But she did know. She knew. She rose so quickly the pain brought tears and began to prowl the cell. What was it that Jerthon had hidden in his thoughts, did not want her to know? How could she know something he had not intended her to see? Unless she . . .
“No! I do not have that power!” She stood staring down at the pile of hides where Jerthon had slept trying to shake off the unwanted knowledge. And she knew, with perfect clarity, that if she pushed those hides away—she thrust the hides back with her foot and saw the loose, unmortared stones underneath. She knelt folded the hides back, and began to lift out the stones.
Beneath them was a wide plank. She lifted it out and knelt there staring down into a black pit.
Crude steps went down, to disappear m darkness. Three lanterns stood on the top step; she reached for one, and struck flint adjusted the wick. Now she could see the bottom step, and the beginning of a tunnel. She started down, then turned back, leaving the lantern on the stairs.
She covered the loose stones with hides, then pulled hides over the plank and pulled that over the hole behind her as she descended.
The tunnel ran on farther than her light reached. Heavy timbers supported the roof—Venniver’s timbers, she thought, grinning. And Venniver’s stones and dragon bone mortared into the walls.
She had gone some distance when she came to a pile of loose dirt where the slaves must recently have been digging. A side tunnel opened here, smaller and unmortared. A stack of long timbers stood at the mouth. She counted twenty exactly and could hear Venniver shouting, “Where in Urdd do timbers go! Where does someone hide timbers! You don’ t . . .” She went on, smiling to herself.
Soon her way was blocked by the tunnel’s end. Shovels had been left here, a pick, an adz. A sled for carrying dirt. There was everything here. How in Urdd had they gotten it all, right out from under Venniver’s nose?
“Skeelie stole it,” Jerthon said quietly. She spun at his voice, her lantern careening light up the walls.
“Skeelie is clever and quick. She could steal Venniver’s beard off his face.” He came toward her. His clear green eyes held her. “I wish I could—could be sure of you.” He made a barrier between them that she could not broach. “Well, what you have already seen is enough to get us all killed.” He took her lantern from her and held it up; and where the tunnel had stopped in a fall of dirt, now it was suddenly open in an illusion so real and sudden she gasped. It went further than the light could reach. “That is how it will be,” Jerthon said. “We . . .” he stopped speaking, startled, as two figures appeared there ahead, young girls, their hair long down their backs. This was not a vision Jerthon was giving her, this had come unbidden. She could feel his sharp interest as the brown-haired girl began to rummage in a crevice in the tunnel wall; Jerthon caught his breath as the girl drew her hand from the niche, closed around something small and glowing; and suddenly the tunnel began to grow light, to open out, the space becoming huge and so brilliant Tayba could hardly look.
An immense space opened out before them and seemed to be expanding. There were vague mountains in the distance; but the towering winged figures close at hand made her go weak with awe, want to kneel. Their human torsos rose above the horselike bodies, tall, burnished; and their wings flashed against the brilliance of expanding light. Their eyes, their faces held wonders that made her want to cry out, drowned her in a world quite beyond her.
You are come, they cried, and their voices held a terrible joy. You must reach out, you will reach out—if you are the chosen. She was clutching Jerthon’s hand.
The vision vanished. There was blackness. Tayba had heard something drop to the floor, saw dimly that one of the girls knelt to search across the dirt for it—then that, too, vanished. She stood staring, felt Jerthon beside her, looking up to see him as stricken as she.
He shook free of the vision at last. “I have to go back. I will be missed.” He seemed not to want to speak of what he had seen, to lock it privately within. He led her back along the tunnel, then turned away from her into the side tunnel. “This goes into the pit.” He smiled for the first time, then swung away, brushing the wall with his shoulder. Loose grains of dirt fell, then dirt fell from the roof—she didn’t know what was happening, she was covered by falling dirt; she couldn’t see, felt Jerthon grab her shoulder and push her roughly away—Jerthon was there in falling dirt she saw a timber fall. Dirt roared down, she dove under the timber reaching for Jerthon, jammed her shoulder under it so it nearly knocked her flat, the pain making her cry out.
She sprawled beneath the timber’s weight covered with dirt and could feel Jerthon buried beneath her.
She twisted over, clawing at the dirt beneath her. Jerthon! His face was covered, he could not breathe. She fought dirt, twisted down into an impossible position, digging, scraping dirt with her hands. The pain in her side tore at her. She felt Jerthon try to move his leg, felt his panic. She clawed like an animal, and at last could feel his shoulder, his neck, began to dig dirt away from his face; could feel his mouth at last, felt him suck in breath. The pain in her side was like knives. She clawed dirt away from his mouth, his nose. She could feel his breath on her hand. Nausea swept her. She began to clear dirt from his eyes, could feel dirt falling on her back.
Something touched her back, she started violently, then realized someone was clearing dirt from her body. She twisted around and saw Drudd pushing a block of wood in next to her to support the timber. He wedged another block in farther down, then began digging with a small spade as she held her hands to protect Jerthon’s face. Drudd cleared her first, to get at Jerthon, then she dug beside him. Jerthon kept himself quiet with great effort, she thought. He was sweating, his jaws clenched. She thought he wanted to fight the confining dirt mindlessly, as she would have.
When he was free at last, he stood in the tunnel looking at them, very white, collecting himself. There was nothing for anyone to say. Drudd and Jerthon soon went around the slide and back up to the pit.
Shaken, Tayba returned to the cell and began replacing the plank and stones. When she had finished, she sat down on the skins wishing the nausea would pass, wishing her hands would stop trembling.
What had caused the cave-in? Had it been a natural thing, there where the tunnel was yet unsupported? Or had the Pellian Seer brought it down on Jerthon in a moment of cruel retribution for Jerthon’s part in saving Ram? Meant, she thought, shivering, to kill both of them there?
She did not know. Perhaps neither did Jerthon. Perhaps he had been too terrified to wonder or to care.
And when she thought of Jerthon’s knowledge of her, of the power within her that she would give anything to be rid of, she wondered if, were it to happen again, she would be quite so quick to gamble her life to save someone who not only knew of that power, but expected her to come to terms with it in a way she could not bear to do.
Part Three: The Stone
NINE
The Seer of Pelli turned from the window to stare at EnDwyl. Below him along the bay, where a handful of wharves fanned out, the boats were bringing in a catch of sherpin. Farther down, some farm wagons had set up to trade grain and vegetables, ignoring the more conventional vender’s stalls. He was scowling. His faded red beard, cut into two points in the style of the Pellian Seers, made him look like a goat. His eyes, blue when he was young, were nearly colorless. He threw his cape over a chair as he spoke.
“It does not pay, my dear EnDwyl, to be too certain. You do not understand the skills—or the limits—of Seers. You think we can do more than we are able.”
“Common Seers have limits, perhaps. But you are the Seer of Pelli.” EnDwyl, having come directly from the sea baths, seemed the cooler of the two, his yellow hair brushed smooth and his white tunic immaculate. “Pellian Seers are not limited, surely. The descendants of the wolf cult—”
“We, my dear EnDwyl, are not descendents of the wolf cult. That is the problem. Urdd knows, if we were we’d not have to go to all this flaming trouble for the
boy and his cursed bell.”
“Cursed? You’d give the entire fortune of Pelli for the blasted bell—and for the boy. What kind of business is that for the ruler of Pelli, all this fuss over a toy to turn wolves into pets.”
“Not pets, EnDwyl. Do you forget the wolves that greeted you outside Burgdeeth? Accomplices, EnDwyl! Powerful accomplices! Do you forget the forces the boy and wolves called forth, the skill with which they battled us? And you,” he added, “you are the descendant of the bell. You should have some feeling for it, even if the blood in you is latent. It is your blood that created Ramad—yours, and the Seer’s blood in your—in Tayba. That boy—that boy holds a power out of the ancient past that even I do not fully understand. The bell has served only to focus his force. And the boy’s power, and the power of the bell, are powers I mean to control. Though if we do not wrest it from the pup soon, he will command a far greater power. And I will not have that, EnDwyl! The stone on Tala-charen is a force that boy must never possess.”
EnDwyl said insolently, “You have tried to subdue the boy and failed. And there are these slaves—they shield their plans too well, HarThass. You don’t know—”
“I know their plans. I could easily use those plans against them, if it weren’t for that boy scrambling up Tala-charen. But if the boy reaches Tala-charen’s peak first, and so controls the stone . . .”
“And so we ride to Burgdeeth,” EnDwyl said irritably. “With twelve fighting men to battle Jerthon and the slaves while the Pellian Seers use their forces on the boy. I don’t think—”
“You don’t think, EnDwyl. That is your problem. Do you have a better plan? Are you more skilled than Seers? Can you bring the horrors of those mountains against Ramad as I can?”
“Do you really believe, HarThass, that even without the stone’s power against you, you can defeat the boy and Jerthon and that lot? I—”
HarThass’s gaze burned into him. “Yes EnDwyl? You what?”
EnDwyl swallowed. “I don’t know. I—maybe the slaves’ power even without the stone is too great. And now—and now, with this thing you say is awakened in Tayba . . .”
HarThass selected a cicaba fruit from the silver tray beside him. “That hasn’t lasted. Already the girl has nearly hidden it from herself. She is terrified of having such power. She may . . .” He smiled coldly. “She may help us more than you can imagine. She is afraid of this power of hers, she is afraid of Jerthon because he sees it. If we can turn her against him—she has the fine instincts of a traitor. Jerthon represents a challenge to her she cannot bear to face. She might well be persuaded to destroy that challenge under certain circumstances.”
“But Venniver has treated her shabbily, maybe she won’t—”
“She likes his treatment, don’t you see that? She will come crawling back to him with very little encouragement.” He turned away, then turned back to stare at EnDwyl. “You leave the girl to me. And you, EnDwyl—you be ready to ride as soon as those cursed soldiers get here with the mounts from Sangur. Why you let them—”
“They art better horses. You traded for them yourself. How was I to know . . .”
“You could have sent down for them a month ago. Well,” HarThass raised an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you relish riding back into that plains country, EnDwyl.” He stared pointedly at the jagged scar across EnDwyl’s jaw, and the mass of welts that crippled his legs. “I don’t suppose you relish meeting wolves again.”
EnDwyl’s hand was drawn to his cheek, but he did not respond to HarThass’s rudeness. “I don’t understand why the slaves wait. Why did they not leave Burgdeeth as soon as they had that tunnel open? What keeps the fools there? If they want to capture and rule Burgdeeth as you say, they would not even need a tunnel. If their power is so great they have simply to warp Venniver’s thoughts until he sets them free and gives them the cursed town.”
“There is something in Venniver that makes his mind unreliable. He can be moved for a few moments, then he is impervious to most skills. You cannot keep him controlled, you can only direct him on occasion. Some latent Seer’s blood, like you, EnDwyl.
“But beyond that, those Seers are an odd lot. They remain quite willingly, with some wild idea about completing the tunnel.” HarThass snorted. “Something to do with visions of the future. What rubbish. The future is to be manipulated regardless of visions—to be bent to the strongest will in spite of all the wild visions you can name. This Jerthon and his slaves are dreamers, they have no real sense of value. Visions! They only show you what might be, not what will!
“At any rate, we will have Burgdeeth for ourselves soon enough.
“But I tell you this, EnDwyl. I will not allow that boy to scale Tala-charen. I will ride up Tala-charen to retrieve that stone!” He smiled. “How fortunate that the boy discovered where it lay. Once we have the stone,” he said lightly, “once we have subjugated Burgdeeth, that town will become our first outpost. From it we can work southward at our leisure. We will ease Zandour and Aybil and Farr into positions that will destroy them so slowly they will never know they have been taken. We will use Venniver’s own plan, his books, the religion he has invented, his statute—and we will use the stone. No one will resist that combination. But we will do it slowly. I like to do things slowly and see men twist in the coils of the stricturing I put on them.” He leaned back, crossing his legs and flicking some lint from his sandals.
“Is that why you did not march into Burgdeeth long ago? Because you want to do it slowly?” EnDwyl asked sarcastically. “Not because you failed in manipulating the boy into coming to you willingly, HarThass?”
“You had best watch your tongue, EnDwyl. I didn’t see you and that cursed Seer who died on the plain having any great success with the boy—or with the wolves he commands.” HarThass smiled and leaned back. “Well, the wolves will soon be ours. And I like the idea of the boy walking before us down Tala-charen with his wrists bound and those wolves grovelling around him. We will walk with wolves then, EnDwyl. And we will use their powers at our pleasure.
“But that boy won’t be easy to—”
“When I finish with the boy, he will have no choice in the matter.”
*
No trail was visible save, sometimes, a vague cupping or turning that might mark an ancient path. Ram traveled by instinct, by the pull of power that so beckoned to him, and by Fawdref’s sure guidance. They crossed meadows where dead sablevine was frozen into ice and the ice itself torn up and tumbled as if something huge had spent its fury here, ripping with claws like knives at the frozen ground. They were cold, always cold. The wraps Dlos had so stubbornly bundled them into were never quite enough to keep out the freezing wind. They climbed between monster shapes of twisted black stone, between clusters of columns like headless trees, formed by some wild excess of the volcanoes. They passed deep through narrow sunless canyons flanked with walls like black glass, so smooth they could see themselves. “We look,” Skeelie said, bending and dancing about so her reflection was thick then thin and long, “like—like die souls of the dead.”
Ram bent to hug Fawdref, who had turned away from his own reflection in disgust. The wolves seemed to find no humor in their distorted images. “Old dog! Can’t you laugh at yourself?”
Fawdref touched Ram’s cheek with his muzzle, then looked again into the deep black mirror. He was, he let Ram understand, considering that.
As they rose higher up the mountain, the power of something dark increased, watching them relentlessly. Yet it never showed itself, if indeed it had any form to show. Late the second afternoon the wolves killed a buck, and they stopped early to roast the haunch. It was difficult to find firewood this high on the mountain, but the droppings of wild goat and stag made a hot blaze. The children lay back against the packs, smelling the roasting meat, watching the wolves gorge on the carcass and little Pulyo grazing beyond them. Pulyo raised his head once, laid his ears back and snorted, rolling his eyes so the whites showed. At once the wolves were alert, staring up to
ward a mass of black stone.
“Did it move?” Skeelie said. “Did the stone move?”
“I—I don’t know.”
They watched for a long time, but nothing moved. The animals settled down to feed; but Fawdref’s message was plain in Ram’s mind. An evil was there, stirred from sleep by the Pellian Seer. Not yet fully alive, but malevolent and very able to breathe life into itself when it chose.
Ram felt the forces building around them. And the very sweep of opposing forces seemed to be pulling a curtain aside, through which another realm of existence could be glimpsed. That realm, to which his spirit had always yearned blindly, was so immense that its very size made it invisible, as a gnat would view a great, fierce animal and be unable to comprehend what it was. This journey, these forces building, were as a key to that other world, which in time would show itself to all people.
All around them the forces converged, the Pellian’s evil preparations, Jerthon’s long plan coming to its crux, Venniver’s stubborn self-interest—Tayba’s precarious balance between self and something more than self. The power of good on Tala-charen, and the powers of all the evil of Ere, seeking . . .
*
Jerthon and Drudd supported the bronze wing between them over the coals, heating the edge to be braised. Sweat ran down their faces, and little black gnats buzzed maddeningly. Jerthon looked up occasionally to watch the line of slaves carrying the cast pieces up from the pit. Derin appeared, bent nearly double under the weight of a bronze head, and Tayba struggled up behind, supporting the neck. Girls bent like work animals, their hair plastered with sweat.
The forge fire flared up. He rearranged the coals. This new fire, laid in the square, caught the wind and displeased him. He turned to adjust the metal baskets filled with coals that hung along the body of the Horse of Eresu, where the wing would be attached. The horse stood hollow and alone, headless, wingless, secured to the base; and the hollow base was set deep into dragon bone, ready to open itself secretly to the tunnel. He watched Tayba climb back down the pit, her dark tangled hair falling over her face, and felt her tiredness as if it were his own. Drudd said, “Does it please you that the women work like donkeys?”
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