Runestone of Eresu

by Murphy, Shirley Rousseau

  Kish’s laugh was cold as winter.’ ‘What harm can she do? The boy is too filled with anger to master any subtlety of power, even with the help of another Seer.”

  RilkenDal shifted his weight and belched. “You speak of subtlety, Kish, as if you understood the word.”

  She gave him a look he could interpret any way he chose. Dracvadrig retreated into the trancelike state where he touched Lobon’s mind most easily. The other two watched him, then reached out with their thoughts to enter his mind as fluttering moths might enter a path of dulled light. Together the three observed Lobon working deeper into the pit, saw him ever following the false sense of Dracvadrig that the firemaster had laid for him. They saw he was alone, that the wolves moved elsewhere along the rim of the smoke-filled chasm. “He believes you are down there,” Kish said, pleased. “When he reaches the nether levels and comes to the dungeons . . .”

  “Yes. Then he will know what Urdd is.” Dracvadrig smiled. “And he will know what we intend for him.”

  “Not all that we intend,” she said, stretching her long body pleasurably, then flowing down on the bench beside him in one sinuous movement.

  “No.” Dracvadrig smiled. “Not until we bring the girl. He should like that well enough.” He moved closer to Kish, as if the turn of their thoughts inspired him.

  “He will come to the gates tonight,” she said, laying her cold hand carelessly on his knee. “The wolves will soon know the gate is there. They—well but the boy and the wolves have quarreled. Still, I wish they would go away.” She glanced at Dracvadrig. “I wish you would kill the wolves, I don’t like them. Dragons can eat wolves.”

  Dracvadrig did not answer. He had abandoned Lobon and moved into the mind of the girl, manipulating her thoughts, casting the runestone’s image sharp across her desires. He stayed with her, prodding her, for the rest of the afternoon, stayed with her until she went to her bed at last, shortly after supper.

  *

  She was so tired, sick with exhaustion, was asleep almost before she had pulled up the covers. She cried out once in her sleep, but she could not push the darkness away. The dark was warm and comforting, and she could not bring herself to awaken. She began to cleave to it, soon was resting gently against it.

  She woke to early dawn. Sea light rippled across her stone ceiling. Her head was filled with a muddle of facts that startled her, with details of the talents of Carriol’s Seers as if their personal habits at plying their skills were important to her; with the details of Alardded’s diving suit and with his plans for bringing up the lost stone. Why had she marshaled such knowledge? What had she dreamed, to dredge up such facts? And over it all lay the image of the runestone, clear and bright and beguiling.

  She had begun to think of the stone as her stone. After all, it was she and Zephy who had found it hidden in the tunnel in Burgdeeth. It was she who had hidden it in the donkey saddle, to get it out of Cloffi in safety. She turned over and pulled the blankets up. Despite the strange thoughts that filled her mind, she felt rested. Calm and strong and—excited. Her whole being anticipated something wonderful. Something yet to be revealed to her.

  She could hear the movement of horses below in the town and the voices of men and women starting the day. Then she heard a nicker from high within the tower and knew that a band of winged ones had come together in the citadel in some gentle and private ceremony—perhaps before departing for battle. The citadel had been theirs long before humans came, long before Carriol’s Seers gathered there. Below, the rattle of cart wheels struck across cobbles, a heavy wagon, probably iron ore or grain. She rose at last. The odor of frying mawzee cakes came from the kitchens. She began to dress, hungry suddenly; very sure of herself, very calm despite the eager anticipation that welled deep within, that made her heart pound; but that must be pushed back now, and hidden.

  FOUR

  Zephy tugged at the gold band woven into her hair, loosed the braid and let it fall, then began to unbraid it. Her head itched, she disliked her hair done up so and needed badly to brush it. She sat cross-legged in their tent, Thorn lying stretched out beside her, already snoring. She turned the lamp wick down to a dull glow. She was so tired even her arms ached as she brushed, so weary from days of creating visions to add wonder and glamour to their every simple task, of surrounding their treatment of the sick with magical incantations, even of accompanying the doctoring by Carriol’s true healer, Nebben, with added ceremonies. All meaningless, but all creating wonder in simple minds, presenting to the cults an aura of magic and power like a golden cloak to heighten even further Carriol’s reputation of strength. The cults must come to believe in Carriol’s Seers utterly, must be awed by Carriol to the extent that at last they would speak freely of their warrior queen, she who lurked so mysteriously in the background. None would speak of her, even think of her except in involuntary fleeting shadows, vague darkness gone at once, without image.

  Zephy sighed. They must learn the nature of this leader, for in her lay the true nature of the cults. So much deception, so much secrecy. Why? And now there was the worry over Meatha to nag at her, to try her own loyalties unbearably. Meatha, caught in some mysterious and urgent mission that she completely blocked from them. Why would she block? What secret need she keep? Meatha, closer to her than any sister could be. She knew she could not give up her trust in Meatha, despite her unease; at least for a little while. That she must give Meatha time to prove herself. And then tonight, such a sharp vision of Meatha standing on the cliff among the ruins calling out in the darkness, speaking across the mountains to the mare Michennann. Why such secrecy? She had blocked furiously as she called. What did Meatha plan, what did she intend? Stealth was not natural to Meatha.

  Thorn woke with the turmoil of her thoughts. He sat up and touched her hair, felt her distress as his own, took her face in his hands and studied her, then touched the frown between her brows with a gentle finger. “It will come right, Zephy. Perhaps your unease is for nothing. Though—though no one knows Meatha better than you.”

  “What is she doing? Why is she so upset, so secret? What is so urgent? Why does she call the mare now? Why does she block me so I can’t speak with her?”

  He put his arm around her, drew her close.

  “And why does she block from the council, Thom? Why?” She looked up at him in the dim lamplight. “I know I should speak to the council. But I can’t. At least—not yet.” She blew out the lamp. They heard the horses stir once above the pounding of the sea. She must trust in Meatha, she must have faith in Meatha. She could not abandon their friendship so lightly.

  *

  Meatha went to sleep at last. She was not at all sure the mare would come, was puzzled at her reluctance. They were close, they had fought battles together. What was the matter with Michennann? She could not forsake her now, Michennann who, above all the winged ones, could be trusted in this. She must call Michennann again and again, until it was settled.

  She woke at first light to return to the cliff and renew her call across half of Ere to where the gray mare grazed. She felt Michennann’s resistance again, was hurt by it; but she pressed stubbornly on until at last she felt the mare soften.

  Then Meatha drew away and let the mare be, to dwell on it, to come gently to terms with it as was Michennann’s way. She looked across the narrow sea channel to the isle of Fentress. Dawn touched the weathered cottages, and already half a dozen children had run out to scurry along the rocky shore with clam buckets, laughing and playing at tag before they settled to their morning’s work. She could not remember playing so as a child. In Burgdeeth, little girls were not encouraged to play. She left the cliff at last, eager to lose herself in her own morning’s work, and when she reached Tra. Hoppa’s chambers she found the old lady already seated at her table with the small leather-bound book Hux had brought open in front of her. Sea light played through the open window across Tra. Hoppa’s white hair, and a breeze stirred the pages over which she scowled. “It’s like hen scratching. I can
make out so little.” The old lady’s thin fingers traced the nearly illegible text.

  “But you’ve made notes,” Meatha said, looking down over her shoulder.

  “I’ve made notes from the first part. That’s easier to read because it tells of what we already know. It speaks of Ramad of the wolves as a small child, battling the dark Seer HarThass. It tells how Ramad killed the gantroed atop Tala-charen, and how the forces spun around him so violently they cracked open the mountain and split the stone into nine shards. Then it tells how Ramad in later years battled the shape-changer Hape, clinging to its back as it flew over the sea, how the Hape dove into the sea and nearly drowned Ramad, and the runestone was lost. How Ramad and his companions burned the castle of Hape, and only one dark Seer escaped them. But then—do you remember the words Ramad’s mother wrote in the Book of Carriol soon after that battle?

  “How could I forget? Tayba of Carriol wrote, Ramad is gone. The battle of Hape is ended and Ram is gone, I fear forever, from this place. I’ve never understood what she meant. Gone where? She can’t have meant that he died. There are tales of Ramad in later years, defeating NilokEm at the dark tower. And why would he go away forever from Carriol? But still, there is nothing more in her journal. The rest of the pages are blank.” Meatha looked at Tra. Hoppa, puzzling, then caught the faint sense of the old woman’s excitement. “What does this book say?”

  “That Ramad carried another runestone,” the old lady said. “That after his shard of the runestone was lost in the sea, he came into possession of another—but then the book becomes muddled, for what I think it’s saying is not possible.”

  Meatha studied the scrawling handwriting and could make out only a few words. Ramad’s name was repeated several times, making her feel strange, though she could not understand why. Tra. Hoppa followed the words with her finger, as if touching them would make them more legible. At last she sat back in exasperation. “Make us some tea, Meatha. All of this is so difficult. It makes no sense at all. It seems—there are parts of it that are like the ballad of Hermeth, and that simply adds to the puzzle.”

  Meatha made the tea, replaced the tin kettle on the back of the clay stove, and found some seed cakes in a crock. When she returned to the table with the tray, Tra. Hoppa looked strange. “I’ve made out a few lines more,” she said, frowning. “But—what can it mean? I always thought the ballad of Hermeth was myth, embroidered from some incident long ago twisted out of its original shape. But perhaps . . .” She settled back, sipping the welcome tea. “Meatha, this book tells the same tale as the ballad, copied from an old, old manuscript. It tells of NilokEm and Ramad fighting beside the dark tower nine years after the battle of Hape—we have always known that NilokEm was killed in that battle. But now—this says that Hermeth of Zandour fought beside Ramad in that battle. Hermeth—who was not yet born. It says then that when Hermeth fought in that same dark wood eighty years later, it was the same battle. That the two battles were one. That men fighting in that later battle saw Ramad there, surrounded by wolves, fighting by Hermeth’s side. A young Ramad, no older than Hermeth himself.” She looked up at Meatha, her blue eyes lit with puzzled excitement. “What have we found, Meatha? Can we believe these words? That Ramad . . .”

  “That Ramad moved through Time,” Meatha whispered, “just as the ballad says. That—that the ballad speaks truly.” She stared at Tra. Hoppa, shook her head uncertainly.

  Tra. Hoppa rose and began to pace, slim and quick, her coarsespun gown whirling around her sandaled feet. She paused at last beside the window to stare down at the sea, and when she turned back, her face held that look of stubborn determination that both Meatha and Zephy knew so well. “Meatha, could you . . .” but her voice died, she clutched at the sill as the tower was jolted by earthshock. Meatha caught the cups before they slid to the floor.

  It was only an instant, dizzying them. Then the tremor was past. They looked at one another, trying to put down their fear, for fear of the erupting earth was a powerful force in Ere’s heritage—fear of the Ring of Fire, whose eruptions had shaped men’s lives since times long, long forgotten. Quickly Meatha reached out to Carriol’s other Seers, felt them join and exchange their experiences of the tremor, and finally she relaxed. “It was only a small local one; there was hardly a shudder in the north.”

  Tra. Hoppa nodded, took up her question as if nothing had happened. “Could you read more of the book through the power of Seeing? Could you decipher these pages with the Seeing?”

  “I don’t—I’ve never tried such a thing.” And again a strange unease gripped her. “A stronger Seer could, perhaps, a master Seer . . .”

  “There is more power in you than you know, child. Hux tried, when he bought the book from the little gutter lady in Zandour, but he—Hux’s skills run more to charming young women into his wagon than to such subtleties as taking the meaning direct from the pages of a book.”

  Meatha grinned. Hux’s success with women was as much a part of Carriol as was fair day or the novice games. Hesitantly she picked up the little book of loosely bound pages.

  Wind riffled the parchment sheets, then was still. She touched the script delicately, as if she touched a living thing. Reluctantly, and then with growing excitement, she tried to encompass the pages with all of her being, to encompass the sense of the writer as if she were one with him.

  After a few moments she began to feel unusually warm. Her hands began to tingle. Then came strange smells, the dry, dusty smell of old wood, the smell of drying hay, then the shadowy sense of a small room, a wooden shed. Slowly she felt herself possessed by another who leaned over parchment, writing. The outlines of Tra. Hoppa’s room had faded until only shadows remained. Words were forming in her mind in dark flashes. An allusion to Time, to warriors— “Come together out of two different times!” She whispered, “Yes, Ramad!” and she didn’t know who she was speaking to. “Ramad came forward in Time.” She felt the shock of this—and the truth of it. The scenes of battle were sharp. The scenes of Zandour itself rang true for her. Her voice shook. “Hermeth gave to Ramad the runestone.” She felt as if she were writing the words. “Hermeth gave him the stone that had passed down from Hermeth’s great-grandfather who was NilokEm.” She spoke on, not even looking at the pages. “And Ramad carried a second stone taken from his true love, taken from . . .” but the words were fading in her mind now as a voice fades. Soon only the sense of some terrible grief remained with her.

  She came awake in Tra. Hoppa’s room, stood staring at the old lady in confusion.

  Then she said softly, and with infinite sadness, “Ramad hit Telien and took the stone from her. And Telien vanished from that Time and that place. . . .” She was shaking, felt cold and sick. “And Ramad wept,” she said. And she was weeping, too. Tears poured down uncontrollably; shuddering sobs shook her. Tra. Hoppa gathered her in. Meatha wept against the old lady’s shoulder until at last she was spent, shivering with anguish and cold.

  “Come, child, you need rest. More than this vision alone is bothering you.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t—”

  “Come. I know you have not slept well. You do not look well. I saw you out early this morning. I saw you pacing the cliff the night before Zephy and Thorn left, in the cold wind with only that light cloak. Come, you can miss weapons practice for one day.” The old woman took her hand in a strong grip and led her from the room and down the stone stairs to her own room, where she kindled a fire, then called one of the girls whose turn it was to serve to fill a hot tub. When the jugs had been brought and the tub was steaming, Tra. Hoppa helped Meatha to bathe, to warm herself, then got her into her narrow little bed and covered her up warm. Meatha, torn with a storm of emotions, did not resist. Tra. Hoppa drew another blanket close, where she could reach it. “You are sickening for something. You must rest.” The old woman, without Seer’s skills, could only see the surface of her distress. “Try to sleep, I’ll see that an early noon meal is brought.”

  “But I m
ust—it isn’t even the middle of the day, I can’t . . .”

  “Do as I say. Your morning’s work belongs to me, and I direct you to stay in bed. I will send a message that you will not appear at weapons practice. And Bernaden will take your class of children.” Tra. Hoppa touched her cheek lightly, more worried than she wanted to show, and left her. Meatha lay staring at her ceiling, numb and confused, not wanting to think, yet unable to stop thinking.

  Why was something deep within her frightened by the tale of Ramad? Why were her new, exciting powers shaken by that tale? Oh, but those powers could not be shaken. They could not. Too much depended on her. Too much—she was so drowsy, relaxed at last, the revulsion and fear fading, not really important . . . One thing was important, one thing. The mission she would accomplish for Ere. Nothing, no imagined fear, could change that.

  Was she asleep when the image came? She jerked upright and sat staring around her, not seeing her room but instead a deep chasm and a fiery river running between jagged cliffs, the sky heavy with smoke. She felt a presence, but she saw no one at first, only after a moment became aware of a wolf, gray against gray stone, watching her. Then she saw in the dark shadows beside him a second wolf black as night. They were terrifyingly beautiful, both staring at her with eyes as golden as Ere’s moons. She could feel the intricacies of their minds probing her thoughts delicately. She quailed before their stares, before the touch of those minds. But suddenly they turned and vanished, and in their place stood a tall young man with tangled red hair, every color of red, and eyes black and fierce. He seemed so angry, had the look of an animal, predatory as wolves, half ready to attack something—but half at bay, too. And she thought, with a burning purpose eating at him, a cold unshakable purpose—not unlike her own. She wanted to reach out, to speak to him. Something prevented her. She crouched on her bed not seeing her room, trapped by the seething abyss and by the sense of him wild and appealing. And then the force she knew so well blurred her mind, and she closed her eyes and knew nothing more of him.