“It can’t be helped.”
“It could if we were long gone from this place.”
“Keep your voice down. They would be working just as hard, clearing land.”
“But what is it all for!” Drudd whispered, scowling. “The future can change. You’ve no—visions show only what might be. To stay here, building this statue, when—”
“A vision of the future can change. But five visions? Or five different times?” Jerthon looked at Drudd across the edge of the wing. “And more important, in all times—if we do not succeed in taking Burgdeeth and stopping Venniver—the statue will be needed. You know as well as I that those few who question Venniver’s teachings will need something to tell them that there is another way. Do you think . . . a way of truth, Drudd! They will not know, those children born and isolated here, that there is a way of freedom. They will think their own instincts are evil, just as Venniver teaches them. Unless—unless they can see something that tells them differently. Something that excites their true instincts, makes them yearn—”
“But won’t Venniver realize . . . ?”
“Venniver sees what he wants to see. He sees a statue denoting power, a statue that will put the seal of truth on his teachings, will help to subject men. He will see no more than that.”
“So you build a symbol,” Drudd said. “And he means to kill you when it’s finished.”
“We will be out and beheading his guards when he comes to kill me.” Jerthon turned away, and when he looked back Venniver was entering the square, came at once to stand beside the statue, appraising it silently.
Then he turned to watch Tayba struggle up over the rim of the pit with the end of a cast wing. Jerthon tried to probe his mind, but the man could not be touched. Seer’s blood. Yet the man had no skills, only this mindless blocking as if by instinct.
Well, he hadn’t blocked enough to hide the wolf bell; Ram had winnowed into his thoughts as cleverly as a mouse in the mawzee, seen and stolen the bell, and Venniver did not even know it was gone—yet.
When he found it gone, though, his rage would bring bellows that ought to be heard clear in Sangur. Jerthon hid a smile.
At least Venniver couldn’t blame Tayba. She hadn’t been near his fancy room in some while. Jerthon watched the man step toward her, then stiffened as he jerked her up from where she had knelt to set down her burden. She lost her balance, the bronze wing tipped, throwing its weight on Derin, and the child fell beneath the wing.
Jerthon moved to help her, but Drudd held his arm in a steel grip. They watched as Saffoni stepped out of line to lift the wing, her dark hair hiding her expression. Derin rolled free and seemed unhurt.
Venniver had paid no attention to Derin; she was nothing. He stood gripping Tayba’s shoulder. She stared back at him with hatred, her color rising, her fists clenched. But there was something more than fury in her eyes. Jerthon watched her with cold apprehension.
“Look at yourself, my fine Tayba! Look at your matted hair and your dirty face. You look—you’re no better than an animal!” He pushed her toward a guard. ‘Take her and have the old women bathe and dress her, then bring her to my rooms.” He turned away, dismissing them both. The guard wrenched Tayba around, grinning at his fellows, then marched her off through the square accompanied by the guards’ rude catcalls. Jerthon held his fury with great effort and turned once more to the brazing.
*
Ram built up the fire. The goat dung was growing short, but he dared not let the blaze die. The wolves paced endlessly, staring out at the night. Pulyo brayed, and Skeelie pulled him farther back among the boulders and hushed him. The mountain at their back felt solid and protective.
After supper they had moved on, climbing up into a land of enormous upheaval, great cliffs of stone ripped away and lying tilted. As the evening light had faded, the climb grew colder, and they had begun to see flows of ice cutting away between the stone. They had made camp and the small fire in a cupped place against the mountain, sat watching the tilted cliffs of stone lighten as the moon rose. Suddenly the wolves growled, and Skeelie paused with her hand half lifted, staring.
There, where moonlight touched a thick bed of ice, something moved within the ice. An immense shape, trapped in the frozen mountain of white. The children looked and could not move, saw its eyes behind the ice. It faded, the ice seemed to ripple; then it reappeared closer to them. Skeelie said, The fire—will the fire keep it away?”
“Maybe,” Ram said doubtfully. He looked at the pitiful fire, fed with dung. “Maybe,” he said again, and knelt, held the wolf bell over the flame so the flicking light caressed the rearing bitch-wolf—and slowly he began to draw the fire out, to take it into himself and into the bell, to make it a part of the bell’s power.
The wolves moved beyond the firelight toward the ice. Ram made the fire rise to run along his fingers, his arms, in a wild blaze.
The ice cracked sharply as the creature began to push up through it. Ram made fire leap and blaze out of his hands. The white monster slid up out of the ice. It was huge, weasel-like, big as seven horses. Ram cast fire up at it, gave fire to the wolves so they were flaming death-wolves. Together they stalked the creature as it slid down toward them, its belly slipping over the ice and down onto stone, its eyes never leaving them as it sought the warmth of living blood. The wolves were flaming giants raging toward the slinking weasel. It reared, hissing, its icy tail lashing, its huge pale eyes gleaming—and the flame washed over it so it cried out its rage in a shrill scream. Fire tore at it, burning, melting.
Wolves leaped, blazing. Ram threw fire on it, was a human tower of fire.
At last defeated, the ice-weasel slunk away. Ram could smell its burning flesh. It shrank, twisted, down into the ice. Ram stood high on the ice watching it disappear and could feel HarThass’s black rage. The ice drew together. The wolves’ teeth shone white against their lolling tongues.
Ram returned soberly to the fire and sat staring into it with wonder at what he had wrought—and with the lonely cloak of fear wrapping him. For he had felt HarThass like a dark incubus choking away his power so it had taken all his strength to bring the fire. Could he, as they drew closer to Tala-charen, continue to hold against the dark Seer? Yet beneath that straining effort, beneath the limits he had fought to extend, lay a power still greater in himself, untapped and dormant; a power he had not yet learned to reach. A power he must reach.
*
Tayba was locked into Venniver’s rooms and left to herself. She had been bathed and dressed, like a child. Old Semma and Poncie had found the whole episode very amusing. Her temper raged. She stood looking at the fine room wondering what to destroy first. She was well bruised. She’d left scratches on the guard’s face deep enough to kill the man if they festered, and she hoped they would. She stood staring at the cold fireplace, then knelt and laid a fire from the wood in the basket She wasn’t going to sit in a cold room shivering. She crouched there warming herself, trying to decide what to do. She hated Venniver. She thought she would kill him. What did he have in mind, bringing her here? She sat looking around the room, letting its luxury touch her in spite of her anger.
She didn’t want to go back to that cell. She didn’t want to have to face Jerthon’s assessments of her, which had become so very painful. Maybe . . .
She looked up as the lock turned.
Venniver entered and stood looking down at her. She stayed where she was, crouching, warming herself, undignified and not caring. To Urdd with him. His hard eyes made her swallow. She stared up at him coldly. His voice was measured. “Now that you are clean . . .” He moved toward her. “We will talk. Where did you get the bell? We will start with that.”
“You could have asked me that when you found it instead of beating me. I would have told you; there was nothing about it to hide. I found it on that cursed mountain, in a cave, and I wish I never had.”
“You said you weren’t on the mountain. You said you were walking in the moonlight”
“I don’t want your lies! Tell me where you got the bell!”
“I am telling you where. In a cave. I thought it was—what is it? Why do you go on about it? What is so important about it?”
He stared at her for a long time. She looked back defiantly, her heart pounding. At last he said, “We will go up on the plain. You will call the wolves, my fine Tayba. You will use that bell. If the wolves come to you and do not kill us, then I will know that you lie. If they attack us, then. . .” He smiled. “Then I will know you speak truly.” He took up his sectbow and knife. “Get up.”
She looked at him coldly, but afraid. He was quite mad. Well, the wolves were not on the mountain, could not be called. They were all with Ram. And didn’t he know the bell was gone? She stared at him with rising fear. “If I could bid wolves—if I had such power as that, you would never have locked me in that cell. Did you think of that? If I were a Seer, you would never have found me on the plain, Venniver.”
“You will bid the wolves come down. You will bid them lie down before me—”
“I cannot! Don’t you understand! I know nothing of such things. What makes you believe anyone could call wolves?”
He turned to the chest at the foot of the bed, opened it, removed the key, then fit that to the lock beside the fireplace. She watched him, terrified.
He opened the safe, reached—and stared, his hand poised. Then at last he swung to face her. “You have taken it!” His shout filled the room. “The bell is gone—you . ..
She stared at him dumbly when he hit her, went limp under his hands.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t have it! I don’t understand . . .”
He pulled her up and marched her to the window, unlocked the shutters, threw them back and forced her to climb through. He prodded her with his sectbow, then when she resisted, drew his knife to force her on. The wind was bitter cold, whipped the thin dress around her. The moons were pale slivers, the stars small and icy. They walked until Burgdeeth’s lights lay well behind them; he prodded her cruelly when she turned to look. When they stood between twisting stone giants, where even Burgdeeth’s lights were not visible, he stopped, halting her with a rude hand on her arm, pulling her around to stare down at her, his face grim and determined. “Call the wolves. You need no bell—if you have the skill.” And when she cringed from him, “You will call the wolves down. Or you will die here.”
She tried to think what to do. His knife flicked close to her face. “You have the knowledge of Seers. Call them. Bring them down to me.”
“I cannot, Venniver. I told you.”
“The bell comes from Zandour. You brought it here. Why else would . . .” His voice died as he stared past her. She turned slowly to look.
Wolves were there. Dark slinking wolves coming in between the boulders, beginning to circle them, their heads lowered, their eyes cold; they made no sound, must have watched in hidden silence as Venniver forced her up the plain. She tried to contain her panic, looked for Fawdref among them, for pale Rhymannie—and then real terror swept her.
This was not Fawdref’s band. These thin, creeping animals were not his wolves. They were smaller, their eyes not the knowing eyes of the wolves she knew, but the cold eyes of hunters moving intently forward to the kill.
She spun on Venniver. “Draw your bow. Shoot them. They’ll kill us, Venniver!” She wanted to run, knew they would leap at once. “Kill them before they kill us!” The circle drew in, complete. Their eyes never looked into her eyes, but shifted, appraising each movement. Now she felt Venniver’s fear, saw his sudden realization. “You can’t . . .” He raised his bow. His look was incredulous. “But you are a Seer—you . . .”
“Kill them!” She jerked his knife from its sheath and turned to face the snarling band as a wolf leaped. She spun and plunged her knife in; its teeth caught her arm. She struck again and again in terror, its weight on her, trying to keep her balance—it fell at last as others leaped. She heard the bowstring sing, saw a wolf twist and fall, another. A wolf lunged against her shoulder nearly toppling her, its teeth at her throat. She stabbed and stabbed into the soft stomach as she fell, felt the animal go limp on top of her, heard the bow snap, saw wolves tearing at Venniver, dragging at him. She was torn and bleeding, dizzy. She thought the wolves had backed away. She felt Venniver beside her, trying to pull her up.
Seven wolves lay dead. The others were going away as if—as if they had been called, were slinking away up the dark plain. Venniver was holding her, pressing something to her throat trying to stop the blood. She shivered as he lifted her.
*
The powers that stayed the wolves pulled back and separated, hung poised for moments as one assessed the other; then all three turned away. Skeelie watched Ram, but could make little of what had happened. “Why did the Seer of Pelli help you? Why would he . . . ? And help Jerthon? Why would he care if Tayba died or Venniver either?”
“Sometimes I wish you were a boy and didn’t talk so much.”
“I only . . .” She looked back, saw the dark shadows beneath his eyes. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand, that’s all.”
“HarThass—HarThass thinks to use Mamen—against Jerthon,” he said sickly. “And he needs Venniver. If Venniver dies, Jerthon will take Burgdeeth at once.”
“But why would Jerthon help her then, if Venniver would use her against him?”
“I think Jerthon—that Jerthon is a fool sometimes. Go to sleep, Skeelie! It’s the middle of the night!” He threw some goat dung on the fire and snuggled closer to Fawdref. The dark wolf sighed in his sleep. “Old dog! You never even woke. I never even needed you!”
Fawdref opened one eye and pushed his nose into Ram’s shoulder.
And in Pelli, HarThass paced, puzzling over how easily his powers had blended with those of Jerthon and Ram. Puzzling how to turn this to his advantage.
He saw Tayba’s fear and pain then and stopped pacing to touch her mind, very vulnerable now, to weave a spell that soothed her, took away her dark thoughts—that warmed her toward him, destroyed suspicion. . . .
In the slave cell Jerthon paced too, disturbing everyone. Well, his thoughts alone would have disturbed them. He was not thinking of HarThass or of Ram. He saw the Pellian soothe Tayba, then saw Venniver bandage her and cover her. He felt his pulse quicken in anger and was disgusted with himself.
He rose at last, wound tight as a spring, and jerked the hides away from the tunnel opening, lit a lantern and went down to where they had been setting new supports. He stood beneath the last timber and reached to touch the place where they would soon cut through into the statue’s base. Then he turned back to the niche he had carved into the tunnel wall, stood remembering the vision he and Tayba had seen here, the gods, the brown-haired girl bending to retrieve something. . . .
Had he carved the niche because of the vision? But he had not; he had always intended to put it there to hold the small relics Derin had collected: a basket of pot-shards, pieces of jewelry, a locket, three gold belt links, all found as they dug stone near the grove. It was as if the grove itself had been linked to the sacred city and to that time when Seers lived freely here. The relics themselves brought vibrations, brought visions of splendor and peace that stirred them; they would be left in this place for others, for slaves who might come after them and need such gentle reminders of a better time. He felt Drudd behind him, was annoyed that Drudd had followed him down.
He turned, looked at Drudd a moment in anger, then went to sit beside him on a pile of stone. Drudd said, “You watched Venniver make up with her. You torture yourself watching them.”
“She—there is a goodness in her, a strength in her. HarThass would destroy that. I want—I want the power in her to come right.”
“You lust after her. Be hone
st.”
“That too, I suppose.”
“HarThass would use her to kill you. Can’t you see it, man! Have you taken leave of all your senses?”
“He will use her only if she lets him.” He looked at Drudd unhappily. “Don’t you think I know what she is? But beneath that—there is something more. I don’t mean to let HarThass destroy it.”
Drudd turned away muttering.
So he sat there deliberately watching Venniver and Tayba, forcing his mind to hold them, letting all of it twist inside him, saw and heard them so clearly he could have been standing in Venniver’s ornate rooms, before the fire Venniver had just knelt to light.
Venniver had pulled a chair up beside the bed. Jerthon had a terrible desire to sit in it to make himself be there, make her know he was there. Instead he watched Venniver return to it and put his arms around Tayba. She woke from a light doze and lay looking at him quietly. “You really didn’t know,” Venniver said, “what the bell was. What it could do.”
“How could I have known?”
“Once,” he said, “I went up the mountains and into the ancient caves. The wolves came out from everywhere, were there suddenly all around me. I turned and walked away from them, and they followed me down the mountain. They never touched me, they just walked behind me—looking.”
Jerthon could feel her effort to understand him.
“They looked at me the way a man would. I—I wanted those wolves. I wanted them! Can you understand that? Once—once wolves like that were slaves to men. I wanted that, Tayba. And—and tonight I wanted you to give me that.”
Jerthon sickened, feeling her response. She understood Venniver exactly. She was not repelled by his lust, quite the opposite. She drew him to her and kissed him. Jerthon turned his mind away in disgust. Maybe Drudd was right. And yet—and yet he could not let that other part of her go.
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