Shadow on the Stones

by Moyra Caldecott

  His protests were soon silenced and Lark prepared a comfortable sleeping place for him in one of the houses.

  Her face was the last thing he saw as he fell wearily and heavily to sleep, and the first that greeted him at the dawn.

  She held fresh spring water for him to drink and warm barley bread for him to eat.

  Later they walked through the flowering grass and found a small and secluded valley full of ferns and trees and running water.

  They sat long and silently on a mossy rock and thought about the things that they had endured together since they had met, the terror of the hunt, the days in the dark palace of Na-Groth and the violence of his final overthrow.

  Isar wanted to tell Lark of his gratitude for how she had saved his life more than once. He wanted to tell her how he felt when he was with her. He wanted to tell her how he felt about her, and how he hated to think of their parting ... but the words would not come.

  His heart was full of unsaid things.

  He looked helplessly at her, thinking of the irony that it was he who had the tongue and could not use it, and she who was dumb and yet could communicate in so many deep and subtle ways.

  The sunlight shafted through the leaves onto her soft and shining hair. Her thin face had colour in it now, and her eyes were the most beautiful he had ever seen.

  Before he knew what he was doing he was leaning forward and his lips were on hers, his arms close about her.

  ‘I love you,’ his heart was saying. ‘I love you and I cannot help myself!’

  In that kiss the whole world seemed to dissolve and disappear, and when he at last emerged from it, it was as though it were a new day.

  He held her at arm’s length and looked at her with amazement.

  How had this happened?

  How had he allowed it to happen?

  She was smiling, but it was the saddest smile he had ever seen.

  He knew that she loved him and that it was forever ... but ... the sadness of her smile reminded him that he was not free to love anyone but Deva ... and Deva had not been in his thoughts for a long time.

  He dropped his hands from her arms, feeling the longing to hold her close again.

  He turned away.

  He tried to force the world to be as it had been before he came to Klad.

  But he knew that this was not possible, nor what he wanted.

  Lark stood up and moved across the stream and away down the valley.

  When she was out of sight he buried his face in his hands and tried to think of Deva.

  * * * *

  Berka’s insistence that this was the place she wanted to live won her father over at last.

  He asked permission of the villagers and was granted it.

  They began to choose the wood and start the preparations for building their home. It was to be sturdy like the other village houses, and not makeshift like the temporary shacks on Na-Groth’s plain.

  Berka was already looking better and had adopted Gerd, as she had adopted Gya, as her special charge. They had a really good relationship, though people listening in to their conversations might not have guessed it.

  ‘Are you going to sit all the time feeling sad?’ she said to him sharply one day.

  ‘No, I am going to become a messenger and run between the Temple and Klad every full moon,’ he answered sarcastically, his eyes sparking with resentment.

  ‘Well, you cannot run sitting down in a chair!’

  ‘Perhaps I will fly!’

  ‘You could fly, but you will be too soft, like the milk and the soup your mother brings to you.’

  ‘I suppose you expect me to get up and fetch my own food?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Berka.

  Gerd glared at her.

  His legs had both been damaged and there was no way one of them would ever work again. Possibly his left leg could take some weight and would heal after a time.

  Did this fool girl not realize what he was going through? Did she think he enjoyed being waited on and watching everyone else doing the things he wanted to do?

  ‘If Spear-lord Karne can make a frame for flying, we can make a frame for walking,’ she said boldly. ‘You will see!’

  He looked at her sceptically, but there was a glimmer of hope in his mind.

  He insisted on being left alone for a long time after this, and when he did permit anyone to come near him, it was Berka.

  ‘Fetch me these things,’ he said peremptorily.

  ‘Aha!’ said Berka triumphantly, ‘the frame for walking!’

  Gladly she worked to gather all the bits and pieces together, and patiently worked with him to construct the frame.

  When it was finished it was cumbersome and difficult to move.

  It was on her suggestions that he eliminated certain of the rods and simplified the whole thing until it was light and practical.

  It was still painful for him to put any weight at all upon his left leg, but he was determined to sit no more and grow soft ‘like milk and soup.’

  Berka had the sense to guess that he must not overdo it at first, and supervised short, secret practice sessions until the leg became gradually better.

  ‘It will be much surprise for everyone. When we can do it properly we walk amongst all the people and show them how clever we are!’

  ‘We?’ Gerd asked raising his eyebrows.

  Berka laughed and shrugged.

  She identified so much with his struggles that she almost believed they were her own.

  His appearance at the next festival of the Full Moon, walking with his frame, caused a sensation.

  * * * *

  After Gerd’s village most of Isar’s party made straight for home, but Isar and Lark took a detour to visit Gya’s mother and sisters. They were thrilled with the news of his part in Na-Groth’s downfall and proud of his work with Karne in rebuilding the stricken country.

  They persuaded Isar and Lark to delay their journey a few days longer, and made them very welcome.

  The two young people had tacitly agreed that nothing could come of their love for each other, but they were still reluctant to come to the moment of parting. They decided to stay and help the village in any way they could to re-establish the sanctity of their Sacred Circle.

  The bodies of the people who had been murdered in the Circle were gently removed at last by a group of the older men.

  The ancient burial ceremonies were performed, and their families allowed the healing dignity of prayer.

  Up to this time no one had dared approach the Circle, so effective had Na-Groth’s spell of terror been. Isar himself had felt it on his first visit, and even now it took great courage to enter the place.

  Having buried their dead the villagers were at a loss to know what the next move should be.

  Isar promised that the Temple would send a priest who would cleanse the tall stones properly. Until that time they should pray as best they could from their own hearts.

  Lark behaved strangely near the Circle as though she could hear something the others could not hear.

  Isar, who had been beside her, let her go and, as though in trance, she walked between the ancient megaliths and stood with her eyes closed in the very centre.

  ‘It is still a place of evil,’ Gya’s mother whispered anxiously. ‘Who knows what wraith of darkness might possess her?’

  Isar took a step forward anxious to protect her, but when he came to take her hand the strength he received from her touch amazed him. It was as though together they made one Being, but that Being was greater than the both of them.

  Words that were not his own began to issue from his mouth.

  ‘This Circle is sacred to the Lord of Life and is held until his coming. ‘Within it let no man stand who is not prepared to meet him face to face.’

  He tried to move but his limbs were as heavy as stone.

  Before him stood a man, beautiful with age, smiling into his eyes.

  ‘I have kept my promise, and now I am needed elsewhere.�
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  Isar longed to talk with him, so wise and gentle was his face, but even as he reached forward with his longing, the figure began to fade and disappear.

  He found himself looking into Lark’s eyes and she was smiling.

  She led him out of the Circle, and when they looked back, they could see the dark shadow of Groth was no more upon it.

  * * * *

  It was Vann’s suggestion that Deva be given a sleeping potion.

  ‘She has suffered great strain over these troubled times and her mind is confused and tired. Deep rest is what she needs.’

  Kyra’s face was haggard and pale.

  She could see her daughter through the half open hangings of the inner chamber, decking herself out in her finest clothes. She had insisted on rising in spite of their warnings, claiming that her Lord Groth was waiting for her and she must dress in a way befitting her new station in life.

  There was a hard, brittle arrogance about her now that did not suit her, and her eyes were as cold and blank as polished jet.

  She spoke with an authority that they found hard to disobey. She seemed indeed the queen of Groth.

  Khu-ren was summoned, but he was too busy to come at once and so Kyra and Vann made the decision by themselves.

  The potion Vann prepared carried the danger of death, but if it did not kill, it certainly healed minds afflicted with strange and disturbing fantasies.

  ‘My lady,’ called Deva harshly snapping her fingers, ‘pass me your collar!’ She was referring to the beautiful deep collar of beaten gold in the shape of a sickle moon, that Kyra wore for thanksgiving festivals.

  Kyra’s hand went to her throat protectively.

  ‘Give!’ commanded Deva, moving forward menacingly.

  Her mother looked into her eyes and was shocked at the ferocity she saw there.

  She looked at Vann and gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  Vann left the chamber quietly.

  The priest of the Sun unclasped the shining collar and held it out to the stranger that stood before her.

  ‘Put it on,’ commanded Deva, turning and presenting her neck to her mother as though she were mistress and Kyra were her slave.

  Silently Kyra obeyed and fastened the sun metal about the girl’s throat.

  The new queen of Groth then held out her arms and her mother transferred the long, coiled bracelets of gold from her own arms.

  ‘The earrings as well,’ said Deva coldly.

  Gold earrings were threaded through her lobes.

  She stood very proud and tall beside Kyra, the robe of black wool flowing to the floor, the gold that had shone so warmly on the older woman’s form, now glinting with a different kind of light.

  ‘She is possessed,’ thought Kyra, and remembered the queen of Na-Groth. ‘Is it possible?’

  At this moment Vann returned with three small cups of beaten gold.

  ‘Here is honey wine,’ he said. ‘Let us drink to your new lord.’

  Smiling with a falseness that Deva would have suspected had she been more herself, he presented both women with a cup and retained one for himself.

  Deva for the first time showed a touch of graciousness as she took the honey wine.

  She was pleased that they were beginning to accept her in her new role.

  ‘Let us drink to my lord,’ Deva said, and raised her cup.

  Vann and Kyra put the wine to their lips but did not drink.

  Deva drained every drop.

  * * * *

  There were tears in Kyra’s eyes as they lifted the child and carried her to bed.

  Gently she removed the gold collar from her throat, the bracelets and the earrings.

  Gently she covered her with fine fur rugs.

  ‘Sleep well my child,’ she whispered. ‘Wake well!’

  ‘She will be all right my lady,’ Vann said. ‘I did not give her much.’

  Kyra could have fallen where she stood she was so tired.

  ‘You too must sleep,’ Vann said.

  Kyra smiled wanly.

  ‘But not with your special wine.’

  ‘No, not with my special wine.’

  * * * *

  When Lark and Isar reached Lark’s home village they were horrified to find nothing but the burnt remains of the houses, broken and charred cooking pots and a few battered remnants of once cherished possessions.

  Lark ran from house to house weeping, and Isar stood aside, his heart feeling her sorrow, but not knowing where to begin to comfort her.

  ‘Perhaps they are not dead,’ he said at last. ‘It is possible they were taken as slaves.’

  Lark stood still a while and looked at him, thinking about what he had said.

  It was possible.

  But in the centre of the village they found an untidy mound of earth and under it they found the bodies of the villagers, many of them badly mutilated.

  Isar led her away, but she pulled at his arm and tried to make him turn back.

  ‘What is it now?’ he asked gently, wishing, as he had wished so many times, that she could talk.

  She pointed back to the mound, her eyes swimming in tears.

  There was something that needed doing.

  She would not leave until it was done.

  He thought he understood.

  Her friends and family had died by violence and had had no proper burial.

  They gathered all the pebbles they could find and piled them upon the mound, building it higher and higher until it was a cairn that could be seen for a long, long way.

  With each stone Isar murmured a short prayer for their safe journey in the many realms that are beyond this one.

  Each stone became charged with love and caring.

  Each stone would mark a man’s life ended, and a man’s life begun.

  When it was done, Isar took Lark’s hand and they walked together away from her home.

  ‘You have no home now. No people. You must come with me. My people will be your people.’

  Lark hung her head.

  All the strength she had had in the testing moments of crisis seemed to have deserted her. She looked very young and frail and lost.

  ‘There is no other way,’ Isar said gently

  She looked at him and her eyes were full of sorrows.

  ‘I know ... I know, my love ... there is Deva ... but ... I cannot, no, I will not, leave you here. Kyra will take you to her heart and will tell us what is best to do...’

  At the mention of Kyra, a faint flicker of light came to Lark’s eyes and she seemed to make a decision. Was this not the name the beautiful old man of her visions had spoken?

  She picked up the carrying pouch she had let fall upon the ground, slung it over her shoulder and walked eastwards with Isar.

  * * * *

  Deva slept long, deeply and apparently peacefully, but the priest of dreams, Lea, could tell as she looked down upon the girl that she was undergoing a difficult and dangerous experience.

  She had returned yet again to her ancient homeland, but had found this time that the garden she had loved was gone and the wind moaned softly and stirred the sand over the cracked white paving stones. The fountain was dried up, the lilies long since dead.

  The grand palace where she had lived was ruined; desert birds nested in its broken walls, and lizards were the only attendants in the king’s chamber.

  ‘Father!’ she cried, rushing from desolate room to desolate room. The empty corridors echoed back her call.

  She saw her name engraved upon a stone and fell weeping beside it. There was no doubt this was the place of her childhood. Had she not watched the name being carved?

  How was it that she turned her back and all that she had known had fallen so to dust?

  ‘Father,’ she wept. ‘I need you. Help me.’

  Across the dead, hot sands of the desert she could see the strange pyramidal shapes that her father had ordered to be built. There were more than she remembered and some were dazzling white with caps of gold.r />
  Even as she saw them, she was beside them, and they towered above her.

  They were not quite as she remembered them in her father’s day, but his genius had created them and his teaching was in them.

  She looked around.

  How strangely empty the place was.

  She remembered it full of sweating slaves and shouting overseers, full of stone masons hammering ... men talking and calling...

  How strangely quiet.

  It was as though she were the last person left on earth.

  She shuddered and looked around for shelter from the terrible brilliance of the sun.

  On the eastern side of one of the pyramids was a shaded colonnade leading to a door.

  She walked down it, her eyes fixed on the solid stone slab.

  She read the inscription.

  ‘Enter not here if you have anything to hide.

  For here is nothing hidden.’

  The door opened even as she read the words and she was in the icy darkness of the interior.

  There was no light, but she could see.

  Shivering, she walked forward, knowing that there was no way back.

  The door had closed behind her, and the hollow, reverberating sound of its closing would be with her for the rest of time.

  The narrow passage led deeper and deeper into the building.

  From time to time she reached a small chamber and then found herself leaving it by a passage narrower and lower than the last.

  The first few chambers were full of beautiful things, vases and furniture and clothes, the walls covered with rich and skilful paintings.

  She looked about her and saw her former life depicted on the walls, even to a representation of her favourite garden with the fountain and the lilies.

  She longed to stay, but when she touched the lilies they were cold and hard, and the water could not quench her thirst.

  The next chamber seemed to represent her life in the green northern country where she had lived long ago with Isar.

  Joyously she rushed to him as he sat upon his throne, but as she touched him he fell to dust, and she screamed, her scream causing the dust of millennia to fall from the ceiling and the walls.

  She could not leave the chamber fast enough

  The corridor became darker and narrower.

  The next chamber was featureless and blank.