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 against 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.