In Stone's Clasp

by Christie Golden

  “I’m going,” he said flatly. “You can stay here if you want to, but I’m going.”’

  Mylikki felt a deep ache in her chest, and knew the answer before the words left her chilled lips.

  “All right. Let’s go.”

  He turned his attention from her to the Companions. Still deep in conversation, they continued to ignore the two humans. Altan’s hand tightened on Mylikki’s, and her heart sped up suddenly.

  “Now,” he growled, and they dove forward.

  Mylikki landed face-first in snow that had been trampled by dozens of feet. Coughing, she looked up and her eyes widened. Before her was a dark, dead forest, gleaming from its coating of frozen water, and up ahead loomed a castle that looked to be made entirely of ice.

  Kevla and Jareth were nowhere to be seen.

  Suddenly Mylikki realized just what an enormous mistake they had made. She got unsteadily to her feet and brushed off the snow, quivering with anger and fear.

  “Altan, this was an incredibly stupid thing to do!”

  She looked up and a small cry escaped her.

  Where Altan had stood was now a slender young woman his same age. Long, golden curls tumbled down her back. She wore Altan’s tunic, Altan’s cloak, though now the tunic strained against a pair of firm young breasts and the breeches were too short.

  “Yes,” said the girl who had Altan’s eyes, smiling coldly at Mylikki’s expression, “it was.”

  33

  Mylikki awoke to agony.

  Her head throbbed with each heartbeat, and her vision was blurry. She blinked several times and with an effort lifted her aching head, hissing with pain.

  She tried to move and realized that she was tied to a tree. Her wrists and ankles were also bound, and in her numb hands she clutched a waterskin of some kind. She heard someone moving behind her and memory flooded back in a sickening rush—the shock at entering this strange place, and turning to behold the girl who had looked so much like Altan. Probably it had been she who had struck Mylikki with something hard.

  “There, that should hold you,” came a voice. Mylikki felt bile rise in her throat. The girl stepped around to where Mylikki could see her and gazed down at her captive.

  Mylikki stared back, trying to comprehend what had just happened. “Who—who are you? Where is Altan?”

  “My name is Ilta,” said the woman. “And Altan’s here.” She tapped her chest.

  Tears filled Mylikki’s eyes. She tried to close the lids against them but they escaped. They felt hot against her chilled face. She was so tired, in so much pain—

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

  The girl squatted beside her. “Look at me,” she demanded. “Can you see it?”

  Mylikki obeyed the order, blinking the tears back. She swallowed. “You look like Altan. Where is he?”

  “I should. I’m his sister. For almost twenty years I’ve been trapped inside his body, but now, here in this place, it’s my turn. Mylikki. Mylikki, curse it, listen to me!”

  Mylikki’s eyes had closed again. She forced them open, forced herself to pay attention to the ravings of the madwoman, terror slowly filling her.

  “He loved you, you know,” Ilta said, conversationally. “He kept trying to be with you. But I just couldn’t let that happen. If he had something—someone—to live for, he’d fight me harder for possession of his body, and I have to have it. But I am sorry. This wasn’t about you. You just had the bad luck to get in my way.”

  Mylikki’s skin prickled. This was insanity—or was it? The girl looked so very much like Altan…and she was wearing his clothing. Sickly, Mylikki recalled how suddenly Altan’s mood could shift from sweet to hostile. She thought of the words Altan had uttered when Kevla had warmed him, words that now made a horrible kind of sense—Big hands, too crowded. She thought of their kiss, how he had seemed to almost…become…another person right in front of her eyes….

  Become Ilta.

  Ilta gestured to the waterskin. “If you want to make it quick, drink that. It’s not poison, but it will put you to sleep almost at once. You won’t feel the cold that way.”

  Mylikki stared at the waterskin. “I’m not drinking this.”

  “Look, I told you, this isn’t about you. But Altan is inside my body here, not the other way around. And he’s not coming to rescue you. The Dragon and the Tiger can’t get into the circle, and Jareth and Kevla are—otherwise occupied. You’re going to die here, Mylikki. How you die is your choice. You can sit and freeze to death fully conscious, or you can go to sleep. I don’t care which you choose.”

  She rose, sighed, and placed her hands on her hips. “Too bad he liked you so much,” she said, and strode off into the snow, her slender body moving with Altan’s gait. Mylikki stared until the slim figure disappeared into the snow, then turned her gaze again to the waterskin. She had no cloak, nothing to protect her from the aching cold and stinging snow.

  “I’m not drinking this,” she repeated.

  Ilta Lukkari walked with a joyful step. She reveled in her woman’s body, the body that ought to have been hers, the body that would have been hers had the birth cord not twined itself insidiously around her infant neck. She still remembered that moment, sentient in the womb, with full and complete knowledge of who she was and who she had been, sensing death coming closer by the moment. Back to back with her twin she lay, feeling his warmth, his life, secure and unthreatened.

  This could not—would not—happen. She was the Stone Dancer’s Lorekeeper, and she refused to let something as trivial as death keep her from physically being with the Dancer in this fifth and final incarnation.

  So the Lorekeeper had foisted the essence of herself, the Dancer’s very soul, into the body of the healthy twin. The one who would cry with a lusty wail that would proclaim him to be a future huskaa.

  The one who got to live.

  Altan Lukkari did not walk through life alone, though he was blissfully ignorant of that fact. Ilta watched and waited, hidden in a distant corner of Altan’s being, seeing everything he did.

  And sometimes, she forced her way out.

  When she did so, Altan was completely unaware of it. He told no one of these strange “blackouts,” these moments where time had passed and he had been utterly ignorant of what his body had been doing. Ilta was careful not to do anything too drastic to the body while she was in control of it. Altan was not stupid, and he would sense something wrong if she was not careful. If she pushed too hard, he would confide in someone, and that could ruin everything.

  She felt him stir within her, felt his dawning understanding of the situation. She felt the shock, and finally, a demand that she return his body to him.

  Sorry, Altan, she said. It’s my turn now.

  And even as she had the thought, Ilta paused. She did feel bad for Mylikki. The girl hadn’t done anything except fall in love with Altan. And Altan wanted to be with her.

  I’ll tell you what, she thought to the second soul that shared one body. We can make a deal. This is his place. I’ll bet he can separate us. Give you your own body back. Then you can be with Mylikki, and I can be with Jareth. We’ll both be happy. It can all be as it was supposed to have been, before—

  Her hand went to her throat and found no tightening cord about it, but her breathing was suddenly difficult.

  Mylikki? Ilta let him see what she had done with the girl, and Altan’s outrage made her stumble.

  She’s just an innocent girl! How could you do this to her?

  Because you loved her, and if you had her, I would never have gotten your body, Ilta thought. But you can have her if you like, Altan. She doesn’t need to die. You can be with her and—

  And stay here? Altan shot back. Stay in this unreal world, this place of fantasy and illusion? What about the Shadow, Ilta? It’s coming, and Jareth needs to stand against it. You’re his Lorekeeper! You’re supposed to help him, share your knowledge, be his support. And instead you’re tricking him with lies and deceptions
!

  Ilta’s fury was so powerful she stumbled. It’s not a lie! I love him! I’ve loved him before and I love him now! Do you think your affection for him was your own, you fool?

  Shocked silence.

  Ilta was angry now. She was in the position of power. She’d tried to bargain with Altan out of affection for the boy who should have been her twin brother, but now she was tired of it.

  It’s over. This body belongs to me now, and it will appear the way I want it to here. And I want to be female.

  Ilta, I’m sorry you died, I’m sorry you can’t get to be with Jareth, but stealing my body is not the answer! You’ve got to let him fulfill his destiny!

  Stupid, stupid to think she could reason with him. Altan had been corrupted by Kevla, was going to let Jareth go with the fire-woman to his death, to the death of everything.

  No. Jareth was going nowhere. Ilta would keep him here, with her. Forever.

  She felt him probing deeper, seeing things that she did not want him to see, and for an instant felt her control over him slipping.

  Ilta…oh, gods, what have you done…you’re insane. You’ve gone mad. Ilta, you have to—

  She roared in fury and dropped to all fours in the snow, forcing Altan back down into the darkest corner of her being. Locking him away. She had tried this before; tried to take over his body, claim it for her own. Before, in that other world, she had failed. But here, in his realm, she had greater strength. She felt Altan struggle, heard him cry out inside her in a soundless voice, and finally locked him away and slammed the door closed on him.

  She was suddenly, violently sick.

  Shaking, Ilta wiped her mouth with snow and got to her feet, weaving drunkenly. She mentally searched for Altan inside her. She found nothing, and a smile touched her lips. She’d either destroyed him or completely subdued him. It didn’t matter which. Either way, Altan was no longer a problem.

  Ilta had always been jealous of her twin’s ability to be with the Stone Dancer when she couldn’t; be with the handsome, fair-haired man named Jareth Vasalen in this lifetime. To speak to him, to touch him.

  Jareth!

  Ilta couldn’t wait until this was all over. The Ice Maiden would deal with the troublesome Kevla, she was certain. Jareth thought he had to leave with Kevla, to stand against the Shadow. But he was wrong. There was a way around it. She knew it, and her ally the Emperor knew it. And then, after too many years, Jareth would finally see his Lorekeeper in her true form.

  And he would love her.

  He had to.

  He always had before.

  Kevla had never felt so weak, so drained, in her entire life. But she did not dare stop moving forward, stop forcing the trees to yield their thick coating of ice. The moment she did, she knew the coating with its sharp, icicle points would return. She also needed to watch where she stepped. The trees had roots that were also slick with ice. One slip, and she would stumble, impaling herself on the branches that were as sharp as huge thorns.

  Step forward. Put feet between slick roots. Touch overhanging branches, preparing for them to spring back once the ice has gone. Hold the heat, hold it, send it out, take another step….

  Jareth was never more than a handsbreadth behind her, and more than once she heard him hiss as he was not fast enough to evade an unnaturally sharp tree branch freezing behind him. The strain was getting to him as well.

  “Are you all right?” she asked at one point, craning her neck for a quick backward glance.

  “Just keep going, don’t worry about me,” he said. His eyes were on his feet, making sure his steps were secure. His hands and arms were bleeding from numerous cuts, and she could see wisps of smoke curling up from his clothes where they had gotten singed. Even the cloak was not immune to the kind of magical heat Kevla was emitting.

  Step by slow, careful, tortuous step they went. At one point, Kevla’s foot landed on one of the icy roots. Her feet shot out from under her and she tumbled forward. She cried out, seeing a dagger-sharp broken branch rushing toward her unprotected face. An instant before it jabbed itself into her eye, she was halted by powerful arms around her. Her breath was forced out with a whoosh.

  Her mind went back to the last time Jareth had seized her around the waist. Then, she had been terrified at the strength of the arm that had come out of nowhere. Now, she was deeply thankful as she stared, not moving, hardly daring to blink, at the icicle jutting a bare finger’s width from her right eye.

  Jareth understood why she remained so still. Slowly, carefully, he pulled her upright and held her briefly against him. She squeezed his arm and then quickly stepped forward, seeing that the ice was already starting to return as punishment for her brief lapse in attention.

  The Dancers were not all-powerful, despite their gifts. They were mortal flesh, and could be hurt. Could be killed. Kevla was keenly aware that, in her previous incarnation, she had been stabbed to death in an alleyway. Just a few months ago, she herself had lain at the brink of death because of a single arrow. And arrows of ice were all around them.

  She spared a quick thought for the Dragon, wondering if their link would continue here. But for the first time since she had rediscovered her old friend, she could not sense him. She and Jareth were truly on their own here.

  At last, after what seemed an eternity, she thought she saw an opening ahead.

  “I think we’re coming to the end,” she called to Jareth.

  “Not a moment too soon.”

  “Something could be waiting for us. We should be ready for an attack or ambush.”

  Jareth made a noise she couldn’t interpret. She kept going forward, gritting her teeth against the necessity that made her move so slowly when she longed to race toward the light that kept drawing closer and closer.

  She wanted to stop, to assess what might be waiting for them when they stepped out of the dead forest and into the snow up ahead, but she did not dare.

  “I can’t stop and listen,” she said, trying to keep her voice as low as possible. It was a shame she could not mentally communicate with Jareth as she could the Dragon, she thought.

  “I understand,” he said back, also speaking quietly into her ear. “When you get close to the entrance, just rush out. Not the best strategy, but the only one we have. I’ll be right behind you.”

  She nodded. It was growing lighter now. She was sure Jareth, who was slightly taller than she, could see it as well.

  “A few more steps,” he said. His voice was a soft breeze in her ear. She took a deep breath, took two more steps, and then leaped forward into the snow, tense and alert.

  The two rows of men who flanked the exit of the forest were still as stone. Quivering with exhaustion, tasting fear that her power might not come anymore when she asked, Kevla raised a hand to blast them.

  Jareth’s hand shot out to close on her wrist. Wildly she stared at him. Why was he stopping her?

  “They’re not attacking us,” Jareth said in a low voice. “Remember, they’re just men who are under her control. I don’t want to kill any of them if we can help it.”

  Kevla blinked and nodded her understanding. He released her arm. As she lowered it, she saw that he was right. None of the men was moving to stop them. Now that she had a moment to look at them, she felt sorry for them. They were clad in poor clothes, certainly not enough to properly protect them from this bitter cold. Some had fingers and faces that were turning black from something Kevla knew was called “ice-poison.” They had no scimitars, or swords, or shields like any proper clansman in Arukan would have with which to fight, only farmer’s tools and arrows. They stood, vacant-eyed, one across from the other, forming a corridor that led directly into the castle.

  “She knows we’re here,” Jareth said.

  “Yes, she does,” came a loud, arrogant voice that Kevla knew and shrank from. “And so do I.”

  “The Emperor,” Kevla whispered.

  34

  Jareth glanced at Kevla. The color was draining from her f
ace as she spoke and her eyes were wide. He’d never seen her display this kind of fear before and his own heart sank. She had mentioned the Emperor to him as someone they needed to regard as an enemy, of course, but he’d gotten the impression that this man, if man he was, was a distant threat. Clearly Kevla had not been expecting him here.

  “Come forward,” came the arrogant voice again. Jareth looked around, but could find no speaker. “She has willingly granted an audience with you today.”

  Jareth looked back at Kevla. She had regained some of her composure and had straightened, standing tall and doing her best not to reveal her fear. Admiration swept through him. When they had done what they had come to do, he would tell her so.

  If they survived.

  “I would suggest you make haste, Dancers. The Maiden does not like to be kept waiting. It makes her…testy.”

  A low, rumbling chuckle rolled like distant thunder, and abruptly Jareth’s trepidation was replaced by irritation. He decided he did not like this Emperor. The shift in feeling heartened him.

  He and Kevla moved forward, doing their best to stride boldly in the snow. The castle towered before them, and Jareth thought with a burst of grim humor that at the very least, they’d be out of the apparently ceaseless fall of snow.

  The castle itself was a work of art, he thought as he and Kevla drew closer. He had never seen anything like it. There were spires and turrets, walkways and arches, all gleaming and sparkling. The windows were as clear as if they had been made of glass, although he suspected that, like everything, it was merely transparent ice. They carefully negotiated slippery ice steps and stood in the entrance. Mammoth white doors swung open as if of their own accord and a hall yawned before them.

  Suddenly everything changed.

  He was standing in his own home, back in Skalka Valley, and he heard the cheerful sound of a crackling fire. And he was not alone.