In Stone's Clasp

by Christie Golden

  “You’re safe! Thank the gods!” Altan cried. Clinging to his friend, Altan looked even more slender and delicate.

  Looking both furious and, strangely, almost frightened, Jareth made an angry noise and shoved Altan off of him. They stared at one another for a long moment.

  “Altan?” Jareth’s voice was soft, confused. He reached out a trembling hand and placed it on Altan’s shoulders. The boy swiftly covered the hand with his own.

  “Yes, it’s me, Jareth,” Altan said, his voice thick. He squeezed Jareth’s hand. “It’s really me.”

  Abruptly, Jareth’s demeanor changed. “You idiot!” he bellowed, releasing his grip on Altan’s shoulder. “What are you doing? Why are you here? With her and this…this…” He glared defiantly up at the Dragon, who regarded him calmly.

  “It’s called a dragon,” Mylikki said helpfully. She was making her way toward them, no doubt drawn by the commotion. Kevla got unsteadily to her feet and looked up at the Dragon. Their eyes met.

  Not quite what we expected, is he? came the Dragon’s dry voice in her mind. The comment was so understated that Kevla almost laughed out loud. She didn’t dare, though; she felt hysteria bubbling up inside her and knew that if she gave in to the dark humor and the bitter stab of disappointment, she would end up sobbing. She brushed snow and dirt off her rhia and tried to collect herself.

  “Who are you?” demanded Jareth of Mylikki.

  Something inside Kevla snapped. Jareth had every right to wonder about her—she looked completely different from anyone he had ever known, she could scry in the fire and she came on the back of a dragon—and he could be angry with Altan if he liked; Altan could take care of himself. But to yell at Mylikki—

  “You will not speak so to her!” Kevla cried. Jareth turned the full force of his gaze upon her and she stood arrow-straight, full now not of fear but of righteous indignation. “You seize me from behind, you put a knife to my throat—” Her fingers went to her neck and came away red.

  “You gave as good as you got.” Jareth held up his hand and she saw that the wrappings had been completely burned off.

  “Jareth, what did you do to her?” asked Altan. “Oh, my friend, what’s happened to you?”

  Again he reached for Jareth, and again the other man shied from any kind of touch. He turned his face away and Kevla saw a terrible grief etched on those features. She suddenly felt she was intruding upon something deeply private.

  We should leave them, Kevla thought to the Dragon.

  Agreed. The Dragon leaped into the sky. Broken limbs and leaves fell to the earth in his wake.

  Kevla suddenly felt weak and sick. To have come so far, to have endured what she had, only to find that the eagerly sought Stone Dancer was in such straits was too much.

  “Kevla?” It was Mylikki, slipping gently beside her. “How badly did he hurt you?”

  “It’s nothing, just a little nick,” Kevla said. “Come. I feel the need for some hot food.” She headed back toward the clearing, leaning in to Mylikki and whispering, “The only one he’ll listen to is Altan—if he’ll listen to anyone in the state he’s in now. Let’s leave them to it.”

  The Dragon awaited them, curled up in his favorite position like a granary cat, while the two women busied themselves preparing food from the rapidly dwindling stores and something hot to drink. The Dragon’s head was turned toward the woods, his ears pricked forward and his gold eyes missing nothing. Even if Jareth somehow tried to flee, he would not get far.

  Altan wanted to weep.

  Jareth had sunk to the ground. Whatever had fueled him sufficiently to attack Kevla, to brandish a knife at the Dragon, and to shove Altan away with so much strength that the younger man feared his chest would sport bruises had been burned up. Jareth now sat with his arms on his knees and his head in his hands, taking great, gulping breaths.

  Miserably, Altan squatted beside him. “Jareth,” he said for perhaps the dozenth time. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Tentatively, he reached again to touch Jareth, sickly realizing as he did so that most of the bulk on what had once been powerful shoulders was now merely layers of clothing. “Please talk to me,” Altan begged. “Tell me what has happened to you.”

  For a long moment, he feared Jareth wouldn’t—or couldn’t—speak. At last, he lifted his head. His face was hollow, haggard…old.

  “I went to find the gods,” Jareth muttered, still not looking at Altan. “Something wasn’t…wasn’t right about the storm that night…” His voice broke and for a moment he was silent. He continued in a flat voice. “I went to the mountains, but they weren’t there.”

  He dragged his reddened gaze to Altan’s and said almost petulantly, “They weren’t there!”

  Altan stroked Jareth’s shoulders like he might a cat, soothingly, rhythmically. His mind raced and he felt a chill. Had Jareth believed the gods could bring his family back? Did he still think that? What could he say to get Jareth to join them, to abandon this disturbing quest, to sit at their circle and listen to the information Kevla had for him? He couldn’t think of anything, just kept staring at the emaciated figure who seemed to have only his mission to keep him alive.

  “So I’m going to find the taaskali,” Jareth said, nodding to himself. “The taaskali would know.” His gaze darted to Altan’s face, lit there like a butterfly, then flitted away again. “She a taaskali?”

  “No,” said Altan, grateful for the excuse to talk about Kevla. “But she does have magic. She is from a land called Arukan. She’s called the Flame Dancer.”

  Jareth’s grimy brow furrowed. “Arukan,” he said, slowly, as if dredging up a distant memory. “It’s warm there.”

  “You know it?” Altan felt a surge of hope. If Jareth knew about Arukan, perhaps he knew about the Dancers and their task as well. It would make everything easier.

  “The earth whispers to me of other places, sometimes,” Jareth said. “At least, it used to. Now, it is silent.” He looked up, his eyes roaming the tall skeletons of trees that surrounded them. “Everything is silent.”

  Altan sighed. “You need food and warmth, my friend. Come sit by the fire and eat something.”

  “You didn’t scare me, Father,” said Jareth in a whisper, his gaze unfocused. “Come eat. Please, come eat something.”

  Chills ran down Altan’s spine, and not from the cold. “What?” he said, praying he hadn’t heard what he thought he had.

  Jareth shook himself, blinking suddenly as if waking up. “Nothing.” He looked at Altan with eyes that really seemed to see him for the first time.

  Altan fought back tears. He reached his hands to Jareth’s face and took it in his hands, one on each hollow, bearded cheek. Jareth sighed, a long, quavering sound, pressed the hands that cupped his face, then gently removed them.

  “Please come to the fire with me, Jareth. Will you come?”

  The bigger man nodded, slowly. Altan slipped his right arm around Jareth’s waist, pulling the other man’s left arm across the back of his neck. Gently, he helped his friend to his feet. Jareth had once been powerfully built. Now, he barely outweighed the little huskaa who guided his unsteady steps toward the fire that crackled, warm orange-yellow life against the blue-purple cold of the beautiful, deadly snow.

  20

  When the two men approached the fire, the bigger one leaning heavily on the smaller, Kevla felt again a jolt of shock. Jareth kept his eyes on the ground as Altan gently directed him to a blanket next to the fire. Altan placed a hand on Jareth’s back, touching his friend with a tenderness similar to what Kevla had seen him display toward Mylikki. She wondered if the reason for Altan’s ambivalent attitude toward Mylikki was because Altan preferred men to women.

  The Stone Dancer gazed at the fire for a long moment. He reached his hands out to the blaze at first tentatively, then eagerly. Kevla again noted that the fingers on his right hand, which had held the knife to her throat, were bare; the rags with which he had wrapped them had been burned o
ff. His hand seemed to be unharmed. His fingers were filthy. Dirt was caked under the nails, embedded in the creases. Kevla thought of how meticulously groomed the people of the House of Four Waters were, down to the lowest servant—herself. Jareth looked—and smelled—worse than the basest beggar on the streets of Arukan.

  She tried to soften her initial revulsion by rationalization. He had left his village to wander in the woods for months—she didn’t know how long, exactly. There were no stonesteaming huts in the forests to sweat out the dirt, and to try to bathe with the snow or water from the icy lakes would be to court death. Of course he was dirty.

  But she sensed it was more than that. If such things had mattered to Jareth, he would have found a way to stay at least somewhat clean. She was looking at him out of the corner of her eye, and at that moment, he sensed her gaze and gave her stare for stare.

  Kevla could not hold that blue gaze and quickly turned her attention to ladling out stew. It was a meal she had grown weary of days ago, but it was easy to prepare, nourishing, hot, and made good use of their rations. She handed a bowl to Jareth, who took it wordlessly with his grimy fingers.

  He sniffed it and something in him seemed to come to life. He ate ravenously, spilling on his beard and the front of his shirt. Kevla felt her lip curl in involuntary disgust. She and the others were only halfway through when he stuck out the bowl and demanded, “More.”

  Silently she refilled the bowl and once again Jareth swiftly downed the stew. Kevla wondered how long it had been since he had eaten. When he extended the bowl for a third helping, she said, “No.”

  Jareth’s eyes widened in anger. Altan said quickly, “Kevla, he probably hasn’t eaten for days.”

  “We don’t have that much food left, Altan. Besides, if he eats too much too quickly it will come back up again, doing none of us any good. If everyone else has had their fill, you may have some more in a while, Jareth.”

  “You speak to me like I’m a child,” he growled.

  You’re behaving like one, Kevla thought, but did not say it. She wondered how she would begin the conversation she needed to have with him; how she would manage to convey to this dirty, half-mad man that he had a destiny that would demand more of him than she suspected he was willing to give.

  One thing was certain—it would not happen tonight. A few minutes after he had eaten the second bowl of soup, Jareth’s eyes started to close. He struggled against sleep, but after a while Altan urged him to lie down. The mighty Stone Dancer, the Spring-Bringer, nodded in agreement, sighed deeply, and stretched out on the blanket. Gently, as if he were tucking a child in for a nap, Altan wrapped Jareth in the furs. Within a few moments, Jareth’s breathing became deep and regular.

  “He’s asleep,” Altan said quietly. “Thank the gods.” He rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder for a moment.

  “I can’t believe this,” said Mylikki. “I thought…” She seemed unable to even complete the sentence. Her kyndela rested on her lap, but she didn’t touch the strings.

  “He wasn’t always like this,” Altan said softly. He reached for his own kyndela and began to play quietly. “He was powerful…amazing…strong. I can’t imagine what he’s been through.” He looked at Kevla. “You were right. He did leave to find the gods. He was trying to get them to bring his family back to life.”

  Kevla looked at the Dragon, knowing he sensed her feelings. I am disappointed too, Flame Dancer. But at least he is alive. At least he has not become one of the raving madmen in the woods.

  That’s a matter of opinion, if he really did try to do what Altan said. You told me he was ready, she accused.

  The Dragon shrugged. You sensed him as well as I. As did Jashemi. He was the one we were supposed to find first. Perhaps it was not because he was ready, but because he needs our help to become ready.

  I am not a nursemaid!

  Nor is he an infant. He is a man grown, Kevla, who has had terrible things happen to him.

  “I’ve had terrible things happen to me too, and I am here!” Kevla cried aloud. Altan and Mylikki stared at her, startled at her outburst, and she felt heat rise in her cheeks. Jareth, however, continued to sleep, for which Kevla was grateful.

  After a long, awkward moment, Altan said haltingly, “Kevla…he’s been wandering alone for many months. He’s climbed the mountain range by himself, in the depths of this awful winter. He’s lost so much weight, who knows what he’s been eating or even if he’s been eating. Give him a little time to recover before you judge him.”

  Kevla’s embarrassment was suddenly replaced by a wave of grief and rage.

  “You have no idea what I have been through,” she said, her voice thick. “You have no idea what my life was like. I feel for Jareth, but from everything you told me he has led a charmed life until the last year. I was born the lowest of the low among my people. I have been beaten, locked up, and had my death ordered by my own father who thought me a demon. I was tied to a stake and fire was lit at my feet. If I hadn’t been the Flame Dancer I’d have been burned alive. I have been loved by and loved only one person in my life—one person, Altan!—and I killed him when I tried to express that love. And here I am, ready to do what I must do, and I have no time to coddle this Spring-Bringer. You know what is at stake here. He doesn’t have the luxury of indulging his grief right now. None of us does.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to give the lie to her angry words. Kevla did not want them to see her cry. She rose and stalked off, sitting at the edge of the clearing. The Dragon followed, lowering his head all the way to the snow as he spoke, so that the words would be for her alone.

  “Dear heart, I grieve with you,” he said, his deep voice gentle. “I am part of this trinity as well, and I too long for Jashemi. But not as keenly as you do.”

  Kevla buried her face in her hands, her slim shoulders shaking with violent paroxysms of grief. She couldn’t speak.

  I miss him so much, Dragon! It rips at my heart every single day. I try to force this awful sense of loss down, but it comes back up, sometimes at the worst possible moment. Like tonight. I feel as though my insides have been torn out. He was my Lorekeeper, he was my great love. There was no one who knew me better than he. And I killed him! He would be alive today if not for me and my selfish desires!

  You don’t know that for certain, Flame Dancer. We all have our destinies. Perhaps this was Jashemi’s.

  That’s not true and you know it, Dragon. Jashemi said as much to me in the vision. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. He was not born to be my lover, he was born to be something else entirely. And we corrupted that.

  Your culture rendered that relationship impossible, if you were to truly fulfill your destiny, Kevla. Try to be more compassionate with yourself and with Jareth.

  I don’t know that I have any compassion left, Dragon. I don’t know that I have anything left at all.

  After a long time, Kevla returned to the fire. She sat back down in silence. Above them, the sky was clear and crowded with stars.

  “I apologize,” Kevla said formally. “My outburst was inappropriate and served no purpose.”

  Altan glared at her, his arm around the sleeping Jareth. “You’re right about that. You almost woke him up and he needs sleep.” Altan turned to his friend and stroked his shoulder.

  “Yes it did,” Mylikki said quickly, to take the sting out of Altan’s harsh words. “It let us know a little bit more about you, Kevla. It made you seem a lot more human to us. I’m sure Jareth will be better by tomorrow. He just needs some food and rest. You’ll see.”

  Kevla did not answer. Altan’s outburst had surprised her, though it shouldn’t have. Jareth was important to him—perhaps as more than a friend. And certainly they were all exhausted and hungry.

  She looked up at the stars. A faint pulse of color told her that once again, the gods would be playing in the skies tonight.

  The Lorekeeper gazed upward, her eyes transfixed on the dancing lights. He spoke to her throu
gh them, and she wondered what she would learn tonight.

  “You have done well, Lorekeeper,” the Emperor said, his language a pulsing pattern in the sky. “I am very pleased. Soon, he will be yours. You do not need to fear losing him to this Flame Dancer.”

  The Lorekeeper dragged her eyes from the dancing lights to look at Kevla. She lay on the blanket, looking at the sky, seeing nothing more than pretty lights. The Lorekeeper struggled between liking Kevla and hating what the Flame Dancer symbolized. The Lorekeeper permitted herself to look at the man she loved, and her heart swelled. He couldn’t truly see her yet, couldn’t appreciate the depth of her love for him. But soon. The Emperor promised, soon.

  “They trust you. They can’t see who you really are. Listen, and I will tell you what you must do next.”

  The Lorekeeper listened, her face turned up to the sky, her fingers absently caressing her kyndela and her eyes wide with rapture.

  21

  Kevla awoke feeling as if she hadn’t slept at all. For a moment she wondered why she was so tired, then recalled her outburst. The horrible emptiness of loss stabbed her again, and she rubbed her face and sighed as she sat up. Jareth would—

  He was gone.

  “Jareth!” she cried, waking the others. They had all fallen asleep beside the fire, and the Dragon had settled over them to provide shelter, as he had most nights during this arduous journey. Now there was an empty hollow in the snow where Jareth had lain.

  “Do not distress yourself,” came the Dragon’s familiar rumbling voice. “The Stone Dancer and I are having an interesting conversation.” He sat back, rearing above them, and Kevla saw Jareth securely held in one massive forepaw. He didn’t look at all afraid of being clutched by a giant monster; he looked angry. The Dragon lowered him to the ground and released him.