In Stone's Clasp

by Christie Golden

  Her legs buckled and he eased her to the ground.

  “But this is the path that unfolded,” she cried, “the path that led to your death. Whether I hold you in my heart as a lover or a brother, you are still lost to me!”

  “But the Lorekeeper won’t be,” Jashemi said. “Do you remember what I said to you, when I first left for battle?”

  The memory of this boy holding her hands, palms moist, gazing into her eyes and whispering fiercely, “We are not done with each other yet,” returned to Kevla. They had been alone in the night, with no one to witness this urgent pledge but the stars. It had been a rare, poignant, precious moment in her life, one that she cherished. One in which she and Jashemi connected as children, not as adults.

  “Of course I remember,” she said.

  “Then know this—those words are as true as when I first spoke them,” he told her, holding her face between his hands. “We are not done with each other yet. But you must choose, Kevla. You must choose how you will hold me. Keep me in your heart as Jashemi, the man you love, whose touch you crave and for whose arms you hunger, and I will stay there. The memory of the bliss we shared will not fade. This, I swear to you. But you will have lost Jashemi the brother, the Lorekeeper, and you will keep your own sense of guilt as close to your heart as my memory.”

  He stepped back, and split into two images. “Choose,” they said as one.

  Kevla collapsed in a heap. How could she possibly choose between the lover she had adored with every fiber of her being and the man who was brother and Lorekeeper? How could they ask such a thing of her? Either way, she would lose something precious. If she chose to remember her lover, she would lose a life she ought to have lived, but never had. She would lose a source of wisdom, comfort, and strength.

  But if she chose to remember her Lorekeeper, she would be turning her back on the single experience in her short life that had brought her the most joy and pain she had ever known.

  “I can’t,” she cried, her voice raw. “Do not make me do this, if ever you loved me. Do not make me choose!”

  “It is because we love you that we are asking this of you,” said the Lorekeeper.

  “We cannot bear to see you in such torment,” her lover replied. “Choose, and there will be peace.”

  For a long time, Kevla huddled on the earth, wishing that she would awaken from this vision that she knew to be a vision, longing for a way to escape the impossible choice they had foisted upon her. But there was no merciful awakening to be had, only a pain that grew more and more unbearable.

  Finally, Kevla stumbled to her feet, looking at each version of Jashemi-kha-Tahmu in turn. Tears poured unheeded down her face.

  She made her choice.

  Stepping forward, she placed her head on the bare chest of the man she had loved more than life itself. She listened to his heartbeat, strong and fast against her ear, then kissed him there, feeling the skin smooth and supple against her lips, tasting the saltiness of his sweat. He cupped her face in his hands, tilted back his head, and kissed her. Kevla opened fully to the joy rushing through her, and when Jashemi broke the kiss, she gazed into his eyes and said, “I love you with all my heart, Jashemi-kha-Tahmu. Please forgive me.”

  She stepped back. It was the hardest thing she had ever done in her life.

  He forced a smile. “I did and do, beloved.”

  And then he was gone.

  The pain was devastating. Dizziness washed over her and she would have fallen had not a pair of strong arms caught her. She looked up into the face of her brother—a perfect replica of the man she had loved, but so different-seeming to her now.

  “He said I was his soul,” Kevla said brokenly to this man who was both strange and profoundly familiar to her.

  Her brother smiled through his own tears of sympathy. Pressing a comforting kiss on her forehead, he said, “He was almost right. I am your soul, Flame Dancer. And by embracing this aspect of me, you will have me with you always.”

  She stared at him, uncomprehending, shaking, heartsick, overwhelmed by what she had just done. Gently he lowered her to the earth and pulled her close to him. She snuggled into his embrace, and then the wonder happened.

  Kevla felt the guilt and shame detach themselves from her and float away, as if they were something physical. The arms that held her were strong and comforting, even though she knew none of this could be real. Her heart was suddenly full of love for Jashemi again, but this time, it was a love that she knew to be pure and sacred; a love that she could fully embrace. The terrible, ripping ache inside her was gone. Only warmth and acceptance lingered there now. She let out her breath in a long, quavering sigh, and surrendered to this sensation.

  “Do you remember what I said to you, the first time we met in this world that is not the world?” he whispered in her ear.

  “You told me that I needed to let go of the form you took when you were flesh,” Kevla said. “I understand that now. I didn’t—I couldn’t—then.”

  “Our love is beyond the physical, Flame Dancer,” Jashemi whispered, as he had done before. “Death cannot stop it. It hasn’t before and it won’t now. I ever existed to love and serve you. And even though I am no longer flesh…I still do.”

  The Flame Dancer held her Lorekeeper, her soul, and wept with joy.

  27

  “Kevla?”

  The voice was familiar, but Kevla somehow didn’t want to hear it. She frowned and snuggled back down against the warm, soft blanket that cradled her body.

  “Kevla, wake up. We need to get going soon.”

  She blinked sleepily and looked up. Standing against the sky and sun was the shape of a man. His position prevented her from seeing his features, but she saw that he was tall, with broad shoulders. The sun caught his hair and made it glow in a circlet of gold about his shadowed face.

  “Come, now, you’ll sleep the day away. Perhaps I should have gone on without you.”

  Kevla became fully awake. The mysterious man wreathed in shadow ceased to be a mystery; it was only Jareth, come to waken her so that they could climb a mountain and he could confront his god. She sighed, missing the comfort of her Lorekeeper, who would now come only to her in dreams and visions.

  Jareth extended a hand to help her up. She was a little unsteady; she had slept quite deeply and one foot was slightly numb from lack of blood. Quickly, Jareth caught her, slipping a hand around her waist.

  “Thank you,” she said, gently disengaging herself.

  He smothered a smile as his eyes took in her face. “Looks like you had a very restful night.” He tapped his right cheek, and for a moment Kevla didn’t understand what he meant. Then her hand went to her face and she found the deep creases there. She had slept so soundly, a blanket fold had left its mark on her face. She laughed, surprised and amused and embarrassed all at once. Jareth let his own face ease into a smile.

  Kevla didn’t miss it. He looked well rested also, as if some of the burden that had been laid upon him had lifted, ever so slightly.

  “How about you?” asked Kevla. “The Dragon told me to pay attention to my dreams. Did you dream anything interesting?”

  She couldn’t decipher his look. “Let’s get going.”

  He strode off, his body tall and straight and defiant, daring the world to take a swing at him. Kevla sighed and followed him back to the encampment.

  The taaskali, the Dragon, Mylikki and Altan were all sitting around a crackling fire. A pleasant aroma rose from the cauldron. She watched with amusement as Altan ran a finger around the bowl, making sure he got every last bite.

  The cauldron contained cooked, sweetened milk, and there was something else in it as well. Kevla took a taste and could not suppress a soft sound of delight. Rich with spices that teased the nostrils, it slipped down the throat easily. Best of all, there appeared to be plenty of it.

  “It’s some sort of concoction of eggs and milk and dried fruit,” Mylikki said.

  “It’s certainly better than grains,”
said Altan.

  Kevla ate every bite, and handed out her bowl for more when Jareth went to get seconds.

  I haven’t seen you eat like that since I held you in the heart of the mountain, came the Dragon’s affectionate thoughts.

  Kevla smiled as she spooned up another mouthful of the creamy concoction. I remember. You wanted to know if I wanted an entire sandcow for dinner.

  Eat your fill of anything the taaskali give you. It is wholesome and nourishing.

  Magical? She turned to look at him.

  He hesitated. Say rather…blessed. Kevla nodded her understanding. Kevla…

  Yes?

  I know what you dreamed last night. I am proud of you.

  Even though the food still tasted wonderful, Kevla suddenly found it hard to swallow. It was the most difficult decision I have ever had to make. I know I made the right choice. I can sense him in my being now, somehow. And that is a sweet thing. But to lose one aspect of him in order to keep another…Oh, Dragon, I don’t even remember what his touch felt like. And I will never know that kind of touch from anyone ever again.

  A very definitive statement from one so young, thought the Dragon.

  She looked at him, angry and hurt. You know what happened when we—I can’t be with anyone like that, ever. My pleasure is lethal to others. I am condemned to a life without that, and now even my memory of what that felt like has been changed so that it seems like it happened to someone else.

  The world is wide and you are young, dear heart.

  Has…has the Flame Dancer ever before taken a lover without…

  She sensed his sorrow as he sent, You were the first incarnation of the Flame Dancer who was intimate with another.

  Kevla resisted the urge to surrender to self-pity. She had a task ahead of her. What did it matter if she never felt the tender touch of a lover again? At least she had reached peace with Jashemi, whom she would hold forever as a brother, Lorekeeper, and friend. In the end, she knew she had gained more than she had lost.

  “Are you all right?” It was Jareth, looking at her with concern in his blue eyes. She nodded quickly and finished eating her meal.

  The selva seemed to ignore them today, ambling about like ordinary creatures and digging in the snow with their large hooves.

  “What are they finding to eat?” Kevla asked Hanru as she watched them. He was busy assembling sacks for them to take on their journey.

  “A type of plant grows on the stones,” Hanru told her. “The selva feed on this during the winter, even this strange winter. They are very determined to locate it on their own. If you were to scrape some into your hand and offer it to them, they would not eat it.” He looked up from his now-completed task. “Is everyone finished?”

  Jareth looked down at his fourth bowl of food. “Almost,” he said, devouring what was left. When he was done, he, Mylikki, Altan and Kevla went over to Hanru’s side.

  He looked at them keenly. “You have the least experience with snow and ice,” he said to Kevla. She nodded. “This will not be an easy undertaking. I again say to you, Jareth will confront the tiger alone. If any of you wish to stay behind, we will make you welcome.”

  No one moved. Altan folded his arms across his chest, and Mylikki looked down at her feet. Hanru sighed.

  “Very well. Let me give you a few lessons in how to use these tools. They could save your life.”

  Kevla paid close attention as Hanru described how to strap small metal hooks to their boots, to get a better grip on the ice. She hefted the small pick, and practiced with it to get a feel for how to use it. Thus far, the day was clear, but if bad weather were to strike, they would tie themselves together with rope and huddle close. The more she learned, the more apprehensive she grew. At one point, she stole a glance at Jareth. He had already climbed this path once before, alone, with no tools such as these. She wasn’t sure if she should admire him or think him a fool. Probably a bit of both.

  At last they were ready to depart. Hanru assured them it would not be far, at least not as the selva traveled. Even as he spoke, two selva, pulling a strange cart behind them, approached.

  “It has skeltha on it!” Kevla said, then wondered why she should be so surprised. It made perfect sense. With two animals to pull the cart, it should speed along the snow.

  The five of them got in. Kevla looked back at the Dragon, who sat up on his haunches and inclined his head in farewell.

  The sun made its feeble ascent into the sky, hugging the horizon. The skeltha-cart moved with amazing speed, almost flying over the snow, and the world moved past swiftly. Part of Jareth wanted to be amazed at the selva, at the taaskali, at the dream which had come to him last night like a healing draft. But already the dream’s soft tendrils had disengaged themselves from his thoughts. He was close to the goal now, and he would focus on this and this alone.

  He had made this trek before, alone, struggling through storms that seemed calculated to thwart his progress. But now the sun was shining, such as it was, and by the time it set, he would have confronted the god.

  He wondered why only one had consented to see him, but reasoned that one was sufficient. Unobtrusively, he slid his hand beneath his cloak to touch the large, freshly sharpened knife secure in its hilt. If the god refused him, he would attack. Jareth knew that if it came to this, it would be a foolish gesture; he would die in the attempt.

  But at least he would have made that attempt. He had clung fast to the hope the remembrances of his family, whispered to him at night by flower and soil and stone, had kept alive. Something was very wrong with this world, something so out of harmony with the natural order of things that his land would soon die if things were not put right. And if he could not restore the natural cycles to the land—could not undo what the strange storm had done and bring back the people he loved most in the world—what point was there in living? Without that…

  He shuddered involuntarily. Altan was seated next to him and looked at his friend with concern. “Cold?” he asked.

  Jareth shook his head, but made no further reply. Altan sighed and sank back further into the seat, his face troubled. In front of him sat Kevla and Mylikki. Jareth had not gotten to know the female kyndela player well at all; he had no interest in getting to know anyone. But even he noticed how she huddled in the seat, silent and miserable. And he’d noticed too that the selva had not chosen her last night to offer their warmth and, apparently, dreams. He’d known Altan all the boy’s life, and was used to the strange, sudden mood shifts that came upon him. Apparently, Mylikki wasn’t, and was hurting from them.

  Kevla often wore her hair long and loose, but today, she had braided it and it fell in a long rope down the back of the seat. It looked soft and silky, and gleamed with red highlights. For some reason, the shiny black-red length fascinated Jareth and he wanted to touch it. He reached forward, grasped the thick braid, and tossed it back over Kevla’s shoulder. He didn’t want the distraction. She glanced back and smiled, and suddenly heat surged through him. By the gods, she is beautiful. He nodded briefly, then turned his attention again to the mountains and away from the unexpected brush of physical desire.

  Sooner than even Jareth had dared hope, they arrived at the foot of the mountains. He looked up at the chain as it stretched as far he could see, and realized that there was a trail that he had not noticed before. It made sense. The taaskali were closer to the gods than mere humans. They would know the hidden paths to reach the divine beings that played among the stars.

  Jareth helped Hanru unload the equipment. The taaskal unfastened the two gleaming selva, stroked their necks affectionately, and whispered in their ears. Snorting, they trotted away and began to forage for the moss.

  “They will not stray, and will come when I ask them to,” Hanru assured them. “Now. Let us be about this.” He turned around and pointed upward. “That is where we need to be.”

  Everyone craned their necks to see a tall peak, far in the distance, jagged and white against the sky. It seemed to be
a thousand leagues distant, and Jareth felt a pang of panic.

  “If we move at a good pace,” Hanru continued, “we should be able to reach the peak and descend before nightfall. I am certain none of you wishes to be climbing in the dark.”

  “Couldn’t we make camp if we don’t get back in time?” It was Kevla, looking with concern at Mylikki. “I can create sufficient heat to keep us warm through the night.”

  “Perhaps. But even the brightest blaze cannot protect us from wind and snow and lack of food.”

  “We’ll get there and back in time,” Altan said firmly. Mylikki looked nervous. Jareth gazed at the peak a moment longer, envisioning a blue Tiger standing atop it.

  Hanru handed them their equipment, showed them how to strap the packs to their backs, and demonstrated how to maneuver themselves in the boots, kicking them firmly into the snow and ice for better purchase. Jareth gave the lesson his full attention. He did not want to be slowed or stopped for a lack of education in how to maneuver up the icy path. He had to curb his impatience with the others, especially Kevla, to whom all this was completely alien, as they practiced and Hanru pronounced them ready to ascend. He wished again that he had gone only with Hanru. But Kevla was somehow part of this; more and more, he was convinced she was the woman in his dreams, who had changed into a tiger. Altan was stubborn enough to make good his promise of following by himself, and Mylikki went where Altan went. It was unfortunate, but he could see no way around it.

  “I will lead,” Hanru announced. “Mylikki, you follow me, then Altan and Kevla. Jareth, you bring up the rear. Is everyone ready?”

  Jareth knew why Hanru wanted him last—so that he could not move ahead faster than the group. He looked up at the top of the peak. Even as he regarded it, he saw the wind catch and lazily swirl snow.