

The stallion landed between rocky knolls, but the Luff’Eresi remained skyborne like a bright, swirling cloud above him. We leave you here, Ramad of wolves, but we will return. Now go you into Burgdeeth. Become Venniver’s captive there—if you believe in us, if you trust us to return, if you believe in what you want of us. Go, and allow yourself to be taken.

Ham slid down from the stallion’s back. The Luff’Eresi disappeared in a surge of iridescent light, were gone utterly; the sky was clear once more, unfractured by light, as if all matter had returned to its customary and familiar place in the world, mundane and lonely. A whole dimension had been suddenly removed, a dimension ultimately desirable. Ram stood with the stallion in the strange, lonely calm, rubbing the sleek, silvery neck. Then at last the gray horse leaped away too, to slip across winds. Ram watched him disappear, flying easterly away from Burgdeeth so he would not be seen from that place. He stared up at the mountains, stricken with a great emptiness, suddenly very much alone.

Smoke rose above the mountains like a gray smear, and there was, again, the muttering of the earth, then silence. He trembled for Telien; thought resolutely of what must be done, created a prayer for Telien that must be heard by something; somewhere there was that that could heed him, though it was not the Luff’Eresi. Then he looked down across the hills toward Burgdeeth and thought of the slave prison there and thought of facing Venniver, and his mind churned with apprehension. His memory of the slave cell, memory of Venniver’s sadistic cruelty, of Venniver’s whip across men’s backs, was not pleasant.

At last he shrugged as if to shake off demons, squared his shoulders, and began to make his way over the hills toward Burgdeeth.

The hill grass was dry and crunched under his boots. Hares leaped away. There were no trees. Occasional misshapen boulders, black and twisting, rose against the setting sun. Tangles of sablevine lay here and there, turning red to mark the dying summer. There was no sunset, the sky was strangely green as he stood on the last hill looking down on Burgdeeth. He buried the wolf bell there, deep among rocks, and covered it with earth. To become Venniver’s captive carrying the wolf bell would be to incite rage unimaginable from Burgdeeth’s dark leader.

Directly below him were some uncultivated fields, beyond them tall stands of whitebarley nearly ready for harvest, and beyond these the housegardens, running on to the back of the town. The town itself was three times as big as when Ram had left it, looked more permanent, with cobbled streets and all the stone buildings completed, where before many had risen roofless and empty above mud streets. The new temple was shockingly beautiful, all of white stone. Behind it, the Landmaster’s Set looked almost finished, with turrets and sloping roofs that hinted of rare luxury within. There was open ground before it, perhaps a parade ground, with some smaller buildings, then a high, wall around three sides and partially finished on the fourth where it would join the temple. All this stood upon what had been bare, rough land when Ram last saw Burgdeeth. The great pit had been filled in and gardens planted across it. And there, between temple and town, the town square was completed and the statue in its center even more awesome than Ram remembered: so tall, the falling sun striking behind it edging the god’s wings with light. The memory of the long years Jerthon had spent molding each piece tightened Ram’s throat. He thought of the secret tunnel beneath the statue, and wondered if he would need it in some wild escape from Venniver’s execution fire—but the Luff’Eresi would come; he had only to get himself captured.

He saw that the slave cell was gone, though the guard tower still stood. There was a garden beside it now as if someone lived there. With no slave cell, what did Venniver do with his captives? Or were captives not kept alive long enough to house in any cell? Did Venniver not keep slaves any more?

Ram saw that women and girls were working the gardens. Perhaps with enough women to do the heavy garden work, and with the building of the town nearly complete, Venniver had no need of slaves. And perhaps, after Jerthon’s rising against him and almost taking the town, he felt that the keeping of slaves was too risky.

Ram made his way across the fallow fields and through the stands of whitebarley, onto a path between the gardens. At once a woman, kneeling and half-hidden in the mawzee, looked up, saw his red hair and rose up frightened to run silently toward the Hall. Another woman slipped away and disappeared around the end of the Hall. “A Seer! A Seer comes!”

He looked across the gardens to the doorway of the storeroom where he and Tayba had lived those dark, unsettling months, and a sharp picture came to him of the cluttered room, of his cot wedged between thresher and barrels, of the low rafters hung with cobwebs and the smell of grain; then he saw the room washed with dark and confusion, disappearing into evil blackness as the Seer HarThass took his mind away, tortured his mind, tortured his very soul until he lay feverish and near to dying, not knowing where he was or what he was.

Guards were coming on the double around both ends of the Hall. Ram stood facing them, wanting to run, held himself still with great effort.

They were robed in red. He supposed they called themselves deacons now, according to Venniver’s grand plan. They surrounded him. One prodded him, one lunged to take his sword and Ram hit him, fought them then because not to fight would seem suspicious, because he could not help himself, kicked one captor in the groin sending him reeling, fought the dozen guards with mounting fury until they had pinned him at last.

They bound his arms and began to prod him toward the hall. He went slowly and sullenly, resisting them at every step, would not speak, would not answer their questions. They forced him past the hall toward Burgdeeth’s main street, and there they made a great show of his capture, roaring commands so all along the street heads popped out of windows, folk ran out to watch. A man hauling barrels pulled up his donkey to stare; two women with milk cans set down their burdens to watch Ram forced along the cobbled street toward the square. He could smell hot wax, smell cess and the sour stench of ale brewing. Men and women crowded the street now, their hands stained from their work, their faces flushed with sudden excitement and with the self-righteousness that lay thinly concealing their blood-lust. He could see the hunger in their faces for the death of the Seer come so boldly into Burgdeeth, could see their growing anticipation of the exalted, killing fire so soon to burn in the temple. A handful of children stared after him, their faces white with fear, then turned and ran. Ram was forced toward the square. Behind him the mountains rumbled faintly like a great animal yawning. Men turned, stared at the mountain, then stared back at Ram.

And then beyond the heads of the crowd he saw Venniver riding out from the Set and went weak with sudden fear; the sight of Venniver, the memories he stirred, sickened Ram. Broad of shoulder, black-bearded, his blue eyes cold as ice, he rode slowly toward the square where Ram stood, and Ram was a child again, defiant and afraid. Would Venniver recognize him? But perhaps not, for Ram’s hair had been dyed black then. The mountain rumbled again. Venniver glanced toward it, then returned his gaze to Ram. Behind him, smoke hung in the sky above the mountains. He jerked his horse up with a hard hand so the animal began to fidget and would not settle. Venniver sat staring down at Ram like a hunting animal regarding cornered prey.

Whether he recognized Ram or not, it was clear that Venniver intended that this Seer should die—here in Burgdeeth, very soon, and with impressive ceremony.

*

On the mountain, Telien listened with growing apprehension to the rumbling earth, felt its quaking with an increasing sense of confusion, felt as if the mountains themselves might come tumbling down on her. The air was hot and close, smelled of sulphur. She could not put from her mind the Herebian tales of people running before flowing lakes of fire, burned to death as they fled.

Below in the meadow, the mare moved restlessly, looking often toward the mountains. The red stallion had disappeared. Telien could not believe he had deserted them. The mare gazed at the sky and spread her poor naked wings in a gesture that tore at Telien.

Then suddenly a shadow dropped over Telien. The stallion was descending, plummeting down to nudge the mare wildly, as if he would carry her aloft. He was irritable, seemed strung tight with agitation, nosed at Meheegan with terrible, loving urgency, wanted her to move out—but where could she go? Telien snatched up her bit of food, her blanket, and when she turned she saw the sky behind her grown dark with smoke. By the time she reached the valley floor she was drenched with sweat. Her horse was gone, had broken his reins. She hoped he would find safety.

The stallion greeted her with his head against her shoulder, then nudged her too, began to force both her and the mare toward the opposite rim of the valley. Surely the mare was aware of what he wanted, but seemed too frightened to obey, terrified of her helpless crippled entrapment upon the earth.

The three of them climbed until darkness overtook them, the darkness of night or the darkness of smoke filling the sky, it was hard to say which. They went along a ridge as the moons rose, dull smears obscured by smoke and giving little light. The stallion forced Meheegan on up the stony crest as the earth trembled again and again. He seemed to be heading directly into the face of the fires. Now and then he would rise into the smoke-filled sky, and each time return to change direction, to hurry them faster up the rising ridge; to reassure the stumbling mare, so heavy and clumsy with her unborn foal. Once Meheegan laid her head against Telien’s shoulder, so tired, so driven and afraid.

As the ridge rose more steeply to join the mountain, the mare climbed by balancing with her poor naked wings. Telien pulled herself up by clutching at boulders, could not believe the mare could climb as she was doing up the rocky incline. The stallion’s wings, as he balanced, spread over them as if to shelter them from the violent sky. The earth rocked harder, its voice swept them with fear. Then the earth shook like an animal, and Telien stumbled, lost her hold; the mountain tilted, and she was thrown against a boulder, clutched at it, was torn from it—she was falling.

She fell twisting down the cliff, grabbing at dirt, and could not stop herself, heard the mare scream as the whole world rocked and spun.”

When at last the ground was still, Telien could not rise. She lay in the near dark, dizzy and confused. She could see the rocky slope down which she had fallen. She heard the mare groan close by. Finally she raised herself, began to crawl until she found Meheegan’s warm bulk sprawled above her up the slope, went sick at the thought of broken legs; how could the mare fall so far and not break every bone? The stallion nickered, a darker shape against the smoke-filled sky, nosing at Meheegan, caressing and reassuring her, trying to make her rise.

At last Meheegan threw up her head and began to struggle to get up. Telien forgot her own pain and confusion as she watched Meheegan’s painful effort. She could not believe it when the mare stood on all four legs.

Once the stallion had Meheegan up, he began to nose at Telien—though he drew back and snorted when his muzzle touched her forehead. She touched her head and felt blood.

She rose at last, very dizzy, leaned against the stallion and heard him nicker to the mare. He wanted to climb again, to be away. How could they climb again that rocky cliff? It was not possible. She was too dizzy to climb anywhere, too sick to climb.

But they did climb. With terrible effort, Telien and the mare climbed the dark, rocky incline with the stallion pushing constantly at them, nearly dragging Telien sometimes as she clung to him, forcing the mare, giving all his weight to brace her as she struggled upward, his wings supporting and buoying them, keeping them from reeling backward into the ravine. At last, at long last, they stood high atop a plateau on the mountain. Below them, red streaks broke the night where rivers of fire were flowing out.

Telien did not see the wolves above them in the darkness—wolves urging the stallion on—did not see the great dark wolf grin and his mate Rhymannie bow low as the three finally topped the slope. She did not see wolves swing away on noiseless feet to lead the red stallion ever upward between the fires of the mountains.

*

Ram stared at Venniver’s cold blue eyes and without warning the power returned to him, flooding him so he was suddenly and utterly aware of Venniver’s mind. How could this happen so abruptly? Were the powers of the dark drawn away in some effort that took all the force they had? Or were the Luff’Eresi doing this for him, using their own great powers to give him this clear vision of Venniver? To open Venniver’s mind to examination was not an easy task. Ram had never—when he had lived in Burgdeeth, when his powers had been full on him—been able to touch Venniver’s mind like this; for Venniver had the rare skill of mind-blocking without ever knowing he did so: latent Seer’s blood, of no use except for this. Now Ram touched Venniver’s greed for power, felt with all his being Venniver’s hunger to enslave, saw the intricate gilded web of religion Venniver had laid like a trap over the minds he ruled; saw Venniver’s fears as well, his awesome terror of Seers and his lusting hunger for their death. Venniver meant to call the service at once, to use the growing fury of the mountains to dramatize this sacrifice before his humble sheep. Ram grinned wryly. The dark leader’s sense of drama was very fine. Ram contained his rising terror with effort, tried in desperation to speak in silence with the Luff’Eresi, prayed to them without calling it prayer. Prayed to whatever might be out there to hear him.

He was led directly beneath the winged statue and made to kneel. Ironic, this statue he had seen a-building, this statue that hid its own secret. The sky was dark with smoke, and with coming night. The wind smelled of burning and of sulphur. You’re not going to die, Ramad my boy! Stop your quaking! He stared up at the statue and thought of Jerthon building it slowly piece by piece, of the slaves digging the tunnel beneath it slowly, every shovelful a triumph over Venniver. He was kneeling only inches from the tunnel’s hidden door. Could he slip down there under cover of darkness?

Of course he could, with six deacons and the entire populace of Burgdeeth crowding around him! And even if he did escape, what of his careful plan to save the Children of Burgdeeth? He clung to his faith in the Luff’Eresi as Venniver shouted for firewood and coal to be brought at once to the temple.

*

Skeelie slept sprawled out across her bed every which way, woke suddenly, sat up, saw that the moons outside the stone portal had risen but hung muted as if they were covered by gray gauze. She heard the distant rumbling then and felt sudden, sharp fear. And she Saw, in a clear vision, torches flaring and Ram forced through Burgdeeth’s square, and she knew he was meant to die. Her voice caught, was half scream, “Ram! Ramad!” Why was he in Burgdeeth, why had he gone to Burgdeeth? She rose to stare blindly out at the sea trying to bring a force that would help him, trying to turn away his captors, to force her power upon them. . . .

Uselessly. Uselessly.

Had the gods refused him, had he gone to Burgdeeth then, alone, with some wild plan? The vision ceased abruptly as Ram was forced up the steps of the temple. She stared blindly at the sea, then stirred, struck flint, and ran barefoot down the corridor to Tayba’s room.

The door was open. Tayba was pacing, her dark hair loose, her slim hands holding the runestone. The moonlight caught at it as she turned; Jerthon stood in shadow with Drudd and Pol. All of them had seen the vision. Tayba looked up at Skeelie, said softly, “Ram has spoken with the gods.” She shuddered, continued.

“The gods would have him do this, Skeelie. He is . . . Ram is a decoy. He . . . They will rescue him, they will not let him die. Or so—so Ram believes.” She turned suddenly to Jerthon. “Why did the vision come just now, so clear? What made the dark pull away? Is Ram—is Ram in such danger that in spite of the dark, the very force of his fear makes us able to See? Is he . . . ?”

Jerthon shook his head, his green eyes dark in the dulled moonlight; far off the mountains rumbled. “The earth speaks, Tayba, listen to it. The fires of the mountains speak.” How strange his voice was. “Maybe that is what gives us this sudden power. If . . .” He looked deeply at Tayba, his excitement leaping between them. “If the fires of the mountain can part the dark—can we use that force to help Ram?”

“We—we must try. We . . .

He seemed very remote for a moment. “I think that the power in the mountains is a force not of good or of evil. A force unknowing and uncaring of both. Somehow—perhaps by our constant vigilance, by our very concern for Ram, perhaps by Ram’s fear itself, we have drawn that power to the side of good. Now—yes, now we must use it for Ram.”

They stood in silence reaching with their minds and with the power of the stone, the five of them willing Ram’s safety. Skeelie clung with her very soul to that power of the mountain, bent her will stubbornly and humbly to draw upon that power, forced her own meager strength to battle for Ram’s life harder than ever she had as a child, when she had fought so desperately to keep the dark back.

EIGHT

In the castle of Hape, the battle to control the raw power of the mountains stilled the dark Seers so they seemed as stone. The Hape itself was not visible, but its force was linked with the Seers; and even so the dark powers faltered. For now the Seers of Carriol held power. And on the mountains, fire spewed like blood, fiery rivers oozing down along the valleys burning scrub so grass could spring anew: fires renewing by killing; and the night sky was heavy with smoke as flame burst from far peaks.

In Burgdeeth, while the mountains rumbled with mute voices, Ram was forced up the temple steps—thinking of Telien, thinking now only of Telien somewhere among those fires. And inside the temple the silent citizens knelt with bowed heads and righteous thoughts, anticipating the ritual of the Seer’s death by fire, so anticipating their own sacred redemption.

Ram had been stripped naked and his hands and legs bound with leather thongs. He was led hobbling to the altar, the leather biting into his ankles, and there he was forced to kneel. His fear of death rose again in spite of his control, as Venniver stood above him, blank of expression, robed in ceremonial white. On the dais behind the red-robed deacons, wood and charcoal had been laid against the tall iron stake. Venniver’s voice rose to echo in the domed temple. “The gods speak!”

The people answered as one, “The gods speak.”

“The gods command the Seer’s death!”

“They command death!”

“Evil must be destroyed by fire, by the cleansing fire!”

“The fire! The sacred fire!”

Ram was chilled, but sweating. Venniver’s voice rang like thunder through the temple. “Those with the curse of Ynell, those with the curse of Seeing, are as filth upon the land!”

“The fire! The sacred fire!”

Two deacons pulled Ram upright, forced him up the steps to the iron stake. He stared at the oil-soaked wood around his feet with a feeling of terror he could not quell, felt the bonds tighten as he was bound to the stake. He prayed then, in cold silence. The mountains rumbled. Venniver glanced up, seemed to take this as an omen to his righteousness. The kneeling people sighed faintly. Ram knew terror, knew it was too late to fight back now, he had left it too long.

“They who defy the powers of the gods shall be consumed in fire!”

“The fire! The sacred fire . . .”

“Must die! Die by fire! The Seer must die by fire!”

“Die by fire!” Their voices rose, and they began to stir.

Venniver held up his hands. Their voices stilled as one. He knelt dramatically before the funeral pyre, and the sheep sighed. Venniver seemed then to be praying, made long dramatic ritual all in silence, lighting of candles along the altar as the deacons chanted in deep, reverent voices. Ram stood watching with growing horror his own funeral, sweating, his body numbed by the tightly cutting bonds.

Venniver rose at last, made signs of obeisance before the raised altar, turned to face the temple.

Stung by fear, trying to keep himself from screaming out, Ram tried to touch Venniver’s thoughts and could not. He tried to hold steady to the Luff’Eresi’s promise and was overwhelmed by terror as Venniver took up a taper, struck flint so it flared and, smiling, thrust the flaming taper to the pyre. Flame leaped, caught, flared up Ram’s bare legs. He fought in terror, unable to control himself.

But the flame died. Died as if it had been snuffed. The sheep stared and sucked in their breath.

Venniver lit the pyre again. Again the flame leaped, again died. The taper in his hand died to blackness, and suddenly the temple door flew open. A woman screamed, men rose from their benches to stare, light poured into the temple brighter than moonlight and icy cold: blinding light, fracturing, dancing light; and from the light a voice boomed.

“Unbind the Seer! You tamper with our property, pig of Burgdeeth! Unbind the Seer that belongs to us!”

Venniver stood staring, seemed afraid—yet squared his shoulders in defiance. He seemed about to speak when suddenly his body twisted until he knelt, screaming out in pain.

“Free the Seer!”

Venniver scowled. He tried to rise and could not.

“Free the Seer, pig of Burgdeeth!”

At last, in obvious pain, Venniver nodded to a deacon, and Ram felt his bonds loosed from behind, felt the brush of a deacon’s robe.

“Bring the Seer here.”

Venniver stared at the cold light, again was twisted so he knelt; again nodded to a deacon.

Two deacons came forward, took Ram’s arms, and he was led down the steps of the altar past the sheep, and stood at last in the door of the temple facing the shattering radiance of a dozen winged gods towering over him, their horselike bodies and human torsos ever-changing in the shifting light—light that seemed a part of them. Ram went down to them, walked among them to the square with head bowed and eyes lowered as if he were their prisoner; felt their amusement and returned it with his own, wanted to shout with pleasure and release. He turned at last to see Venniver and his deacons forced out of the temple as if they were pulled by invisible lines. They tried to turn away but could not get free, and their faces were frozen in terror.

The leaders of Burgdeeth were forced toward the square and there made to kneel before the winged statue of gods. The Luff’Eresi towered around the statue, so brilliant one could hardly look, cast their light across the bronze figures so they, too, seemed alive.

The sky in the east was a dull red as the Luff’Eresi spoke again. “Call out your people, Venniver of Burgdeeth.”

The people of Burgdeeth came hesitantly to the square, mobbed together in fear just as fearful sheep would mob, stood before the Luff’Eresi at last, and then knelt of one accord; and they could not look up at that brilliance, none had the courage to look up though the brilliance touched them like a benevolence.

“Unbind the Seer’s hands! We have no need to bind our prisoners. Do you expect us to take him like a sack of meal! This is our prisoner you have so brazenly played with!”

Ram was unbound. Stood naked and free and cared not for his nakedness, felt only triumph as he saw Venniver cower before the Luff’Eresi.

“Listen well, Venniver of Burgdeeth! We tend our own sacrifices. That is our privilege. We deal with the Seers, not you. If you claim another Seer—man, child or woman—you will die. Die wishing you had never been born!

“Do you hear us well?”

“I—hear you well.” Venniver glanced up sideways at the gods, then looked down again; his great breadth and height, the bulk of the man, which always made others look puny, had gone. He seemed a small, shrinking figure now before these magnificent beings. For an instant, the thunder of the mountains drowned all else. Fire leaped skyward in the east, and at that sign the men of Burgdeeth moaned as if all their pent-up terror was suddenly freed into sound. They knelt moaning before the gods; and Venniver’s deacons knelt; and the Luff’Eresi thundered, “From now hence for all time you will bring the Seers to us! Do you understand, pig of Burgdeeth?”

“I understand.”

“I understand, master!”

Among the kneeling crowd, some of Venniver’s soldiers had begun to rise now, and to slip fearfully away, seeking their horses, seeking escape. The Luff’Eresi ignored them.

“Open your mind, Venniver of Burgdeeth, and we will mark the path you will take to bring the prisoners to us! For you will bring them—all of them—to the death stone outside of Eresu. There we will deal with them. One transgression, Venniver of Burgdeeth, one omission, and your own death will be so long and painful an experience that you will beg to die!

“And think not,” cried the Luff’Eresi as one, “that we will not know what you do here. We see your petty intrigues, human! We see your insignificant thoughts!

“You will not defy us again, pig of Burgdeeth.”

Ram felt a stir of air, looked up to see the silver stallion plummeting down out of the sky, heard the indrawn breath of men as they dared to look up, in spite of the gods’ radiance, to see the winged stallion descend. The stallion came at once to Ram, and he swung himself up between the great wings, stared down at Venniver’s white face, at the awe-struck sheep, and tried to look as submissive and captive as possible, though his spirit was soaring with this taste of triumph and freedom. As the stallion whirled, he saw a handful of men riding hard away from Burgdeeth, saw them felled suddenly. They lay unmoving as their riderless horses fled. And then suddenly the silver stallion leaped skyward and Ram was lifted, was windborne on the night sky between the stallion’s sweeping wings, surrounded by light and by the wild exalted laughter of the Luff’Eresi, filling Ram’s mind with joy.

*

In the ruins, Jerthon lifted his head from deepest concentration. Ram was safe, Ram had lifted free of Burgdeeth. He saw tears in Tayba’s eyes. Skeelie was leaning, pale with her effort, against the sill of the portal. She turned from him abruptly, swung out of the room, was gone. Jerthon could sense her striding along the corridor toward the citadel. She would kneel there alone, would pray, would thank whatever there was to thank that Ramad was safe.

Tayba’s voice was no more than a whisper, so shaken was she with her effort, with the fear that had gripped her. With the wonder of that moment when the gods had spoken. For they had all Seen the gods clearly, Seen Venniver quail before the Luff’Eresi. The five of them had stared at each other in wild exaltation. “Was it . . .” Tayba whispered now. “Is it the power of the gods that we feel, Jerthon? Or the power of the mountains, as you said?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps—perhaps both.” He studied her quietly. “But this . . . this I know. That power—and I feel it still, do you not?” She nodded. ‘That power, whatever it is . . .” He did not need to finish, they all knew, they lifted their faces in sudden eagerness at his thoughts:

Yes! This power must not be wasted! This power must be used, and now. Used while it flowed strong, while they felt it buoying them, urging them on. “We will arm at once,” Jerthon said softly. “Ready supplies, men, horses. We will ride for Pelli in a day’s time. Now is the moment to destroy the Pellian Seers if ever we are to do it!”

They stared at him, lifted and renewed. To attack Pelli, to attack the dark Seers and the Hape. Yes! As one, Tayba and Drudd and Pol turned, preparing to depart, to give orders for supplies, for preparations. Jerthon stopped them with a quiet thought. They stood watching him, waiting. “There—there is enough power, if it holds, to block our thoughts from Skeelie. She—she will be wanting badly to ride out before dawn. A vision touches me . . .” He looked at them, questioning. The others felt out Tayba nodded, then Drudd and Pol. “Yes,” Jerthon said. “Skeelie will touch that vision, she will soon know that Ram will come to Blackcob—come in some need. She—would be with him then. I think—I think she should go unknowing.” Again there were nods of agreement. If Skeelie knew about the attack on Pelli, Ram would know soon; she could not keep such a thing from Ram’s mind as long as this sudden power surrounded them. They could keep it from Ram, perhaps, but Skeelie never could. Yes, the next moments, the next day, would be a time that might never come again for Ram. The next hours might never be remade, would be gone all too soon.

“Let them be,” Drudd said. “Let the young ones be. They will help us in battle in their own time.”

They nodded again, turned, went out of the chamber to prepare for war.

*

Telien had slept heavily, as if she were drugged, woke with a throbbing pain in her head and did not know where she was. She tried to understand why the darkness was so red. Why was her room so hot? She smelled smoke. She stared at the walls and saw that this was not her room, not any ordinary room, but a rough cave, and dark. The red light outside was . . . She rose on her elbow to stare. Was—fire! Fire! In a panic she tried to rise and was dizzy, sank down to the stone shelf again, trembling and sick and confused, had to get out, could feel the heat now, terrifying her.

Finally she could sit up, was calmer, saw there was no flame near, only the red sky through the cave’s high opening, remembered the mountains. But how did she get here? She rose, stumbling, knelt beside Meheegan who only raised her head and moaned low. She made her way up to the cave’s mouth. Her heart was pounding. She stood there, facing the flaming mountains.

And she saw that the red light was from reflection in the sky, that fire flared on peaks below and around her, but there was no fire here on this mountain—though below her the ridges shone red where a fiery river ran down, flaring suddenly as it struck a huge tree.

Behind her, Meheegan stirred with a moaning sigh. The smoke made Telien’s eyes water. The mountain rumbled faintly, then the only sound was the hiss of cooling steam and the hush-hush of slow-burning foliage far below. Were the flames dying, was the mountain’s tantrum subsiding? She remembered it all now—their journey up the mountain—but did not remember how she had come to this cave, remembered very little after she had fallen. Her head hurt so. She stared out at the red, angry turmoil of the mountains, sweating, her face prickly. After some moments of the unbearable heat, she made her way down again to the cooler interior, pausing once with the sick dizziness of nausea, which finally passed. She had a vague memory of climbing up rock. Had they climbed here, she and Meheegan? But they must have. She could remember the red stallion forcing and pushing at her.

Below her the mare had risen and begun to move restlessly back and forth. Telien saw the stallion then, at the far side of the cave, lying out full length, his wings folded around him. What was the matter with him? Was he . . . ? He raised his head and nickered to reassure her, and she let out her breath in relief.

Telien stood watching Meheegan pace, driven by the pain of labor. The stallion rose at last and came to push tenderly at Meheegan as, again, nausea swept Telien. She knelt, weak and miserable, and was sick.

She did not see the wolves watching from the deep shadows of the cave, waiting in silence for the mare’s extravagant event. But she felt a calmness suddenly, and a strengthening. She rose and went to touch the mare, to try to comfort her and steady her against the pain. The mare groaned and tightened herself, crouching, straining.

The pains and constrictions came sharper, closer. Then, as the first touch of morning began to wash the sky, so drifts of ash could be seen on the hot wind, the foal began to come slipping out, a silvery sack. There was blood. The mare groaned. Telien knelt, fighting the sickness and nausea, trying to help. Her hands shook.

It was then that the wolves crept out, silent and huge and gentle. The silver-encased foal sought strongly to tear itself away from the last vestige of dark, warm safety,, to leave the womb in a madness of life-lust, in a questing after a mystery it did not understand, yet sought with all its strength. The mare screamed. The foal slipped free. At once a pale wolf came forward and tore the sack open, and then Meheegan turned and began to lick the new young stallion that unfolded from its fetal shape. Telien watched, half-drugged with dizziness and pain, but missing none of the wonder; and then she went limp, sprawled across the cave, her head wound bleeding harder.

The five wolves stood over her. One licked away the blood. The dark dog wolf put his face close to hers and seemed reassured by her faint but steady breathing. They watched the foal begin to wriggle, trying almost at once to loose those tight-folded stubs of wings. The wolves watched as it tried to rise on long, rubbery legs; and they watched Telien wake and saw her fear of them.

She stared up at wolves all around her, huge and shaggy and rank-smelling, and fear cut through her, sharp and cold. The largest, a dark, broad dog wolf, approached her. His head was immense, his eyes stared unblinking.

But his expression was not an animal expression, was so very human. She looked up at him partly in fear and partly with rising wonder; and in excited desperation she thought Ram’s name, Ramad of wolves. “Ramad,” she croaked, and put out her hand. Were these wolves Ram’s brothers? She was so dizzy, and still very much afraid in spite of her rising excitement. Animals hated fear. The big dog wolf came close to her. She knew, somehow, that she was expected to touch him.

She reached. Her hand trembled. His teeth gleamed in a—was it a smile? He grinned widely, she could see the dark roof of his mouth. When she touched his face at last, the little hairs along his muzzle were soft as velvet. He looked down at her not as a wolf would look, and she repeated, “Ramad,” gone in terror. Gone in wonder.

The wolf licked her hand and laid his head on her shoulder, and his gentleness wiped away her fear. How could she have feared him? She looked across at Meheegan and Rougier and realized that the mare and stallion had never been afraid; they stood among the wolves in perfect friendship.

In the dim cave the red stallion and the five great wolves, the exhausted mare, and Telien stood watching—all alike in their wonder—as the new foal sought to rise and spread his wings. A colt red as his sire, born among the flames of the mountains. And Telien thought, Ram will love him. Then tears for Ram came suddenly and painfully, and she crouched against the shaggy dog wolf clutching his coat and weeping for Ram, washed with a sense of Ram’s danger, wanting Ram and so afraid for him.

But then all at once, without Seer’s skill, her mind lay open. The dark wolf spoke in her mind, and she saw Ram bound to the stake, saw fire blaze around his naked legs. She knew this was a vision of something past. She heard a faint chanting, the fire, the sacred fire, and then she saw the glancing shattering brightness of the Luff’Eresi descending upon Burgdeeth and saw the dark Burgdeeth leader—black of beard, broad of shoulder—quail before the gods. And she saw Ram loosed from his bonds. She saw Ram carried aloft on the back of the silver stallion amidst the bright dazzle of the gods and knew that he was safe.

*

Ram rode between the stallion’s wings, oblivious to the fury of the Pellian leaders at his escape. Oblivious to their dark push to touch his mind. So numbed by exhaustion was he that only an echo remained in his mind of the Luff’Eresi’s voices, swelling with laughter and thundering victory. They had risen with him above Burgdeeth, then, very high above the hills, their light had shattered all around him and they had vanished. Simply vanished; the night sky suddenly empty except for the smoke-dulled light of Ere’s moons.

The victory in Burgdeeth had been fine. Riding now free in the night, the wind chilling his naked body, Ram grinned at the memory of Venniver’s face, twisted with rage and fear, with submission.

Below, flames licked down to touch hills and meadows, but the mountains themselves seemed to have calmed. He could see no flame there now. Dalwyn dropped his silver wings in a glide and brought Ram down to the hill where the wolf bell lay buried. Ram retrieved it, searching in darkness, then crouching naked among stones, digging. Then they leaped skyward again, the stallion keeping well south of the fires. They flew low over hills where thin fingers of lava crept down in the deepest creases. Ram could see, at some distance, a few dim lights burning where Kubal lay; and the stallion had begun to drop toward that place. Ram felt the horse’s quick humor and agreed he needed clothes.

Where one guard stood with his back to them, the stallion came noiselessly down out of the sky to land without a stir of air.

Ram sized up the man’s height and width of shoulder. Yes, these clothes would do fine. His pulse quickened. He poised ready, moved silently.

Ram took the guard’s clothes and left him naked and unconscious in a tangle of sablevine; fingered the weapons and was glad he had left a few in Kubal. Now, perhaps, the Kubalese would learn to hunt with clubs. When he turned to the silver stallion, he stood with his hand on the great horse’s neck, tried to reach out to Telien, to sense her somewhere in those mountains, and could not.

“Can you find her, Dalwyn? If she lives among those fires, can you find her? Can you sense the red stallion and his mare?”

Dalwyn turned to stare toward the dark mountains. He would try. His every nerve went taut, trying to sense Rougier and Meheegan, to sense the invisible. They would go among the mountains. They would try.

Ram knelt beside a spring and washed and drank. He smelled the stink of the borrowed clothes, made a face, wished he had found a cleaner guard.

Dalwyn was sloshing and drinking, enjoying the water thoroughly. Ram’s wonder was never diminished that even this horselike action was as a man would do, that every action of the horses of Eresu was a sentient, balanced action, unhorselike in the extreme. The stallion turned to him at last; Ram swung himself up, and they leaped skyward so fast he was almost unseated, heading at once into deep smoke and heat.

On the land beneath them, smoking lava lay cooling, little flames licking out where grass and bushes still burned. As they rose toward the higher peaks, Ram prayed for Telien. And prayed that if she had died, it was quickly and without pain.

To think of her dead was unbearable; Telien could not be dead. He would know in the same way he had known, when first he saw her, that they were linked in a way he might never understand. Telien had never really left him since that moment on Tala-charen. All the women he had known since had been judged against her. Skeelie had been judged against her, good, faithful Skeelie whom he otherwise might have loved; Skeelie, who was his sister, his mother, his friend, but never anything more—because of Telien.

*

It was dawn on the road between the ruins and Blackcob. Skeelie and the old Seer, Berd, and a few soldiers rode hunched over, sleepy, sated with a huge breakfast. They had left in darkness, the pack horses only black lumps at the ends of their lead ropes; desperate to get to Blackcob because they knew there would be a need there. They rode now along the edge of the dark sea, the breakers making a pattern of white movement against darkness. The sea’s pounding seemed not a part of that pattern, seemed a delayed echo from the recent wild thunder of the mountains.

What they would find in Blackcob was largely unclear. They had watched all night the fiery sky, heard the rattling cries of the mountains. But only glimpses had come to them of the seething land itself. Skeelie had held for one brief instant a clear vision of Ram leaping skyward from Burgdeeth amidst the fiery sky, had known with elation Ram’s victory and the victory of the gods of Eresu—Carriol’s victory over Venniver’s sadism. She stared ahead in the direction of Blackcob, buoyed by this victory against the pain that awaited her there. She could not extricate herself from the blackness into which she had been driven when first she heard, from the refugees coming out of Blackcob, that Ram had found Telien. She had turned away, fists clenched, when they spoke of the two of them whispering together their good-byes.

Ram would be coming to Blackcob, she knew that clearly. How or why, she did not know. But she must see him once more. See for herself that he was lost to her. She pulled her cape around her, found she was hugging herself in a desolate passion of loneliness.

Yet still hope rose in spite of logic, and she rode for Blackcob with some wild unexamined notion that maybe . . . maybe . . .

She knew Ram would ride for Blackcob strung tight with some urgent need, come there in wild desperation. And when she was honest with herself, she had to wonder: Did she ride for Blackcob with the hope that Ram would come there in grief, having lost Telien to the holocaust of the mountains? Yes, if she was honest, she knew she wished Telien dead. Wished her gone, and wished to console Ram in his sorrow.

Yet Telien’s death would make no difference; Ram would love Telien, not until she died, but until he died.

Tears touched her cheeks. No matter the pain of her jealousy, she wanted no pain for Ram. No matter her own sorrow, underneath her hatred she wanted Telien to live—for Ram. For Ram to be happy. Wanting that, Skeelie was more miserable than ever.

She had insisted on going, had stared into Jerthon’s eyes with fine defiance and seen his hurt for her, had sworn at him for a fool. “I don’t go because of Ram! I go because they will need me. If there are wounded, burned from the fire . . .

“You go because Ram will come there, Skeelie girl. And you . . .” He had left the rest unsaid. Great fires of Urdd! Sometimes she wished they were none of them Seers and could never, never see into the mind of another!

*

The stallion changed direction suddenly, seeking over the fiery land, winged over and down into a blast of hot wind then through a narrow valley, rock walls rising beside them. Ram clung, saw not the walls or the smokey sky, Saw a clear vision suddenly of Telien kneeling, white and sick, beside the newborn foal. He heard Telien’s thoughts as if they were his own: was death the same as birth? Was death, too, a wild struggling after a mystery we cannot know, can only sense? He shouted into the hot wind, “Don’t speak of death! Don’t think of death!” And only the stallion heard him.

He felt the stallion sweep suddenly in a different direction, seeking again, disoriented and unable to touch the others with his thoughts. The great horse’s direction was confused and uncertain. They soared low between mountains where smoke still rose sullenly, dropped down across a valley that steamed from the cooling lava. Everywhere there was lava going gray, burned brush and trees. The sweating stallion moved with the same uncertainty that a crippled bat might move, sensing his direction then foiled of it suddenly, blinded again so his course changed, changed again. Dalwyn grew weary, his wings heavy; the hot air did not hold him well. He came down at last to rest.

It was well after midday. Ram dismounted beside a stream bed dried up, the land above it charred. Between ancient boulders he found a protected place where the heat had not come so fiercely and dug with his knife until at last he uncovered a bit of dampness. They waited for an interminable time until the water had oozed up to make a small pool from which Dalwyn could drink. Ram said, “You cannot hold the sense of the red stallion, Dalwyn. Will we ever find them?”

Dalwyn lifted his head. He did not know. Rougier would come into his mind then fade at once, and Dalwyn’s idea of the direction would twist and become confused. He was as the hunting birds of old Opensa that were whirled around in baskets until they had no notion of which way were their eyries, and so returned to their masters at last in confused submission.

So were the dark Seers confusing Dalwyn now.

“But why? Such a little thing as finding Telien . . . Ram stared at the stallion with rising anger. “Why should BroogArl care if . . .” Then he stiffened. Why should BroogArl care? And why should he not care? It was Telien—Telien who would bring another stone into Ere!

Of course BroogArl wanted her lost. Lost to Ram and to Ere, forever. Ram laid a hand on Dalwyn’s withers, touched his sweating sides. “We must find her, and soon.” He took off his jerkin and began to rub the stallion down, wiping away sweat, smoothing his coat. When water had seeped again into the cupped sand, Dalwyn drank a second time, then they were off, Ram forcing his powers now against BroogArl, against the Hape, in an aching effort to stay the dark while Dalwyn circled, sought out Rougier, and swept off in a direction from which they had recently come. The air was smokey, drifting with ash, so hot in some places, that their vision was blurred. Ram held with great effort against the dark, felt the strength of the wolf bell sustaining him, held so until at last Dalwyn swept down suddenly and surely to the mouth of a cave high in a dark peak, and Ram knew she was there, could sense her there.

Dalwyn came down fast to the lip of the cave. Ram slid off and was inside running downward into the darkness. He startled the mare. The little foal jumped away from him in alarm. He laid a hand on the mare’s cheek. He was sorry to have frightened her. But Telien—Telien was not there.

He searched the small cave for other openings. There was one; but he turned back to the entrance, the mare directed him back. Dalwyn called to him in silence.

Outside on the mountain, he followed the silver stallion up a thin thread of path that climbed steeply beside a steep drop. The heat was terrible here, rising from the burned hills. He found Telien at last, lying cold as death, inches from the drop. How could she be cold? The air was stifling. She was barely conscious, shivering, her skin like ice. He lifted her and held her, trying to warm her. She whispered so low he could barely hear her, “The ice—it’s so slippery. I can’t climb, I can’t get to the grass. She is so hungry . . .”

Ice? The mountain was hot as Urdd. And yet her hands and face were freezing cold, her tunic cold and wet and, in the creases, stiff with ice crystals that melted at his touch. He stared at the swollen, blood-crusted wound on her forehead, and a memory of just such a wound made him feel the pain again. He knew at once the dizziness she felt, the nausea, guessed her confused state.

But why was she cold?

Her arms and legs, her face were scraped and dirty. Her legs were black with ash but smeared, too, with the melting ice. Beneath the grit her skin was pale. Her hair was tangled with twigs and dead sablevine and dulled with ashes. When he tried to smooth it, she sighed, reached to touch his hand, then dropped her own hand, palm up curving in innocence. But then she looked at him suddenly without recognition, fell into sleep again, frightening him anew.

He carried her down into the cave and laid her on a stone shelf, covered her with his dirty tunic. The cave was cooler, but still stifling. Telien shivered. He began to chafe her wrists, then at last he lay down over her, keeping his weight off but trying to warm her. She stirred a little then, opened her eyes. She was shivering uncontrollably. “The snow comes so hard. Will it never stop? There is ice . . . the path . . . I must not fall. Meheegan . . .”

“Telien! Telien!”

She had gone unconscious again. He gathered her close, trying to warm her, trying to understand what had happened. She shivered again. He must get her warm or she would die. He rose, stared around the cave. He had flint, but there was nothing here to burn. It was then he saw the wolves come around him suddenly out of the darkness. Fawdref nuzzled close to him in wild greeting, his great tail swinging an arc. Rhymannie stared up at him grinning with joy. They came at once onto the shelf with Telien and lay down all around her, covering her. They had dropped their kill at Ram’s feet, three fat rock hares.

Ram could see little more of Telien now than her cheek and one strand of pale hair, so completely did the wolves cover her. Rhymannie began to lick her face. Ram took up the rock hares, carried them to the mouth of the cave and began to clean them. Telien would need food, something hot. But where in Urdd was he going to get fuel? Fawdref spoke in his mind then, showed Ram where there was grass on the mountain, and he understood that Telien had been trying to climb there to gather it for the mare.

He went up the narrow steep trail to gather the grasses dried brown by the heat and to gather some of the dried manure left by the winged ones. He returned to the cave, built a fire, and cut the rock hare into small portions to cool quickly. When the first pieces were done, he woke Telien. She ate slowly, watching Ram, uncertain still of her surroundings. She discovered the wolves clustered over and around her, was afraid, then lost her fear as suddenly and pulled Rhymannie’s muzzle down to her in affection, sighing with the life-giving warmth. Ram had brought grass for the mare. She ate with the dispatch of one truly hungry, while her greedy young colt nursed, flapping his stubby wings with pleasure.

When Telien had eaten, her color was better, her eyes clearer. “It was so cold, Ram. Did the snow melt? It’s warm now; how long has it been? When did you come here?” She stared up toward the cave opening, puzzled. “The mountains were white with it. And you—you haven’t any tunic. You . . .”

“Hush.” He knelt, laid a hand over her lips. “It’s all right. I found you on the ledge, you were almost frozen. Where—it was hot, Telien. The air is like steam. Where . . . what happened to you?”

“I don’t—I don’t know. I was . . .” She tried to sit up, so Rhymannie’s head was lifted on her shoulder. Ram helped her. The wolves stirred, resettled themselves around her. She stared across the dim cave at the mare, saw the foal. “I—I was going up to get grass for Meheegan, she . . . on the mountain. The wolves said . . . She startled, looked at Ram with amazement. “They—the wolves spoke to me, Ram. Spoke in my mind . . .” Her eyes were filled with wonder. “How can that be? I—I am no Seer.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“They showed me—in my mind—where the grass was left untouched, and then they went to hunt. I went—I went up along the path and Rougier came flying up beside me in case, I—I was so dizzy. He stayed with me, and then suddenly he—he was gone and the path was all ice, the mountains white and—and then I don’t remember—then you came, I guess.” She reached to touch his face. “How—how did you find me here?”

“Dalwyn found you. I cannot, even with the wolf bell I could sense little.” He knew he must go for food for her, for fuel. For water, grain for the mare. Telien needed herbs, bread, needed more than meat alone—and even rock hares must be hard to find after the fires, for surely game had perished. He laid a hand on the dark wolf’s head. “Stay with her, Fawdref. Stay with her, hunt for her if I do—stay until I return.” He tucked the tunic tighter around her, held her for a long moment, then rose and turned to the cave’s entrance where Dalwyn waited, silhouetted like a dark statue against the ashen sky.

“Ram?”

He turned back. He thought he could not bear to leave her. They had been apart all their lives. Now, to part so soon was unthinkable. He saw her eyes, needing him, but knew that he must go. “The wolves—Fawdref and Rhymannie will care well for you. I will bring you food, cakes. What girl, Telien, what girl in Ere has such tender nurses?”

She smiled. “No girl. Not such nurses as these. Oh, Ram . . .” Her eyes grew large suddenly and darkened as if some foreshadowing had touched her. She glanced away, then back at him more lightly. “Don’t be long, Ramad of wolves.”

Fear twisted in his stomach as he mounted. He turned to look back at her, wanted to say, Come with me, Telien. But she was too weak. He watched Rhymannie reach to lick her face. He mounted the silver stallion and was gone into the sky.

Part Three: Telien

Love’s will cannot be drawn against the will of Time, but must swing with it. Love’s fate cannot be shaped by the minds of those who love: except as they cleave to the infinity of power that carves out all life. Except as they cleave to the spirit that has birthed them.

There is no path through the fulcrum of Time, there is no promise that one will return, no promise that one will not die lost in Time and alone. There is no promise that what one seeks will be given.

And you who are Seer born, your mission is perilous. If you hold the power of the jade or hold a taint of that stone, those who are dark will lust for it, and follow.

And think not the gods to save you.

Think not the gods to meddle. To twist and warp your path through Time, and so destroy your freedom. You are thrown into Time alone, and so alone shall you travel. And if you come, one to another swept on the tides of Time, and if you cleave one to another, perhaps you cleave then to the power that carves out all life, to the spirit that has birthed you. And if you cleave so one to another, then shall you cleave to joy though Time itself spin you broken as flotsam upon its eternal shore.

NINE

Blackcob, scarred from the Kubalese raids, now stood sullen indeed with the ravages of the mountain fires. For, though the lava had not touched her to set her aflame, the volcanoes’ refuse lay around her feet, lava boulders scattered as far as one cared to look, spewed out by the Voda Cul in a tidal flood when the blocked river had finally broken free: black, twisted rock lying now all around the foot of Blackcob’s stumpy hill. And the settlement itself covered with ash, the ruined houses and sheds, the rooftops gray as death, and the ash still drifting down like dirtied snow.

Skeelie and Berd were unsaddling, Berd’s pale beard catching in the harness as he leaned forward. The two young soldiers were bringing hay. Skeelie stared with dismay at the patched fences and sheds, at the great patch of blackened boulders below, ruining the town’s whitebarley fields and gardens. She paid no attention to Berd watching her, she could have been alone, felt far too upset by the condition of Blackcob and by her premonitions about Ram to be civil to anyone.

No one knew where Ram was, she could not sense him now as she had so short a time ago, but the feeling that he would come was intense; and her awful sense of pain remained, pain soon to be known; and she felt she could not face its coming.

Maybe she was imagining it, maybe the fighting and strain of these last days had put wild ideas into her head, maybe Telien was not the same girl at all. But she knew better, knew Ram would come and that with his coming something in her life would change, would die; that she would be truly alone. And—it seemed to her that something terrible waited, something beyond her own pain, but she could not sense its shape, could not put a name to it.

Curse the fettering destruction of their Seers’ powers. The sense of strength she had felt in the ruins, when Ram was freed at last of Burgdeeth, the power she had sensed then when they had all beheld that vision—now it seemed to be fading. What had it been, that power? Was it a strength of the mountain, fading now that those thundering peaks had quieted? A vision would come so suddenly, then be cut away again. Maybe . . . did it come clear while BroogArl’s attention was focused elsewhere, perhaps? While he was strung taut with the conflict of some battle? Did Pelli raid Farr and Aybil, too? Perhaps for supplies? Was it only then, preoccupied, that BroogArl loosed his powers? And then, in his sudden rousing to their increased strength, did he lay hard on them again to destroy that strength?

And the sense of something else bothered her, too. As if someone else were blocking her powers of Seeing, someone . . . Was there something unfinished in Carriol? Was Jerthon hiding something from her, blocking her senses? But why would he? Oh, it was her imagination run loose. What would Jerthon hide from her, and why?

She removed her saddle with mechanical motions, plunging deeper into despair, turned away from Berd when he reached to take her saddle, his old, wrinkled face twisted with concern for her. She was rubbing saddle marks from her horse’s back when a farmer standing high on his shed roof waved his hammer and shouted, “Winged one! Winged one and rider. A Seer . . .”

Skeelie stood frozen, saw one soldier running, saw Berd drop the saddles; she began to run too, toward the gray stallion winging down on the wind, dropping in silence between cottages. She saw Ram slide down, pale with fatigue. She felt the sense of Telien strongly. He was awash with concern for her. Telien, lying in a cave, hurt. She went to him then, began, with the soldier and Berd, to gather the stores he needed.

Mechanically, painfully, but with efficiency, she put into a pack herbs and salve, dried meat and new bread, roots, a pot to cook in, blankets, waterskins. She saw one soldier tying firewood into bundles, saw one preparing grain and feed. She worked dully, mechanically, caught in desolation.

When Ram stood looking down at her, prepared to depart, she could only look back at him and did not trust her voice to speak. His brown eyes were dark with pain—for Telien, but for her, too. And that made her feel worse. He pitied her, was trying to be gentle with her! She could not bear pity and gentleness, swallowed, could not speak. Choked back tears she would not let him see.

He extended his hand. “Friends, Skeelie? Skeelie . . . ?” He touched her arm. She turned away from him, then turned back with effort to look him straight in the eye.

“I hope she—that she will be well quickly, Ram. That you will care—care well for her.” She took his hand then with a solemnity she had not intended and could not avoid. “Good-by, Ram. Ramad of wolves . . .”

She turned and walked away. She did not run until she was out of sight beyond the sheds. Then she ran straight down the hill to the river and among the boulders to a sheltered place, pushed her face against a boulder, choking back sobs until she could no longer choke them back, until she could not help the sobs that escaped her aching throat.

*

The flight of the silver stallion was heavy now, loaded with bundles such as no winged one before him had ever had to suffer. Like a pack donkey, he let Ram know with some humor as he thundered aloft on straining wings. And Ram, so lost in remorse for Skeelie, so ridden with her pain, gave back little of humor, could only quip weakly that perhaps pack donkeys should grow wings.

The sun was low in the west, the dying afternoon stifling as heat rose from the cooling lava. Smoke drifted up, still, in the north between far peaks, and ash drifted down, burning Ram’s throat and making Dalwyn cough. At last they winged over above the cave and dove for its lip—and on the lip of that drop, Telien stood poised as if she would step into empty space. Before her, nearly without foothold, Fawdref couched. Ram could feel the wolf’s furious growl before he heard it.

The stallion remained motionless on the wind above her, weighted, struggling. One step and Telien would be over. Fawdref edged into her, forcing her back with bared teeth. She stared at him uncomprehending, and Ram felt her whisper, ‘They are waiting in the garden. I don’t . . . I must go to them!” Ram tried wildly to reach her mind, to awaken her, and could not. Fawdref pushed her another step back. The stallion dropped down to the ledge, and Ram leaped clear, was beside her lifting her away, saw Rougier winging down from the sky then, answering Fawdref’s summoning from some far distant grazing.

He laid Telien again on the stone shelf. Her ash-covered hair fell around her like dulled silver. She looked up at him blankly, her green eyes far away, seeing beyond him into—into what?

When he had stripped the packs from Dalwyn, seen the stallion leap skyward beside Rougier, he made a small fire, put a pot of water to boil, added herbs for tea, and began to prepare a meal for her. He laid out fresh bread and cold roasted meat, cicaba fruit that Skeelie had carried from Carriol, then put into his pack.

When the tea was ready, he led her to the fire. She knelt, held her hands to the warmth. Her eyes were softer now, very needing; she seemed so very frail. Yet beneath that frailty must lie an indomitable strength, to have brought her through that burning land; and, too, to have sustained her those long years living under AgWurt’s rule. He poured out tea for her and held it so she could drink strong, aromatic tea. “You were far away, Telien. Can you tell me where?”

She pushed her hair away from her face, struggled to remember. “I was . . . it was spring, Ram. Suddenly it was spring, and I was in a garden in the center of a wood. But a dark, ugly garden, all in morliespongs and ragwort and beetleleaf, great dark leaves, and someone was calling to me, soldiers were watching me and I—I must . . .” she stopped, raised her eyes to him. “Where was I to go? What were they telling me to do?”

“Was there a building there in the garden?”

“A—yes! A dark hall, a terrible dark castle with heads! Its top was made of three huge heads! The eyes were windows, the mouths . . .”

He stared at her, chilled through. The Castle of Hape had touched her. BroogArl had touched her. But why?

Why? Because Telien would hold the runestone, was being drawn inexorably toward the runestone—being drawn into Time, the dark Seers pulling at her in their lust to have the stone.

Were they manipulating Telien into Time? Or were they simply following, like jackals, seeking to control her and so to take the stone?

He knelt beside her, tucked the blanket around her, and handed her the plate, found he was ravenous himself. Down in the cave the foal was playing while Meheegan ate of the grain Ram had brought, an expression on her face of wonderful pleasure and contentment. He watched Telien lay her meat on the bread in the Herebian way, taste it appreciatively, then fall to as if she had discovered quite suddenly how hungry she really was. But soon enough she seemed exhausted with the effort of eating, lay down with her head on his lap, her color gone. “What is it, Ram? What’s the matter with me?”

Could it be the wound on her forehead? It was so like the one he had received as a child. That had made him dizzy and sick, though he was never certain how much of that misery was due to the wound and how much to the dark Seer’s attacks on his mind. Attacks that had left him unconscious or delirious while his mind wandered in terrifying vastnesses.

“Ram, tell me what is happening to me.”

“You have had a bad blow on the head. Did you fall?” He saw her nod imperceptibly. “But—but more than that, Telien. The ice and snow. You—you have stumbled out of Time. Into another time, somewhere . . . Just as I did once.”

Meheegan looked up from eating. Telien watched the colt for a moment, in perfect harmony with the mother and foal. But her eyes were large with the fear that would not leave her. “I think, if you would tell me what happened to you that . . . maybe I would be less afraid.”

He did not like telling her. And yet he had known he must, for she had a part in this. If it was still to happen to her, she had better know all she could. He moved close to her. She fit against him, warm, so close. She smelled of honey, he had never noticed that. Distracted, he brought his mind back with effort to his journey into Tala-charen, told her how he had gone there to find the runestone, meaning to stop the evil that Venniver wove in Burgdeeth, meaning to help free Jerthon and the slaves, meaning to battle the Pellian Seers in their increasing sweep of evil upon Ere. He told her how he and Skeelie and the wolves had climbed the icy mountains, fought the ice cat, the fire ogres, had come at last into the cave at the top of Tala-charen to face the dragon gantroed. How, when he found the runestone, it had split in white heat, and figures had appeared come out of time to take the shards. How he had seen Telien there.

She stared at him, swallowed, considered this. “I was there, Ram? I was in that place. But I have not been.” She looked at him for a long time, as if she were memorizing his face. “Then—that is what is happening to me. I am falling through Time. The snow and ice, that was—I am being pulled back there—Tala-charen.” She shuddered, took his hand. “I—I will see you there. Ramad the child . . .” She put her head against his shoulder, clung to him, trembling and cold. But when she lifted her face she seemed to have come to terms with it. “You—you cannot prevent it.” It was not a question. “You . . .” She reached to stir the dying fire, then turned back to him smiling tremulously. “Tell me—tell me why you lived in Burgdeeth. You were a Seeing child. How did a Seeing child come there to Venniver, to that cruel man? Tell me about your life then, when you were small.”

“I suppose I must start with the day I was born,” he quipped.

“Yes,” she said seriously. “Yes, that would be best, I think.”

Evening was. falling, the fire low. A faint breeze blew down to them from the mouth of the cave, and there was the dullest smear of moonlight behind the ashen sky. She settled into his arms once more and he began to tell her. “I was born a bastard. A bastard conceived of my mother’s spite at being sold into unwanted marriage. I was deserted by my father before Tayba bore me. She found her way to a powerful old woman living alone on Scar Mountain. There in Gredillon’s hut I was born and reared until I was eight.” He drew the wolf bell from his tunic. The rearing bitch wolf shone softly in the muted moonlight.

“Gredillon gave me this. It stood on her mantel. She put it into my hands minutes after I was born. She said I was born to it.” At the sight of the bell Fawdref, dozing in shadow, spoke in muffled voice, a low, whining moan of pleasure. Telien touched the bell gently, tracing the line of the rearing wolf.

“As a small child, I called the foxes and jackals with the bell. When I was eight, the Seer HarThass, three days ride away in Pelli, discovered my skills and sent my father EnDwyl after me, to bring me to be trained as a Pellian Seer.

“Mamen and I ran away across the black desert toward Burgdeeth. EnDwyl followed us, riding out with an apprentice Seer on fast horses, overtook us as we were nearly into Burgdeeth. I—I called the wolves, then, Telien. In my fear of EnDwyl, I called the great wolves, wolves for the first time, called them down from the mountains to save us. It was . . .” He felt again that thrill, that overriding exaltation diminishing even his terrible fear of their pursuers. “The wolves came streaming down from the mountains, running like great shadows swiftly over the land. Fawdref was young then. Fierce as now. He . . . the wolves would have killed both men, had I not stopped them. EnDwyl held a knife at Tayba’s throat. To save her, Fawdref set EnDwyl free.”

He held her tight to him, aroused by the memory of fear, of that first time the wolves surged around him; sharing this with her, aroused by Telien. He took her face in his hands. How perfect the bones. Her eyes were huge, so clear. Something in him had always been missing since that moment on Tala-charen. And now it was not missing.

She studied his face with great concentration. “When I was a child, Ram, before my mother died, I used to dream of someone—I was always alone, even with other children. I felt as if I were waiting for someone.

“When I grew older, when AgWurt brought our band up into Kubal, I . . . the men treated me badly. But always I thought there was someone who would not. Who would care. Who would know how I felt without my speaking of it, who would be . . .”

When he kissed her, they belonged to the mountain, belonged to Ere’s moons, to the stars reeling and to Ere’s winds: belonged to that vortex in Time when time mattered not.

*

He woke before dawn with a sense of intense pleasure, then was twisted awake and plunged into terrible dread by a clear vision. Carriol was at war, engaged in a battle unlike earlier attacks, a battle in which all in Carriol fought the dark Seers. He sat up, flinging the covers back, Saw the attack all across Carriol, every little farm and croft, Saw Jerthon’s battalion riding hard—but away from Carriol! He stared into the darkness, Saw where Jerthon rode, straight for Pelli! Fast and heavily armed. Three battalions remained in Carriol and they battled the fierce Herebian attacks in skirmishes all across Carriol’s fields and woods. Ram rose, felt the emptiness suddenly, turned back to the stone shelf, and saw that Telien was gone.

He lit tinder, stared around the cave, saw the wolves lined up at the cave mouth and felt their voices, felt Meheegan’s voice. Yes, Telien was gone. Gone utterly. Gone not only from this place, gone out of Time itself, gone this instant as he woke—and they could not prevent it. Ram leaped for the cave mouth shouting her name, spun around to stare back into the cave in bewilderment, snatched up the wolf bell and sent his power winging out to find her—felt no breath of her. “Telien! Telien!” He drove with every strength he possessed to surge across space and time seeking Telien.

He could touch nothing but emptiness.

At last he subsided into cold defeat, and then the battle in Carriol engulfed him once more, against his will. Fawdref came to him, mourning Telien with opaque, distant-focused eyes; but alarmed, too, by the battle, tense with it as a wolf is tense stalking prey.

And now Ram began to sense that all across Ere Seers were stirring to the call of battle. He gripped the wolf bell, trying to force clarity to the breath of vision he touched, saw at last dark leaders raise their eyes as the harsh vibrations of battle touched their twisted minds; for this battle had to do with them, this balance of evil and light to do with them. Slowly Ram felt the slippery and the watchful reach out toward the dark wood, to bring their forces under the powers of Hape.

And he sensed that all across Ere gentle Seers, too, Seers who had moved unrecognized among men, hidden in fear, had begun at last to yearn again, to test their unused powers, to stand taller, to shake off their fear of discovery and listen with widening senses. And they, too, reached out toward Pelli—but, cowards too long, they were now afraid to bring their powers to battle the Pellian Seers, and they paused, ridden by confusion. They might have helped Jerthon, might have laid themselves unto a stronger master and thrown their forces with Jerthon; but they were too weakened by their own failures, too afraid.

Ram shouted for Dalwyn, laid his hand on Fawdref’s head. Fawdref stared at him with an inexplicable look. Ram knelt, threw his arms around the shaggy, beloved neck, stayed so in silence for a long moment, heard the commotion at the mouth of the cave then and rose to join Dalwyn—but a great band of winged ones was descending, and only slowly did he understand what was happening, only belatedly see a huge band of wolves streaming down the mountain: Fawdref’s small family tribe and more; the entire band of the great wolves. They must have come from caves all over the mountain, perhaps had been waiting in the mountain for the fires to cool, must have gathered at their leader’s call, for they glanced again and again at Fawdref as they moved down, their tongues lolling, their eyes keen and predatory. Ram stood stricken with wonder as they surged down the mountain and then, by ones and twos, by half a dozen at a time, began to jump to winged backs as the horses of Eresu swept in close to the ledge: wolves leaping to crouch between the horses’ great wings. He saw Fawdref leap past him and settle between the wings of a dark mare, saw wolves riding in the sky in a spectacle that left him numbed. And he understood: it was their battle, too. The defeat of the Hape belonged to them, to all of them, not to men alone.

Dalwyn was there, snorting, eager, his eyes like fire. Ram swung onto his back, he leaped clear of the mountain; they were windborne, a surging mass of winged ones sweeping into the morning sky, wings spread across miles of sky. They swept over the scorched earth then across green hills as the morning light came brighter, across woods like dark seas below them. When they crossed the river Urobb where it flowed into Pelli, the winds were high and cold, buoying a hundred pair of wings. They swept above sheep fields and crofts toward the dark wood, and saw beyond it the cold sea.

Below them rose the dark castle surging with battle that raged across her fetid gardens and up the castle walls. The scream of horses and the clash of swords came sharp on the wind, and new bands of Pellian soldiers were riding fast out from the dark wood. The Hape had taken the form of an immense lizard, twisted around the castle itself, its three heads snatching up men and tossing them like sticks: head of horned cat, head of toothed snake, head of eel tearing at the soldiers’ flesh. Dalwyn dropped suddenly upon the writhing lizard. Ram leaped, was clutching one scaly neck. Around him, winged horses dove and wolves jumped for the lunging coils, clinging, tearing at its scaly hide. Ram’s knife flashed. The Hape reared, swelled in size, grew so huge the castle was nearly hidden beneath its writhing coils. Ram rode the scaly neck, trying to sever the cat-head, and the Hape’s power was like hands tearing him away.

Below him, mounted soldiers slashed at the Hape, arrows flew, piercing its thick hide; swords were more useful than arrows as the soldiers rode in under its coils to slash at the softer belly. Ram felt Jerthon’s strength suddenly from somewhere—he was not in this lizard battle, was somewhere dark, sending his power but to Ram. Ram felt the wolves’ indomitable stubbornness as they fought; saw wings sweep above him and hooves slash as the winged ones themselves attacked the Hape, carrying two dozen Carriolinian troops. A winged horse screamed, swords flashed to cut at the Hape, dodging claws. Below, the battle was a melee; wolves were falling from the flailing snake down into the battle.

At last Ram clung alone as the winged ones surged around him dodging the Hape’s lashing heads while soldiers slashed out. Blood spurted. Ram had almost severed the cat-head when the other two heads swung toward him and the toothed eel reached to clutch at him, the eel-head horrifying, grinning, mouth open to devour. Below, soldiers were climbing now, straddling the whipping lower coils; and Ram could sense soldiers below in the dark rooms, sense Jerthon there battling in darkness. He worked frantically at beheading the neck to which he clung, slipping in the spurting blood.

All but spent, Ram felt the last neck sinews sever, saw the cat-head fall, felt the Hape weaken as blood spurted anew from the neck. He could feel the dark Seers’ forces gathered in surging hatred as the Hape writhed wildly, one neck headless and flailing, splattering blood, the eel-head coming down on him to tear him apart. He felt himself slipping and grabbed the severed neck bone, the only handhold, faced the eel-head in desperation and saw it had changed to a huge grinning head of a man.

*

Below in the castle Jerthon and two dozen troops routed Seers from locked rooms, tearing open bolted doors with a battering post; then turned suddenly to face torch-swinging Pellian troops. The battle was brutal in the half-dark, the torch fires swinging to show face of enemy, of friend, then swinging so only dark shadow lay before a man’s sword. A grim, desperate battle waged in the close, fetid dark. Jerthon’s men fought with a fierce hatred of that dark, fought with righteous fury until at last not a Pellian soldier remained standing, until all around their feet lay the dead and dying. Jerthon’s men swept past them to fling open farther doors down darker hallways. ‘Take no captives!” he shouted. “Kill them all, we want no captives such as these!” Not captives with Seer’s minds to trick them, not in this desperate bid for victory. And as doors were flung open, monsters slithered out, abominations leaping to embrace them—monsters cut down by Jerthon’s men, or sent trembling back to disappear when he held the runestone high before them.

And then in the cellars at last they came upon BroogArl secreted, as if he feared failure, among shadows; cringing. He stood suddenly, naked of flesh in a wild vision, white bone wielding a sword like flame, his sightless eyeholes seeing too clearly the stone in Jerthon’s hand. Jerthon dropped the jade quickly into the pouch at his waist. And dangling from BroogArl’s neck were the bloody heads of a dozen Carriolinian soldiers, comrades fallen in battle.

BroogArl raised white bony hands and brought forces down upon Jerthon and Pol that drove them to their knees. They sought to rise, sweating, straining.

The two powers held equal for a long moment; Jerthon was hardly aware of the battle above, so desperately did he bring his powers against BroogArl. But BroogArl’s force held Jerthon’s sword frozen. Jerthon strained, sweating, until at last the bone-man gave way for an instant and Jerthon leaped on him, splitting his skull with one blow, severing the head so it lay at his feet like a halved apple, gleaming white. Then it darkened, turned once more to BroogArl’s bearded head, split horribly, grinning in the last spasm of death.

And above the castle, as if the Hape and BroogArl were one, Ram at the same moment severed the snakehead. Both heads fell, BroogArl and snake, the dark powers mortally wounded and trying in desperation to rally, trying in desperation to change the Hape into another body; but failed to change it. And now all across Ere, as the dark Seers strove to buoy the Hape’s powers, the timid Seers began at last to come together in sudden resolve, to reach out toward Pelli, to lend the Carriolinians their strength. And that added force maddened the Hape further so it surged with its own last strength in leaping fury and rose uncoiling into the sky, its two severed necks bleeding, its man-face laughing horribly. It tore away treetops in its frenzy, ran wildly in the sky, and it was winged: leathery wings beating the wind. Ram clung to its neck, his hands slipping in blood. The wind tore at him, the Hape writhed, trying to unseat him. And then the winged ones came surging, darkening the sky, and from their backs riders shouted and swords flashed out.

The Hape flew lurching toward the sea. Ram gripped the slippery, bloody body, looked down at the rushing land, dug his knees deeper but was slipping, clung desperately to the severed neck. The wind nearly pulled him off, wind like giant hands tearing at him as the monster sped over Pelli’s coastal city. And now Ram could sense Jerthon and Pol, a second wave of soldiers leaping into the sky above the castle to follow the Hape, could sense as a wild dark melee the battle that singed around the base of the castle itself where Carriolinians and Pellians fought to take possession of the castle now that all inside it were dead; he caught a vision of the wolves fighting alongside mounted soldiers, wolves leaping to pull dark riders from their mounts. And then the winged ones were crowding the Hape’s flight closer so it clawed in the air and screamed.

They were over the sea, it rolled and churned below them. And Ram stared down at that wild water and knew, suddenly and coldly, that the Hape meant to dive into it, and he was filled with fear. For an instant everything seemed to pause, and then the Hape drove straight down toward the sea. Fury engulfed Ram. He cut hard into the thick hide until the Hape bellowed with pain and shivered the length of its body. But still it dove for the sea in a paroxysm of rage. Ram saw the sea coming fast, then was swallowed by it, tumbling in churning water, down, down, as the Hape twisted and thrashed. Ram kicked out, trying to free himself from the thrashing coils. The foaming surface above, dimly lit, seemed miles away. He could never hold his breath long enough to reach it, already his lungs were bursting. The Hape fought blindly, lashing the sea into storms. Ram tried to swim away from it, to fight upward, was suffocating. He had to breathe, had to. Shadows appeared above him, striking fear through him anew; then he saw that they were men. Suddenly he felt hands take him. He must breathe, must suck in air. Someone was lifting him through the churning water. The Hape’s tail thrashed at them, nearly tore them apart Jerthon—was it Jerthon there above him?

Yes, Jerthon. With terrible effort Jerthon pulled him free of the Hape; it roiled below them now so the water heaved and tore at them. Then the Hape grasped Jerthon in its claws and was pulling them down again. Jerthon pushed Ram free; someone dove past Ram. He had to breathe. He struck out feebly toward Jerthon, could see nothing clearly, knew he must suck water into his dying lungs; felt himself pulled upward again and began to kick in a feeble attempt to lift himself up.

He broke surface, sucked in air wildly, clutched at air, tried to call for Jerthon and could only gasp, knew he must dive for Jerthon. The sea was wild with the Hape’s thrashing, red with blood. Hands were pulling at him. He could not see Jerthon. He lost consciousness.

He woke heaving, throwing up water as someone pummeled him, rough hands pushed water out of him. He twisted around and sat up, searching blindly.

Jerthon stood over him, soaking wet, his tunic ripped into shreds. Ram shouted with relief at seeing him, tried to rise and went dizzy.

Only slowly did Ram sense Jerthon’s chagrin, understand the pain of his expression. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He could not read the sense of it, stared at Jerthon’s shredded tunic, was wildly glad Jerthon was alive, stared at the torn leather pouch where the runestone of Eresu had lain.

The bottom of the leather pouch was ripped away. The leather hung limp and empty.

Jerthon’s look was dark, full of misery. He could not speak for some time. Ram dared not speak, dared not ask. When Jerthon did speak at last, his voice was tight and stilted. “It is—the runestone is in the sea.”

Ram rose, stood dripping and cold, dizzy. The runestone could not be lost. Not in the sea. Not . . .

“It is lost,” Jerthon said, his eyes miserable.

“I thought—I thought you would drown. How did you get out? You saved my neck down there.”

“Drudd pulled me out, pulled us both out,” Jerthon said, dismissing it.

Ram turned to stare at the sea. Its breakers plunged and rolled steadily. Only a pink-tinged swirl could be seen where the Hape had been. Only very slowly could he bear to face the loss of the stone. “The runestone: in . . . in the sea? But the—the Hape will have it then, it . . .

“The Hape is weak, Ram, nearly dead. If we—if we can defeat BroogArl’s forces completely, I think the Hape—with no strength from BroogArl’s men to draw into itself, I think the Hape may die.”

Ram stared at him, trying to collect his senses. To defeat Pelli, to prevent the Hape taking the stone . . . He stood at last, rallying himself. “Let’s get on with it. We’ve a war to win.” He gave the signal to mount. “I will ride behind you if Dalwyn can carry us both.”

Girded with fury at the loss of the stone, the band came down on the castle in wild force, joined with the troops there. They cornered Pellians against the castle wall and slaughtered them. They drove hard into the wood and found troops hiding, wounded, tired of battle, and slaughtered them. No Pellian could be let to live and use, if he carried Seer’s blood, his dark powers against them.

And the wolves killed many, fighting by the soldier’s sides, leaping, tearing, enjoying the attack in all their animal lust. When the battle had done, when not a Pellian could be found alive, the great band of wolves came all around Ram and stood looking up at him with bloody muzzles, grinning.

It was then Ram saw the tall white-haired figure slipping away into the wood. He swung around, staring. “That one, Fawdref! Where did he come from?”

The dogwolf looked at him a moment, licking blood from his lips before he answered. He came out of the wood, and fought beside us, Ramad. He is fierce as a wolf himself. He came out of a time you are yet to touch, moves driven by the winds of Time in a way he can seldom control. He is a lonely man. Lonely.

Ram stared at the wolf’s knowing eyes and felt his spirit lift suddenly with hope. Hope for Telien; for if Anchorstar moved on the winds of Time, then Anchorstar moved in the realms where she had been swept, and perhaps he could touch her there. “I will speak with him, I will summon him!” Ram cried, wild with his sudden need.

The great wolf moved close to Ram, pressing his shoulder against him, laid his head against Ram’s arm. He is gone, Ramad.

And though Ram searched the wood, there was no sign of Anchorstar or the dun stallion. Gone. Gone into Time. Why had Anchorstar come here, why had he fought here?

Jerthon’s troops stormed the castle, searching for stragglers they might have missed, holding back in secret rooms; and he and Ram came at last to the cellars. Jerthon turned BroogArl’s body over with his toe, thought of burying it, shook his head. “BroogArl can end in flame like his castle. Let’s get out of here, the smell of him makes me choke.”

“Jerthon, did we kill them all?”

Jerthon gave him a long look, touched unthinking the place in his tunic where the runestone had ridden, glanced down, his face dark with its loss. “Kill them all, Ram? What do you feel?”

They stood silently then, sensing out into Pelli, into all of Ere for that feel of dark that had ridden so long with them. After some moments their faces began slowly to lighten; they looked into each other’s eyes with hope flickering, then with a rising sense of victory. There was no trace of the evil now, no sense of BroogArl’s retinue, or of the cloying dark that had been the Hape. A sense of scattered, dark Seers, yes, drawn together at this time in their hatred of the light; but Seers separated by their own selfish ways, their own despotic little hierarchies, and as opposed to one another as quarreling snakes. There was no sense, with BroogArl and the Hape gone, of unity among those who were left.

“Kill them all, Ram?” Jerthon’s fatigue had left him. He lifted his head in triumph. “I hope perhaps we have. Killed all the power that resided here.”

Ram’s hope had lifted to wing outward as he examined the cool absence of massed evil. He wanted to shout suddenly, he embraced Jerthon with wild joy. “And the runestone—we will dive for it!”

Jerthon looked chagrined. “Dive, Ram? The sea in this place is deeper than any man can think to go. We were deeper than I would have thought possible. The stone . . . but perhaps we will think of a way.”

Ram gripped Jerthon’s shoulder. “The stone is gone, but we are not! We have won, man! We’ve destroyed the Pellian monsters!” And yet, as he tried to cheer Jerthon at the loss of the stone, beneath his own bravado lay a heaviness that would not subside. For the loss of the stone, yes. But the real pain there, like a dull knife wound, was for the loss of Telien.

Jerthon, seeing his pain, cuffed him and grinned. “Come, then, Ramad of wolves. Let’s make an end to this den of Hape. Come, watch the roasting while we bury the monsters in flame!”

They went up the dark stairways and into the dim hall, where Jerthon’s men were throwing the furniture into a great heap, stacking on logs from the castle’s firewood, building a tall pyre. In the upper rooms, the shutters were flung open to act as a chimney.

Jerthon took up a torch from those stacked beside the castle door, struck flint, and when the torch flared he lighted the pyre. Timbers and furnishings caught at once and began to burn hot and quick, the flame leaping upward in the draft from the windows above, the main hall soon so hot it drove them out through the wide double doors.

They stood in the murky wood watching as the Castle of Hape was consumed in flame. The winged ones crowded close to the soldiers, not liking fire, glancing again and again toward the sky as the flames leaped higher.

At last the castle’s stone walls began to crumble. The wolves pushed closer together, and Fawdref came to Ram. Ram stood abstracted, his hand on the dogwolf’s head, watching the burning of the castle until the old wolf began to nudge and push at him. No sensible wolf lingered near a fire in forest land. And no sensible man, either, Fawdref let him know. Ram knelt before the great wolf, but Fawdref drew back his lips at the rising flame and nudged Ram until he rose and backed away from the fire. And then, as if they could bear the fire no longer, the winged ones stirred and leaped suddenly skyward like hawking birds and were away toward the dark mountains.

The wolves pushed together in a great band to crowd around Ram, eager, too, to be away. Ram pulled Fawdref to him, reached to touch Rhymannie, was loathe to let them go, imagined with a sense of loss the great wolves streaking silently away up through Ere’s forests toward the Ring of Fire.

And suddenly, clearly, Ram knew that he must go with them. Must return to the cave where Telien had been. Must seek her first in that place. And were there secret runes in the old caves there that would tell him how to span Time? How to take himself into the spinning center of Time where Telien had gone?

TEN

Telien, swept like a chip in Time’s leaping river, could not stop herself. Her mind reeled with a hundred places tumbling one atop another, with cities, with voices and faces and smells jumbled. And then suddenly she sensed that someone was with her, reaching out to her. A girl, someone close, someone caring—someone who seemed like a sister. She had never had a sister. She felt tears come in her eyes at the sudden touch of warmth, this sense of someone young and caring reaching out to push away the terrifying loneliness, to push back the vast reaches of Time. For Skeelie had reached out to her, and Telien clung to that sense of strength with terrible desperation.

Skeelie had been resting after battle, exhausted, dirty, starved, when she began to think strongly of Telien.

All across Ere troops had battled the forces of the dark Seers, forces boiling out of the hills, small dark bands riding fast out of isolated camps to wield destruction across Carriol, just as Jerthon laced destruction down upon the Castle of Hape. That had been Jerthon’s secret. She had Seen at last, and known. And Ram had known. She and Berd and Erould and the men of Blackcob had joined Carriol forces in mid-battle up the Somat Cul, pursuing stolen horses, cutting down dark raiders. And, as in Pelli BroogArl had died, and then as the Hape’s body had died, the forces that Skeelie’s band battled had diminished. Without the dark powers to force them back, Carriol’s troops had begun to slaughter the Herebian in a wholly satisfying manner, had driven them out until not a raider remained on Carriol soil alive. And the dark blocking had pulled back, and Skeelie had Seen, not only the battle in Pelli but the battles that flared up across other parts of Carriol, battles being won now by Carriol’s troops.

Yes, she thought bitterly, Jerthon had shielded his knowledge of that attack on Pelli from her. He had kept it secret—in order to shield the knowledge from Ram. In order to give Ram his moments with Telien, undisturbed. She bit her lip with fury, with pity for Telien, with emotions she could not sort out. Had Jerthon known that Telien’s time was so short?

Skeelie and old Berd, his white beard flying, and Erould with blood running down his dark hair, had fought shoulder to shoulder the dark Herebians high in the loess hills until those still able to ride had fled from them.

Now the men, sensing no new attack, sensing with growing eagerness the feel of victory in Pelli, had gone downriver to rest and to care for their mounts. Skeelie, alone in an isolated bend of the river, stripped to the buff and washed away the white loess dust, the sweat and blood of battle, had rinsed out her clothes and sat now shivering as they dried over a hastily built fire. Her cuts burned. One sword wound along her arm was deeper. She laced it with birdmoss from the riverbank, to soak away the poison. She bet she was a pretty sight, all scarred. But who was to see? Who would care? She could hear the men’s voices downstream, and the voices of the women farther upstream.

And, sitting before the fire, her thoughts were pulled away from her suddenly. She Saw Telien in a clear vision, knew Telien intimately. Was angered at first by Telien’s presence in her mind, wanted only to be rid of her. But Telien’s fear became her fear, she knew the girl’s terror as if it were her own, knew in every detail Telien’s confused journey into the maelstrom of Time, was stricken suddenly with a terrible empathy for Telien and reached out to her at last, knew she must go to her.

She tried, forced her powers out away from her own time into Time itself. But as suddenly as it had come, the vision vanished from her, and she could not sense Telien at all. She tried desperately, again and again, and failed. Failed Telien, and so failed Ram.

She turned away at last, wanting to weep and unable to weep, weary and very much alone.

*

When the sense of someone there with her, supporting her, vanished, Telien was more alone than ever, cut adrift again in the eternal vastness of Time, unable to know, any more, what future or past was: she was swept on an endless sea in which she could find no bearing, find nothing to cling to, nothing to tell her, even, who she was.

Who had touched her mind so briefly? So welcome. A girl, but who? As close as a sister, someone . . . the loss of that brief encounter sickened her further, set her adrift again utterly, more chaotically than before.

She stood in a rough field. She remembered a rushing city moments before where she had wandered the streets among crowds, seen men strung from crosspoles and cut open like oxen, butchered for pleasure because they were Seers. Terror accompanied her. She knelt in the little field, trembling, her very will all but gone.

Her mind reeled with a hundred generations, a hundred sights. She had seen women and children kept like animals while ruling Seers wallowed in luxury, seen fields and towns burned with the fires of the mountains flooding down and the people kneeling amidst the burned land to supplicate the gods. Seen men enslaved and driven mad at the pleasure of corrupt rulers.

She raised her face to stare at the field and was suddenly not in the field, but in near-darkness—in a small, dark space, damp and close, and strong with the sense of death. She touched a wall, shivered. As she grew accustomed to the near-dark, she could make out a man lying at the far side of the cave. She knew that he was dying.

He spoke, startling her anew, spoke in a rasping whisper. She did not want to hear that voice, did not want to listen; but knew she must listen, was horrified, was compelled by some force to listen, felt she almost knew what he would say. The smell of dying mingled with the damp smell of the cave. His voice was faint. His words made her shiver. “A bastard child will be born . . .” She trembled, covered her ears, could not block out his voice.

“A bastard child will be born. And he will rule the wolves as no Seer before him has done . . .” He was speaking of Ram, surely. How could it be that he could speak of Ram? In what time was she? In what place?

“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 wolves of the high mountains, where the lakes are made of fire. Wolves 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.”

Telien drew in her breath. The runestone! Surely he spoke of the runestone!

The man had stopped speaking. He coughed, lay with his life draining away. She went to him, repelled by him, yet drawn to him beyond her will. She touched him once, shivered uncontrollably, leaped up and ran from the cave—and was running fast through a sunlit wood, running in terror from that wasting corpse that lay, now, somewhere in distant time.

She stopped herself with effort It did no good to run. She crouched down into a fetal position in a patch of sun between trees. She had nothing to hold to. Nothing. She wanted Ram, wanted him to tell her what was happening to her. She wanted him to hold her so she could not be swept away, never again be swept away.

The wood vanished. She was in another cave. But this was a high domed cave, and light. A hairy gantroed like a great bristling dragon lay wounded across the floor; and the earth was rocking; thunder filled her ears.

A dark-haired young boy stood beside the gantroed. She did not understand who he was, but his very presence made her heart pound. Then she saw the round stone in his cupped hands, a stone glowing deep green, and she understood. Ram! Ramad! She stared at him with terrible need, with terrible longing for this child who was Ram.

The fire struck suddenly, a long jagged bolt of brilliant light. The jade orb turned white hot. It shattered, lay in nine long shards in Ram’s cupped hands. And the mountain trembled again, and a long jagged scar opened in the floor of the cave and the dragon gantroed began to slip down into it. Then, as the jade in Ram’s hands began to cool and deepen in color, Telien saw other figures appear out of nowhere around Ram. And Ram looked up at her once, puzzled, as if he should know her; and in her hands lay one slim green shard of the shattered runestone of Eresu.

The cave faded. She clutched the stone, trembling, crying out to Ram though he could not hear her. She gripped the stone to herself and knew that she must give it to Ram. That she must, through all of Time, return to Ram with the runestone.

She stood on a mountain meadow in sunlight and suddenly she saw Ram again. But he was a very little boy now, red-haired, running in the wind carrying the wolf bell, laughing, followed wildly all around by foxes running. Ram! Ramad! She could not reach or speak to him, and he faded. Then she saw him once more, a little older, his hair dyed black. Saw him running again, but now in fear across a vast black desert, leading a trotting pony, followed by a dark-haired, beautiful woman. She saw men riding hard after them. She saw Ram and the women turn in a wood, to face their pursuers. Ram would be killed! She heard him call the wolves then, in a strange rhyming voice, and saw the wolves come streaming down the mountain to leap and kill . . .

And she heard Ram’s voice suddenly, deep, as she knew it. Close to her. Imperative. “Telien! Telien!

She stared around frantically, reaching out, but he was not there. Her own voice died on Time’s winds as she cried out for him, and she was swept away again into darkness.

She was so tired. Despondent. So close to Ram, his voice so close, and then to be swept away. She clutched the jade to her, sick with fatigue. So confused. She must rest or she would die, must drink. She leaned against the dirt wall of—Was she back in the cave with the dying Seer? Where was she?

Did it matter where she was, or in what time she stood? She was so thirsty, wanted water, wanted to lie down. As she turned, her hand brushed a hollow in the wall. She raised her face to it blindly. Could there be water seeping out? She reached in cautiously. But it was only a dry little niche. Suddenly, too sick to hold the jade any longer, trembling, she laid it there in the niche, far back, then huddled down on the floor against the earthen wall, shivering, wanting only to sleep, to be left alone.

“Telien! Telien!”

She did not hear his voice. She slept, gone in exhaustion.

“Telien!” But he could not reach her.

When she woke at last, she was curled up just as she had been in the close dark, but now lay on an open expanse of stone with the wind icy, the evening sky darkening so stars had begun to burn cold in its icy blue. She was freezing cold, stood up, huddling against the rising hill behind her, to stare around her. Far away she could see jagged mountains. She was on a bare plateau. Space fell to her left, and on the rocky hill behind her stood five huge trees, ancient and twisted.

“Telien!” She spun around, nearly fell. His voice was only a whisper, but real! She stared around expecting to see him, saw nothing but stone and emptiness. His voice was in her mind, only in her mind. She stood barely breathing, tears flooding down.

*

Ram had ridden hard to keep up with the fleeing wolves, for they seemed bent on reaching the mountains in one day’s run. The Pellian mount he had taken was nearly spent. He stopped at last beside a clump of small trees to rest the poor beast. Fawdref and Rhymannie alone remained with him, urging the rest of the pack away, for their very presence in the lowlands seemed a discomfort to them. As evening fell, he tended the horse, built a supper fire, then stood at the edge of the cliff staring out into the vast northern reaches, at the jagged peaks of the Ring of Fire standing black in the falling light. And suddenly he felt her there beside him. “Telien! Telien!” And yet the ledge was empty. Distraught, frantic, he shouted to her, oblivious to all else but the sense of Telien come so suddenly to him.

He shouted over and over into the falling night, but now she was gone again, he could sense nothing of her now, there was only emptiness. The thin moons hung dull in the ash-clouded sky, lonely and bleak.

From Time indecipherable he had sensed her there, standing in the same place he stood, Telien there beside him on the ledge, her presence so close. And then she was gone.

When he turned away at last in anguish, in rising fury at powers he could not control, he saw Anchorstar. Anchorstar, standing motionless beside the fire between Fawdref and Rhymannie, his white hair catching the firelight. Anchorstar come out of Time in this empty place, standing still as stone, his eyes seeking Ram’s, his face stern and drawn.

*

And in the north of Carriol, Skeelie remained alone by the river as the soldiers made camp. She tried again with an effort that left her exhausted to move into Time, to touch Telien. She went dizzy and sick with the effort, reached, felt Time like a river swirling away from her so no matter how she reached, came close to it, thought she had thrown herself into its current; it slipped aside and was gone; she could not touch Telien. She gave it up at last, defeated.

*

Ram went toward Anchorstar, stood facing him across the fire. The wolves had turned, moved around the fire toward Ram, but they watched Anchorstar without enmity, comfortably with him. Where had Anchorstar come from? Out of nowhere in this desolate place: out of Time unimaginable. Where had he traveled since he had battled beside Fawdref at the Castle of Hape, a few hours ago? How many years had he traveled? Had he come to speak to Ram of Telien? Did he know . . . ? Ram’s voice was hoarse with eagerness. “You have something to say, you . . .”

Anchorstar stopped him with lifted hand. His drawn face was cold. “Yes. She is there in Time, Ramad, yes. I know that she is there. But I have not seen her, nor touched her path through Time. She . . . Time is infinite, how could I expect . . .”

“But the starfires! You . . .”

“The starfires, yes. I have never been sure whether they are a help to me in trying to—to return to my own time, or whether—whether it is they that speed my headlong fall. I am loathe to cast them away. They were given me by someone trusted. He said they would help to guide me home. Telien—she carries one now, Ramad, in the pocket of her tunic.”

“Yes, you . . .”

“One I gave her because—I felt her need. Though perhaps . . . I knew, Ramad, that she would be sucked into Time. I thought that the starfire might bring her home again. And yet . . .”

“You are saying nothing! What power have those stones. How can I use them to follow her? You can show me! You . . .”

“I can do nothing. I am drawn and twisted through Time just as is Telien. I wish—I wish it were not so. I have tried. I have tried, and failed.”

Ram’s need rose to fury. “You cannot? Or you will not?” He drew around the fire to Anchorstar, stood facing him.

“You move in Time, Anchorstar. You will show me, or . . .” He had Anchorstar by the throat suddenly, forcing him back against boulders, his fist raised in a madness of desperation. “Show me, man! You can manipulate Time, move through Time!” Anchorstar did not resist him. The tall thin man did not struggle, but watched Ram with ever saddening expression. And even in his fury, Ram was ashamed to speak so to this man.

Anchorstar looked at him steadily. “You are as hotheaded a young warrior as they say you are. In my time they say . . .”

Ram drew back his fist. “You are wasting precious minutes!”

Anchorstar flared suddenly and swung, twisted Ram, held him in a grip like iron. “Back off your anger, Seer! And listen to me!”

Ram went limp in his hands, shocked at the man’s power, waiting for a moment to take him off-guard. But Anchorstar loosed him, and Ram stepped back and did not fight Anchorstar. The tall man looked at him squarely. “When you called out to her, did you not think—did you not sense her here? I think she was here on this cliff. I think when you called out that she was here with us, but in a different time, Ramad. You would only have to move in Time to . . .” He searched Ram’s eyes. “I cannot tell you how. You must use your own powers for that, Seer. I cannot tell in what time she stands here, but I feel that she is here. I sense her here as surely as I stand on this ledge.

“The starfires, then! They . . .”

Anchorstar drew the pouch from his tunic, opened it, and spilled three stones into Ram’s open hand. Ram clenched his fist around them, wanting, needing Telien; and the wolves moved suddenly, raised their heads, and Fawdref s voice broke shrill on the night—and Anchorstar was gone. The wolves were gone. The night was empty. No fire burned, the sky was vaster, the light of the full moons falling clear and unbroken by ash.

The few small trees were gone. In their place rose five huge trees, centuries old.

The loneliness was overwhelming. He whispered her name into emptiness, “Telien. Telien,” and prayed she would come to him and did not understand how he could expect that out of all time she could come to him; and then suddenly she was there clinging to him in desperation, pushing her face into the hollow of his neck, warm, so warm, her skin soft against him and smelling of honey.

He held her, sought every detail of her face, knew her mind and her fear and knew the terrible journey she had suffered, touched her and was unable to believe her presence, was terrified she would be gone again as Anchorstar had gone. “It was so long,” she whispered. “So—so empty, Ram. You can’t—you can’t think what it’s like. I . . . Hold me tighter. Hold me so I can’t go back. Don’t let me go, I can’t go back if you hold me, it can’t take me from you . . .”

But she was fading in his arms.

‘Telien!”

He could not feel her in his arms, there was only emptiness, she was a cloud. She gripped him once with trembling fingers, was twisted away and fading, and was gone from his reaching arms.

The plateau was empty.

And when he turned away at long last, turned back to where a fire had once blazed, the full moons had taken a different position in the clear sky, and the great, ancient trees that had stood on the cliff were gone. Only a few saplings could be seen beginning to push above the tall, still grass.

*

Jerthon’s battalion rode into Carriol in silence at dusk of the following day. The Hape was defeated. BroogArl was defeated, his Seers dead, the castle burned. The streets of Carriol were crowded, should have been wild with victory. There should have been shouting, singing. But all was silence. Carriol’s men and women lined the streets in quiet attention as the battalion rode in. For in spite of victory, Ramad was gone from them.

The vision of his disappearance had come clear to Tayba and to Skeelie, to the Seers who had stayed behind. Ram might return as abruptly as he had disappeared, but somehow the sense of his going seemed, to those Seers who had viewed it, one of terrible finality.

Jerthon knew that Tayba was not among the crowd, that she stood alone in the tower, in the solitude of her room—reaching out in vain toward Ram, across time she could not manipulate. Reaching out, and sorrowing, unable to touch him.

Had Ram been sucked into Time by powers yet unimagined? Or had he only, mourning for Telien, thrown himself into that maelstrom in search of her? Even with the vision of his going that had come so clear to them, the sense of Ram’s feelings was not clear. All had happened too fast: an instant when Ram faced Anchorstar, an instant when it seemed he clung to Telien somewhere, and then he was gone.

Jerthon dismounted, left his horse to another to care for, and went up into the tower. Tayba would need him. She would be drawn tight inside herself and short with him in her grief over Ram; but she would need him now. He could not think what to say to her. But that did not matter.

Gone. Ram gone. He shook his head, trying to drive out the nightmare, but it would not go. Gone into Time. Had Ram found Telien in some realm so remote from this time that one could hardly imagine it? And did Telien have a shard of the stone, could the two of them, perhaps, with the power of the stone, yet return to their own time?

Or would they, foolish, young—valiant—try to seek out the rest of the stones across a warping vastness of Time that no man could truly comprehend? He came up the third flight and stood before Tayba’s door, knew she was pacing. He knocked, heard her answer with muffled annoyance.

He found Tayba pacing, and Skeelie there, worn from battle, from her swift journey home, kneeling before an old chest rummaging, muttering, her shoulders hunched beneath stained fighting leathers, her face, when she turned to look at him, pale with loess dust from the ride out of the north, her eyes haunted with the knowledge of Ram’s loss. She said nothing, would not meet his eyes, was strung tight with the agony of her loss—loss to Time as well as to Telien. At last she pulled out a cloak of heavy wool from the chest, closed the lid, and sat back on her heels, lowering her eyes before him, then looking up at him suddenly and defiantly. “I am going there. I am going into the mountains, and please don’t argue. To the caves of Owdneet first, to find runes I think can . . . can lead me. Can take me into Time, can . . . I will not rest until I have done this.” And, seeing his scowl, “Please don’t argue, Jerthon.”

He looked at the two of them. Had Tayba encouraged Skeelie in this? No, he thought not. Skeelie’s need was plain. Despite Ram’s love for Telien, she would save him.

“What makes you think that in the caves—that you can find anything to help you?”

“I . . . when Ram and I were in the great grotto, when we were children, we . . . Fawdref showed us with his thoughts that there were caves there that held the old tablets and runes of the ancient city. There were powers written there, Jerthon. Powers lost to us.”

“But powers of the gods, Skeelie. You can’t . . .” He knew he argued uselessly. He would keep her here if he could, and knew she would not stay.

“Powers any Seer can use, Jerthon. If one is willing to seek them, willing to try them, to risk . . .”

“Yes. To risk death. Or worse than death.”

She stared at him, defying him, her thin face drawn, her dark eyes large with anguish, as she had looked so often as a child. “You know I must go, and arguing only makes it harder.” She rose to stand before him, hugged him suddenly in a terrible embrace, clung to him for a long moment. Hugged Tayba with more tenderness, then fled, turning at the door only to say, “I will come to you when I am ready to leave. Meanwhile—take care of her, Jerthon. Care gently for one another.”

*

Skeelie rode out for the mountains early the next dawn, accompanied by the older Seer Erould. He would bring her horse back. Would, before he returned home, ride into Kubal as a trader. That had been Jerthon’s idea, to know what was happening in Kubal. ‘To be sure they are not strengthening again. Erould, you crusty old dog,” Jerthon had said, grinning, “you look the part of a trader. Tousle your hair, don’t bathe. You’ll do very well as a trader.”

Skeelie and Erould rode in silence through the gray dawn up along the sea then along the river Somat Cul. Skeelie looked up toward the mountains rising ahead of them and saw, in her mind, the shadows of wolves, then the shape of the grottoes of Owdneet. She pushed her horse faster, impatient to get on. And grown impatient, suddenly, of company, too, of conversation. Though she should be thankful for Erould’s presence, for this last warm link with men familiar, men of her own time and her own kind. But she could not make conversation in spite of needing human warmth, she mourned Ram too much.

If Telien were dead—but she put that thought from her. She would save Telien, she loved Telien in a strange, puzzling way. Because of Ram, she supposed, though it made no sense to her. Jealous, pained at Telien’s existence, yet she would care tenderly for her, would bring them both home, and gladly, if ever she could search them out.

Erould, his mind politely closed to her misery, pulled his cap down over his dark grizzled hair, then waved an arm to encompass the pale loess hills to the north. “Won’t be long, all this will be settled. Farms, a little town. Now the Pellian Seers are dead, the Hape. Oh, we will build, Skeelie. Grow crops—men will come from all over Ere, craftsmen, breeders of fine stock . . .”

She didn’t want to answer. Just let him keep talking. The sound of his voice was good, tying her to this time for a little while yet, tying her to warmth and human feeling—pushing away her fear of the unknown that she would soon face. Making her know that no matter where she was, in what dark reaches of Time, yet here in this time Carriol would be safe, would be filled with the joy of its growth.

And Ram might never see it. Would miss it all, the joyful work and growth. Ram. Ram. You loved it so—this time, this lovely land.

Erould watched her, touched her mind, then, in spite of himself, and drew back pained with her pain, driven for a moment as she was driven, desperate in her mourning and need; so painful were her thoughts that he wished—not for the first time—that he had not the skill to touch another’s mind. He knew where she was headed and why, mourned for her, was distressed for her, and could do nothing. He would not see her again in this life, he felt suddenly certain. He took pains to hide that thought from her. They came to Blackcob at noon, made a brief greeting, a brief meal, and went on. Skeelie had begun to grow nervy, her fear taking hold, thoughts of turning back beginning to rise unbidden. They rode in silence up along the Urobb, and that night camped in the lee of the dark mountains; the next day they followed a goat trail so narrow and with so steep a drop beside it, it made them both nervous. Erould left her at last in mid-afternoon at the foot of the peak where lay the grotto of Owdneet, swung away leading her horse down in the direction of Kubal, left his good will with her and his prayers and did not look back.

Skeelie watched him go and swallowed. She stared down over the land, the lovely land. The hills above Burgdeeth and Kubal were blackened, scarred; but they would be green again. Even in a few weeks, she knew, the green would begin to come. In the far distance a gray smear showed the outline of Carriol’s cliffs and the ruins; and the sea was a bright streak in the dropping sun. Lovely. She bit her lip. Would she see all this again?

Oh, maudlin girl! Do get on! What are you dawdling for? Maybe you can’t even find a way into—a way . . . She set her jaw against fear, shouldered her pack, and began to climb up the old trail toward the grotto. Did the wolves know she was here, did they sense her? She could get no feel of them.

At sunset she stood ready to enter the mountain. She looked back over the land once more, softened in the falling light, took flint from her pack, and a lantern. She struck feeble light that lurched across the rock, adjusted the lantern, and entered the tunnel.

She journeyed through the dark tunnels, through caves, with only her lantern to lead her, came at last deep inside the mountain to the ancient grotto. It rose all in darkness touched only faintly by the last light of evening through its openings on the far wall: high openings, there near the distant ceiling. Here, twelve years before, she and Ram had stood. She knelt, stricken suddenly with the pain of remembering. She wept alone in the great grotto, wept for Ram.

At last she lifted her face, stared absently at the light-struck stone where her lamp stood. Had she come all this way only to weep? She rose and went on through the grotto and out another portal and up across a grassy hill. The moons had not yet risen. Her lantern guided her, catching at the tall, still grass. She stood at last, lantern raised to look, before the dark face of a building made against the mountain, all of black obsidian. She entered into the great hall that was the second grotto. Here lay the hidden picture stones, the hidden parchments secreted by the gods in ages far past—in ages where she might yet stand this night, she thought, shuddering.

She began to search among the caves and small rooms, her lantern throwing arcs of light across the carven stone, searching for hidden doors, for passages. She felt into niches, into cracks in the natural stone, searching. She would find it, a parchment, a stone tablet, something bearing the runes of magic, something to unlock the secrets of Time. Something to help her bring Ram home. Ram—and Telien. She meant, fiercely, to find it. She would not leave these caves until she had; would leave them only in a time so far from this time—where Ramad was, where Ramad had been swept.

Caves of Fire and Ice

Part One: The Lake of Fire

From The Mystery of Ramad, Book of Carriol. Signed Meren Hoppa. Written in Carriol some time after her escape from the caves of Kubal.

The battle of the Castle of Hape was ended, the Hape defeated and the castle burned to ashes and flame-blackened stone. Ramad of Carriol rode away from that victory surrounded by the wolves who had fought so fiercely beside him. He stood that night high on a cliff beside his supper fire as, before him, come out of Time itself, appeared the white-haired time-wanderer who called himself Anchorstar. But even as they spoke, Time warped again; and Ramad beheld the face of his true love, the face of Telien. He held her but an instant before they were whirled away on Time’s tide, flung far, one from the other, into Time’s ever-surging reaches. Lovers destined to wander forever apart upon Time’s dark unpredictable shores? Who could say? Perhaps no Seer could predict such a thing.

Many mourned Ramad, gone from his own time. And never would he return there. Skeelie of Carriol mourned him, the brother of her spirit, the lover she wanted but could not have, mourned him for three long days before she armed herself to follow Ramad through the barrier of Time. Determined to follow him, to find a way across that dark, capricious threshold.

Alone, she went into the high caves of Owdneet where lay buried secrets that might guide her across Time’s currents, and she carried the silver sword Ram had forged for her. Though he loved another, she would follow him; she could do nothing less. The misery without him was too great.

ONE

She had been seven days in the caves, wandering in darkness. There was light enough in the great central grotto, daylight, then the light from Ere’s moons on most nights. But away from the grotto, deeper in the mountain, in the small caves and tunnels where she searched, no light came, and her oil lamp hardly cut the darkness. The silence in the low, tight tunnels was absolute and cold. She had squinted over stone tablets carved with the history of Ere, crouched frowning in the dim light to unroll and study parchments stacked one atop the next, row on row of them in stone niches in the cave walls, but had found as yet no trace of the runes for which she searched. Patiently she rolled each one up again, more discouraged each time.

Her food was nearly gone. She was sick of dried mountain meat, dry mawzee cakes, the metallic tasting cave water. And the lamp oil was running low. Soon she would have to leave the caves to hunt, or there would be no fat to render into oil. She could not search for anything in darkness. But hunting would take precious time, for all the rising peaks had been black and withered when she came up the mountain seven days before. There would be little game. In the caves, the air still smelled of smoke. She fingered her bow, ran an exploring finger over the silver hilt of her sword and remembered painfully when Ram had forged it. They had been children then, come recently out of Burgdeeth. She had carried it all these years, fought and killed with it, had fought the Herebian raiders these last months, with the sword so much a part of her she hardly remembered it had been made by Ram’s hand. Now she remembered, sharply and painfully, as Ram’s face filled her thoughts, his dark eyes intent and serious, a thatch of his red hair falling across his forehead, the line of his long, lean face caught in firelight as she had last seen him in painful vision, before he was swept into Time.

She picked up the lantern, sighing, and turned deeper into the mountain.

He did not love her, could never love her. Because of Telien. If she found him with Telien in some idyl far in Time, she could only turn away again to lose herself in Time unending, in desolation unending. And yet she must follow him, she could do nothing else.

Who knew where Time had swept him, or to what purpose? Truly to follow Telien? Or had some evil reached to touch Ram, to open Time to him?

She searched for long hours, hardly pausing to eat. She had all but lost her sense of time. Night was no different than day. She slept little, wrapped in her cloak for an hour or so, always cold. Woke and went on until she grew exhausted or very discouraged, slept again. There was enough lamp oil for perhaps four more fillings.

Then came the moment when she woke from a light sleep suddenly, startled, struck her flint hastily to the lamp. What had awakened her? There was a difference in the cave, she felt a new sense, a sense of something pulling at her.

Confused and yawning, trying to collect her wits, she rose, jumbled her scattered belongings into her pack, and began to make her way toward that beckoning hope, prodding her anew. Her dark hair, bundled into an untidy bun, had slipped down to her shoulder. Her bow and quiver hung crooked across her pack. Her leather tunic was wrinkled, her wrists protruding from her sleeves. Her dark eyes were intent and haunted. What had reached out so suddenly to wake her, to pull at her? She followed with growing urgency. Had her need to search out the secrets of Time at last awakened some magic deep within the mountain? But why? She had found no key, yet, to unlocking those secrets. Nor did she carry one of the starfires, such as Anchorstar had given to Ram, to quicken the magic of Time. What called to her, then, from deep within the mountain?

And if she found a way into Time’s reaches, where would that way lead her? To Ram, or a million years from Ram? Once she crossed Time’s barrier, would she have the skills to find Ram? Uncountable centuries swept away to a future unborn and backward to incredible violence and turmoil. How could one enter Time, enter a future unborn? Yet it had happened to Skeelie and Ram when they were children— Time rocking asunder, future and past coming together. That moment had changed the very history of Ere, that moment on Tala-charen when the runestone of Eresu split, when men and women came out of Time to receive the shards of that shattered jade.

She knew she should turn back to hunt and replenish the lamp oil, but could not deny the power that drew her. She followed the beckoning sense down a dark, narrowing tunnel, pushing always deeper inside the mountain. She had been so tired, but now she moved quickly, the chill gone, hunger unheeded. She remembered the quick vision she had had ten days before of Ram standing beside his supper fire, then suddenly Telien with him, her pale hair caught in moonlight as she reached out of Time itself to hold Ram. Then the sense of the night twisting in on itself, Ram swept out of Telien’s arms shouting her name over and over, uselessly. Ram alone, and the trees only saplings once more—and then the hill empty as Ram himself was swept away in Time’s invisible river.

The tunnel became so low she had to walk bent over, her hair catching in the stone of the roof, very aware suddenly of the weight of the mountain above her, tons of stone above her. She turned the lamp lower to save oil, knew she must save two fillings to return to the main grotto or be trapped in darkness. The press of stone against her shoulders made her want to strike out, want to drive the mountain back. She controlled herself with effort, pulled urgently forward by something insistent, something compelling. Something evil? Was that which beckoned to her evil?

At last the tunnel ended, and she stood in a cave that seemed not bounded by walls, seemed to warp and to hint of distant, terrifying reaches. Her guttering light caught at uncertain shadows and at dark so thick that light could not penetrate it. Nothing was clear, but the cave seemed to extend far beyond any area the mountain could possibly contain. A terror of infinite space yawned beyond her vision, and suddenly she could not bring herself to go forward, was terrified of the very thing she sought, terrified of falling into Time, of being lost in Time. All her determination disappeared, and the fear she had kept at bay so long overwhelmed her. She wanted to turn back, wanted to run blindly. She stood with clenched fists, trying to control herself. You’ve come this far, Skeelie. You can’t turn back. You can’t run away now. She was caught between her sudden horror of the unknown and her need to become a part of that dark emptiness in Time where Ram was. She moved on at last, shivering.

Soon she could make out something painted on the walls. She held the lamp up. Scenes of farms and villages, of battles, scenes shifting between shadows, then changing as she moved on. Who had painted such images so deep in the caves? Her lamp sputtered and grew dim.

Then the scenes came clearer and seemed larger suddenly, crowding toward her between the chasms of darkness. Scenes of war and violence leaped out at her; men opened their mouths in silent screams as swords flashed. She heard the din of war faintly, then it rose in volume until it deafened her. She smelled blood and death. Had she moved into Time suddenly? Clouds raced across dark skies. All was movement and shouting, a dozen places in a dozen times. She was caught like a fly at the center, suddenly mad with desire to thrust herself into those scenes. She searched for Ram’s face among infinite battles, searched for a flash of his red hair. Once she reached out her naked hand toward a battle, then snatched it back and pressed it to her mouth to stifle the cry that rose: for the shadows had changed to form themselves into a twisting tree. The battles faded. The tree filled the cave, huge and pulsing with life. It pushed gnarled branches against the cave walls, forcing up, bending against the dirt roof. Its bark was rough and dark, its roots humped like twisted, naked legs across the cave floor. Its trunk was wrinkled into seams and angles that formed the face of an old, old man. His eyes watched her from some terrible depth. Eyes cold and knowing, eyes like windows into Time. His voice was like the rasp of winter wind.

“I watched you come. I watched you search. I know what you seek here. You will find it, young woman. You will move through Time unending, and you will suffer for that. Time cares nothing for your suffering. And you care nothing for reason if you plunge into Time’s reaches”.

“I do what I must. I can do nothing else.” She held her shaking hands still with effort. “Who are you? What—sort of creature are you?”

“I am Cadach. 1 have dwelt in this tree since my death. Fear of him flickered in her eyes despite her bold stance. My soul dwells here. I have no strength to move toward what you call joy and fulfillment. I have no stomach for atonement. Traitor in my life, traitor to Ere and eager slave to evil, I am left filled only with the dark and twisted, I hunger only for the dark. I do not choose joy, I have no use for joy, it is too bright, I do not choose to be born anew.

“My children wander Time endlessly. My children atone for me. His sense of agony filled Skeelie. My children know not that I exist here. They know only that their need is to reach out, to hold a light to the darkness that comes again and again upon Ere. For they, each one, carry within them the higher spirit that I would have become, that I denied with my evil. They carry that spirit which I will never carry, my five white-haired children.”

His voice went silent. His face seemed carven once more, then collapsed as it began to recede back into the bark. Skeelie stood staring, shaken, wanting stupidly to cry out for him not to leave her. His eyes, dull and lifeless now, disappeared last. She backed away from the trunk. His fading voice breathed out once more, hollow now, hardly a whisper. “Follow through the maze of this cave as your mind bids you, Seer.” She strained to hear. “Follow you the path of the starfires. Find the Cutter of Stones who made them, for he will give you strength. Follow to the source of Ramad’s beginnings, touch the place of his childhood and his strength. And know you that Ramad must search through Time for more than his lost love, know you that he must search for the lost shards of the runestone of Eresu if he be true to himself.” She could hardly make out his words, leaned closer to the hoary bark; and one question burned in her.

“How do I know I can move into Time? I do not carry starfires. I do not touch Time’s secrets, nor have I found a rune.”

“You are one of the few born to weave a new pattern into the fabric of the world. Those so born are not anchored to a single point in Time.”

“I do not understand.”

But he was gone. The ancient tree slept, retreating into a million years of repose whence its core had risen. Skeelie moved past it into the darker shadows, wondering, trying to make sense of his words. How could the old man know of Ram, of the starfires? Surely he was a Seer. A Seer trapped, his immortal soul taken. A Seer of evil? A traitor as had been BroogArl, and HarThass before him? A traitor trapped so, never to be born again? She shivered. And his white-haired children . . .

Could Anchorstar be one of Cadach’s children? Anchorstar—my white-haired children . . .

Anchorstar had carried the starfires, had given one to Telien, had given three to Ram. Follow you the path of the starfires . . .

Her stomach was knotted. Her hand clutched her sword hilt. Her mind raced eagerly ahead between the dark reaches, seeking now with awe, pushing toward those other worlds that had begun again to shine around her, toward the cries of men in battle, listening for Ram’s voice. Voids and piercing space threatened to swallow her. She left each scene behind her for she could not find Ram. She sought deeper and deeper into the mountain.

There she came suddenly to a pillar carved with runes that made her catch her breath, for three words shone out at her. Words so familiar, so very painful: Eternal. Will sing. Those words had been carved on the splinter of the runestone that Ram had brought with him out of Tala-charen, the splinter that now lay at the bottom of the sea, lost when the Hape had nearly killed Ram. They had never known the whole rune that appeared on the complete, unbroken stone. Ram had not had time to read it in that instant before it shattered. But these three words were part of it, and they blazed at her like fire from the pillar.

Eternal quest to those with power.

Some seek dark; they mortal end.

Some hold joy; they know eternal life,

Through them all powers will sing.

Were these words the whole rune that was carved into the runestone? Who had carved it here in this buried place? She reached out, shaking, to touch the carved pillar. What linking did this tablet have to the runestone? What linking to Ram, in whose hands the stone had shattered? She turned suddenly, feeling watched, feeling another presence.

Or was it only the old man, still watching her? Her nerves were strung tight. Imagining things. Imagining for a moment a sense of dark evil drawing in around her; and then gone. She returned to puzzling over the carved tablet. The lantern was burning low, would soon need refilling. Were the words on the tablet the key for which she searched, the key into Time? She stood repeating the words, then turned away at last confused and dizzy, and felt space wheeling around her and sudden heat searing her. Then winds came, and scenes overlapped in wild succession. She felt she could not breathe. She saw children running in terror before a river of fire, saw volcanoes spewing out against the sky. She searched wildly for a glimpse of Ram as a hundred scenes overwhelmed her. She knew she must move, must launch herself into this melee if she was to hurdle Time’s barrier—but into which scene? She dared not fling herself a thousand years from Ram, yet how could she know? She searched frantically, could not see his face, was stifled by fear, by indecision. Her lantern sputtered, the flame died. But the scenes were dimly lit, taunting her, terrifying her. She dropped the lantern, heard the precious glass shatter. She wheeled around in impotent panic—and felt something brush her arm, solid and huge; leaped back in terror, sword drawn.

The flashing scenes were gone. Dim light shone above her from a star-struck sky. A black cliff rose beside her. She touched it again. The cliff of a mountain. She let out a long breath. She was no longer in the cave, had been swept without volition across the abyss. She was ashamed now of her fear and confusion. Looking up at the sky, at the stars, she felt their vast distance. A cold wind touched her face. The caves were gone, perhaps centuries gone. She had come at last into the unfathomable, where she could search for Ram.

Then she saw the fire.

It was some distance away, down to her left, a very small fire, like a campfire. Her heart was beating wild and quick with the knowledge that she had come through the impossible barrier. That campfire might mean anything: people or creatures beyond her comprehension.

The fire flickered, then was lost for a moment as something dark moved across it. Surely it was a campfire. The sharp tang of painon-wood smoke made her press her finger to her nose to keep from sneezing. The smell of searing meat brought water to her mouth. She was wild with hunger suddenly, like an animal. She stood staring down at the bright, small glow, trying in vain to make out figures or a shelter. Surely someone must be sitting huddled in shadow waiting for supper to cook. When a sharp, high noise cut the night, she startled terribly, swallowed, her hand tight on her drawn sword in quick mindless reflex.

But it had only been a goat, the high shrill bleat of a doe goat. The fire blazed bright as if its builder had laid on more wood. The meat smelled wonderful. She could see no one. She stood quietly, but her pulse still pounded wildly with the realization that she had at last left her own time. Suddenly a voice spoke. She spun and stared at the man before her, her sword pricking his chest.

“Good even,” he repeated.

How had he come so silently, slipping up on her? Her muscles were tense and ready to thrust, her blood surging with warlike reflex. Then she felt embarrassment, for he was only a small, elderly herder staring up at her, gentle of face, surprised by her quick, violent action. His voice was soft and even now, as if he spoke to a nervy beast.

“Sheath your sword, lad.” He stepped back away from the tip of her blade. “Sheath it, I’ve no quarrel with you, nor mean you harm.” He watched her lower her blade a trifle. “Hungry? Are ye hungry? Come on to the fire, then, lad. Don’t be standing here staring, riling my goats all to thunder. Come down to the fire and settle. Who be ye, lad, coming out of the night so?”

TWO

The herder turned his back on her, plainly expecting her to follow as he made his way back toward the fire. He must be simple, turning his back on a sword. Or could this man be a Seer, know she meant no harm? She sought into his mind warily. But no, only a simple man. Trusting her. He led her to the fire, stooped to turn the roasting meat. Her sword swung against a boulder, ringing sharply, and a buck, startled, snorted. The animal stood just beyond the fire, a big Cherban buck with horns as long as her sword and nearly as sharp. Maybe this herder had more protection than she had guessed. The man had turned, was surveying her with surprise, now that he could see her clearly in the firelight. “Why it ain’t a lad at all!” He took in her knotted dark hair, the curve of her breast beneath her tunic, her thin-boned face. “A lady—in fighting leathers!” He studied her with interest. “Old, scarred leathers, and stained with blood, looks like.” He reached to touch her sword, took it from her in a gesture innocent and bold.

She, always so quick and careful, let him take it with quiet amusement. He held it close to the flame where he could make out the intricate carving of birds and leaves with which the handle was fashioned, the clean, sharp blade. Then he raised his eyes to her. “A fine sword, lady. Fine. It was made with great skill. And with love.”

His words brought unexpected pain. She looked away from him, felt gone of strength, wanting to weep for no reason. Made with love. Brotherly love, maybe. No more. She straightened her shoulders and stared at him defiantly, reached out for her sword. “How would you know if it was made with love? That is skill you see. Only skill in the casting of the silver.”

“All skill, lady, is a matter of love. Have you not learned that? I hope you know more about the use of the sword than you do about a man’s mind.”

“I know about its use. And I know more about men’s minds than—” She stopped, had almost given herself away in anger. Stupid girl. Shout it out. Tell him you know all about men’s minds, can see into men’s minds, tell him you’re a Seer! And who knows what they do to Seers in this time. Kill them? Behead them? Better collect yourself, Skeelie, find out where you are—and when—and stop acting like an injured river cat.

“Ain’t never seen a lady got up so in fighting leathers.”

She wanted to say, Where I come from it’s common enough. She wanted to say, What year is this that women don’t fight beside their men? But even in her own time, the women of the coastal countries had not fought so. Only the women of Carriol. She cast about for some question she might use to find her way here and realized how little she had prepared herself. So engrossed with getting into Time, she had given little thought to coping once there, or to an explanation for stepping out of nowhere. What plausible excuse did she have for traveling in these mountains when she did not know the customs, or where she was? Eresu knew, she was glad it was night. In the daytime she would have had some hard explaining to do, had he seen her appear suddenly from thin air.

“Not much of a talker, are you lady? Hungry? The haunch should be ready soon.” The little man had a lopsided grin, and as he moved to turn the meat again, she could see he was lopsided in the way he walked, with a deep limp. He fussed about the meat, then at last settled down against a boulder. “Sit yourself down, lady. There’s a log there. I am called Gravan.”

She sheathed her sword and sat down astraddle the log so she could look away from the campfire, behind her. She did not give her name. That smudge of dark against the stars was tall mountains. Surely she was in the Ring of Fire.

Or on the edge of it. “The deer meat smells good,” she said quietly. “The deer are plentiful?”

He gave her a puzzled look. “Scarce as teeth in a frog. Came on this one crippled.” He paused, rummaged in his pack for a wineskin, took a swig and passed it across to her. “Things in those mountains that kill deer, lady. Wolves. Fire ogres. Chancy traveling for a lady,” he said without malice. “Chancy—if you be traveling alone. . . .”

She took a sip and handed the skin back. “I travel alone, herder.” Her heart had leaped at the mention of wolves. Could there be great wolves here? Or did he mean only the common wolves? She tried to hide her eagerness. “The wolves are killers,” she said casually. “Killers . . .”

He nodded, grunting, took another sip.

“Are they very bold? Do they raid your herds?”

“Sometimes, lady. We kill some, and they do not return for a while.”

She let out her breath, disappointed. Common wolves, then. Only common wolves raided the herds of men. The great wolves did not.

“How do you come here, lady, traveling alone?”

“It—was silent and peaceful in the deep mountains. I—I have a sorrow, I wanted to travel in solitude.” She gave him a long, deep look, eyes soulful. Her brother Jerthon would have said it made her look as if she would cry any minute. The little man nodded with quick embarrassment, obviously hoping she wouldn’t burst into tears. She studied him beneath lowered lashes, trying to remember where men had ever herded goats on the mountains. The Cherban had grazed their goats on the hills of Urobb farther south, and down in the rich marsh pastures of Sangur, where few men dwelled, but not here, not on the mountains of fire. When had they come here? Surely she was in a future time—or else in a time so ancient it had been all but forgotten when she was growing up. She stared past him trying to make out more of his herd, trying to see if there were other herders.

“The village is down along that lower ridge,” Gravan offered, pointing. The moons had begun to lift in the east, fingering their gentle light across low hills. Could those be the hills of Carriol? Her pulse quickened. Or the hills along the Urobb? Running as they did, away from the mountains, they had to be one or the other. She gazed off toward the east where Carriol must lie, with a painful sweep of homesickness, thought of the twin moons rising over Carriol.

“Do you come to Dunoon with a purpose, lady?”

Dunoon? There had been no place called Dunoon in her time. And that faint rushing noise must surely be a river. A mountain river could be any one of four, but in this location, with such rounded, low hills on its east, it was either the Owdneet or the Urobb. She watched Gravan in silence. If she could know what river, she would know where she was, even if she did not know when. “I—I must confess I was lost. I saw your fire—I guess I wanted company.” She unslung her waterskin and tipped it up to drink, then shook it, frowning. “Stale. Tastes of rock.”

“Fill it in the river, lady. You don’t seem to mind a little walk in the darkness. There,” he said, pointing. “Just where that darkest ridge rises, the Owdneet flows deep and white. Sweet, good water, lady.”

The Owdneet. She felt a thrill of excitement. To hear its name engulfed her at once in the fabric of her childhood, made her long for something she could not put to words. She rose slowly, casually, trying to hide her eagerness, slipped her waterskin over her shoulder and walked away toward the sound of the river; wanting to run, wanting to shout some crazy, wild welcome to the churning, ranting Owdneet.

As she drew close to the river, its roar nearly deafened her. Excited her. Her memory of the Owdneet was a memory of smells: wild tammi and sweetburrow and the smell of coolness on hot summer days. Now, though she had not yet reached the river, the smell of tammi came to her so strong it might have been crushed under her own feet passing along the bank of the river. To her left and below her, she could see the faint lights of Dunoon. It was only a tiny village, a few thatched roofs catching the moonlight. And steep down the mountain, a faint smear of light that must mark the city of Burgdeeth. This place called Dunoon lay just above Burgdeeth, then. Burgdeeth, where she had grown up. Where first she had met Ram, where they had been children together. There had been no village here on the mountain then, only the wild stag and hare, and the great wolves roaming silently. How many times had she and Ram slipped up across these meadows in secrecy to the caves of Owdneet, where the great wolves denned.

Were tyrants still in control of Burgdeeth? Was Venniver still Landmaster? Or was he long dead and turned to dust, and another Landmaster risen to rule? And what relationship was there between this herding village and Burgdeeth? She stood staring down the mountain at Burgdeeth, caught in emotions she thought had died long ago. And was there a reason why she had been drawn to this place where she and Ram had been children? Some meaningful linking to Ram here? She could see white water now, catching the moonlight, soon stood beside the river watching it plunge down the mountain. Twelve years since she had stood here. How many years, in Time, was it? How many generations?

She emptied her waterskin on the ground, then knelt and let it fill with the Owdneet’s foaming brew. She drank long from her cupped hands, then rose and stood lost in the roar and beauty of the river, moonlight like white fire over its rapids. Only slowly did she become aware of another’s presence, of the feeling that she was watched.

Had old Gravan followed her?

No, this was not Gravan, this presence was powerful and disturbing. She turned, drawing her sword without sound, looked back into the darkness. But something made her swing around again to stare toward the river.

She could make out nothing on the far shore but a wood, was confused, felt the presence behind her cold and waiting. She turned to face it again and sudden visions overwhelmed her, a dizzying confusion of visions plunging and assailing her sense so she could not be sure what moved before her and what moved in the places of her mind. Surely what watched her was giving her the visions, for she could feel the strong sense of another being as a part of them. And then one vision came more sharply and she saw the village of Dunoon at dawn, the straw-roofed huts catching early light, herds of goats between the houses, children playing. She saw a tall, white-haired man come from one of the huts and recognized him. Anchorstar. Anchorstar, traveler in Time. Anchorstar, the last man in her time to have seen Ram. He stood beside a brightly painted wagon with two fine horses in the shafts. Then he vanished; it was night and the village was on fire, the roofs ablaze, and dark Herebian horsemen circling the burning huts, laughing.

The vision went. The night lay clear and empty, except for the presence that surely had drawn closer. The sense of something behind her across the river was gone now; only this strong, powerful being that had given her visions remained, and that being stood solidly between her and Gravan’s fire.

Whatever it was, she could only face it, for if she circled, it would follow her, and if she ran it would be on her. She felt clearly it was agile and swift. The glow of Gravan’s fire seemed very far away. Anyhow, what could old Gravan do to protect her that she could not do herself? She began to move away from the river, seeking in the dark, searching out for something she could attack before it attacked her.

She felt the silent laughter then, stood staring around her, frowning. Then she started toward that presence with sharp, unspoken challenge.

It laughed silently at her wariness, its voice exploding in her mind. You need not be wary of me, sister. A pale, huge wolf showed itself suddenly against dark boulders. But it moved into darkness again without seeming to move, was cloaked in shadows. Was it a wolf? Certainly no common wolf. Her pulse pounded. No common wolf could speak to her in silence. Were the great wolves here? Fawdref’s band? Was Ram here, traveling with the wolves who were his brothers? Tense with excitement, she reached out in silent speech, hoping, praying, this wolf band had to do with Ram. Do you come from Ramad?

I come alone, without Ram’s bidding, sister. Though he would have me here if he knew. We are far from Ramad. Far in years, sister. Far in generations. I followed you in the caves, you sensed me there. Then 1 followed you in Time. I was alone in the caves when I knew you wandered there. I was alone there with a sadness. The wolf closed her mind without revealing more and slipped once again into the moonlight where Skeelie could see her deep golden coat, her wise, ageless face, the broad forehead of the great wolves, the darker stripe running from forehead to nose between wide-set golden eyes, the great breadth of shoulder. A huge wolf, carrying herself with pride and wisdom. She lifted her head to stare across at the campfire, then pulled back into shadow with, it seemed to Skeelie, more of humor than of fear as Gravan rose to stand silhouetted against the fire, his bow drawn. Your friend has seen me, sister. He would protect his herd. Her laughter was silent and gentle. Skeelie stepped toward Gravan, past where the wolf stood hidden.

“Slack your bow, Gravan.”

But the man stood frozen, staring at the boulders waiting for the wolf to attack. The sense of him was not of fear, but only of protectiveness for his herd. Could this man, raised all his life in the protecting of the herds, stay his hand against one he thought a predator?

“This wolf will not harm your goats, Gravan.”

Did Gravan know what the great wolves were? Had he ever heard of them?

The goats themselves, those battle-wise, wary bucks, had made no move of alarm. Skeelie could see three bucks standing calmly, gazing unafraid toward where the wolf stood hiding in shadow. Gravan stepped forward meaning to seek the wolf out. Skeelie raised her bow. “Lay it down, Gravan! Lay down your bow!”

Slowly he lowered his bow, watching her. When he had laid his bow aside, the wolf came out and stood crowding close to Skeelie, the great broad head pushing against Skeelie’s waist. Skeelie spoke to her in silence. How are you called? Where have you come from? Was it—was it you who opened the warp of Time for me? Both Skeelie and the wolf watched the herder, who stood unmoving, utterly engrossed with the sight of the huge wolf that seemed as tame as a pup. Then the wolf looked up at Skeelie, her eyes appraising.

You are very full of questions, sister. I am Torc. I moved through Time when you did, but for my own reasons. I can control Time no more than you can. In that cave were talismans, things of power that helped us. The rune. The limited powers of Cadach. Things of which you did not know. You did not know that by your very presence, by your terrible wanting and searching, you made those talismans more powerful. You did not understand Cadach’s words about the accident of your birth.

And you? Did you understand them?

I am not sure, sister. I will think on it awhile.

Skeelie knelt, laid her head against Torc’s warm shoulder, nearly weeping with the pleasure of the wolf’s closeness. She felt like a child again, hugging another bitch wolf, pressing her face into the bitch’s thick coat, feeling her love and power. Torc licked her arm, then raised her head. Skeelie could feel her sudden wariness, and she grew quiet too. What is it, Torc? What do you sense? Not the herder. He is harmless.

There was another presence, sister, when you first went to the river. Did you not sense it when you stood beside the river? An evil presence—but perhaps it now is gone.

Skeelie felt every sense grow taut with questioning, but could feel nothing. There was something, Torc. I cannot sense it now. What was it?

I do not know how to call it. A dark shadow. It is the shadow I have followed, it is what brought me here. I must study it, sister, before I can know what it is. I do not like studying it. It sickens me.

Skeelie stood up, glanced at Gravan who still stood frozen, staring at Torc. The moons, risen higher, cast their light across his lined face. He began to limp toward them. Skeelie tensed, for though he had laid aside his bow, surely he had a knife. She felt Torc’s amusement. I could kill him with one quick slash, sister. But he means no harm. Skeelie saw that Gravan’s face was filled with wonder now. She reached to touch his thoughts, felt his awe; his voice was filled with awe. “She is no common wolf, lady.”

She hardly paused, but lied smoothly. “No, Gravan, she is not. She is quite unlike her wild brothers. I found her on the mountain and raised her from a cub.” Why did she feel it necessary to be so secretive about Torc’s true nature? Yet the fewer who knew what Torc was, and so what she herself must be, the safer they would remain. Only a Seer could speak with the great wolves.

“You trained her? A wolf from the mountains? But she is so big. She is not . . .”

“I found her orphaned. I fed her as the herb woman bid me, to make her grow large. I trained her just as I have trained horses. Folk tell me I have a gift for such, for training the dumb brutes.”

She felt Torc’s silent laughter.

Gravan stared at her only half-believing, then settled once more by the fire, content, it seemed, to let her words lie. He said nothing more for a long time, then at last he drew his knife and began to slice meat from the roasting haunch and lay it on thick pieces of bread. She was ravenous, found the meat tender and juicy, and did not talk for some time—though she spoke in silence to Torc. Where are we Torc? Into what time have we come?

I do not know, sister. Nor do I care. I only follow the shadow.

But you gave me visions, back there by the river. As if you—

Visions that came to me, sister. I cannot say why. Some linking, something here that has to do with the powers you and Ramad have touched. Visions that came because of that power. But nebulous, sister, she said, feeling Skeelie’s rising excitement. Ramad is not here, nor does he come here, that I can surely sense. I do not know in what time we are. You must learn that from the herder.

Skeelie accepted another slice of bread heaped with deer meat, then began to reach into Gravan’s mind. She did not receive at once any sense of time, for his thoughts were filled with the knowledge of goats, more knowledge than she wanted. Finally she began to touch on Gravan’s childhood. He had come to these mountains when he was very young, she could see the child’s vision of his family and the Cherban tribe making their first rude camp. Yet something more interesting lay at the edges of his mind„ something shadowed, half-forgotten. Something she could not sort out unless he were to bring it directly to his own attention. Something to do with darkness, with Seers. Some old bitterness, a tribal bitterness that lay half-buried.

“Your people settled Dunoon, Gravan?”

“Yes, lady.”

“And where did they come from? Why did they come to this spot?”

“Oh, from the Bay of Pelli, lady. From the marsh country.”

“But why? That is fine pasture, Gravan.”

“Surely you know that Pelli was all but laid waste when the Hape ruled there, lady.” She stared at his mention of the Hape. “My grandparents left Pelli at that time, a young couple with small children, herding their goats, their livelihood, up into the hills of the Urobb.”

Gravan’s grandparents had been young, then, in the time of the Hape. In the time that she had left less than an hour ago. And his sense of darkness came from that time, from tales told and retold. Fear of the Hape and of the dark Seers lay like an ancient shadow on his mind.

“After the Hape was slaughtered by the Seers of Carriol, lady, there were no more dark Seers save the one who escaped that battle. My family could have returned to Pelli, but they had not the heart. They worked their way northward up into these pastures. They were raided many times by the Herebians while they lived along the Urobb. This land, these high pastures, seemed to hold some terror for the raiding Herebian tribes. They would not come here.”

So a dark Seer had escaped from the battle of the Castle of Hape. She had not known that, nor had Ram. None of them had known. He must have spun a strong mind-shielding indeed, to hide his escape as well. How had he managed it? And where had he gone? Which Seer had it been, among those dark, evil ones? “Tell me of that dark Seer, Gravin. There must be many tales of him.”

Gravan produced the wineskin and passed it to her. “Surely you know, lady, how NilokEm fogged the minds of the Carriolinian warriors so they did not know he escaped, how he and his kin after him rose to power.” He watched her drink, accepted the wineskin. “But of course there are no dark Seers of power any more. A handful of alley-bred street rabble, some with Seer’s blood among them, that is all. There has been no power since the twin grandsons of NilokEm were defeated by Macmen, and by a mysterious warrior. It is said their grandmother was a spell-cast woman come out of some enchantment, bred by NilokEm like a ewe on the hill, then never seen more. NilokEm died some years after his son’s birth, with a knife through his heart. Some say that he died by the hand of Ramad of the wolves.” Gravan stopped speaking abruptly and stared at her. “What is it, lady? What did I say to startle you so?”

“Nothing, Gravan. Nothing.”

“Folk tell that Ramad returned nine years after the battle of Hape, to kill NilokEm. Surely you have heard of the battle of the Castle of Hape. That is an old, old tale.”

The excitement made her stomach churn. “I—have heard it. Tell me what happened after Ram—Ramad killed NilokEm. You speak very well of these things.”

Gravan sipped reflectively. “The land was peaceful until the dark twins rose.” He settled back against the boulder. “The twins’ younger brother, Macmen, was a Seer of light, raised apart from them. It is told there was a streak of goodness come down from the grandmother. When Macmen came to power in Candour, the dark twins were enraged by his gentle leadership and brought Pellian armies to attack Zandour. Then there came a young man, out of some spellcast place, to fight by Macmen’s side.” Gravan looked across at her, caught by the wonder of the tale. “A young man with a great band of wolves by his side, lady. And the winged horses of Eresu come down out of the sky like a tide to help him. Just so did Ramad of the wolves, before him, fight at the castle of Hape, mounted on a winged horse, and with the magical wolves slaughtering the dark Seers. Wolves some say are only myth.” Gravan stared at Torc, his eyes kindling with the knowledge of what Torc must surely be. Torc looked back at him blankly, then rolled over on her back with utter lack of dignity, as if she had no idea what human speech was about. Skeelie reached idly to rough her fur, hiding her apprehension at Gravan’s interest. But Gravan was not put off. “She is one of them, lady. You—you fondle a great wolf as if she were a kitten. Only a Seer can command the great wolves, lady. You—you are of Seer’s blood.”

Skeelie looked back at him uneasily. But his look was only eager, filled with wonderful curiosity. What difference would it make for this little man to know the truth about her? He stared so openly, so eagerly awaiting her answer.

Be careful, sister. Take care.

But he knows. It’s no good lying now.

Then say nothing. Divert him! Torc thought sharply.

“Surely there are Seers among your tribe, Gravan. You are of Cherban blood, the very blood of Seers.”

Gravan seemed utterly in awe of her now. “Not so many Seers, lady. Not like the old times. The Seeing is not as strong as the old tales tell it once was.” He could not disguise his fascination with both Skeelie and Torc. He stared at Torc until the pale wolf thought cryptically, Oh well, the little man is harmless. He thinks 1 am beautiful, sister.

Skeelie scowled at Torc, laid a hand on the wolf’s broad head, gave Torc a push. You are insufferably vain. Then, “Who was that Seer, Gravan? The Seer who appeared so suddenly to fight by Macmen’s side?”

“What folk tell is impossible, lady. Folk believe that Seer was Ramad of the wolves, returned upon Ere sixty-six years after he defeated the Hape.”

Skeelie sat frozen. Ram was alive then. He moved through Time, moved through Ere’s history undaunted. Somewhere Ramad lived. Or, he had been alive at least in the time of Macmen. “How long has it been, Gravan, since the battle of Macmen?”

^”Why, twenty-three years, lady. But no one—no one living in Ere could help but know these things—to know all that I have told you. And you, a Seer—but forgive me, lady. I speak too freely, perhaps.”

Why had Ram come out of Time to battle NilokEm, and then again to battle the dark twins? It was Telien who had drawn him into the swirling fulcrum of Time, Telien he sought, not battles. Had the very existence of the dark Seers turned him from his search for Telien? How could that be? How could he be turned aside from the search for his love? Or had he been pulled out of Time without volition? Had the power of the runestones moved him to other needs here, beyond his commitment to Telien?

“And now,” Gravan said, almost to himself, “now perhaps evil rises anew. Perhaps people were foolish to put off the street rabble of Pelli as of little consequence. There are rumors, now, that the Seers among that rabble may have more power than men thought. That they may be the sons of the dark twins, street-bred from whores. That perhaps they are not only tricksters and petty thieves, that maybe they are to be feared. That perhaps they are the cause of new disagreements and small skirmishes between the several countries. Even the poor senses of the few Seers in Dunoon stir sometimes to waves of evil, to a breath of darkness off somewhere among the coastal countries.”

“But if this is so, if they should rise, won’t Carriol march against them?”

“It is all Carriol’s Seers can do to keep their own borders strong. They have no runestone now, lady. Have not had since the stone that Ramad brought out of Tala-charen was lost in the sea.”

Nearly ninety years, she thought, since the stone was lost. Yet to her it was but a handful of days. She felt empty inside, lost and afraid. Everyone she knew was dead, was dust now. Her brother, Jerthon, Tayba, all the Carriolinian council. All those she had loved. All but Ram. She bent her head to her knees, swept with desolation, with a loneliness too vast to deal with, sat so in silence for some time.

He said gently, seeing her misery but not understanding it, “Carriol will shelter any who come to her, lady—Seers in fear for their lives. But she will not march forth to right the wrongs across Ere, to depose the tyrants from Burgdeeth and other cities that enslave.”

“If Burgdeeth is a place of slavery, Gravan, why have your people remained so close to it, on these pastures? Doesn’t the Landmaster try to rule you?”

“We trade with the Landmaster, lady, but we keep an upper hand in that matter. And only here will the Herebian raiders not come, for fear of the old city of the gods.” Gravan leaned back and grinned, showing a missing tooth. “If the landmaster becomes difficult, we disappear among the mountains for a time, and Burgdeeth is without goat meat and hides.” Skeelie caught from his mind a clear picture of a hidden valley rich with grass, and at its center a lake of molten fire. A hidden place; but a place of meaning beyond anything Gravan imagined it to have. A place that she knew, instantly, she must touch. That lake—liquid fire, red as blood, reflecting a sullen sky. Reflecting more. Hinting of images she knew she must hold in her mind and examine. Gravan prattled on comfortably, but she hardly heard him. There was a message there, in that place. Perhaps a way to Ram there.

Torc raised her head to look at Gravan. The wolf held in her mind sharply the image both she and Skeelie had taken from his thoughts, the lake of flame hidden among rising hills in a valley flanked round by sharp black peaks. Yes, there was something in that place, something they must seek, something that held as vital a meaning for Torc as it held for Skeelie.

We will go there, sister.

Yes, Torc, we’ll go there. But she was afraid, though she was eager to see what that place held. Would it tell her news of Ram that she could not bear to hear? She studied Gravan, hardly able to form the question she must ask, yet knowing she could not rest until she had. She watched the shadows around the fire, watched the dark red embers of painon wood pulsing with their heat, then looked back at the old man. “When—when the battle of Macmen was ended, Gravan, what do the tales tell happened to Ramad? Do they—do they tell that Ramad died there battling by Macmen’s side?”

“Oh no, lady, they do not tell that.” Gravan peered at her, puzzling at her interest. Why couldn’t she learn to hide her feelings more carefully? “The tales tell, lady, that after the battle, Ramad stood by the side of Macmen with the great wolves around them and that—that the next minute Macmen stood alone on the silent battlefield, Ramad and the wolves gone as if the wind itself had swallowed them.”

Skeelie slept that night beside Gravan’s fire with her hand couched on Torc’s flank, replete with roast deer meat and Gravan’s mawzee bread, and perhaps more wine than was necessary. In the early dawn, while the old herder rounded up his bucks and their does to go down into the village, she made a quiet departure, wishing him well, and headed up between black peaks in the direction his thoughts had shown her, toward the lake of fire. Torc shadowed her unseen, hunting, returning now and again or speaking to her from a distance. A silent journey back .into the wild mountains.

When Torc returned from her hunt at midmorning, she lay waiting for Skeelie stretched out in a patch of sunlight between black, angled boulders, licking blood from her muzzle. Two fat rock hares lay by her side. For your noon meal, sister. In the sharp daylight, Skeelie could see plainly that Torc had recently nursed cubs. Torc raised her head. My cubs are dead. They were small and helpless. I had gone to hunt.

Skeelie looked back at her, could only offer the silent sympathy that welled in her at the bitch wolf’s pain.

I will follow the creature that killed them until I destroy it.

“What is it, that creature?”

It is a dark, unnatural shadow dwelling within the body of a dead man. Or, a man made mindless, as good as dead. When I returned from hunting and found my cubs, found the creature crouching over them, it vanished. Disappeared, sister. I could feel it later somewhere in the caves.

Then, I could feel it following you. And so I followed it. I could feel it, sister, stepping into the whirling of Time as you stepped. It follows you, but I do not know why. And I will follow it, and kill it.

A litany of hatred and suffering. Of promise by a great wolf that both frightened and heartened Skeelie. She felt the sense of the formless dark thing. It was this she had sensed in the caves and across the river. “I cannot sense it now, Torc. Not near to us.”

No, sister. But it will return. I think it follows you as mindlessly as a skabeetle seeking prey.

“But why?”

I do not know. It came into those deep caves blindly, seeking something there, sensing something it seemed to need. I do not know what. It was confused and weak and fit only for killing cubs. But there are powers hidden within that creature, sister. Powers that can grow. After it disappeared from my den, I felt you come. I felt it begin to follow you. As if you, sister, held about you that which it sought. It came here seeking you, but now it is gone again. What do you bear, Skeelie of Carriol, that such a dark shadow yearns after? What weapon, what magic or what skill? Or, perhaps, what knowledge?

Skeelie gazed into the wolf’s golden eyes and did not know how to answer. Had that creature followed her because of Ram, thinking she would lead it to Ram? But why? Yet well she knew that evil was attracted to Ram because of the power of the runestones, that evil coveted those stones perhaps beyond all else. Torc’s thoughts had plunged into an abyss half of wild emotion and half of conscious thought; and Skeelie plunged down with them through blackness to where the sense of the shadowy creature, and of its dark, latent powers, came cold around her.

She shook herself free of the vision at last, stared at Torc, touched the wolf’s shaggy face with need and tenderness. And suddenly the thought of the tree man came into her mind, his words echoing . . . One of the few born to weave a new pattern into the fabric of the world. Those so born are not anchored to a single point in Time.

“What did Cadach mean? Why do I think of those words now?” She knelt and laid her head against Torc’s shoulder, drew strength from her. She began to feel, with Torc, the incomprehensible patterns that formed life as together they reached to touch that web, needing to trace some new strand of meaning into their own fragile existence.

At last Skeelie rose, took up the rock hares and cleaned them, and tied them to her belt. They started on up between black cliffs, pushing deep into the mountains as the afternoon sunlight thinned behind them, sending long shadows up the lifting peaks of the Ring of Fire.

THREE

Jagged peaks surrounded them. The afternoon sky grew gray and chill. The way was narrow between black cliffs, then sometimes only a ledge above a sheer drop, so Skeelie’s fear of height held her tense, and she must force herself on with stubborn will. Once as they rounded a narrow bend, Torc’s interest quickened, but was masked at once, leaving Skeelie uneasy. Torc stopped and turned to look at her. I do not hide anything, sister. I try only to calm my hatred. The shadow is there in that place, come there before us. I will kill it there. She let Skeelie feel the wild fury that drove her. Skeelie drew back, chastened, and followed Torc in silence.

They came on the valley without warning. One minute they were squeezing between black rock walls, and the next they stood staring down past their feet to a valley cupped out of the cliffs, far below. Its edge was brilliant green where grass pushed against the cliffs, but it was bare and rocky at the center, and there lay the lake of fire, a pool red as blood seeping up out of the rock, like a wound upon the land. Skeelie remembered too vividly the burning lava river inside Tala-charen, where a wolf had nearly died, remembered lava belching from mountains down over the fields to burn beasts and men alike. What kept this lava from rising continuously out of the earth to spill over its banks? The flow seemed to her to have halted only temporarily, as if it must soon rise strongly again and drown the valley.

As they made their way down the steep cliff, the wolf’s silence seemed a barrier between them; then Torc turned quite suddenly, went leaping up a cliff on the left and soon was out of sight. There was no contact between them, but Skeelie knew she was not meant to follow. Was Torc leaving her? Going on her own way alone, too intense with the need to kill to follow the slow descent that Skeelie must take? Skeelie could not tell what she, herself, sensed in this wild place. As she descended the steep cliff, she began to feel the lake’s hot breath, heavy and oppressive. When she stood at last close above the wide belt of grass that brushed against the rocky cliffs, she could see the dark mouths of half a dozen caves, below and to her left. She started along toward them, drawn, curious. Then suddenly Torc was before her, ears flattened and eyes flaming, baring her teeth. Skeelie backed away from her until she struck the cliff behind. Stay hidden, sister, there are men!

Where, Torc? How many? She strained to hear voices, but could make out nothing, see no movement against the back cliffs. Had sensed nothing.

Beyond that outcropping, at the end of the valley. Five men. Come, I will show you. Torc led her through a narrow cleft between jagged rock, toward the head of the valley. They stood at last, hidden and silent, watching five riders below them. Now she sensed them, evil and primitive, steeped in some lusting need she could not make out. Four were broad, heavy men, dark and bearded, dressed in fighting leathers. Herebian warriors. The fifth was a thin, pale creature, mounted, but with his hands bound behind him and his horse on a lead. Skeelie felt the cruelty of all five; felt the primitive strength of the warriors, and the weak, groveling avarice of the thin creature. Torc’s head was lowered as for attack, her ears flat, her expression predatory and cold, her mind seeking out to read the shadowy creature, to understand its nature. That is the one I follow, sister, that cold shadow of a man mindless and unliving. He is death, inhabiting the body of a man. I do not understand how. The ancient Seers would have called such a wraith, sister. One of living death. He seeks something here. Seeks something even as I seek him. He has abandoned following you, sister, for something he seeks more. And the greedy Herebians have seen his need and made him captive through his own lusting weakness. They seek what he seeks, they seek a treasure here.

Skeelie could feel it now, the sense of the riders having been drawn to this place. What power had this valley to draw them? What did they seek? And what did she herself seek? She watched them dismount, felt the captive begin to quest out, intent, searching out blindly, then sniffing, turning its face from side to side.

Torc’s eyes glinted, her lips pulled back in the silent snarl of a killer. Skeelie laid her hand on Torc’s rough shoulder and opened her mind wider to the great wolf, nearly reeled with Torc’s hatred and with the force of evil that Torc’s senses touched from the wraith. They stood pressed together, girl and wolf, strung tight; then Torc left her, began to creep forward between the stone cliffs.

Don’t Torc! Four armed warriors. . . But Torc did not pause, and Skeelie followed her, sword drawn. They descended in silence, stood at last just above the men, so close that Torc could have leaped down onto any one of the horses and killed it. Skeelie felt the mind-shield that Torc placed against the beasts, so they did not sense her. The warriors had begun to prod the wraith impatiently; then they made it kneel. It began to crawl, snuffling at the ground like a hunting weasel, inching along smelling the dirt, changing direction again and again in search of some illusive scent, its thin body making jerky movements, its resemblance to a man all but gone. Was it something other than human, in human shell? It doubled back, then thrust forward with an oily, reptilian motion, as if it had found a scent at last; groveled against its tether toward the caves.

What does it search for, Torc?

But Torc stood tense, her thought only a thin breath of meaning. Do not speak, sister. Not even in silence. That one has Seer’s blood. Skeelie felt Torc’s shielding of thought and tried to push out with a shield of her own, but felt clumsy and uncertain, as if the very unhealthiness of the creatures had laid a fog upon her mind. She watched Torc creep forward, felt the wolf’s cold readiness to attack. She followed, knowing this was madness; began to sense shadows from the creature’s mind, to feel the vague shape of that for which it searched: something small and heavy, something buried deep. She could feel the creature’s lust for that treasure.

“She had a vision then of the wraithlike creature as it had stood beside the river Owdneet in darkness, watching her drink. Yes, it had sensed an aura about her, something it wanted, but she could not make out what. But then suddenly it had turned away, drawn to another trail, had followed the four Herebians who moved silently up the mountains searching—searching for what? The vision went dull and faded, left her with only the sense of the wraith sniffing and whispering around the Herebians, caught in its own mysterious greed. Skeelie could see clearly how the Herebians had stripped their pack animal, distributed the packs among the five horses and forced the wraith to mount; and the wraith, eager to search, had not resisted very strongly. She watched it now, knew that it sensed some power buried within this mountain, for it was pulling ahead eagerly toward the largest of the caves.

What did it search for? What lay there among the caves, whispering out such an essence of power that the creature seemed unable to resist?

And then she knew what it searched for, with a sudden sense that shocked her. Something small and heavy, something buried deep. She sensed the creature’s lust for that treasure: a jagged, heavy treasure, shining green, roughly broken, carved with the fragments of an ancient rune.

Treasure of all treasures. That loathsome creature searched for, snuffled after, a shard of the runestone of Eresu.

Three Herebians followed it. They had lit a lamp, held it high. Skeelie could feel their greed; and feel something more from them. Why are they afraid, Torc? They burn the lamp so brightly. Can’t you feel their fear?

It has to do with the gods, sister. A fear bred of Herebian memory of the ancient caves of the gods. They fear the caves, fear the very mountains of the Ring of Fire. And sister, fear, in those selfish minds, makes them even the more cruel and bloodthirsty.

I can never understand their evil, Torc, or why I feel they are different from other men of Ere—different somehow in the very facts of their birth, their beginnings.

All souls born upon Ere are not of an age, sister. Some have lived many times on other planes. Some are new and untried. Some, perhaps, come upon Ere with a wash of evil already sucked into their natures, from willfully embracing past evils.

The men pushed fearfully into the cave, the lamp burning brightly. The fourth Herebian remained behind, holding the five horses. Torc moved without sound; Skeelie crept close behind her, knowing that they could die here, that she could die fighting these men and never find Ram. But she would not abandon Torc. Torc’s hatred, her lust to kill the wraith, was overpowering. When the bitch stopped suddenly and drew back with one motion to lie flat beside Skeelie, Skeelie dropped down, too. Their faces were so close she could feel Torc’s warm breath, smell her musty smell. What do you sense? Why—you’re afraid, Torc! For suddenly Torc’s whole, intense being was caught in some horror that Skeelie could not fathom. She touched the wolf’s shoulder. What is it, Torc? What can make you afraid?

I cannot kill him, sister. I dare not. Feel out, feel out and sense what I sense, and tell me I am wrong.

Skeelie lay still, sensing the snuffling creature, trying to become one with it against all her instincts; though she shielded herself from it. She began to feel its physical weakness, the exhausted limits of its weak body. She felt the rough, rocky earth over which it crawled, smelled earth and the dampness of the cave. Then quite suddenly and with cold terror, she knew the nature of the creature in sharp detail. Sharp as pain came the knowledge, the reality of what it was.

She understood that Torc must not kill it.

For this creature could not die. Only its body would die. The evil within would, at the body’s death, be set free to take the body of another.

The body of a Seer, sister.

There were no Seers there among the Herebian warriors.

You are the only Seer, Skeelie of Carriol. If I kill that creature, its dark, fetid soul will enter into your body. And you cannot prevent it.

I would fight it, Torc! I—

You cannot fight this. I think it is too steeped in evil. It is a dead soul that can never die again. I think it would possess you. It . . . without a body to possess, it would slowly fade into nothing. In that sense, I suppose it would die. But you cannot kill it. If a human tries, it will possess him. You must go away from here, sister. If they kill it, after it finds the runestone, it will come to possess you.

I will not go away. It searches for a shard of the runestone. If it should find such, I must somehow take that shard. For Ram—for all of Ere. I could not leave a shard of the runestone.

The Herebian beside the cave’s entrance tipped up a wineskin to drink. He held the five horses carelessly, their reins tangled in one hand. Torc watched him with cold appraisal. I could kill him with no trouble, the fat Herebian. Make one less to battle later, if the shard is found.

Skeelie tried to sense the men inside the cave, but now no sense came clear except that of the wraith. The guard drank again. Skeelie took off her pack to make movement easier, laid it beside her quiver and bow behind a boulder. Then she started forward behind Torc, her hand on her sword.

He has heard you, sister.

I made no noise.

He heard something, he’s looking up. He’s coming. Torc crouched, ready to spring.

Don’t let him see you, Torc!

Torc glanced at her with disdain.

If he sees you, he will know you are a great wolf, and so know me for a Seer just as Gravan did. If he finds me alone, maybe . . .

But Torc’s fury exploded; the wolf flew past her in a streak of dark violence as the warrior came up the last rise. She hit him so quickly he could not cry out, pinned him, her teeth deep in his throat as he fell, his only sound a gurgle of expended breath.

He lay still beneath Torc’s weight, twisted once, then went limp. Blood gushed from his throat. The left shoulder of his tunic bloomed with spreading red stain as if a red flower opened. Torc turned to stare back at Skeelie, then spun away from the man, crouching anew, a snarl deep in her throat. Skeelie swung around, her sword challenging sword as a warrior towered over her, come silently out of the cave, perhaps at the small noise of scuffling; and he followed by another, so the two drove Skeelie back. Then one spied Torc, sheathed his sword and drew arrow. Get away, Torc! Get away! The wolf spun, leaped to disappear among boulders seconds before the arrow loosed. Skeelie parried one broad sword, then two, could not summon power to touch the wolf’s mind, so occupied was she; felt the sting of a blade, was backed against the cliff. Saw Torc leap on one of the warriors; and she was battling only one Herebian as the other rolled against her feet locked in fierce embrace with the snarling wolf. The Herebian swung his heavy sword at her like a battering ram. His dark face filled her vision, filled her mind. Black beard, stinking leathers. She dodged, plunged her blade at the man’s leather-clad belly, and felt her sword swept away, felt a dull blow along her neck, a fist across her face. She was falling, twisted with pain. Knew no more.

*

She woke, was lying on rocky ground, her hands tied behind her, her feet tied. She ached all over, as if she had been dragged down the cliff. Her sword was gone, the silver sword Ram had forged for her. She stared at the empty sheath, then tried to roll over, pushed against stone, lifted her head to see she was lying against a boulder at the mouth of the cave. She could hear voices from the darkness, could not make out the words. When she twisted around, pain clutched at her like fire. She stared into the dark cave. Faint light moved there, and a voice rose shouting with anger, the words muffled by echoes. Another man swore—garbled, choppy sounds. Then a thin, querulous voice that must be the wraith’s. “I cannot! It is not the same! Not the same!” Shaking voice, nearly weeping. “I swear it! I swear!”

“This is all you found! We came into the wretched cave for this?” A dull shattering, as if something had been thrown against the cave wall and broken. She felt dizzy, could not bring a vision or make sense of the exchange. The whining of the wraith pulled her back.

“I swear there is nothing, I swear. It is buried in a mountain, maybe not this mountain, maybe . . .”

“You’ll search every mountain in the Ring. You’ll find it, or die looking.”

“It lies to the west, perhaps. Lies deep in a mountain, I promise . . .”

Tala-charen? Did the wraith sense a shard of the runestone lying buried beneath Tala-charen, as she and Ram had always thought? It cried out in pain. The Herebian shouted. “Get up or I’ll kick you again!” Then, “Fetch the horses, BolLag! Why didn’t Stalg tie them before he—never mind, just catch them! We’re heading to the west reaches. Worse luck those two clods got themselves killed. If you see that wolf again, slaughter it.”

Feet went by her. Large and heavily booted. She kept her eyes closed, did not move. “What about the wench?” the man called back.

“Throw her over Stalg’s saddle. He won’t be riding again.”

“She’s no good to us. What do we need her for?”

“Stupid dolt. She’s female, ain’t she!”

The feet went on. She could hear sounds as if he were gathering up the horses. The other warrior came out, leading the wraith. It paused to look into her face. She kept her eyes closed, could feel its interest like a lance. When it continued to stare, she could not help but open her eyes. Its face was loose over the bones. Its pale, dead eyes were sunken deep, the whites gone yellow. Eyes dark-ringed, expressionless, looking deep inside her, seeing things she did not want it to see. The cold sense of the creature gripped her. She stifled the need to cry out, turned her face away from it with horror. What was this thing, dwelling in a man’s body?

The thing crawled on at last, but pulled constantly against its lead back toward the darkness. The Herebian kicked it to move it along, then bound it to a boulder and left it; then he returned to stand over Skeelie.

“Get up!”

She lay as if unconscious.

The man grabbed her by the shoulder and flung her up like a bag of meal, scraping her bound hands beneath her across the rocky wall. He pushed her against the wall, and when she struggled, he hit her hard. She lunged at him, bit his hand, then crouched, doubled with pain when he struck her in the stomach.

“Not the sort of female I relish,” the one called BolLag said.

“Female’s female, What’s the difference. Throw her over the saddle and tie her down good. I’ll take the fight out of her tonight.”

“But she’ll only slow us HaGlard. What—”

“Hoist ’er!”

Skeelie was thrown across a saddle face down, her head hanging. The horse shied and snorted, then went still and trembling, as if it would bolt any minute. The breath was knocked out of her. The saddle pressed deep into her ribs, smelled of rancid oil. She could feel Torc somewhere close by, gauging her position, gauging her best angle of attack. Don’t, Torc! Wait until they separate. Follow us, Torc, and wait! The man called HaGlard had said westward. Would they carry her in the direction of Tala-charen? But maybe she needn’t wait, for they had not tied her to the saddle yet, though her hands and feet were tied and she felt nearly helpless, belly down across the horse. Still, the Herebian who held the reins had turned away to tend another mount. Her horse was nervous, trembling at its strange burden: it would take little to make it leap away. To make it run. She could sense Torc slipping closer, then could feel the wolf’s tenseness as she crouched.

Now, sister! Gig it! Gig it!

She kicked the animal’s shoulder, its belly. It screamed and leaped away, nearly dumping her. BolLag cried out, swearing, as the reins were jerked from his hand. Skeelie clung to the saddle, her ribs bruised, as the terrified horse crashed through tall grass along the cliff. She could feel turmoil behind her, knew that Torc had leaped for a horse’s throat. It was all she could do to cling, to balance on the plunging horse. She could hear another horse running.

She felt Torc behind her at last. Felt Torc swerve, sensed an arrow released. She heard a horse scream, twisted around in the saddle enough to glimpse a riderless horse careening away. Her own horse spun, nearly spilling her, and began to scramble in terror up the boulders. She was slipping, tried to sense what was happening. Torc! Torc! Felt Torc leap and pull at her. Now, sister! Now! She slid off the crazed horse nearly under its hooves, rolled free as it plunged away, and lay still among boulders, hurting all , over, trying to collect her senses.

She felt Torc’s warm breath on her wrist, Torc’s teeth, as the bitch-wolf chewed at the rope.

Skeelie’s hands were free. She bent to untie her feet, struggled with ropes, jerked them loose at last, and they leaped together up the side of the cliff and began to climb, Torc slowing, waiting for her as, behind them, a rider drew bow. They slipped behind rock. Skeelie heard the two men running over gravel. “There, HaGlard, they climb there!” She ran blindly, following Torc, trusting Torc’s keener senses as the wolf swerved into a cave, ran in darkness. She was terrified of being trapped there weaponless, could hear the Herebians gaining, was panting with fear as running footsteps echoed close behind, then felt Torc swerve back to attack—but there was sudden silence behind them.

Torc had stopped, stood listening, feeling out.

Low voices slurred by echo against the cave walls into senselessness. But voices coming closer in the formless dark. They have no light, sister. They have left the lantern or lost it. Help me—help me bring a vision upon them, for they fear the dark caves.

Together, Torc and Skeelie brought darkness down thicker and deeper than the cave’s darkness, darkness with the sense of gods in it. The Luff’Eresi towered, winged creatures half-man and half-horse, violent in their power and righteousness, brought their fury into the cave, so their hatred of the weak and twisted filled the cave with an awesome thundering power, so real and frightening that Skeelie wondered afterward if she and Torc alone had wrought such splendor and felt that they had not. Felt that what they had formed there was aided by something unknown.

They sensed the warriors’ fear, felt them stumble and turn; heard them running out of the cave. Skeelie felt Torc’s silent wolfish laugh. A fine vision, sister. Fine. They search for their horses now. They will leave us, never fear. And the terror of our vision will follow them. And I—I will follow them. 1 must follow them.

They stood together, just inside the dark entrance to the cave, and watched the two Herebians drive their horses to a central point against the cliffs and capture them. Watched them strip the dead horse of its gear, then force the captive wraith up onto one of the animals and tie him to the saddle.

Skeelie did not want to think of Torc leaving her, but the bitch wolf must do as she had committed herself to do.

When it is away from you, when it can no longer enter your body, I can kill it, sister.

“But you said, if it is freed from that body it will take another. Become more powerful. The Herebians are strong, they—”

They must separate when they make camp, to hunt, to gather wood, to see to the horses. I will follow until I can kill them both, one at a time. Then only the wraith will be left, and when I kill it, it will wander bodiless and so grow weak. It cannot enter into me, it has not that power, sister. That shadow killed my cubs. If I do not kill it, I will cripple it so it finds the body useless, yet cannot escape it.

The riders headed up toward the west side of the valley, hurrying their horses. Torc’s very spirit seemed to follow them, heavy and predatory. Ramad would bid me stay with you, sister, but I cannot. Ramad is not here to bid. The bitch wolf’s eyes never left the receding figures as they urged their horses up between the rocky cliffs. I must trail that darkness, sister, and destroy it.

Skeelie knelt, put her arms around Torc’s shaggy neck, pressed her face into the bitch-wolf’s golden coat. The great wolves had comforted her and Ram in their childhood, were her security in a deep, indestructible way. She felt tears come, hugged Torc hard. The wolf’s warmth and strength flowed through her; the bitch-wolf licked her neck, took her arm between killer’s teeth, gently, in a timeless salute.

Then Torc was gone down across the valley past the molten lake, leaping through the grass on the far side of the valley, then up the cliffs until she was lost from view. Gone in one instant. Gone.

Skeelie turned away at last, annoyed at herself for feeling such loss. Torc did what she had to do.

Skeelie made her way along the rim of the valley to where the two Herebians lay dead, retrieved her pack and bow, her arrows, searched for her sword, knowing well she would not find it, and cursed the Herebians sharply. It was lucky she had hidden her pack and bow. She searched the dead warriors for sword or knife, but their friends had stripped them of everything useful. At last she entered the cave where the wraith had crawled and snuffled and began to search for what it had found there, striking her flint over and over until she had collected eight pieces of what looked like a small clay bowl. It puzzled her, for there seemed indeed to be a power about it. She climbed the cliff to some stunted trees, gathered pitch on a sharp rock, and stuck the pieces together: a bowl with a small, useless base. Then, with rising excitement she turned the bowl over and saw that it was not a bowl at all, but a bell. What had seemed the base was a part of the broken handle. She held the bell on her open palm, lightly, and memories flooded back to her. Ram had grown up in a house of bells, hundreds of bells collected by Gredillon, she who had raised him and taught him his Seer’s skills. Had this bell something to do with Ram? Did it hold some message for her? Had it led her here? In Gredillon’s house of bells, the wolf bell had stood on the mantel, presiding over Ram’s birth, and with it he had learned to call down the jackals and foxes before ever he spoke to the great wolves.

The strength of this bell was what the wraith had felt and thought it the runestone, though there was little comparison. The bell had a power, but not like the runestone of Eresu.

Still, it spoke to her. She closed her eyes and let it bid her. It made no vision, but led her directly, gently, to the fiery lake with so strong a bidding that she hardly saw the rocky ground, saw little clearly until she stood on the lake’s shore, staring down at the blood-red lava. The heat was intense and soon nearly unbearable, so she ripped open her collar, then at last removed her tunic.

The vision came suddenly, turning the lake black as jet, and she saw Ram reflected in a brief flash of battle, his face smeared with blood and his mouth open in a silent shout. Then the lake grew red and boiling again. As if she had dreamed and was only now awakening, something shouted silently, Open your mind, Skeelie. Open your mind and look. She tried to see deeper, then closed her eyes at last and let herself float on the incredible heat, letting go, felt a calm take her and opened her eyes to feel cool wind above the red lake. Then the colors of lake and mountains began to dim, to soften, and the sky to grow iridescent, the grass along the cliffs to turn silvery. And mists were blowing across the lake forming the shapes of creatures, shimmering, animals crowding all around her, mythical animals, a silver triebuck, a pale snow tiger, animals she could not afterward remember, all cream and silver and pale-hued. At first they did not move or blink. Then one shifted, its movement so slight she was not sure she had seen movement. Another turned its head deliberately to stare at her, but the motion was so smooth it might have been only shifting light. And yet it stared, its eyes like translucent moons.

And then came a great dark lumbering animal pushing between the others. It was all movement and weight, was neither bear nor bull, but so strangely made that it seemed both of these. It came shouldering up to Skeelie, smelling of musky deep places half-forgotten and carrying heat about it, a breath of musky heat. She could see the ridges and roughness of its coarse-haired hide. It knelt before her suddenly and clumsily.

She knew she was meant to mount. She watched its little dark eyes. A shudder rippled her skin. She took up her pack, her bow. The beasts stood watching, silver and tawny pale, the great dark animal like a misshapen mountain patiently awaiting her.

She mounted at last, swung up onto the beast’s broad, warty back and settled herself into its heavy folds of rough skin. It wheeled with her, and the wind caught her face; she saw the other animals wheel in a blaze of silver, lifting into the wind, lifting through white space. Valley and lake vanished in a blur. Space was light, and light was Time, and nothing existed but this moment endless across wind, careening, wind tearing at her.

The animal’s body was warm, but her pack and bow were like ice against her back. Her hands gripped the warty skin along its neck. They sped through space, leaped winds. Time melted into one great wind, and she rode at its center, her blood pounding in her ears. The pale beasts crowded against her legs in their headlong flight, their wind-torn breath warming her. Once the great dark beast turned its head to look back at her, and its eyes shone white and wild in that dark, ugly face.

They sped through a world of ice and crystal and pale shadows. Pastel-tinted waters slid past against pale hills. White sunsets rose before them like great diamonds, and on they sped. The animals’ occasional clash of hoofbeats over rock was like the sound of jewels spilled on marble. Time was the wind rushing past them in tearing waves, showing now a bloody snatch of battle, now a peaceful village, all vanishing at once. A face, a woman crying out, a scene of death. All gone at once.

Then suddenly, with no change of motion, the beast had ceased to move. He stood still upon a ridge of craggy stone. Skeelie sat staring dumbly about her, realized they were still, realized that the wind had stopped, the flight stopped. The pale beasts stood silently around her and then began to fade. Her own steed was fading; she must slide down, must not fade with them.

She dismounted, shaky and unsteady, stood staring helplessly as the beasts became thin and transparent. They shimmered as if they were seen through water; then they were gone.

She stood alone on a mountain path in bright midmorning.

The sense of wild flight and of terrible cold, and of the beast’s warmth and its musty scent, clung about her. Midmorning in what time? A path in what place?

FOUR

She stood on a narrow, rocky trail. Far below her sprawled a city, and beyond it gleamed them pale smear of open water. The Bay of Pelli? The Bay of Sangur? Or could it be the wilder sea beyond Carriol? At the thought of Carriol her heart contracted with longing. Could that city be part of Carriol, a city grown beyond her wildest dreams? No, from the position of the sun she must be looking south toward the Bay of Pelli. And this mountain was far too close to the coast to be a part of the Ring of Fire. It could only be Scar Mountain, standing just above Zandour. Scar Mountain, where Ram had been born; and like a whisper the tree man’s words touched her, stirred her, Follow the source of Ramad’s beginning. Touch the place of his childhood and his strength.

Could this be the time of Ram’s childhood? The thought excited and terrified her. Up this narrow path would she find Gredillon’s house carved into the side of the mountain? Find the young Ramad there, a child, as she had first known him? Would his Seer’s skills tell him that she would one day be his friend, in time still ahead of him? She started up the path with bent head, uncertain in her emotions. Was she afraid to see Ram so, small and vulnerable? She felt very tired suddenly, almost weak. She realized she was hungry and could not remember when she had last eaten. Early morning beside Gravan’s campfire? No, she remembered cooking rock hares on the mountain. That seemed a lifetime ago. She turned a bend in the path, thinking of her empty stomach, and came on the stone house abruptly. Stone slabs against the mountain, heavy timber door.

It was just as Ram had shown her in their childhood visions. Inside, she would find it carved deep into the mountain, half-house, half-cave. And its walls would be all carved into shelves where stood hundreds of bells wrought of amber and clay and amethyst, of tin and of precious glass and bronze. How often, when he waked from nightmares, had Ram yearned after his home, yearned for Gredillon? Was the bell woman here, waiting for her to push open the door just as she had waited for Ram’s mother before Ram was born? Was Ram here?

She remembered the clay bell in her hand then. But her fist was tight, and when she opened her palm, only clay dust lay there. Had she shattered it in the excitement of the wild ride? In her tense climb up the mountain? She could not remember. Or had it shattered itself, when its mission was done? She mourned its loss, felt a strange fear because she could not remember when she had last held it lightly, when she had clenched her fist so tight. She did not like to be unable to account for her actions. She knocked and waited, knocked again, and then with sudden impatience, almost with fear, she flung the door open and lurched inside, hastily pushing it to behind her.

The room was very dim, with only small, shuttered windows to light it, the shutters partly broken, with some of the heavy slats hanging crooked. There were plates on the table, and chairs pulled out as if a meal had just been finished. But the food was petrified into dry greenish lumps; and a layer of dust thick as gauze covered plates, table, the chairs and beds, covered shapeless litter scattered across the floor, heaps of rags or clothes, and the scattered bits of what she made out to be broken bells, as if someone had pulled them from the shelves in a rage and flung them on the stone floor. She remembered then, Ram telling of his father’s fury when he came searching for Ram and could not find him; how he had torn this house apart, searching. She remembered Ram’s words suddenly and sharply. Ancient scenes began to rise out of the dust, and voices to speak in the room. She was immersed suddenly and wholly in Ram’s childhood, immersed in joy, in pain, in a dozen scenes, sweeping her through those painful, growing years until she was a child again herself, loving Ram with all her child’s soul.

She stood, drained at last, with tears running down her cheeks. The room loomed dim and gray around her. Now that she knew this part of Ram’s life, knew it too well, the pain of it would never leave her.

Near the hearth lay a small boy’s tunic, its shape plain under the blanket of dirt. She knelt to pick it up, and it fell apart in her hands. When she touched the cover of one of the three cots, the thread disintegrated under her exploring fingers. She shivered, hugging herself, trying to drive out the cold. If she went down into the city of Zandour, which lay below this mountain, would she find it dead and moldering, too?

Or if Zandour were a city still alive, would she hear talk of a long-dead Ramad of the wolves?

She had a strong desire to clean this room, to sweep away the dust and collect the broken bells, make it clean and livable. Perhaps to stay here awhile. But in hope of what? That Ram would come to her in this long-lost place? She looked at the petrified food on the table with distaste, at the dusty bed.

She knew she must sleep, she was achingly tired, but did not find the thought of sleeping in this room very pleasant, because of the decay, because of the painful scenes the room seemed still to contain. A cold draft touched her, and she tightened the latch on the door, wished for her sword. She turned back the bedcover at last, managing to make only one tear in it. The blanket beneath seemed sturdy enough, though it smelled of ancient things. Darkness drifted through her mind, as if the dust itself drugged her. She fell onto the bed and curled around, knees bent, her arm over her bow and pack.

She slept deeply. Not until hours later did the dreams begin to push around her, to touch on moments of Ram’s life, to form a pattern that, afterward, she could not reconstruct, but which left her somehow strengthened. As if she had touched powers basic to Ram and touched a meaning central to all life.

She woke to a gray, dim morning, hungry because she had not eaten the night before, angry at herself for not taking better care. She sat up, fuzzy with sleep, the night dreams hardly separated from the gray shadows of the room, and began to rummage in her pack for food. A small sound stopped her. The door latch was lifting.

She snatched up her bow, pushing cobwebs from her mind, as the door pushed noiselessly in.

Dull gray light crept in through the widening crack, the same flat gray that seeped in around the broken shutters. She waited, arrow to bow, her heart pounding, sleep cast aside. What was that smell? Like something dead.

Then she saw the hand feeling in through the crack of the door. A thin, white hand. The dead smell increased, was sickening. A shadow blocked the widening crack. The door pushed in in one quick movement, and a dark figure stood looking in at her, a faceless silhouette. A figure slight as a twig.

When it turned, she could see the side of its face: pale, skull-thin. Its cape was bloodstained; blood lay smeared across its cheek, down its side and arm. It stood watching her. And she knew it had come here to die. Had followed her, meant to take her body in place of its own dying one.

Why her? Why had it sought her? Across what span of Time had it come seeking, and what had wounded it so badly? And where was Torc? What had happened to Torc, who had gone so confidently to follow and destroy the wraith? She felt a twisting fear for Torc; and a fear for herself that made her go sick with apprehension. It is a dead soul that can never die again. The memory of Torc’s words made her shiver. It would possess you. She longed to kill it and knew she dare not do so.

She made her mind seek out, listening, until at last her inner Seer’s sense touched the essence of the wraith. Its dark image came around her, lusting to drive out her spirit, lusting for the shell of her body, for her skills. Images of torture crowded in from its mind. Then she felt the pain of a sword across the wraith’s cheek, was swung into sudden battle. A dark, familiar Herebian raider slashed at its shoulder, and she felt the wraith’s pain. Then the Herebian HaGlard attacked his brother, and she did not understand what they fought for among themselves.

She saw Ram suddenly, slipping inward toward the battle unseen, and caught her breath. Ram, preparing to attack the Herebians. Her heart pounded at the sight of him. He moved stealthily, his red hair in shadow. Ram, linked with the Herebians who had captured the wraith; surely linked with the wraith itself. But why? What had happened to bring them together across Time and space?

Ram was almost on the battle but still unseen, then one of the warriors glimpsed him and turned from fighting to attack him. She watched with drawn breath, willing her power against the Herebians as both swords were raised against Ram. And she knew, suddenly and sharply, what they fought over, what Ram sought.

The Herebians had found a shard of the runestone. A shard sniffed out by the wraith from beneath the mountain Tala-charen. But she was seeing a vision past; seeing, from the wraith’s mind, what had already happened to it, for the wraith itself moved in the room behind her. She jerked suddenly from the vision and spun to face it, her fury drowning fear, her fury at what it had intended for Ram.

The wraith had waited, on the edge of that battle, waited for Ram to die. Its cold desire for Ram’s death sickened her. She stared at its white, bloody face and lunged suddenly, grabbed it, sickened by its stench. It spun. She kneed it in the belly, so it fell screaming, and she was on it again, hitting it across the neck so it cowered away from her in pain. She stood over it, trembling with fury. She sensed the battle, sensed Ram fighting for his life against the two Herebians while the wraith waited for him to die. She saw Ram fall, saw HaGlard draw sword over Ram, then the vision went foggy or she dizzy, she did not know which. She was so confused, was wild with anxiety for Ram. She shook the wraith, screaming. “Is he dead? Did he die there?” But the wraith only looked at her, cold and expressionless. She shook it again, hit it so hard it screamed, gurgling, fighting unconsciousness with cold hatred. Ram could not be dead, or the wraith would have taken his body. She pulled the wraith up, nauseated at its closeness, tried to see again that other time, glimpsed for an instant something lying in the dust of that time, trampled by the boots of fighting men. Something shining green. Saw a hand reach for it in shadow, then the wraith was unconscious and the vision gone.

*

Ram knifed a Herebian and spun away as the man fell. He saw the runestone gleaming in the dust at his feet for one instant, then kicked aside. He searched wildly and could not find it. As the other Herebian bore down on him, wounded and uncertain, he turned and killed the man. The wraith groveled beside the first body, then was gone. Vanished. And with it, the runestone was gone.

He stood shaken, staring at emptiness where the wraith had been, where the runestone had been. Clouds of Time swirled around him and he felt then as he had felt when he first sensed the stone here through the thoughts of the wraith. He had trailed those thoughts. But he had battled and killed the Herebians only to see the stone snatched from the dust beneath his feet. He stood staring at the two dead bodies, hardly seeing them, stricken at his stupid, senseless loss of the runestone.

And stricken at the escape of the wraith. He should have killed it. For he saw it suddenly and clearly in the vision of a dim, shuttered room rimed with dust; and he saw the figure it faced.

How had it come there to the room he knew so well? How, out of all possibilities, had Skeelie come there? Why?

Why? He felt her cold fury sharply as she faced the wraith; then felt her terror.

How had Skeelie crossed the barrier into Time? Why had she? Had she been flung so, against her will? Or had she, stubborn Skeelie, somehow crossed the barrier on purpose? He did not want to ask himself why.

In what time was she, then, in that moldering stone house? And why had the wraith gone to her? Ram reached out to her, but could no more guide himself to her than to Telien. The wraith had the runestone now and would surely be the more powerful because of it. What was that creature? Was it linked to the same evil as the dark Seers? As the Hape? Was all evil linked in some patterning of forces he could not yet comprehend? Surely that evil touched Skeelie. He forced his powers out blindly across Time to drive the wraith away from her. But he felt as clumsy and helpless as a babe.

*

Skeelie stood staring across the littered room at the wraith as it regained consciousness, but her thoughts were all of Ram. Was Ram injured, badly hurt? She could touch no vision now from the wraith’s mind. Had it taken the runestone? If it had, did that mean that Ram did indeed lie wounded?

The wraith opened its eyes, watched her coldly. She felt its longing for death, knew it wanted her to kill it. It rose slowly and, without changing its expression, began to stalk her. She backed away from it, bow drawn. It shuffled toward her. She spun, pushed the table at it, twisting, and knocked the wraith flat. It lay writhing beneath the upturned table for some moments before it rose, and again moved toward her. Its shoulder drooped now, and its wounded arm hung loose. It moved silently and steadily with hatred so strong she thought hatred alone might stifle her breath. It began to whisper hoarsely. She could not at first make out the words. Was it saying, Our way? Yes. “Our way. Our way,” over and over. Its voice was dull and muted, insistent as a heartbeat. Perhaps its voice replaced the heartbeat, in the emptiness of that inhuman void. “Our way. Our way. Our way. You will come into me our way, as the others have come. You will be part of us. We will live in you. Healthy. Young. We will have strength in you, strength . . .” It ended hissing, pushed toward her, its bony hands reaching.

She backed away from it. Its eyes never left her, never blinked. She glanced around the room, searching for anything that might help her. How could you fight something you dared not kill? Her hands trembled. She brought all the strength of her mind to bear against it. But her Seer’s power seemed not to touch it. She began to lose her nerve.

Stop it, Skeelie! Kill it if you must, then battle its dark spirit! But don’t quail before it! You’ve killed Herebian soldiers. What makes you afraid now? The dark, she thought, quailing in spite of herself. The death-face, the cold evil that it stinks of. She backed away, her eyes never leaving it, her arrow taut in the bow. If I kill it, I can defeat it! I will defeat it! If only she had her sword, her clean-silver sword. She remembered coldly Torc’s stubborn thought, Do not kill it, sister! If it dies, you cannot defeat it! But I will defeat it! She shot without waiting or thinking, pinned her arrow through the side into the table with one swift act that released all her fear, that made her predatory again and aggressive. She watched the wraith squirm, heard its scream, thin and faint like a pinioned rabbit; the arrow was deep, it would not loose itself. The wraith struggled against the table, continued to scream, its blood flowing onto the stone floor as it wrenched ineffectually against her arrow. Quickly she ripped the blanket from the bed into strips. She would tie the creature and leave it. If it died of thirst and hunger and loss of blood, she would be well away, where it could not claim her body.

Yet still she was loathe to touch it. If she touched it, would it possess her? Come into her body through her touch and destroy her? She went sick at the thought of handling it, yet knew she must touch it, must tie it, and more: knew she must search for the runestone among the folds of its clothing.

Did it have the stone? What had happened when Ram fell? She could only see in her memory HaGlard with his sword drawn, then the wraith close and attentive. Think of the stone, Skeelie! Find the stone! Had the wraith snatched it up? She tried to touch some sense of that moment from its mind; but the creature shielded and she could see nothing. She stared at it with repulsion and then with resolution. At last she began to tie it, holding her breath against its stench. It was less like a man than a corpse was. Parody of a man. Parody of death. She tied its hands tightly, then twitched a fold of cape aside and felt along the wraith’s body, drew away quickly, sickened. It did not speak, seemed to have lost all desire to speak. Never had she felt such disgust for anything, not even for the dark Seers of Pelli.

At last she forced herself to search its clothing: the folds of cloth, the pockets, and inside the small, once-elegant boots. She found nothing, and turned away retching. The room seemed very close, dank and fetid. Her senses seemed awry, dull and confused, as if something had twisted and warped them. She had to get out of this place, would turn to emptiness if she stayed. She could not bring herself to search further, to examine its body. Grabbing up her pack and bow, she fled the house, bolting the door behind her, jamming the rusted lock through the bolt with relief.

She stood a moment trying to collect herself and put down the sickness, knowing she should go back to search further but unable to do so.

She wandered across a small patch of ground that must once have been Gredillon’s garden, confused and uncertain, not knowing what to do. An ancient zayn tree stood tall and sheltering. Ram had spoken of a young zayn tree standing near the house when he was small. There should be a grave nearby, of the small boy with red-dyed hair who had been disguised as Ram and buried here to deceive HarThass in his search for Ram. She found only an indentation in the earth that might have been a grave, sunken in. The marker would long since have rotted. She felt there was a body here, felt the sense of bones, of pale dust, said a short prayer for that unknown child who had helped Ram to live. Standing beneath the zayn tree, staring up at the mountain, she could almost see young Ram running there, surrounded by foxes. The sense of him in this place was so very strong; the sense of his learning years, the sense of his reaching out to mysteries still beyond him, to skills he meant, stubbornly, to make his own.

Gone, now, that childhood. Gone into Time. And yet it would be a part of Ram always. A part she would hold dear to her.

She turned at last, paused before the bolted door, sensed the wraith with distaste, then headed down the trail that would lead to the city of Zandour, walking fast, wanting now only to put space between herself and that dark shadow. As she walked she suddenly remembered Torc, felt fear for the great wolf. Torc had followed the wraith and the Herebians. Why, then, was she not at Tala-charen? Why had she not killed the Herebians as she had meant to do, then dispose of the wraith? What had happened to her?

But Ram had been there; Torc could not have killed the wraith while it could enter Ram’s body. Still, she would have attacked the Herebians, helped Ram. Skeelie’s pace slowed with her concern for the golden bitch wolf. She stood staring off down the mountain, wondering, worrying.

*

High up Tala-charen, Torc lay looking down the cliff to where Ram stood over the two dead Herebian raiders. Her strength was at low ebb, her body light and weak with loss of blood. The painful arrow in her side prevented her from lying out flat in any semblance of comfort. She must go down to Ram now, he was alone. She rose and started down to him.

But the short journey over rocks, which she should have leaped in moments, was slow and painful, and when at last she came down onto the foot of the mountain, she was nearly too weak to go further. She had not spoken to Ram in her mind, but rather had listened, touching his remorse and fury that the wraith had gone, his worry over Skeelie. His anger at the disappearance of the runestone. His ever-present sadness and yearning for the girl called Telien.

When she reached level ground, she skirted the four horses with sense blocking, so as not to frighten them away, and went to stand beside Ram. He was so preoccupied, standing unheeding over the dead Herebians, that he did not see or sense her. She lay down behind him, watching him, knowing she could be patient for a while longer.

Ram kicked with idle anger at the nearest Herebian arm, pushed the body over with his toe. He knew he should strip the corpses of valuables. There could be jewels, money, things he might well need. He knelt at last and turned one of the bodies so he could feel into its pockets. And as he turned it, he saw a glint of silver beneath its shoulder. He held the body up and stared at the silver handle.

Then he drew Skeelie’s sword out of the blood and dust. Skeelie’s sword! He crouched there holding it, trying to fathom how it had gotten there and could sense nothing. How could Skeelie’s sword be here? How could it have been taken from her, except in death? Only a moment before, he had sensed that Skeelie lived, that the wraith had tracked her through Time. He slipped her sword into his belt, turned, and saw the golden bitch wolf lying awkwardly behind him, the arrow sticking out, her thick coat matted with dried blood.

He knelt, took her face in his hands, tipped water into her parched mouth. He tried to make her more comfortable, then quickly made a fire, sick at the thought of what he must do. He must cut the arrow out, and it was deep. He would need herbs, birdmoss for the healing. Great Eresu, he wished Skeelie were there. The look in the wolf’s golden eyes told him she would be patient, that she trusted him.

Yet he drew the wolf bell from his tunic and held it a moment. It gave him power; perhaps it would give her strength. Perhaps it could help him to numb the pain of the cutting.

Part Two: The Black Lake

From the journal of Tayba of Carriol, written seventeen years after the battle at the Castle of Hape.

The tale of NilokEm is evil and dark and leaves questions unanswered and actions unaccounted for. It is clear that that dark Seer alone escaped the slaughter at the Castle of Hape, escaped from Ramad and from the Seers of Carriol. It is said he hid from battle in the deep woods surrounding the castle, and then, the battle done and the castle burned, he rode at last into Farr. It is told that he remained hidden in Farr until talk of the victory at Hape died away, then came from seclusion to build himself a villa with riches gained from evil magic and cruel trading, an elegant villa in the north of Farr, near to where the river Owdneet comes down. And there, too, he constructed the city that later was named Dal. Folk say that NilokEm used dark magic indeed to find a woman that suited him; that he brought her by magic to Farr. Sure it is he bedded her, for she bore him a Seeing son. But no one knows what became of her, for she was not heard of again, once the son was born. Some whispered that NilokEm destroyed her in a fit of rage. Some said that the day his son was born NilokEm became the possessor of a shard of the runestone of Eresu. And there are tales of a battle in the dark wood to the south of Dal, a battle where warriors appeared from out the stuff of thin air to defeat NilokEm. Some say that one of those warriors bore a strong resemblance to NilokEm, though NilokEm had no kin, only his small son for whom the city Dal was built and named.

It is sworn by some that Ramad, himself, came out of nowhere to fight against the Seer of darkness, and that the great wolves fought beside him; and that Ramad killed the dark Seer. We of Carriol know not the truth of this, for Ram has not returned to us. We can only pray that his life, wherever he moves, has been as he would will it to be.

FIVE

Skeelie moved quickly down the mountain. The dropping sun, a sharp slash of yellow, blurred her view of the trail and of the city below. Then, as she rounded another curve, the sun was hidden, leaving only a line of yellow fire along the edge of the mountain. Ahead of her another trail came winding down in shadow, little more than an animal trail. That trail beckoned her, so she turned at once upon it and began to climb, touched with a spark of excitement, then of promise. She climbed quickly, never doubting that she must, scrambling over loose scree and in between close-set boulders; at the top of a mountain cliff, she stopped surprised, to stare out upon a vast flat plain. Smooth sand, black and fine as silk, glinting in the falling sun, stretched away to a line of misty peaks that formed the jagged edge of the mountain. She was nearly at the top of Scar Mountain, where its ancient crown had been eaten away by wind and rain and time to form this dark, silken desert, unmarked by the print of animal or bird. To her left, at some distance, gleamed a lake blacker than the sand. She made her way toward it.

The sense of Ram’s childhood still clung around her, the aura of the dust-wreathed stone house and the ancient garden. A sense of Ram’s destiny grew stronger now. She looked back only once, was surprised by the line of her own footprints across the silken black sand. How long would that lonely, alien trail mark this place before the mountain’s winds smoothed it away? When she reached the lake, she stood looking down at the clear water over black sand and stones, feeling unaccountably afraid. Then she felt the lake pulling at her, and knew, suddenly, a strong, terrifying desire to enter it.

She was not sure when first she was aware of something stirring around her, of shadows moving subtly across the plain as the shadow of a bird might wing across earth, light and quick, and gone. Did she hear the echo of some sound long vanished? She shivered, and the very air seemed to shift, but when she looked directly anywhere, all was still as before. Yet there was movement at the edges of her vision, movement within her senses, as if she were becoming a part of the fleeting shadows. She knew she must make some decision or she would indeed become a part of those shadows. This time she must choose her own direction or be swept into the meaningless shadows of Time; swept perhaps generations from Ram. She felt so close to him, felt that the thread of his life, picked up like a silken strand there in Gredillon’s house, was leading her. She dared not let it slip away. She stared at the black water and knew what she must do and did not know why, made no sense of it. The water pulled at her, some need was reaching out from beyond it and she could not resist.

She argued with herself for some time. The lake stretched away beyond low hills so she could not see the end of it. Could not see down into its depths beyond the first dark rocks and sand. It would be insanity to swim out into that black, concealing water. What did she imagine she would gain by drowning herself in a pool of black water on top of a mountain in a time she could not identify, and where no one would know she was dead, or care? She stared at the black water defiantly. But she knew she was going to do it and began at last to pull off her boots. Then she stood idle for some time deciding about her clothes. It would be foolish beyond measure to go into unknown water fully dressed, to be made helpless by heavy, wet leathers. Yet the thought of removing her protecting garments was worse.

She undressed at last down to her shift and strapped her scabbard of arrows across her naked shoulders, slung on her bow. The water, as she stepped in, was so cold it made an aching, stifling pain in her legs. Surely she had gone mad. She was soon over her head and swimming strongly; trying in desperation to control her panic. With each stroke, as her face went under water, she opened her eyes to stare about her in fear, but could see only dim shadows. Then, suddenly, when she looked up, it was dark. She was swimming through the night, stars overhead and Ere’s twin moons hanging low over the water, nearly full, reflecting like a second pair of eyes in the black water. There was no sign of land. Some distance ahead, a black tower rose up out of the water, a tall, unlighted tower, silhouetted against the stars. She swallowed, swam toward it, filled with fear.

When she reached the tower she began to circle it, swimming slowly, looking up. It reared above her like some ancient monster risen from unknown depths, hoary with water weed or with some vine that clung to its sides. At one place, high above her head, she could make out a protrusion like a thick door. When she thought she had circled the tower, she grabbed a handful of vines, tugged at them, found them strong, and began to climb, still following that instinctive Seer’s sense of inevitability; and following, too, the only way of escape from the icy water. She climbed until she was out of breath, then clung there shivering. Now she could see the black shapes of hills against the starry sky. There was no sound from within the tower. She pulled herself higher, came to a tiny window and stared in, could see a glint of white, but nothing more. She climbed again, half-naked, cold, wishing for her clothes, her lantern, her sword. Wishing herself home in Carriol, warm and safe in her bed.

She could see high above her a tiny balcony, hardly more than a ledge. By the time she reached it she was warmer, and her shift had begun to dry. She pulled herself up onto it and found she was facing a little barred window. When the wind hit her, she felt cold again. She huddled on the ledge and peered through the bars into the dim stone room. She could see nothing at first but a window directly across from her, where stars shone, a similar window to her left and another to her right. Four windows spaced equally around the circular room. Then she began to make out the room itself. A cot, a chest, a small table, a stool. There was a darker shadow across the cot, like a sleeping figure. As the moons rose higher, she could see the cot better. Yes, someone slept there, long pale hair spilling across the cover.

.The figure sighed and stirred, so her face was caught in moonlight. Skeelie’s emotions pitched, her fists so tight around the bars her knuckles went white. Telien? Was it Telien? Without meaning to, she breathed the name, harsh against the night’s silence.

The girl twisted up suddenly, with drawn breath, raised up to face the window; “Who spoke—who?” Slowly she put one bare foot from under the blankets onto the stone floor, then the other foot, almost as if she moved in a dream. She seemed unafraid—or perhaps beyond fear. She came hesitantly toward the window, peering against the faint moonlight. Then she caught her breath. “There is someone! I thought it was a dream. How . . .?” She stared at Skeelie, then reached out through the bars in a frenzy. “How did you . . .? Why, I know you! I remember! Skeelie? Is it Skeelie?” Telien knelt on the sill clutching Skeelie close, pulling her into the bars with more strength than one would think she possessed, pressing her face against Skeelie through the bars in an agony of need for warmth, for human contact. Skeelie touched the cold, thin cheek, felt deep hollows where there had been none. She held Telien against her through the bars for a long time while Telien cried silently, shivering. When Telien raised her face at last, the moonlight caught across little lines around her mouth and on her brow. Her hair was no longer golden, but as pale a color as the moons. Skeelie shuddered. How long had Telien been in this place? Why was she here? The girl’s confusion, her trembling emotion blurred any sense Skeelie might have taken from her, any answers she might have found.

At last Telien raised her face and stared at Skeelie’s near nakedness as if she had just perceived it. Then she rose and drew her blanket from the bed, thrusting it through the bars in a gesture that touched Skeelie terribly.

They had been close once, when Telien was first lost in Time and had cried out to her in spirit, had, in her tumbling frantic flight through ages, needed Skeelie badly. “I wished for you, Skeelie. For a long time after I could no longer feel you in my thoughts, I wished you would come back. But you never did. After a while I stopped wishing.”

“I could not. It—the power faded. How long has it been for you, Telien? How many years?” It was only days since Skeelie had left the caves of Owdneet, but surely Telien was years older. She could not understand the warping of Time.

“I don’t know how long. My—my baby was born four years after the battle at the Castle of Hape. I have been here nearly since then. I have lost count of years.”

“Your—baby?” Skeelie’s voice trembled. Whose baby? Ram’s baby?

“My baby . . .” Telien’s eyes were dark and huge with her sadness. “I don’t want Ram ever to learn of my baby. I—could not face Ramad now. My baby is the child of the dark Seer, Skeelie. The child of NilokEm, who escaped from the battle at the Castle of Hape. My child—my child has the blood of the dark Seers.

“Ni-NilokEm brought me to him out of Time, I do not know how. I was suddenly standing in the garden of his villa. He . . . I bore NilokEm’s child, and then—then my baby was taken from me.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I don’t know. It was winter when NilokEm locked me here. I think—perhaps four more winters have passed since then. Four winters. It is fall now, I can see color changing on the hills. I lived in his villa for more than a year. Six— six years, then, since I first stood in the garden of NilokEm’s villa, terrified of him.”

Six years. Skeelie’s head spun. How could the number of days each had lived since they left their own time be different? Six years for Telien, a matter of days for herself.

“Six years since Ramad held me on that windswept mountain. Six years since the huge trees turned suddenly to small saplings, and then we were torn apart. I was alone, Ram was gone in that dark, terrible storm of Time. I have tried not to remember. When that wild storm stopped and all was still, I was in an elegant courtyard, and a man stood watching me, a tall, thin man, stooped, with pale skin and thin dark hair. He terrified me, his look—I knew he was a Seer. I was so afraid of him, I turned to run and saw the gates were bolted with great iron locks. I turned again and would have run through the rooms where a side door opened, but he grabbed me and held me, and . . .

“He—he knew my name without my telling him. He took me to wife.” She turned her face away. “I hoped Ram would come, would find me. I was kept locked inside or, if I was let to go about the grounds, I was guarded. I tried to make friends with the guards, hoping they would help me. I had nothing to bribe them with. They were not friendly, they were afraid of NilokEm. I tried to slip back into Time, but I did not know how. I carry the starfire still, but I do not know how to use it. It confuses and upsets me. I have no Seer’s powers. I have never known what its power was, but I kept it hidden from NilokEm. I thought sometimes he sensed its power but didn’t know what he sensed. I was a prisoner, more confined than when I was watched so constantly in my father’s village. I have never understood why NilokEm wanted me, why he called me out of Time. I would not want to see Ram now. But . . . Is Ram safe?”

“He is safe. Somewhere . . .”

“If he knew I had lain with a dark Seer, that I bore that Seer’s child . . .When—when NilokEm knew I was with child, he locked me in my room so I could not run away. He kept me there until Dal was born, kept us locked in afterward with a nurse, a mute woman.

“When Dal was weaned, NilokEm took him away from me. He said my baby would be raised in the villa, and he had me brought here to this tower and locked in. A servant brings me food once a week.”

“But why—why does he hate you so? And if he hates you, why does he keep you alive? He could have—”

“Because of the runestone.”

Skeelie stared at her. “The runestone you brought out of Tala-charen,” she said slowly.

“NilokEm is convinced that I have it, that he can sense its power. But I don’t, Skeelie. It is lost. I don’t know where. I can’t remember where. After that moment on Tala-charen, I was so tired, so confused. I can’t remember what happened to it. There was darkness. I can remember sleeping, and then afterward it was gone. But I remember something, Skeelie. I remember clearly that on Tala-charen, at the moment of the splitting of the stone, I saw NilokEm.”

“NilokEm? I don’t—at the moment of the splitting?”

“He was there, in Tala-charen. Holding a shard of the stone in his cupped hands, hunkering over it, and then gone, faded just as I faded.

“Skeelie, NilokEm possesses a shard of the runestone of Eresu.

“When I first stood in his villa, I knew I had seen him but I could never remember where. Then, just after Dal was born, NilokEm was standing in my room looking down at Dal, and suddenly he disappeared.

“He appeared again in a moment, holding the runestone in his cupped hands, staring at it with amazement, his cheeks flaming red the way he gets when he is terribly excited, eager for something. He . . . I was so tired, dizzy, and confused. I couldn’t believe he held a shard of the runestone. I couldn’t understand what had happened, not then. I only knew he had come into the birthing room wanting to see his heir, then disappeared, then appeared again. When he—when he returned, he stared at me almost with wonder, forgot himself, he was so excited at having the stone. But he had seen me there on Tala-charen, and soon his look turned to terrible fury. I didn’t understand what he was saying. He kept shouting. ‘That is the secret you harbor! That is the secret!’ over and over. He stared at me with terrible hatred. I pulled Dal close and thought he would kill us both. He said, ‘That is the power I felt in you! That is why I chose you, because the power of the runestone is on you! You carry a runestone of Eresu! You were there on Tala-charen!’ He was clutching the runestone in his hand; he held it up flashing green in the lamplight and shouted, ‘This one is my stone! But you carry a shard of the runestone, and I will have it!’ He didn’t even notice his son. He was . . . he terrified me.”

Skeelie held Telien against her, the bars hurting them. The wind came cold; the steel bars were cold as ice.

“He wouldn’t believe I didn’t have the stone, that I have no Seer’s powers. I told him over and over I had no power, that I had lost the stone, and truly, I don’t know where it is. He beat me, he took Dal from me and knocked me down. Took . . . took Dal away . . .” Her tears caught light, trickling. “But then Dal would not nurse another, they could not find a wet-nurse he would take, so NilokEm had him sent back to me. He swore that when Dal was weaned he would lock me in this tower and leave me here until I told him where the stone is or until I died. But I cannot remember where, I cannot! He beat me over and over. I don’t know why he didn’t kill me, except he truly believes that one day I will tell him. He wants two runestones; he wants them all. His greed for power—”

“But where . . .?”

“I do not know where. It is lost somewhere in Time. All of that is confusion to me now, is only a dark dream that comes sometimes so I wake screaming. A churning dream, everything flowing and warping together, one voice drowning another. I can make nothing come clear, Skeelie. I think there is darkness around the stone. I am almost able to remember sometimes, then it is gone. A woman cries out, horses come thundering, there is blood, all so mixed-up, so . . .” She was weeping again, silently, into her hands.

Skeelie pulled her close. They clung so, in silence, warming each other, the bars pressing between them, Skeelie knowing Telien’s pain and fear and confusion and not understanding how to help her. Skeelie anticipating Ram’s terrible hurt when he learned at last that Telien had borne the son of NilokEm.

She felt awe of the power with which the stone shaped the lives it had touched. How different their lives would be if none of them had ever held the runestone. Why had each of them been drawn to it? And how?

Why, for that matter, was the wraith drawn to it? Had the wraith, too, touched the runestone at some distant time and been ever after drawn greedily back to it?

Had the runestone, then, as much power to offer those of evil as it had to those who battled evil? But of course it did, the very splitting of the stone had come from the violent battling between forces of the light and the dark so evenly balanced, so cataclysmic, that they tore asunder all Time for one blinding instant.

And because he sensed the aura of the stone around Telien, NilokEm had brought her to this time to breed into his heir the power he had thought she held. Skeelie remembered suddenly, startled, what old Gravan had said. The goatherd’s voice echoed like a shout in her mind. Many think NilokEm died, lady, by the hand of Ramad of wolves. His words pounded over and over. By the hand of Ramad. By the hand of Ramad.

“Telien, where is NilokEm?”

“In the villa, I suppose. He never comes here. Skeelie, I felt so helpless, moving through Time I don’t know how far, then being pulled back so close to our own time, but unable to reach our time. When I found myself in NilokEm’s garden, it was only three years after the battle of the Castle of Hape. But I could not reach that time. I could not reach Ram. . . .”

Skeelie remained silent. Three years—and six more years had passed since Telien stood in that garden. Nine years . . . Old Gravan’s words were like a shout in her head. Some say NilokEm died, lady, by the hand of Ramad— Ramad returned nine years after the battle of the Castle of Hape and killed the last dark Seer.

This year, this time, was nine years after the fall of the Castle of Hape. Skeelie wanted to say, Ram will kill him, Ram will kill NilokEm. She stared at Telien, a dozen emotions, a dozen thoughts assailing her, and she could not say it; but a thought like ice gripped her: Ram would kill NilokEm if nothing happened, if Time did not warp into a new and unpredicted pattern.

What power might NilokEm hold over Ram with the runestone he held, if Ram did not also carry a shard of the jade? Power enough to change a prediction? And in the meantime, before that prediction came to pass—if it came to pass—what evil deeds would NilokEm accomplish, using the runestone of Eresu?

At least, if Ram were to be cast into this time to battle NilokEm, he need not find Telien captive. He could find her safe, free of this dark tower. Skeelie clung to the bars, the cold wind biting at her, and tried to form some plan. Telien leaned against her nearly asleep, sighing deep inside herself as if her spirit felt quite safe now that Skeelie was there. When Skeelie moved, to stare down the side of the tower, Telien woke suddenly and clung fast to her, “You aren’t going away? I thought . . .”

“I am right here. Where would I go? Telien—how do they bring food to you?”

“There is a drawbridge on the other side. I can see it when they let it down. I can go down there into the lower chamber, to empty my chamber pot. Down past the cells with the bones of men in them. The messenger leaves food down there for me. I can hear him let the bridge down, then hear him walking across it. The hooves of his horse make a hollow sound. I can hear the lock to the inner door rattle, then it opens. I know every movement by the sound. He shouts and leaves the food and goes away again. He has never spoken to me, except for that brutal shout. I wait on the narrow stone stair until he is gone. I always hear him coming and know it is another week.”

Skeelie felt sick. She turned away to examine the narrow balcony, though she already knew it ended abruptly and there was no way to get around the tower to the other side except to swim, or to climb along the vines. The top of the tower was high above, and she could see, leaning out, that the vines ended far short of it. She stared below her again. “I saw a small window climbing up here. It was barred. Are there others?”

“There are six. All little, and all barred. You can see them in the lower cells. I tried to dig the bars away in many places, but . . .”

Skeelie saw where Telien had dug into the dragon-bone mortar and had a sudden quick image of Telien’s spoon, ragged and bent from digging. Who knew how deep the bars were set into the mortar? She shook one, then another, then dug with the tip of an arrow. The mortar was nearly as hard as rock. At last she settled her scabbard and bow more comfortably across her shoulders and felt down with her bare toes to find a foothold in the vine. “I will try to reach the drawbridge,” she said shortly. The idea of climbing again above the dark water did not enchant her. Telien touched her shoulder, wanting her to stay. Skeelie wriggled her foot into the vines, reached farther with her other foot, swung out, ignoring Telien’s need. The girl began to talk rapidly, as if to keep Skeelie there, though Skeelie was already away. Skeelie wished she would be still. “The vine will hold you, Skeelie. It is thick on the banks of the lake, you’ll see when it is morning. It grows inside the cells, lower down. Where it was not cut away, it grows right over the white bones of dead men—”

‘Telien, take your blanket and go around to the next window. Tie it to the bars, and tie another on if you have it. Find a stick, something to push the blanket to me if I tell you, if the vine grows thin.” Anything to keep Telien occupied. Skeelie gripped the vine harder, swung away to her left, jolting the breath out of herself, clung there cold and fearful, gripping vine with her toes. Great Eresu, she wished she were home. She swung on around, reaching and clutching, until at last she saw the blanket hanging just ahead. Above, Telien’s white fingers gripped around it where she had reached out through the bars. “You can move the blanket on, I’m all right this far.” The blanket jiggled, then made its way upward until the end of it slid over the ledge. Skeelie worked herself on around, feeling out blindly, gripping, clinging, not wanting to look down at the far black water.

She came to the blanket again, feeling as if she might be destined to repeat this action forever, to look up innumerable times to see Telien’s white face above her. She pulled herself on around the tower, came to the blanket a third time and, when she looked down, could see a thin silver line crossing over the dark lake, crossing to the shore. A rope? She could see the vine crowding along the shore in thick clumps as if it had climbed over itself again and again reaching for the sky. She made her way downward until she came to the rope where it was fastened into the stone wall of the tower beside a tall slab of wood like a huge door: the wooden drawbridge pulled up against the wall of the tower.

She felt among the vines until she had located the pulley system, then began to haul on the rope. It was awkward, holding herself to the vine with one hand and pulling with the other. But at last the drawbridge began to lower toward the far bank. She clung, resting finally, as its own weight pulled it on down. And it was then, as she rested, that the sense of men drawing near made itself heard in her mind. She clung there cold and aching, very tired, knowing that riders approached. Herebian warriors. And a dark Seer among them.

And did something else move with them? A shadow darker even than NilokEm? A shadow that was death itself, come there seeking? Did it follow NilokEm’s runestone?

She saw clearly for a moment, in a cold vision, dark, thin NilokEm, heavy-robed against the night air, riding across open meadows with three dozen warriors at his side, riding hard and silently and less than an hour away. They had warning of her: NilokEm knew she was at the tower.

And then she sensed another rider moving through the wood. Her heart raised with hope. A friend? But as she clung shivering and feeling out to him, she knew he was not a friend.

This was the regular messenger, bringing Telien’s food, sent out before Skeelie came to the tower, before NilokEm was aware of her there.

The messenger would bring the food and leave. NilokEm and his band meant to stay long enough to see that Skeelie would never leave the tower alive, for they knew her for a Seer. But the wraith intended that she live. Following its own purposes, suffering from festering wounds in a sick body, it sought like a beast of prey for a new body. She felt that its will and its power had strengthened. Why? Did it carry the runestone that should have been Ram’s and draw strength somehow from the jade? A tremor touched her. Her hands shook. The wraith meant to find a new home for the bodiless evil that was all that remained of a thing once human. Its intent, cold seeking filled her. It meant that she would leave the tower alive and soulless, empty inside herself save for its own presence. But why her? Why not NilokEm? NilokEm, too, was a Seer. Did the fact that he carried a runestone make him too powerful for the wraith to overcome? Or did she, by her friendship with Ram, who had held the stone at its splitting and who surely was destined to join together that stone, if ever that should happen, did she through that friendship present some even more compelling scent to the weasel-like wraith?

SIX

Torc lay before Ram’s fire, her shoulder bandaged, her eyes closed in a deep, dreamless sleep. Ram crouched on the other side of the fire, exhausted, his hands stained with her blood, the Herebian arrow lying at his feet. The strength of his mind-power over the bitch wolf, giving her blessed sleep, was all that had enabled him to cut so deeply into her shoulder. He kept the shadows heavy on her mind, now, for she needed rest. He wished they could both sleep, but was afraid that without the spell she would wake and the pain would be too great.

He kept her so for several days, her mind shadowed into sleep against the pain, her wound packed with birdmoss, which he gathered along the banks of a small, fast stream. He hunted for the two of them, let her wake sufficiently to eat. Took his own rest in short, fitful periods. He had hobbled the four Herebian mounts, though he meant to turn all but one loose when at last Torc was able to travel. If he did not suddenly disappear from this meadow, leaving the hobbled horses, and also leaving Torc to travel alone.

By the fifth day she was well enough so she needed no more spells for sleeping. Ram slept the night around and sat beside her the next morning much improved, roasting rock hares over the coals. He had stripped the Herebians of their valuables and buried the bodies beneath stones at the base of the mountain, wishing he were burying the wraith with its dark soul intact in it. Skeelie’s sword hung from his belt. The bitch wolf watched him now, across a fire gone nearly invisible in the bright morning sun. Her golden eyes were steady, but her thoughts were drawn away in some private vision that she did not share with him. He reached to lay more wood on the coals, and suddenly her thought hit him quick and surprising, jarring him so he dropped the wood, making the fire spark wildly. “What, Torc?” He stared at the golden bitch, her head lifted regally, watching him. “What did you say, Torc?”

Why is the wraith linked to Anchorstar? She repeated. Do you not feel it, Ramad? I see it as if in some future time; I see the wraith feeding on the pain of young Seers still as death. All in the future, Ramad. And Anchorstar is there.

Ram turned the rock hares with a shaking hand. Fat dripped down to make the flames leap anew, smoke twisting against sunlight. “Why is he there, Torc? As victim of the wraith? Or—as accomplice?”

As victim, Ramad. Sleeping, drugged, as close to death as those young Seers.

He breathed easier. He would not have liked betrayal by Anchorstar, would not have liked betrayal by his own senses in trusting Anchorstar so implicitly. He took from his pocket the three starfires that Anchorstar had given him and held them near the flame, watched them catch dark green streaks within, then turn to amber once more. He looked up at Torc, squinting against the sun. “Is your vision a true one?”

As true as any vision of future time can be, Ramad of wolves.

“If it is so, then Anchorstar will need all the power he can muster.” He touched the starfires. “I do not see what the future holds for Anchorstar, but I know he suffers deep within. I have never plumbed those depths, nor do I understand Anchorstar well. I hope that by giving me the starfires he has not weakened his own power. If I could help him, there in that future time, I would do so. I would give back the starfires if it would help.”

The starfires are a treasured gift, Ramad.

“Though they have little power, I think, other than to move through Time. Strange stones, Torc. I cannot guide my fall through Time by them, yet I feel their power in the very warping that Time makes. Sometimes I feel, like Anchorstar, that I should cast them away.”

I would not, Ramad. You could do great harm by that. All is linked. All. The starfires, Anchorstar, the wraith, Skeelie—more than you know. Telien is linked to all of it.

“Linked—how? You have taken a prophetic turn, Torc.”

I do not know how. I only see it. Lying here half in fog, mesmerized by your Seer’s skills, Ramad—visions came. Sweeping senses like the gray fog swirling up, and then gone. No reason to it. Only the sense of it, a sense of purposeful linking, of creatures touching across Time, meeting across Time in some meaning and purpose I do not comprehend. A sense of your lady, Telien, linked to all of it.

Telien. He saw her face in a memory filled with pain, her green eyes clear as the sea. Was it memory or vision? His emotions and his longing for Telien were so raw he could never be sure. Perhaps memory and vision muddled together; but now he sensed her in a time long past. He was very sure of that suddenly. Had she returned to their own time? He saw danger around her, saw cruelty touch her, a vision immersed in darkness, filled with agony. He reached out his hand involuntarily, and burned his fingers in the fire, then sat staring morosely at the flame. Torc watched him in silence.

When he looked up at last, he was tense with purpose. “I must be with her, Torc. Somehow, I must. She is in need. When I try to reach out, nothing comes. The starfires do not help me, never help me. But I know she is in need.”

And there was another vision that touched him, puzzling him, seemed to be linked to Telien, though he could not understand how. A young Seer reached out to him in dreams, a young redheaded man with clear blue eyes. And something, perhaps the turn of his cheek, so like Telien that Ram could not forget his face; a young Seer reaching out of Time to speak to him not in words but with a need that Ram knew he must at last acknowledge. There was surely a linking between them, they were creatures linked across Time somehow. But what was that linking? And how was Telien a part of this? The young Seer seemed to hold in his mind repeated visions of Ram and the wolves fighting beside him; as if he needed Ram, would purposely draw him into another time and yet another battle if he could. As he had been drawn into Macmen’s battle. And did that other Seer hold a runestone, just as Macmen had? Ram dared not dream that he did. Yet he sensed a power that the young, untrained Seer seemed to wield with little assurance. Ram knew he must reach out to him, that it was not only Telien he must seek—though it was Telien his seeking spirit longed for. He looked across at Torc. Who was this young Seer who beckoned to him now? Torc watched him in silence, seeing his thoughts with sympathy. And, feeling her kindness, his longing for Fawdref and Rhymannie and their pack came sudden and sharp. “They have not been with me, Torc. Fawdref and Rhymannie were swept away even as I was, into Time. The rest of the pack was not with us, might still be in our own time, I do not know.”

They are not in our time, Ramad. The pack did not return to the mountain after the battle at the Castle of Hape. I was not with the pack when they attacked the castle, I was in the whelping dens, awaiting my cubs. She paused, then went on. The pack did not return there. But I know that my mate was killed, battling at the Castle of Hape. He spoke clearly in my mind then. Spoke of private things. They—the band will be with you, Ramad, if they are needed. Call them. Speak to them with the bell. Fawdref is growing old. He needs you, now, as much as you need him.

*

Hermeth saw the enemy driven back, saw his men resting from battle where they had fallen, where tired horses had stopped to blow. Soldiers began to sponge away blood with water from their waterskins, dressing the wounds of their animals before they tended themselves and their brothers. He ached with fatigue, with remorse at the waste of war, stared out across the near-dark remains of what had so recently been farm buildings, milking pens, now only smoking rubble peopled with the corpses of horses and men. Waste, desolation, just as his father before him had known at the hands of the Herebian raiders—at the hands of dark Seers Macmen thought he had destroyed in his last great battle, the year that Hermeth himself was born. Hermeth sighed and considered the desolation before him with some sense of victory, for they had driven the bastards back, had sent a fresh battalion to pursue them on good mounts, to slaughter every Herebian son of . . . He lowered his head suddenly and clenched his eyes closed as another vision swept him. The battlefield disappeared; he saw a wolf again, only one wolf this time. A golden bitch wolf with golden eyes reflecting the light of a campfire. Across from her sat the dark-eyed Seer he saw each time a vision came. He was leaning to turn roasting rock hares, his red hair so bright in the morning sun it seemed to dim the firelight. The wolf wore some sort of poultice on her shoulder. The young Seer wore two swords now, one with a carved silver hilt. The vision faded slowly, firelight and sunlight filtering together until it dazzled his eyes; and the figures were gone.

Why did such visions haunt him? He had never in his life had visions; his Seer’s skills had never been strong. These visions were so real he could smell the fire and the roasting rock hares, and feel the cold breeze. Feel sharply his need to speak to that Seer. Surely there was a meaning, surely it was the runestone he carried that made such power in him. But why did it do so now, when it never had before? Did the runestone itself have some mysterious link to that young, dark-eyed Seer?

Hermeth knew his skills had come stronger since his visions began. The conjuring he had laid upon the sheep pastures, to deceive the rabble raiders, had been more than satisfying; that memory still left him with a shock of surprise that he had been capable of such. And his power seemed linked to the other Seer; he felt that they were meant somehow to stand together in battle, though he could not divine the reason. Had that, too, to do with the stone? He felt increasingly that he needed that other Seer in a battle yet to come. He stared into the thickening dark, puzzling. A fitful wind touched his cheek, blowing down from the high deserts that rose above the rim, and he seemed to touch a sudden and desolate sense of space, of eternity, that dizzied him, made him draw back, want human company. He turned away toward the cookfires where his men were tending their wounds, knelt beside a young soldier and took the bandage from his hands, began to wrap the boy’s arm. When he looked up at last, the cast of firelight caught his men’s faces in a quiet brotherhood that stirred him deeply, the brotherhood of soldiers who knew they might die together, soldiers who fought together fiercely.

Wars had flared, died, moved across the coastal countries like a series of sudden storms, the raiders appearing in one place then disappearing suddenly. Sly, clever bands took shelter in the rough hills and woods, then slipped out to leave families dead and crops and homes destroyed. Slowly then the Herebian bands, provisioned from what they did not destroy and armed anew, drew ever closer to the ruling city of Zandour. So far they had been thwarted in Sangur and Aybil and Farr, or sometimes set one against the other when Hermeth could conjure friction and quarrels through a few trusted men who traveled among the enemy troops. This close, efficient network of spies was the first such in Ere since Carriol had come to power and, after the battle of Hape, sent out small cadres across Ere as protection against the dark Seers rising anew.

Though Carriol herself had changed her ways more than a generation ago and now spent her Seer’s powers—so much less without the runestone that Ramad had wielded, countless years back in her history—to hold solid her own borders, protecting those who would come to her for sanctuary, but letting the rest of Ere fend as best it could.

And now the sons of the dark twins, street-bred sons of whores, drew closer upon Zandour in these small, agile bands, easily lost among the hills and woods, impossible to track sometimes, except by Seeing. And Hermeth’s small handful of Seers was not omniscient. Seers tire, too. Seers grow weary in war and, grown weary, become uncertain in their skills.

He remembered with satisfaction that time in Aybil, in the curve of the bay nearest to the sunken island of Dogda, when he had laid a vision-trap that brought forty Herebian warriors down upon what they thought were sheep farmers and turned out to be soldiers herding boulders. That was a victory. But his skill of vision-making was uneven, and not often to be relied upon.

He thought of the power that that other Seer must wield. He coveted that power, not for himself, but to win this cursed war; envied the strength of mind he sensed in that Seer, was drawn to that young man who could command the great wolves and, most likely, command the powers of a runestone with none of his own hesitation. At times the stone would not work for him at all. He would feel a darkness then, a shadow around him; and the runestone would be lifeless in his hands so the visions would not come, let alone any illusion-making.

Then the veil would lift, and visions would come sharply. He would imagine that Seer and a great band of wolves fighting by his side, defeating the street Seers of Pelli. Was that Seer heir to Ramad, who had lived at the time of the Hape? Surely he must carry the wolf bell that had belonged to Ramad, for how else could he wield power over the great wolves? Hermeth scowled, puzzling. He thought of his father and the story of his victory over the dark twins. A mysterious warrior had fought by Macmen’s side. A warrior commanding wolves and believed by many in Zandour to have been Ramad of wolves come mysteriously across Time. Macmen’s own stories, when Hermeth was small—before Macmen died in Hermeth’s sixth year—had named that warrior Ramad. But mustn’t he in truth have been the grandson of Ramad, also named Ramad? The stories were garbled and unclear. The original Ramad had battled NilokEm nine years after the battle of the Castle of Hape, nearly ninety years gone in Ere’s past.

Hermeth felt overwhelmed with questions. It would make no sense for a vision to come to him of the original Ramad, long dead. Not when he envisioned so clearly that Seer fighting beside him. Could the redheaded Seer of his visions be the son of the second Ramad, son of the Ramad who had fought by Macmen’s side? Was this young man drawn to him now by the ties that their two sires had known on the battlefield?

*

When she had the drawbridge down, Skeelie found that an arrow was of little use in trying to undo the great iron lock on the door. Only the tip of the blade would go in, and the hasp was long and well set into the wood. It was hard to work by moonlight. She fiddled with the hinges, found one somewhat loose where the wood was softer. The panic of the closely approaching rider made her nervy, and she was fearful of the large band of riders farther off. Carefully, but with trembling hands, she began to dig out the hinge.

She hacked at the wood, dug, carved at it until at last she was able to work her arrow tip under and pry the hinge loose. When it came free, she began working on the lower one, which seemed solid indeed. She listened with growing tension for the galloping messenger, tried to plan what to do, swore at the lower hinge, which was set into the wood as if it had grown there.

She heard him before she had made even a dent in the wood. Exasperated, fearful, she drew back into the shadow of the door, her arrow taut in the bow.

He drew up his horse at the far bank and sat staring across, filled with apprehension, gazing into the shadows of the tower searching for the intruders who had lowered the drawbridge. Could he see her? The angle of the moons left only deep shadow where she stood, but some light came from the star-washed sky. She hardly breathed.

At last, with drawn sword, he urged his horse onto the bridge, approaching slowly and deliberately. The horse’s hooves struck hollow echoes. Skeelie knew the horse smelled her, could feel it tensed to shy. She soothed its mind until it calmed and came on quietly. Then when it was nearly on top of her she leaped out, shouting and waving her arms. The good animal screamed in terror and spun, nearly went over backward in its panic, dumped its rider and stepped on his arm as it lost its footing and fought to avoid the lake. It righted itself, then hammered away across the bridge and disappeared into the wood.

The rider half rose, groaning; crouched facing Skeelie, her drawn arrow inches from his face.

“Get up, soldier.”

He rose, staring at her with fury.

“Unlock the door. Hurry.”

He fumbled with the key, pushed it into the lock with shaking hands, got the door open at last, pushed it to. The cell room was dimly lit where moonlight crept through small cell windows. Barred cells rose all around, tier upon tier, with a winding stairway like a great snake leading up.

“Go in ahead of me. Stand in the center of the room. Where is the food?”

He stood in the moonlight facing her, dropped a leather pouch at his feet.

“Unsling your bow and your arrows and drop them. Your knife. Then step away from them, over by that cell.”

The man stared at the cell, then glanced at his knife still in the scabbard. She raised her arrow a quarter inch and drew her bow tauter. He removed the knife and dropped it.

“Now take your leathers off. Take your boots off. Toss them here. And the key.”

He stared at her with fury. At last he began to peel off his fighting leathers. She heard the key clink at her feet. When he was stripped to graying undergarments, she nodded toward the cell and he, docile now in his near nakedness, went into it. She gestured, and he pushed the door closed. “You would not leave me, miss. Not to starve, not to die of thirst here. . . .”

“There are riders coming. They will set you free. If they find you.” Skeelie saw Telien then on the narrow stair that led to the top of the tower. “There is a horse, Telien, go catch it; you are good with horses. Take—take his knife and bow.” She thought Telien would be afraid, would refuse. But the thin girl did as she was bid quickly, taking up the weapons and slipping out the door and across the wooden bridge soundlessly in her bare feet. Skeelie fitted the key to the cell door. “Miss, don’t lock me in here. I was only—I didn’t hurt her, I was only bringing her food.”

Skeelie locked the door and rattled it, gave the messenger a cold look, pulled on his leathers, all too big for her, rolled up the pants, the sleeves. She put on the boots, but they were impossible. She took them off again and tossed them into a locked cell halfway up the hall. She could see white bones in some of the cells.

She left the tower, locked the door behind her, pocketed the key, and ran noiselessly across the drawbridge. Her heart had begun to pound again, in a panic with the closeness of the riders. She found the rope, pulled the drawbridge up, straining with its weight. Then she stood silent, reaching out to Telien. Yes, there—she ran, her heart like a hammer, toward where Telien held the big Herebian mount on short rein among the black trees. Good girl! She was mounted, gave Skeelie a hand up, and they were off at a gallop across the soft carpet of leaves. “West,” Skeelie whispered. “They come, NilokEm comes at us from the north.” The moons were dropping down, would be behind the hills soon. Already in the east the sky above the trees was growing gray.

*

Hermeth’s soldiers pinned one cadre of the rabble invaders against a cliff and slaughtered them, but the main army melted away into the hills, and there hid waiting for dusk. Hermeth sent a rider fast across the hills to bring additional troops from out the sheep fields and farms, to raise a new wave of attack. Then he climbed alone up the high hill beside which his armies were camped, stood staring down across the green valley, cast in shadow now as the sun fell. Far out on the meadows the night patrol circled in silence. Behind him, on the far side of the hill, two sentries stood shielded among boulders watching the darkening plains, and below, his men were building supper fires, tending the wounded, caring for the mounts. An army resting after battle, a scene so often repeated it sickened him. He was sick of fighting, wanted it over with, wanted to see his men marching home freed at last from the Pellian menace, from the Pellian greed for land and riches, freed to live in peace as men were meant to live. His hatred of the rabble Seers burned inside him, a festering hatred of men who could think of nothing but attack and theft and killing. Now, only Farr lay between his troops and Pelli itself. Farr where half the country held allegiance to the dark street rabble. Though the other half would stand with Zandour, if need be.

And there might be need. If he could destroy this army he followed, he could break the back of the Pellian rabble. He felt the sense of the rabble Seers leading them. Only a handful, but strong in their skills; and they wanted the runestone above all else; they lusted for it harder than they lusted to rape and burn and kill.

Alone on the hilltop as evening fell, he tried to reach out across space, across elements he little understood. He needed that other Seer’s power to help him now, that Seer who commanded such skill with the wolf bell and would surely wield the power of the runestone better than ever he could himself. He felt sometimes, with the stone he carried, like a child trying to learn speech, and no one to teach him the words. He needed power now against the rabble leaders, for if they were not destroyed soon, perhaps they would grow so strong that Zandour would never be free of them. One handful of greedy street waifs risen to such strength. One handful drawing to them every lusting Herebian raider they could muster and holding them with promises of power.

He slipped the runestone from his tunic, held it so it caught the last light of the vanished sun. This runestone, which their common ancestor had commanded: NilokEm, from whose seed both Hermeth, himself, and the dark street rabble had sprung. He wondered fleetingly who that unnamed woman, his great-grandmother, had been who had borne their common grandfather then disappeared so mysteriously.

He watched night fall around him, watched the supper fires die at the base of the hill and his men roll into their blankets, to sleep exhausted. The guards circled in the thickening dark; then he felt the darkness shift and felt unfamiliar shadows move upon the hill, felt the sense of expectancy that foreshadowed the appearance of a vision, stood staring eagerly into the darkness, clutching the runestone, and felt rather than saw the shadow standing tall with the great wolf beside him. But then the figures were gone again as if they had never been, and the hills curved empty in the deepening night.

At long last Hermeth went down to his men, heavy with disappointment.

*

Ram sensed the other’s presence, then felt a lulling emptiness as if that other Seer had turned and gone away into shifting shadows. He stood beside Torc, with his hand on her shoulder, where she had risen at the first sense of the vision. They waited, he, tense and expectant, and at last the shadows came strong again, the familiar shifting of earth and sky, and he and Torc stood suddenly upon a hill watching a figure descend to where campfires flickered in the night, where men slept with weapons by their sides, exhausted from battle. He stood looking down the hill, filled with the sense of a meeting imminent, of a power between himself and that receding figure. Why? Did that Seer carry a shard of the runestone? The sense of such power was strong. He saw in his mind the young man’s face, the turn of his cheek so like Telien. Pale brows, sandy lashes like Telien’s. But was there another resemblance, too? Or did he only imagine the likeness to Macmen?

Macmen had stood quietly after defeating his twin brothers, holding with reverence the runestone that he had won from them. Macmen—the square face, the square cut to his chin very like this young man. Though Macmen’s coloring was darker.

In what time was this hill on which he now stood? In what time did this young man live? Ram sensed a pattern intricate and all powerful, a pattern that seemed woven of the powers of mind and earth, equally awing him. Macmen’s son had been born in the year Ram fought beside Macmen. Macmen’s son . . .

The sense of that pattern vanished, leaving him taut with desire for the hidden answers it held. He stood watching the redheaded figure moving now among the troops. Torc pressed close to his side. That is what I felt, Ramad, that sense of a linking, of creatures and powers touching. But wait—there are others with us. Ram could feel Torc’s pleasure, then felt other bodies against his legs, and the great wolves were pushing all around him in wild confusion. He nearly shouted with delight, knelt to embrace them, their wild reality leaping into crazy joy. He hugged Fawdref, felt the great wolf take his hand between killer’s teeth, pressing gently. Rhymannie nuzzled him, the wolves pushed at him, nearly toppling him in their delight. He was drowning in a sea of wolves, delirious; huge shaggy bodies pressing and licking with wolfish humor as they bit and pushed and nuzzled.

When he rose at last and glanced down the hill, he saw the figure standing below staring up at them, felt the young Seer’s wonder. Then the man climbed quickly, and stood before him at last, caught in silence. The moonlight touched his red hair, his sandy brows and pale lashes, the light, clear depths of his eyes. “I do not know your name. But who else would walk with wolves except the son of the second Ramad?”

“There was only one Ramad. And I am not his son.”

“Who, then?”

“I am Ramad.”

“You cannot be Ramad; perhaps Ramad’s son fought beside my father twenty-three years past, in the summer that I was born. But you cannot be he and surely not Ramad of the wolves.”

“I am Ramad. You must take my word. And you are the son of Macmen. You are Hermeth. I remember you as a babe,” Ram said, grinning.

Hermeth stared and could not believe. They were of an age, surely. He studied Ram; the smooth cheek, the dark eyes beneath thick red hair. He saw the wolf bell Ram took from his tunic. He felt the sense of Ram’s truth. At last he held out his open hand, where the shard of the runestone gleamed. Trusting beyond question, he dropped it into Ram’s hand. It lay like a dark slash across Ram’s palm, and a drumming of power like thunder shook them. Hermeth’s green eyes looked into Ram’s dark eyes and laughed. Time grew huge around them. The wolves raised their voices in a wail that chilled the blood and panicked the horses tied in the valley below and woke four battalions of sleeping soldiers, who leaped up drawing weapons, before Hermeth spoke down to them.

At last the soldiers rolled back into their blankets and slept. The sense of the power of the stone calmed. Ram and Hermeth stood staring at one another, both filled with questions, Ram with perhaps even more curiosity than burdened the young ruler of Zandour. This meeting with Hermeth, so long foreshadowed, seemed to open his mind to every puzzling thought he had pushed aside. He felt it as a turning place, though he did not know why or how. Questions came that touched on the core of his being, on the nature of his own power and of the power of the runestone. On the nature of the compromise he must find within himself between his search for Telien and his search for the shards of the runestone.

He looked at Hermeth and felt for an instant he was seeing the shadow of Telien. What was this likeness to Telien that made him think such thoughts. What was he trying to unravel, to imagine? He had a sense of Time curving in on itself, touching itself at its own beginnings, and this confused and upset him.

Then he put such thoughts aside, smiled at Hermeth, and they descended the hill thinking of a hot brew. Ram did not notice until later that Torc was no longer with them, no longer among the wolves that crowded around him down the hill; did not sense the pattern of unseen forces, and the will of Torc herself, that twisted her away into another time, far distant.

SEVEN

By morning, fresh Zandourian soldiers had arrived, and two heavily armed battalions of Aybilian soldiers as well, joining Hermeth on good horses, as eager to destroy the rabble raiders as was the Zandourian band. Ram, mounted on a fast Zandourian stallion, carried the runestone now. He felt out into the hills of Aybil with strengthened senses and spotted five bands hidden. Hermeth sent silent riders, with wolves among them like shadows to track the hidden killers, while his main army moved on through Aybil’s valleys, toward Farr. The river Owdneet would be on their left soon, for they were headed toward a point just south of the Farrian city of Dal. There were scattered groups of raiders in Farr, and Hermeth meant to destroy them all before he rode on Pelli.

For three days they fought skirmishes down across Aybil, the wolves and scouts routing out raiders’ camps, killing so many that the rabble fought back with waning spirit, fought fearfully, then at last turned tail and fled before Hermeth’s raging troops. Hermeth’s men grinned with bloodstained faces, tired and hungry and not caring, preferring to fight, for victory lay close at hand.

But if men can forget rest in the rising tide of winning, horses cannot. At last, as Hermeth’s troops crossed into Farr somewhat south of Dal, Hermeth knew they must halt, at least by midday, and rest the mounts and care for them.

There lay close ahead a thick wood that would give them cover. Hermeth headed for it, but Ram stopped him, uneasy. He sat his tired horse, trying to sort out the unease he felt, then at last chose scouts among the wolves and called a dozen troops to ride with them.

But all returned from the wood, after a thorough search, with nothing to report. It is quiet there, Ramad, said the gray wolf who had led them. There is nothing to fear. And yet . . .

“And yet, Gartthed? What is it?”

I don’t know. Perhaps nothing. It is peaceful there— perhaps too peaceful. There is a tower there, a dark, ruined tower ages old. It is too peaceful around that tower, too quiet. But perhaps—perhaps I imagine things. There is nothing to alarm, nothing one can sense or see. It smells only of moss and painon bark and woods things. An old, old wood it is, the trees huge and bent.

*

In the wood, the whore-bred Seers stood huddled together in a circle beneath those huge trees, hands joined and fingers linked in a ritual of Pellian cunning as they conjured a mindfog, a false peace and emptiness that hid them all and hid their mounted warriors from Hermeth’s Seer-scouts and from the accursed wolves. They had not planned on wolves. Where in Urdd had wolves come from? Near them among the trees, their Farrian and Pellian troops mounted on heavy horses stood silent and invisible by the power of that mind-twisting, heavily armed troops waiting for Hermeth’s army. And if the whore-bred Seers felt a power other than their own there, a power in the wood that they could not sort out, they did not pause to question it. Nothing could be so strong as they. The smiled coldly and brought a stronger force yet of unawareness onto Hermeth’s approaching army, a mood of simple trust so that Ramad and Hermeth and their men entered into shadow thinking only of rest and a hot meal and a tip of the wineskin to ease the pain of wounds.

*

Skeelie and Telien kept the horse to a walk, in order to move as silently as they could through the sparse wood. Dawn had begun to filter between the slim young trees. They rode over soft, damp leaves that muffled sound; but muffled the sound of riders behind them, too. And those riders knew they were there, followed them not by sound but by Seer’s skills. “It is growing light, Skeelie. They will be able to see us now.”

“It doesn’t make much difference,” Skeelie said dourly. She began, with more determination than faith, to try to conjure an illusion that might confuse and turn aside NilokEm’s troops. If she could turn them aside, if she could even begin to deceive that dark Seer. He was no simple Herebian raider, to be so easily deceived as had been the warriors by the lake of fire. He was NilokEm, strong in his dark Seer’s powers, strengthened by the shard of the runestone he carried. Still she must try; their lives could well depend on such deception. What illusion could turn such a man aside, terrify him? Turn his soldiers back, frighten his horses as she had frightened the messenger’s mount? Something—she thought of a trick Ram had used when they were children: A vision of wolves raging in bloodthirsty attack. Oh yes, a vision of wolves might do it.

The vision rose in her mind, great dark wolves snarling and leaping. But could she make NilokEm see them? She began to conjure their shapes from the shadows beneath the trees, to turn and form the shadows; forcing her power into them until she could feel the mount beneath her cringe as the wolves took shadowy form around it. Telien fought to keep the horse from bolting. Skeelie brought wolves huge and leaping out of darkness, felt elation at her own strength, brought wolves stronger still, bolder, drew them close, a sea of snarling killers. Their frightened mount stood motionless now, crouching and shivering, wanting to explode in terror, but its fear gripping it in dumb immobility. Skeelie gave the wolves a rank scent, heightened their snarls; and in one lurching surge sent them streaking to where NilokEm’s horses crashed through the wood. She heard horses scream as they reared and spun. Branches shattered. Men cried out, swearing, caught in confusion.

But one wolf did not follow the rest, remained close beside their plunging horse, one wolf golden in the wash of dawn that fell between the slim trees. “Torc! Oh, Torc!”

Skeelie felt the bitch wolf’s laughter and went weak with pleasure.

Hold the image, sister! Do not let it fade!

She caught her breath, brought the image-wolves into wilder attack among the bolting horses. Their own horse fought Telien, tried to run suddenly. “Pull the horse up, Telien! Pull him up!” Though Telien was doing all she could, sawing its reins and jerking the animal in a circle. Skeelie stared down at Torc, so very glad to see the bitch wolf. Where did you come from? How . . .? The horse continued to spin, fighting Telien. Torc stood still, so as not to alarm it further. Out of another place, sister, out of another time that . . . but the shadows were shifting around them, the wood shifting and warping. The light changed suddenly: sun shone bright between thick branches of trees grown huge, ancient. Their horse spun now in terror, nearly fell, then stopped at last to stand trembling again, foam coating its neck. Around them, riders surged closer in a storm of confusion as Skeelie’s image-wolves leaped and snarled. Their horse crouched wild-eyed, as if it would throw itself. Skeelie slid off to safety, pulling Telien with her, though Telien tried to cling.

“Don’t, Skeelie! It’s only frightened, don’t . . .” The big mount snorted and reared, pulling Telien off her feet. Skeelie sensed a movement behind her and spun, saw Torc leap for a man who was nearly on top of them, his sword glinting.

The image, sister! The image! For the image-wolves had wavered again; Skeelie sent the vision stronger until wolves leaped once more, keening among the panicked raiders. In the confusion their horse turned and ran, the bit hard in his mouth so Telien was dragged at the end of the reins, her heels digging into the soft earth, then was forced to let him go. NilokEm’s soldiers and the image-wolves churned in a melee of confusion among ancient trees gnarled and thick beneath a high noon sun, all semblance of a young wood vanished into a time long dead.

And something else was happening in the wood. At the moment that the slim trees turned ancient, and the sun brightened, other forces were there; dark powers rising at cross-purposes to NilokEm’s powers; and other powers, powers of light. Forces clashed and rose, clashed anew.

*

Hermeth’s troops, come into the wood slowly and quietly and wanting rest, were startled into action suddenly, drew weapons, and spun their horses to face the circle of rabble made suddenly visible, penning them in; rabble that had slipped under cover of mind-fogging into a tight circle around them. Hermeth’s men lashed into them and all the violence of Urdd broke loose as, at the same instant, the woods shivered with overlapping images, warping, then the ancient trees came steady again; and another band of soldiers was there among them battling wolves in a confusion even Ram could not sort out. The rabble he and Hermeth had pursued was all around them, but facing strange soldiers now and strange wolves all come out of nowhere, in a senseless tangle. Come out of Time? Or were those other wolves image-wrought? And what were these troops? He slashed at a soldier, fought fiercely but abstractly, trying to make sense of the confusion.

NilokEm’s soldiers struck from the saddle at wolves and struck only air. They battled soldiers come out of nowhere, powers come out of nowhere. The dark Seer swore at their sudden fear, at powers gone awry. He brought his own powers down hard and felt them twisted and muted, fought his rearing horse with cruel fury, slashed at a Herebian bearing down on him. Then suddenly he saw ahead of him a flash of pale hair caught in sunlight, and he forgot wolves, forgot the confusion of warriors come out of nowhere, forced bloody spurs into his horse, and rode after Telien with sword drawn. His men, seeing him turn tail, facing wolves they could not kill, facing too many soldiers, jerked their horses and bolted in cold fear—but now again they met wolves, and these animals pulled men from the saddle and took horses down at full run. There was no escape, there was nothing to do but fight.

NilokEm bore down on Telien, then pulled his horse up suddenly as the cold presence of other Seers exploded in his mind; dark Seers behind him. How could that be? Even his hatred of Telien could not hold him. He spun his horse, searching for the rabble Seers among the troops that battled his men, puzzled and furious. There were no other dark Seers, not in all of Ere, not even such rabble as these. He was the last with such power, until Dal grew to an age to master such skills. But there were dark Seers here! Where had such Seers come from? And did he sense Seers of light? He sat his fidgeting horse still as stone, reaching out. And there was something else besides, something even more disturbing—or perhaps opportune. Could he be sensing clearly?

Yes, yes. There was a runestone here, he thought with rising excitement. One of those Seers carried a runestone, he could feel the power of it. His eyes grew dark and slitted with greed as he surveyed the raging battle, sorting, feeling out to find the bearer of that stone.

He did not search out for long, for snarling wolves surrounded him, singled him out, their eyes filling him with terror. A huge, dark dog wolf leaped for his leg as his horse reared, and another went for its throat. He lashed at them from the saddle, flailed with his sword, but they were too quick; his stricken horse twisted and fell, its throat gushing blood. He leaped free, faced a dozen wolves as the battle churned around him. He brought the power of the stone against them, drove them back snarling with pain. But again they advanced, strong-willed against the stone’s power, heads lowered. He sought the stone’s forces stronger—but he felt nothing suddenly. Nothing. He stared down at the stone, stricken. It lay lifeless and dull in his hand. The wolves paused, watching him, anticipating something. He felt the stone’s absence of power with terror. What he felt happening was impossible, incredible.

Was that other stone, carried by one of those Seers, stealing the power from this stone? How could such a thing be?

The wolves stood appraising him, their eyes slitted in eager anticipation that chilled him to the bone. Then suddenly the stone flared burning in his hand so he screamed and dropped it, saw the jade pulsing like fire at his feet.

At the same instant the stone in Ram’s hand turned to flame, seared him. He held it, gritting his teeth, did not know what was happening, would not let the stone go. He blew, spat on it. At last it cooled, lay green again in his painfully burned palm. He was aware suddenly of the dark Seer facing him across the battlefield, was locked suddenly as if with bands of steel to that Seer. They stood, Ramad and NilokEm, facing across the melee of battle, two Seers come together, locked together in painful contest for possession of one shard of the runestone of Eresu that lay, in that instant, split in its nature: one stone, handed down from NilokEm to Dal, to the dark twins, taken in battle by Macmen, given to Hermeth, and given then to Ram. It could not exist for long divided. It must draw into itself, become one, and the stronger Seer would draw the stone’s strength to himself. Their wills dwarfed the battle that raged as Hermeth’s men fought Pellians out of Time and Pellians contemporary.

Sweat streaked Ram’s forehead as he forced his power against NilokEm. The dark Seer went ashen, then rallied, began to draw the force of the stone in a surge of desperation. It was then Ram saw Telien leaning half-conscious against a dying horse; knew she had been struck as soldiers battled around her; knew in an instant of clarity what NilokEm was to Telien, what NilokEm had made of her life, saw her enslavement, the beatings, NilokEm’s cruel lusting way with her, the baby born and taken from her; saw it all, and in his rage forgot the battle for the runestone and wanted only to kill NilokEm, was across the battlefield grabbing the dark Seer, striking and pounding him, dodging NilokEm’s blows, attacking him with insane fury. The man fell heavy and flailing against him. Ram held him and hit him again and again, then left him unconscious amidst the battle. The stone turned to but a faded rock in NilokEm’s hand, a skeleton of the runestone it had been.

Ram shouldered aside soldiers, struck out in fury to reach Telien. Stood looking down at her, shaken at the sight of her. She was so pale, so thin. He lifted her, held her, tried in desperation to revive her. At last he sought a sheltered place between trees where they were somewhat protected from battle, held her and whispered to her until finally she opened her eyes. He could feel her sick confusion, feel the pain of the wound across her forehead, as he examined it. She watched him, pale and uncertain. There was blood clotting, and her forehead was swollen and bruised. He stood holding her, stricken, aware of nothing else, unaware of the shadow moving toward them from deeper in the wood. He was desperate in his fear for her, tried to sense the damage the wound had done, felt her tears on his cheek. He knew her shame at having lain with NilokEm, her pain. He knew her mourning for her lost child. He felt her shame and yet her surging joy in him, her very soul a part of his.

The shadow drew closer. It, too, carried a shard of the runestone; yet it was drawn inexorably by the shard Ram held and the shard NilokEm held, seemed unable to distinguish between the gray, lifeless shard and the live runestone shining deep green in Ram’s closed fist. Ram stared at the jade absently, unaware of the shadow, and shoved it in his tunic, held Telien close to him against all harm.

The wraith approached NilokEm first, stood over the fallen Seer sensing out and felt only then the lifelessness of the shard. In anger, it reached down its cold hands, then drew back when NilokEm opened his eyes to stare up at it.

Slowly NilokEm rose, a bull of a man, seething now with hatred, mindless with fear of the powers that had risen uncontrollably around him. He stared at the wraith, drew his knife from his boot, began to stalk the wraith as a creature smaller and weaker than he. And as he drew close to it he knew suddenly and with pounding heart that this deathlike creature carried a shard of the runestone.

He would have that stone.

He dared not think of the destruction of the stone he carried, dared not think of the power that could have done such a thing. Now the stone possessed by this weak creature would be his. The two figures crouched motionless, locked in a gaze of mutual contempt. Of mutual greed. NilokEm’s greed was for the runestone, but the wraith’s greed was for something else altogether, now that NilokEm’s shard of the jade was useless. Its greed was like cold flame, wanting the powerful Seer’s body.

Ram watched, frozen; saw the wraith’s expression change to sudden pleasure; knew it wanted to die, wanted NilokEm to kill it, that it was aware of nothing now but the closeness of the dark Seer, that it wanted to slip as a shadow into the strong Seer’s body. Ram raised his bow. But he was not quick enough, the dark Seer thrust his knife into the wraith’s throat; the wraith twisted and fell, its breath gurgling in its severed throat. Ram watched, appalled. He felt the wraith’s cold spirit leave that dead body and reach out to enter NilokEm. The dark Seer was aware only then of his danger. He fought with terror, but already he had been weakened. NilokEm struggled against the wraith in desperation, then with growing horror. At last he drew on some deep well of final strength and determination. He lifted his knife and plunged it into his own heart.

NilokEm fell dying, had escaped the wraith in the only way left to him.

The wraith, thwarted and bodiless and in terror for its own existence, turned the darkness of its being suddenly and desperately to enter Ram’s body instead, wanted Ram now, this Seer who was master of the stones. Ram battled it, pushed back its questing dark with more strength, even, than he had battled the Pellian Seers when he was a child. Yet he went dizzy under the wraith’s growing power, did not understand the increase in that power. Had it drawn strength from the dark Seer as he died? He felt its desperation and drew upon powers he hardly understood in his battle to escape it, to be free of it.

He began to loose its hold at last. He was barely conscious, unaware of the fighting around him or of Telien holding him to her, her knuckles white on his arm where she tried with stubborn will to help him fight. He knew nothing of Skeelie’s straining, hard-biting battle to give him power. Yet sick, nearly lost, he rallied finally to drive the wraith out. He felt it go free of him and gasped for air as if he had been drowning. Trying to clear his head, he looked down at Telien.

He saw too late. Saw with cold horror.

Telien had dropped her hands to her sides and was staring up at him with a look of wary hatred. The sense of her being was closed and secret. But her lust for the runestone could not be hidden. She watched Ram greedily. Her beauty, her gentle green eyes, every feature he loved had been changed in an instant to a parody of Telien, horrifying in its greed and coldness.

Sick with shock, Ram watched her kneel over the wraith’s thin, abandoned body. He thought only then of the runestone it carried, watched appalled as Telien began to pry its dead fingers apart. He reached for her, but Skeelie was quicker: dark hair flying, she was on Telien reaching for the stone. Telien tore at her, scratching and striking Skeelie across the face. Ram grabbed Telien, sick at hurting her, pulled her off of Skeelie and saw her closed white fist, heard Skeelie gasp, “She has it!” Wincing, he forced Telien’s arm back, sick at doing this, amazed at her sudden strength. The pain in her arm seemed to be his own as he pried apart her fingers, took the stone from her; then she was gone from his grasp. Gone once more into Time. He stared at empty space, uncomprehending. A riderless horse lurched past him. The battle erupted nearly on top of him. Ram turned away from it unseeing, his fists clenched around the stone, sick inside himself, tears stinging his eyes.

Somewhere in Time the wraith moved, couched in the fair beauty of Telien. How much of Telien remained, aware and terrified, but unable to escape?

Ram turned back at last and saw Skeelie turn away quickly as if she had been watching him. She was kneeling beside the wraith’s body, occupied with pulling the boots off its feet. He stared at her, forgetting his grief for a moment. “You’re not going to wear those!”

She looked up at him as if she had forgotten he was there, though he knew well enough she had been staring at him caught blindly in his grief. Her face was smeared with dirt and blood. The knot of her dark hair was crooked and loose, hanging against her shoulder. “I have no boots. They’re only boots, Ram. My feet are cut and bleeding.” Her dark eyes held him; and suddenly they were children again; Skeelie a skinny little girl stealing iron spikes from the smith. It occurred to neither of them that their remarks about the wraith’s boots were nearly the first words they had spoken to one another in the generations since both of them had been swept away from their own time.

“I will need boots, Ram, if we are to follow her.”

Ram wanted to hug her. He remembered her sword then and held it out to her mutely, the silver hilt glinting. Her dark eyes went wide with amazement. Behind them the battle had swept past, not a battle so much now as a mopping up of unhorsed soldiers trying to flee on foot, stumbling over their dead brothers and pursued by wolves and by Hermeth’s riders. Ram said, “I took it off a dead Herebian at the foot of Tala-charen.”

She ran her finger down the flat of the blade, then sheathed the sword in a quiet ritual, discarding the heavy Herebian one she had used. When she looked up at him, her eyes were deep. “I missed it, Ram. I missed it quite a lot.”

*

The battle was ended. Hermeth’s soldiers stripped the bodies of valuables and dragged them to a common grave scraped out of the loose loam of the woods. Skeelie’s image-wolves were gone. Only the real wolves remained, licking their wounds from battle. Five wolves were dead, lost to the battling armies. They will live again, Fawdref said, ignoring Ram’s grief for them. They will live again, Ramad, in the progression of souls. Perhaps as men—or perhaps they will be luckier, he said dryly, nudging Ram. Ram cuffed him on the shoulder.

“Those dead ones fought for Hermeth, for the stone, Fawdref. Your wolves fought bravely.”

We fought for all of us, Ramad, just as we fought at the Castle of Hape. Just as we fought for Macmen. Never forget, Ramad; it is our battle too. Men are not the only sufferers when the dark grows strong upon Ere.

Ram knelt suddenly and pressed his face against Fawdref’s rough shoulder, reassured by Fawdref’s warm, solid presence.

The old wolf was silent for a few moments. Then he looked away across the wood. Those who have been buried in the common grave, who came from the time of NilokEm, are gone now, Ramad. Only traces of dry, rotting bones remain in the earth where, a moment ago, they lay still warm from recent life. And look behind you at NilokEm’s skeleton. His hand still holds the lifeless gray stone that is also a skeleton, lifeless body of the runestone. That stone will vanish too, as, in his own time, the live jade is lifted from his bloody palm to be passed on to his heir who was NilokDal, and to come at long last down to Hermeth’s hand—that jade that lies now in your tunic, Ramad.

Part Three: The Lake of Caves

From the Fourth Book of Zandour, Writer unknown.

Dark mysteries surround the history of Hermeth and surround his victory in the wood of the dark tower south of Dal. Time-flung raiders died in that wood and turned to bone ages old, crumbling before Hermeth’s eyes. And a Seer of light came out of a spell-casting to fight by Hermeth’s side. Some said the Seer was Ramad of wolves, as the song of that battle tells. Most folk say that could not be. But surely that Seer led wolves: two score great wolves fought by his side to defeat the street-bred rabble and to defeat mysterious warriors. Some say that Hermeth defeated on that battlefield his long-dead ancestor, NilokEm.

Surely Hermeth returned victorious to Zandour with a dark-eyed Seer riding beside him and surrounded by running wolves. And there was celebration in Zandour for the victory of free men. But then in Zandour came tragedy to Hermeth. A tragedy no Seer could undo.

EIGHT

It was a rare good night of feasting and singing. The hall of Hermeth’s rough stone villa was crowded with tables laden nearly to overflowing with meats and breads and delicacies brought from all around the city by the townsfolk: shellfish from Zandour’s coast baked in leaves of tammi; breads of mawzee grain and whitebarley and wild grass seed; and great custards of tervil and vetchpea and dill. A huge fire blazed on the hearth, roasting chicken and chidrack and wild pig from out the marshes and haunches of deer and sheep. Folk heaped their plates high and carried them to the courtyard, where singing and gay music stirred the night, and the dancing was wild and fast, celebrating Zandour’s victory.

How long they had awaited this day; how eagerly they had anticipated the time when they could tend their flocks on Zandour’s green hills without fear of Herebian raiders, could sleep at night beneath the peaceful silence of Ere’s cool moons, not listening every moment for the sounds of raiders descending from dark hills to burn and steal and kill. There would still be danger. Zandour must still maintain guards and patrols, and the army must train as ever. But not danger as it had been. The street-rabble Seers were slaughtered. Neither Hermeth or Ram could sense any lingering taint of them. The only evil that threatened now was the common strain of straggling raiders never caught up in the Pellian warring, small Herebian pilferers that Zandour could easily deal with.

Zandour showed its pleasure in joyful celebration. The songs sung were mostly the old songs, “Smallsinger Tell Me,” “Jajun Jajun,” “The Goosetree of Madoc,” songs from the coastal lands. Then a young bard made a song about the war in the dark wood, sang the words amidst a sudden stillness as Zandour’s people went hushed; and long would it be sung in Zandour. It told of the two stones that were one stone, of Ramad of wolves come out of Time to fight by Hermeth’s side; of NilokEm, the dark ancestor, and of Telien, who was mother to Hermeth’s grandfather, come suddenly into that wood. It did not speak of the wraith, for only a few had seen that shadow and understood what it was. The song did not tell where Telien had gone, once she disappeared from the wood.

Ram did not join the festivities. He took supper alone beside the hearth in the great hall, his back to the crowds that came to load their plates. He ignored Skeelie, who lurked by a window watching him. He wished she would go away, wanted only his own lonely company. He ate quickly, hardly tasting the deer meat and the carefully prepared dishes, then wandered out of the hall and through the crowds, unaware of the music and jostling. It was to the quiet dark beyond the stables and outbuildings that he was driven by his taut, violent agitation.

Skeelie wanted to follow him and knew he would not tolerate that. He was utterly closed to her in a remoteness that not even friendship could bridge; so awash with suffering for Telien, so deeply grieving. She saw him disappear into shadow and stood in the courtyard for a long time alone after he had gone. Like him, she was unaware of the crowds around her, of the gaiety; and at last she found her way to the room Hermeth had given her.

She shut the door, stood with her back to it, letting the tension ease, letting the sense of isolation, the emptiness of the big square room soothe her. A bathing tub had been brought in, which steamed invitingly. She sat for a while in a deep chair beside the fire, admiring the tapestries and the bright Zandourian rugs, thinking of Ram and of Telien, too lazy even to get into the bath, then began at last to strip off her boots and her borrowed dirty leathers.

The steaming tub felt so good; the aches of battle and the tired stiffness were slowly eased away. She took up the thick sponge, then the ball of perrisax soap, sniffing it with delight, and in a pleasant fog began to scrub off the blood and dirt of battle. When finally she dozed, the water in the tub grew cold and the low fire burned to embers.

*

Ram wandered alone in the dark between the outbuildings and pens. He could smell the pigs plainly, and the goats. The music and singing faded to an almost-tolerable blur. He could have done without it altogether. Hermeth had taken one look at his black expression and left him. Skeelie had hung around, annoying with her silent concern. He felt a twinge of guilt. Well, but Skeelie understood. She always knew his pain. Yes, and that in itself was annoying. He stared up at the sky, immense and distant, and cold desolation touched him, the reality of Telien’s fate sickening him nearly to madness: Telien, captive in a horror worse than any death could be; Telien trapped now as he had never dreamed possible. Was she aware of her possession yet unable to battle it? Or had her spirit been crippled, or destroyed?

*

Hermeth found Ram some time later still among the sheep pens and sties. He went to stand beside him, stared absently at the waning moons, watched pale clouds blow across the stars. The singing came faint and cool, muffled by stables and grain rooms. Neither spoke. Ram leaned tiredly against the sty fence, and Hermeth watched him. Ramad of wolves. Ramad, hardly aged since he fought by Macmen’s side twenty-three years gone. The clouds shifted to cover the moons, then uncovered them suddenly so moonlight marked the flaming hair of the two Seers. Ram’s olive skin and dark eyes and the slight dishing of his face were in sharp contrast to Hermeth’s paler, square face and clear blue eyes fringed with pale lashes. Hermeth uncapped a flask of honeyrot. Ram sipped at it absently. Hermeth frowned. “You cannot tear yourself from the image of her, Ramad, from the horror of her possessed. You will not rest until you have followed her. But you . . .” Hermeth took a sip of the honey-rot and capped it. “You do not know how or where to look, how to find your way into Time in the direction she—the wraith—has taken.”

Ram nodded, caught in misery. He stared bleakly into the night.

“There is a story in Zandour about a man called the Cutter of Stones. It is said by some that he is evil. I do not believe that. I think he is a magical person.”

Ram turned for the first time to look directly at Hermeth.

“A Seer, yes,” Hermeth answered his silent question. “But a Seer with special skills. It is said that he cut, from one large stone, five golden stones called starfires that could . . .” He was stopped by Ram’s look. “What did I say? Why does the mention of starfires—?”

“Don’t stop! Get on with your story!”

“It—it is a tale from herders in Moramia. Five starfires that can hurl a man into Time and carry him—well, just carry him. . . .” Hermeth swallowed. “But you have already been carried into Time.” He watched Ram with slow realization. “You—you carry the starfires! You . . .”

Ram reached into a fold of his tunic, drew forth his hand, and held it palm up so the faint light of the moons caught gleaming upon three pale amber stones, cut and faceted, their cool light increasing, deepening at their centers then blazing out suddenly like fire. “Starfire,” Hermeth breathed, staring. “Then, Ramad, you have known the Cutter of Stones.”

“No. The starfires were given me by another. A man called Anchorstar. He said they were given to him by someone he trusted, but he did not name that man. Perhaps it was the Cutter of Stones, perhaps not. Tell me of the Cutter of Stones.”

“It is said the Cutter of Stones can shape Time to his own uses when he chooses.”

“Where can I find such a man?”

“It is told that one cannot find him, cannot seek him out, that he dwells outside of Time and will bide you come to him only if he chooses. But with those starfires—if they can touch Time, can’t you . . .”

“The starfires seem sometimes to lead me, but more often only to confuse and twist that which I attempt. Though— though perhaps, after all, they led me to you. Perhaps it was the starfires that led us into the dark wood where Telien—where Telien . . .” Ram bent his head. “I do not know.” He stared at the starfires coldly, then said with pent-up anger, “Led me to Telien too late.” He looked up at Hermeth. “Could—could this Cutter of Stones be evil?” He dropped the starfires into his tunic with sudden distaste. ‘Tell me all you know of him.”

“I know little more. It is said that if you need him, and if he deems your need a true one, he will call you out of Time to come to him.” Clouds raced across the moons in white veils, and as Hermeth turned to look up, a sudden vision came around them, cold as winter. The sty fence disappeared, the villa. The land itself seemed to swim and fold around them and shadows raced across it sparked with silver light. Other, denser shadows rose as a fog might rise from hidden ground, shadows that were figures surging together in the midst of ephemeral winds; they saw young Seers, Children of Ynell, many and many of them: Children soon to be born, perhaps already conceived, Children walking out across Ere carrying light within their souls. Hermeth and Ram saw them struck down, saw them flee before dark warriors; flee to Carriol or northward up over the wild black peaks away from Ere into the unknown lands. They saw other Children living in silence, hiding their skills for fear of death.

They saw Children lying as if dead, asleep with some mind-bending drug, lying on stone slabs in a dark underground place. And the very breath of the wraith pervaded that place so that Ram almost cried out. Did Anchorstar, too, lie there bound in mindlessness? Surely the sense of him was there; but then the vision faded.

For long afterward, Ram could not free his mind from the inexplicable weight of that vision.

*

Skeelie dozed and woke in a cold tub. She got out shivering, wrapped herself in a blanket, and huddled before the dead fire. When at last she stirred up the embers and laid on new kindling she felt muzzy, vaguely hungry, and wished she had eaten more supper. Streaks of light came through the shuttered windows and snatches of song from the courtyard, muted and pleasant. She huddled to the fire and soon began to feel warmer, crouched there absently admiring the bright colors of the Zandourian rugs, the pattern of the bedcover. The bed linen, turned back white and smooth, invited her. She rose at last, yawning, and began to prowl the room. In a corner behind a dressing screen, new leathers had been laid out for her, and fresh underlinen, a soft wool tunic, new boots. The sight of them, and the thought of Hermeth’s kindness, made tears come suddenly and surprisingly. Someone cared. She caught her breath in a sob that amazed her and stood clutching the leathers, bawling like a child.

Why should someone’s kindness make her cry? You’re tired, Skeelie! Stop it! Stop crying and get into bed! Yet she knew she was not crying just over the clothes and Hermeth’s kindness, that she was crying for Ram, for a kind of gentleness that Ram could never show her.

If only Ram needed her now—as a friend. Instead of going off alone. At last, exhausted with crying, she climbed into bed. In spite of her misery, she took pleasure in the clean sheets, appreciated the gentle softness of the bed. Wriggling down, she let the bed soothe and ease her, clutched the pillow to her and slept almost at once.

For nine days they remained in Zandour, idle as sheep, eating prodigious and succulent meals, riding the countryside just for the pleasure of it, sleeping long and unbroken nights. Skeelie took so many hot baths her skin seemed permanently wrinkled; she luxuriated in her comfortable room, in her new leathers, and in the simple new gowns Hermeth brought to her. Her body began to feel like something human again, fed and clean and rested, the scabs and little wounds healing, and pampered with soft fabrics. Her senses were pampered with the handsome, well-furnished hall—not elegant but well appointed—with the bright tapestries and rugs, and with the neat farms of Zandour and the rolling green sheep pastures. How long such an idyl might last was impossible to guess. Skeelie simply soaked it all up while she could. Though Ram did not do the same. In spite of good meals and the luxuries he had long been without, he was morose, steeped in painful thoughts of Telien. Even occupied with teaching Hermeth the ways of the runestone, Ram had too much time to think; he would sit in the evenings alone beside the fire, preferring his own company and silence, or go skulking off into the night by himself in spite of anything Skeelie and Hermeth might think of to divert him.

The wolves were seldom seen; they had gone to hunt the cliffs up on Scar Mountain, making Skeelie stare away toward that towering mass with a wild, persistent curiosity. The very existence of Scar Mountain there so close, of Gredillon’s house only a short ride away, made her taut with questions. What would the house be like if she went there now? In what time had she stood there? Before this time of Hermeth? Or in a time still to happen? She didn’t know. It didn’t matter; what mattered was that Gredillon’s house, or perhaps some power from Gredillon herself, had given her the gift of truly touching Ram’s early life. That would always be with her. Had Gredillon sent her the clay bell through some powerful manipulation of Time? And what was Gredillon? White-haired Gredillon—was she one of Cadach’s children just as Anchorstar must surely be? Skeelie wondered, if she returned to Scar Mountain now, whether she would find answers to such questions. But she did not return. Something she did not question prevented her, turned her away from that thought, willed her to let the sleeping house be.

Nor did Ram go to Sear Mountain, though surely he must long for the house of his childhood. She could not sense what he felt; his thoughts were closed to her, sunk in desolation. And then on the night of the ninth day, when Ram had been gone longer than usual and it was going on to midnight. Hermeth went to search for him, and did not return.

Skeelie sat immobile beside the fire after Hermeth left her, muzzy with too much honeyrot, disgruntled with Ram’s difficult ways, in spite of knowing how he suffered for Telien. She dozed, awakened, dozed again, and still neither Hermeth nor Ram returned. At last she lit a lamp, took up her sword, and went out into the night, her unease making her cross.

She found Ram in the darkness of sheds and sheep pens. Moonlight cast a thin outline across his shoulders where he knelt. What was he doing kneeling beside a sheep pen in the middle of the night? Then she felt, suddenly, the sense of something very wrong, a sense of hollowness; felt Ram’s shock and his terrible remorse. Felt the sense of death. Saw then that he knelt beside a body. She went to him without speaking.

Hermeth lay beside the sheep pen, twisted and unnatural in death. Her hands began to shake. She felt the sense of his death like a blow, sudden and sharp, not wanting to believe. Someone she had just been talking with, sitting before the fire with, could not be so suddenly lying dead in the night, in the mud.

But of course he could be. Why had she sensed nothing, back in the hall? She stared at Ram’s white, twisted face not understanding anything. When Ram spoke at last, his voice was hoarse and flat.

“She has come here. Telien has come. The wraith—it— has taken the strength from Hermeth. Taken the life from Hermeth.” She thought he would drown in his pain. “How can it have become so strong, to do such a thing, Skeelie? I don’t understand. It could not have done this before, at Tala-charen.” He paused, stared at her. “Did it draw strength from the stones, there in the wood?” His voice was hoarse, near to tears. “Or from NilokEm, before he died? Not— not from Telien. She was so weak, so very frail and weak.”

“She was frail of body, Ram. But Telien’s spirit— she . . .” Skeelie could not finish.

“When she came out of the night I wanted . . .” He bit his lip, turned his face away. “I wanted only to hold her, to comfort her. I couldn’t believe . . . She was so pale. Great circles under her eyes. She—she was so close to the end of her strength. As if the wraith did not dare let her faint. She—it stood looking at me. It has new power, Skeelie. It has learned to sap the strength from a man like a . . .” Ram swallowed. “Like a lizard sucking out the strength from a creature and leaving a bare shell.”

“But she . . .” Skeelie stared at him, knowing suddenly and clearly that the wraith had not come here for Hermeth. “She came for you, Ram.”

“She—was so near to failing of strength altogether. The wraith knew he could not get me to kill Telien. Worked it out that it could take a man’s strength to replenish itself. Thought that, because Telien and I—because we . . . that it could make me give in to it, that it would be easy to drain my body of strength, make me—give myself to her.”

She felt a guilty elation that Ram lived, that it was Hermeth lying dead and not Ram. “But how . . .?”

“Hermeth came upon it—upon us. He battled by my side. We—we battled together, and then suddenly Telien’s color heightened, she stood straight, seemed altogether different, healthy, alive. I—I thought she had come back. I thought she had defeated the wraith. I reached out to her. And too late I saw . . .” He drew in his breath. ‘Too late I saw Hermeth fall. Just—just fall, Skeelie. And she—she reached to put her arms around me, to—to draw me to her. I—I went to her. Wanting her, Skeelie. I knew what she was. She held me. It was . . . I could not let her go. But then I—I began to resist her, to battle her until she drew back. She looked at me with a hatred I can never forget. And then she—she was just suddenly gone.” His face filled with pain. “I don’t know how long I’ve been here—how long ago that was. Forever. For Hermeth, it will be forever.”

The moons had gone. Ram and Skeelie carried Hermeth’s body back to the hall and began to wake Hermeth’s men, wake the families who helped in the hall and kitchen. Lamps were lit. Hermeth was laid on a bench in the hall before the dead fire. Those who came knelt immediately, as if no man wanted to stand taller than Hermeth in this moment. Messengers were sent throughout the town.

They made his grave upon a hill at first light. Processions streamed out of the village from all directions in absolute silence: Folk cleanly dressed and carrying little bowls of grain in the traditional gift for the winged horses who might come over Hermeth’s grave to speak with him and carrying little bowls of fruit and meats to leave there on his grave for the gods, for if fate smiled, the Luff’Eresi might come too in a last rite to Hermeth. The ceremony itself was simple enough. Ram spoke solemn words, as did Hermeth’s lieutenants, the five Seers among them bowing their heads in a last gift of power to Hermeth. Ram held the runestones tight, wanting power for Hermeth now in these moments, wanting to lend Hermeth strength; thought he knew that already Hermeth had left his body, left this place to move into another place and time, another sphere; that there was no need for the power of Seers, of the stones; but still they gave it.

Ram turned away at last from the bare earth that covered the grave like a scar against the green hill. Hermeth’s men and the entire city of Zandour followed him down the hill in silence. The wolves, who had come at Hermeth’s death down out of Scar Mountain, stood last upon the hill and raised their voices in a wailing lament, in a death song that trembled the sky and would long, long be remembered in Zandour. And then the wolves came down, too, from Hermeth’s grave, and his body was alone there beneath the rising sun.

They would carve and lay a slab of granite, the people of Zandour, to mark the place where Hermeth lay. A little child, staring back up the hill, said, “He can look out now over the sheep meadows.” But no one thought Hermeth was there to look out. He was in another place that they could not yet fathom.

“He left no children,” Skeelie said, mourning. “No wife—no young Seers.”

“There are other Seers, that handful among his lieutenants.”

“Untrained. Unskilled, Ram. Just—just those with some power, but not master Seers.”

Ram looked down at her, unsettled. “Was I meant to stay here, Skeelie? To use the stones, in his place, to protect Zandour? Or if I can follow Telien, was I meant to leave Hermeth’s shard of the runestone behind, to keep only that one taken from the wraith?”

“I don’t think you are meant to do anything, Ram. Do you think it is all planned out? What do you know you must do?”

He looked at her a long time, a deep look, searching his own soul through what he saw reflected in her eyes. “I will hold these shards of the runestone and keep them, Skeelie. Against the day when the stone will again be whole. And I—I will follow Telien.”

That night in the hall, Ram brought together a council of the five young Seers who had ridden as scouts for Hermeth, seeking to understand what skills they had, and to train them.

This five, then, must rule Zandour, for in them lay the needed power. A council of the entire city sat with them, planning; men taking over, as smoothly as they could, the work that had been Hermeth’s. Late in the night Skeelie dozed in a chair beside the hall fire, waking only now and then to the men’s raised voices. Then suddenly she woke to Ram’s hand on her arm, saw that the night had waned and dawn had begun to touch the shuttered windows with gray. Ram stood staring down at her, tired, drawn tight with too much talking. “Get your pack, Skeelie. Put on your boots, your leathers. Take off those silly sandals. I want . . .” He turned to stare northward as if he could look through the very walls of the hall. “I want to climb Scar Mountain. I want . . .” The sense of unrest about him, of need, was powerful.

She rose, forcing herself awake, hurried through the hall, and returned shortly dressed in leathers, with her pack and weapons, to find him in the courtyard pacing and restless as a river cat, his own pack and bow slung over his shoulder, eager to be moving. What Was drawing Ram so? Simply restlessness? The sudden need to return to his childhood place? A hope of finding Gredillon for some reason? He was strung taut as a bowstring. Surely something spoke to him, something was pulling at him, but she could make no sense of it. She was only grateful that he wanted her to go, too. They started off at once into the faint touch of dawn, north up the first hill of the sheep pastures, Ram striding out impatiently and Skeelie hurrying to keep up. As they climbed, wolves began to come to them out of the darkness, one here, and then two, all in silence, until soon a dozen wolves paced beside them, Fawdref pressing close to Ram, Torc and Rhymannie nuzzling sometimes at Skeelie’s arm.

As they climbed, the sense of promise, of beckoning grew strong indeed. On the crest of the hill Ram stopped and turned to watch the dawn sky lighten. Down in the town they could see the dark shapes of wagons and of horses and riders moving in over the hills and roads, as folk from the farther reaches of Zandour began to arrive in Zandour’s city to pay their last respects to Hermeth. Ram stood staring down, then silently he drew from his tunic the little pouch he had made of soft white goathide and spilled the two runestones and the starfires out into his palm. He seemed puzzled. Skeelie watched, still and expectant, not knowing what was to happen, but filled with growing excitement. Something was building around them, something of power. She began to feel Ram’s curiosity, his questions rising, felt him begin to reach out hesitantly. They stood looking down upon the slowly lighting land, and then, alarmed suddenly, she turned to look back up the mountain, saw the wolves turn too; Ram turned as if someone had spoken his name. He took her shoulder in a sharp grip.

Above them the mountain had become unclear, as fast winds moved down across it sweeping toward them, blurring their vision. Fingers of wind snatched at them, blurring the dawn sky. Then the great body of wind itself was sweeping and pummeling them, ripping at their tunics, laying the wolves’ coats and ears flat. Fawdref crouched and snarled; the wind pounded, tore the very grass from the hill, and a rider came racing out of it leading two wild, rearing horses, shouting, “Mount! Mount you, Ramad!” The hooded rider, his cowl bound tight against the bite of the wind, his tall, thin figure leaning from the saddle, urged Ram; and Ram did not pause or question, but grabbed the reins and was in the saddle. Skeelie’s fear for him rose like a tide. “No, Ram! Wait!” She leaped for his reins, tried to stop his plunging horse. “Don’t follow! You don’t know . . .” Terror of his being swept away, terror of the cowled rider made her scream into the wind as Ram kicked the horse, jerked the reins from her hand and sent his mount into the turmoil alongside the dark rider.

“Oh, don’t, Ram. You don’t know . . .” All hint of dawn had disappeared; the wind was dark as midnight. The wolves stood frozen, then suddenly leaped to follow Ram. “Ram . . .” Skeelie’s voice was empty, a whisper blown back in her face. “You don’t know where he leads you. . . .” But Ram had disappeared in the storm of wind.

She jerked the reins of the riderless horse until it stood still, then leaped to the saddle and was swept into the dark wind herself. The flanks of the dark mounts were ahead; then the wolves were running beside her leaping through wind. She stared ahead at the hooded rider. Who was this man, racing out of Time’s winds to snatch them up like this? She felt his attention, though he had not changed his crouching position over the withers of his stallion. Then suddenly he straightened in the saddle, brushed back his hood as if annoyed, and turned to look at her, wind whipping his white hair across his face.

Anchorstar?

Was it Anchorstar? Yes, she recognized him now, that long, thin face. He nodded to her and she stared back through the wild wind, cross and suspicious. But she settled down to ride, watching Anchorstar warily, watching Ram’s back ahead of her. The tearing speed of the horses increased as the wind increased, and the wolves sped with them across winds that threatened to fling the riders from their saddles into timeless space, washing Skeelie with cold fear, and exciting her to madness. Never was there land, but faces looked out of darkness, and the moons were full, then gone, then new again.

Then the wind died. The night became dense and still. The moons hung like two half coins, casting silver light across the quiet horses where they stood on an open hill beside a wood. The white-haired rider dismounted as casually as if he had just trotted across a farm meadow. He unsaddled his stallion, then turned it loose to graze, ignoring Skeelie and Ram. Picking up sticks from the edge of the wood, he began to lay a fire on the bare slope.

The wolves turned, grinned, then leaped away into the wood. Torc flung back, To hunt! To hunt for meat, sister! Skeelie could feel the passionate curiosity among the wolves at being in a new place, could taste for a moment the new smells as Torc did; and she held for a brief moment Torc’s wild excitement at the newness, the land virgin to be traveled and tasted and known intimately. Then she dismounted, only slowly recovering from the drunkenness of that wild ride.

Ahead rose immense mountains, washed in moonlight. To her right, the wood was a velvet patch of dark. And to her left, the land dropped down steeply to what seemed, in the moonlight, a very deep chasm or valley. The space around her seemed greater than she had ever known. She felt exposed, threatened by such space; and felt again a cold twinge of unease because Ram had followed so easily. But she was being foolish; Ram knew Anchorstar. She turned to unsaddling her mount. What else did she think Ram would do but follow whatever way might lead to Telien? She reached out to Ram in her mind, but he was oblivious to her in his sudden hope that this wild ride had set him on a course that would bring him soon to Telien.

“Unsaddle your horse, Ramad,” Anchorstar said. “He cannot graze with the bit in his mouth. He will come to me when I call. They are Carriol-bred horses, bred from your own stock, Ramad, in years past.” He tipped his chin toward the tall dun stallion he had ridden. “Do you not remember him? You tried to buy him once.”

Ram pulled himself back from his tumbled thoughts. “I remember him. A horse I would have sold my soul to have.”

Anchorstar bent to put flint to the fire. When the blaze had flared, then settled and begun to burn steadily, he produced from his saddlebags a tin kettle, tammi tea, hard mawzee biscuits, mountain meat.

Skeelie hunkered down by the fire, hardly tasting the food she ate, so caught was she in Ram’s rising hope, his need to push on, to reach out to Telien; and then in his beginning uncertainty that perhaps Anchorstar would try but could not lead him to Telien; and then his growing depression, his returning desolation at the horror of Telien’s possession.

“We will sleep here until dawn,” Anchorstar said, ignoring Ram’s depression, “and then we will push on. We are in a time out of Time, Ramad. We are now in the time of the Cutter of Stones.”

Ram stared at him. “How can you move with purpose through Time when I cannot? I could not follow Telien. 1 have only been buffeted through Time with never any reason until—until it was too late. I could not touch her soon enough, reach far enough back into Time to save her from NilokEm. There is no reason to how I have moved.”

“There was reason, Ramad, when you fought to help Macmen, then to help Hermeth.” Anchorstar stared into the fire, and Ram did not speak again. Anchorstar said at last, “I do not move us through Time, nor do I pretend to know the intricate patterns that touch such movement. Though I know that I lead you, now, to the Cutter of Stones, lead you by his will. And that through him you can seek the wraith, seek Telien.”

“Why do you help me? Why do you care if I find Telien, or if I can save her and destroy the wraith?”

“I am linked to the wraith, even as are you. I do not know why. Perhaps it has to do with my own time. I feel that this is so. I feel certain I must return to my own time, and soon. Something there calls to me, and perhaps the wraith has to do with that in some way I do not yet comprehend.”

*

The wind changed in the night to blow icy, down from the mountains. Skeelie woke once to see Anchorstar building up the fire, then slept again. Dawn came too soon, and she woke huddled in her blanket, to watch Ram saddle the horses while Anchorstar came from out the shadowed wood carrying the tin kettle. He gave her a rare smile. “There is a spring there in the wood if you care to wash.”

She sat up, pulling the blanket around her. The sky was hardly light. The wood lay in blackness. Ahead, the dark smear of sharp peaks rose against a gray horizon, peaks with a shock of snow at the top. To her left, the hill dropped steeply to the valley far below. She could sense, but not yet see, that a river ran there at the bottom like a thin silver thread. Wild land, and huge, rising up to peaks that must surely be a part of the Ring of Fire.

She rose and went barefoot into the shadowed wood where dawn had not yet come, found the stream twisting cold between the roots of ancient trees, washed herself, shivering, kneeling in shallow rapids. When she came out, dawn was beginning to filter into the wood, and the wolves were there among the trees. She pulled the blanket around her, embarrassed at her nakedness, and rubbed herself dry. Only when the wolves had gone, Fawdref dragging the carcass of a deer over his shoulder, did she remove the blanket to pull on her shift. She could sense Ram finishing with the horses, could feel his mood like a dark pall, knew he had waked with the sense of Telien’s captive spirit gripping him. When she returned to the camp, he was surly and rude.

Anchorstar had cooked thin slices of the deer meat on a stick. Ram ate hunched over, not speaking, gulping his food. The morning was bright, the air cold and clear. Skeelie reached out to the aliveness, the wholeness of the rising morning, needing this, needing to put away from her the sense of death and depression Ram carried. Deliberately, she savored the tender deer meat, the tea and warmed bread. But though she tried, she could not rid herself of Ram’s misery. She supposed he knew she shared it. Perhaps that made him surlier still. He tossed down his eating tin finally and rose, glowering at her before he went to untie the horses.

She gazed up at the far peaks, crowned with white, feeling miserable herself suddenly, angry at Ram for making her so, and angrier at herself for letting him. Anchorstar laid a hand on her knee in friendship and understanding. She stared into his strange golden eyes, felt his sympathy. His voice was soft. He glanced once to where Ram had already mounted, then looked ahead to the mountains. “This is strange, wrinkled land. There lies ahead a mountain still hidden, we will come on it as we top the next hills. That is our destination, Esh-nen, a mountain capped with ice but with fires deep in its belly, with a lake like a steaming bath. Well, but you will see.”

When they set out, Ram’s thoughts still ran through Skeelie’s mind and would not be stilled. If the wraith was growing stronger so rapidly that it could now suck out a man’s life, could they hope to defeat it before it destroyed them? It carried Hermeth’s spirit within it now, which made it infinitely stronger; Skeelie remembered its hoarse whisper, there in Gredillon’s house, You will come into me our way, as the others have come Could they, even through the Cutter of Stones, follow and destroy that creature of death? The sense of the wraith closed in around her as they started over a rise of boulders, the horses humping in a lurching gallop against the steepness; and then suddenly, coupled with her worry over the wraith and somehow a part of it, she began to feel Anchorstar’s restlessness, his growing need to return to his own time. She thought that he could sense something amiss there but not discern its shape; she felt a darkness touching him too painful to bring to view.

At midday the riders came over the last of a series of rises and were facing quite suddenly a great white mountain that sprawled just above the hills like an immense reclining animal. “That is Esh-nen,” Anchorstar said. “The white shoulder.” The west wind blew the mountain’s cold breath down to them. “There in Esh-nen the Cutter of Stones dwells in a place out of Time, a place impervious to Time.”

They built a fire for their noon meal and set the meat to cook. Ram stripped the horses to let them graze, then hunched down beside the fire and drew the leather pouch from his tunic. He fished out the three starfires and held them in his palm. They caught the firelight, flashing. He looked up at Anchorstar with taut impatience. “Tell me about the Cutter of Stones. Tell me where he came by the stone from which he cut these, and what he intended for them.”

“The Cutter of Stones himself will tell you what he wishes you to know of the starfires, Ramad.” Anchorstar shrugged, dismissing the subject. Then he looked at Ram and seemed to soften, adding, ‘There were five. I carry one still. And Telien carries the other.”

“And that one has not helped Telien. Perhaps they are cursed stones.”

“I do not think that,” Anchorstar said, then grew silent. When at last he spoke again, his words were harder, clipped, as if he in turn had lost patience. “Where is the runestone, Ramad, that Telien brought out of Tala-charen?”

“I do not know. When I held her close to me there in the wood, I caught a sense of it, quick and fleeting. A sense of it in darkness. Lost. As if Telien herself did not remember where.”

“And if you were made to choose between the search for Telien and the search for the shards of the runestone—which you vowed once, Ramad, that you would join together again—which path would you choose?”

Ram stared at him for so long it seemed he did not mean to answer. At last he rose, still silent, and walked away from them. When he turned back, his scowl was more lonely than angry; and still for a long moment he did not speak. Then he said only, “You know as well as I, what I would do. What I must do. But it does not help to contemplate that pain before—unless—I must.”

He stood silent, seemed to have forgotten them. Then at last, “When I held her, there was a sense of mountains, dark peaks rising. I could feel her despair. I saw the stone in darkness for an instant.” He paused, seemed drawn away suddenly, then he looked across at Anchorstar with surprise. “Words come into my mind. Words—unbidden.” He began to repeat slowly, then with more assurance, in a kind of prophecy that none of them ever afterward could put a name to except, simply, a moment of Seer’s prophecy. “It lies in darkness somewhere, in the north of Cloffi, or in the mountains there.” And then his words became trancelike. “Found by the light of one candle, carried in a searching, and lost in terror. Found again in wonder, given twice, and accompanying a quest and a conquering.” The cold wind touched them, the fire guttered then sprang bright. Never, even in all the violent visions of his childhood, had words of prophecy sprung clearly into Ram’s mind, ringing in his head almost as if spoken by another. Visions had come, scenes, direct knowledge. But not words thundering to be spoken.

He repeated softly the prediction, then turned to Skeelie, suddenly needing her. “Did—could Telien have spoken this into my mind? Could she remember—somehow know . . .?” But then his eyes went dark, his expression turned grim once more. “Telien could not speak such a prediction. She is not a Seer. Such a prediction comes—within a pattern I cannot even imagine. Can any Seer know the pattern by which he takes power?”

Anchorstar emptied the kettle, began to pack up the remains of the meal, then stopped to look at Ram. “A Seer can know the pattern as well, as he knows the pattern of the heavings of the earth and the birth and rebirth of souls. We are a part of something, Ramad. The runestones are a part of it. But what that pattern is, or what made it, we do not know. Why can we three move through Time when all men, even all Seers, cannot?” The white-haired Seer fell silent, caught in his own private sadness.

Skeelie said softly the words of the ancient tree man, “. . . born to weave a new pattern into the fabric of the world. Those so born are not anchored to a single point in Time.” The words of the man who was surely Anchorstar’s sire. Anchorstar looked at her a long time, a deep, puzzled look. She could not read his thoughts, but his face held infinite sadness, as if those words touched a remote place within his soul, a place of everlasting pain.

NINE

Four days brought them up into Esh-nen. It was so cold now, they rode with their blankets around their shoulders and slept close together at night, with the wolves crowded around in a warm cluster. Sleeping close, as she and Ram had sometimes done as children out of fear or in the icy nights on Tala-charen, Skeelie could feel the sense of their friendship grow steadier. She would lie wakeful with the pleasure this gave her, and with annoyance at her own dependence on Ram; but with, sometimes, a longing for him that even this closeness could not quiet. Then she would turn away from Ram and huddle into Torc’s shoulder, choking back tears; and Torc would turn and lick her face and lay her muzzle into Skeelie’s neck. You suffer too violently, sister. Time will take away the pain.

It never can.

Torc could not answer her, for her own pain, the memory of her dead cubs and the pain of her lost mate, had not abated. Together they would lie miserable and wakeful in the cold, still night, sharing their loneliness. Ram slept beside her unknowing, and Anchorstar, if he knew, did not speak of it. The very beauty of the night in this barren place, the moonlight like crystal on the jutting rocks, seemed to make her misery even sharper.

The world seemed to have grown larger and more remote as they ascended. And while at first this had increased Skeelie’s loneliness, soon the immense spaces began to fascinate her, as if they held within themselves powerful and hidden meanings. She began to touch within herself new plateaus of strength that came sharper still as the peaks rose higher and wilder around them.

The ground over which they rode seemed never to have known spring, seemed always to have been as now, frozen and barren of life. The snow, which had at first lay in patches on the frozen ground, increased to a heavy blanket. They dug moss from beneath the rock cliffs for the horses, and Anchorstar took from his pack precious rations of grain for them, but still the animals began to grow gaunt. It was a bleak, heartless mountain. The few trees stunted along the edges of the rising cliffs might have clung there forever, unchanged. The sense of their own smallness became nearly unbearable. The mountain stretched around them white and cold and silent.

Anchorstar, too, became silent, as remote as the spaces surrounding them, so Skeelie felt that at any moment he might fade altogether to become a part of the empty vastness through which they traveled.

Soon the snow was so deep the horses had to fight their way. Then the riders dismounted to trample down a path and make the way easier for the mounts. They kept on so, walking, their feet growing cold, their boots sodden, stopping again and again to dig packed snow from the horses’ hooves. The wolves alone found it easy to move swiftly across the whiteness. They brought meat—rock hare and a small deer—so there was no need for the travelers to hunt.

They came, at evening of the sixth day, up over a rising snow plain to a ridge. Beyond it, the land dropped suddenly, falling down to a deep blue lake far below. A lake not frozen over, but breathing hot steam against ice-covered cliffs. They began to descend, the horses slogging through deep snow sideways, held back from overbalancing by a short lead. Soon they could feel the lake’s warm breath. The rising steam grew thick around them, turning to fog in the cold air, hiding the snow-clad mountains. They descended into a cauldron of fog, of shifting pale shadows and then of unexplained darknesses rising and stretching away like voids between the clouds of mist.

Skeelie could feel Anchorstar’s tenseness. He seemed reluctant suddenly, and at the same time almost eager. She heard him whisper words indistinguishable, then speak a name. “Thorn!” Then, “That Seer is Thorn of Dunoon!” A wind caught the heavy fog and swirled it into patterns against darkness. Suddenly they were not standing in snow, but on a narrow rocky trail winding along the side of a bare, dark mountain, black lava rock rising jagged against the sky. The horses were gone. The air was warm, a warm breeze blew up from the valley below. Time lay asunder once again, twisted in its own mysterious convolutions, and they had been carried with it like puppets, swept away from their destination. Skeelie responded with anger, this time with a sense of betrayal.

Below them lay pastures green as emeralds, and a little village, its roof thatch catching the last light of the setting sun. Below that village, down at the foot of the mountain, they could see a city. Surely they had come to the mountains above the village of Dunoon. No city that Skeelie knew, save Burgdeeth, lay so close to the foot of the Ring of Fire. A flock of goats was being herded up into the high pastures, the herder a young redheaded Seer; and suddenly Skeelie went dizzy. Time shifted again, darkness was on the mountain. Though they could still see the herder, who stood in moonlight now, his goats grazing among black boulders. Anchorstar sighed.

“We are in my own time, and I know I must move in this time.” His words came heavy, as if he were very tired. Then his voice lifted. “That young Seer—can’t you feel it? Yes—he is linked with the runestone!” He was tense with excitement, now, stood staring down eagerly. “He is linked with the runestone that Telien carried. The runestone that Telien brought out of Tala-charen.”

Ram had caught his breath, stood watching, sensing out.

“He will touch that stone,” Anchorstar continued. “I feel certain of it. He is linked with your prophecy, Ramad. Found by the light of one candle, carried in a searching Linked in a way I cannot fathom. But

Ram . . .” Anchorstar laid a restraining hand on Ram’s arm.

“Telien is not in this time, nor does he know of her—nor do I feel that she will come to this time. That young Seer— I think he is hardly aware of his gift. It is an ignorant time, ignorant!” And then, his voice fading, “Kubal is rising. Can’t you feel their dark intent?”

He was gone, mountain and valley gone. Ram and Skeelie stood alone in fog and snow, freezing cold, the blue lake below. Anchorstar’s horse was gone, its hoofprints ending suddenly in the deep snow just where Anchorstar’s footprints ended. Their own two horses pressed close to them, shivering.

An after-vision filled their minds with Anchorstar, not on that dark mountain now but riding the dun stallion along a flat green marsh next to the sea. “He is in Sangur,” Ram breathed. “Surely those are the marshes of Sangur. How . . .? He stared at Skeelie. “What mission must he now endure, in order to make his way back to the mountains, and to that young Seer? Is there sense of it, Skeelie?”

She could not answer him. They stood staring at one another, caught between wonder and fear at the forces that moved around them, that flung them so casually across Time. Was there sense to it, reason? She remembered, suddenly and vividly, standing with Ram inside the mountain Tala-charen, could hear his voice, a child’s voice, yet very certain of the words he spoke. There is one force. But it is made of hundreds of forces. Forces balance, overbalance—that is what makes life; nothing plans it, that would take the very life from all—all the universe. It is the strength of force in our desires for good and evil, Skeelie, that makes things happen. . . .”

He touched her thoughts. She whispered, “Do you still believe that?”

“I—I don’t know. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I’m not sure how much. I guess—I guess I have more questions now than I did then. Anchorstar is gone. He brought us to this place and is gone. What forces . . .?” He looked at her long and deep, then at last they turned in silence, the sense of their wondering flashing between them, but no words adequate to answer such questions. They looked down at the lake, wreathed in mist, then started down toward its shore.

As they descended, snow turned to ice, for all was frozen here where the lake’s steam melted the snow again and again, then cold winds froze it. The far steep shore glistened with ice, rising up to the mountains. Their boots broke through the thin layer of constantly melting and refreezing crust, and the horses pawed, sidestepping, uncertain and suspicious, moving one wary step at a time. Across the lake, the shore was riddled with caves, visible now and then through the mist, and there seemed to be caves beneath the water, too, dark, indistinct patches.

At the lake’s edge Skeelie knelt, scooped warm water into her cold hands, then plunged her face in, came up dripping. The wary horses settled to drink at last as the wolves crowded around them to lap up the clear, warm water. For some moments, no one saw or sensed the man who stood in the shelter of a snowbank watching them, a big man swathed in white furs, nearly invisible against the snowbank. Fawdref sensed him first, sprang around suddenly, snarling, ready to leap. But then he stopped, did not advance on the stranger.

The man pushed aside the flap of white fur that had covered his face and stared down at the wolf with eyes like fierce black embers. Within the white hood, his face was a dark oval, sun-browned, creased with lines, craggy, his black beard clipped in a square manner, sharply defined. His dark eyes smiled suddenly, eyes filled with depths that seemed to engulf them all as completely as the warp of Time could engulf them. Skeelie fought his power, wanted to pull away; yet his strength remained aloof, did not crush her as she felt it could easily do. He said abruptly, without preamble, “Come then,” turned from them and started around the icy shore, never doubting that they would follow him.

They went in single file, Ram leading his mount, then Skeelie leading hers, the wolves coming behind, austere and silent. The only sound was the crunch of frozen snow as they made a solemn journey around the lake to where a white hill lay, a long mound with smoke rising from its center. The power of the man drew and enfolded Skeelie until she no longer wanted to be rid of it. She did not attend to how his power affected Ram, so caught was she in the sense of this man who was the Cutter of Stones.

As they drew close to the white mound, they could see a white door in its side. The Cutter of Stones pushed that door open, and they entered through the wall of snow into an inner court, open to the sky. Log outbuildings and stables stood on three sides of the court, their roofs covered with high banks of snow. A long, low house of heavy logs flanked the right side, snow roofed.

Two stalls had been made ready for their horses, with dry grass and grain and leather buckets of fresh water. The goats and sheep in the other stalls watched with marble eyes as Skeelie led her bay gelding into a stall and unsaddled him. She was tired suddenly, aching with weariness. Perhaps a weariness born of the intense isolation of this place—outside of Time, outside of any world they knew. Or perhaps it was a weariness born of her sure knowledge that she and Ram moved now, inevitably, toward crises in their lives, toward turning places. She was not sure she was ready for any kind of crisis. At this moment, all she wanted was a drink of something hot and supper and a warm bed. She began to rub the saddle marks from the gelding’s back. He ate greedily. When she turned from him at last, Ram was leaning in the doorway.

She studied him, his brown eyes, his olive skin glowing now from the cold, the long, thin bones of his face, unruly thatch of red hair. Wanting to touch his cheek, she shielded her thoughts from him, feeling stupid and ashamed of her love for him, because he could not return it.

“We are farther than the end of the world, Skeelie. Farther than any world, maybe. Farther . . .” His jaw clenched, pushing back the pain of Telien.

“You let it eat at you, Ram! What good—you . . .” She turned from him, furious, then was ashamed all over again. What was she so angry about? He couldn’t help it. She was tired, needed a hot meal, a bath. She turned back, took his hand and pulled him out into the courtyard. It was starting to snow. The wolves rose from around the door like a pack of great dogs, grinned and were off through the court and up the side of a hill to hunt. Ram dropped her hand, was unaware he did so, or that he had been holding it. She stared at him reproachfully. There was nothing she could do to make him aware of her when he did not want to be. And nothing she could do to relieve his pain for Telien. She could only stay beside him and help him search and do whatever was needed. Doormat! she thought angrily. Doormat! But it was what she wanted to do, must do, or life would have no meaning. When he had found Telien, when they had gone off together—if they could save her, if they could release her from the wraith—then, Skeelie thought, she could dissolve into self-pity, and after that make a new life for herself. Now there was only the search for Telien, and it didn’t matter if she was a doormat.

They entered the hall. Skeelie dropped her pack by the door, thankful to be rid of the weight. The warmth of the great room and of the blazing fire engulfed them. It was a huge, square room with three log walls, and a fourth of stone where a fire blazed beneath a deep stone mantel. Rafters thick as a man’s waist caught the reflection of leaping flames. Cushions were stacked before the hearth, and beside them a low table made of some dark, dull wood. There was no other furniture. Fur hides and fur cushions were strewn in piles about the room. A black stewpot hung to one side of the fire. The Cutter of Stones was stirring this.

He had removed his white furs, was clad now in a plain brown tunic and trousers. His dark eyes saw Skeelie clearly, saw her aching tiredness, her hunger, her discouragement. He held out steaming mugs to them, a heady brew scented with spices. And all the time, he looked directly at Skeelie. His voice was deep, comforting. “I am called Canoldir.” Then, “Come Ramad, make yourself comfortable before the fire.” Ram turned from them.

Canoldir looked at Skeelie so long she felt a blush rising. At last he took her arm and guided her through the hall to a corridor and down this to a chamber. He did not speak, but his very presence seemed to rest and strengthen her. “This room opens onto the lake. There is no one about, you may bathe. Supper will be ready when you are.” He turned away, was gone; she felt only the sense of his mind, for a moment still watching her. Then she was quite alone. She pushed the door closed behind her and stood surveying the room.

It was large and square though not nearly so huge as the hall. There were a few pieces of simple furniture, a big bed covered in a red woven tapestry, other tapestries hanging against the log walls. In one wall was a great window, opening nearly to the floor, made of hundreds of small panes of precious glass. It looked out on the lake and the icy shore.

There was a fur robe lying across a bench, along with fur slippers and linen towels. She stripped down at once, pulled the robe around her and stepped barefoot through the window out into the snow. Her feet began to tingle from the cold, a strangely exhilarating, comforting feeling. She stood for a moment at the edge of the lake, staring up through scarves of steam at the white mountains, watching the first stars come in the deepening sky, her mind on Canoldir. At last she slipped out of the robe and dove in one motion into the water, luxurious in its warmth, rolled languidly, then dove deep, felt the aching tiredness leave her. Finally she struck out in a long line across the lake, sharply aware of the contrast between the warm water and the icy bite of air across her cheek and lifting arms and shoulders.

At the far shore, close to the caves, she dove again and peered into shadowed grottoes. Then, in a little pool beneath snowbanks she floated on her back staring up through steam and past ice-crusted cliffs at the first stars. When she rolled over again, a vision came so suddenly and sharply it shocked her. So clear, so very real! She stood in a hut made all of saplings, stood beside a center fire pit and held a babe in her arms; the love and warmth that filled her was nearly too much to bear. A babe urgently important, not only because of the love she felt, but because of much more; though what, exactly, she could not sense.

The vision vanished. She floated between icy banks, feeling the loss of that child like a wound.

Whose child? Whose child had it been? And when, in what time?

She swam back at last to the white hill. She could see now that the window through which she had come was partly hidden from the lake by a jutting snowbank. When she stepped from the water, the icy air made her tingle. She pulled on her robe and made her way absently through the snow, thinking of the child she had held.

Once inside she returned to the large hall dressed in the long fur robe and fur slippers, deliciously soft against her clean skin. The low table had been set with wooden plates and with a loaf of warm new bread, a pot of ale, a garnish of some pale, long-leafed vegetable that she did not recognize, and the steaming stewpot set on a metal trivet. She settled herself on cushions opposite Canoldir and looked around the room with appreciation.

Canoldir’s weapons hung beside the fireplace: a fine sword, knives, a beautiful bow, arrows with game tips. Canoldir watched her careful appraisal. “There is game on these snowy peaks, Skeelie. Stag and small deer and a great cow-like animal that wanders the snowbanks in search of moss. There are sheltered valleys where they can dig deep for fodder, and valleys where the burning heart of the mountain gives forth heat enough for the grass to grow thick. There is game in plenty, and I speak a prayer for them when I must kill them.”

She saw then that across the mantel, beneath Canoldir’s weapons, were carven five faint lines of words. She rose, stood before the blazing fire to read them.

Those who have torn away the seams of Time,

through the repetition of their birth upon Ere itself,

can move through the tapestry of Time

and can weave new powers into the intricate fabric

of the one power.

When she turned, Canoldir was dishing up the stew. She watched him, caught up in the words. What was their meaning? So like the tree man’s words, One of the few born to weave a new pattern into the fabric of the world.

She came to the table abstracted, seated herself on the low cushion with her feet tucked under her robe. The stew smelled wonderful, rich and brown. Canoldir cut bread for her, said quietly, “Why do those words worry you? Do you not understand them?”

“I’m not sure. That—that most are born again in different lives, some in different worlds, some born twice upon Ere? But then . . .” She saw that Ram had read the words, and waited for him to speak.

“Those born again on Ere have woven a new pattern into the warp of powers. You, me, Telien, Anchorstar have woven a new pattern that can reach through Time.” Ram looked to Canoldir for agreement.

“But then the wraith . . .” Skeelie began. “The wraith makes a new pattern yet again. And, I would hope, not a lasting pattern, but one that will fray and fade.” Canoldir reached to refill their mugs with hot brew.

“But why were we born a second time upon Ere?” Skeelie said. “And the Luff’Eresi are so born, too? I don’t—”

“The Luff’Eresi are a different matter,” Canoldir said, watching her. “The Luff’Eresi are not, as were you and Ram, born a second time of the same race.” He saw her puzzlement. “Nothing made the repetition of your birth, Skeelie. Your birth is chance, only chance. The repetition is a new thread woven into the warp of an incomprehensible pattern. A pattern born of chance, but fitting and meaningful beyond anything we can imagine.”

They ate in silence for some time, Ram and Skeelie puzzling over questions that interlocked even as the forces that touched them interlocked. At last Canoldir began to speak again, to speak of Time and of things both strange and familiar, then soon of things so remote that both Ram and Skeelie were caught with fascination in the rising web of his words. And as he spoke his moods were as changing as quicksilver, and with each mood, his face, his whole presence changed. He might have been a dozen men, some terrifying in their fury when he spoke of the dark Seers or of evils across Ere, some as innocent and filled with joy as a young colt. When there was joy, Canoldir’s dark eyes shone with clear light. When he spoke of evil upon Ere, his eyes were a killer’s eyes.

He showed them Time in so far distant a past that humans had not yet come into Ere, a time when only the triebuck and the great cats, the snow tigers and white-horned beasts and animals with long slim necks and hides like saffron roamed Ere. And great dark beasts, neither bull nor bear, dwelt among the woods and fields of Ere; and then his eyes laughed with pleasure. He showed them a time when the first Cherban peoples came into Ere from across the sea, just as the old myths told, and sank their ships at the point of Sangur’s coast in solemn ritual and spoke no more of those ships or of the land from whence they had come. He showed them the Cherban making settlements along Ere’s coasts, and then showed the Cherban decimated by death and slavery as the first Herebian raiders came down out of the high desert lands. He showed them the young Cherban herder, Ynell, who was the first in whom the Seer’s powers rose, the first to speak with the gods; and then they saw how the Seeing grew among the Cherban peoples from that latent talent, suddenly catching fire among them at Ynell’s persecution and at the growing threat from the Herebian raiders. “But that,” Canoldir, said, “that was long ago.”

Then he showed them, abruptly, a vision of Telien that made Ram catch his breath and draw away from them in painful silence.

“Yes, Ramad, you search for Telien. You search for the wraith of the dead Yanno, who gave his soul to the drug MadogWerg in the caves of Kubal. Who would have destroyed Anchorstar and many more, except for the skill of a few young Seers—young Seers wielding the runestone that Telien brought with her out of Tala-charen.”

Ram stared at him. “The runestone she . . . but then that runestone is found!” He watched Canoldir, perplexed. “She had—she did not remember.”

“Telien did not—will not find it. And that time is yet to come, Ramad, in the way of your lives. I could tell you that that runestone is found in that future time; and yet all Time can change at the whim of forces that even I—who move outside of Time—cannot understand truly. Let us say that that stone is, in all likelihood, found.” He paused, watching them; then idly he began to brush the crumbs from the sliced bread into a little heap and spread them out with one deft movement of his palm, began to draw in the thin veil of crumbs, one thin line across, bisected by another. When he looked up at last, he had scribed the little circle of crumbs into nine sections, eight fanning out, and one in the center. Ram sat staring at the sketch. Skeelie was silent, following Ram’s thoughts. Just so had the shattered runestone of Eresu lain in Ram’s palm, in nine jagged pieces. “It had a center stone,” Ram said with amazement. “I remember now; but I did not remember. I remembered well that there were nine shards of jade, but not that one was a center stone. Gone. Gone from my mind. I see it clearly now, one long, oval stone. The center—the core of the runestone.” He raised his eyes to Canoldir. “A golden stone—amber . . .”

“Yes, Ramad. The core of the runestone, just as Time has a core about which it weaves endlessly.”

Ram drew from his tunic the leather pouch and spilled its contents onto the table. The two jade runestones. The three starfires. But suddenly the starfires were four. His hand paused in midair. He looked up at Canoldir again with cold shock. “Telien’s starfire? Telien’s . . . You brought it here! Is Telien . . .”

“It is Anchorstar’s,” Canoldir said quietly. “Anchorstar has no need for such a stone now. Anchorstar moves in his own time, thirty years beyond the time in which you mourned and buried Hermeth of Zandour, Ramad. Perhaps Anchorstar may move in Time yet again, but only shallow slips through Time, I feel. I think that he will not need the power of the starfire in that time to which he truly belongs. That time in which he was bred by Cadach. For Cadach, too, born twice upon Ere, wandered Time, bred his children through Time, in different times by different women, before he turned his powers into an evil that was his undoing.

“The starfire belongs with you, Ramad. You have need for all the starfires together, in the semblance of the one stone. Perhaps that need in part is simply to signify that in some time yet to come, you will join the stone itself. Make it whole again.”

“You seem very certain.”

“I am not certain. But if your powers seek out sufficiently well, if your powers, your commitment, are strong enough, unswerving enough—then that very force can change and realign forces moving upon Ere, can well bring you, at some time not yet clear, into the realm of all the shards of the jade. And then, Ramad, all powers may align with you—the powers you can touch but do not fully comprehend. If you are strong enough, all powers may draw in as they did at the splitting of the jade, atop Tala-charen. But this time the jade might be fused again into one whole stone. I do not say this will happen. I say that it is possible. It will depend on you. There is something in your blood, in your breeding, that belongs to the stone and its joining.”

“If all depends on me, is Anchorstar’s mission of no concern then? Does he search for that one stone in vain?”

“Anchorstar’s mission is urgent. All powers, all forces, must move as one, Ramad. You may be the last key in the final joining, or someone close to you may. But the powers and strengths of all who move in this battle are of urgency. Anchorstar’s mission is a part of the whole; the mission that consumes him now is to battle that which has gone awry. He moved with such intensity that he has all but forgotten that which has occurred before. Other times have become as a dream to him. His ruling passion, now, is to find that lost shard of the runestone and to aid those Children made captive by forces uglier than any that have yet touched the Children of Ynell.”

Canoldir picked up the starfires, placed them on the table before him, and began to arrange one next the other in the way they had been cut. Fitting perfectly, they made a rough oval but with a hole where one stone was missing. “The starfire that Telien carries.” He then took up the two runestones. “Now tell the runestones for me, Ramad. Count them.”

Ram pushed his bowl aside, gave Skeelie a long questioning look, then, unexpectedly, a comforting one. “The stone that I brought out of Tala-charen is lost in the sea, off the coast of Pelli.”

“Yes.”

“The stone that NilokEm brought out of Tala-charen and passed down to the dark twins is the stone in your left hand, given me by Hermeth.

Canoldir nodded.

“The stone in your right hand, the wraith dug out from beneath the mountain Tala-charen.”

“Yes. You took it from the wraith at the moment that it possessed Telien.”

Ram studied Canoldir. Did this man care that Telien had been taken by the wraith, that her very soul was captive? But why should he care? What was Telien to him?

“Continue, Ramad. What I care about is not of moment here. I would not have brought you here had I not intended to help you pursue Telien. Though I care for more than that. I care for the fate of the stones. And I care for a coupling you do not dream of; and of which I will know a long sorrow.”

Ram watched him, unable to make sense of his words. “What coupling? What do you speak of in such riddles?” Yet the sense Skeelie caught from Canoldir’s thoughts was so disturbing she upset her mug, occupied herself for some time mopping it up with her napkin.

Canoldir said softly, “Continue, Ramad, with the naming of the stones.”

“The—the stone that Telien brought from out Tala-charen when she was first flung into Time, that stone is lost somewhere in darkness and she could not remember where. ‘Lost in darkness. Found by the light of one candle, carried in a searching, and lost in terror,’“ Ram repeated.

“That prediction, Ramad, is one of the wonders that moves through Time unchanged. Ever, ever changing are the winds of Time, ever nebulous and moving. And yet moments among those winds, words or predictions sometimes, the fate of a man sometimes, can move through those winds unchanging even as the swirling storms of Time change. ‘Found again in wonder,’ the prediction says. ‘Given twice, and accompanying a quest and a conquering.’ That is four stones, Ramad. What of the other five?”

“The fifth is the starfires, of course.”

“Yes. Though the starfires do not hold the same magic as do the other runestones. The starfires know only their own magic, they know only the work of the core, which they are; they know only the magic to plunge into the core of Time.” Canoldir lifted the ale pot from beside the hearth and poured out more of the spiced liquor into their empty mugs. “Five stones, then. Five you have accounted for. And what of the other four?”

“I do not know. I know only that all the shards must be brought together, that Ere cannot know peace until the runestone is whole once more. Four missing shards. Four—”

“No, Ramad. There are not four. There are only three.”

“But I—”

“You carry the sixth runestone close to you. Do you not know what you carry?”

Ram stared at Canoldir. “I carry no other stone. I know no other stone. I carry no stone but these. What do you . . .?”

“Reach into your tunic, Ramad, and put on the table what you carry there.”

Ram drew out from the folds of his tunic the only other object he carried and placed it on the table before Canoldir. The bitch wolf grinned in the firelight, her long rearing body turned red-gold before the flame. Ram raised his eyes to Canoldir, unbelieving.

Canoldir did not speak. The room began to fade, fog to come around them, then the space to warp and remake itself, so Ram and Skeelie stood in a small stone chamber lit with torches round the walls. A young man dressed in a deep blue robe knelt there in some private ritual; then suddenly a brilliant white light shattered around them and they were in Tala-charen, Ram a child again holding the shattered runestone in his hand while all around him came figures out of Time to receive those shards in one flashing instant, and among them the man in the blue robe. Ram recognized his face from having seen it in a vision long before; it was NiMarn, a younger NiMarn than Ram had seen, who had fashioned the bell of bronze. NiMarn, founder of the cult of the wolf. Time warped again, a dark-clad forgeman labored by NiMarn’s side. The blaze of the forge flared and died and flared. He poured his molten metal, and NiMarn, in a strange, quick ceremony, placed the jade shard within. They saw the casting harden, they saw NiMarn raise the bronze bitch wolf aloft, smiling cruelly.

Long after the vision faded, Ram sat staring at Canoldir. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “How can it be? The wolf bell was already made when—when the runestone shattered. How . . . ? It cannot be. The bell . . .”

“The turning in on itself of Time can be, Ramad. Not often does it happen, not even with the strongest powers. But the power that night on Tala-charen was power gone wild, power warping into new patterns, into new paths. Such a thing might never happen again, in all of Time. It was, it is. The jade is there inside the wolf bell and will remain so now until you yourself release it. Or until one close to you does. The sixth runestone of Eresu, hidden there inside the belly of the bitch wolf.

Ram touched the bronze wolf reverently. No wonder the bell had such power. And now—he lifted his eyes to Canoldir. “Three stones unaccounted for, then. Three stones to search out . . .” His voice caught with wonder.

“Three. But remember, Ramad, the wraith covets all of this,” Canoldir said, sweeping up the two jade stones and the starfires into the leather pouch and tossing it to Ram.

*

Once, late in the night, Skeelie woke to hear the wolves howling on the mountain. She turned over, hardly aware of them, her thoughts all of Canoldir. Fawdref’s voice raised in a wild, gleeful song, wailing, cleaving the night with furious joy. The others, the bitch and dog wolves, cleaved their voices to his in octaves like wild bugles ringing, crying out across the night against all that would fetter them.

Did another voice, a human voice, rise with their song, deep and abiding? Later, Skeelie could not be sure. She slept smiling, strangely unsettled.

TEN

Skeelie woke at dawn. Somewhere, Canoldir was singing in a deep, wild voice that stirred a memory she could not bring clear; as if she had slept all night hearing his song, as if she had dreamed of him. Puzzling, she rose and began to dress; then she remembered suddenly, stopped half dressed to stare into space, seeing the hall last night, seeing Canoldir’s face shadowed by firelight, hearing again his words.

Ram had left the hall, yawning. She had turned to leave when Canoldir stopped her with a look, and she had stood, her back to the dying fire, watching him.

“I cannot tell you what will happen, Skeelie, when you and Ramad follow the wraith. I can only tell you that I will put you where the wraith wanders. After that, there is nothing I can do. But I will tell you this. If you succeed in bringing Telien back with you, if you and Ramad succeed in rescuing her from the wraith and do not—are not destroyed yourselves, then—then, Skeelie of Carriol, I would speak with you.” He had turned then, paced the length of the hall, turned again in shadow to pause, a bear of a man, his force filling the room. Then he returned to stand looking down at her. “If Ramad brings Telien away from the wraith, they will be—you will be wanting to be away from them.”

Skeelie had stared into his eyes and nodded, her misery catching at her throat.

“If you will come to this place, Skeelie of Carriol, I would . . .” His dark eyes had looked so deep into hers she shivered. “I would court you!” he cried with a great shout. “I would court you! That is what I would do!” He had swung her around in a great dancing step like a bear, leaned to kiss her fiercely on the forehead, then had grown quiet, had led her down the corridor to her chamber, left her there with reluctance; she had felt his emotion like a tide, long after he had gone.

She stood clutching the door, filled with consternation. What was she to say to Canoldir this morning? That she would return if . . .? That she would not return? Yet she knew no answer was needed. No word need be spoken to Canoldir this morning—or ever, if she chose.

She thought of him with gladness, thought of his words with pleasure and with renewed strength. She stood daydreaming for some time, then took up her sword and bow at last and left the chamber to find Ram.

She never reached the hall. Darkness swept around her; she was whirling in darkness. Canoldir’s voice was singing deep but far away, his song ringing wildly. And Ram was there; they were tumbled on Canoldir’s song. Time and song were one. They fell, were swept through voids of Time into rising light, into golden morning light, buoyed by Canoldir’s song. Light burst through Time and through space as if they rode on liquid rays of sun. Ram shouted, but she could not make out the words. Canoldir’s song rang with joy; Time itself leaped in his singing as they touched moments in their lives all but forgotten, drowned in sudden emotions as Canoldir’s changing moods drowned them. His spirit surged; they could see his face sometimes as his shouting song rang down the wind; and the wolves came round them crying out in eerie mourning to join the song that leaped in cadences woven of all life.

Then Canoldir’s voice faded. Was a whisper. Was gone.

They fell, terror-ridden, into darkness, their loss painful, cold gripping them. Down and down in darkness . . .

They stood in a cave made all of ice, ice walls gleaming, the wolves close around them taut with power and wonder, their eyes filled with predatory fire. Skeelie knelt and hugged Torc to her. How far had they come, how many years? In what time were they, and where? She lay her cheek against Torc’s rough coat, hugged Torc hard, and the bitch wolf turned to lick her face. You are choking the breath out of me, sister.

Ram seemed confused. He stared at Skeelie for a long moment, hardly seeing her. Beyond the cave’s ice walls was a pale, milky sky. Ere’s two moons were thin crescents, white and lifeless. Skeelie approached the entrance, stood staring down appalled, then drew back. There was nothing there, nothing. No land below, only endless space. She shivered and pushed close to the others, chastened and afraid.

Ram made an effort to right his senses, felt for his sword, gave her a confused look that turned to defiance. Then at last he grinned, seemed himself again. “Great fires of Urdd, Skeelie, what kind of trip was that? Canoldir—great flaming thunder, what is he?”

“The man out of Time, Ramad. The man you went seeking.”

“Like a whirlwind. I feel—I feel as if I’ve been trampled. Did he do all that, twist us, belt us through Time like that. Send us reeling down into this wretched place? It was never like that before. Not with all that thundering madness.

“And Skeelie—the wraith has been in this place, has traveled here.”

“Yes.” She could sense it, too. Sense that it was down there deep now, through the mountain, back through that narrow ice tunnel somewhere. She did not like to think about going in there. She felt in her tunic for flint, realized only then that she had no pack, no lantern, no mountain meat or blanket. She stared reproachfully at the leather pack slung securely across Ram’s back. “Lantern, Ram? Food? I’ve nothing. Only my weapons.”

“Why don’t you have your pack? You were dressed. You—”

“I hadn’t time. He swept me up—I’d hardly dressed!” She did not say she’d been daydreaming. “I’d left my pack in the hall.”

“Yes, all right.” He swung a lantern from out his pack, sloshed the oil to see its level in the dim light, wondered that it had not all spilled away into unfathomable Time somewhere. He struck flint. The light caught and steadied. He held the lantern up. They stared. Skeelie shivered. It was not a cave to thrill them. All jagged ice, low. Cold went to the bone. Ram turned back to the cave mouth and stood looking, then returned. “No other way but this, then.” They began to follow Fawdref, who had started ahead. Skeelie and Ram had to crouch almost at once beneath the low ceiling. The lantern light reflected wildly. The ice ceiling was cold against their backs. Soon they were cramped with the hunching, then reduced to crawling, then to wriggling on their bellies, Ram pushing his pack and the lantern ahead of him, Skeelie pushing the bows, trying not to panic. Ice burned their faces and fell inside their collars. At last they could stand again—at the lip of an icy cavern that cut deep into the earth below them.

Ice steps led down. Ram chopped at them with the tip of an arrow until they were rough enough to walk on. It was a long, steep descent, and when they reached the floor at last, they were dizzy with the glinting movement of lantern light across ice. The wolves stared into the depths of the cave, growling softly. There is something there, Ramad. Fawdref moved ahead slowly. Something—though I cannot smell it. Something besides the wraith. The sense of the wraith led them ahead in spite of the danger, following blindly the trail it had left between ice pillars. Soon the wolves began to move away from Ram and Skeelie, to disappear among the towers of ice until the two were alone. They went on alone for some time uneasily. Then Ram stopped, set the lantern down. But now, though the lantern was still, light continued to move around them, flashing and scurrying against the ice. They stood staring, weapons drawn, could see nothing but light moving as if light stalked them. As they started on again, light slipped across jutting ice ahead of diem, then was still. High on their left, the ice seemed to move. On their right, a slithering motion caught in light. Where were the wolves? Not one was in sight. Their arrows were taut in their bows, but perhaps useless, for how can you kill light?

Then ahead of them a pale mass of light slithered, then turned and took shape. A giant white lizard, its scaly body nearly invisible against the white ice, its pale eyes on them, unseeing. They watched it for some moments.

“It is blind,” Ram said at last. “Maybe it’s harmless.”

“Then why is it stalking us?” Skeelie kept her arrow taut. “I don’t think it’s so harmless.”

They could see others now. Once their eyes grew accustomed, knew what to look for among the glancing ice, they could see three, four, then at last several dozen of the white creatures surrounding them, their blind faces turned toward them, their tongues curling in and out as if they could sense them by taste. Ram moved on. Skeelie followed. The lizards moved with them. There was no sign or sense of the wolves.

The attack came suddenly, a sound like breaking glass, an immense white shape flailing down at them across cracking ice. Ram sent an arrow into its soft belly as the creature twisted. Skeelie followed. One arrow, two. Then the wolves struck all at once. The creature screamed, blood flowed red against ice. It screamed again and sought them with blind eyes and reaching claws.

The wolves finished it quickly. It lay dying. The other lizards drew back, knowing danger in spite of their blindness, slithering away against pillars of ice. Ram and Skeelie pushed on, shivering with cold, the wolves close around them now. Suddenly Ram stopped, and pointed. “There. An opening. There is fire there! Look!”

She could see it then, a small cave opening far ahead through which fire glowed. She saw a flash of flame leap then die, then leap again. They started toward it, eager for warmth.

As they neared the fiery cave, the ice underfoot grew soft and they began to slosh through rivulets of water running down to puddle at their feet. Soon enough their boots were soaked. They moved eagerly toward the warming flame, watching it leap and die, stood at last in the entrance, warming themselves. Soon their leathers grew so warm they began to steam, though Skeelie could not get her feet warm inside her soaking boots.

The cave of fire was not large, and the fire they must skirt licked out to touch the walls. The heat grew so intense they began to sweat beneath their steaming leathers. They pushed ahead, but soon drew back again, nearly wild with the heat. They stood again in the archway between the two caves, heat pushing at their faces, the cold air from the cave behind swirling up in welcome draft. Ram opened his collar, shed his tunic. “We’ll try it again, running. Make for that opening at the far side.”

But fire flared in their faces; there was the smell of burning fur, and once more they pulled back, stood in the ice cave, several wolves rolling in water to stifle the smoldering. A hank of Ram’s hair was burnt.

“If we could stick ice to ourselves . . .” Skeelie offered. “Water would make it stick to fur, maybe to leathers.”

“The lizard skin would hold it, help protect us, it was thick enough.”

They returned to find a dozen lizards eating of the flesh of their dead mate. The creatures had not touched the tough, scaly skin, so Ram and Skeelie drove them off and began to skin the creature. They cut the hide into large squares, then began to break off slabs of ice from the pillars and walls. As each wolf wet his coat in the runlets of melting ice, Ram stuck ice slabs to him, and tied on a lizard skin. When at last Ram and Skeelie were armored the same, they entered the cave of fire and passed the flame, this time with ease, stood at last in its far opening. There the night sky shone with stars. The twin moons hung thin as scythes above jagged peaks. They pulled off the skins and scraped off the ice as best they could. A meadow rolled away down to a moonlit valley and low hills. The wolves shook free of the last of the ice and flung themselves out onto the meadow, rolling, drying themselves, giddy at being free of the mountain. Soon the smell of crushed grass filled the air. Ahead, beyond the hills, rose a diffused light as if houses stood there, with lamps burning.

They crossed three hills, and at last could see below them a large cluster of strange, cone-shaped dwellings. It appeared to be a city of rough earthen cones that might have been formed during some peculiar action of the volcanoes. Holes had been cut in the cones’ sides for doors and windows, and through these, pale lamplight came. The sense of the wraith was strong, and a sense of defeat or hopelessness permeated the city.

“It is there, Skeelie. The wraith is in that place.”

She could not answer, was cold with foreboding.

“We could wait for dawn,” Ram said, watching her.

“We hadn’t better. We’ll be seen less at night.”

“If you don’t want to go, you needn’t, you know.”

“I want to go,” she said quietly. He looked at her a long time and didn’t say any more, started on.

The cobbled streets were so narrow between the rough stone cones that Ram and Skeelie, walking side by side, felt themselves forced together. The wolves pushed along the silent streets crowding them, wanting to stay close. Here and there a face looked out, silent and shadowed, or a figure stood unmoving in a lighted doorway. There was no sense of threat, but little sense of awareness, either.

Then a figure stepped out before them into the center of the street and shuffled toward them, a sour vacancy about it. Skeelie’s hand trembled on her sword. But the being was only mindless and disgusting. Ram touched its dim instincts, twisted them, and made it turn back into the doorway. It stood there shuffling. It had been a man once, but was now a creature stripped of mind and soul. Nothing else approached them. They began to look inside the doors, where greasy lamps burned low. A grainery, long empty. A cobbler’s hovel with only a few scraps of leather scattered in the dust. A dozen shops, all gone to decay, but with inner steps, not so dusty, leading up to sleeping rooms. And in some of the shops idle men stared back at them. A sweet, sticky smell pervaded the place. Ram soothed each creature they encountered, turned its mind away from them. “The wraith has made a city of slaves. It must feed on them, take their souls, then leave them alive to do the work of the city.”

“Doesn’t look like they do much work. And when it runs out of men to feed on, what then?” She turned to look at him suddenly, realizing only then the full implication of the strangeness of this land. “We are—we are in the unknown lands, Ram. Are there men in the unknown lands, then? Or did the wraith bring these people here?”

“I think—look at them, Skeelie. Touch the sense of them. I think these people are not of our countries, that they are people of the unknown lands. I think the wraith came here to them, that it took their city, simply moved in and did with them as it pleased. People we never knew about. Perhaps they did not know how to battle it, were not used to fighting, or to those who can touch their minds, Simple men.”

“Why would it come here, so far? We don’t know how far. If it wants the runestones?”

“It knew I would follow Telien, no matter how far. Maybe—it wanted people, many people perhaps, to put under its power and draw strength from. Once it learned to take the strength from a person, I suppose its power has increased quickly.”

“And we go to challenge it.” She studied him, trying to look certain of their own strengths. Feeling shaky.

They stood at last before the cone that formed the central tower, a lopsided volcanic cone laid down by fire and silt and ash, then carved by water and wind into its thick coned shape. It had been hollowed out by men long before the wraith came. They saw a balcony high up and narrow. Did a shadow move inside? They could not be sure. The sense of the wraith was now so strong Skeelie felt sick with it: the sense of its desire to conquer them; of its greed for the runestones. Yet also a sense of its fear. Perhaps, even now, it did not feel certain of its power over this angry band armed with the shards of the runestone. Torc stood with flattened ears, her lips pulled back, her hatred risen to fury. The wolves flanked her, sharing her hatred, their heads lowered and fangs bared, watching the entrance to the tower. Skeelie laid her hand on Torc’s shoulder, but did not pull the wolf to her; there was too much anger there, too much hatred. You must not kill it, Torc.

Torc turned, snarling at her. I know that, sister. I know we must release Telien. But then, once Telien is free, then I can kill the wraith. Once you and Ramad are away.

Skeelie’s fear for Torc was painful. Torc ignored it, had no fear for herself, no thought for herself save revenge.

Ram had left them, gone back into a narrow street, entered a doorway. Skeelie, watching the empty street, could not sense what he was about. He emerged at last, propelling one of the mindless men before him, a big brute of a fellow who must once have been formidable indeed. She could touch no sense of what Ram was about. Why did he block her from his thoughts? Did he plan to force the wraith to take that man’s body, to leave Telien and enter that body? It was strong enough, surely. But how make the wraith do such a thing? It would rather have Ram, a Seer. Rather have her own Seer’s skills to add to its own. Did Ram think that with the power of the runestones he could force the wraith to abandon Telien?

She could feel his concentration, his single-minded commitment, but she could not read his intention. Did he, she wondered, growing cold, mean to make a trade? Give the wraith this hostage in return for Telien, but with some bribe it could not resist?

What bribe? What bribe except—her hands shook. She stared at Ram.

Did he mean to use the one bribe the wraith could never resist? Use the milestones? Trade the runestones of Eresu, trade all of Ere then, for the life of Telien? Oh, but he would not.

She followed Ram, cold and silent inside herself, watching him and unable to sense anything from his closed, remote state as he forced the hostage toward the wraith’s door. He did not pound on the heavy planks, but simply lifted the latch and forced the door in, pushing the captive ahead of him.

But the way was blocked by a little square woman no taller than Ram’s waist. She stared up at them with a face as sour as spoiled mash. “Go away. The goddess does not see strangers.” Her coarse brown skirt and apron were none too clean, and her hair seemed not to know what a comb was. She looked them up and down, looked disgusted at the crowding wolves, then began to push against the door in an effort to close it. Ram held it back with a light touch, watched her with amusement. She glowered. “Go away, I said! The goddess sees no one! She does not want strangers here.”

“She will see us,” Ram said. “The goddess will see us.” He stepped forward, propelling the prisoner, but the little woman held her ground. Behind her, in a dim sunken room, dozens of servants were working at an odd assortment of tasks, all crowded together among tables and benches and baskets with little order, seeming to be always in each other’s way. Their talk had died, but now began to rise again.

“The goddess Telien will see us,” Ram repeated, and had the satisfaction of seeing the woman’s startled look, at the mention of Telien’s name. “If she does not see us, we will turn her magic to ashes, and you as well, old woman.” He pointed a finger at her nose. “If we do not see the goddess, you will be swept like dust, old woman, in the winds I will call forth to destroy your goddess!”

The little woman scurried away so fast that both Ram and Skeelie grinned. They watched her run almost agilely up a narrow stair carved into the stone wall. Then they stood looking down with curiosity upon the seething activity in the workroom, where folk scraped vegetables, mended furniture, butchered a sheep, kneaded bread, all side by side in a confused huddle. It seemed that all the tasks of this rough castle were performed in this one room—and performed mostly at night. Was night the natural time of waking, here in this land? The smells of paint and fresh-sawed wood and warm blood mixed with the smell of baking bread. On the rough walls, one could see pick marks where the soft stone had been carved away. But the walls were carved with other things, too, with the images of figures.

“Let’s have a look,” Ram said, and led her down the few steps to the main room. The wolves remained behind guarding the hunched, still figure that once had been a man.

There were goddesses carved into the walls. Tall, beautiful women carved into the stone; but with the taint of evil about them. Farther back in the room they ceased to be beautiful and became goddesses of lust in poses that made Skeelie blush. And in the shadows at the back of the room, there were goddesses sacrificing tortured men in savage ceremonies. Skeelie and Ram avoided looking at each other. Around them, the servants worked unheeding. Skeelie could smell rotting vegetables, rancid oil. They stepped over tools left lying where they had been dropped. As they circled the room, the carved images grew so disturbing that Skeelie wanted to turn away from them, yet could not turn away from their twisted ugliness. And each depraved image had the face of Telien.

Ram turned away at last, ashen. Skeelie could do nothing to comfort him, nothing to soften the ugliness.

The stumpy woman returned and, without speaking, led them across the littered floor, through sawdust and food trimmings, to the stair and up it. A narrow, steep stair unprotected by any railing. Skeelie felt she was climbing the side of the wall like a fly. The wolves came behind, pushing the prisoner along between them. The sense of the wraith there above, the sense of impending danger increased as the little band climbed up the side of the cavernous room. Skeelie wanted to turn and pelt down the stairs, did not want to face what could happen here. She shielded her thoughts from Ram, or hoped she was shielding them, forcing herself to climb, staring above her at Ram’s rigid leather-clad back.

ELEVEN

The stair rose directly into a large, rough room cluttered with garish furnishing: purple satin drapings; magenta bedcover encrusted with tarnished gold braid; black and lavender pillows; all of it soiled and worn; and covered with a heavy smell, sweet and disgusting. They did not see Telien at first.

When Ram saw her, standing still in the shadow by the hearth, he caught his breath and was with her at once, forgetting caution. He touched her arm, awash with the shock of seeing the parody she had become. Her soiled silk frock was pulled tight, so low her pale, tangled hair fell over half-concealed breasts. Wide bracelets covered her arms nearly to the elbow; her feet were bare, with toe rings and anklets; her face was painted with a hard flush over her pallor; her green eyes were dull and deeply shadowed, her face gaunt. She stood so still she might indeed have been one of the carved figures. Skeelie could feel Ram’s sick mourning, watched him reach out to hold Telien in spite of his horror. Only then did Telien move, to pull away from him.

Ram stepped back, but reached out in spirit to her trapped soul as if he sought an injured, frightened bird inside a dark, puzzling trap. His emotions were subdued, cool now and apprizing of Telien, touching then drawing back, reaching again, trying to awaken Telien, to make her fight from within.

The wraith watched him. It did not move or change expression, though its skin seemed to grow more sallow beneath the painted rouge. Telien’s green eyes, flat with the death-spirit, observed Ram and delved deep within Ram seeking weakness or fear.

Then suddenly it brought a power down upon Ram so violent he stumbled, then steadied himself against the side of a chair. Skeelie threw all her force against the wraith’s dark spirit. The stones, Ram! Use the stones! He seemed frozen, unable to think. She could feel the wolves’ force joining with hers. At last Ram reached into his tunic slowly, as if in a dream, and clutched the leather pouch in his fist. The wraith stared, lusting for those stones, then drew back as Ram righted his senses, as the power of Ram and wolves and Skeelie joined with the stones to rise to a crescendo that trembled the room. Fury flashed from the wraith’s eyes. And then Ram began to part the intricate shields with which the wraith guarded itself, so that for a brief moment Telien was there, soft and terrified and begging Ram for help.

But the wraith rallied, Telien was gone, the green eyes cold with hate.

Now Ram knew that Telien lived, he wanted to tear the wraith from her. He forgot everything in his black fury as his hands gripped its throat. He was intent only on releasing Telien. The wraith cowered, shrank down in pain beneath his clutching fingers—but it was Telien’s pain, too. “Don’t kill her, Ram!” Skeelie’s voice shattered him, shocked him. He stared at his hands on Telien’s throat and let her go. She slumped. He caught her and held her to him, could feel her heart pounding; could feel the wraith’s desperate rise of strength as it began to suspect that perhaps Ram could destroy it. It began to falter beneath the power of the several stones, beneath the power of this crew joined. They stood locked in a maze of powers while above the town the stars wheeled toward the horizon and the moons swam slowly down behind black peaks. A tableau of powers, motionless, Ram and Skeelie facing the painted parody of Telien, the wolves frozen into positions of attack, the mindless captive Ram had brought from the town huddled against the door. The moons set and a pale hint of dawn touched the night sky, and neither force gave quarter. Telien came forth sometimes, battling; but then weakening with the powers pulling at her. She would sink then, so the wraith emerged stronger in its desperation. Then the wraith began to reach into the room, to awaken the captive. The big man stirred and straightened and seemed to clutch at consciousness. Fawdref spun, snarling. The wolves moved as one. The captive struck out at them, and lunged. But there were too many wolves, they brought the man down at Skeelie’s feet. “Don’t kill it, Fawdref,” she whispered, and Ram echoed her.

“Don’t kill it! Drive it here to me.”

The wolves forced the injured man to crawl the length of the room. Skeelie watched, strung taut with fear. The formless shadow of the wraith must be released from Telien. Ram turned on the wraith with a fury yet unmatched, jerked it by the arm ignoring Telien’s pain. He was concerned now only with Telien’s life. He jerked her to him, stared down at her, then shoved her toward the prisoner, which cowered bleeding before the wolves. “Enter it,” he breathed to the wraith. “Enter the man you have destroyed. Finish what you began!” And when the wraith refused, Ram forced it against the wall, did not let himself think that if he hit it, he would be hitting Telien. Its parody of Telien stared back at him, hating him. “Make the captive stand up again, creature of shadows. Make it stand, and enter it!”

The painted face of Telien stared coldly back at him. But fear showed deep in its eyes. “Make it stand!” Ram repeated.

At last the creeping prisoner at Ram’s feet stood up slowly and stared at Ram, uncomprehending.

“Enter it,” Ram said. “Enter it, creature of dark. Or I will destroy both you and the girl, never doubt it.” His power was like nothing Skeelie had seen. She watched Ram bring the power of the stones around the wraith in a roaring burst of air that so nearly shattered their ears that a wolf cried out in pain and a wind tore at the room.

“Enter it or I will destroy your soul. Snuff you like a candle!”

The wraith cringed before him; Telien’s thin body shivering in the black gown. Dark fear welled in its eyes, and two images vied for reflection in that painted face, as in a deep-seeing mirror; the wraith’s cruel presence and the image of Telien.

“Enter the captive and leave Telien. Become this man, or I will crush your soul for you.”

Skeelie watched Ram and knew he had no idea whether he could destroy the wraith’s soul, though his power tore at the very fiber of the wraith’s being. The wraith cringed again, stared at Ram uncertainly, drew its spirit back, pressed its hands to its face in fear and confusion—to Telien’s face. It was Telien there.

Telien, alone. Telien, filled with sickness, slumping against Ram. And the tall, powerful captive rose and stared at Ram, its eyes the wraith’s dead eyes. It reached for Ram. He pushed Telien away from him and drew his sword in one swift motion, battled the creature knowing he dare not kill it and release the wraith again. As the wraith’s darkness touched his mind, he felt himself begin to weaken. He fought in desperation, driving the creature back until it plunged across a cushioned bench and fell, but it sprang up again, broke the leg off the bench as if it were kindling, and came at Ram. The wolves stood tensed, ready to spring.

Skeelie held Telien close to her, for the girl was so weak she could not stand alone. She was so very thin, her skin cold and damp. Skeelie smoothed her hair, talked softly to her as one would to a frightened child. She was so diminished it seemed that the sickness of the wraith had invaded her very blood. They watched the battle with growing fear. Then Ram slashed the bench leg from the wraith’s hand and began backing it against the bed. He struck and wounded it with a long sword slash down chest and belly, so it doubled up and fell.

“Don’t kill it, Ram! You . . .”

But Ram was backing away. Skeelie saw Torc surge past to stand over it, wanting to kill.

“Don’t, Torc! It would take Ram!”

Torc snarled deep in her throat, her bared teeth inches from the man’s face. When you are gone, sister, I will kill it. Go—get Ramad and Telien from this place, get away from here. This creature will die, and you must be away.

It could take you, Torc. Become you.

It cannot, sister. Such as this cannot enter into the soul of the wolf.

Are you so sure?

Torc did not answer, turned her mind to Ram, spoke her silent words to him. You will go away, Ramad. Send them all away, the people, the servants, so that I can be alone with this creature.

Ram hardly heard her; he had taken Telien from Skeelie and now held her close. Telien clung to him weeping, her hands gripping his arm as if she were afraid he would disappear, or that she would again be torn from him. Skeelie was filled with pain, with empathy for them both. The broken man that was now the wraith lay unconscious, bleeding badly. Skeelie stared at it, knew if it awoke it could yet possess Ram.

Get them out of here, sister. Turn the servants out, get Ramad and Telien from this place.

Skeelie knelt to hug Torc, then left her, grabbed Ram’s arm and began to pull him and Telien toward the stair.

When you are gone from this place, when everyone is away, I will kill it. Or I will wait for it to die from the wounds of Ramad’s sword and from thirst. I will not leave this place, sister, until the soul of the wraith, with no other body to enter, fades and dies. It is weakened now from battle, it must have a body near, or it will fade—to nothing, sister! To nothing!

*

By the time dawn lit the city of cones, the wraith’s hall was vacant. The simple folk were streaming obediently away, out through the city to take refuge in the surrounding hills until they could return to their homes. Already the domination of the wraith had begun to lift, and it seemed to Ram and Skeelie that the folk would return to their own natures unharmed.

Ram carried Telien. They left the folk of the city of cones at the foothills and began to climb the first ridge, rocky and steep. Telien weighed no more than a child. There were no trails in this wild land. They ascended jagged rock shoulders until they stood at last high above the wraith’s city on the crest of a range that looked not over the countries they knew, but over land completely unknown to any of their own peoples. They were tired nearly beyond bearing, and once over the mountain’s high ridge and a bit down the northwest side, they found a sheltered grassy place tucked between boulders where they could sleep. They rested until the noon sun, lifting over the ridge, woke them.

They took a light meal of mawzee cakes and mountain meat, though Telien ate only a few bites. She was very weak and pale, shivering even in the warm cloak Ram had found for her in the wraith’s hall and she remained silent. It was as if the effort to speak, or even to gather her thoughts, was too great. They started down the mountain at last, Ram tense with worry over Telien, carrying her most of the way. Below them lay a deep valley, green and dotted with lakes and spanned down its length by a river. The scent of green came up to them, a scent of wildness that made the wolves raise their faces to the wind, then go melting off down the mountain far ahead of them, heads up, seeking out over the new land. There were trees here none of them had ever seen, unfamiliar plants. They had no idea how far into the unknown lands they had been cast.

They reached the valley at dusk, Telien asleep against Ram’s shoulder. There was no sign of people, and the returning wolves brought no word of any. The land is empty, Ramad, Fawdref told him quietly. Empty as far as we ranged. The wolves had come streaming back drunk with new scents and bringing game such as Ram and Skeelie had never seen: a small red deer no bigger than the wolves themselves; a fat fowl larger than a chidrack, gray and long-necked, with a crest to its head like a great fan.

They found an outcropping of granite that formed a shallow cave. Ram laid Telien inside and covered her with his blanket, then built a fire. Skeelie thought with longing of the blankets and food they had in their haste left behind in the cone tower, snatching up only the cloak for Telien; then thought of Torc alone there and went silent with worry. Rhymannie came to press against her, knowing her fears; knowing Skeelie could not understand why none of the wolves had remained with Torc, why they had left her so very alone. As she wanted to be, Rhymannie said. As any of us would want. It is different with wolves, perhaps. Alone with the thing you have to do. Or perhaps not so different. But, sister, Torc will come to us in her own time.

“If she comes at all,” Skeelie said, turning her face away. She rose and went out of the cave to stand on a little rise, looking out at the darkening valley.

When she returned to the shelter, Telien lay with her face turned to the inner wall of overhanging rock, her breathing shallow and fast, her skin clammy. Ram knelt beside her holding the waterskin, but Telien refused to drink. The pain on Ram’s face was terrible. Skeelie knew that even had she herbs she was not sure what she might have attempted to use, so alien was Telien’s sickness. When Telien opened her eyes at last, to stare up at Ram, she did not know him. He took her hand, but she drew away, wincing. Gently, Ram began to feel into her mind. Skeelie followed and was shocked at her sinking, empty weakness, at the feeling inside Telien as if she were falling down into blackness and could not stop. “Where is Ram?” Telien whispered. “Ram has not left me?”

“I am here, Telien. I am holding you.”

Telien stared up at him, her green eyes dull with the inner sickness, with the knowledge that rose within her of her own wasting.

Ram slept close to Telien that night, warming her, the wolves all around warming her as well, for she complained of cold that cut deep into her bones. Skeelie lay stretched out at the edge of the shelter as far from Ram and Telien as she could manage, so painful was it to see the two of them torn apart, to see Ram hurting, and she unable to help either of them. She tried to give Telien strength with her own powers, but the sinking, falling sensation that gripped Telien all but defeated her. If she gave Telien anything at all, she feared it was not enough.

Dawn came sharp with a cool wind. Skeelie sat up and looked back into the cave where all lay still asleep. We will go on this morning, she thought. The three of us and the wolves. Then when Telien is better, I will turn back, find my way back—home. Home? And where is that?

Where would home be now, for her? Now that Ram had Telien?

A place out of Time, perhaps. A place with Canoldir, if he still wanted her.

She turned to look back into the shelter, feeling uneasy suddenly, feeling something very out of place. Ram and Telien lay as before, close but not touching, Ram’s arm thrown over his face as he was wont to sleep when he was exhausted or very worried. As she watched, the wolves stirred, and Fawdref rose suddenly to look across at her, his golden eyes dark with grief. She saw Ram wake from sleep and pull Telien closer, looking down at her. Saw him go pale, touch Telien’s cheek. Then he pressed his face into Telien’s lifeless shoulder, and clutched her to him so her arm dragged limp across the blanket.

He remained that way until the sun came bright. He might have remained that way much longer, wanting to die there with her, had not Fawdref nosed him up at last and made him rise and turn away from her. Ram’s face was twisted and unnatural with his pain. Skeelie could not speak or look at him.

*

They buried her high on an alpine meadow, in a grave that could look out over lands no man of Ere had ever seen. Ram would have buried the starfire with her, which they had found folded into her gown—for luck, for safe travel, or in some wild pagan notion that it might carry her back through Time and make her live again. But at Skeelie’s look, he knew that he must take it. It was the core of the runestone; without it, though he might someday find and bring together all the other shards, the runestone would lie incomplete. She will travel far without it, Ramad, Fawdref told him. She will know other lives.

“How can you be sure! Our lives will never touch again!”

Yellow wolf eyes watched him. Unfathomable. I cannot know if your lives will touch again, Ramad. Nor can you. I only know that she will live, perhaps in more joy even than this life gave her.

“More joy? She had no joy. She had only pain. Fear of her father. The beatings. Then carried into Time. The wraith—”

She had joy, Ramad. Joy in you. Fawdref turned away then and went up into the hills, a dark, shaggy shadow melting among boulders, carrying darkness with him. It did not settle well with the great wolves to feel human pain so closely, pain of friend, unless that friend were bent on mending the pain. Just now, Ramad was not.

Skeelie stood at the base of the hill looking after Fawdref and knowing his thoughts: Ram must mend himself and no one could do that for him. She was surprised to find that his thoughts lifted her suddenly, made her feel lighter.

Must Ram mend himself, was the great wolf right? She felt a presence, then, in her mind, and looked up into the sun-bright wind; a craggy, lined face, a bear of a man, black-bearded; dark eyes watched her in a vision so sharp it made her catch her breath. What will you do, Skeelie of Carriol?

I will go with Ram.

And if he doesn’t want you?

Only time will tell that.

I live with all of Time. I can wait, then.

You must not wait for me.

There will be others. A man does not well, always alone.

They will be transient ones. But if you come to me, Skeelie of Carriol, I will belong to you for all time. All Time will be yours to wander. If so you choose. Go with him now, and be happy. Even in his pain, make him happy. Beyond his pain, give him joy.

The sun shone strong. The figure was gone, the thoughts gone. Ram stood at some distance, where boulders crowned the hill, had turned, was watching her. He said nothing, just looked. Perhaps, she thought, he could mourn Telien without destroying himself with the pain. He came to her at last, stood looking down at her, the sun making his hair like fire. “You would go with Canoldir if it were not for me.

“I mean to go with you.”

They looked at each other a long time.

At last Ram shouldered his pack, cuffed Skeelie in a poor imitation of the old roughness between them, and looked up to where the wolves stood watching them. Then he started off southward, in the direction where home must be, for all the unknown lands lay to the north of the eleven countries of Ere. How far they were from the lands they knew, from a time that would have meaning for them, they had no idea. Skeelie felt Ram’s despondency, his deep mourning for Telien. But there was something else, a deep abiding purpose that lay strong within him. She watched him take the white goatskin pouch from his tunic and touch the runestones briefly, then clutch the pouch tight in his hand. He quickened his pace, striking off toward the head of the valley. She hurried beside him, the warmth of the lifting sun on her cheek.

But she stopped suddenly, hardly in her stride, to stare up at the eastern mountains.

She felt the high howling before she heard it. Felt in her soul the wailing that, in another moment, would split the air over the mountain. The wolves stood alert, sensing that vibration, looking eastward up the mountain, holding within themselves the vibration of that far, silent wail.

Then they heard it, far and clear. A keening of cold, lonely victory. And they lifted their muzzles and cried out a reply that sent chills rippling the still mountain air. She would come now. Torc would come.

The Joining of the Stone

Part One: Ramad’s Heir

Early pages from the journal of Skeelie of Carriol.

Why do I write these words? No one I know will ever see them. Everyone from my own time—except Ramad—was long dead when first I knew that I had moved through Time into an unknown future. I didn’t think of loneliness then, I knew or cared for nothing but Ram. And I searched for him through Time that carried him and used him in ways I could not have imagined.

Was Time unlocked by Ram’s need, for it to take him so readily? By Ram’s love for Telien? Perhaps some day I can write of those cataclysmic flingings through Time, but now I can only mourn Ram.

Ramad is dead. Ramad of the wolves is dead. My love is dead, and I can only mourn him with the same pain that, eight years gone in our lives, he mourned the death of Telien.

I have come away from the abyss of fire, having buried Ramad beside it. I have brought our son here to the city of cones. I need to be near people for a little while, if only these simple folk. I write these words in a small cone house they have given me. Torc and Rhymannie doze by my feet before the fire as complacent as dogs, for these folk have accepted the wolves just as they accepted Lobon and me, gently and unquestioning. Fawdref is not with us—Fawdref, master of his pack, Fawdref who loved Ram so. He is buried beside Ram, in a grave that was once our home. Rhymannie mourns him just as I mourn Ram. Their big cubs and the rest of the pack roam the hills at this moment, hunting our dinnermeat. I cannot take my mind from the rocky valley where Ramad lies and where we lived in happiness for eight years that seem no longer now than a day. I cannot take my mind from the fiery pit where Ram died, nor tear my soul from him.

The demon Dracvadrig is gone from the pit, or I would have sought him there and done my best to kill him. He carries with him the one shard of the runestone that Ramad fought to win, and I carry the four that Ram put in my keeping.

Would I have gone to kill Dracvadrig that day had he remained? Truly, I don’t know. I know now only that all my strength must be for our son, that I must give Lobon all that Ram would have given him of training, of skill, and of strength. He has the stubbornness, he has shown that plainly enough. He is only six, but as stubborn and fierce already as any young wolf cub could be. Can I temper and direct that willfulness? But I must. He is Ramad’s heir—heir to Ram’s commitment, heir to the joining of the runestone. Heir to the joining of those nine shards, if ever they can be brought together.

Ram died too soon. He died with the stone still asunder.

These four shards that I hold are Lobon’s legacy. If Ram’s life meant anything, then these stones must be used one day to turn the fate of Ere away from darkness. One shard more lies drowned in the sea. One lies hidden in darkness, lost by Telien I know not where. And there are two shards to which I have no clue. Dracvadrig carries his shard in a metal casket around his neck, the chain dangling past his waist when he is a man, and pulling tight across his scaly throat when he takes the dragon form. Nine shards of jade. Nine shards of power that must somehow be joined again, and our son heir to the skills and to the nature of that joining.

Meanwhile, dark eats upon the land, flaunting the runestone’s broken, weakened powers. And Lobon frightens me; his violent nature, so filled with cold fury at Ram’s death, frightens me. If such anger does not abate, his powers as a Seer cannot grow. I must learn to temper that anger; I must learn to strengthen the man in him. I must learn to do for Lobon what Ramad would have known to do. When I take up sword again, to teach him its skills, I must train his spirit as well. And when I teach him the Seeing powers, I must teach him patience and wisdom—just as skillfully as Gredillon the white-haired once taught the child Ramad, in a time long dead.

Where we will go from this place, I have no idea. It is enough just now to rest and try to ease the wound of Ram’s death, I am filled with tears, and I cannot weep. I know deep within that I will survive the pain, but my spirit does not believe that. I know I must mend, for Lobon, but I have not the heart to mend.

If no eyes but mine see this journal, still it helps to set forth my thoughts; it eases something in me. The time of Lobon’s manhood will come too soon, and there is a cold fear in me of that time that I cannot put aside.

ONE

Lobon stood tall above the boulder-strewn valley, his sword sheathed, his leather cape thrown back, looking down coldly upon the waste of lifeless stone. The valley, just as he remembered it from childhood, looked as if a giant hand had ripped and shattered the stone, splitting it into grotesque and tumbled shapes across the dry scar of sand; and the whole valley itself was dwarfed by the shouldering mountains far to his right and the sheer black cliff that towered close on his left. Above that cliff, he could see the icy white apron of the glacier Eken-dep thrust against the dropping sun.

Behind him in the south, beyond the wild mountains and beyond a line of smoking volcanoes, lay the civilized nations of Ere. He had never seen them except in Seer’s visions, sharp as reality itself. This valley was his home, where he was born and bred, though it was twelve years since he had looked upon it. Its fierce cruelty had not softened during those years since he was six. He saw it with the same distaste he had known then, and with the same hatred. The same fury at his father’s death, for that fury had never abated.

Ahead, the valley ended abruptly at the edge of a gaping abyss, a chasm so immense that a man entering it would feel as small as a dew-ant. Fire ran at the bottom of the abyss in bloodied rivers bursting forth from fractured stone. The air down there was smoke-dulled and tinted sullen red. You could travel down there if you knew well the way. Or the pit could take your life. The width of the fissure was so great that the far jagged edge was lost in smoky mist. The black cliff that blocked the western end of the abyss pushed down into it like an obsidian blade, cutting off the land beyond. He turned his gaze away from that cliff to search among the boulders ahead for his companions. When he spoke at last, his voice seemed no more than a whisper against the awful silence. “Crieba? Feldyn?”

The dog wolves moved into the open and paused, then looked back at him, black Feldyn like a shadow against the dark shadows cast by the falling sun, Crieba’s silver coat caught in a last streak of light. The sun would soon be gone behind the glacier.

“Shorren?”

The white bitch wolf appeared from behind a boulder and smiled up at him, her eyes golden jewels.

“Can you find a place in this abysmal pile of stone where I can lay my head? Is there game?”

Feldyn spoke silently. We scent rock hare, Lobon. A deer passed through some hours back, but is gone. You will eat rock hare again. He and Crieba leaped ahead to find shelter, losing themselves quickly among jagged boulders. Shorren waited for Lobon and pushed her nose against him, her warm white muzzle nudging his arm. She was increasingly uncomfortable at the fury that filled him, tried with female stubbornness to gentle him. She could not endure his anger without pain to herself and would never cease to try to soothe him.

Man and wolf worked their way down between boulders, across the jagged valley toward the lip of the abyss. Soon they stood at the rim, bathed in the hot breath of the abyss, and in the feel of evil that rose from it. Lobon knew no words to describe his contempt for the master of that pit.

Here on the edge of the pit he had stood as a child of six, watching Ramad die, and now once more his mind and heart filled with the scene, come sharp to Seer’s senses. Shorren’s golden eyes censured him for his self-inflicted pain, but she remained silent in her mind and let him be. Feldyn joined them, tasted the heat from the pit, then looked eastward, raising his black muzzle. He keened suddenly with eerie voice, challenging the master of Urdd. Lobon’s silent challenge joined him, his black eyes searching the pit, his mottled red hair flaming in the last light like a burning blaze.

When Lobon spoke again, his voice was like scuffed silk against the valley’s silence. “He will die. Dracvadrig will die at my hand.”

The bitch wolf snarled softly. Lobon ignored her censure. He stared down at her and willed her to listen. “I will kill him, Shorren! And I will sink this pit of fire back into the center of Ere from which it gapes, and that will be Dracvadrig’s grave.”

Shorren’s thought came softly, but as steady as stone. You are too arrogant, young whelp. You are too filled with the lust for revenge. That lust can blind you. The dog wolves echoed her, Crieba slipping silently to Lobon’s side; but Lobon turned from all three and closed his mind to their words. He pulled from his tunic a deerskin pouch, dark with age and brittle, and spilled out into his palm two long green shards of jade and five small, amber stones. The smaller stones had, generations before, been cut from a similar shard.

The fourth shard was hidden inside the belly of the bronze bitch wolf that he took from his tunic, a rearing wolf with a bell suspended in her mouth. He lifted the bell, and it toned lightly, making the three wolves moan with its magic and stare up at him with rising light in their eyes.

Four shards of the runestone, Lobon held. The fifth, there below him in the pit, he meant to take from Dracvadrig very soon.

He followed Shorren and the two dog wolves to a rude tumble of boulders under which they might shelter from the creatures of the night sky: from the black flying lizards big as horses, and from the little blood-drinking night-stingers that hovered near the heat of the abyss. Twenty paces to his left stood the heaped stone that was the grave of Ramad. Once it had been Ramad’s home, boulders with slabs of stone placed to roof a shelter. It would be dark inside now, sealed, attending the silence of death. Ramad’s bones lay there, and Fawdref s bones. Lobon shivered, wished Ramad would step out of Time to him, move through Time as he had done before, across six generations. He did not understand Time and its limits. Ramad was dead here, in this time. A sickness and revulsion rose in him; he kept his distance from the grave and did not understand his own feelings.

He dropped his blanket and pack inside the smaller, rougher shelter, then turned back to the abyss and stood staring down, wanting to go down at once and pursue Dracvadrig and kill him, but knowing he must learn the abyss through visions first, learn Dracvadrig’s nature better. Yet impatience ate at him and made him edgy. He began to pace. Shorren paced close to him, nuzzling him frequently as a mother would pat an unruly child.

They had been following Dracvadrig for twenty days, sensing the runestone Dracvadrig carried, Lobon drawn by the pull of the stone until he was nearly mad with it. They had climbed the face of Eken-dep following the master of Urdd, had stood halfway up the glacier only to see Dracvadrig transform himself from man to fire ogre and move on over the ice unfeeling of the cold, then at last transform himself into the dragon of fire he was famous for and leap from the glacier on giant wings laughing the laugh of a man. They had watched the creature fly down then into the abyss of fire; and there in the abyss Dracvadrig waited now, and Lobon would kill him there.

He had scant knowledge of Dracvadrig’s nature. He knew only that the firemaster’s skill at shape-changing was rare, and that the firemaster’s cruelty was absolute. Was the creature a man, or a demon? Had Dracvadrig been born of living creatures? Or born of the elements of the abyss itself, born of fire and of sulfurous stone? Or born perhaps as twisted offspring from the seed of the mindless fire ogres?

Lobon cared little what the creature was, he knew only that Dracvadrig must die. If Skeelie were here, she would say, You had better learn quickly Dracvadrig’s nature, learn quickly what you face. He thought of his mother and scowled, could see too plainly her thin, fine-boned face, the dark knot of hair falling over one shoulder. He felt the sense of her strength, in spite of his anger at her. They had parted in fury, not speaking; and later when he was away from her, he had not been able to bring himself to reach out in vision to mend that rift. Nor would he mend it now.

Yet it was Skeelie, thin and strong and torn apart inside, who had stood beside him here twelve years ago and seen Ramad die. Her suffering was as much a part of him as was his own.

Even so, he could not reach out. Her words when he left her had struck him like firebrands. “You are too driven by fury! It is madness to try alone! You need other Seers, there are those who would help you. You have only to reach out to them. Your pride is too great, your anger too sharp; you warp your judgement by such wrath. No matter that Canoldir feels he must let you go; you court failure, Lobon, to go alone in such violence of mind!” They had stood staring at one another locked in the burning torment born of love and of pain. Then he had turned and left her, left the home of Canoldir, left the ice mountains, and gone out of that land of Timelessness into a land where Time ran forward as men know it, the three wolves leaping down over ice cliffs leaving the rest of the pack to join him. And, once again in common time, he had begun to search out Dracvadrig by the sense of the runestone he carried, feeling the stone pull at him and not asking himself why it did.

After Dracvadrig flew away from the ice mountain, it had taken Lobon and the wolves three days to make their way back down the glacier and another day to reach the valley, across land so desolate it might never have known water or growing seed. Now, at the brink of the abyss, Lobon began to feel clearly the desire with which Dracvadrig coveted his own four stones. He knew the firemaster would kill for them, and the knowledge infuriated him. “You are as good as dead!” Lobon said softly. “You are as dead as if the blood were already draining from your body,”

But a voice rose thundering from the abyss, the shock of it like a sword slash. “You are insolent, son of Ramad! You are untried and ignorant and weak!” Cold sweat touched Lobon. “What makes you dream, son of a bastard, that you can take my life!”

Slowly Lobon stepped down to a lower, jutting lip along the precipice. Shorren moved with him and tried to press him back. Far below, a flaming river ran. Smoke drifted across broken rock. Shapes were lost in heat-warped air. There was no movement except drifting smoke. He tried to sense the direction of the voice, but Dracvadrig’s laughter echoed, directionless. “Do you imagine, child of a bastard, that you can see me when I do not choose to show myself? Do you imagine that you can kill me?”

“I will snuff your life, master of Urdd,” Lobon shouted, “as surely as a wolf can snuff a rock hare! And I will own the runestone to which you have no claim!”

“Ah, and you are heir to its joining!” Dracvadrig mocked, his laughter cold. “Think you to join that stone, bastard’s child? You? When the powers of seven generations have prevented that joining? The dark powers will prevent it, bastard’s whelp, perhaps until Time ceases. The stone will never be joined until the dark itself chooses to join it for its own use!”

“What care I for any such joining! I care only for the pleasure of seeing you die!”

“You are a fool, son of Ramad. And I take pleasure in that!” The firemaster’s voice echoed harshly, then the abyss was silent. The weight of the towering black cliff seemed to bear down like lead toward Lobon. Silence spanned to eternity, and the firemaster did not speak again.

Only when Lobon moved back from the rim at last did Shorren ease her weight against him. He took the scruff of her neck in his hands, and she turned and locked her teeth on his arm, gentle as the fluttering of moths. Once the wolves had gone to hunt, Lobon gathered greasebrush and animal droppings and built a small fire in the lee of the rock shelter they had found, then sat warming himself, looking across the abyss toward the deepening sky and the line of mountains beyond, where no man he knew of had ever ventured: not Ramad, not even the man who lived outside of Time who was his mother’s lover. When the sun dropped behind the white face of Eken-dep, the rock-strewn valley changed from a place of sharp, humping shadows to one of flat, subdued light. The tumbled boulders seemed to recede and to shrink in size.

The evening turned chill. The emptiness of the land was overpowering. He leaned close to the fire, stricken with the idea suddenly that he might be the last man alive in all of Ere, alone at the edge of unknown spaces, unknown realities. Did death seep out of the abyss to give him such thoughts? He tried to put his unease aside, but the sense of Dracvadrig pushed around him to chill his mind until he felt heavy and inept.

Then at last he felt Dracvadrig drawing away from him, as if the firemaster was distracted or had turned his attention toward another. It seemed to him the firemaster was reaching out in another direction, touching a consciousness far distant. Lobon’s mind quickened with interest, and he reached out toward that same vision, tried to immerse himself in the image that Dracvadrig’s mind seemed to conjure so sharply and in the rush of voices that accompanied it, disjointed and confused. All shifted senselessly, though Dracvadrig was mingling with the scenes comfortably enough, as if he had done this before. Where? Where were these Seers he conjured? Surely these were Seers, whose minds Dracvadrig touched so deftly. How could they remain unaware of the firemaster?

The creature had blocking skills, powerful skills. He felt Dracvadrig begin to beguile one mind in particular, and to turn and shape its thoughts as if he were shaping clay. A girl. Young. Lobon could see her face, fine-boned, thin; dark hair falling across her shoulders loose and tangled as if from sleep. And her eyes were startling, huge and lavender like the wings of the mabin bird. Her skin was lightly tanned, but a streak of white shone where her hair parted behind one ear. Her cheeks were ruddy, the whole essence of her as brilliant in coloring as was the mabin bird. She was unaware of Lobon’s scrutiny, and seemed aware of Dracvadrig only vaguely; though she was disturbed by him and by the darkness he drew around her, for she shuddered as if from a brutal touch. Yet there was an emptiness within her, too, something soft and malleable that made Dracvadrig easily welcome in spite of her revulsion. Lobon sensed people around her, the activity of a town. He could hear the sea crashing close by. He tried to touch the lower, dreaming levels of the girl’s mind, tried to seek as Dracvadrig sought; but he could not touch her. Why did the dragon seek her out? What did she have that Dracvadrig wanted? Then suddenly the vision vanished, the sense of Dracvadrig faded. Lobon was alone, shivering in the cold darkness.

The fire had burned to embers. The wolves were pushing at him, returned from the hunt. Four rock hare lay at his feet. He looked at them muzzily, then knelt to build up the fire so he could see to skin out his supper.

Late in the night, long after he had gone to sleep, something awakened him so violently he jerked upright, scraping his arm against a boulder. He swore with the pain, was wide awake and sitting up staring into a path of moonlight that held two images: dry sand and stone outside the den, and the vision-image of a pale stone room. The girl was lying asleep on a narrow cot, and through the room’s window, Ere’s twin moons hung thin as crystal above the sea.

He could sense Dracvadrig touching the girl’s mind with fingers like flame. He felt her confusion as she woke, watched her rise from her bed and cross the room to stare out at the moonlit sea. He felt her mindless compulsion, watched her turn at last and begin to dress, then pull on a dark cloak, all the time trying to free herself from Dracvadrig’s possession, but yet needing terribly to obey him.

He watched her leave the room and climb a flight of twisting stone steps to a huge, cavernous grotto washed with moonlight. He could hear the sea far below. In the center of the room stood a round stone table, and above it hung a stone on a long gold thread, a deep green stone, catching moonlight: a shard of the runestone of Eresu. This must be Carriol, then. This must be Carriol’s runestone.

The girl shook her head, stared at the runestone, wanting it, coveting it. She tried to push Dracvadrig’s dark compulsion away. Yet she needed to reach for the stone, needed desperately to touch it.

Still something held her back. She turned away at last, shaken, and made her way out and down the stairs.

Lobon sat puzzling. Why had Dracvadrig’s power receded?

Surely the tower had been in Carriol, surely it was the tower at the ruins of Carriol, and this was Carriol’s runestone, the only other stone in Ere now held and used by Seers. It had drawn Dracvadrig’s covetous lust. But why had he let the girl go away without taking it? And why, when Lobon carried four shards, would the firemaster bother about Carriol’s stone? Was he, then, so afraid of Lobon as to seek the power of a runestone elsewhere, to add to the power of the one he carried?

Was Dracvadrig not powerful enough to better him? Elated with the thought, Lobon burned to confront the firemaster.

He did not pause to think of the subtlety of the stones’ powers, or that those powers could vary with forces that lay beyond them: with the strengths of those who wielded them, and with strengths far greater still, as yet only vaguely understood. He did not care to remember Skeelie’s words or Canoldir’s explaining the casual balances of those forces beyond the stones, beyond men, forces as mindless and natural as the erupting of Ere’s heaving volcanoes. He thought only of his own power in the stones he carried, and of the foe he sought.

He set himself to studying with heated urgency the sense of the uncharted land deep in the abyss, the directions the fiery rivers took, the power of the land’s upheavals. He studied the sense of Dracvadrig, turning at last from the girl and from Carriol’s runestone, knew that the firemaster would return his mind-powers there. Then he felt Dracvadrig moving below in the abyss, slow and ponderous, waiting for him.

TWO

Meatha woke to find herself standing in her moonlit room fully dressed, her cloak dragging from one shoulder. She was shaken and upset and did not know why, or where she had been. She was sure she had just come through the door, that she had been out in the chill halls of the tower. Her hands were cold, her cheeks numb with cold. She stood with her fist pressed to her lips, trying to make the image that clung in her mind come clear, something half-forgotten and upsetting; but it blew away like smoke. Where had she been? It was the middle of the night, the moons outside her window hung low above the sea, and she was fully dressed. Why? She had been walking, she was sure she had. She knelt to feel her boots and found them dry. Then an image of the shadowed citadel touched her mind, an image of the runestone, deep green, catching moonlight. Why had she been in the citadel?

Why? Why would she go there in the middle of the night, and then not remember? She shivered, stood staring absently at her rumpled cot.

She remembered going to bed, remembered snuffing the lamp. What could have waked her, made her dress and go from her room unknowing? Made her go to the citadel, then not remember going? A darkness clung within her mind as cold and repugnant as death.

Slowly, slowly she began to pull memory out of nothing, until she knew at last that she had indeed stood pressing against the stone table staring at the suspended runestone, wanting to lift it down, her thoughts confused and frightened and at the same time wildly elated.

She had come away at last, she thought, against her own wishes. And why were her thoughts of the runestone afire with guilt? Surely she could go to look at the runestone if she wished; she herself had helped to bring it secretly to Carriol.

She left her room at last, too confused, too full of questions to sleep, and made her way down the inner stone stairway to a side door and out onto the moonlit ruins, her mind filled with thoughts that remained vague and shapeless and threatening. She walked slowly, head down, hardly seeing the broken stone rubble of the ruins, washed white with moonlight, stone that had once been towers, dwelling places. Behind her the great tower loomed, white and tall. She was on a high, narrow hump of land that separated Carriol from the sea. To her right and below lay the town. To her left, below jagged cliffs, the sea swung and pounded and flung moon-washed foam to break against the cliff. She stood staring down, caught in the sea’s mindless rhythm, unable to escape her half-formed fears.

This was not the first time she had been somewhere she could not afterward remember, not the first time she had felt the brushing of cold shadow across her mind and not been able to capture the form of it. For days she had been edgy and uncertain, done badly at weapons practice, had been distracted in her work with Tra. Hoppa. And yesterday she had been so short-tempered and irritable with her young teaching charges that she had cut the class short. One could not teach Seers’ skills with a mind as bristling as a sprika-shell. And she had been mean and bad-tempered with Zephy at a time when Zephy did not need that kind of distraction.

Now when she thought of Zephy’s journey, even it made her uneasy; her fear rose suddenly and inexplicably as if chill hands had again touched her. She clenched her fist, frowning, trying to puzzle out what disturbed her.

This journey of Zephy and Thorn’s must not be touched with darkness. This journey would be like none Carriol had sent out before, and if there was some terrible threat to it, she must see it. She tried, willing steadiness in her mind, willing herself to reach out.

She could see nothing. Only this unformed fear. Maybe it was nothing, then, maybe just her own unsettled state of mind.

Zephy and Thorn’s journey would not be a fighting force sent out to help defend another nation against Kubal, nor even a trading party gathering intelligence. This journey would be a mission of friendship and dramatic showmanship designed to win the confidence of the new and puzzling cults that had risen so quickly across Ere; cults that no one, yet, understood, but that made all Carriol uneasy. She stood letting her mind wander, hardly aware of her own thoughts, until she noticed suddenly that the twin moons had dropped nearly to the horizon. She huddled into her cloak and watched the first touch of dawn begin to lighten the sky.

Soon a rosy light began to touch the cliff below her and to wash the fallen stones of the ruins where she stood. It reached down to the town below, fingering across the highest thatched rooftops, then down the stone buildings and across the second-floor shutters where folk still slept. Then sunlight touched the faces of the first-floor shops and the cobbled lanes. A bedroom shutter was pushed open, and a woman in a nightdress leaned out. Below, a door opened, and a leather-clad man set a bucket by the stoop. A boy came around a corner leading three fat ewes. Another door opened, shutters were flung back. Pretty soon folk were on the lanes, most of them heading toward the green before the baker’s and brewer’s shops, arriving to stand in little clusters, staring skyward. Soldiers were due this morning. Other soldiers would be departing. A small flight of winged horses was already rising into the sky down below Waterpole, but only Meatha from her height could see it.

On the green now, six young soldiers had gathered to inspect the bundles laid out on the long tables. Meatha could feel their tension as if it were her own. The breeze quickened. She glanced skyward with a sense of excitement, but the first group of winged had gone, and she saw nothing else, only the deep gray clouds over the eastern hills, still empty of life. When she turned, sunlight caught across her cheek so the bones of her face showed sharp and clean, the baby softness of two years earlier gone now, traded on the training fields and the battlefields for a taut, quick boyishness that Zephy said only heightened what she called Meatha’s maddening beauty. Meatha pushed back her dark hair absently.

She knew, without the Seeing, what Zephy would be feeling this morning, strung taut with the nervy discipline they had learned, reacting to possible danger—even though they did not head into battle—with the aggressive eagerness they had been taught. Zephy, so in charge of herself, so certain about everything. Zephy, so very complete and happy since she and Thorn had married. Meatha wished she might have half Zephy’s self-assurance and direction, instead of the emptiness that so often gripped her—instead of the dark fear that dwelt with her now, stirring a deep, subterranean terror that she did not want to examine.

She needed to talk to someone. Yet that very thought frightened her. Certainly she could not talk to Zephy this morning, could not distract her now. Nor could she talk to Tra. Hoppa without disturbing the old lady’s deep concentration over the work in which she was so immersed.

She could talk to Anchorstar if he were here. She swallowed, her own distress replaced suddenly by grief. Where was Anchorstar? What had happened that day? The sky had been so clear, their mounts so close together their wings nearly touched, and Zephy on his other side, Thorn just ahead of him. Anchorstar had looked across at her, his face in the shadow of the mare’s wings; and then suddenly he was gone, he and the mare gone as if a hole had opened in the sky.

She saw Anchorstar’s lean; leathery face and white hair so vividly she thought for a moment it was a true vision, then knew it was only memory combined with her sharp longing for him. How could he have disappeared? If she could talk with Anchorstar, he could tell her why she had been in the citadel in the middle of the night. He could tell her why she felt such fear.

She wished her Seer’s powers could bring him back, that she could bring him to Carriol by the very power of her need for him; but Seer’s powers had not been enough, nor had the combined power of all the master council together been enough. Nor had any Seer been able to divine what had happened to him. Though there had been some wild and frightening speculations. Had he been snatched into the unknown lands by some evil they did not understand? Or, as Alardded thought, been thrown by forces even more inexplicable into another time, into the future or the past?

Oh, but that was impossible, that was the stuff of tales or ballads. Like the ballads of Ramad. Not fact. Everyone knew Alardded’s ideas could be tinged with madness. Though his inventions were not; they were wonderful. His waterwheels had changed the whole life of Carriol, had made way for goods and luxuries beyond anything they had imagined. And his irrigation network spreading out from the rivers Voda Cul and Somat Cul had brought a richness of pastures and crops never before known across the northern loess plains, so that the fine horses of Carriol had prospered. Yes, Alardded’s inventions were solid enough. But his talk of people moving through time was only a flight of his wonderful fancy.

The sun rose higher, and the gray clouds began to brighten with streaks of reflected light. Then, a sense of flight began to touch her, a sense of freedom, of wild soaring, of wind brushing and twisting past so her heart quickened crazily. She searched the clouds for movement. Below her on the green, folk were all doing the same, staring upward, every Seer sensing flight, every common man taking cue from the Seers, though the winged ones were still invisible in the western sky.

At last she saw tiny specks moving through cloud. She felt their flight, bold and wild and free, as yet unburdened by riders. Her lips moved in silent whisper, she pushed back her dark hair in an impatient gesture, her blood racing at the exhilaration of flight and at the feel of the winged ones’ power, at the feel of the wind around them. She thought suddenly of herself as a child again, staring up at the empty sky waiting eagerly and usually futilely for the winged horses of Eresu to appear among cloud. A guilt-ridden child, afraid she would be discovered looking up at the sky. For in Burgdeeth, dreaming of the winged ones had been forbidden. Speaking with them in silence, as she had longed to do, had been punishable by death.

Suddenly the band of flying horses burst out from the cloud, sun slashing across their sweeping wings. They came on fast, soon nearly covered the sky, were dropping down over the pastures in a mass of movement, their silent greetings caressing her. They banked, turned, filled the sky utterly, then plummeted down toward the stable yard and toward the crowded green, a dozen winged ones breaking their flight to land soundlessly and gently among the onlookers, their wings hiding the crowd for a moment in a mass of light-washed movement, amber wings and saffron and gold, snow-pale wings and black. Then they folded their wings across their backs and stood quietly greeting their friends, nuzzling, speaking with voices that came in the Seers’ minds in gentle whispers. Meatha saw Zephy with her arms around the neck of a tall roan mare. Zephy, dressed in flowing green silk like a real Carriolinian lady; her brown hair, not streaming as usual, but bound in a coronet braided with gold, gilded boots; jewelry flashing as she moved so Meatha hardly knew her. Meatha watched the winged horses crowd around Zephy, brushing against one another, wings brushing against her like a benediction. Then Thorn was there, his fighting leathers new ones, elegant pale hides not yet stained from battle. Soldiers crowded around, the twelve who would ride with them, other groups of soldiers ready to embark on other missions. Meatha stared down at her hands on a broken stone wall and saw that she had gripped until her knuckles were white. She loosed her fingers, frowning at herself, then watched the winged ones accept the delicacies the riders had brought them, knew there would be onyrood pods dipped in honey, mawzee grain made into cakes with nuts and fruits, new green shoots from the gardens. She caught the sense of the horses’ pleasure and endearments, the Seers’ silent and gentle responses. And suddenly she wanted to be going, too, or to be flying into battle again in that close brotherhood between Seer and winged one, leaping down over the heads of earthbound warriors, her bow taut.

Zephy’s and Thorn’s flight would end in a descent from the sky as dramatic and awe-inspiring as riders and horses together could make it: a descent wrapped in magic, in wonder, in illusion, to impress and so convert their quarry. Ceremony that Meatha knew was not any more to the taste of the horses of Eresu than it was to Zephy and Thorn. But necessary, if they were to win over the rising cults that had sprung to life in the coastal countries. If Carriol must win by subterfuge, by illusion, then so be it—though the cults were only a small part of Carriol’s problem. For since Meatha and Zephy and Thorn and Anchorstar, and all that small frightened band of Children of Ynell had fled the Kubalese caves two years earlier, Kubal had not only subjugated all of Cloffi, but seemed intent on defeating and ruling all the coastal countries. On the eastern peninsula, Pelli and Sangur were constantly threatened by raids, though so far they had held their own. In the west, Zandour seemed strong enough, its small council of Seers evidently hardier than the rulers of the central countries. And what was the source of Zandour’s power? Did that country indeed still hold a shard of the runestone, as was often whispered? Zandour’s Seers claimed they had none such, and many folk believed that when Zandour’s leader Hermeth died generations ago, Hermeth’s shard of the runestone had disappeared.

If Zandour’s Seers did possess a runestone, surely they would not keep it secret from the Seers of Carriol. The power of that stone, wedded to the power of the stone Carriol held, could strengthen both countries considerably against the rise of the Kubalese. Yet where were the other shards of the jade? Meatha wondered. Lost? Buried perhaps, as Carriol’s own shard had been buried beneath the city of Burgdeeth? Of the nine shards, Carriol held one, and one was drowned in the sea. Seven were unaccounted for. If we had them all, she thought, and the stone were joined—as Anchorstar dreamed, as Tra. Hoppa dreams when she pours through dusty volumes searching for clues to the disappearance of the shards—if Carriol possessed the whole stone, then we could defeat the Kubalese. She thought with distaste of the piecemeal battles—helping one country, then another—holding impregnable only Carriol. And before Carriol had possessed the one shard of the runestone, she had not been able to do even that, had been able only to defend her own borders, and the refugees who came to her for protection.

Below on the green, four winged ones were being laden with food packs. To see the horses of Eresu wearing pack harness, though it was of their own choosing, so appalled Meatha that she stood staring in dismay for some moments. When she turned away, she was dazzled by the lifting sun. She stood blinking in the brightness, then at last made her way down between broken stone walls toward the green. She could see Thorn now, his red hair bright against the neck of a white mare.

She shouldered through the crowd to the horses of Eresu, saw a slash of green where Zephy knelt, forgetting her silk gown as she reached to adjust the belly strap around a gray stallion, carefully setting the strap so the pack harness would not chafe him. Zephy, so loving horses ever since she was a tiny girl, when horses were forbidden to them, so close now in her relationship to the winged ones. The stallion’s silent voice told her where the strap was uncomfortable. He stretched his dark wings to feel his muscles pull against the harness, then bowed his neck to nuzzle Zephy’s shoulder, thanking her. Zephy scratched him under the foreleg with casual familiarity. Zephy, so direct and simple in her relationships—a directness belied now by her elegant clothes, her regal looks, she who cared nothing for clothes.

Meatha felt a strange shyness with her suddenly, as if Zephy were a stranger.

Zephy glanced up at her, her brown eyes puzzled as she touched Meatha’s unshielded emotions. “What’s the matter? You’re . . .”

Meatha blocked her thoughts.

“Is it because I’m got up like this? I’d rather not be!” Then, sensing Meatha’s deeper confusion, sensing her distress, she came to Meatha and put her arms around her. “What is it? What’s happened to you? Something . . .” And suddenly Meatha was weeping against Zephy like a child, the darkness engulfing her so it engulfed Zephy, too.

When Meatha calmed at last, Zephy drew away and held her by the shoulders. “Where did such darkness come from? What has happened?” She tried to sort Meatha’s thoughts. “Something—last night, so close to you. Something that terrified you . . .” Zephy swallowed and did not continue for some moments. Then, “It found something within you that made you fear it all the more.” She went silent again, sorting. And then with shivering finality, “You cannot find the shape of what touches you.” She swallowed. “Nor—nor can I. Oh, Meatha—take care.”

She studied Meatha. “Maybe you should tell the council. Tell Alardded . . .” Then suddenly the riders were mounting, Thorn leaping astride a golden stallion, and there was no time to say goodbye. Zephy tried to mount, was caught short in the silken gown. “Blast! I can’t do anything in this flaming dress!” Meatha gave her a leg up. Zephy settled her skirt around her, then bent swiftly to touch Meatha’s cheek. “It . . . tell someone, Meatha. Tell Alardded. And take care.” The gray stallion leaped skyward with a surge of joyful power, following the others, his wings turning the sky to night, then sun slashing across his flanks. Windborne, the winged ones filled the sky; there was a flash of green silk amid the slice of wings, then they were gone in a whirl of color, gone beyond cloud.

A short flight it would be into Pelli, and already plans for their ceremonious descent were sweeping from one mind to another, from rider to horse to the next rider and horse. Meatha felt the messages winging between them even after she could no longer see them; Saw the images they conjured and knew their rising excitement. She stood for some time with her hand raised in farewell, feeling the freedom of their flight; and feeling empty within herself, and lonely.

She turned away at last, awash with loneliness.

That night, again, her dreams trapped and possessed her. She woke more disturbed than the night before and went to her class of seven children so distraught that she made three children cry and spoiled the session for them all. No Seer, child or adult, could deal with a teacher whose mind was in such turmoil. She apologized to them and left them, ashamed, only to find herself weeping in an isolated comer of the tower, terrified by her loss of control, and by the darkness that engulfed her, by the heaviness that gripped her beyond her control.

And more terrifying still, there was a part of her that welcomed that darkness and embraced it.

She must talk to someone, in spite of her reluctance. She must talk to Alardded.

*

She found Alardded taking breakfast alone on the green. Usually there was a crowd around him, for his sweeping, unfettered mind and his solid, comforting ways drew men to him. He looked up from a plate of ham pie and charp fruit, watching her approach. He was, Meatha thought, in spite of his sometimes wild ideas, as steady as the great black peaks that rose in the north. As steady—and as unpredictable, too, for Alardded could burst forth with a sudden storming fury just as those peaks could burst forth with fire.

Was he alone now because he had known she was coming to him so distressed? His dark eyes were alert to the small, nervous movements of her hands, to the way she stood too stiffly before him. “Sit down, child.” His mind examined her blocking with curiosity, and she could not understand why she was blocking. “What brings you to the green so early? Have you had breakfast? Some tea?” He gestured to his small waiter, and the child came running, his long apron flapping around his ankles. She sat stiff and silent, blocking wildly, and puzzled at herself, as young Sheb brought tea. Why was she so reluctant to speak, or to make any vision, so shy and uncomfortable with Alardded?

She stared at his sun-browned, wrinkled face and gentle dark eyes and tried to make small talk, but she was not adept at it. Alardded laid a comforting hand on her arm. She was sorry she had come. But why did she block with all her power, a blocking she had perfected in childhood when blocking would save her life—a blocking that now stood as powerful as the master Seer’s own skills? Alardded watched her quietly, his own thoughts hidden. Young Sheb returned with fresh-baked bread; Alardded paid him in silver, and he went away happily clinking the coins. Meatha bent her face over her teacup as the darkness of last night again engulfed her.

She had awakened standing in the moonlit citadel, pressing against the stone table, reaching greedily for the rune-stone; had felt her own lusting greed sharply and suddenly, and had drawn back with a cry, filled with shame. Yet at the same time filled with a desire she could hardly resist to hold and possess the runestone.

Alardded sat quietly waiting for her to ease her mind to him, puzzling at her reluctance, her secrecy. She felt, abstractly, his admiration at the power of her blocking. Then he looked up, and his expression went closed. Hux Tanner was standing behind her chair. She turned to stare up at him, annoyed.

Hux grinned down at her. He did not even feel her anger. His dark beard was sleek and wavy, his grooming perfect as always, to show off the good looks that all the girls admired. Meatha wished he would go away. He must have returned from trading just this morning. He touched her shoulder lightly and sat down beside her, helped himself to Alardded’s tea. He had no sense of what had transpired in silence, so filled was he with his own good humor. Alardded rescued his cup, stared absently into its empty depths. “You’re back from trading early.” The smell of baking filled the air, and they could hear the clatter of pans from the nearby shop. Alardded studied Hux comfortably. “Back in one piece, anyway. You had some close scrapes, Hux. We Saw Kubalese soldiers flanking you several times in visions as sharp as the threat itself. What happened when that large battalion bore down on your wagon just outside Dal? We Saw them and felt the surge of your temper, then nothing. A sense of your horses running, but we could See nothing more, did not know whether you were dead or alive until we touched, much later, a vision of you sprawled before your campfire swilling honeyrot from a Farrian clay jug.”

Hux smiled with satisfaction. “I guess my image-changing worked so well that not even you could see me lighting out with that old wagon clattering over the hills.” He threw back his head in a huge laugh, his dark hair boiling down over his forehead. “Forty-seven Kubalese raiders chasing after a rock hare thinking it was me, while I drove the wagon, bent-for-Urdd, off in the opposite direction!” He grew serious then. “Kubalese raiders are coming out of the hills everywhere, raiding, then gone. Folk travel heavily armed, on the ready for trouble. For the most part, the cities are still able to drive them back. Our raids help to keep the Kubalese down, but there are Seers among the Kubalese, Alardded. Unskilled Seers, but cruel. If we had more than one shard of the runestone, maybe we could thwart those Seers—strengthen our forces enough to destroy the fracking Kubalese! As it is . . .” He leaned forward. “The stone in the sea, Alardded—if we had one more stone . . .”

Meatha watched Hux now with gentler feelings. She liked him best when he was serious, was concerned for Carriol, angry at Kubalese oppression, the hearty, attentive role dropped—though he seldom used it with her, never with Alardded, of course.

Alardded leaned back in his chair, pushed his plate away. “Perhaps we will have the stone soon. Perhaps. The new diving suit works very well. It is ready for testing in deep waters. The wax-coated leather and lighter metal were just the thing. I plan to take it up to the Bay of Vexin in a few days.”

Hux leaned forward eagerly. “I will travel with you, then. I have a cart full of wares to deliver to the charcoal burners and miners, everything imaginable, Zandourian wine, Farrian carved leathers that I had to buy dearly in Dal, boots. I want to see the diving. If the diving suit fit me, Alardded, I would try! Think of it, the stone has lain there for six generations, and only now has anyone known how to bring it up!”

Alardded smiled. “The stone is not in our hands yet, my lad. Though I’ll admit I’m excited. It must have been frustrating indeed for our fathers to know where it lay, so deep, to sense it there and not be able to go into those deep waters. But as to the diving . . .” He gave Hux a wry look. “You won’t fit the suit, Hux my boy. You’re nearly twice the size of Nicoli or Roth. I’d hate worse than fires in Urdd to have to pull you up at the end of the rope!

“But we’d be glad of your company north,” he added. “You can help Nicoli with the horses, and I’ll be there to protect her from any amorous ideas you might have—though the wily Nicoli can protect herself, certainly. Now show us, Hux, the countries you traveled, and how they fare.”

Meatha tried to put her own unsettled emotions aside and attend as Hux showed them in sharp visions the cities of Zandour and Aybil and Farr, the stone and sand fortifications, the patrolling soldiers. He showed them the walled city of Dal, where the dark Seer RilkenDal had reigned before his rule fell to an angry coalition of farmers and sheep men who drove him out of the country keeping only his fine, well-trained mounts. “No one knows where RilkenDal has gone,” Hux said. “But all fear him. Fear he will return and retake Dal. Folk seem to want to make a legend of him, which only increases their fear. They speak of him appearing here, there, come out of the sky mounted on a winged one.” Hux scowled. “No winged one would carry such as RilkenDal!”

“I would hope not! No winged one would carry a dark Seer!” Alardded said.

They grew silent, lost in speculation. A wagon team passed their table, and the smell of fresh-cut hay filled the air. From a nearby shop the voice of a woman rose, scolding her child, then was still. The young waiter filled their cups.

“However,” Alardded said slowly, “there is something amiss among the winged ones. They do not speak of it, but a darkness stirs among them. Nicoli senses it. And some of the outlying bands have not been heard of for a long time.”

Meatha shivered, was alarmed by Alardded’s words; but then, at his mention of darkness, was engulfed in her own confused thoughts once again, so she heard little more of the conversation until suddenly Hux cast into their minds a sharp vision of the place where the cults had gathered along the Pellian coast. She Saw suddenly the mass of hide tents and lean-tos clustered above the sea cliff, and she could imagine Zephy and Thorn and their companions there now, making impressive ceremony for the gathered cultists. Hux showed them the cultist’s passive faces, their quiet submissive minds, so very puzzling.

“They swear hatred of the Kubalese raiders,” Hux said, “but they will not attack them, even to save other cultists. There is—there is a leader who guides the cult leaders, but I can get little sense of him—or of her. Sometimes I think it is a woman. Someone they think of nearly as a god. The cults are so . . .”

“Yes. So committed to good,” Alardded said, “yet so unwilling to uphold that commitment.” Then, “We have known nothing of such a leader. We must speak in Council of it. We must speak with the missions that have gone out. If Zephy and Thorn and the other missions can learn something of an unknown leader . . .”

Hux nodded. “Perhaps, in the journal I bargained for in Zandour and carried hidden in my tunic, there might be some answer to the puzzle. It is written by a Zandourian soldier and covers many years up to the present—but a rambling, incomplete history and hard to read. Handwriting worse than my own.” He showed them in vision the small leather-bound volume he had given to Tra. Hoppa at first light, going directly to her chambers from unhitching and tending his horses. They felt Tra. Hoppa’s excitement as she stood in the doorway, her white hair ruffled from sleep, and took the little book in her thin hands, then eagerly turned the pages. Felt her disappointment at the scratchy, illegible script. But the old woman’s eyes had filled with hope nonetheless, hope that with patient deciphering the cults might be explained, or, even more important, some clue to the missing shards of the runestone might be found.

The sea wind quickened up along the cliff, lifting the tall grass that grew between the broken old walls, then slicing down into the town. On the cobbled street beside the green a line of carts drew up and began to unload vegetables and bags of grain and flour and bolts of cloth from the north of Carriol and to load up ale kegs and hides and small parcels. Along the upper-story living quarters above the shops, curtains blew in and out between the shutters. A band of children raced by on their way to some lesson or perhaps to weapons practice. Their small waiter hastily filled the tea mugs, then removed his apron and vanished, following his peers. More wagons rumbled in. Smoke from chimneys rose then was snatched away by the wind.

A band of soldiers rode by toward the upper practice grounds, then the sense of skyward motion gripped them all, and every Seer looked up into the western sky, their gazes copied at once by every common man; and soon out of the sky came winging a battalion of returning riders, sunlight slanting across their armor. The sense of them said plainly they had been victorious—but that they carried two dead. All the town turned at once to preparing the simple ritual that would precede the burial of the dead. Alardded and Hux and Meatha began to clear away the tables, so the green could be more easily used for the parting ceremony; then Alardded went alone to the citadel, where his powers would be stronger, to tell, across the length of Carriol, of the deaths.

Meatha watched the bodies lifted gently from the backs of the winged ones and laid out in the simple pine caskets kept always ready for such deaths. She shivered and felt sick and turned away.

But why should these deaths upset her? She had seen dead soldiers. These were boys from the north of Carriol, farm boys, one as freckled as an otero egg, with tumbled sandy hair. She had danced with him once at a festival. Death, and the fear of death, filled and sickened her.

She did not sleep well that night, and the next morning was tired and irritable and filled with formless fears. And with that presence, cold and foreboding, that she could not escape nor name, and to which her spirit seemed to cling in spite of fear.

THREE

Shorren paused on a narrow ledge well down in the abyss, then her coat blazed white as she leaped deeper still, to join Lobon. Something more than Dracvadrig stirs in this pit, Lobon. Something I cannot yet name or put form to.

“I sense it, Shorren! Don’t you think I sense it!”

The two dog wolves followed Shorren, to press around Lobon as he descended between jagged boulders.

They had been four days in the abyss, yet seemed hardly to have broken away from its rim, so twisting and slow was the route, so deep the chasm. And Lobon had begun to swing from anger to a deep depression that would grip him for hours as Dracvadrig sought to control his mind.

Why didn’t Dracvadrig simply come out of the abyss and battle him for the four stones he carried, for the added power they would bring? Why didn’t the dragon attack him, show itself, instead of waiting unseen, reaching up only with mind-powers to haze and confuse him! To enervate his will with darkness and with tricks. Twice the wolves had driven back fire ogres before he even knew they were there, so dulled had he become, and once a huge, coiling macadach, whose poisonous bite would have killed him. Sometimes he was aware of little else but the creeping darkness freezing his thoughts; he knew he must find Dracvadrig soon, before he was weakened further. And now the sense of other beings assailed them, too, of an evil creature as cold-blooded as the macadach, though he could not make out what it was.

They came at mid-morning to a lava river twisting between jagged monoliths of stone and stood considering how to cross. When the earth trembled beneath them, Lobon shrugged. What danger could the earth present, that Dracvadrig could not? Moving slowly, heavily, with Dracvadrig’s power on him, he found boulders small enough to roll down the cliff into the lava river and began to construct a way across.

It took the better part of the day to make a causeway they could cross without being scalded by the flowing lava. The heat was unbearable; Lobon’s leathers were soaked with sweat, the wolves panting. Yet they must cross the lava, for he could sense Dracvadrig far deeper in the abyss. Once across, Lobon’s strength was drained. He rested between stone outcroppings where a small trickle of hot water came down. He drank and filled the waterskin. The air was heavy with smoke and unfamiliar fumes. Even the wolves’ strength had ebbed. They all slept fitfully through a red-tinged darkness and moved on again in a sulfurous dawn, pushed deeper and deeper into the abyss, across more molten rivers and nearly impassable rifts. They ate lizards and rock crabs and snakes and had never enough to drink. All four sensed that they were watched by the firemaster, though he was never there. Nor did he speak again. The wolves were increasingly edgy. Lobon was driven on, despite his strange confusion and fatigue, by his all-consuming need to kill Dracvadrig.

Sometimes he would feel Dracvadrig turn from him and reach out for the girl, and then he would come more fully alert, and would follow the creature’s mind and watch him lay his ugly darkness on her thoughts. He would watch Dracvadrig lead her to Carriol’s citadel again and again, watch her stand staring mesmerized at the suspended runestone, then turn away as Dracvadrig built a need in her to hold the stone that at last she would be unable to resist. Her desire for it was beginning to consume her like a slow fire, and soon, Lobon knew, she must burst the bonds of her own reticence. Dracvadrig seemed in no hurry, as if he were enjoying her torment.

As he is enjoying mine? Lobon thought. Is that why he does not attack me for the stones, but leads me always deeper into the abyss? He stared down into the pit that humped and curved below him, seeming to go on forever.

“Curse him. Curse his burning soul. Why doesn’t he show himself, come up here and face us and see who is the more powerful!”

Shorren stared up at him, her yellow eyes steady. You are letting him goad you, Lobon. You faint at shadows.

“Dracvadrig is no shadow!”

You let the firemaster destroy your temper. You make yourself weary sparring with what is not yet known.

He laid a hand on her heavy white coat, felt the power of her muscles, the breadth of her shoulders. He wished she would be still. He wanted to confront Dracvadrig, to battle Dracvadrig! Couldn’t she understand that!

All four of us seek the same goal, she said calmly, infuriating him further. We all seek Dracvadrig’s death and the joining of the stone. We all seek the salvation of Ere.

He turned to glare at her. “I seek only to kill the worm Dracvadrig! To avenge my father’s death! The saving of Ere is not my business, nor is the joining of the stone!”

Shorren’s eyes slitted. The saving of Ere had better be your business, Lobon the hotheaded. It is not enough simply to kill Dracvadrig. The powers within you were born to the salvation of Ere, through your father’s blood. If you do not seek to save Ere, you do not avenge Ramad’s death, you defile it.

“I will avenge my father’s death in the killing of Dracvadrig.”

You do not see clearly. The bitch wolf’s ears were flat, her lips curled back over gleaming teeth. Your hatred warps your senses, Lobon, son of Ramad! If you deny Ramad’s quest, if you do not defy evil, not only do you refuse to avenge his spirit, but you deny the rebirth of your own soul. If you fail the purpose of your own life, your soul will wither, your powers wither. Your shriveled spirit will crave only to lie in limbo, as does Cadach, locked forever locked into the trunk of a tree in the caves of Owdneet.

“I don’t care about my soul! And the tale of Cadach is nothing but an old woman’s tale!”

It is not, Lobon. Cadach lives. Your own mother spoke with him when she came into Owdneet’s caves searching for a way into Time, seeking to follow Ramad into Time. And Cadach’s white-haired children live, and move through Time, choosing to atone for his evil. Know you, whelp, that the woman Gredillon who raised your father was one of Cadach’s white-haired children, as was Anchorstar, who helped your father save one shard of the runestone and acquire another. Never think, Lobon the big-headed, that Cadach is a myth—or that such could not happen to you!

“Well, but Cadach—”

Cadach denied his heritage and sold his soul for avarice and greed—in your own time, Lobon, in this time, before he was swept back in Time to die a living death in the tree, never to know the progression of his soul.

Lobon scowled. He did not want to believe in Cadach. He was not sure he believed in the progression of souls. Such things were a nuisance to think about.

The two dog wolves raised their muzzles and stared at him with hard yellow eyes. Crieba said, Shorren is right, you are guardian of more than you are willing to embrace, Lobon. You lust for revenge alone, and that is not enough, even in the name of your father. You shame Ramad.

Lobon turned from them, furious, and swung away down the cliff. His own mother had said those same words before he left the house of Canoldir, told him that he shamed his father’s name with his self-centered fury. “You must temper the purpose that leads you into battle before you will be equal to Ram! As you are now, Lobon, you are not fit to hold the fate of Ere in your hands!”

He had shouted, “I don’t care about Ere! I care only to avenge Ramad!”

“Then you are not man enough to be Ramad’s son! You will leave this house without my blessing, and without Canoldir’s blessing!”

He had not spoken to her again, had gone out of the house of Canoldir in a rage, the three wolves leaping to join him unbidden. He had found his way down the ice mountains, warmed by his own terrible anger, had come at last to the lands where Time flowed forward like a river, had crossed the mountains to the range below the glacier, driven by rage and by the sense of the runestone there coupled with the sense of Dracvadrig, and never once had he thought or cared that he could not even have left Canoldir’s house without that man willing him back into the mainstream of Time.

The wolves had censured him constantly for his temper. “And why,” he said now, scowling, “why, Shorren the wise, why does Dracvadrig seek out that one stone in Carriol, when the four stones I carry are so much nearer to hand? Answer me that riddle!”

Dracvadrig thinks to have your stones easily enough. He considers them already in his hand, to be plucked when he is ready. He is most pleased that you bring them closer to him with each step we take. Dracvadrig lusts after the more unattainable stone—that stone that hangs in Carriol. And he wants, also, the stone that lies in the sea. Shorren stretched and stared down at the broken crevices below them, then looked back at Lobon. Her white coat caught the slanting light. You, Lobon, he considers but a plaything. If you knew Dracvadrig as you should, you would see him taking the form of the dragon simply for the pleasure of catching a fire ogre and tossing it, teasing it, letting it run, then snatching it up and, much later, killing it. Just so does he play with us, just so does he watch us descend to him, just so does he send fire ogres and serpents to harass us.

“Why do you remain with me, then?” he said sarcastically. “And how do you know more of Dracvadrig than I, bitch wolf?”

We follow because we must. We are linked to Ramad just as you are. And we know Dracvadrig because we attend to the subtleties of his presence, Lobon, while your mind is fogged by his thoughts, and by your fury, and by your preoccupation with the girl.

“The girl could be useful! You don’t—”

Useful to you in gaining revenge. Not useful in preventing Dracvadrig from having Carriol’s stone. Not useful for the good of Ere.

“You talk drivel! Revenge is all that is needed.” He was sick to death of her censure. He snatched the wolf bell from his tunic. “All three of you talk rubbish.” He stared at them in fury, his dark eyes flashing, his unruly red hair gone wilder, as if the very power of his anger made it flame. He hated the wolves in that moment. They were arrogant, filled with senseless dreams. They did not understand or care how he felt. He didn’t need them; he would be better off without their haranguing. He raised the wolf bell and brought a power to banish them, to drive them away. Let them return to Skeelie and the rest of their cursed band. “You will—”

A black streak leaped, Feldyn’s teeth gripped his arm, Feldyn’s weight crashed into him. He went down, the black wolf’s teeth inches from his face, Crieba and Shorren crowding over him. He could feel their breath, see nothing but killer’s teeth. He stared up at them unbelieving. Never had the wolves acted so, never. He was their master. He was master of the wolf bell.

Feldyn’s thought came sharp: You are not our master, Lobon! Not as Ramad was, though you hold the wolf bell. You have not Ramad’s level of power, or his caring, yet to master us. You are our brother, yes. And because you are, we speak truths to you, and we command that you listen to us!

Crieba’s voice was cold behind his silver snarl. The great wolves have power of their own, Lobon! You will not banish us. This mission is ours as much as it is yours. Our sire died by Ramad’s side battling Dracvadrig, and we too will avenge. But there is more to avenging, Lobon the hot-tempered, than you are willing to admit. You will fail, Lobon. You will ultimately fail unless you accept the whole of Ramad’s commitment, as do we; unless you strive to win that which Ramad himself would win.

The wolves turned away from him then and left him sprawled. You can stay or follow us, Shorren said, just as you choose.

He stared after their retreating backsides. Their tails swung jauntily. He looked down at the wolf bell clutched in his sweating hand. His fury was spent, his doubts painful and raw. He cursed them silently and ground his fist against the wolf bell.

He rose at last and started on. They could die in the blasted pit for all of him. He would seek Dracvadrig alone.

*

In a land of ice that lay beyond Time, in a villa walled by banks of snow, a woman watched in sharp vision Lobon’s rude and foolish defiance of the wolves. When she let the vision go at last, she stood staring into the cold ashes of the fireplace, her fist pushing against the stone mantel in a gesture very like Lobon’s. A tall woman, thin, inclined to stand stooped unless she remembered and straightened. The knot of her dark hair was half-undone, twisted over her shoulder. Lines of care and loss creased her face. She was alone in the raftered hall, for Canoldir was hunting far back in the ice mountains; though even at such a distance he touched her now and again with a warmth that helped to ease her distress. The seven wolves who hunted with him touched her mind, too, whispering now, Sister, be of cheer, sister of wolves: We tell you that not Shorren nor Feldyn nor Crieba will leave Lobon. They will see him safe, in spite of his surly ways.

But their assurance did little good. Skeelie worried for Lobon and was furious with him. She turned away from the mantel at last, her light fur robe swirling around her long legs, and began to pace the room. She was a woman bred to sword and saddle, she carried the difficult years well, as trim and agile as she had ever been. She seemed self-contained, but the younger, vulnerable Skeelie was there, the distress and love she had felt for Ram ever since she was a child pouring out now over his son to leave her shaken. What had she done or failed to do, that Lobon should grow to manhood with such shortsighted purpose?

He will grow out of it, Canoldir whispered to her, touching her mind from afar. Ramad’s blood is in him, and your own blood, my love. Lobon will come through, to be what he was meant to be.

She bowed her head, warm in Canoldir’s gentleness; but she knew she had failed Lobon. Had she not expected enough of Lobon the child? Not loved him strongly enough? Not praised him enough for successes and been strong enough with him about failures? Eresu knew, she had tried to be a gentle mother, yet give him the strength that Ramad would have given.

Since they had come to Canoldir when Lobon was eight, fleeing from the city of cones, Canoldir had been as strong and fair a father as Ramad himself would have been. Where then did that wild angry streak in Lobon come from? Certainly not from Canoldir’s treatment. And not, alone, from the child’s memory of his father’s death, she knew.

For Lobon’s anger had shown itself much earlier than Ram’s death, from the time he was a small babe demanding to be fed, demanding to be comforted, never asking or gentle. Ramad had laughed at—and wondered at—the child’s temperament. And frowned, disturbed, sometimes. For Lobon was too much like Ramad’s mother. He was, Skeelie admitted, far too much like Tayba, who had conceived Ramad out of angry defiance, borne him in anger, and nearly killed him when he was nine because of her own willful and traitorous greed. Tayba, who with her fiery temperament had been one cause of the violent clashing of evil against good that had shattered the runestone of Eresu there on Tala-charen. Yes, surely Tayba’s violent spirit was mirrored in her grandson. Could I not, Skeelie thought, could I not have prevented Lobon’s growing up to be what he is?

You could not have! Canoldir’s thoughts shouted in her mind like a roaring bear, making her smile. She let her burden relax a little, warmed by him, and paused from her pacing beside a low table near the hearth.

At last she sat down on a hide-covered cushion before the table and took up quill and ink. She sat thinking for a while longer, letting her mind ease, putting herself into a routine of discipline that had been hard to learn, yet necessary to her survival against the madness that had seemed to hold her after Ram’s death.

She had lost the first pages of the journal long ago, had left them, she supposed, in the city of cones. The memory of those days after Ram died was so twisted and painful that even now her thoughts, straying to that time, were like an open wound. She had never stopped loving Ram and never would, though she loved Canoldir too in another way, with another part of herself. Canoldir knew it. He sheltered her and soothed her, and took joy in her in spite of her commitment to Ram. She filled the page slowly, released at last of some of her distress over Lobon, then laid down her pen and sat looking into the cold fireplace. Suddenly she felt the stirring movement of the earth near to Lobon, and tensed anew. When it continued unabated, she reached out to Canoldir, frightened. The land trembles, Canoldir! The land in that time trembles steadily beneath the chasm, it—

Yes, the land trembles. I cannot stay it, Skeelie. Even the Luff’Eresi cannot stay such a thing as that.

But you—

You know what is happening to my powers, you know I do not reach out of Time as well as once I did, that I cannot snatch Lobon from danger! Nor should I!

Because of me, your powers—

We do not know that. Whatever it is, I cannot deal with fate as if it were a game. She felt his anger and turned away from him in her mind until he should calm. She did not like to distress him like this.

But she could not help her own distress. She had felt for some time that forces across Ere she could not sort out or describe were drawing together, insidious and threatening. Forces very aware of Lobon and utterly unpredictable as they moved toward him. Forces at least as powerful as those that had swept around her and Ram before the runestone split. Forces that could bring, now, even more disaster?

*

High in the black cliff overlooking the abyss, one small portal might be seen, if the shadows lay right. One would not expect a portal there. It was like a single eye in the smooth stone wall, black against black. It looked out from a room carved deep in the living stone, a dim room, square and rough-hewn. A thin figure moved inside, so pale it seemed to cast its own light. It stood looking out the portal, so the hole held a smear of white as if the eye had opened wide. The figure was still, then turned at last to look back into the room behind her where two men sat, one at either end of a stone bench carved along the back wall. Her voice was flat, cold. “Light the lamp, Dracvadrig.”

The man grunted. Flint sparked, sparked again, then a flame flared and settled at last into a greasy glow smelling of lamb fat. It threw Dracvadrig’s tall, thin shadow up the wall in such a way that he might have been in dragon form still, rearing up the wall. When he leaned across the lamp, it cast an eerie light up over his long, lined face, picking out warty skin as if the dragon in him never truly abated and making the large high-bridged nose seem huge. His eyes were the color of mud. His lank hair would take on life only when it became wattled dragon mane. His fingers and nails were long and brown and looked as if they could grow into claws with ease. His voice was dry and harsh, little different from when he took dragon form, only not as loud. He sat stiffly against the cave wall, as if he were not entirely comfortable in human form. “Something touches this Lobon, something I don’t like,” he said. “Another Seer touches him. Perhaps more than one Seer. I don’t—”

“I feel it,” RilkenDal said, cutting him short. He sat more easily than Dracvadrig. He had laid his sword on the bench between them and played now with the leather thong attached to the hilt. He was a broad, heavy Seer with greasy black hair, as dark of countenance as the ancestors whose names he bore and with a mind perhaps darker. “Yes. A female Seer touches him.” He glanced at the pale woman. “What female, Kish? What is she up to?”

“Whoever she is, we don’t need her,” Kish said. Her eyes were lidless, like serpent’s eyes. Her pale skin caught the dim lamplight like the white belly-skin of a snake. But her body was voluptuous, and she could be beautiful when she chose—at least to a man with jaded tastes . Now she was only cold, bored with her companions and showing it.

“It is a presence I cannot abide,” Dracvadrig said. “If it is female, Kish, then you must deal with it.”

Kish’s laugh was cold as winter.’ ‘What harm can she do? The boy is too filled with anger to master any subtlety of power, even with the help of another Seer.”

RilkenDal shifted his weight and belched. “You speak of subtlety, Kish, as if you understood the word.”

She gave him a look he could interpret any way he chose. Dracvadrig retreated into the trancelike state where he touched Lobon’s mind most easily. The other two watched him, then reached out with their thoughts to enter his mind as fluttering moths might enter a path of dulled light. Together the three observed Lobon working deeper into the pit, saw him ever following the false sense of Dracvadrig that the firemaster had laid for him. They saw he was alone, that the wolves moved elsewhere along the rim of the smoke-filled chasm. “He believes you are down there,” Kish said, pleased. “When he reaches the nether levels and comes to the dungeons . . .”

“Yes. Then he will know what Urdd is.” Dracvadrig smiled. “And he will know what we intend for him.”

“Not all that we intend,” she said, stretching her long body pleasurably, then flowing down on the bench beside him in one sinuous movement.

“No.” Dracvadrig smiled. “Not until we bring the girl. He should like that well enough.” He moved closer to Kish, as if the turn of their thoughts inspired him.

“He will come to the gates tonight,” she said, laying her cold hand carelessly on his knee. “The wolves will soon know the gate is there. They—well but the boy and the wolves have quarreled. Still, I wish they would go away.” She glanced at Dracvadrig. “I wish you would kill the wolves, I don’t like them. Dragons can eat wolves.”

Dracvadrig did not answer. He had abandoned Lobon and moved into the mind of the girl, manipulating her thoughts, casting the runestone’s image sharp across her desires. He stayed with her, prodding her, for the rest of the afternoon, stayed with her until she went to her bed at last, shortly after supper.

*

She was so tired, sick with exhaustion, was asleep almost before she had pulled up the covers. She cried out once in her sleep, but she could not push the darkness away. The dark was warm and comforting, and she could not bring herself to awaken. She began to cleave to it, soon was resting gently against it.

She woke to early dawn. Sea light rippled across her stone ceiling. Her head was filled with a muddle of facts that startled her, with details of the talents of Carriol’s Seers as if their personal habits at plying their skills were important to her; with the details of Alardded’s diving suit and with his plans for bringing up the lost stone. Why had she marshaled such knowledge? What had she dreamed, to dredge up such facts? And over it all lay the image of the runestone, clear and bright and beguiling.

She had begun to think of the stone as her stone. After all, it was she and Zephy who had found it hidden in the tunnel in Burgdeeth. It was she who had hidden it in the donkey saddle, to get it out of Cloffi in safety. She turned over and pulled the blankets up. Despite the strange thoughts that filled her mind, she felt rested. Calm and strong and—excited. Her whole being anticipated something wonderful. Something yet to be revealed to her.

She could hear the movement of horses below in the town and the voices of men and women starting the day. Then she heard a nicker from high within the tower and knew that a band of winged ones had come together in the citadel in some gentle and private ceremony—perhaps before departing for battle. The citadel had been theirs long before humans came, long before Carriol’s Seers gathered there. Below, the rattle of cart wheels struck across cobbles, a heavy wagon, probably iron ore or grain. She rose at last. The odor of frying mawzee cakes came from the kitchens. She began to dress, hungry suddenly; very sure of herself, very calm despite the eager anticipation that welled deep within, that made her heart pound; but that must be pushed back now, and hidden.

FOUR

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

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

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

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

He put his arm around her, drew her close.

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shook her head. “I can’t—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Clytey?”

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t know you wanted to.”

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

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

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

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

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

*

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alardded?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He did not speak. His mind was like thunder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Part Two: Heritage of the Dark

From the journal of Skeelie of Carriol.

I must try to write of that earlier time before Ram died, before ever we lived as husband and wife. Perhaps if I write of our lives together, I can ease the pain of remembering. And perhaps not, perhaps the pain will only be worse. But I know that I must try.

We came away from that first visit to the city of cones across the mountains carrying Telien. She was so pale, so very close to death. The spirit that had possessed her, the wraith that Ram had driven out, had left little more than a shell, only a small spark of life. We nursed her as best we could, but by morning Telien was dead.

We buried her on an unknown mountainside in the unknown lands. Ram turned from the grave of his lost love in silence, and we headed south at once, where the known countries must lie. Ram walked as if he were alone, wrapped in darkness. But he looked up when we heard the high, keening wolf cry on the mountain, and his eyes darkened with a bitter triumph, for we knew then that Torc had destroyed the wraith that had possessed Telien. Too late—too late destroyed. Soon the bitch wolf joined us, filled with her dark vindication.

Our way was slow. We met jagged walls of stone and gashes in the land far too wide and deep to cross. We retraced our steps many times. When at last we found a way over the mountains, we were heading north away from the known countries of Ere. Ram grew impatient then, for which I was grateful, for his armor of mourning seemed less severe. Soon he began to think once more of the four shards of the runestone he carried—and of the shards still to be sought. Slowly and with pain he began to mend from Telien’s death, as much as ever he could mend.

We meant to find our way south, back to our own lands, but now Ram seemed pulled northward. We traveled among creatures and plants new and strange to us. Soon we were in high, jagged country, and cold, for a glacier rose to our left beyond a black cliff. It was here we were attacked by huge winged lizards with teeth like knives. We took shelter in an abandoned dwelling place, little more than a few bed-holes carved into the cliff, with narrow steps from one hole to the next, and the bones of game animals littering the floors. But the holes were deep enough so the flying lizards could not reach into them, though they forced clawed talons in, incredibly ugly beasts with wrinkled, scaly hides and breath that stunk of decay. The creatures gave way at last, either from boredom or discouragement, and we went on still hoping to find a way south. But the cliff was a sheer wall on our left and rose even taller ahead of us. Soon we came to a deep chasm. We could hardly see the other side, and it stretched so far to our right that it ended in haze against distant peaks. Deep down we could see red molten rivers. The place excited Ram, but the wolves paced restlessly along its lip. Fawdref was as cross and edgy as I have ever seen him, all dark, fierce killer with blazing eyes. Even Torc was upset with the sense of the place, and moved as if she were stalking, head down, watching the abyss. Ram stood at the edge staring down to the fires that burned far below, and I felt his intention chill me long before he spoke. “I must go there, Skeelie. I must go down into that pit.”

I was sick with fear for him, but I could say nothing. He must follow his own way.

We were eight years in that valley, living on wild plants and rock hare and deer. Ram studied the abyss and traveled again and again down into it, convinced that somewhere below, among the fires, lay a shard of the runestone of Eresu. He could feel its presence there, touching him. I knew he would never leave that place without it—and he did not leave it, not in body.

Our son was born in that valley.

We found a shelter of boulders that first day, to make a beginning dwelling, and piled stones to enlarge it. I thatched the roof to cover the cracks between the boulders, and Ram went to hunt with the wolves. As easily as that we established a home. Though it was a long time before we lived as husband and wife. The delay was not my doing. When Ram healed at last from the worst of his mourning, I was able to ease his pain somewhat, to give him of warmth and gentleness, someone to cling to. I hid my joy from him. I was afraid to let him know how much I cared.

From the entrance to our rock home, gazing southwest, we could see in the far distance beyond the cliff and beyond the white apron of the glacier, a peak rising so high and alone that Ram felt sure it was Tala-charen. He could feel a power from that peak that seemed to reach toward our desolate valley, a power he felt was linked to the runestone. He was more and more certain that a shard of the runestone lay down in the burning chasm, and sometimes he felt a presence down there, too, as if a living thing were watching us. I could not speak my fears to him, nor would I turn him aside. I knew I might see him die, but I would not hinder what he must surely do. We went again and again into the pit. It was a place of mystery, of shifting smoke, the changing lava flows and the falling stones tearing away the land so our way was never the same. We saw fire ogres there with flame playing across their thick, wrinkled hides, ogres only the heaviest arrows could kill. And something larger and infinitely more evil lay in that abyss, a creature formed perhaps from the heart of the abyss itself. Something that watched us at first only half-alive, that followed the sense of our movements, followed the sense of power from the runestones Ram carried with ever growing interest, as if it were slowly acquiring life, slowly becoming more powerful.

Could the stone that lay in that abyss have nurtured such a creature? Could a shard of the runestone, if it lay long enough immersed in that evil place, have bred evil? Bred a creature that, on sensing Ram’s four runestones, quickened to life further and thirsted for ultimate power? Or was there another explanation? And how did the runestone get into the abyss? And when?

The creature moved unseen, eventually tracking us and tracked by us. Over the years its power became stronger and the sense of its size seemed to increase. And then at last the sense of its name came to us. It called itself Dracvadrig. We sensed that sometimes it was like a man, sometimes like a great worm. And it had about it the essence of death. Had it risen from death or near death? Was it a creature like the wraith, perhaps? The wraith had once been a man, given over to the drug MadogWerg and to the evils that grew from it. Was this thing in the pit the same, a man unable to die, growing after his body’s death into another form? Had it lain in the pit long after its death, its moldering body couched around the runestone before life came seeping back sufficiently for it to rise and watch us, and to grow slowly into the monstrous dragon that we saw at last? I do not know. I only know that it was Dracvadrig who killed Ram.

I did not go with Ram into the pit that day, nor had for some days, for Lobon was ill with fever. Torc and Rhymannie were excellent nurses, but I could not leave Lobon when he was so sick. Ram gave into my hands the four runestones so that I could help him with their power, and I stood watching as the twelve wolves descended with him into the abyss. I had no premonition that Dracvadrig would rise that day to show itself, that it would at last challenge Ram. I sent my power with them, and later I stood reaching with all my force into the battle Ram waged against the creature. Even Lobon’s young, untrained power came strong then, to defend Ram, our powers focused through the runestones in a battle soon turned desperate, then terrifying, the wolves leaping and tearing at the dragon as it flailed and twisted in battle, its screams of fury echoing across the pit and between the mountains. And the power of the stone it possessed struck against Ram and against the stones I wielded with a force that made me reel with its intensity. I used every power, every force I knew, felt Ram’s furious, angry battle, his powers linked with mine against the creature as if we stood side by side. Lobon, his face flushed with the fever, had come to stand beside me, his power raging against the dragon, more power in that moment than I had thought any child could contain.

But our powers were not enough. Ram’s strength was not enough, nor the wolves’ fierce and continued attacks. Perhaps other forces fought beside the dragon, forces of the dark. I felt that this was so, and wondered if they had watched us longer than we ever knew.

Ram was wounded. He lay dying. He was dead before I reached him. Climbing and running down into the pit, I could only think over and over, If only I had been with him battling with sword as well as with the stones.

But I cannot dwell on that. It likely would have made no difference. Yet I do dwell, am sick with it even yet. I wake sometimes seeing him die, and cry out into the night before I can stop myself.

I lashed together a sapling drag to bring Ram’s body out. Five wolves stood guard over him. Seven wolves lay dead. Fawdref lay dead, his dark coat smeared with blood, his body torn by the dragon’s claws. Torc and Rhymannie were badly hurt. They limped out slowly, not able even to keep pace with the drag. As I turned away from the scene of battle after my first climb, I saw the wounded dragon creeping toward me. I spun and raised my bow, but the creature was hurt and clawed at the cliff then slipped and fell deeper into the pit. Suddenly it stayed its fall, with leathery wings raised, and beat its way clumsily skyward, twisting as if at any minute it would fall again. It must have been near to death at that moment, not to have come after the stones I held close inside my tunic, yet it flew up out of the pit, scrambling and clawing at the stone walls, and disappeared over the farther lip of the abyss where lay the unknown lands. Whether it returned to the abyss or not, I do not know. But every creature returns to its nest.

We buried Ram and Fawdref and the six young, strapping wolves who died with them in the stone room that had been our first home, made a cairn of that place, and covered the entrance with rocks. Lobon worked in stoic silence, ignoring his fever, carrying rocks to secure his father’s grave. Five days later, when Lobon was well and the bitch wolves had begun to heal, I set fire to the larger, sapling hut that Ram and I had built together and burned it to the ground. Then we went away to the east, where lay the city of cones, Lobon and I and five wolves, silent in our mourning; Lobon so broken by Ram’s death that it was many months before he could shed a tear.

We remained among the people of the city of cones until the pain of Ramad’s death began to heal for me. Lobon, even at six years old, was filled with such cold fury that I felt it would never abate.

Then, as I mourned in the city of cones, Canoldir spoke to me across Time. He spoke again and again, this man who lived outside of Time, and at last he helped me to see life around me once more, and I was glad for his caring.

We came to Canoldir at last, after nearly two years, came in an instant of Time, Lobon and I and the wolves, an instant of dizziness and shock, moving across Time and outside of Time to stand suddenly in Canoldir’s villa, where I had stood only once before—beside Ram.

Canoldir is gentle with me. He is helping me to heal as much as ever I will be healed, until I join Ram again in some life yet to come to us.

*

Excerpt from pages written some time later in Skeelie’s life with Canoldir:

And even now, though I dwell outside of Time and have touched knowledge that was before closed to me, I do not know what Dracvadrig is. Canoldir thinks he was once a man, that he stood in Tala-charen at the moment of the splitting and received a shard of the runestone; that he let the darkness lure him with that stone until he was drawn into the evil caverns of Urdd; that he grew there in evil until at last he took the dragon form in a dull, half-somnolent life. And then, awakened by the powers of Ramad’s stones, came again fully alive, this time in a rising, lusting evil. Surely there was a strength beyond the power of one shard of the runestone in that abyss when Dracvadrig killed Ramad; it was as if the powers of dark dwelt with him, and strengthened him.

But even Canoldir’s knowledge of this is limited, for something new touches us in this place outside of Time. Canoldir can no longer move so freely, at will, through Time. No longer See into all times freely to solve such mysteries. Is this place, our home, beginning to move back into the river of Time ? Canoldir has begun to show small signs of aging, too—which only make him the handsomer. Something is happening to Ere even here, powers drawing in and shifting, as do the forces of the mountains themselves, power driving against power until surely something must give, in fury and in violence.

Will the fabric of Ere’s powers heave and twist as do the mountains? Is what we are experiencing now a part of this, is Lobon’s search for Dracvadrig a part of this, is the pitting of stone against stone a part?

And what part did Ram’s life play in focusing such powers—or in staying them, in quelling them so to delay some possible holocaust?

What if Ramad had never been born, and the runestone never split?

Oh, but Ram was born; Ere would not have been complete without him. I loved him, and I can never cease to mourn him in my heart and in my soul, and in the way I touch life now; though I never can touch life very gently, I never could. Canoldir chides me, and laughs at me for that, just as Ramad did.

FIVE

Skeelie paced, restless as a river cat. Her dark hair, knotted crookedly, caught the firelight. Canoldir watched her from where he sprawled on hide-covered cushions in the shadows beyond the hearth. He was concerned for her but smiling, too, at the force of her anger. She stared back at him, tense and irritable. “Lobon moves there now, into the abyss, just as Ramad did. It is nothing to be amused about. How can you—it means nothing to you! Nothing!” Though she knew that was not so.

“It means, my love, more than you know. But give the lad room, give him time. Give him room to breathe, room to make mistakes and recover from them.”

“He’s had all his life to make mistakes. This is not the time. If he makes a mistake there—I can feel the evil of Dracvadrig like a stench. And, Canoldir, I think there are others there, I sense other presences. Lobon does not know what awaits him. He does not go there as Ramad did, with a purpose larger than himself. He goes with personal anger, personal hatred. He does not do justice to what Ram was, he—”

“Then your anger is not for Lobon’s safety, my love, nor for the safety of the stones—but at Lobon’s disrespect for Ramad!”

“It is his ignorance! There is danger in his willful ignorance!” She stared at Canoldir’s reclining shape, wished he would come out of the shadows and stop lounging like a bear. His dark hair and beard blended with the hair on the coarse hides, his eyes, from the shadows, saw too much, his mind Saw too much. She turned away from him toward the fire’s blaze and rested her head against the high mantel. When she looked back at him at last, it was with more conviction. “I feel something else, too. I feel a force moving out from Tala-charen, the force that Ram felt. What is that power? It touches the abyss. It seems to reach toward Carriol, too, toward that shard of the runestone. It is a power that belongs to the stones, Canoldir, that comes from the mountain where the whole runestone once lay.”

Canoldir sat up. His eyes never left her. “I think it is in truth a power born of the mountain and of the forces that placed the stone there. A power that is only a part of the great forces that made and nurture Ere—forces neither good nor bad, Skeelie. But forces that can feed on the powers of either.” He paused, pulled on his beard, deep in thought. “The powers of the earth can be wedded to either darkness or light. The master of Urdd would wed himself to the earth’s powers and bring them ultimately into the realm of the dark, and his very commitment to the dark gives him strength.”

She stared back at him. “And Lobon has not wedded himself to any power but his own.” She sighed, began to pace again. “Lobon faces the master of Urdd with too little belief, too little commitment to the stones and their destiny. Dracvadrig means to destroy him, and he has not the strength even that Ram had. Is he blind? Doesn’t he see? Did Ram die only that Lobon could gratify his own mindless need for revenge and lose his life—and lose the runestones forever? Give over Ere forever to evil?”

Canoldir rose and came to her. He held her until at last her fears drew back, though the darkness remained across their minds like a sickness as the forces of dark knit and swelled.

*

The black cliff stood in shadow, a last ray of sun touching along its top edge, the abyss below nearly dark except for the red glow of its fires. Within the cliff in the small cave room, Kish stood, sensing out across Ere as delicately as a snake senses. For she, too, felt forces amassing, felt dark spirits stirring in Ere’s depths, waking, rising out of rocky graves. Kish smiled, coldly and eagerly.

As she watched the abyss below, the scenes of the last days came to her, Dracvadrig leading the young Seer ever deeper into the abyss, teasing him ever more sharply, until now the son of Ramad had been driven into a shallow cave where he stood panting and so angry he was hardly master of himself; hardly master of even his limited skills, in his fury. And Dracvadrig waited beyond a stone shelf, blocking his presence, ready to strike again.

*

Lobon leaned against the cave wall trying to stop the excessive bleeding from a long wound down his arm. The wolves prowled the cliffs below, but Dracvadrig was gone from the abyss, Lobon could feel its emptiness.

Now he and the wolves were no longer the hunters, now Dracvadrig hunted them, stalked them with a silent stealth that neither Lobon’s powers nor the powers of the wolves—or of the stones themselves—had been able to avert. He did not understand the increasing power of the firemaster. In a series of quick skirmishes, the dragon had attacked and slashed, then flown off, blocking and twisting their senses, easing them into defense, playing with them over and over until they were able to follow only for short distances, battle, then flee deeper into the abyss. They would be struck from behind to turn facing only the empty pit. He knew his anger destroyed his judgment, he knew the wolves were cross and edgy. He fought the knowledge of defeat with added fury. Great Urdd, he was tired, aching tired, his leathers soaked with sweat and stinking. Always too hot, always fighting the ever-present black gnats that stung and made him itch beyond bearing. He thought longingly of cold water, dreamed of sinking deep into a cool river, of drinking his fill of cool water.

He knew his intent to kill Dracvadrig had deteriorated into the dream of an incompetent child. He was shamed at his own loss of control and unable to do anything to change the desperate, debilitating anger that drove him on so uselessly. Certainly he would not turn back. He would follow Dracvadrig to the very center of Ere if he must. His hatred was a tide pummeling him, and he would not give in, ever.

Shorren came up the cliff to him and pressed close, nudging his hand. You must sleep, Lobon. You must eat the rest of the roasted snake, drink and sleep. We will take watch in turns.

*

Behind them, the dragon smiled and considered its prey, as sporting in its contemplation of Lobon as a hunting cat is sporting with soft, furry creatures to behead. Neither Lobon nor the wolves sensed it. Its power in the stone had grown strong and facile as other dark powers rose across Ere to buoy it—no powers of the Seers of light had so joined to create a tide of strength as had the forces of dark. Even the Seers of Carriol were not sufficiently joined and aggressive. Some, at least the girl, were easily led and turned aside, so easily turned to the dark.

*

Meatha’s sudden vision came so strong she was unaware of having stopped on the stone stairs. A vision of fear struck her so sharply she cried out a silent warning and didn’t know to whom she cried. She blocked at once from the people moving past her up toward the citadel. She was unaware of the sea light glancing through a portal, did not notice people pause to look at her. Fear, crushing fear from someone, filled her; then she was aware of Lobon, saw his angry scowl, his tousled red hair, her vision of the abyss so real she might have been standing beside him.

How intense he was, his dark eyes fierce as an animal’s, the tangle of his red hair wild as windborne fire. He unnerved her, attracted her, and she was terrified for him. She felt his willful rebelliousness—and she knew his spirit intimately in that moment, a spirit raw, wanting, and untamed. Knew the danger that waited so close, unseen. And, in spite of his danger and his vulnerability, she felt the power that dwelt about him, and she puzzled at it. And then suddenly she knew what it was, and she stood wide-eyed, not believing. Then having to believe: This Seer carried runestones hidden beneath his bloody tunic. Four shards of the runestone of Eresu.

And she knew with a sudden wildness matching his own, with a rising sense of her own power, that she must tame this man; and that she must have the stones. That to take the runestone that hung in the citadel alone was not enough. She saw her mission suddenly as whole and complete: Everything was linked, all the stones were linked; she must have them all, if ever she was to help Ere. The last hint of her self-doubt fled; she had touched power now, and she would hold to it. She began to plan.

First she must rescue the stone that hung in the citadel. She could never make the council understand that she must take it, that only through carrying it into battle could Kubal be defeated. No one in Carriol was willing to take the stone from its safe place. Once she had that stone then—then she must retrieve the stone that Alardded would surely bring from the sea. And then the stones this young Seer held, deep in the fiery pit. It was all so clear, so essential. As if a pattern of her destiny had been laid down long before she was born: to discover the stone in Burgdeeth and bring it here; then, in Carriol, to learn the skills she would need, and at last to carry the stone and its mates in a final, powerful defeat of the dark forces she so hated. She was so engrossed in what she must do that she forgot her fear for Lobon, or that he was in danger, could think only of her role in Ere’s salvation.

To rescue the stone in the citadel, she must have the mare. She could not escape without a winged one to carry her. Michennann must come, in spite of her reluctance. She pressed her back against the cold stone of the stairwell and brought the vision of Michennann around her sharply until she felt as if she herself stood in the far green field where Michennann grazed.

*

Michennann stood with dripping muzzle. She had been feeding on lilies in the water meadow. Now she looked southeast toward Carriol, held within her the sweep of Meatha’s whispering mind, urgent and irritating, then laid back her ears and shook her head, not liking the demanding summons.

She was a beautiful mare, the color of deep storm. Across one shoulder blazed a streak of white that ended beneath her dark mane. Her eyes were dark, the lashes silver against endless depths of darkness, her wings when she lifted them against the morning sky were silver, though they shadowed down to night where the feathers overlapped. She acknowledged Meatha’s presence with annoyance, examined deeply Meatha’s purpose; bowed her neck and tucked her head down in hard defiance. The girl’s quest had a darkness to it, a darkness Michennann wanted no part of, though she and Meatha were old friends. Friendship was one thing, this stealthy darkness quite another. What had changed Meatha? Or did she not see the dark that touched her?

Meatha scowled at the mare’s resistance. What was wrong with Michennann? She pressed harder still, then too late she realized her error, for the mare had drawn away from her completely and closed her mind with a stubborn will, her tail switching with anger.

Meatha drew back, too, and waited. She would not be put off. When the mare had calmed somewhat, she touched her mind more gently, carefully began to soothe Michennann, to calm her. Slowly she gentled and quieted her own driving force and washed away the tension, softened the tension between them until at last their minds could link in a smoother flow. She soothed the mare and soothed her, until after some moments Michennann relaxed satisfactorily; her ears went forward, she lifted one forefoot wet from the marsh meadow and gazed without fury into the southeastern sky.

Michennann held in suspension the last of her unease, the shadow of her reluctance. She let lie at bay the darkness that had now submerged itself beneath Meatha’s gentleness—but she would not forget it. She felt the danger in what Meatha was about, her fear unformed and nebulous but very real.

But she would follow Meatha. For the sake of something she could not put shape to, she knew she would follow her.

She turned to stare at the band of winged ones who stood silently at the other end of the meadow and spoke to them. They moved uneasily, but they did not reply. Michennann pushed back the unease, like rain-blindness, that shadowed her thoughts. She bowed her neck, and broke suddenly from a standstill into a gallop. She was skyborne in three strides, her neck stretched out, her dark nose cutting the wind.

*

In vision, Meatha Saw the mare lift skyward, and she turned away with satisfaction; though still she held a tight, gentle snare of power around Michennann, drawing her toward Carriol. She was aware once again of folk passing her on the stone stair. She let her blocking ease for a moment as her tension eased, turned to follow them, sharpening her blocking again at once.

It would not be easy to sit among others with her secret filling her and yet maintain the constant blocking needed to shut out master Seers. But the urgency of her mission seemed to give her power, and now she felt capable of anything.

Michennann would graze out on Fentress unnoticed until they could depart—until Alardded had departed for Pelli. Her timing must be perfect. Not too soon, not until Alardded was just on the verge of bringing up the drowned runestone. Too soon, and she could be discovered, Alardded alerted. She joined the meeting at last with reluctance, sat down near the entry, and looked over the heads of those in front to where the five master Seers sat circling the stone table. The runestone moved slightly in the sea breeze. She dared not look directly at it for fear her expression would give her away. Alardded and Bernaden had left a space between them, and a man stood respectfully behind the stone bench there, facing the five council Seers with obvious awe. A tall, pale man with a curiously small head and thin shoulders, larger in the trunk and hips, heavy legged—rather like a bag of grain with most of the grain run to the bottom. He was the reason for the meeting: a man brought to Carriol unexpectedly, a prisoner rescued from Kubal. He came from a land they had thought uninhabited, from the unknown lands inside the Ring of Fire. His voice was loud for such a weak-looking person. He answered Alardded’s questions simply, artlessly.

The city he had come from was as remarkable as he, a city of stone cones naturally formed, perhaps by the volcanoes, and the cones hollowed out by patient carving to make dwellings. Here he had lived all his life. His name was Fithern. He answered their questions carefully, but glanced again and again at the suspended runestone, could not keep his eyes from it, and at last Alardded stopped the questions and allowed Fithern to speak as he would. He was silent for a long while, then he spoke hesitantly but with excitement.

“She carried such stones as that! She carried two of them, and a handful of golden ones, too, stones like stars on fire.” There was utter silence in the citadel. No Seer moved.

“And who was she?” Bernaden said softly. Her chestnut hair and high coloring were caught by the sea light. Her gentle eyes tried to warm the stranger.

“The lady of the wolves, Seer,” he said at last. “The lady who traveled with wolves by her side, who came to our city the first time with the prince of wolves himself.” Fithern sighed. “But when she came to the city of cones the second time, with her child, then the prince of the wolves was not with her. Then the prince of the wolves was dead.” There was a great sadness in his voice, as if he mourned a wonderful and inexplicable glory. Still no Seer stirred.

“What prince of wolves?” Alardded asked softly. “What lady? Of what time do you speak, Fithern? Of your own time? Did you see such people?”

“Oh, yes, in my time, Seer. Though I was very young. The lord and lady of the wolves released our people from a possession, where men moved mindlessly. From possession by a goddess that the lady of the wolves called Wraith—though sometimes she spoke of the creature as Telien. The lady and the prince of the wolves took the goddess away with them and drove its spirit out. They carried the green stones, and when the lady returned, she had them still—four stones, she said, though one was the golden starfires, and one was hidden inside a strange bell that she used to hold when she held the stones, and that would make the wolves cry out. She told us a green stone was inside.”

Alardded sat silent. Surely this man spoke of Ramad, but in their own time? How was that possible? And who was the woman? Then one fact startled them all, the knowledge of it flying among them: They could not read Fithern’s thoughts.

Was that, then, why they had not known of the city of cones, never guessed that these people existed? Surely so.

Tra. Hoppa had come to sit among the Seers, drawn to this man. Her voice was quick and eager, her eyes bright. “How do you know that when the lady of the wolves returned without . . . returned alone, that the lord of the wolves was dead?”

“She mourned for him. She wept in her dwelling alone. She told my people he was dead.”

“And what happened to her?” Tra. Hoppa whispered.

“One day she went away with the wolves and her child and no one saw them go. Everything was left behind, hides, bedding, extra clothes, the pieces of pale parchment she liked to write upon.”

“Parchment, Fithern? And where is it now?” Tra. Hoppa’s voice rose, could hardly contain her excitement. “And what does the parchment tell?”

“It lies in her dwelling just as she left it, lady, ten years gone. But I don’t know what it tells. None of us can read writing.”

He had fled the city of cones when a wandering band of Kubalese had come upon it and murdered many. He had been taken captive by another such band somewhere in the Urobb hills. “They held me for a while in the camp of the leader, Kearb-Mattus,” he said. “I know who he is. And I know the Seer RilkenDal. I learned much from the other captives. I saw Kearb-Mattus and RilkenDal myself once, walking among the captive horses. The Seer RilkenDal was tall and dark and twisted in his walk, and he was choosing horses and causing a strangeness to come over them so they followed him unfettered like dogs.”

Meatha shuddered and huddled into herself. The darkness was moving in around them, moving on Carriol ever more powerfully, dark forces closing them in, forces that must be destroyed.

Only the runestone, the whole runestone, could ever defeat such darkness.

She looked up at the jade at last, so rich a green, suspended alone. It turned in the breeze, catching the sea light. The stone would mark her way. The stone would save Ere, and she would be its servant, to carry it.

It was then she Saw Lobon in sharp vision, Saw that he slept; Saw the dragon slipping close to him and felt his peril sharply. Hardly aware of the Seers around her, blocking without thinking, she brought power in the stone, fierce and sudden—so tense, so lost in vision was she that she was unaware of anything around her as she drove her forces against the advancing dragon. Her blocking was a mindless power born of her lifelong need. The creature she challenged was stalking Lobon like a cat stalking a shrew. It must not kill this Seer. It must not have the stones, she knew no other emotion but this.

SIX

Even in his sleep Lobon was pursued. His dreams never let him free. In dreams he stalked the dragon and turned to find it ready to spring; and then in his dreams the earth trembled, and he thought that, too, was Dracvadrig’s spell.

But the earth did stir. The wakeful wolves felt it, five quick shocks. They leaped to the mouth of the cave and stood watching the abyss. Pebbles rolled down from above. A lizard slithered to gain purchase on the shelf where it had fallen, and Crieba snatched it up. The ground shook under their feet. Behind them, Lobon rolled over in his sleep, but he did not wake. Shorren began to move out along the cliff, then she drew back snarling as another, harsher shock caught them. A wind hit them suddenly, and Dracvadrig was above them sweeping down out of nowhere. How long had the dragon been watching and waiting there? He twisted in midair before the cave and began to coil around boulders, towering over the opening, dwarfing the abyss. Lobon came awake then, as the dragon struck at the wolves; they leaped at its scaly throat; Lobon snatched up his sword and lunged, slashed across its neck. It lurched away screaming with anger, left blood at their feet. Its roar joined with the roar of the earth as the abyss rocked and shuddered. The dragon twisted on the wind and dove again, its great head seeking Lobon, flame gushing between yellowed teeth; he dodged, and it caught him by the shoulder, lifted him—and he felt another power with him fiercely driving at the dragon as h shook him. Dizzy, hurting, he found his knife. The dragon reared on the narrow shelf, he felt the earth beneath it heave, heard the shelf crack beneath the dragon’s weight, felt the creature falling, as it still gripped him between its jaws. He slashed, was grazed by a rock, fell with the dragon in the shower of stones. He felt the other power with him swelling, battling. Skeelie? No, not Skeelie. He caught a glimpse of the girl’s face, of the swinging runestone. He felt the force of power she poured into that stone for him.

He landed across the dragon’s coils beside its gaping jaw, lay facing one huge, watchful eye. He was sick with pain and knew that in a moment Dracvadrig would reach, open that great jaw, and destroy him. Driven by urgency, he leaped and plunged the sword deep into the eye. A cry of rage shattered around him. Blood spurted from the eye. The dragon twisted away, flailing and whipping across the chasm. Then suddenly it rose upward, screaming, its wings dragging its body up toward the rim.

It disappeared, half flying, half flailing, over the lip of the abyss.

The earth stilled. Lobon let out his breath, felt his reprieve, was sharply aware of the one instant, the one lucky blow. Was Dracvadrig dying? Elated, he began to climb up toward the mouth of the cave. Pain tore through his shoulder and arm. The wolves pushed around him. He leaned on Feldyn, forgetting elation then, in pain, and let the wolf pull him upward.

*

Above the abyss in the black cliff, a pale figure moved to the portal. She watched Dracvadrig approaching in slow, awkward flight as if at any minute he would fall back to the rocks below. She saw without emotion the dragon’s face covered with blood and the ruined eye.

At last she heard him come into the cave entrance behind her. He was losing control, beginning to change into the form of a man. She watched the change intently, until at last he lay sprawled across the stone bench, his lined face gray with pain, the gouged eye running blood.

She tended him coldly, mopping away the blood. She gave him a small portion of eppenroot for the pain.

“Haven’t you got MadogWerg! This is putrid stuff!”

“No, Drac. None.” Then, with disgust, “Your eye will not mend. You must use your Seeing senses to replace it.”

He stared at her in fury. His thin, lined face was distorted with pain—and then as the drug took effect, distorted with its hold on him. “You needn’t be so pleased.”

“You let it happen! You play with your quarry too much. Why didn’t you—”

“Why didn’t I what? Kill him and take the stones? Where would our plan be then?”

“You could have taken them without killing him. You didn’t have to get yourself made half useless!”

He did not answer her. Whatever hatred flared between them at the moment, both knew they needed Lobon. Presently he said, “The Seer will be in the cells soon. He is already nearly on top of the gates.”

“How can you be sure he will keep on toward the cells?”

“I laid a false sense of my presence. Do you think me an imbecile?”

“All right, Drac. All right.”

“Where is RilkenDal?”

“Gone. To fight beside Kearb-Mattus. Gone to deliver mounts from the cells.” She spat against the wall. “His pets! Hateful animals. All that screaming. The disgusting whimpers of brute creatures.”

“They are useful, my dear. RilkenDal’s troops cannot move across Ere on dragon wings as you are fortunate enough to do.”

“Nasty beasts all the same. Talking like men, pretending to the wisdom of Seers—such as it is. He would be better off with flying lizards. They are more natural.”

“And stubborn and stupid and bad-tempered.” He eased back on the stone bench. “The countries are beginning to panic, Kish. RilkenDal must move ahead now. Now is the time to attack.”

Kish smiled coldly. “Soon all of Ere will be ours.”

“It is not ours yet,” he said testily. “We must watch the girl. Make sure she is successful. I cannot lose my hold on her. Ah, Kish, once we possess the two runestones she will bring us, and the four the boy carries . . .” He shook the stone in the golden casket that dangled at his waist. “Seven stones, Kish. Seven shards of the runestone.”

“You don’t have his four yet.”

“I have them. I simply let him carry them. It makes the chase more exciting.” He did not mention his ruined eye. He was close to euphoria with the drug, dulled and rested and inane. “Think, Kish, when the stone is joined . . .” She smiled and nodded and stared at him appraisingly.

“With the power of all the stones . . .” He laughed drunkenly. “Oh, I will have the nine stones, and soon. And then the son of Ramad will be useful!” His long face warped into an evil smile, twisted with the drug and maimed into a mask of horror by the gory eye.

“Will you have them, Drac?” she said cruelly. “You let him defeat you just now. The whelp and the powers that joined him defeated you. Are you too drugged to remember that the girl helped him!” She rose and began to pace. “You had best keep better control, Drac. You had best move that girl quickly! And that band of Seers moving among my cults—I have groomed those cults too carefully to allow . . .”

His laugh became a giggle. He lounged drunkenly on the bench, as if he had forgotten the injured eye, perhaps the socket was as numb now as if no eye had ever existed. “The cults will not dare turn from you, my dear. Though perhaps you are right, perhaps it is time you appeared among them. Perhaps their goddess has been absent too long. I should like to play with some foe besides that puny young Seer for a change. He will follow the trail I laid. The ogres will see to his capture.” He made an effort to rise. “Shall we journey to the battles, my dear? Witness the fun, speak to your multitudes? Ah, then I will be close to the young woman as she brings the stones out of Pelli.”

Kish scowled. “Can you change back to dragon and hold that form with the drug on you? I don’t want . . . Are you in condition to carry us?”

He felt the neck wound with long, exploring fingers, did not touch his eye, moved restlessly, stared at her glassily for some moments with the one good eye. He was trying to change. After some moments, when he remained in the form of a man, he rose unsteadily, took the runestone from its casket, spoke to it, trying to draw power from it.

Nothing happened, he was impotent with the effects of the drug, remained humiliatingly trapped in the human body. Kish watched him with disgust.

At last she drew close to him; scowling at his weakness but unwilling to be deprived of his usefulness. Her voice fell into a soft chant, smooth as honey. “I feel the dark Seers waking, Drac,” she crooned. “I have felt all day their voices calling up out of infinite darkness.” Her voice flowed as compelling and hypnotizing as the spell of a snake luring its prey. “Dark Seers, Drac, dark Seers waking in darkness, keening to the call of the runestones, their spirits rising to draw together and join us, to join the power of the stones. The spirits of the dead Seers, Drac, the spirits of those in whom the spark has lain as dead—too long idle, they will join us now; they will be one with us now, I feel the power of the Hape, of dark beings beyond the Ring of Fire rising—never dead, never really dead.” Her pale hands lifted and caressed him. The firemaster stared at her, bound to her caressing voice. “Now our time is coming, Drac, now our strength gathers, now we will quell the light-struck rule of Carriol.” She wet her lips with a pale tongue. “Too long have they held the stone, Drac, too long their cloying light washed that which should couch itself in darkness, too long spoken of love, and of honor. I feel the dark Seers, Dracvadrig, I feel their spirits waking from times long past, NiMarn who fashioned the wolf bell, NilokEm and his get, HarThass, who failed so miserably to win the soul of Ramad—I feel the dark core of each rising now, I feel powers huge and pulsing, breathing life into those who have slept. Their spirits rise, Drac, they will join us. Feel it, Dracvadrig. Feel them touching you.”

Her mesmerization gripped and immersed him, transported him until, at long last his body began to change into the dragon form, his legs to swell and shape into a coil that writhed and swelled, his wrinkled fingers to lengthen into heavy claws, his long nose and sharp chin to elongate further into dragon face. The wounded eye was larger, a dragon’s ruined eye, and blood flowed from it anew. His coils filled the cave and pressed Kish back against the stone wall. She caressed the cold dragon flesh with pale hands, stroked the creature’s leathery wings that pushed against the roof trying to break free.

All across Ere from dim, deep caverns and dark fissures, the dark listened to Kish and strove and sought out for its kindred spirits, for presences beginning to wake after generations of sleep. These rose as a stench would rise from moldering bodies; and each, waking, joined the next: the spirit of the Hape, the worm gantroed, the ice cat, creatures shunned by animals of light. Now their essences sought to become one, joining with the spirits of dark Seers, joining with the darkness that rode within Kish and within Dracvadrig and RilkenDal, within all who moved in evil across Ere.

Slowly Dracvadrig slid toward the mouth of the cave, until he filled the opening with swelling coils. Kish slipped onto his back. He slid out and down the cliffs side, then lifted his heavy wings and beat drunkenly skyward, into the heavy wind.

They headed south, Kish’s icy hands caressing dragon mane, her thoughts leaping ahead to battles, to the disciplining of her cults, to the destruction of the young Seers who meddled with them. Her anticipation of that destruction was eager and keen.

*

Zephy looked up from poulticing the chest of a sick child, shivered, and didn’t know why. She could bring no vision, but was awash with unease suddenly. She shook back her hair, frowned, all her spirit filled with foreboding; kneeling there by the child, the steaming poultice forgotten, she sought Thorn in her thoughts.

Thorn sensed what she sensed and hid his sudden fear from the men he was drilling; cultists, so slow to learn battle practices.

But now suddenly these men stood confronting him with sharper attention. They seemed wider awake. He stopped his lesson and examined the change in them. Their expressions had become suddenly alert, their minds alert. Some looked no longer docile and obedient, but now looked defiant. And then they began to chant, a harsh whisper that carried across the camp.

“She comes.”

“The warrior queen comes.”

“The warrior queen speaks to us.”

“She moved across the winds to us.”

Zephy’s thoughts touched his mind, cutting across the chant. What is it? What’s happening?

I don’t— But the chants faded abruptly. The scene before Thorn faded as if a sudden fog engulfed the campground. Another scene, of battle, took its place. They Saw the city of Zandour, Saw new troops attacking from the sky, dark warriors mounted on horses of Eresu. Winged ones harnessed and bitted and driven with whips—and driven by some strange compelling power that held them more captive than any harness could do. Then the winged ones were dwarfed in the sky by a monster dragon come out of cloud to dive with them down upon Zandour’s troops: The earth bound horses screamed and fell under its claws, under blows from the sky, their riders slashed by the swords of skyborne riders.

The dragon swept low over the city, licking out flame so the city began to burn, a house here, a barn, wherever its fiery breath caught. And astride the dragon rode a pale, tall woman slashing and killing with a heavy sword. The dragon swept low against the walls of the ruling house of Zandour, once Hermeth’s home, and the walls fell as if eggshells had crumbled. On the hillside, the marker of Hermeth’s grave was ripped away with one glancing blow, and Hermeth’s moldering, frail bones ripped out and scattered and trampled into dust. And then, as suddenly as the vision came to Zephy and Thorn, it vanished, for Kish spun a blocking force around Zandour to confuse and terrify the Seers further.

The horror of that destruction, then the sudden absence of any vision, was felt like a shock across Ere; was felt in the far, high deserts as a final challenge that started with the scattering of Hermeth’s bones. There on the desert a band of wolves paused with raised heads to listen, to watch, their lifted faces stern as they stared away past the brutal sands toward the countries below the rim, toward Zandour, whence the vision came.

They were wolves come long ago to the high desert, come generations before out of Zandour, descendants of those who had not joined Ramad when he was swept away out of Time. They had come to the desert and lived generations here; and now suddenly they harked to the pillage in Zandour, to the world their ancestors had left. They felt the warring with a cold fury; and they felt the darkness rising. They Saw the dragon and his woman attacking Zandour’s troops. Their race-memory, and the tales handed down from their sires, knew the kindness in Zandour, knew the gentleness of Hermeth; and they recalled the way in which Hermeth died, possessed by darkness.

They turned as one to look off toward the north’s uncharted mountains where the wolf bell dwelt and where the son of Ramad stalked and swore, fettered by his own fury against full use of the stones he carried. And all time and all evils and all forms of goodness came together into a wholeness for them. A pale dog wolf raised his muzzle and howled. A dark brother joined him, and another. A bitch wolf screamed into the hot desert wind. The band’s cry sent a chill across the high desert that made rock hares freeze in their tracks and lone miners pull their doors to and bolt them.

And suddenly the band leaped away running hard for the rim and for the lands below it.

*

A pale, white-haired child heard their cry like wonderful music and watched them leave the desert. When she turned back toward her small valley at last, she walked swiftly and did not pause until she had curled into her bed beneath the crystal dome and held once more in her small hand the heavy talisman she kept always with her. Now, soon, they would come, a Seer would come searching for the stone. A Seer of light? Or a dark Seer? She could not yet divine which. The dark Seer might kill her, but such a one could not take the stone.

Would the other white-haired ones come now?

She prayed for the salvation of Ere, prayed until at last a vision of the Luff’Eresi came to her like cascading light through the crystal dome, their forms glinting through the heavy crystal panes as if the dome existed not at all, tall, iridescent beings seeming half man, half horse, but more wonderful than either, creatures whose great wings shed rainbow light; and she thought of them as gods though they were not; and she spoke to them as she would to gods.

“Will you help them?” she whispered. “Will you help them now?”

We do not know. They must help themselves.

But even with that vague answer she felt eased; and long after they had left her, she lay dreaming contentedly, the heavy green jade clutched tight in her small, pale fist.

*

A few remnants of the Zandourian army escaped the dragon and fell back under cover of darkness to restore what was left of their decimated battalions. Scouts slipped away to outlying farms to gather reinforcements, though new soldiers would be very young, for the young were all that were left. New horses would be half-wild colts, or old and stiff. And food was growing short, weapons in short supply.

It was past midnight and cold when they knew the dragon had left Zandour at last—surely to bring destruction elsewhere. Winged horses lay dead in a heartrending loss that made men mourn them, sick with agony. The disheartened troops huddled, tending wounds, burying their dead. In far-flung towns, RilkenDal’s officers tethered their winged mounts and bound their wings so they could not fly away, then forced the townsfolk to build up fires and bring drink and food and pleasures, and soon they were laughing and drunk and sacking what little was left of farms and homes.

Five of Zandour’s seven Seers lay dead.

*

The dragon moved through watery moonlight licking blood from his lips. Kish, astride him, was silent, heavy with the satisfaction of killing. He swept soundlessly above Aybil, then down over Farr toward where Kish’s cults were camped. “Go to the dark tower,” Kish said. “My leaders will come to me there.” Both, replete with battle, wanted little more now than a light sleep, perhaps a few moments of mutual pleasure. But suddenly Kish stiffened. Her excitement surged, she could feel Dracvadrig’s senses come alert as he reached out to increase control of the girl. For the girl had gone alone—of her own volition—into the citadel and was very close now to taking the stone. They could see her figure, thin and wispy in the moonlight where she stood beside the granite table, staring at the runestone.

Dracvadrig shook off the last vestiges of the drug with effort and brought his power around the girl, enticing her, cajoling her until at last, at last they watched her lift the stone and begin to strip away the gold thread from which it hung. But then almost at once she faltered, hesitated, nearly dropped the stone. Kish sighed impatiently. Dracvadrig strained, pouring his will into her, forcing her until all reluctance was swept away at last, until aggression replaced that reluctance.

She jerked the gold cord away, and clutching the stone, she ran the length of the citadel to the portal and to the balcony there. The mare who waited ducked her head as Meatha leaped astride digging in her heels, then the winged creature swept out into the wind, lifting, banking across the heavy wind to turn westward, coming back over the land; but coming too slowly, hesitating now, reluctant. And Meatha in turn, at the mare’s reluctance, began again to grow hesitant.

Dracvadrig eased the girl’s mind, soothed her, brought her on toward Pelli artfully until at last she crouched between the mare’s wings complacent in her righteousness, lulled by the knowledge that she alone would save Ere. She urged the mare on with authority, pressed her on in spite of the mare’s stubbornness. And as Dracvadrig lured the girl, he began at the same time to circle Aybil’s dark tower. The stone was theirs now. Soon they would have the second stone. Soon all of Ere would lie at their feet. Already Zandour was done for, and next Pelli would fall, then Farr, Aybil, Sangur. And then—then they would destroy Carriol, with greatest pleasure.

Dracvadrig came down atop the broken tower. His reaching feet knocked away broken stone walls so stone tumbled and clattered onto the old iron bed in the top room of the tower, open now to the sky. More stone fell into the black lake from which the tower rose. Along the shore of the lake, the cults slept peacefully.

*

Zephy and Thorn, restless, shaken by the vision of Zandour, slept at last, but for what seemed only moments before the winged ones near camp spoke to them. Thorn felt Zephy stir. He rose and lit the lamp. She stared up at him vaguely, her brown eyes huge with sleep, then roused herself and sat up. She had been dreaming of Meatha. She shared the disturbing vision with him, but it fled quickly before the urgent voices of the winged ones. The dragon comes. The warrior queen comes. The dragon sits atop the tower like a buzzard, the dragon that killed our brothers.

They Saw the dragon hunched atop the tower. It must wait until dawn. Thorn said. I would battle it in daylight, not in darkness. Even with the Seeing, not in darkness.

Yes, the winged ones said, it will sleep now. See, it is turning itself back into a man. It will lie with the woman there, and we will keep watch.

Zephy let the vision of the dragon go. She felt the more urgent vision was with Meatha. She let it flood her mind once more. Thorn felt her distress, took her hand, and sat calmly and silently sorting until at last he had joined her in the vision, knew her alarm as she watched the mare Michennann wing through the night sky, heading straight for Pelli, Meatha sitting straight and tense between her beating wings. “What is she . . .” Zephy began. “What does she carry? What . . . ?”

“The stone!” Thorn said with sudden conviction, gripping her hand so tightly she winced. “Zephy, she has the stone, she has taken it from the citadel.”

“The runestone? But she can’t, she—”

He stood up and hung the lamp from the tentpole. Light caught across his red hair, across his bare chest. He looked down at her, still scowling with disbelief and anger.

“The master Seer would never let her,” she said stupidly. “Never send one alone . . .” She did not want to believe what he was telling her. She looked up at him until at last she had to believe. She tried to touch Meatha’s mind and to know Meatha’s intent.

She could sense great calmness from Meatha, a sense of lightness, a sure, purposeful feeling that what she was doing was necessary and right, was essential to the salvation of Ere. She Saw truth in Meatha’s purpose: She knew well enough that the master Seers would never let the stone leave Carriol—knew in this moment so close with Meatha, that to carry the stone into battle, to wield it in battle, as Ramad of the wolves had once done, and with it vanquish the Kubalese troops and their dark companions, might be the only sure way to stop the slaughter and to destroy Kubal. She felt uneasy at the theft of the stone, but she felt with Meatha the urgency and lightness, too. She looked up at Thorn. He was watching her intently. They must trust Meatha for a little while, bear with her for a little while. Give her fair chance, not withhold their trust from her. Not yet.

Thorn gave her a questioning look, nodded at last, then blew out the lamp and lay down beside her. Almost at once he was snoring. Zephy scowled at the ease with which he slept, and she lay worrying for a long time. Should she alert the council? Thorn had withheld his judgment in this in deference to her. She felt unease at the strength of Meatha’s power. And yet if Meatha was right, if the fate of Ere could lie in that one stone carried into battle—Zephy sighed and tossed and could not sleep. And knew, beneath all her arguments, that she must be silent at least for a while. She could not do otherwise. She could not betray Meatha so easily.

She slept at last, restlessly, tossing, then woke again before dawn to find Thorn wakeful beside her, both of them gripped as one in a vision that lifted and excited them, and brought hope. They Saw sleek, fast-running shapes slipping into Zandour and felt the sense of them lusting to destroy dark warriors: wolves, flowing into the ravaged villages, seeking out the drunken, sated Kubalese troops and killing them. Dozens of wolves killing silently then moving on to kill again.

*

Dracvadrig the man sat atop the broken tower seething at the vision of wolves. Wolves! Great Urdd, how he hated wolves. Fury overwhelmed him at their slaughter of RilkenDal’s troops. They could not waste troops on wolves. Writhing with fury, he grew nearly without volition into the dragon form, forgot the girl who slept among boulders there on the sea cliff, forgot Kish sleeping in the iron bed near him, thought only of the destruction of wolves. Hunched atop the tower, he spread his wings onto the night sky and leaped into darkness to circle once then head for Zandour, left Kish sleeping.

He came down on Zandour screeching with such fury that the very dawn seemed made of dragon screams, swept low back and forth above the hills. But below him lay only emptiness. No wolves to be sensed or seen. Nothing. He dove and raked to death a dozen surviving Zandourian troops and their mounts and tore apart their camp, but his heart wasn’t in it. He could think only of wolves and of his own thwarted fury. He snatched one of the horses aloft and carried it back toward Pelli, sucking its blood as he flew, crushing it in his terrible anger.

He returned to the tower to consume the rest of it, spitting the heavier bones into the lake below. The sound of his eating soon woke Kish. She stared at him, half with repugnance, half with fascination, as the horse’s head disappeared. “So you save the head for last.”

He smiled a bloody smile and sat digesting horse in silence, hating the wolves in secret. Where had they come from, those cursed wolves?

Kish said nothing, but as she watched him eating, she felt his thwarted fury growing around her. She slipped inside the armor of his blocking as cleverly as the serpent slips between stones. She sat quiet, soon Seeing his thoughts clearly. “Wolves!” she hissed. “How did they come without your knowing! How did you let them! Why didn’t you . . . ?”

He was sated with horse, his belly distended, in no mood for a tirade. He hunched up across the top of the tower in his haste to be away from her, snarled at her once, then launched himself heavy as lead. He would find somewhere else to digest his breakfast, where he could have peace and silence.

*

When Dracvadrig did not return, Kish went down through the dark tower, treading ancient stone stairs around and around past tiers of battered cells where bones lay rotting inside. The drawbridge was down, lying broken and crooked across the black water.

Soon she had passed through the ancient wood and stood at the far edge, surveying her encampments beneath a muddy sky. She saw the four hide tents that housed Carriol’s Seers, but she went not to those tents, but to the tall, elaborate bower that her people had raised for her.

There she dressed herself in the finery kept ready for her, then called the cultists out of sleep to gather before her. The queen was come, the warrior queen. After ordering the Carriolinian Seers bound and brought to her, she stood scowling impatiently, waiting for her orders to be carried out, for the cultists hardly stirred. They seemed as confused and mindless as a batch of chidrack. What was the matter with them! Only a handful moved toward the Carriolinian tents, then even they were held back forcibly by their neighbors. Kish stared at them, unbelieving, then brought powers down on them that sent them to their knees. But still they would not move to fetch the Seers. Their eyes blazed with the old reverence when they looked on Kish, but they would not do her bidding.

And in their tents, knowing what she intended, Zephy and Thorn and the twelve strong young Seers brought their powers, in turn, against Kish. They had been building for this: nursing the sick, conjuring magical ceremonies, doing everything they could to win the awe and love of the cultists. Now they joined together in all their power, in an effort so strong it might not be long expended, but that must wed the cults to the light while it held.

Again Kish made her subjects kneel, flashing pain through them. But some rose in spite of the pain and moved toward her. Alarmed, she spoke out in silence to Dracvadrig: She would bring the dragon here and see them all dead before they defied her!

But Dracvadrig did not answer her. He had gone on to the north, beyond Zandour, where now he glided above the high desert, immersed in the hunt like a harrying kestrel, searching over the hot sands and into shadows for wolves, and he had no time for Kish and her toys.

The cultists watched Kish coldly. Her power locked and held against the power of Carriol’s Seers. Neither gave. She strained harder until at last, two dozen men broke from the ranks and joined her, taking up weapons to face the rest. But the Carriolinians’ power in those brief moments was strong indeed. Who would have thought a handful of Seers . . . ? She needed the power of a runestone. Then she would make the cultists crawl. Blast Dracvadrig for not coming to help her. He could have fetched his stone here, could . . . Well, she would have a runestone all right, a runestone much nearer than the one Dracvadrig carried. Maybe even two stones. And with that power she could destroy the puerile Seers. Yes, perhaps she could retrieve the second stone, too, she thought smiling, for already the girl Meatha crouched among boulders watching the divers prepare to bring it up out of the sea.

In a hastily conjured ceremony, Kish appointed new leaders from the few faithful, then she had a horse brought. Dressed in her finery, mounted, she made the beast rear and roll its eyes, spun it, bid the cultists kneel again before her, then with effort she laid a fog upon their minds like glittering mist so only her face was clear amidst shifting images. She held the vision strong. When at last it faded and the cultists looked up, she was gone.

SEVEN

The boulders hid Meatha where she crouched, blocking, staring down the steep drop of sea cliff to where Alardded’s camp lay huddled on a narrow shelf just above the sea: two tents, a campfire. The sea was so clear she could see the submerged cliff wall sheering away deep into the water. The diving suit lay like a bloated body next to Alardded’s tent, lines coiled beside it. She could sense Michennann grazing inland, but the mare did not speak to her. The whole journey had been conducted in silence, Michennann barely cooperating, reluctant and unpleasant, as Meatha had never known her.

She watched young Roth help Nicoli into the diving suit. Already the divers sensed the stone down there somewhere deep beneath the sea, and so did she. She blocked cautiously to protect the stone she carried, tied in a cloth bag beneath her tunic; waited patiently while Nicoli was dressed like a great doll in the diving suit, and the lines were checked. If she felt the touch of another mind, she turned away and blocked from it. Zephy must bear with her now and trust her if ever their friendship meant anything. Who had more right to the stone than she who had found it? Who had more right than she to carry it in a final battle against the slave-making Kubalese! She held her breath as Nicoli moved slowly to the edge of the cliff then jumped suddenly far out away from the lip. The lines coiled out smoothly after her as Alardded tended them, and Roth pumped on the bellows. Meatha grew so interested she soon forgot to block. Alarmed, she touched the stone, brought power around it quickly, chided herself for not paying attention. She watched the circle of bubbles where Nicoli had vanished and thought of the story of Ramad falling into the sea from the back of the monster Hape, of the stone falling away from him there, to be lost—to lie for six generations. How could Nicoli find the stone there, even with Seer’s senses to guide her, so small a stone in that immense, surging body of water? It seemed to Meatha an impossible task.

Already she could feel that the sea floor was a tumble of boulders. Already she was beginning to know the construction, the first touch of panic, that the weight and confinement of the sea could bestow. The water rolled around the lines in gentle green swells. She saw through Nicoli’s eyes, at first only green light growing darker, then the dark, waving shapes of sea plants, a rising boulder, and the underwater world growing constantly darker and closer until Meatha’s pulse was pounding with the sense of confinement, the constriction of the heavy suit. The sea was a tomb closing over her. She began to tremble. She blocked frantically, incredulous that Nicoli felt no fear.

She tried to remind herself that it was the lasting curse of the MadogWerg making her feel like this. Don’t let it! Don’t let it do this to you! But she couldn’t seem to help herself. She thought fleetingly that perhaps the MadogWerg had left other weaknesses. Did something dark touch her mind through that weakness, that emptiness she sometimes knew? But no! Nothing touched her but her own resolve, her own commitment to the salvation of Ere. Any other thought was madness. She put all else away from her.

It seemed a long time but was perhaps only minutes before Nicoli drew close among the tumbled, drowned boulders to where the stone lay, its power on her rocking her senses. Meatha felt Nicoli move quickly in the almost total darkness to a narrow cleft between stones, pulling her air line to keep it free; felt her kneel in the cumbersome suit and reach into the cleft. Meatha fought the fear of being trapped. Her hands were sweating. Frantically she blocked to keep from being discovered, tried to calm herself, felt something deeper give her strength and knew it must be her own power before untapped. She sensed Nicoli reaching, touching . . . Then she felt the sudden shock in Nicoli’s fingers as she touched the stone.

Nicoli grasped it in a handful of sand and pebbles and brought it close to her face. She could see it only as a vague shape through the small, thick glass, but its presence in her hand was like a pulsing heartbeat of power. Meatha felt as if the stone held within itself the thunder of the sea. She felt as if her own hands were on the ropes as Nicoli began to ascend, the runestone tucked safely into her diving suit.

*

Dracvadrig smiled with fine satisfaction. They had the stone. His frustration at searching uselessly across the cursed desert for vanished wolves was as nothing now. The stone was at this moment being carried to the surface of the sea. It was safe, ready to be plucked, ready to be given. He had only to guide and protect Meatha, reassure her, help her to slip the stone away from the divers at the right moment and bring it to him. Then she and the wretched young Seer would begin the final act. Oh, yes, soon, soon—as a dragon measures time—the runestone would be whole again, be his, all power would be his.

Meanwhile he must settle Kish. He could not have her taking the stone, tampering with his plans. He swept fast along the coast out of Karra and across the Bay of Pelli above the sunken islands and came at Pelli from the sea, but low and on the west coast, so he would remain unseen by the divers around on the southern cliffs. He sensed Kish, then soon saw her riding hard. She had crossed the inlet by barge and was already on the high meadows. He dove on her and saw her horse rear and twist in terror, too frightened even to run. “Turn back, Kish. Leave the horse, my dear, and come onto my back as you were meant to travel.”

“Why should I! You would not help me when I wanted you, why should I heed you now! Go on about your warring, worm, and leave me to mine!”

His smile was a hideous sight in that evil dragon face with the ruined eye. “Do not resist me, Kish. You know you do not want to lose me, I am too fine a lover. Surely you would not want me as your enemy. Come, Kish, come—I will destroy the cults for you if that is what you wish, you do not need the stones for that.” He undulated close around her, so the poor horse nearly fell dead from fright. “Come, my love, come Kish.” He caressed her with a scaly coil. “Come, my love, we are one in this.” He drew his rough dragon tongue across her neck.

She jerked the horse until its mouth bled and stared up at Dracvadrig in fury. “If we are one in this, why shouldn’t I use the stones! I won’t have my cults—”

“There is no time! The young Seer Lobon has reached the gates and will be captive in moments. I need the stones now, I need to bring the girl there to the cells to him, draw her and the stones there to him. . . .”

“You move them like sticks and brittles! It’s only a game to you!”

“More than a game, Kish. This must be done my way. No one must go near or turn the direction of what has begun until she has the stone—the most delicate part, the theft of the stone from the master Seer, is yet to be consummated. Let the girl be, Kish. Come with me. Watch me lead the girl to the abyss.” His voice was low and gentle. “Come with me.” But his claw on her arm was like iron, his coils pressing around her strong enough to break bones. Both knew he could kill her if she did not obey. She shivered. Why couldn’t she amass the power to drive Dracvadrig away? Even that artless young Seer had—what powers had he touched in that moment when he leaped at Drac and plunged his sword into the dragon’s eye? What powers . . .? She shivered again, thrust the thought from her and swung her terrified horse away from the dragon with a brutal jerk; she was afraid of Dracvadrig suddenly, she who was afraid of nothing.

“Come, Kish . . .”

“Curse your plan!” she hissed. “Curse the wretched girl, curse your precious stones! If you can’t use them for me, then stuff them in your gullet!” She kicked the horse hard; the animal leaped away in panic into a dead run, freed at last from the monster, frothing and half-blind with its fear. But she kicked and reined it back toward the dark tower, not toward the direction of the divers, knowing full well that Dracvadrig would kill her, if only to save face, if she pursued the stones. Curse Drac! She did not like having him against her. She needed . . . yes. RilkenDal. RilkenDal would do her bidding. The dark Seer could be more than useful now. Defeated in Zandour by wolves, sore at such defeat, RilkenDal would welcome a woman’s sympathy. Later she could consider how to get the stones and deal with the cults, once she had RilkenDal’s forces behind her. And then she would take care of Dracvadrig.

*

Lobon sensed the fire ogres massed beyond the cliff. Cold fear touched him. Flame edged the cliff, then the first ogre hulked against the sky. The wolves crouched to leap; he raised his bow and shot; a good shot in the neck, the creature fell and rolled down the cliff dislodging stones as it flailed. Two more ogres appeared above, then half a dozen rounded the bend of the narrow trail ahead. He shot again, the wolves leaped, a wolf cried out with pain from the flaming hide. He faced the fire ogres with sword drawn. They advanced until their heat seared him, flame leaping over their warty hides and froglike faces, their small red eyes flame-veiled like evil coals as they forced in around him. One fell from his sword, another pushed in. He slashed and parried, and they were so thick now they were as impregnable as a wall, closing in, stepping across their dead brothers, reaching with flaming hands. He was grappled from behind with burning hands, felt the desperate battling of the wolves with more pain than his own, for they could not attack without being burned; felt chains hot as fire forced around him. He fought the chains until an ogre struck him, and he knew no more.

He woke staring at cell bars. His weapons were gone. The wolves were chained to the wall. On the ground beside him lay the deerskin pouch, charred and torn open. He reached for it, searching uselessly for the runestones, knowing what he would find. He shook it, then lay cursing silently.

But when he felt in his tunic for the wolf bell, its familiar shape cleaved to his hand. He drew it out and stared at it. How had they missed the wolf bell?

They did not miss it, Lobon. Feldyn told him. They touched it, and it sent pain through them. We have powers in the bell, too, son of Ramad. And we know a hate for the fire ogres perhaps surpassing your own. Though we had not enough power to keep them from chaining us. The black wolf lay looking across at Lobon, fettered by chains, bleeding and weak with pain. Lobon pulled himself up and went to examine Feldyn’s wounds.

The chains binding the wolves had been locked to bolts in the wall. The smell of singed hair was strong. All three wolves were burned, but much of the burn was hair, not deep into the skin. He looked for his waterskin and saw it at last lying some distance outside the cell bars, charred black. The ground was wet where it had been dumped.

*

Meatha curled down in her shelter of boulders to wait for deeper night. She was glad the sky was cloudy, for dusk had come more swiftly. Alardded’s campfire smelled so good, and supper smelled even better. She munched on cold mountain meat and waited. The drowned stone lay so close, just there in Alardded’s pack.

It had been nearly a day since she left Carriol. Was the illusion she had created in the citadel, of a runestone hanging there, working so well that still no one suspected? When she thought of what she had been capable of these last days, she could hardly believe it was all her own doing. Yet what else could it be? She felt the power in herself. If her illusion held, if they thought the stone was still in the citadel—just until she could slip into Alardded’s camp, retrieve that second stone, slip away to join the battles in Farr and Aybil, banish the darkness there—if only her image of the false stone would hold so she would not be followed. She put her head on her knees and dozed, waiting for those below to sleep, holding her blocking tight around her, secure in the goal she pursued, secure in her love for Carriol.

*

Lobon’s hands were bloody from scraping against stone where he had been digging at Shorren’s chain. He had dug late into the night, and when at last Shorren pulled herself free with a final lunge, the twin moons were low, casting shadows through the cell bars. The white wolf had slunk away deep into the cave to the trickle of water Lobon had found, dragging her chain behind her. Lobon stared down at the rock in his hands, then he began to dig anew, at Feldyn’s chain. Crieba lay patiently waiting his turn. Lobon tried not to think that they could die here, with two wolves still chained to the wall. He tried not to remember that the sense of Dracvadrig he had followed to the cell had been a trap, just as the wolves had said. That if he had listened to them, none of them would be captive now behind a barred, locked gate.

He continued to dig. The digging stones kept breaking, and his fingers were raw. When the wolves’ thirst grew too great, he went into the inner caves and let his cupped hands slowly fill with water from the small, warm trickle there and brought it out to them, making the trip over and over. Shorren brought water in her mouth and let them suck it up.

Once as he dug at the stone he Saw an image of the girl, her beautiful face rapt in some vision he was unable to share, her lavender eyes deep and intent, very determined as if she contemplated something demanding, though he could not make out what. He felt clearly her rising excitement.

Why did such visions touch him? Whatever she was about, whatever vision she cleaved to, had nothing to do with him. Her dark lashes were soft on her cheeks, her dark hair tumbled about her shoulders. Her eyes held him so strongly that he thought she Saw him; but then she rose preoccupied, unaware of anything but the turmoil within herself. She pulled off her boots and slipped barefoot out of the rock shelter where she had been sitting, into the moonlight, and began to move carefully down a steep cliff. He could hear the sea crashing. He saw her destination: a camp below on a rocky ledge. When she reached it at last, she stood watching the two tents, sensing out. Finally she approached the larger one, still in silence, and he could feel her blocking.

How could he See her when she blocked so strongly? He frowned, puzzling. Did he have some special affinity for this girl, to so breach her blocking? Some tie with her that he did not understand? She approached the tent and entered in silence. He sensed rather than saw the two sleeping figures, and startled, for a master Seer slept there. And a boy, also with Seer’s skills. The girl knelt beside the master Seer and began to feel with light, quick fingers among his belongings, quickly touched something of power that made him start and catch his breath.

She pulled the runestone out of the pack, he felt the weight and power of it as if he held it himself. A shard of the runestone of Eresu.

Now she had two shards, he thought, puzzling. What was so urgent to this girl? What exactly did she plan? He watched her retreat softly and climb the cliff. He felt her silent call, then felt the answering call and saw a winged mare bank between clouds and plummet down beside her out of the moonwashed sky; and he felt the strange reluctance of the mare. The girl swung onto her back and nearly at once they were windborne, the girl prodding, forcing the mare. He wanted to move with them, to follow. What was the girl’s destination, carrying the runestones? She seemed to imagine something urgent, but her intention was muddled and confused in his mind. He tried to follow her in vision, but his thoughts remained fixed above the cliff as mare and rider disappeared into moon-touched cloud.

He had started to turn from the vision of the empty cliff when he Saw the other rider standing motionless beside a winged stallion. How could he have missed them, missed sensing them? Had they come out of the sky unseen only a moment before? Or had they been standing hidden by boulders watching the girl just as he himself had watched her? A tall, thin man with short white hair. The sight of him struck a chord of recognition in Lobon, though he could not think why. He didn’t know him. There was a power about him, a mystery about him that drew Lobon. The stranger stood looking into the sky where girl and mare had disappeared with a cold, impersonal censure. Then in one leap he was mounted and following.

*

Dracvadrig clung in resting coils around the peak of Scar Mountain, drawing the girl to him, watching the mare wing through the night sky, pulled inexorably by his power and by the power RilkenDal had laid so beautifully upon her. Even should the girl turn reluctant, the mare would not waver from the hold they now had on her. And where better to receive the stones than here atop Scar Mountain, where Ramad had been bred and born, then snatched away from his rightful destiny as a child of the dark masters? Now the stone would return to dark. Here, where it had first been betrayed.

Never mind how the warring fared across the coastal countries, it didn’t matter now, with this tender Seer girl to seal the fate of Ere. He smiled a toothy smile against the dark sky. Oh, yes, the girl would seal Ere’s fate—but not in the way she dreamed. To drive back the dark? Oh, no, young woman! Dracvadrig chuckled, a sound like grinding bones. Not to drive back the dark, but to breed an heir to the dark. An heir to the joining of the runestone.

His eye began to pain him. He pawed at it absently, never taking his mind from his prey. Here on Scar Mountain had Ramad been bred out of cold revenge. Here this night the girl would come, she in turn to be bred—to begin a new line of Seers that would be heir to Ramad. Heir to the joining of the stones.

Seers subservient to him alone, and to the dark powers.

For something had been building for generations and it was culminating now. His own quickening to life there in the abyss was witness to that building of powers. Powers growing in strength, powers of the earth itself as natural as the volcanoes that belonged to them, or the sly movement of the moons; and other powers wrought of the minds of living creatures—forces humans called good and evil. Forces that moved like winds, shifting, violent, that even he, Dracvadrig, did not always anticipate.

Forces that could split Ere’s plane of life apart, could open it to other planes. Already there was a wound in the fabric of this plane: there the Luff’Eresi dwelt. If Ere’s plane should so shatter, as the stone had once shattered, then when it opened to new planes, those must be the planes of the dark. And if such violence should not occur? Oh, but the dark could force such holocaust, if it had the stone, joined in darkness. And the dark powers would then own Ere.

No matter his scoffing at the joining when he faced young Lobon, that joining was now too opportune to ignore. And it must be for the dark. And only an heir to Ramad could so join it.

This girl, coming to him now as docile as a ewe, would make that heir for him. An heir far more tractable, more obedient, than ever the difficult young Lobon could be. He soothed the girl and beckoned her on, and she drew ever closer. Then suddenly his senses stirred uncomfortably. Scowling, he felt out across the night sky, parting winds, reaching—and he Saw suddenly the white-haired Seer following close behind the girl, riding tall between a dark stallion’s wings. A white-haired Seer! Dracvadrig spat fire, pawed the stony peak with fury. Where had this man come from! Why were the white-hairs not gone from Ere! Surely he and Kish had destroyed them. His snarl of rage rose to a scream against the lonely night. It was the white-haired one called Anchorstar, the same who had led the Children of Ynell from Burgdeeth, who had led Ramad outside of Time—that one would die this time. He wanted to spring into the sky; but he remained steady, drawing the girl, and with her the white-haired one, closer.

*

The mare flew strongly toward the northwest. Meatha did not wonder when Michennann ceased to resist her, when the mare began to beat steadily across the night wind. She thought only that she had bested Michennann at last.

She could sense new movements of Kubalese troops, knew she must come down on them there in the north, drive them back with the potency of the stones. She must circle the coastal countries, destroy every Kubalese soldier as only that power could destroy them. She was the stones’ willing servant now in this last, this all-decisive attack. She was very sure, very aware of her power; so engulfed in the aura of that power that she did not sense the presence following her. She turned to look back only when Michennann faltered, touched with sudden fear.

She looked back beneath Michennann’s wings, sensed the man suddenly and sharply, then saw him: Tall and slim he sat the dark, winging mount, white hair gleaming, and her first response was sudden wild joy at knowing he was alive, he whom she had mourned.

Then fear swept her as it had swept Michennann. And then shame. His censure was sharp as a sword.

But why was she ashamed? He had no right to make her feel ashamed. He should be pleased, should be helping her. She felt amazed and hurt. Why didn’t he understand? She tried to touch his thoughts and met only coldness and disdain. She urged the mare faster, appalled at his insensitiveness, he who had always understood. Dracvadrig’s power pulled at her, and she followed blindly, needing that power now in her loneliness, pushing back wildly the suspicion that was beginning to awaken within her deepest thoughts.

She was over the north of Zandour. She would turn now and come low onto the Kubalese troops, bring the power of the stones down on them. She spoke to the mare in silence, laid a hand on her neck, urging her into a low sweep over Zandour.

But the mare would not turn or lower her wings to sweep down, would not speak or acknowledge her command. She simply continued north, ignoring Meatha’s bidding. Meatha glanced back at Anchorstar. This was his doing! How could he! She brought her power strong against Michennann, against Anchorstar, and was ignored by both. Michennann would not turn aside, would not speak to her, the mare was caught in a mindless pull northward. How could Anchorstar not understand? She wanted to scream at him and make him draw away.

She tried again to make Michennann turn, but felt only a dull, blank fixedness of mind quite unlike the mare, unlike any winged one. She slapped Michennann’s neck, jerked her mane; all uselessly. Michennann kept on, caught in a web, now, beyond her will, beyond her ability to destroy.

It was then Anchorstar gave her the vision. It seemed to have nothing to do with her plight, with the dilemma engulfing her. She saw five people, all white-haired, one of them a child. One was Anchorstar. One was Tra. Hoppa. Another woman. A young man. They stood in a meadow greener than the jade itself. Behind them rose a strange, clear dome. It looked as if it were made of glass, though that would be impossible; glass was made only in very small pieces. It might have been formed of crystal out of the mountains, so strange it was. There was a sense of power and warmth, of lightness; a sense of other things gone too quickly to grasp.

When the vision left her, her mind seemed to clear from a confusion she had hardly been aware of. The warmth and tightness of that place, the sense of power, remained with her; but part of the vision escaped too quickly, was gone. Now she felt clear-headed, as if she had awakened from a nightmare where all her senses had been awry. She knew suddenly and completely, with a shock that chilled her, that she had never been meant to reach the Kubalese troops. That she had never been meant to destroy those troops. She knew, as sharply as if her face had been slapped, that she and Michennann were being led toward a different destination. Toward a destination filled with terror. She turned to stare back at Anchorstar, crying out to him now for help, knowing he meant only to show her the truth. . . .

And he was gone from the sky. Gone as if he had never been there.

She was alone with a truth she did not want, fighting Michennann to turn aside—fighting too late to alter her own dark course; and Michennann caught and held utterly now, to some stronger will. Michennann, left too long to battle alone, had lost that battle. Meatha’s fear turned to terror. She clung, stricken, to the silent, fast-flying mare. She saw now that the very stealing of the runestones had been willed by the dark she had meant to defeat. Now she saw, and now it was too late. Now she battled a mare caught herself in forces beyond her will. Meatha tried, but could not reach the mare’s spirit. She strained to bring power through the stones and seemed weak and inept. She tried to make the mare end their flight in a fast spiraling downward, but Michennann did not heed her, was led on like a bird snared in flight. Why had Anchorstar turned away? Why hadn’t he helped her? She was sick and trembling. She could smell the mare’s nervous sweat. Something urged them to greater speed still, and neither she nor Michennann could resist.

And Lobon woke shouting into empty blackness, “Fight him! Fight Dracvadrig! The power of the bell is with you!” He turned and saw the wolves sitting erect in their chains and felt their power steadily rising with his own to strengthen the girl and drive the firemaster back. He tried with all his power to give her the strength she sought. Dracvadrig must not have the runestones she carried. He did not think about why he cared, why this was important to him.

And his power was not enough, the mare was buffeted until she faltered in the sky; and then suddenly the dragon launched himself from the peak of Scar Mountain and swept toward them, black against the stars, driving winds aside. He came at them, slashed at the mare and pale rider forcing them on not only with mind-power but with teeth like steel, with claws that were knives, with a frenzy of beating wings. The mare fought to keep airborne. Meatha lashed out with her sword again and again, but the mare was forced down at last toward the abyss by the dragon’s leathery wings beating across her wings. Lobon Saw blood smeared across the dragon’s face, and he did not know he was shouting again, sending power like a tide from the wolf bell. He tore in rage at the bolt that held Feldyn, and the wolf leaped and leaped in frustration, then suddenly came free, the bolt clanging to the floor as the mare and girl were swept down the side of the abyss. The dragon dove, snatched the girl up in its claws, and beat skyward carrying her like a cloth doll. Lobon felt her quick decision to drop the stones and cried out to her. He made her pause and close her fist over them, perplexed.

Then he saw, not in vision but against the night sky beyond the cell, the dragon’s dark shape come out of the wind swooping down past the cell dangling the girl. He saw her face for an instant, pale with fear, her cheek torn and bloody. She lashed out again with the sword, then the dragon was gone with her. Lobon sensed it entering a red-washed cave, Saw fire ogres moving inside. One snatched a cloth bag from the girl and pushed her against the wall; she screamed with the pain of the burns it left on her wrist and shoulder; Lobon could feel that pain. The cloth sack where she had carried the two runestones was aflame. The fire ogre picked the two stones out and laid them on top a flat boulder. Lobon saw then that his own two shards, and the starfires, lay there gleaming red with reflected fire. He watched the dragon inspect the stones, then watched as a fire ogre swept them up in its thick, flaming hand and tumbled them into the golden casket that dangled at the dragon’s throat.

The dragon left the cave carrying six shards of the milestone of Eresu. Lobon could hear it scraping across loose stone, then heard boulders dislodged, and was engulfed in the sense of it close by. The night turned red as ogres approached. They fumbled with the lock, and the dragon’s heavy blackness covered the stars beyond the cell. The gate was pulled open.

The dragon pushed through the cell door. Its claws reached for him. He lashed out with the bell down the side of its head, and it hissed and pulled back, coughing flame at him.

Again it reached. Again. As it turned, he saw the left eye swollen closed and covered with dried blood. Each time he struck with Seer’s powers and the bell, it retreated, then attacked anew. He could feel the wolves’ powers with him, strong. Its jaws opened above him, flame belching to burn him. Its teeth grazed his shoulder. He pressed deeper into the cave; it pushed in after him, pressed so close—but then it drew back. He tried to find a way clear of its coils and was trapped by it.

But it did not attack. It was only toying with him.

Why? Surely it wanted the wolf bell. He stood facing it. It was utterly still, watching him, and the sense of the man Dracvadrig was there, alert and evil. It did not move. It had only to kill him and take the wolf bell, but it did not move. Did it want him alive? But why would it? It seemed to draw back to keep from killing him. Why? It wanted the wolf bell, though. It stared at it greedily. He reached out desperately to any power that could help him. The creature remained utterly still. He felt the wolves with him, felt more than these three wolves; knew suddenly that wolves in a great band pushed their power like a heavy tide to buoy him; and he felt the girl where she stood captive, fighting beside him. Then suddenly Feldyn and Shorren leaped and slashed at it, their chains dragging, Shorren on one side, Feldyn on the other, ducking flame; the dragon moved now, swept this way and that trying to see them, to get at them. Its eye seemed to pain it. Its coils lashed the walls, the golden pouch at its throat swung and gleamed. Lobon tried to turn the power of the stones it carried against it. Could such a thing be done? Did the dark hold that power utterly? He felt the wolves’ power strong, so strong. He brought his skills, his knowledge to bear as perhaps he never had before; the sense of those other wolves somewhere, somewhere, reaching out to give him strength twisted something in Lobon, brought the sense of Ramad around him sharply. He forced and drove down on the dragon with the power that rose in him married to those other powers. The dragon took a step back, slowed in its battling, and swung its head. Lobon exalted in his power and in the fellowship of wolves. He leaped suddenly with the wolf bell at the dragon’s head, slashed the bell across its cheek, then leaped and struck the damaged eye; the dragon bellowed out with pain, with fury. It writhed, blood gushed from the eye; and then, writhing, its body began to grow unclear.

Twisting and bellowing, it diminished in size as if the pain were too great to let it hold the dragon form. He felt it reaching to strengthen its power in the stones it carried, felt it falter as those powers that buoyed Lobon confused and rattled its mind. Powers stood beside Lobon now—Skeelie’s, the wolves’—that awed and humbled him. The dragon diminished further. It had begun to change into the form of a man. The two forms overlapped and wavered. The bones seemed to shrink, to draw in.

At last the man Dracvadrig stood before him, tall and bent and sallow, his lined face filled with hate. The gold casket dangled across his waist. One eye gushed blood. The other was a dragon’s eye, predatory and cold.

Part Three: The Joining

From the journal of Skeelie of Carriol. (Undated. Marked only, The Villa of Canoldir.)

I have not moved out of the realm of Canoldir’s house and out of this Timeless place to help Lobon. I am uncertain what to do. Perhaps Canoldir is right, perhaps I must wait. Must Lobon fight his battles unfettered? Would my interference unbalance the scales of what is, turn away the delicate balance of powers, and perhaps destroy that balance?

What am I to do? Do the Luff’Eresi watch Lobon and the warring upon Ere? Surely they care. From what Ram told me, they care more than we can know. But they put their feelings aside in deference to our free-choosing.

Must I continue to wait, then? Is this what they, all wise, would tell me? Yet I suffer for Lobon. And I fear for Ere.

In my fearing, should I not move to help? Must I not tip the balance? Am I not a part of that balance anymore, since I move outside of Time? Yet if I do not go to him, will I shatter all hope?

If I could have a vision of the Luff’Eresi as I had once long ago, if a word from their greater wisdom could guide me . . .

But they will not tamper with human affairs. It is up to me to decide.

And I do not know what to do.

EIGHT

Beyond Esh-nen, beyond Time, in the villa of Canoldir, Skeelie stood staring into the dying fire, but Seeing only Lobon facing the firemaster. The dragon had changed to the form of a man. The wolf bell was bloodied, and Lobon’s dark eyes were blazing with hatred. She remembered sharply how Ramad had faced the master of Urdd, twelve years gone, felt again Ram’s anger. Her hand clutched convulsively at her sword as she felt again the pain of Ram’s death. “I must go to Lobon now. I must.”

“You cannot help him, Skeelie. Not any more than he can help himself.” Canoldir stood tall in darkened leathers before the stone mantel, taut with the visions and with her fierce need. His dark eyes caressed her, were filled with forces and wonders no woman could turn away from.

She drew a breath, watching him. “I must go to him. I can help him. I must be beside him to try.”

“Part of the force that drives you, Skeelie, is guilt. Because you were not beside Ramad to help him.”

She stared at him defiantly, knowing he was right.

“You think your Seer’s powers were not enough alone to save Ram, and now too late you would battle with your sword.” His look was uncompromising. “The sword alone will never be sufficient to destroy such as Dracvadrig. Try your Seer’s powers now, Skeelie. You have more than you know.”

“My power is not enough without the sword. You must let me go to him.”

“Perhaps I will not be able to bring you back. My own powers . . .” Their shared look was long and expressed their shared needs. I cannot let you go without tearing my soul from me.

“You must let me go. I cannot see him die as Ram died. Nor can I see the stones remain with the dark Seers. Nor—nor can you.”

“The fates will have their way regardless of what we do.”

“You do not believe that. You know you do not. Let me go. I will come back to you. I must come back to you. The Luff’Eresi—”

“The Luff’Eresi care nothing for this. They would not lift a finger to help.

“They helped Ram once. To save the Children of Ynell. You do not believe what you say! You can’t run away from the stones—from Ere—uncaring.”

I care only for you. He took her by the shoulders, pulled her to him. But she held the vision of Lobon facing the master of Urdd and would not yield to the gentleness of his touch or to his lonely need.

*

Dracvadrig’s voice was dry as wind. His form, diminished from dragon to man, seemed only the more horrifying in its sparsity and sepulchral stance. He took a sword from a fire ogre’s hand, and it reflected the flame of the ogre’s face red as blood. “Now I will have the bell, son of a bastard!” The firemaster’s power was the power of all darkness. Crieba leaped at his chain. Feldyn and Shorren crouched snarling, then lurched forward dragging their chains to stand beside Lobon, tensed to spring. Dracvadrig stood hunched as a bird of prey, sword poised, then moved forward. Lobon did not step back, was wild with the power in him, the power of that great pack of wolves, the power of the girl in a strange, warm closeness; he raised the wolf bell and felt another power and exalted, felt Skeelie there with him; he knew he could kill Dracvadrig now, at this instant. . . .

*

Kish’s sword was poised against the throat of a peasant, crouching among his dead companions, when the vision of Dracvadrig and Lobon struck her. Somehow, Dracvadrig seemed so small there in the form of a man, dwarfed by the abyss out behind him as if his human form had shrunk. She watched his expression coldly, watched the young Seer; and she knew suddenly and surely that Dracvadrig could die there in the next instant, die in the rising power the young Seer had found. Who was helping him? Curse Carriol and her Seers! She gored the peasant and turned from his fallen body, saw that RilkenDal had already snatched the bridles of two fettered mares of Eresu. She ran, snatched the reins, was mounted. No matter that she hated Dracvadrig, Lobon must not have the stones! They beat and spurred the reluctant animals until the creatures could only leap skyward, were soon pounding the wind in a frenzy of speed under the sharp sting of the whips.

The setting sun sent a streak of crimson along the underside of the clouds, and beneath that bloody sky the dark Seers held steady the vision of Lobon and the firemaster. They must not allow Dracvadrig’s defeat, must not allow the stones to be taken. What powers buoyed the Seer? They sensed a force from the captive girl helping him, and then Lobon had cornered Dracvadrig.

The bastard’s son must not have the stones! RilkenDal pressed his mount until the mare began to slaver, her eyes white with terror. Her wings did not want to hold her, she faltered, seemed ready to fall; he beat her until she strained harder, drove her on toward the abyss.

At last they were over Urdd, the heaving animals staggering against the wind, then dropping from the sky like stones.

The mares stumbled to the earth and fell on their knees, their wings splaying along the ground like injured birds. The riders leaped free and ran. They were too late, they felt Dracvadrig’s exhaustion, felt him take a mortal blow and stagger from the cell, trying in a final bid for power to take the dragon form, and too weak to muster that power.

“The Seer will have the stones!” Kish hissed, running hard. She was light on her feet and fast. “Those useless mares dropped us too far from the cells. Run! For the love of Urdd, he must not have the stones! Use your power! Help him change to dragon!”

*

Lobon followed the retreating firemaster into the twilight of the abyss, Shorren pushing close. Feldyn tried to follow, but fell, his injured leg and shoulder striking a painful dizziness to sap his conscious will. Shorren’s dragging chain made a harsh din in the silence; her spirit was predatory, thirsting for blood.

They found the master of Urdd lying among boulders in a form half-dragon, half-man, the long tail twisted around jagged rocks, the human legs half formed. They could feel his waning powers as he attempted to complete the change. His breathing was shallow and quick, his face gone in a horrifying mixture of shapes. The runestones lay scattered beside him, the broken gold casket smashed beneath the bulk of dragon shoulder from which protruded a man’s puny arm, its clawlike fingers clutching at his fallen sword.

Lobon jerked the sword from Dracvadrig’s hand and pressed the tip into the firemaster’s chest. Then he paused. He could pierce the firemaster’s heart now, he had lived twelve years for this moment. And suddenly he was numb with confusion and uncertainty.

Shorren growled; her voice filled his mind. Kill him! What do you wait for! She crouched, ready to spring, to tear out Dracvadrig’s throat. Do you lose your nerve, Lobon, after all your bragging talk of how you would destroy the master of Urdd?

He steadied his hand. Something lost and empty had stirred in him. He fought it back and plunged the sword home deep through dragon’s chest and man’s. Blood spurted like a river. The bloodied eye stared up at him blindly as the pierced heart ceased to beat.

He knelt beside the creature, half-man half-dragon, mutilated and dead, and picked up a shard of the runestone and wiped the blood from it, retrieved another and another until he held all five and the starfires. Then he turned and stared at Shorren, filled with emotions he dared not examine. She knew. She saw it in him. She looked back at him steadily.

The hatred of a lifetime was satisfied. And the emptiness it left laid a terror on his heart that he did not understand.

Your quest is ended, Lobon. Dracvadrig is dead. Is your reason for being ended, too?

He stared at her, puzzled. He did not know how to answer such a question.

Finally he stirred himself, looked again at the tangled body, stiffening now to cleave around boulders in coils and twisted human limbs. Then he began to examine the stones and to read one by one the runes carven into them. But the runes were only scattered words. None, alone, made sense. He started to fit stone to stone, but something made him cease abruptly. He stared down at the stones, puzzling. “What do these words mean, Shorren? What does the whole rune say?”

Shorren did not answer.

He turned and saw her lying sprawled across her chains, her coat wet with seeping blood where a sword protruded from her chest. His shock froze him, he could not speak or cry out. He stared dumbly at the two figures that stood over her, reached out desperately for some contact with Shorren, knowing she was dead. There was no answering touch from her mind, only emptiness; and his mind, his spirit, could not believe that she was dead.

When at last he looked directly at the figures, the sense of them chilled him through. The man was dark-haired and bearded and stood crookedly: a Farrian Seer. This was RilkenDal, surely. The woman was a pale, bloodless creature, watching him as a snake watches its prey. The dark Seers moved suddenly, swords flashed; he parried, fought with terrible fury, wild at the murder of Shorren, wanting to scream out in agony for Shorren. The woman was strong as a man. The two forced him in the direction of the cell; as he struck at the woman, RilkenDal brought a blow across his neck that jarred his vision and flashed hot pain through him.

He knew no more until the woman’s cold hands lifted and forced him through the cell door. Half waking, dizzy, he knew she had the stones. He saw Feldyn lying against the cell wall bleeding, saw the woman advance on him then draw back hissing and felt Feldyn’s power and Crieba’s, driving her back. With the last of his strength Lobon forced protection for the wolf bell pressed so painfully against his ribs, and felt the wolves do the same.

She did not come near him again. Her expression alone, he thought, might easily kill. She was white with hatred, her lips pulled back. “We will have the bell soon enough, Ramad’s brat!”

She stood beside the dark Seer, just inside the iron gate. In a moment a fire ogre appeared, pushing the girl Meatha ahead of it. She seemed confused, her face flushed from the fire, her arms painfully burned. She glanced at him, pleading, then lowered her gaze. The warrior queen took hold of her arm in a grip that made her wince, and shoved her toward RilkenDal. The Seer steadied his knife against the girl’s chest, and the warrior queen lifted her hands and began to draw signs above the girl’s head.

“What Dracvadrig began,” the warrior queen said, “we will consummate.” Lobon could feel the woman’s power, hypnotic and intense. Her incantation was in words foreign to him, in words that soothed him strangely, then made his blood burn hot, brought a wildness leaping in him and a passion that he saw reflected in the girl’s face as she turned to look at him. What was this spell? Emotions like flame pummeled him; Meatha’s cheeks were flaming; she bent her head as if in shame. A power flowed between them like a river, a yearning between them, the warrior queen’s words drowning them in desire; and then they began to understand the words. The woman’s voice was low and compelling. “As lovers need, so lovers cleave. And in cleaving bring new life. As Seers need, so Seers cleave. And in cleaving bring more than life: Bring to me blood meant to rule the bell. Bring to me blood meant to join the stone. New blood will join the stone in darkness, join the stone to darkness to hold and to wield beyond challenge.”

He was dizzy with desire. Meatha held herself steadier. He watched her, saw her tense suddenly with another emotion sharp and predatory. Help me, Lobon! Now! She spun, her silent words shouting in his mind, she struck the warrior queen in the stomach and groin and grabbed her sword, but the woman spun away. Meatha was after her as Lobon snatched up a rock. He closed on RilkenDal as Feldyn passed him, leaping against the man, and together they toppled the dark Seer. Lobon raised the rock to strike, but the man’s power stayed him, weakened him; RilkenDal’s power closed over his mind so he fought for consciousness and could strike only glancing blows; then he began to drop into blackness, was half conscious of Feldyn tearing at the Seer’s throat in a thrashing, bloody combat.

He woke hurting and confused, and looked around him. The cell gates were locked, they were captive. The warrior queen was gone, the sense of her gone. Meatha leaned against the bars, weak with pain. He stared beyond the locked gate into the abyss and saw RilkenDal there lying dead with his throat torn away. He rose and put his arm around Meatha to help her, but the emotion that gripped him made him step back as if he were burned. She looked up at him. “I tried—I tried to get the stones.”

He felt against his tunic for the wolf bell and drew it out. “She could not touch the bell,” he said quietly, knowing the wolves had protected the bell, feeling their authority, the two here in the cave aligned now with the anger of the great pack that roamed the high desert lands.

But Kish too had power, she carried the mightiness of six stones. Still, the fury of the wolves, the passion of the wolves, was greater. He stared at Meatha and knew at last the true importance of the commitment of the stones’ bearer. Remorse at the possession of the stones by the dark powers sickened him; he also knew, painfully, that far more mattered to him than avenging Ramad’s death.

“And now it is too late,” he said, searching Meatha’s face. He turned away from her, torn with self-disgust; but beyond his anguish there was the sense of the warrior queen near to them, he could feel her cruel pleasure in the power she now wielded, felt the strength of the spell she cast and knew he should feel revulsion, rage, yet felt only desire. He needed this girl now, needed her to drive out the storm of self-reproach, didn’t care about reason or anger or spells, knew he must hold her, was sick with desire for her. He could see her own desire reflected in her eyes.

“If we are to die at Kish’s hand,” he whispered, “might we not die together, die close together, as one—

“Stop it, Lobon! Stop it! She doesn’t want us to die! Don’t you see. She wants . . .”

“An heir,” he said, facing the truth of Kish’s plans.

“Yes. An heir. The stone is not yet joined. We must not give her an heir, must not let it be joined as long as it can be held by the dark powers.” Her face was flaming, her fear and confusion at the strength of her own desire making her wild with anger. “There must be no heir! There must be no joining of the stone in darkness!”

Still he felt Kish’s powers twisting his thoughts.

“Come,” she said. “Feldyn needs us.” She knelt before the dark wolf, ripped a long hem from her tunic, and began to wipe blood from the wound. “If we had birdmoss, salve . . .”

He took the bloody rag from her and went deep into the cave, where he rinsed and moistened it. When he returned, she was sitting with Feldyn’s head in her lap. He stared down at her, then looked at the locked gate.

He had failed in everything. The stones were gone. Feldyn would die here; all four of them would die. And with the stones gone, Ere was surely defeated. He was dully amazed that he cared—about the stones, about Ere; but he was certain now that Dracvadrig’s death was not enough, had never been enough.

Meatha watched him without expression; and when he looked at her, Kish’s words rang again between them. New blood will join the stone in darkness, join the stone to darkness. Kish was out there somewhere near to them, they could feel her presence couched in the power of the stones.

Meatha sighed and turned back to tending Feldyn. “We must get away from this place.”

“And how do you think we can do that? And what good will it do? She has the stones. She—”

She gave him a direct, hard look and did not answer. Her eyes were amazing, large and as lavender as the plumage of the mabin bird, her lashes dark and thick. He could not look away again, and now her anger was lost on him. But she kept her distance.

Late in the night as Meatha slept, Lobon rose and stood watching her. He felt the wolves wake, felt their steady gazes, and at last he turned away.

You might be digging, Crieba told him. I have been patient beyond endurance. I am sick to death of this chain.

Scowling, Lobon found a stone and began to dig, soon was spending his passion and fury against the rock wall. He dug the rest of the night. Sometimes Meatha woke, watched him sleepily, then sighing, slept again. When the abyss beyond the bars began to lighten, he went to press his face against the cold iron to stare upward where, miles above, sun made a gold streak along the rim of the high valley. It was then he saw the charred remains of RilkenDal’s body, where the fire ogres had been at it. He heard Crieba leaping against his chain, turned, as with a final lunge the gray wolf pulled the bolt free and slammed shoulder first into Feldyn, who snarled with pain.

The gray wolf went stiffly off to the back of the cave to drink, and to hunt for lizards, just as poor Shorren had done earlier. Not long afterward he returned with three white lizards for Feldyn. As Feldyn ate, Crieba lay licking the dark wolf’s wounds. Lobon turned to his stone bed and slept.

He woke with late morning light washing the bars of the cell. Meatha was still sleeping, cradled now against Crieba’s shoulder, as if she had been cold. Her dark hair spilled across the wolf’s gray coat, her hand lay palm upward across his muzzle. The wolves were wakeful, he could sense their grieving for Shorren, and his own grief rose in a sudden sharp pain. But the wolves grieved differently, for they believed completely that Shorren would live again as her spirit moved in the natural progression of souls. Lobon was not sure. He felt sick at the thought of lovely Shorren lying bloodied and stiff in the abyss.

It was then he felt his mother with him and his emptiness was terrible. He turned his thoughts angrily from her and blocked her out. He did not want to show his emotions to her, show his pain for Shorren or his terrible lusting for Meatha that was no more than the warrior queen’s spell. Show his empty failure, his loss of the stones—the loss of Ere to the dark. Dracvadrig is dead! he cried out in spite of himself. And Ramad is avenged! What more do you want!

She did not answer him.

NINE

Kish tied the winged mare near a water lick, though the stupid animal seemed so sickly she didn’t think it would last long. RilkenDal’s mare was already dead. Curse them. Curse RilkenDal for dying and leaving her here. Curse the bastard son of Ramad and the wolf bell that clung to him. She would have that bell and the stone it held! She spilled the shards of the runestone into her palm, felt their weight, considered their amassed power, then dropped them back into her tunic. She must have the other two shards still missing, must find a way to seek them out. She stared up at the black cliff above her and at the winged lizards diving mindlessly after birds. Perhaps, because of the sickly mare, she would have no choice but to subdue the creatures and somehow bring them down to her and make them tractable, bad-tempered and stupid as they were. She had to have some way out of this barren valley. She wished she had RilkenDal’s skill at controlling stupid beasts. But now, with the stones . . .

Some distance away on a ridge, the gray mare the girl had ridden stood watching her. Nasty thing. She tried to lure it. The power of the stones came strong, exciting her, making the mare shy and paw and try twice to wheel and fly away, though caught by the power Kish wielded, its wings were pinioned as if it were in a snare. But then in one wild surge it reared and rose, straining in spite of her power, and was gone. Curse the stupid animal! She stood sulking and furious. Then she pulled the stones from her robe once more and stared down at them.

The power of the stones might not have held the mare, but they wielded a far greater force in battle, for with them she had strengthened the Kubalese warriors until now they drove the Carriolinians back toward Carriol, drove her own ungrateful cults back with them. A handful of cultists remained loyal and fought now beside Kearb-Mattus with a zeal that made her smile with satisfaction.

She shook the stones and watched their green fire flash across her palm. Three more stones to complete the nine-stone. The wolf bell had been as immovable as if it were fastened to the earth when she tried to lift it from the Seer’s tunic. Curse Dracvadrig and RilkenDal both for being dead. She needed their power now. But she would have the wolf bell. She must.

She thought with brief speculation of Kearb-Mattus, but he had no Seer’s powers to help her, only brute strength. Still, he might be a satisfactory lover if nothing more. He was brawny, with a killer’s lust she liked. There would be time for play once she had the stones and a human creature bred to the joining. She smiled. Now it would be her runestone, whole and powerful. Shared with no one. She would raise the child of Lobon to her ways, and he would do her bidding.

She turned to stare down the long drop of the abyss to where the iron gates held safe her captives. Now there was only to breed them, to get the heir to the stone’s final and inevitable joining. She scowled. The girl seemed as without passion as a toad. Blast her. The spell on her had so far only made her avoid the boy like a plague. And that one, Lobon, gone surly and silent. Sexless, that’s what they were. She stood letting her mind open to darkness, to forces now moving across Ere, powers that excited her and made her blood pound. Forces she understood and could draw to this place. She would have the bell. She would call forth a child to join the stone. And she would shape both child and stone to darkness.

Then Ere would kneel to her will. Then the entire land would be her courtyard and all men her willing servants. And the Seers—the Carriolinian Seers—would be as docile to her as the horses of Eresu had been to RilkenDal.

And the gods, Kish? And the sacred valley of Eresu? What of them?

There were no such things as gods, no such place as Eresu. Urdd, yes. Urdd was real and flaming and violent with the anger of the earth ripping it. Urdd was alive and cruel and satisfying.

But Eresu with its Luff’Eresi was simply a dream without substance, the crutch of weak men afraid to live on their own terms.

She left the tethered, dying mare, and stood staring up at the flying lizards, then reached out with a cold power and laid a cloud over their dim minds that made them wobble in flight and begin to circle uncertainly. She made one come down so close to the tethered mare that the imbecilic animal threw herself futilely against her tether. Kish smiled. Yes, she could tame the lizards, dumb and nasty-tempered as they were. She let the creature return to its friends. She found the path Dracvadrig had worn smooth with his hard, scaly body over years of use and started down. It was just dusk.

By dawn she was standing outside the locked gate, watching the two within with cold distaste. Idiots. Sleeping as far apart as they could in the wide cave. She watched the girl stir, then wake, and Kish drew back into the shadow of the cliff, blocking. Perhaps the girl would go to the boy now, touch him. But no, she knelt beside the dark wolf and began to dress his wounds. Stupid child! The two were as dense and sexless as any humans she had ever encountered.

They must breed! What else was there to do, male and female alone! What else, when her curses tied them so strongly!

At last she fetched food from the ogres’ cave and set it inside the bars, then left them, sick at the sight of them. She would not let them starve, though. That was not part of her plan.

Lobon woke, sensed her approach, watched her come to the bars and shove the bowl inside. He did not move. The sense of her was always around them, growing stronger or weaker as she moved about the abyss, suffocating them when she stood close, tolerable only when she was above in the valley.

He and Meatha could speak to the mare up there, but the poor creature was so miserable and sick she had ceased to say much, so weak from mistreatment, from lack of enough food that they were not sure she would live. Even Michennann was able to do little for her except to bring mouthfuls of green grass when the warrior queen had gone.

Lobon watched Meatha kneeling in the gray dawn, tending Feldyn, her dark hair tumbled over one shoulder, the pale skin of her neck like silk against the wolf’s dark coat as she leaned to lay her cheek against his head. He rose from his stone bed. The gash across his shoulder was stiff and sore, not healing properly, for they had no healing herbs. Meatha looked across at him. “We need birdmoss. For you. For Feldyn.” She said nothing about her own burns. “Michennann could bring birdmoss, carry a little in her mouth. Somewhere where the valleys are green there will be birdmoss beside a running stream. . . .”

“It will do little good to be healed if the sick mare dies and there is only one mount to carry us out. Michennann had best stay with her. It’s a slow business, carrying grass. . . .”

“It’s no good to have a mount, Lobon, if you’re dead of festering wounds!” Kneeling, her hand on Feldyn’s shoulder, she spoke out in silence to Michennann, ignoring Lobon’s advice.

When she raised her head at last, she Saw the gray mare in sharp vision rising into the morning sky, flying swiftly beside the black cliff, saw her rise to keep clear of the bad-tempered lizards. “She will bring birdmoss,” she said, glancing at Lobon. He looked back at her. He guessed she was right. He knew she was beautiful. His need of her began again to run wild; he turned and moved away from her deeper into the cave. “Bring water,” she called after him, her own voice tight with restraint.

He filled the waterskin, which Kish had inexplicably returned to them. But what else would Kish do? She could not breed a son from would-be lovers who were dying of thirst, Or maybe she thought that with less time spent carrying water in cupped hands, there would be more time for idleness, and so for desire. He returned and knelt beside Feldyn, to tip the waterskin to the wolf’s mouth. Meatha moved away at once. As Seers need, so Seers cleave, and in cleaving bring new life. The heat of Kish’s curse never abated.

They ate at last from the bowl Kish had left, sharing the mass of boiled roots and reptiles equally with the wolves. The wolves thought it delicious. It made Meatha and Lobon retch. Feldyn licked the bowl clean.

“When Feldyn is healed,” Meatha said, “we must go from this place. We cannot—” She looked at him pleadingly. “We cannot stay here together.”

He stared at the locked gate.

“Could we—go deeper into the cave?” she asked. “Could there be another way out? I can—sometimes I think I can feel something there. Not very clearly, but does something call to us from deeper in?”

He looked at her, tried to answer, and found himself reaching for her. She rose and moved away.

“You could go,” he said, deflated and miserable. “If I could make Kish open the gate, if I could trick her, you could call Michennann down, you . . .”

“Trick her how? And where would I go? Except—except to find the seventh stone.”

He frowned at her, puzzled. “The seventh stone?”

“Kish carries six. If we—”

“She carries the stone that was Dracvadrig’s. The two you took from Carriol. And three that were Ramad’s. But the seventh stone is here.” He held the wolf bell out to her. “Inside the belly of the wolf.”

Meatha stared, and she reached to touch the rearing bronze wolf; but at once she drew her hand back.

“I thought you knew,” he said. “The dark seems unable to touch it. The power of the wolves—or maybe Skeelie’s power reaching . . .”

“Skeelie? Skeelie of Carriol?”

“She is—Skeelie is my mother. My father was Ramad,” he said simply.

It was moments before she spoke. He could feel her confusion, and her sharp interest. When she did speak, her voice was barely audible. “Ramad—Ramad lived generations ago.” But her eyes were wide as she considered the truth. “Ramad—did move through Time,” she whispered. “How—how can such a thing be?”

He tried to give her a sense of Ramad’s life, the same sense, the same scenes that Skeelie had given him so often, Time warping and thrusting Ram forward into generations not yet born in his time. And as Lobon wrapped her in the visions of Ramad’s life, a change swept Lobon himself, twisted his very soul, the final changing sense of what Ramad was, what Ramad’s life had meant.

And so what his own life meant.

She sat Seeing it all, sensing with him the power of Ramad’s quest for the shards of the runestone, gripped by Ramad’s commitment, by the urgency that Ramad had felt, even in his own time, for the salvation of Ere.

When the vision faded, she sat silent. He could not remember having moved so close to her. It was impossible to keep from touching her. Now she shared Ramad’s life with him, shared his memory with him. When he took her hand, she startled; but she rose and moved away. Then she turned a forbidding look back at him that only made his desire stronger. He stood up, meaning to go to her, but a stir of wind at the bars made him turn back. Michennann was there, her wings flared against the sky. As she thrust her soft gray nose between the bars, Meatha ran to her, then hugged her through the bars and wept against the mare’s cheek as Michennann nuzzled her.

At last Michennann drew back, placed her muzzle in Meatha’s outstretched hands, and spit a great wad of birdmoss into her palms, shaking her nose afterward at the sharp, bitter taste. She nuzzled Meatha’s cheek once more, then she was gone, in a lifting hush of wings, almost straight up through the abyss. They could feel her terror of the abyss, her repulsion. Meatha watched her out of sight, then turned to dressing Feldyn’s wound with a little of the birdmoss.

When Feldyn was comfortable, she made Lobon lie down, and bared and dressed his shoulder. The birdmoss was still damp from the stream. He watched her, and he wanted to hold her.

“We must not,” she said coldly. She tied the bandage and left him, rubbing the birdmoss from her hands into the burns that scarred her arms. The remaining moss she laid on a stone.

His passion remained like a fever, he could not turn his mind from her. His dreams of her soared and swept him away so he woke exhilarated and needing, then woke fully to feel only frustration. He knew his passion was of Kish’s making, that its results if ever it were let free would threaten all of Ere, but still he was miserable. He did not know what Meatha dreamed, though at times her desire reached burning to him.

And Meatha began to think privately, If we bred a child, a child that could be hidden safe from Kish and from the dark forces, a child to wield the stone long after we are dead, a child—Lobon’s child . . . a child who would keep safe the forces of light . . .

She began to waver in her resolve. She wanted Lobon, she wanted to be one with him. She turned away from him again and again, biting back tears.

“Meatha?”

She could not look at him directly. Her hands shook. His presence, his powers, drew her like a creature in a snare. He moved toward her.

Feldyn growled. Crieba stepped between them, snarling.

He dropped his hand and stepped back. He stared down at Crieba’s cold eyes, and sense returned to him. “I will try to find a way out,” he said flatly. “A way back through the cave.” And he left them.

*

Well before dawn, Michennann spoke silently but so urgently that Meatha jerked upright. She thought the mare was again at the gate, but saw only emptiness beyond the bars. Cammett has died. She is lying twisted in the traces that bound her. But her spirit is free now, free. Meatha understood then that Michennann spoke from the valley above. The mare’s terrible sadness tore at her, Michennann’s terrible hatred of the warrior queen.

When she looked up and saw that Lobon was not in the cave, it took her a minute to remember that he was not simply getting a drink of water. Had he found a way out? Oh, he would not go without her. She felt a moment of panic, and then she reached out to him, searching, afraid to hope that there was another entrance to this cave. How could there be? The dragon would never have locked them here if they could escape.

She felt his presence, as warm and close as if he knelt beside her; Saw his face in a sudden vision and had to smile, so smeared with dirt was he, his cheeks and nose, his hands—his hands were bleeding, the nails torn where he clutched a stone. He had been digging in the cave wall. As she watched, he thrust his arm through the small hole he had made, she felt him reach into empty space, sensed now the narrow tunnel beyond. It was blocked, he told her, a wall of dirt and stone. And the earth charred as if the fire ogres had built it. Come, Meatha, quickly. Help Feldyn if you can while I dig it out so we can get through.

She wrapped the wolves’ chains around their necks as best she could. Crieba pushed ahead. Feldyn came slowly, hobbling, caught in the pain of his wounds. She could sense Lobon’s tension, was linked with Lobon and the wolves in careful blocking to prevent discovery by the warrior queen.

Meatha and the wolves were soon past the trickle of water in the inner tunnel, could hear Lobon digging now. Then suddenly they felt Kish’s presence somewhere out in the abyss. They pushed on faster, Feldyn ignoring his pain. The dark wolf pressed against her to hurry her. Then Kish was at the gate, they could hear her opening it. They felt her alarm, then her sharp, angry cry echoed down the tunnel. “Gone! They are gone! Bring swords, bring—hurry, you stupid beasts!”

They sensed her searching the cave, then pushing deeper in, sensed fire ogres shuffling behind her covering the ground too quickly. Soon behind them the tunnel began to grow red, and they knew that the ogres had pushed past Kish in their predatory and mindless quest.

They came on Lobon suddenly, pulling rocks away from a small ragged hole in the stone and earthen walls. He pushed Meatha through, Crieba leaped after her, then Lobon lifted Feldyn, for the dark wolf could not jump. Meatha took Feldyn’s shoulders, heavy as lead, and at last they got him through. He stood on unsteady legs, then moved ahead again as the fiery light behind them increased.

They hurried, pressed against one another in the narrow space. Soon behind them they heard rock being torn away from the hole, heard the bulky ogres pushing through. Lobon picked Feldyn up, and they ran. But the dark wolf weighed heavy, Meatha could feel Lobon tire, feel the throbbing pain in his shoulder and arm. “Let me take part of his weight,” she whispered. Feldyn snarled in protest, then was still.

With Feldyn’s forelegs on Meatha’s shoulders and Lobon carrying his rear, they moved faster though clumsily in what, in other circumstances, would have been a ludicrous scene, but was now too desperate to be funny. And even with their increased speed, Kish and the ogres were gaining. At another turning in the tunnel, when fire flared close behind, Feldyn leaped free in spite of his hurt leg and stood beside Crieba facing the advancing fire ogres. Kish pushed forward between them, her bow taut. “You will go no farther . . .” But the wolves leaped and tore at her so she dropped her bow; her knife flashed; Lobon struck an ogre with a rock, struck again, was past it and on the warrior queen as she slashed at Crieba; it was then they saw the fissure, a small crevice in the rock that seemed to go some distance. Lobon’s thought flashed at Meatha. Get in there! Take Feldyn! It’s too small for ogres! More fire ogres were pushing up the tunnel from the cave. Meatha balked. Lobon grabbed her and pushed her into the crevice as Crieba leaped at Kish.

“I won’t leave you, I—”

“Take Feldyn, he—” And Lobon twisted away to face the warrior queen and ogres. Feldyn snarled at Meatha and pushed her into the crevice, crowded in after her, pressing her on. Behind them the battle was fierce.

When she paused, Feldyn snarled and leaped at her. She went on at last, kept pushing in, the space so tight in places she had to squeeze. She could feel Feldyn’s pain sharply as he pushed through. The sounds of battle echoed behind them; then suddenly there was the sound of falling rocks. What had happened? She could make no picture come. Ahead she saw flame and thought fire ogres were there, too, then saw it was molten lava far below, that they had come through the tunnel to a ledge high along the side of a cavern. Where was Lobon? What was happening?

At last Crieba appeared, and Lobon behind him; and she went weak with relief.

“The tunnel was filled with ogres,” he panted.

“That noise, like falling rocks . . . ?”

“I pulled boulders down to block the tunnel. There were too many, we couldn’t fight them.” She felt his shame at having fled. She touched his cheek, and he put his arms around her. They clung together, let their need for solace take them for a moment, her face pressed into the leather of his tunic, the wolf bell hurting her ribs; and suddenly they were caught in a vision of a city on fire, men balding among burning buildings, then of winged ones above leaping through red, smoky sky—winged ones carrying dark riders, Kubalese riders; then the winged ones began deliberately to fall, smashing to earth, their riders under them. They Saw for an instant the whole of Ere torn with warring; then Meatha pulled away from Lobon, ceased to touch the bell, and the vision was gone. He let out his breath.

“They were fighting on the border of Carriol,” he said with fury. “Carriol’s armies are driven back to the border.” He had never cared, before, about Carriol. Not as he now cared.

They found a way leading downward, and only when they reached the floor of the cavern did they stop to rest. They could sense nothing following them. The air seemed fresher to their left, and they saw an opening in the far wall. They crossed to it, ducked low beneath stone, then stood staring upward with drawn breath.

Far above them in the roof of the cavern shone a jagged hole with a patch of sky beyond, sky gray with storm. As they watched, clouds blew across swept by fast winds. “There was a hole like that in another cavern,” Meatha said, “where I first met Anchorstar.” But this opening was so very distant.

To their right a crude stairway was cut into the wall, wide steps as if made for the use of fire ogres. They crossed to it and began to climb. The steps were scorched by ogres’ feet. The sounds of their footsteps made a scuffing echo across the cavern. They sensed that somewhere above them their ascent was noted, and awaited.

Then suddenly the wolves stiffened and began to stalk, and from around the bend ahead three fire ogres came shuffling, creatures awash with red flame. Lobon held the wolf bell high, and his power joined with the wolves—unfettered now by Kish’s answering power—to drive the creatures stumbling backward up the steps until they turned at last and shuffled into a high crevice. Surely they were more docile than the other fire ogres. Was it because of the bell’s power? Or was their little group together growing stronger?

Or perhaps these creatures were more used to humans and not so easily nudged to fury. Did men come here, then? And why?

They knew before they reached the top of the cavern that winged ones waited there, tied in small cells. Yes, men had been here. Dark Seers. For these were RilkenDal’s fettered mounts, captive and beaten and starving. They were of the bands from the far mountains that had been so long silent, they whose brothers were at this moment killing themselves deliberately in battle, to turn the outcome of the wars. Twenty winged horses waited, all of them scarred and stiff with wounds, burned from the fire ogre’s touch, their wings bound with leather cords, their heads tied to bolts in the stone.

When they reached them, Meatha and Lobon went sick at the sight of them. The horses were so thin and weak. They came away from their bonds walking stiffly, trying to lift wings grown heavy with disuse. Meatha’s hand shook as she began to dress wounds with the little birdmoss that was left. She applied the moss as tenderly as she could into the long gash on a white mare’s chest, wincing as the mare flinched with pain. She tore up the rest of her shift for bandages.

For four days they camped on the ledge high up the wall of the cavern. Lobon found grain in a cavern below, kept there by RilkenDal for the horses he took into battle. They found charred leather buckets by a water runlet and carried them countless times up to the winged ones.

From this height they could see lakes of fire strung across the cave floor below like a necklace. Above, through the high opening that was still so far away, they watched the first night as the sky darkened; then they crouched in the stalls away from the storm that broke with a terrible violence, drenching the cave. When at last the sky cleared and the sun shone weakly, the wind, twisting down into the cavern, was bitterly cold.

There was a constant but gentler wind, too, of beating wings, as the horses of Eresu worked at strengthening unused muscles so they could fly once more. Soon some of the horses began to descend to the floor of the cavern to drink, though they did not like going there. When the earth began again to tremble, they became nervous and would startle and sweep up into the heights of the cavern without drinking. Then on the third night a gusher of lava broke out of the cave wall below them and flowed in a river toward the molten lakes.

As the lava spilled onto the floor, fire ogres began to appear from fissures in the cave below and to move ponderously toward the lava river, then to shuffle along and around it in a cumbersome and terrifying ritual. A few turned away and came up the stairs toward the ledge, but two winged stallions rose and struck at them from the air with sharp hooves until the clumsy creatures fell to the floor below. The wolves killed a third with quick, striking slashes, then lay licking their burns. Lobon killed two with a rock and sent another over the side by tripping it. The flaming, twisting bodies lit the cave wails as they fell.

When the last ogre was gone, Meatha curled at once into the hollow of stone where she slept, trying to get warm. Crieba came to lie beside her, and she wished it were Lobon there. But when she caught his unspoken words and saw him watching her, she made a wall between them until he lay down at last beside a winged stallion to shelter from the wind that blew down on them in sharp gusts.

When Lobon woke, the wind was still. Moonlight touched the cavern from above; and the mountain was trembling in long, violent rumbles; that was what had waked him. All around him winged ones were up, balancing with open wings, for the ledge had become a turmoil of moving rock. Meatha clung to a dark stallion; the white mare pushed close to Lobon crying, Mount, Lobon! Mount! The shocks were violent, wave upon wave. The cave could shift or collapse, they could be trapped here. Lobon grabbed Feldyn and lifted him between the mare’s wings, and she leaped toward the hole above. He got Crieba mounted, felt the wolf’s fear. “Hang on with your teeth! Crouch between her wings and hang on!” He saw Meatha mounted and flung himself onto a pale stallion, grabbed a handful of mane, and felt the world drop away from him as he was swept away; felt wings fold tight around him as the stallion slipped through the hole; felt drowned by wind as the stallion beat his way out onto the open sky to make way for those coming behind.

They were free of the cave. Free. But they stood on unsteady, trembling ground; and then suddenly they were caught in a confusion of battle come out of nowhere, out of the sky all around them, no hint, no sense of it beforehand. Heavy wings beat at them, sharp-toothed lizards tore at them, diving, then wheeling away. Lobon had no weapon. The stallion he rode struck and bit. The sky was filled with lizards. Winged horses screamed. Lobon tried to see Meatha, felt teeth tear his arm. The sound of beating wings, of screams, of the earth thundering, all were mixed and confused. The stallion struck and struck, and soon below Lobon could see a dark smear of bodies on the moonwashed earth. Lizards? Horses of Eresu? Where were Feldyn, Crieba?

Meatha’s command was sharp. The wolf bell, Lobon! Use the power you carry!

But he had no chance, for the lizards were drawing away. Almost as quickly as they had come, they were gone, a stutter of wings then a black flock like huge birds against the moonwashed sky.

Why? What had called them away?

The stallion came to earth. Lobon slid down. The dark stallion who carried Meatha winged to earth and she slipped down, to rest her head against the horse’s withers. Ere’s two moons hung like half-closed eyes in an empty sky. Lobon stared at Meatha.

“Why did they leave? It was Kish guiding them. Why would she call them off?”

“She never meant for them to attack,” she said with certainty. “They—can’t you feel it? She can hardly control them. She meant only to follow us. She has sensed something—something . . .” She frowned, groping to put vague images together. “She has sensed something—that I have sensed, Lobon.” She was trembling with the need to See more clearly. What was it? So close, so urgent yet so hard to See. “Something that has lain in my thoughts. Something Anchorstar knew,” she whispered. “Kish senses it.” She turned to look away in the direction the lizards had disappeared. “Kish means to follow us, Lobon. She thinks we will seek—that we . . .”—she caught her breath—“. . . that we know where the eighth stone lies!”

They stared at one another. Slowly, frowning, she began to pull knowledge out of the deeper reaches of her mind, reaches touched by Anchorstar. Slowly a vision began to unfold, the vision Anchorstar had given her: a green valley and the crystal dome. A white-haired child. And, as if she had forgotten half the vision, a sense of power now couched beneath the crystal dome: power that could be only one thing.

“A stone lies there,” she whispered.

“Yes.” He Saw the vision as clearly as she. The wolves Saw it. A shard of the runestone beneath a crystal dome in the center of a bright green valley.

“Kish sees it, too,” Meatha said.

“She means to follow. She means to see us find the stone, and then . . . then . . .”

She reddened, swallowed. “Then see our child born. Take the stones and our child.” She felt a stab of pain as if, indeed, there were a child, tender and helpless child so very vital to Ere. And now she felt pain and shame at having taken the stones from Carriol, pain at her self-deception. And she saw in Lobon’s eyes the knowledge of his own self-deception. She felt his shame at having so long ignored the truth of what he must do, and what his life must mean.

She touched his shoulder. He put his arms around her, rested his brow against her hair, and they knew as one the blind, twisted paths they had both followed, so willful, so dangerous for Ere. Something of their spirits joined in that moment that could never again be parted.

Something much dearer, much stronger than Kish could ever create with her spells.

At last they stepped apart without speaking.

Crieba had gone to hunt. Feldyn watched them drowsily as they gathered sticks for firewood among the sparse, low bushes. The winged ones were scattered across the rounded butt of mountain, grazing the thick grass greedily. There were no trees for shelter here, only stunted bush. The mountain was ancient, long ago worn nearly flat—though still it rose higher than the surrounding peaks. Only two peaks, to the south, were higher. Eken-dep with her glacier, and the peak that both were sure was Tala-charen, for still a power like a voice reached out to them from that cone-like mountain.

When the fire was burning well, Meatha went to stand alone where the mountain dropped off into space.

How were they to find the crystal dome? In what place lay the green valley? She had had no sense of its direction. And if they found it, could they avoid leading the warrior queen there?

And how were they to get the six stones that Kish herself possessed?

Quietly, with all the strength she could muster, she reached out to Tala-charen and tried to draw its power into herself. But no strength touched her; she could not make herself feel stronger. In desperation she reached beyond Tala-charen to Carriol, for she needed Anchorstar now; he must speak to her.

But she could get no sense of him. She stood vainly trying for some minutes, then suddenly, sharply, she Saw the white-haired child. Jaspen. Her name was Jaspen. She Saw the stone itself then. A long shard of jade lying in the child’s curled hand.

But where? Where was the crystal dome? Where dwelt Jaspen?

When nothing more came, she turned away, swallowing. Never once had there been a sense of Anchorstar. Only the disembodied vision. She went slowly back to the fire and sat down close to Feldyn, seeking the wolf’s strength, seeking comfort. Feldyn laid his head in her lap. She leaned over him, stroked his cheek, then leaned her forehead against his, trying not to cry. The stone in the vision seemed so close. But where? Where?

TEN

Lobon woke to bright moonlight and to the howl of wolves. He sat up, could see Feldyn and Crieba beyond the camp, silhouetted against moon-silvered clouds, gazing off toward the southeast. He tried to sense what they sensed and could not. They raised their muzzles again in wails that shattered the night. Meatha woke and came closer to the fire. The winged ones stirred, lifted their heads in alarm, spread their wings ready for flight; then at the wolves’ reassurance, they settled down once more. Lobon scowled. What was this all about? But already the two wolves were returning. Feldyn nuzzled him and took his arm between sharp teeth as he was wont to do when he was in high spirits. Our brothers speak to us, Lobon, our brothers descended from Fawdref. We feel more than their strength now, we hear their voices clearly. Feldyn stretched and gazed again toward Carriol. They battle the Kubalese now alongside Carriol’s warriors, to defend the border of Carriol. The wolf’s golden eyes were filled with intense and mysterious promise. Wolves of our pack battle the dark, Lobon. And they speak to Crieba and me. They know the crystal dome, where lies a shard of the runestone. They know the vision Meatha carries.

Meatha caught her breath. “Can they show us?” But already she, like Lobon, was being pulled into the vision of the small green valley with its crystal dome; but now they Saw it from a wider vantage. Saw it was surrounded by dunes and by vast reaches of sand. “The high desert,” Meatha breathed. And behind the valley on one side rose a line of mountains, and higher peaks behind these with five sharp peaks marching just beyond a vast sweep of granite, pale in the moonlight. And far behind these, another peak towered higher still, a peak shaped like Tala-charen, though different in some way that Meatha could not make out.

“Different because it’s the other side, I think,” Lobon said. “As if the crystal dome lies on the far side of Tala-charen, to the north of it—there where the desert must sweep around the end of the Ring of Fire.” He raised his eyes to her. “If that is so, then the valley lies far up in the unknown lands.”

“But we can find it now, we—”

“We have only to move across the skies above Tala-charen until we see that great slab of granite.” He rose, pulled on his boots. He did not mean to wait until morning.

“Kish will follow us,” she said.

“I hope so. She carries the stones—I don’t want her far away.” Though he felt naked without a weapon, though he would have sold his soul for sword or bow.

They made ready at once. Lobon lifted the wolves onto the backs of two winged mares; Meatha mounted, then Lobon; and they were leaping skyward into the moon-silvered night, flying light and fast across a cold, quick wind. To their left rose Eken-dep, its white glacier touched by moonlight; then suddenly against that mass of white a small, dark silhouette appeared in the sky, moving fast toward them. Kish? All of them startled.

But Kish would not come alone now that she had lizards to fight beside her.

Then they saw it was not a lizard but a winged one coming on fast and riderless, flying free. Michennann, cutting the wind in great sweeps of her wings, coming at last to join them.

But now behind Michennann, peppering the sky, the lizards appeared beating across the face of the glacier. The sense of Kish came predatory and cold. The winged horses needed no urging, they fled above the wild peaks; and the lizards followed, settling into a steady pace, but never drawing closer. Michennann winged near to the white mare who carried Meatha. How scarred she was from battling the lizards. There was a welt across her neck and down her side, and her silver coat was torn with deep scratches. But the sense of her spirit was warm and close, and all enmity between them was now gone and only sympathy remained.

When at last they drew near to Tala-charen, Meatha could feel its power—and feel Lobon’s quickening interest. The dark stallion Lannthenn, who carried him, swept close to the peak and the others followed, hovering so close for a few moments that wingtips nearly touched the cave entrance, and they could see into the cave where Ramad had stood. Meatha shuddered with the power of the place. Here the runestone had split; here Seers had come suddenly out of Time to receive the broken shards.

The cave floor was translucent green like the sea. They all thought how that floor had split, the very mountain split to swallow the bones of the gantroed, then had closed up once more. They thought of Ram and Skeelie there, two young children caught in a clashing of powers that shook all of Ere—that changed all of Ere—and that had brought them here this night on a quest to undo that splitting. It was impossible not to think of the Luff’Eresi, impossible not to think of them as gods, and wonder as men had wondered for generations whether it had been they who had placed the stone in this cave; and whether their powers had touched the stone the night of the splitting.

Then the winged ones banked and swept away, leaving Tala-charen behind.

Beyond Tala-charen they began to hear rumbles from the land below, and twice they saw explosions of fire in the mountains far to the north. They were flying over mountains still, but now the desert lay ahead, a white smear against the sky; and soon they saw the foot of the peaks had begun to curve northward skirting the vast white dunes. It was not long afterward that they saw the pale granite cliff tilting to the sky. Then they were over the white dunes, gleaming like snow below them. They began to stare downward between the horses’ beating wings, searching among the closer dunes for the small green valley. Behind them, the lizards paced them, never varying their distance; and Kish watched them.

To the north among the mountains, red smoke rose into the moon-pale clouds. Flame belched from a far peak, then was still. They could hear earthshocks, some of them faint as a whisper. All eyes searched the dunes below, searched the black half-moons of shadow deep between dunes, for the valley and for the gleam of the crystal dome. And they could feel and sense more than earthshocks around them: other powers were gathering, too, those awakened by the dark Seers, and those nurtured by the light. Both were alerted and building, clashing crosswise against one another, drawing strength from that very clashing. Drawing strength from the rising need of the Seers and the desire to control the fate of the stones. For the stones were like a magnet now to all the forces that rose across Ere. The forces of good swelled and drew in around the little flying band, and the powers of dark drew around the warrior queen, whose evil was older than Time. And the powers, by drawing close, strengthened yet again—just as, below the flying bands, the powers of the earth itself broke into new fissures as the earth cracked, and so built to crescendo.

Along the coastal countries, shocks came so harsh they brought down houses and outbuildings. Fissures opened across the fields, and terrified animals stampeded. A ewe with a lamb ran blindly into a crack opening a hundred feet deep. The river Urobb flooded its banks just above Sangur and drowned a small village in its sweeping tide. The bloodthirsty Herebians, many of them wounded and beaten by Carriol, backed off from warring and thought of returning home—but only to wait for the holocaust that seemed imminent and that would give them sure victory. For well they remembered past upheavals. Always, the Herebians had risen first and strongest after the wild heaving of the land. Always, the Herebians had taken the spoils as other men cowered in fear before volcanoes they thought were the gods’ wrath.

Kearb-Mattus gathered his scattered forces. He did not let them draw away to wait out the holocaust as they wished, but sent them riding hard toward Carriol’s border, for what better time to destroy Carriol than when accompanied by the violence of the land itself. And while his main band rode toward Carriol, Kearb-Mattus himself with fifty troops rode hard for Farr, where his scouts told him Kish’s cults marched, led by the adolescent Carriolinian upstarts. So they thought to help defend the border of Carriol! He had not known until an hour before that they had had the nerve to fetter those among them who held to the ways of Kubal and to Kish, and to lock them into the old villa at Dal and bar the portals with stone and mortar. Brash, snivelling . . . Kearb-Mattus smiled and thought with heat of killing the two young Seers who led that crew. He knew them. Oh, how he would pleasure himself by their deaths, those two that had so defied him—fracking brats—before he took Burgdeeth two years ago. Those two that had destroyed the training of the Children of Ynell there in the drug-caves of Kubal. They would die now, and painfully.

*

Lobon saw the emerald valley first, hidden in a moon-shaped crease between dunes, visible only because the crystal dome reflected moonlight. They could not have missed it in any case, however, for a sense of power had begun to draw them, the sense of the runestone there. They feared for that runestone now, for Kish was close behind. Lobon turned to look back at her. Her lizards were massing close around her, as if for attack. But still she kept her distance. Lobon leaned between the dark stallion’s wings as he swept down over the valley, a shadowed niche now between the silvered dunes. The dome glinted, then lost itself as their angle of descent steepened, then gleamed again; once it reflected Ere’s moons just before they came to earth.

They came down onto heavy grass. The winged ones folded their wings along their backs and stood facing the crystal dome. Behind and above them, Kish’s band drew close, sweeping over and back. Lobon could feel power strong now from the stone that dwelt beneath the dome. How had it come here? How had the dome come here? And who was the white-haired child? He did not dismount from Lannthenn’s back, nor did Meatha dismount. She looked across at him in silence. Her fear and her exhilaration shook him. They could feel the powers gathered around them, could feel the earth’s trembling, could feel the intolerable weight of Ere’s very existence balanced in this moment.

Inside the crystal dome, the white-haired child paused, then came slowly to the crystal door and pushed it open.

She came up to Lannthenn’s side, carrying a sheathed sword, the sight of which made Lobon start. She wore a second sword. And she held her right fist clenched against her chest. She was tiny, surely no more than seven. Her hair was snow white in the moonlight, her thin shift hardly enough to keep off the cold, though she was not shivering. Her eyes looked, in the moonlight, as golden as a wolf’s eyes. As golden as Anchorstar’s eyes, Meatha told him. With effort the child lifted the sword. Lobon stared again at the hilt, felt weak and strange, took it from her and unsheathed it, sat holding Skeelie’s sword. How had it gotten here? “Where is she?” he whispered, glancing past the child into the dome, but he could see no figure there, caught no sense of her.

“Skeelie, your mother, bids you take her sword,” was all the child would say. “The silver sword that Ramad forged for her.” Then she held up her partly closed fist to him and without another word, without any hesitation, she laid the heavy jade in his hand.

It was surely the largest of all the shards; a heavy, thick dagger of jade nearly as long as his palm, carved with the runes that were its own fragment of the whole rune:

power end life

Lobon held it for a moment then slipped it into the inner lining of his tunic beside the wolf bell. He watched the two wolves leap clear of the winged horses that had carried them. They went directly to the child and stood head-high beside her, facing toward the warrior queen sweeping and wheeling in the sky above.

Lobon knew he must carry the stone into battle. They all knew, as if the child had told them, that Kish could not take the runestone from the crystal dome; that this stone was the true lure to draw Kish, and so retrieve the six stones she carried—the bait on which the fate of all eight stones waited.

The child unbuckled the second sword and handed it to Meatha. Then Lobon turned Lannthenn skyward with a thought, the stallion as eager as he to do battle. The white mare wheeled next to him, Meatha taut with nerves, and all the winged ones following, mind meeting mind as they formed a rhythm of attack. Ahead, the winged lizards swarmed, hissing. Kish swept out ahead of the pack, her sword drawn, her power in the stones she carried like a sword itself. The sky had begun to go milky with the coming dawn. Kish’s lizards slithered beneath heavy wings in a close-flying swarm as Kish swept down toward Lobon.

*

And across Ere, Kearb-Mattus came in silence down along the Owdneet. He followed Zephy and Thorn and the cultists, formed now into a nearly respectable fighting band.

Zephy and Thorn knew he followed, though the sense of him was garbled, often lost, as if Seers rode with him. Pellian street rabble, and untrained. Their own band moved slowly, for half their troops marched, only half rode, the horses in short supply. All the winged ones were gone, to fight in Carriol. Zephy and Thorn and their companions were exhausted from battling small bands of fighters. They knew they must rest soon, if for only an hour. “Then we must take what troops we can and ride for Carriol,” Thorn said, for the battling was desperate there.

No cultists among them now were dissident, for those dissident had already been sealed into the villa at Dal. It had been a battle hardly worth remarking, the awakened cultists seeing at last the true nature of their warrior queen, simply overpowering those who still clung to the ways of Kish, tying them, marching them through Dal to the villa that already Carriolinian soldiers had turned into an outlying prison, and sealing them in with scrap rubble from the sacking of the city that Kearb-Mattus had earlier begun and the heaving of the earth completed.

They had ridden then toward Carriol, through two areas in Farr held still by Carriolinian soldiers, skirted several Kubalese bands in their haste, then across farmland torn by the heaving ground and desolate with wounded and dead, from which the Kubalese had already departed.

*

Kearb-Mattus attacked the young Carriolinians as they slept; he was shielded by a mind-blocking held somehow steady by three rude street-Seers, came over a rise onto the handful of mounted men who guarded the camp, and saw the pitiful heap of soldiers beyond sleeping in the open.

Zephy leaped up at the sound of fighting, hardly awake, frightened. Thorn was mounted, shouting at her. She grabbed the bridle of the horse he had brought her and was mounted; all were mounted, weapons ready, the attacking troops everywhere among them so they were hard put not to panic. She lost sight of Thorn, thrust her sword against the belly of a huge Kubalese bearing down on her, ducked beneath his blow to strike again, heard the screams of horses, of men, took a blow across her shoulder, spun her horse around to strike; all was confusion, a melee in the near-dark. She wanted to cry out for Thorn and daren’t, felt another blow like fire across her neck, was jerked from her horse, fell, was caught and her arms pulled behind her, then hit again, and she went dizzy and sick.

*

All Carriol knew that Thorn’s band was in trouble—and knew that more Kubalese were on their way toward Carriol’s border. Carriol fought for her life, winged ones carried soldiers or fought free without riders, leaping from the sky to strike; the wolves fought as fiercely as they had fought at the battle of Hape and in the dark wood. Only the master Seers remained behind in Carriol, seated in the citadel with heads lowered in the prayer of concentration, massing their power more surely here to help cripple the Kubalese; for though the stone was gone, still some power clung inside the citadel itself, this place that once had known the power of the Luff’Eresi.

*

In the sky above the crystal dome, the battle was bloody, a winging, whirling melee of winds and confusion. Kish swept her band in again and again to attack the winged ones and Meatha, while Kish herself drove mercilessly at Lobon. And as Kish called on the powers of the creatures of darkness, those spirits reached out to give purpose to the winged lizards: made warring, lethal creatures of them, all claw and teeth and canny in their maneuvering, slashing and twisting away to divert Meatha. The white mare bore streaks of blood across her coat and wings, and Meatha’s arm was torn. Nearby the warrior queen parried and bore down on Lobon. She slashed, cut Lobon’s shoulder, and swept away beneath Lannthenn to come at him from behind with her ready sword. Lannthenn dove and doubled back; Lobon struck, but Kish was away, quick in the air, eluding him. As the forces clashed and the dark strengthened, the earth below shuddered, and the very boulders shifted, ringing out like death music, Along Pelli’s coast a protrusion of land broke loose and fell into the sea, gentle hills rumbled and cracked apart. What power was this, to so shatter the land? All took heed, but no one yet understood except Kish, and those who fought beside her.

In Farr, Kearb-Mattus let some of the cultists escape his troops in order to surround and take captive the young Carriolinian Seers; soon his troops were ushering Zephy and Thorn and five other Seers down from their mounts, to be bound, to be tied one to the other, then to be force-marched off ahead of the horses toward Dal, and toward the villa-turned-cell where they had left earlier captives. For that villa, too, had fallen to Kearb-Mattus’s men and was now a perfect place to give, with slow, increasing torture, the final death rites the Kubalese leader so anticipated.

Neither Thorn nor Zephy looked up as they marched, nor looked at each other, but their minds were locked as one—angry, desperate—seeking a plan of escape.

*

Lobon struck a telling blow across Kish’s face, another strike that drew blood from the lizard. He saw Meatha skewer a lizard then jerk her sword free as the heavy creature fell. Below them now bodies lay, dark splotches across the meadow and dunes, some lizards, some horses of Eresu, sprawled across the pale sand. Kish was on him again. He parried, forced her back; Kish’s lizard clawed air, she gripped its neck, off balance, and he thrust forward quickly—too late Lobon saw her strategy, too late cried out to Lannthenn and felt the stallion take her sword in a mortal spot.

They were falling, the stallion barely able to use his wings, blood gushing from his torn chest; he was like a crippled bird. Lobon’s heart filled with love for him, with sorrow, and with terrible fear for the stones. Lannthenn fell to earth in a twisting, crippled spiral, went to his knees and was down as Lobon leaped free.

From the crystal dome Jaspen watched, Feldyn and Crieba immobile beside her. She made prayer for Lobon, violent, strong prayer; she had done so constantly since the battle began. She was the child of Cadach, the tree man, the youngest child of five, though no two were born in the same generation or in the same place nor, for that, of the same mother; but all choosing to make right again the sins of Cadach. This was her gift, this guarding of the stone that now held all of Ere’s fate in balance.

Soon behind her, come at the force of her prayer, towering figures made of light rose from the stuff of the crystal dome as if that crystal were but air, figures unclear in their dimension, and their wings all woven of light. They watched the battle, watched the great horse Lannthenn fall and die; watched Kish, the warrior queen, descend to the meadow where Lobon stood awaiting her, holding the stone and the wolf bell as bait.

Kish’s eyes burned with hunger for the stone, but she remained mounted. Around her, lizards dropped out of the sky to slither in the grass, circling Lobon. Above, half a dozen lizards drove Meatha and the white mare back, attacking again, again.

Kish’s mount spun around, she jerked it savagely and brought it rearing over Lobon. He stabbed at its belly, ducked her sword, stabbed again; as the creature twisted away, he leaped and hit it, dodging Kish’s blows, forcing his power at her; felt her sword pierce his arm. And he felt a surge of power in himself, as if all the Seers of Carriol sent theirs flooding like a tide. He struck the lizard, struck again as it reared, slashing its trailing wing; as it tried to climb skyward, he struck once more down its side with all his weight on his sword. The lizard fell screaming. Kish beat it but it could not rise. She slid down, left it to die, confronted Lobon from the ground, her face white and twisted with lust for the stones he carried, with a rage that drew the dark fury of evil into a giant maelstrom, a force that continued to shake the earth. All across Ere the land moved and changed; in Carriol the warriors of light were driven back by the heaving earth, by the dark powers incarnate in Kish’s wrath.

From the crystal dome, the child Jaspen watched and held her own force steady. She felt the power of the two wolves who stood beside her, felt Meatha’s strength supporting Lobon, as all together they sought to weaken Kish and drive her back.

Cadach the tree man Saw the battle, felt the earth’s tremors around him and knew their true nature. Trapped inside his ancient tree deep in the caves of Owdneet, he felt the mountain move above him, below him, Saw the warring in Carriol and Carriol’s armies driven back. Then felt the mountain give way beneath him; his tree toppled suddenly into a newly opened fissure, the roots upside down reached up like clawing fingers as it was swept, with all the treasures of the cave, deep into the center of the world. And Cadach at last knew death, crushed inside the shattered tree.

But the spirit of Cadach was not dead, it came truly alive suddenly and watched all of Ere in the holocaust. Cadach, dead at last and his spirit released, watched Lobon’s battle with terrible empathy. What path that spirit would now pursue, on until the end of Time, what strength it would now embrace into itself to drive back the dark, only Cadach could know.

He Saw the crystal dome and knew it stood on the place where once a jade sphere had been mined. He Saw the mining of the jade, Saw that miner-Seer discover the powers of the stone. He Saw its theft by another, the search for it, all in an instant; and Saw finally a procession of Seers carry the stone up into the mountain Tala-charen to safety, to leave it for fate, and for the natural forces beyond their own will, to deal with.

And so had those forces dealt, and were dealing. Cadach went still in his mind as Kish’s sword struck across Lobon’s, struck again. He Saw Kish take a blow and reel, then strike cruelly at Lobon, Saw the battle in the sky above where Meatha fought desperately to join him.

From the crystal dome a woman stood looking out past the white-haired child and the two wolves: Skeelie, come out of Time as silent as wings muffled by cloud; Skeelie, held tense by the force of the battle. Convulsively she moved forward, her hand gripping the heavy, unfamiliar sword at her side, for she carried Canoldir’s sword. She pushed through the dome, touched the clear door, would go to Lobon, would fight beside Lobon. . . .

As she passed the child and the wolves, she slowed; she saw that the warrior queen was weakening and she brought force strong with the others, felt forces strong around Lobon. She did not know she was whispering Ramad’s name, like an incantation. She stood, sword ready but unmoving, as Lobon parried powerfully against Kish, driving her back now, giving her mortal blows in a surge of fury and strength. But Kish rallied, swung her sword stabbing into his chest in a flashing thrust. Metal rang, but her sword glanced away. Lobon staggered, righted himself and drove the warrior queen back. He felt the power of the great wolves join him strong as a beating pulse as all across Ere Seers of light turned from their own battles, held their attackers at bay, their powers joined with him in the stones. The warrior queen lunged and slashed, but in her fury she was losing control; she fought desperately as he drove her back again, again, and then with one lunging blow he thrust his sword home into her chest. She fell.

He stood over her, sword ready. She made no move to rise. He stood quietly, watching her die.

At last Lobon knelt beside her. He stared at her white, reptilian face, shaped with anger even in death. He reached, removed from her tunic the five shards of the runestone of Eresu. Took up the starfires. He wanted to wipe the scent of Kish from them, polish them clean. Instead he rose and reached to place the stones inside his own tunic. It was then he felt the twisted metal there. He pulled the wolf bell forth.

It was smashed and twisted by Kish’s sword. The belly of the bitch-wolf gaped open where the blade had gone in. Inside that cut, gleaming green, lay a shard of the runestone. He turned the wolf bell and spilled the stone into his hand beside the others. At once he was stricken with a force like thunder, felt heat and a white light burst around the stone so bright it blinded him.

When the light died, he remained still, shocked, hypnotized with the force that gripped him.

In his hand lay not the shards of the runestone, but a round jade sphere. The whole stone. No mark or line showed where the shards had joined. The runes were carved around its surface, the whole rune—or nearly whole: for a chasm ran along one side of the stone deep into the center, a rough-edged scar where the missing shard should have been. Inside, he could see the golden heart that had been the starfires. He looked up then, and saw Meatha. Skeelie stood beside her, the look on her face unfathomable, her dark eyes deep with emotions that shook Lobon’s soul, the sense of Ramad so strong between them, the sense of their closeness.

“It is joined,” he said inadequately. He felt heavy and stupid with shock. “How—how could such a thing happen? It is not whole, it is flawed. How . . . ?” He was fighting dizziness, fighting to remain standing.

Skeelie moved to support him, stood tall and strong beside him, holding his shoulders. Her voice shook only slightly. “Perhaps it is flawed just as Ere is flawed. Just so—as men’s lives are flawed.”

“Yes,” he said, staring down at the stone.

“Though,” she added quietly, “that makes their lives no less magnificent.”

He leaned against Skeelie, felt her strength, her gentleness. Then he looked across to Meatha, reached to take her hand.

“It is done,” Meatha said. Above them the sky was empty, the remaining lizards had fled.

“And the wolves?” he said suddenly, looking around him. The white-haired child stood alone, a little way from them.

“The wolves are gone,” Meatha said. “They make for Carriol and their brothers.” He glimpsed them in the shadows of his mind racing across the sand. “They will return to us,” she said. “Maybe with mates by their sides.” She smiled. “Too long alone, those two.” Her warmth and her strength, like Skeelie’s strength, reached out and steadied him; and Skeelie moved away.

He looked long at Meatha. “And—are you too long alone?”

She lowered her eyes, then looked up. “I am not alone,” she said boldly. Kish’s spell had fallen from them. The force that linked them now was their own, woven not of darkness nor of another’s greed. He put his arms around her and found the lack of a spell made little difference in the way he felt. He drew her close, wincing as he pressed her against a sword wound; he felt the pain of all his wounds, as if the numbing strain of battle had worn away and his senses come clear once more; pain, and then dizziness.

*

He woke with strong hands lifting him to a sitting position. He was in a bed, staring dumbly at a steaming mug of something vile. He looked up at Skeelie’s face.

“I can’t drink that. It stinks.”

“Ram always drank it. So can you. It will ease the pain.”

He pushed it away. “I don’t need droughts for pain.” Though pain was nearly crushing him.

He began to remember, and the memory so shook him that it, too, brought pain. He gripped the stone in his hand and dared not look at it.

“Drink!” Skeelie insisted. Scowling, he gulped the hot, bitter brew. Not till it was gone did he lift the stone, and read the runes carved into it;

Eternal quest to those —— power

Some seek dark; they —— end.

Some hold joy: they know eternal life.

Through them all powers will sing.

The child Jaspen stood silently beside the bed—this surely must be her bed, a narrow cot. She said softly, “Eternal quest to those with power. Some seek dark, they mortal end.” The touch of the stone seemed to Lobon like fire, immense, filling the light-washed dome. He remembered the moment of the joining, the white light, the stone joining in his hand just as, six generations gone in Time, it had shattered in Ramad’s hand.

On the floor beside the cot lay the split and battered wolf bell. The bitch-wolf was still grinning.

The drug was beginning to take hold, to make him muzzy. He remembered the battling across Ere, Carriol’s desperate warring against the Kubalese, felt with dulled senses how the powers had struck at them, and the powers of darkness called by Kish with the rage that shook all the land. Sleepily, he realized that the sense of those powers was gone now, that infinite calm lay around him and lay too across Ere. He looked up with hazy vision. Both Meatha and Skeelie were watching him, and the child Jaspen, her thin little face calm beneath that shock of white hair.

“The dark is gone,” Meatha said. “Or—the dark has drawn back,” she corrected herself.

Skeelie touched his cheek. “Perhaps the dark will never be entirely gone. Maybe that is what the flawed stone tells us.”

“As long as we are mortal,” Jaspen said sadly, “the dark will be somewhere close to us, even when we are at peace.”

“The land is quiet now,” Meatha said. “And it is different, Lobon. Can you sense it? The land is split apart. Kish did that. The mountains—” She stopped speaking, and the vision came around them, flowing from one mind to the others. All three had Seen the moment of the splitting, only Lobon unaware as if he stood in the blind eye of a storm. They had Seen the fissure begin as a crack high up inside the Ring of Fire, and run jagged and increasing in size, down through the mountains, to cut back and forth across Cloffi with the terrible force of the dark, and across the river Owdneet, so the river’s waters mixed with lava, sending up blinding steam; and the rift had shouldered south through Aybil, toward Farr and toward the villa of Dal.

*

Zephy and Thorn had sensed the rift, as had the five young Seers locked with them in the villa at Dal, sensed it and felt the earth heave and knew that they could die there. In an agony of terror each for the other, they sought out for help. They dug at the stone, forcing their shoulders and backs against the rubble with which their cell was sealed, staring skyward through the small hole they had made, hoping. . . . They felt the earth shift beneath them, and tore with bloody hands at the wall that imprisoned them.

Zephy saw the winged ones first, high in the sky above them, and cried out. The sky outside was filled with wings. Get back! the silent voices cried. Get back! The winged ones turned their backsides to the wall and kicked, kicked again in wild drumbeats until at last the wall gave way. Rubble fell around their feet. The earth’s heaving increased. The Seers tumbled through, leaped to mount. The horses swept skyward as the rift sucked Dal’s villa into a fiery maw and crushed and toppled it a hundred feet into the earth, then moved on, hungering for the sea.

*

The rift had shattered through Farr and split the coastal shelf and then the sea floor, sending the sea leaping out onto the land. Behind it the eleven countries of Ere, so long joined in isolation from the rest of the primitive globe, were no longer joined. Now to the west lay Moramia and Karra in the high desert, nearly untouched, and clinging to them, Zandour and Aybil and Cloffi. That land lay separated now from the eastern nations. The rift was half a mile wide. In the east lay Carriol and Pelli, Sangur and Kubal, and what had once been Urobb. Farr was an island now, cut off from the land.

In the mountains, the fissure had snaked through the caves of Owdneet, which were already shattered by the earlier quakes. The magnificent grotto where Ramad had met the dark Seer was no more. How many mortals and living creatures had died in the devastation, they couldn’t know. How many families crushed, terrified—generations, whole villages. All the fabric of their civilization torn asunder by Kish, by the dark, and all record of it, all the history of Ere wrought in paintings on the stone ceiling and laid out in parchment scrolls gone, neither present nor past to endure save what fragments future generations could slowly piece together. The fissure’s tail snaked north, to end at last at the foot of Tala-charen. Ere was split in two. Only Tala-charen lay untouched.

“We will start anew,” Meatha said, “We will retrieve what we can of the past, and we will write a new history. Tra. Hoppa will write it.”

Lobon looked at Jaspen. What would happen to the white-haired ones? He knew from Meatha that Anchorstar and Merren Hoppa had no idea that they were brother and sister.

“We know about each other now,” Jaspen said, “We are all the children of Cadach. Anchorstar knows, and Merren. Gredillon, in her own time knows. Our brother Thebon who moves through the unknown lands knows. Cadach has died now,” she said, “and has been released, and so we are released from our vows to atone for him. That won’t change what we are, and what we care about.”

“And what was Cadach’s crime?” Lobon said, not knowing if she would answer.

Skeelie spoke for her. “Cadach, in a time two years gone from this present time, showed the Kubalese how to use the drug MadogWerg—not to ease pain, but to control the minds of the Children of Ynell.” She looked across at Meatha and saw that Meatha had gone pale. “Cadach by so doing,” she said gently, “nearly took the life of his own son, of Anchorstar. Cadach, when he died, then was trapped in the tree.”

“We knew nothing of this until now,” Jaspen said. “I knew only that I guarded the stone. And that I waited, so very long, I waited.”

“But how did you get the stone?” Meatha said. “How . . . ?”

“I was an orphan child,” Jaspen told them. “In Moramia. The slave of a miner. Another child, a slave, was treated cruelly—we all were, but he died from his beatings. It was he who kept the stone secret and hidden. He, Sechen, had been there on Tala-charen.” She looked up at Skeelie. “You were there. You were on Tala-charen beside Ramad.”

Skeelie nodded, a bond of sympathy and pain between them.

“When Sechen died, I took the stone from him, and a power came around me, a sense of—” She stared at them with her golden eyes and could not put to words the sense of the wonder, could only show them. They were caught in the vision of the Luff’Eresi surrounding the child, speaking to the child.

“They told me,” Jaspen said, “that my father had served the dark, and that if I were willing I could atone for him. That if I would return to the source of the stone, then the dark could never touch it. They said that it was very rare for them to guide the way of a human. They showed me where the dome was, and then they were gone; and I was alone in the slave hut with the stone to hide until I could escape.

“The wolves came to me in the night, I was terrified. But they spoke to me, and were so—I put my arms around them and I cried; for no one, except Sechen, had ever loved me.

“I followed them. They led me to the crystal dome, and then they went away. I—” She looked around, forgetting that the wolves had left them. “I missed them when they were gone. But . . .” She looked up now with a new brightness, a wonder they had not before seen. “But my sisters and my brothers will come now. We can be together if we wish.” She took Skeelie’s hand. “If you would wait with me, you could know—the woman who reared Ramad.”

“I almost, once—I almost . . .” Skeelie found to her consternation that she was crying. She turned away and went to stand staring out through the clear dome.

All of Time that she had moved through, all the generations, all her life and Ram’s seemed to culminate here. She felt terrified, lost, and exhilarated. She turned at last to Lobon and Meatha. “The Kubalese are driven back and docile,” she said with certainty. “Kearb-Mattus crawls away beaten—alive, but injured and beaten.” She sighed. “Carriol will rebuild now that which war and the violence of the land has destroyed. All Ere will begin anew now, as it has begun before. You—you will be a part of that building.”

Lobon’s voice caught. “And you, Mamen? You . . .”

But already she had turned toward the crystal door. As she stood with it flung back, a big dark stallion winged down out of the sky and a man, broad of shoulder and bearded, leaped down, taking her into his arms.

She was crying, held tight against Canoldir. At last she turned away from him, took Lobon in a strong embrace, and then Meatha. She kissed the child Jaspen and said, “I will return to see Gredillon.” She called to the mare who waited close beside the dome, a bright russet mare. She mounted, and the mare leaped up through clouds beside Canoldir’s stallion, whether to that place outside of Time or to another destination, no one knew.

Stepping to the crystal door. Meatha slid onto the back of the white mare, and Lobon chose Michennann. Skyborne, they turned to wave down at the little pale figure beside the crystal dome, then looked ahead; soon, from the sweeping sky, they saw below them the two wolves heading south, leaping across dunes like swift shadows. Will you come with us? Lobon asked them. We can carry you. And the winged ones banked upon the winds to await their answer.

But the wolves did not pause. We will take our own way, Lobon of wolves, Feldyn told him. There is time now for us to follow our own wild spirit, and time for you, Lobon, to ride a gentler wind.

Time, now, for a kinder life, guided by the runestone, Meatha said silently. And we, in turn, must stand strong to guard the stone’s power. Was it a warning, when the land shattered? That if we fail to keep the safe the runestone, if we weaken and grow soft and let the dark rule the stone, all will be lost forever?

There will be no turning back again, Lobon agreed. We cannot hope to retrieve, another time, what we would lose through weakness. Forever, now, we must stand strong. He touched Michennann’s sleek neck and the winged ones lifted into the wind; their powerfully beating wings carried them up, ever higher, into the clear, deep sky.

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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 this novels in this volume and the preceding one, The Shattered Stone, 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 Shattered Stone

An omnibus containing the first two books of the five originally published as the Children of Ynell series, which tell of the youth of the characters in The Runestone of Eresu.

In most regions of Ere to be a Seer, gifted with telepathic and visionary powers, means death—or does it? For some it may mean an even worse fate: destruction of their minds and enslavement by the dark powers determined to conquer the world. In Ring of Fire, Zephy and the goatherd Thorn are dismayed to discover that they themselves are Seers, but once they know, they are driven to escape from the repressive city of their birth and rescue others, many of them children, who have been captured and imprisoned by its attackers. Only the discovery of one shard of a mysterious runestone offers hope that they can succeed. In The Wolf Bell, set in an earlier time, the child Seer Ramad seeks the runestone itself with the aid of an ancient bell that enables him to control and communicate with the thinking wolves of the mountains, who become his friends. But will they be a match for his enemies, the evil Seers of Pelli, who are determined to control Ramad’s mind and through him, to obtain the stone for their own dark purpose?

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