In Stone's Clasp

by Christie Golden

  The miles fell beneath his running feet, each step bringing him closer to his revenge. He knew exactly where he was headed. At last, he slowed, catching his breath, and walked the last few steps into a clearing.

  The trees had not been kind in their capture. Their branches looked like deformed hands and they grasped Altan’s arms tightly. One of the boy’s arms was jerked backward at a painful-looking angle and he wept quietly. He had lost his footing and hung suspended by his arms, his knees bent and toes scrabbling for purchase. Hatred washed over Jareth, hot and vital and pure.

  “You killed my family,” Jareth spat, stepping into Altan’s view.

  Altan gasped and started up, crying out as the movement made him twist his arm.

  “Jareth!”

  Jareth raised a hand, curled it into a fist, and slammed it into Altan’s face. With visceral satisfaction, he felt the boy’s nose crunch beneath the blow.

  Altan shrieked. Blood and mucous flowed down his face as he sobbed.

  “I brought you into the world,” Jareth snarled, pacing up and down in front of the bound youth. “I wish I’d drowned you in the lake instead, you son of a—”

  He turned and was about to strike Altan again when something strange happened. Altan’s face…shimmered. His features blurred and reformed for just an instant. The mouth coated in blood was smaller, fuller; the eyes, larger and more widely spaced.

  Slowly, Jareth drew his fist back.

  “Stone Dancer, can you see me?” Jareth stared. The voice was female! “Stone Dancer, I’ve waited so long for this moment—”

  “Altan, what are you—”

  “Don’t call me that!” It was an anguished shriek, and it was definitely feminine. “I’m not Altan, I’m Ilta, Jareth—Ilta! I’m your Lorekeeper!”

  Jareth staggered back, hardly able to breathe. Ilta? Altan’s stillborn twin sister? The boy was going mad. And how dare he claim to be Jareth’s—

  But the face kept shifting back and forth from male to female, and now it seemed as though the body was trying to follow suit. Altan’s slim boy’s build filled out for just a brief instant, with a tiny waist and full breasts—

  “Don’t you remember, my love?” Altan’s—Ilta’s—voice was raw and pleading. She—he—writhed in the implacable grip of the tree branches. “Through four lifetimes we were together. We were everything to each other. Not always in love, no, but loving, devoted to one another. Try to remember, please, please try!”

  Was this his Lorekeeper? The missing third of the trinity? It couldn’t be!

  Even as he rejected the idea Jareth realized he had to know. Had to know if this mad babbling was the truth. He took a deep breath and turned his thoughts inward.

  There was no breeze; the water’s surface was as smooth as glass. Somehow, Jareth knew that it shouldn’t be; that there should always be waves coming to the shore. The Shadow. The Shadow was coming. Somewhere, a Dancer had died, and with his or her death would come the death of everything.

  “What will it feel like?” she whispered. For in this life, Jareth was a woman; a girl in her late teens, with long black hair and dark skin.

  “I don’t know,” her Lorekeeper admitted. A man, older than the Stone Dancer, with graying hair and somber eyes. “I do not remember. The Lorekeepers remember much, but not that; not even what form the Shadow has taken each time.”

  “Will it hurt?” the Stone Dancer continued. “To be…erased…or will we feel nothing?”

  She felt the kiss on her shoulder. “It won’t hurt. You won’t feel a thing.” A pause, then, “I love you.”

  The Stone Dancer felt his hands on either side of her face and just before the Lorekeeper did the deed, the Stone Dancer felt those fingers tighten. Her eyes flew wide, she opened her mouth to scream no, no, don’t kill me, and then—

  Jareth had ceased breathing and now pulled air into his lungs in a choking gasp. This was the recurring dream he had started having in his youth, and now he knew it was no dream, but a memory. A memory of his past life—and death—as a young woman whose lover, whose trusted Lorekeeper—

  “You…you killed me,” he whispered.

  Altan’s face was now again that of a young man. It shone with joy. “You remember!” he cried, in Altan’s voice.

  “You killed me!” Jareth repeated, more strongly. “You killed me, you killed my family—how many deaths are on your head?”

  Tears filled Altan’s eyes. “You don’t understand! We were supposed to be together! Taya, Annu, Parvan—they were keeping you from me. Keeping you from your destiny. I died—the cord was around my neck—but I refused to give up. So I merged with Altan. Two souls in one body. But I’ve won. Altan’s gone and this body is now mine, and I’m not giving it up. All we need to do is get to the Emperor and I’m sure he can—”

  “The Emperor? Does your treachery know no bounds?” A sudden thought struck him. “Where’s Mylikki?”

  Altan made a dismissive face. “I tied her to a tree in the Ice Maiden’s realm. I don’t know where she is or if she’s alive and don’t you see, none of that matters!”

  The face and body shifted again, back to those of a female. “I love you, Stone Dancer! I am your Lorekeeper. Whatever I’ve done has been because of you, to keep you safe, to keep you with me. Surely you can see that. There’s nothing now that stands in our way!”

  “You broke your Dancer’s neck,” Jareth grated. There was no sanity in the Lorekeeper’s words. The memory of that deed, combined with the horror of having to live trapped inside a body that was not her own, had clearly driven Ilta mad.

  “You drugged and murdered three innocent people. More, if Mylikki isn’t still alive. I could never love you, Lorekeeper or no. The Ice Maiden, false construct that she was, had a warmer heart than you. At least she acted out of ignorance.”

  He stepped forward and placed his hands on either side of Altan/Ilta’s face. A wave of pain swept over him.

  “Altan? Are you—can you hear me?” The Altan Jareth had loved as a brother was the greatest victim of Ilta’s madness. It had been Altan’s body that had done the deed, but Ilta was the murderer. If he could still be reached somehow—

  “Stop calling me that!” shrieked the Lorekeeper. “He’s gone, he’s gone forever. I’ve taken care of that. There’s only us now, Jareth. You and I, Lorekeeper and Dancer. We can finally be together as we were meant to be!”

  “You’re insane,” he whispered. “It drove you mad, didn’t it? Killing me?”

  “That’s what the selva told me, too,” cried Ilta, “last night. When they took us away to give us the dreams, she said I wasn’t well, that guilt had stolen my mind. That I needed to turn from my path before it was too late, or something like that. But she was wrong. I’m not crazy. I don’t feel guilty. It was what I had to do, you should understand, you should understand everything—”

  His Lorekeeper, his soul, looked up at Jareth, pleading. It was time. He didn’t need to learn anything more from this demented monster masquerading as a boy.

  Goodbye, Altan. I’m sorry. I know you’d want me to stop her before she harms anyone else. And she will. She will.

  “No, my love, don’t, please don’t—”

  Jareth leaned close and whispered in his Lorekeeper’s ear. “You thought I didn’t feel anything when you snapped my neck,” he whispered, almost as if imparting endearments. “You were wrong.”

  His fingers tightened.

  STONE DANCER!

  The unheard voice shuddered along Jareth’s bones and hurled him backward. He landed hard, the wind knocked out of him for an instant. Seemingly out of nowhere, a giant blue form sprang upon him.

  Jareth growled and buried his hands in the ruff of blue and white fur, muscles quivering with the effort to force the blue Tiger off of him.

  She killed my family! She has perverted everything about being a Lorekeeper! She’s betrayed us both, Tiger!

  You will not harm her!

  Jareth began to scream incoherentl
y. He fought against the Tiger, but he was mentally and physically exhausted and the enormous beast was far too strong for him. Jareth’s back was flat against the earth. He felt it, almost like a heart beating against his skin. He tried to send a command to the trees who held Altan prisoner, to tell them to rip him apart, but the Tiger’s blows distracted him and he was unable to concentrate.

  Suddenly there was an eruption of fire. The trees holding Altan prisoner shuddered in pain, and Jareth felt it. He cried out, first with the pain of the fire, and then with the anguish of knowing that Ilta had escaped, that she would not have to pay for the evils she had done.

  Suddenly the pressure that held him down was gone. Jareth struggled to get to hands and knees and tried to dig his fingers into the soil. A mighty cuff from the Tiger’s paw sent him reeling. Again he tried, and again the Tiger slapped him down.

  Jareth lay in the mud, gasping for breath, the rage bleeding out of him leaving only ashy emptiness in its stead. He could feel Ilta’s footfalls growing fainter. She was making good her escape.

  A shadow fell over him. “Jareth?” Kevla’s voice was filled with concern.

  Blinking the mud out of his eyes, Jareth looked up. “Mylikki,” he muttered. “Altan…Ilta…took Mylikki.”

  “I will find her,” the Dragon said quickly. “Stay with him, Kevla.”

  Jareth let his head fall back into the mud and closed his eyes.

  Kevla and the Tiger regarded Jareth. He was filthy. His body, now strong and healthy thanks to the rejuvenating power of the earth surging into him, was covered with mud. Seeing him sprawled in the mud, broken and gasping for air, was like seeing a mighty simmar brought low.

  The Tiger spoke in a soft voice. “I blame myself. I did not know—I could not sense it….”

  “Sense what?”

  The Tiger sighed. “The body of Altan housed two souls—Altan’s, and that of the sister who died in the womb. The sister, Ilta, was Jareth’s Lorekeeper. His soul. It was she who killed Jareth’s family, using Altan’s body.”

  The words horrified Kevla. “His own Lorekeeper did this?” she whispered.

  The Tiger nodded her blue head. “She was in league with the Emperor, who had promised her Jareth. Poor Altan knew nothing of any of this.”

  “It all makes sense now,” Kevla said quietly. “Altan’s dark moods and unkind words to Mylikki…It wasn’t Altan doing or saying those things at all, was it? It was Ilta.”

  “His Lorekeeper. His soul. I should have known something was wrong when neither Jareth nor I could sense her. In the same way the Emperor was able to use the Maiden to block Jareth’s powers, he hid Ilta from our sensing. The selva knew, when they were in their animal form.”

  “Why didn’t they tell us when Jareth restored them?”

  “When the Lorekeepers were selva, they were under an enchantment. When Jareth freed them from that enchantment, they remembered nothing of what transpired while they were under the spell. The Emperor is a very clever and dangerous enemy.”

  Kevla’s shock at beholding Jareth brought so low was fading, replaced by a deep compassion. She had been the death of her own Lorekeeper, and while the pain had been mitigated, it would never go away entirely. She would bear that scar forever. But Jashemi had never, would never, have betrayed her in this manner. And she had to wonder—if Jareth’s soul was so dark, so twisted…what would that eventually mean for the Stone Dancer?

  Slowly, Jareth tried to sit up. The Tiger, who had been sitting quietly beside him, got to her feet expectantly. Jareth shot her a hostile look, and the Tiger flicked an ear.

  “Kevla, stay with him if you would.” The Tiger’s voice was tinged with sorrow. “I doubt if he would appreciate my company now.”

  I doubt he’ll appreciate mine, Kevla thought, but she nodded. The Tiger walked away, moving with the graceful, undulating gait common to all cats, small, large, or Companions.

  Jareth buried his face in his hands. Kevla sat quietly beside him.

  Finally, Jareth spoke. “You heard,” he said dully.

  Kevla nodded, gnawing her lower lip. “Yes. I heard.”

  He fell silent again. “All this time, I thought it was my fault,” he said after a long pause. “That if I had been able to bring spring, they would be alive. Taya, my Taya, my beautiful girl Annu. And my little boy, just a few weeks old.”

  His eyes started to glisten as they stared into the distance, seeing something that wasn’t there. Kevla tensed.

  “I adored that woman,” he said in a thick voice. “She was…great-hearted. And wise. Taya knew exactly how to handle me. And the last time I saw her, I—gods!”

  The word was ripped from him, raw and broken and bleeding with pain. “I said things to her that I never—I didn’t mean them, I didn’t mean them at all, I was just hurt and frustrated and angry and so helpless…but that was the last thing I said to her. I never got to tell her I was sorry. I never got to hold her one last time, to tell her how very much I—”

  The tears welled up in his eyes, spilled forth. To Kevla’s horror, she saw that they did not trickle steadily down his cheeks, but got lost in the wrinkles around his eyes. He has never wept for his family…and it has been so long, the tears don’t even know where to go—

  For the third time, Kevla folded Jareth into her arms. His physical survival was not at stake, nor was she carried away by the passion a wildly awakening earth had sent racing through her. She was filled with soft, quiet, deep compassion, and a strong need to do what she could to ease the hurt.

  She had a brief flash of memory—she and Jashemi stealing precious time alone in the caverns at the House of Four Waters. He was home from his first battle, sick with the poison of the horrors of war and the painful loss of his own innocence. She had gone to him then, despite her fear of impropriety, taking all the hurt and shock and angry grief into her soft, healing flesh, and now she went to Jareth with the same wide-open heart.

  She eased his head down against her breast and enfolded his large frame as best she could. He clutched her desperately, and he shook with sobs.

  “Taya, Taya, my sweet Annu, Parvan, Altan…Forgive me. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  Jareth’s hot, healing tears were wet against her skin. Kevla ran her fingers gently through his muddy, tangled hair and murmured soft words that had no meaning, yet meant everything.

  Weep, she urged him in her mind, her own eyes filling with empathetic tears. Weep, and be healed.

  And when at last Jareth’s grief had run its course, Kevla held him to her as they eased onto the soft, welcoming earth, and he fell asleep in the warm circle of her arms.

  39

  Kevla awoke to the sound of a bird’s song. It was sweet, musical, merry, and she felt a smile stretch her face. It is almost as sweet as Altan’s and Mylikki’s voices, she thought sleepily. The smile faded as memory came back to her.

  She sat up and discovered she was leaning against the warm strength of the slumbering Dragon. The trees rustled in a soft breeze. Spring had come again to the land, but the pleasure she felt in its coming had been tempered by the revelations about Altan and Ilta.

  Kevla got to her feet, wincing. She had slipped on the ice many times yesterday and her body had not forgotten. She stepped around the Dragon’s large, red side, to where his head rested. There, she smiled, relieved. Snuggled tightly against the Dragon’s cheek, sound asleep, was Mylikki.

  Kevla moved carefully so as not to awaken the slumbering girl. There was plenty of time to ask her what had happened later, and to give her some good, solid food.

  But where was Jareth? Sudden panic flowed through her. She had held him while he wept for the deaths of his family, something he had not done since the tragedy, and she had a dim memory of falling asleep, their limbs tangled together. But now he was nowhere to be found, nor was the Tiger.

  She wanted to call for him, but dreaded waking Mylikki. Even awakening the Dragon might disturb the girl, nestled against his cheek as she was.

/>   Kevla decided she would scout around. The earth was still soft from the melting snows, and it was not difficult for her to pick up tracks of both man and giant cat. She followed them as they led her out of the meadow and into the fringes of the forest. She heard a strange sound, a sort of soft roaring, and quickened her pace as she moved toward the noise.

  She came upon the little spring so suddenly she almost fell into it. This, then, was the sound—water rushing from a higher point over stones and into a small pool. Quickly, Kevla stepped back into the shadows of the tree.

  Jareth was bathing in the icy coldness of the spring. He had rinsed his clothes, stiff with the mud and blood and sweat from months of wear, and they were drying on a broad, flat rock. His back was to her, and she saw that he was using his knife to trim his long, wild hair.

  She was intruding on a private moment. She knew she should draw back, and yet she lingered, watching the play of muscle in his back and arms, his skin so pale in the dappled sunlight. Kevla had always admired the many statues that decorated the lavish garden of the House of Four Waters. Jareth could have posed for such statues, and Kevla simply found herself unable to look away from such a combination of beauty and strength.

  A low rumble greeted her ears and she dragged her eyes away from Jareth to see the Tiger regarding her steadily. She was lounging on a rock, a cat enjoying the sun, and she looked at Kevla with a knowing gaze. Kevla blushed, and as she turned to hasten away, she thought she saw the great Tiger wink.

  Jareth completed his ablutions and climbed atop a sun-warmed rock. The water’s iciness was cleansing and refreshing, but he welcomed the warmth of the stone against his skin. He turned his face up to the sun, letting its rays caress him, and thought about Ilta. Somehow he knew it wasn’t over between them. One day, they would meet again, and he had no idea how he would react upon seeing the Lorekeeper who had done such evil things. But at least that day was not today.