She forced a smile and tugged off the rhia. The women fell silent and Kevla’s blush deepened as she realized they were scrutinizing her body, with its bronze skin and dark-tipped breasts, as she had earlier scrutinized theirs.
I suppose I ought to be grateful there isn’t mixed stonesteaming, she thought. I could be sitting naked with everyone in the village.
Mylikki moved over so Kevla had a place to sit. Gingerly, Kevla perched on the bench. Gelsan pulled the door closed, and suddenly the only light came from the glowing stones.
Kevla relaxed as the dry heat began to penetrate her body. She was comfortable in the heat, around flames or embers, and in the darkness, she could not see the other women. But she could hear them, moving softly, speaking in quiet tones. It was a soothing sound, and Kevla closed her eyes and sank deeper into the warm, anonymous darkness.
She was walking on the snow, her feet sinking into the white stuff, and she was not alone. Beside her walked the Stone Dancer. Though she was comfortable clad only in her red rhia, this man was wrapped warmly in layers of thick woolen clothing and a green cape. He was speaking, and she turned her head to listen to him and smile at something he said. He was tall, taller than she, and she was no small woman. He was as she remembered him: handsome, yet sad, with golden hair and eyes as blue as the sky.
Beside them both, regarded not with fear but acceptance, even affection, walked the blue, black-and-white-striped simmar. It was an enormous beast with thick, shaggy fur and golden, knowing eyes. It walked over the snow with fluid grace, its shoulders and hips rolling in that smooth movement granted to all cats, large or small.
The three crested a hill. Behind her, Kevla heard the beating of powerful wings, and knew her friend the Dragon was flying behind and above them. The thought gave her comfort.
Her skin prickled. They were being watched. The thought ought to alarm her, but instead she felt warm and taken care of…loved. She reached out her thoughts and tried to—
A sudden hissing sound chased away the vision. Kevla gasped and started up. Mylikki laid a gentle hand on her arm.
“It’s the hamantu,” she said. “Gelsan has just put some water on the stones to make steam. You’ll notice that it’s getting hotter now.”
Indeed it was, though it would have to get much hotter than this for Kevla, who had acknowledged her true identity in the depths of a boiling pit of molten earth, to feel any discomfort. The moist heat felt strange to the desert dweller; it clung to her skin like her own sweat. She closed her eyes again, hearing another splash of water on hot stone, feeling the heat rise in a moist wave to caress her. A wonderful lassitude stole over her. She had never felt this relaxed, not even when bathing in the caverns at the House of Four Waters. Now she understood why. She was Fire. Water felt good on her human skin, and she enjoyed the cleansing coolness. But sitting in this place of darkness and deep heat, of smoke and steam—this called to her soul more than the baths did. Perhaps these people were not as alien as they seemed.
She drifted, and for a while time stood still. She hoped she would sink back into the vision, but it did not come a second time. There was only the heat and darkness, and the soft sounds of women moving, and for now, Kevla thought, that was enough.
11
The sun was setting by the time the women emerged from the stonesteaming hut. Before she left, Kevla placed her hands on the stones and heated them again. The men would be coming, to take their turn in the stonesteaming hut, and she wanted to make sure their experience was as pleasant as hers had been.
Kevla felt marvelous after several sessions of sitting in the hot steam, and then plunging into the refreshing coldness of the snowbanks. She had not realized how much tension she had been carrying in her body until she had been able to release it with the blessing of the vision, which comforted even as it confused and intrigued her, and the hamantu. Once the women began to trickle back toward the village, Kevla heard a whistle. Not long after that, a trail of men began coming up the forest path. There were so few of them it pained Kevla to see it.
When they reached the village, Mylikki said, “My mother enjoyed the stonesteaming as much as any of us, but she won’t want to delay the meal. I must go help her.”
She hurried into the house, closing the door behind her. Kevla watched her go.
“You look relaxed,” the Dragon said.
“I am,” she replied, happy to be able to talk to someone. “It was lovely. I do not look forward to traveling across the snow after that.”
“Let us hope our travels will be brief.”
“I do hope that.” She sighed. “I suppose I will have to learn how to walk on those poles they strap to their feet.”
“They are called skeltha, in case you’re wondering. It means, long sticks.”
“Ah,” said Kevla. “A simple term for a simple thing.”
“These people respect words. They know they hold power. Things are named simply, and I doubt there was much idle chatter among the women in the hut.”
“Now that you mention it, no, there wasn’t.” She looked up at the darkening sky. “Twilight. When people start fires, if they haven’t already.” It was time, again, to attempt to locate the Stone Dancer. Kevla gathered a few sticks and piled them together.
“Burn.”
They leaped into flame, and Kevla found herself smiling as the cheery red and orange warmth chased away the blue and lavender tints of the snow and twilight. She leaned toward the dancing flames and made her vision soft. “Show me the Stone Dancer.”
The fire flickered. In its depths, Kevla thought she could glimpse the outline of a face. Her heart beating faster, she leaned closer, willing the image to focus.
With shocking speed, the unclear face disappeared and Kevla found herself looking at the sole of a boot. She jerked back, feeling for an instant as if that boot was about to come crashing down on her face. Then, nothing.
A deep rumbling sound drew her attention away from the fire. The Dragon was laughing!
“Clever, clever fellow!” he gasped between peals of bone-chilling Dragon laughter. “He saw you, Kevla. He saw you trying to find him and he stamped out the fire! It seems our Stone Dancer dislikes being spied upon.”
Kevla was embarrassed, but after a moment, she also began to laugh. She supposed if she didn’t know what was going on, a strange face appearing in the fire would alarm her, too.
“I doubt I’ll get another chance, if he’s wary of my face in the fire. We’ll have to try to find him some other way,” she said. “I will see if I can help Gelsan. It has not been so long since I worked in the kitchens. Perhaps I can assist her.”
“You must be careful, Kevla,” the Dragon said, surprising her. “You want them to like you and trust you, but they must not regard you as an underling.”
She smiled sadly. “A woman who calls flame with a thought is more to be feared than despised. A night chopping vegetables or seasoning a stew will not cost me respect.”
“Perhaps not,” said the Dragon. “But there are those who might not understand.”
“These people are better than that,” Kevla said with certainty. She entered Gelsan’s house, easing the door open and stepping to a small table where the headwoman and her daughter were chopping what Kevla realized were dried vegetables. She pointed at the vegetables and pretended to cut them.
Gelsan seemed pleased at the offer. “Certainly. Cut them into small bits and then put them in the cauldron.”
The time passed quickly, but in silence. The Dragon had been right; the people of Lamal wasted no breath in words that served only to fill the air. After a while, Gelsan tasted the stew and pronounced it ready.
“Go round up the household,” she told Mylikki, who threw on a cloak and hat and hastened to obey. A few moments later, there were ten people seated cross-legged on the cold earthen floor of Gelsan’s hut.
Gelsan ladled the stew into bowls and passed them around. Kevla took a spoonful with a bite of meat. Her eyes widened. It wa
s all she could do not to spit it out. Gamey, stringy, tough, it was the most unpleasant thing she had ever eaten. She chewed determinedly and got the bite down. Sipping the broth, she found it weak and flavorless. She glanced around surreptitiously and saw that everyone else seemed to be enjoying themselves. They ate in silence, but they ate happily. If winter had indeed lasted for an entire year, then this must be a feast to them. She recalled how painfully thin the women seemed to her in the stonesteaming hut, and wondered how much longer they cold survive with no end to winter in sight.
Willing her stomach not to reject the food, Kevla took another bite. It would not do to insult her host, and she was sure she needed the nourishment regardless of how bad it tasted. Others went back for seconds, even thirds. Gelsan had prepared a generous amount, but even so, there was nothing left in the cauldron by the time the meal was over.
“Now it is time for some entertainment, to honor our guest,” Gelsan said. She nodded to Mylikki, who leaped to her feet and went to a corner of the room. Gelsan indicated that Kevla should sit with the others on the benches that lined the room. Mylikki returned, carrying something that Kevla presumed was an instrument.
It appeared to be made out of the same black and white wood that the houses were constructed of. Small pegs were inserted along its length, and though it was too dark to see, she assumed there were strings of some sort running down it. Mylikki sat on a small stool and put the instrument in her lap.
With the first few brushes of Mylikki’s fingers along the strings, Kevla felt a chill inside her. It was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. Clear and sweet and haunting, bright and metallic-sounding somehow, it seemed the perfect instrument to have been created in this place.
It sounds like snow, she thought.
Mylikki played for a time, weaving a web of sound about them all. Kevla barely breathed, hanging on every note produced by the strange instrument. After a while, Mylikki began to sing. Her voice was pure and clear, like the stars Kevla had seen in the night sky, but the song was not a sweet one.
Men-at-arms turn pale,
And their hearts within them quail
As the Dark bleeds the Light from the sky.
Who of woman born
will survive to see the morn?
Will you be among them? Will I?
And still, we few stand
Upon the blasted land—
Fighting back the Shadow.
Kevla gasped, and more than one fair head turned to stare at her.
Shadow. The Shadow that was destined to come and challenge the Dancers. The Shadow that twice before had been defeated, but twice before had won. The Shadow that had erased whole worlds as if they had never been.
She dreaded what words would come from Mylikki’s lips next.
Like his father before,
My son rode off to war,
With a smile and a song in his heart.
The cold Dark unnamed
Another life has claimed—
And upon my lost soul left its mark.
Again, Mylikki sang the chilling chorus. For the first time since she had been given her powers of fire, Kevla felt cold.
My daughter’s grown wild,
Her belly big with child
And she sings soft and low of the dawn.
They tell me she’s mad,
And perhaps I should be glad,
For her husband’s dead, and still the Night goes on.
And still we few stand,
Upon the blasted land—
Fighting back the Shadow.
Something about this song was familiar to Kevla, something more than just the mention of the Shadow. Had not Jashemi mentioned a previous lifetime when he was a beggar boy, standing next to a khashima whose pregnant daughter had gone mad?
I once ruled as Queen,
Long ago, when all was green,
And this castle kept watch o’er the realm.
But now, nothing grows
In the icy wind that blows,
And the Darkness will soon overwhelm.
This last verse proved it. Her mind was beginning to translate for her; she somehow knew that queen meant khashima, that castle indicated a Great House. This could not be a coincidence.
The song unfolded, chilling in its depiction of utter despair: the food had run out, the well had gone dry. Torches were lit in a defiant, futile effort to keep the Shadow at bay.
And still, we few stand
Upon the blasted land—
Fighting back the Shadow.
Tears filled Kevla’s eyes. She knew that all the characters in this song had once lived, once breathed, once loved.
Including Jashemi.
’Tis now merely hours
Till we fall to Shadow powers,
For how much can mere mortals endure?
And when we few fall—
Why then, that will be all;
The silence is the one thing that’s sure.
The sound of the instrument, snowlike and bright, faded into silence itself. Kevla applauded politely with the rest, but as Mylikki launched into a lively song about a hunter and a farmer’s wife, her thoughts were not on the bawdy lyrics.
One thought pounded in her head.
Someone in this land was a Lorekeeper, and she had to find out who.
12
Kevla did not pay much attention to the rest of the stories or songs that were performed. Others drifted in during the night, and Gelsan had passed around a sweet, powerful wine made from fermented honey. After the final song, Gelsan rose and offered Kevla the hospitality of her house. Kevla realized that the ten who had joined her for dinner all planned to sleep here, on the raised areas that extended from the walls. At the House of Four Waters she had slept in a single room in the company of many women, but never with men. She knew her eyes widened.
She pointed outside. “Dragon,” she said, and hoped that Gelsan would understand.
The headwoman nodded her fair head. “You want to be with your friend,” she said. “Do you need a fur or blanket?”
Kevla was about to refuse, but then thought that a fur between her and the wet ground would be pleasant. She nodded, and selected one. It was thick and brown, but she could not identify what kind of animal it had once belonged to.
As she left, she caught Mylikki’s eye and waved her to follow. Mylikki looked puzzled, but grabbed her cloak and accompanied Kevla. They trudged out into the snow to stand before the Great Dragon. He had curled up into a ball and was breathing steadily, little puffs of smoke curling from his nostrils into the frosty air. At their approach, he uncurled and stretched like a mammoth cat.
“Dragon, Mylikki sang a song this evening about a queen standing alone, watching the Shadow come,” Kevla said. Mylikki’s head whipped around. “There were lines of the song that sounded familiar—like what he told me. I think there are Lorekeepers here.”
“I understood you!” Mylikki exclaimed. “Some of what you said, anyway.”
“You are beginning to open to this language,” said the Dragon. “Good.”
“If we can find the Lorekeepers, they might be able to help us,” Kevla continued.
“Help? Help you with what?” Mylikki asked. She seemed excited that Kevla was learning to speak her language.
“Mylikki, who wrote that song that you performed? Did you compose it?”
Mylikki’s pretty face furrowed in a frown. “What about the song?”
“Kevla wants to know if the song was an original composition,” the Dragon said. Kevla sighed; apparently her grasp of this new language was still spotty.
“Fighting Back the Shadow? That’s a very old song indeed,” Mylikki said, dashing Kevla’s hopes. “Several hundred years old, at least. I don’t know who wrote it. It’s rare because it’s a song sung by a woman; most of the compositions told by a narrator are male. And a woman of great power, too.”
“Gelsan has power,” Kevla said.
This was apparently a simple eno
ugh sentence, for Mylikki replied, “Only because the men are gone.” She fell abruptly silent, gathering her thick cloak more tightly about her frame and glancing up at the overcast sky. She turned to Kevla, her face a dim white smudge in the darkness. “Let us not speak of this at night,” she said, almost pleading. “In the morning. We will tell you everything in the morning.”
Impulsively Kevla reached to squeeze Mylikki’s arm through the cloak. “We have much to tell you in the morning as well,” she told her new friend. She watched as Mylikki trudged through the snow back to the smoky warmth of Gelsan’s small house.
“Something haunts them,” Kevla said.
The Dragon nodded. “Something is very wrong with their world. Of course they are haunted.”
Kevla shivered, but not from cold. She spread the fur next to the Dragon, and when she sat on it, it sank into the snow, making a little hollow. Kevla leaned against the warm strength of her friend, her hand reaching to caress the smooth scales.
Kevla awoke to the smell of cooked grains. She opened her eyes to see a bowl beside her, along with a steaming mug. She sat up carefully and reached for the morning meal, knowing what a gift it was to these people who were a few meals away from starvation. She sniffed gingerly at the mug. It smelled like tea of some kind. She took a cautious sip. It was strong and slightly bitter, but there was a generous dollop of something sweet in it. The cooked grains were also palatable.
As she lifted the mug to her lips, she turned her head slightly and almost spilled the hot liquid. Not ten feet away, every child in the village sat on the snow, staring at her and the Dragon. She smiled and waved a little at them. Uncertainly they waved back. When Kevla looked around, she saw that others were staring at the pair as well, although the adults were slightly more discreet in their ogling.
In Stone's Clasp Page 11
