Shorren did not answer.
He turned and saw her lying sprawled across her chains, her coat wet with seeping blood where a sword protruded from her chest. His shock froze him, he could not speak or cry out. He stared dumbly at the two figures that stood over her, reached out desperately for some contact with Shorren, knowing she was dead. There was no answering touch from her mind, only emptiness; and his mind, his spirit, could not believe that she was dead.
When at last he looked directly at the figures, the sense of them chilled him through. The man was dark-haired and bearded and stood crookedly: a Farrian Seer. This was RilkenDal, surely. The woman was a pale, bloodless creature, watching him as a snake watches its prey. The dark Seers moved suddenly, swords flashed; he parried, fought with terrible fury, wild at the murder of Shorren, wanting to scream out in agony for Shorren. The woman was strong as a man. The two forced him in the direction of the cell; as he struck at the woman, RilkenDal brought a blow across his neck that jarred his vision and flashed hot pain through him.
He knew no more until the woman’s cold hands lifted and forced him through the cell door. Half waking, dizzy, he knew she had the stones. He saw Feldyn lying against the cell wall bleeding, saw the woman advance on him then draw back hissing and felt Feldyn’s power and Crieba’s, driving her back. With the last of his strength Lobon forced protection for the wolf bell pressed so painfully against his ribs, and felt the wolves do the same.
She did not come near him again. Her expression alone, he thought, might easily kill. She was white with hatred, her lips pulled back. “We will have the bell soon enough, Ramad’s brat!”
She stood beside the dark Seer, just inside the iron gate. In a moment a fire ogre appeared, pushing the girl Meatha ahead of it. She seemed confused, her face flushed from the fire, her arms painfully burned. She glanced at him, pleading, then lowered her gaze. The warrior queen took hold of her arm in a grip that made her wince, and shoved her toward RilkenDal. The Seer steadied his knife against the girl’s chest, and the warrior queen lifted her hands and began to draw signs above the girl’s head.
“What Dracvadrig began,” the warrior queen said, “we will consummate.” Lobon could feel the woman’s power, hypnotic and intense. Her incantation was in words foreign to him, in words that soothed him strangely, then made his blood burn hot, brought a wildness leaping in him and a passion that he saw reflected in the girl’s face as she turned to look at him. What was this spell? Emotions like flame pummeled him; Meatha’s cheeks were flaming; she bent her head as if in shame. A power flowed between them like a river, a yearning between them, the warrior queen’s words drowning them in desire; and then they began to understand the words. The woman’s voice was low and compelling. “As lovers need, so lovers cleave. And in cleaving bring new life. As Seers need, so Seers cleave. And in cleaving bring more than life: Bring to me blood meant to rule the bell. Bring to me blood meant to join the stone. New blood will join the stone in darkness, join the stone to darkness to hold and to wield beyond challenge.”
He was dizzy with desire. Meatha held herself steadier. He watched her, saw her tense suddenly with another emotion sharp and predatory. Help me, Lobon! Now! She spun, her silent words shouting in his mind, she struck the warrior queen in the stomach and groin and grabbed her sword, but the woman spun away. Meatha was after her as Lobon snatched up a rock. He closed on RilkenDal as Feldyn passed him, leaping against the man, and together they toppled the dark Seer. Lobon raised the rock to strike, but the man’s power stayed him, weakened him; RilkenDal’s power closed over his mind so he fought for consciousness and could strike only glancing blows; then he began to drop into blackness, was half conscious of Feldyn tearing at the Seer’s throat in a thrashing, bloody combat.
He woke hurting and confused, and looked around him. The cell gates were locked, they were captive. The warrior queen was gone, the sense of her gone. Meatha leaned against the bars, weak with pain. He stared beyond the locked gate into the abyss and saw RilkenDal there lying dead with his throat torn away. He rose and put his arm around Meatha to help her, but the emotion that gripped him made him step back as if he were burned. She looked up at him. “I tried—I tried to get the stones.”
He felt against his tunic for the wolf bell and drew it out. “She could not touch the bell,” he said quietly, knowing the wolves had protected the bell, feeling their authority, the two here in the cave aligned now with the anger of the great pack that roamed the high desert lands.
But Kish too had power, she carried the mightiness of six stones. Still, the fury of the wolves, the passion of the wolves, was greater. He stared at Meatha and knew at last the true importance of the commitment of the stones’ bearer. Remorse at the possession of the stones by the dark powers sickened him; he also knew, painfully, that far more mattered to him than avenging Ramad’s death.
“And now it is too late,” he said, searching Meatha’s face. He turned away from her, torn with self-disgust; but beyond his anguish there was the sense of the warrior queen near to them, he could feel her cruel pleasure in the power she now wielded, felt the strength of the spell she cast and knew he should feel revulsion, rage, yet felt only desire. He needed this girl now, needed her to drive out the storm of self-reproach, didn’t care about reason or anger or spells, knew he must hold her, was sick with desire for her. He could see her own desire reflected in her eyes.
“If we are to die at Kish’s hand,” he whispered, “might we not die together, die close together, as one—
“Stop it, Lobon! Stop it! She doesn’t want us to die! Don’t you see. She wants . . .”
“An heir,” he said, facing the truth of Kish’s plans.
“Yes. An heir. The stone is not yet joined. We must not give her an heir, must not let it be joined as long as it can be held by the dark powers.” Her face was flaming, her fear and confusion at the strength of her own desire making her wild with anger. “There must be no heir! There must be no joining of the stone in darkness!”
Still he felt Kish’s powers twisting his thoughts.
“Come,” she said. “Feldyn needs us.” She knelt before the dark wolf, ripped a long hem from her tunic, and began to wipe blood from the wound. “If we had birdmoss, salve . . .”
He took the bloody rag from her and went deep into the cave, where he rinsed and moistened it. When he returned, she was sitting with Feldyn’s head in her lap. He stared down at her, then looked at the locked gate.
He had failed in everything. The stones were gone. Feldyn would die here; all four of them would die. And with the stones gone, Ere was surely defeated. He was dully amazed that he cared—about the stones, about Ere; but he was certain now that Dracvadrig’s death was not enough, had never been enough.
Meatha watched him without expression; and when he looked at her, Kish’s words rang again between them. New blood will join the stone in darkness, join the stone to darkness. Kish was out there somewhere near to them, they could feel her presence couched in the power of the stones.
Meatha sighed and turned back to tending Feldyn. “We must get away from this place.”
“And how do you think we can do that? And what good will it do? She has the stones. She—”
She gave him a direct, hard look and did not answer. Her eyes were amazing, large and as lavender as the plumage of the mabin bird, her lashes dark and thick. He could not look away again, and now her anger was lost on him. But she kept her distance.
Late in the night as Meatha slept, Lobon rose and stood watching her. He felt the wolves wake, felt their steady gazes, and at last he turned away.
You might be digging, Crieba told him. I have been patient beyond endurance. I am sick to death of this chain.
Scowling, Lobon found a stone and began to dig, soon was spending his passion and fury against the rock wall. He dug the rest of the night. Sometimes Meatha woke, watched him sleepily, then sighing, slept again. When the abyss beyond the bars began to lighten, he went to press his face a
gainst the cold iron to stare upward where, miles above, sun made a gold streak along the rim of the high valley. It was then he saw the charred remains of RilkenDal’s body, where the fire ogres had been at it. He heard Crieba leaping against his chain, turned, as with a final lunge the gray wolf pulled the bolt free and slammed shoulder first into Feldyn, who snarled with pain.
The gray wolf went stiffly off to the back of the cave to drink, and to hunt for lizards, just as poor Shorren had done earlier. Not long afterward he returned with three white lizards for Feldyn. As Feldyn ate, Crieba lay licking the dark wolf’s wounds. Lobon turned to his stone bed and slept.
He woke with late morning light washing the bars of the cell. Meatha was still sleeping, cradled now against Crieba’s shoulder, as if she had been cold. Her dark hair spilled across the wolf’s gray coat, her hand lay palm upward across his muzzle. The wolves were wakeful, he could sense their grieving for Shorren, and his own grief rose in a sudden sharp pain. But the wolves grieved differently, for they believed completely that Shorren would live again as her spirit moved in the natural progression of souls. Lobon was not sure. He felt sick at the thought of lovely Shorren lying bloodied and stiff in the abyss.
It was then he felt his mother with him and his emptiness was terrible. He turned his thoughts angrily from her and blocked her out. He did not want to show his emotions to her, show his pain for Shorren or his terrible lusting for Meatha that was no more than the warrior queen’s spell. Show his empty failure, his loss of the stones—the loss of Ere to the dark. Dracvadrig is dead! he cried out in spite of himself. And Ramad is avenged! What more do you want!
She did not answer him.
NINE
Kish tied the winged mare near a water lick, though the stupid animal seemed so sickly she didn’t think it would last long. RilkenDal’s mare was already dead. Curse them. Curse RilkenDal for dying and leaving her here. Curse the bastard son of Ramad and the wolf bell that clung to him. She would have that bell and the stone it held! She spilled the shards of the runestone into her palm, felt their weight, considered their amassed power, then dropped them back into her tunic. She must have the other two shards still missing, must find a way to seek them out. She stared up at the black cliff above her and at the winged lizards diving mindlessly after birds. Perhaps, because of the sickly mare, she would have no choice but to subdue the creatures and somehow bring them down to her and make them tractable, bad-tempered and stupid as they were. She had to have some way out of this barren valley. She wished she had RilkenDal’s skill at controlling stupid beasts. But now, with the stones . . .
Some distance away on a ridge, the gray mare the girl had ridden stood watching her. Nasty thing. She tried to lure it. The power of the stones came strong, exciting her, making the mare shy and paw and try twice to wheel and fly away, though caught by the power Kish wielded, its wings were pinioned as if it were in a snare. But then in one wild surge it reared and rose, straining in spite of her power, and was gone. Curse the stupid animal! She stood sulking and furious. Then she pulled the stones from her robe once more and stared down at them.
The power of the stones might not have held the mare, but they wielded a far greater force in battle, for with them she had strengthened the Kubalese warriors until now they drove the Carriolinians back toward Carriol, drove her own ungrateful cults back with them. A handful of cultists remained loyal and fought now beside Kearb-Mattus with a zeal that made her smile with satisfaction.
She shook the stones and watched their green fire flash across her palm. Three more stones to complete the nine-stone. The wolf bell had been as immovable as if it were fastened to the earth when she tried to lift it from the Seer’s tunic. Curse Dracvadrig and RilkenDal both for being dead. She needed their power now. But she would have the wolf bell. She must.
She thought with brief speculation of Kearb-Mattus, but he had no Seer’s powers to help her, only brute strength. Still, he might be a satisfactory lover if nothing more. He was brawny, with a killer’s lust she liked. There would be time for play once she had the stones and a human creature bred to the joining. She smiled. Now it would be her runestone, whole and powerful. Shared with no one. She would raise the child of Lobon to her ways, and he would do her bidding.
She turned to stare down the long drop of the abyss to where the iron gates held safe her captives. Now there was only to breed them, to get the heir to the stone’s final and inevitable joining. She scowled. The girl seemed as without passion as a toad. Blast her. The spell on her had so far only made her avoid the boy like a plague. And that one, Lobon, gone surly and silent. Sexless, that’s what they were. She stood letting her mind open to darkness, to forces now moving across Ere, powers that excited her and made her blood pound. Forces she understood and could draw to this place. She would have the bell. She would call forth a child to join the stone. And she would shape both child and stone to darkness.
Then Ere would kneel to her will. Then the entire land would be her courtyard and all men her willing servants. And the Seers—the Carriolinian Seers—would be as docile to her as the horses of Eresu had been to RilkenDal.
And the gods, Kish? And the sacred valley of Eresu? What of them?
There were no such things as gods, no such place as Eresu. Urdd, yes. Urdd was real and flaming and violent with the anger of the earth ripping it. Urdd was alive and cruel and satisfying.
But Eresu with its Luff’Eresi was simply a dream without substance, the crutch of weak men afraid to live on their own terms.
She left the tethered, dying mare, and stood staring up at the flying lizards, then reached out with a cold power and laid a cloud over their dim minds that made them wobble in flight and begin to circle uncertainly. She made one come down so close to the tethered mare that the imbecilic animal threw herself futilely against her tether. Kish smiled. Yes, she could tame the lizards, dumb and nasty-tempered as they were. She let the creature return to its friends. She found the path Dracvadrig had worn smooth with his hard, scaly body over years of use and started down. It was just dusk.
By dawn she was standing outside the locked gate, watching the two within with cold distaste. Idiots. Sleeping as far apart as they could in the wide cave. She watched the girl stir, then wake, and Kish drew back into the shadow of the cliff, blocking. Perhaps the girl would go to the boy now, touch him. But no, she knelt beside the dark wolf and began to dress his wounds. Stupid child! The two were as dense and sexless as any humans she had ever encountered.
They must breed! What else was there to do, male and female alone! What else, when her curses tied them so strongly!
At last she fetched food from the ogres’ cave and set it inside the bars, then left them, sick at the sight of them. She would not let them starve, though. That was not part of her plan.
Lobon woke, sensed her approach, watched her come to the bars and shove the bowl inside. He did not move. The sense of her was always around them, growing stronger or weaker as she moved about the abyss, suffocating them when she stood close, tolerable only when she was above in the valley.
He and Meatha could speak to the mare up there, but the poor creature was so miserable and sick she had ceased to say much, so weak from mistreatment, from lack of enough food that they were not sure she would live. Even Michennann was able to do little for her except to bring mouthfuls of green grass when the warrior queen had gone.
Lobon watched Meatha kneeling in the gray dawn, tending Feldyn, her dark hair tumbled over one shoulder, the pale skin of her neck like silk against the wolf’s dark coat as she leaned to lay her cheek against his head. He rose from his stone bed. The gash across his shoulder was stiff and sore, not healing properly, for they had no healing herbs. Meatha looked across at him. “We need birdmoss. For you. For Feldyn.” She said nothing about her own burns. “Michennann could bring birdmoss, carry a little in her mouth. Somewhere where the valleys are green there will be birdmoss beside a running stream. . . .”
“It will do little go
od to be healed if the sick mare dies and there is only one mount to carry us out. Michennann had best stay with her. It’s a slow business, carrying grass. . . .”
“It’s no good to have a mount, Lobon, if you’re dead of festering wounds!” Kneeling, her hand on Feldyn’s shoulder, she spoke out in silence to Michennann, ignoring Lobon’s advice.
When she raised her head at last, she Saw the gray mare in sharp vision rising into the morning sky, flying swiftly beside the black cliff, saw her rise to keep clear of the bad-tempered lizards. “She will bring birdmoss,” she said, glancing at Lobon. He looked back at her. He guessed she was right. He knew she was beautiful. His need of her began again to run wild; he turned and moved away from her deeper into the cave. “Bring water,” she called after him, her own voice tight with restraint.
He filled the waterskin, which Kish had inexplicably returned to them. But what else would Kish do? She could not breed a son from would-be lovers who were dying of thirst, Or maybe she thought that with less time spent carrying water in cupped hands, there would be more time for idleness, and so for desire. He returned and knelt beside Feldyn, to tip the waterskin to the wolf’s mouth. Meatha moved away at once. As Seers need, so Seers cleave, and in cleaving bring new life. The heat of Kish’s curse never abated.
They ate at last from the bowl Kish had left, sharing the mass of boiled roots and reptiles equally with the wolves. The wolves thought it delicious. It made Meatha and Lobon retch. Feldyn licked the bowl clean.
“When Feldyn is healed,” Meatha said, “we must go from this place. We cannot—” She looked at him pleadingly. “We cannot stay here together.”
He stared at the locked gate.
“Could we—go deeper into the cave?” she asked. “Could there be another way out? I can—sometimes I think I can feel something there. Not very clearly, but does something call to us from deeper in?”
Runestone of Eresu Page 43
