And this jagged bit of jade was a symbol, too, of the frightening powers Tayba found within herself and which she had not, even yet, learned to deal with easily; though she tried. With Jerthon’s help, she tried.
There sat at the council table eight of Carriol’s fifteen Seers. Five of the eight had come to Carriol from Burgdeeth twelve years ago after freeing themselves from Venniver’s slave cell. They were Tayba; Jerthon, who sat with his back to the portal, the fading light casting a halo around his red hair; his sister Skeelie, her wrists protruding from her tunic as usual, her skewered hair awry, her dark eyes timed to some inward pain as she tried without success to See Ramad on his lonely journey—none of their skills were worth a spoon of spit since the dark Seers had learned to master such cold, impregnable force.
The fourth of the group was Drudd. He sat as far from Tayba as he could manage. Always he avoided her as deliberately as he had done in Burgdeeth. Then, he had had reason to do so. The short stocky forgeman, who had worked by Jerthon’s side to forge the great bronze statue they had left behind them in Burgdeeth, had never ceased to dislike her. But he was a true good man, loyal perhaps beyond all others to both Ram and Jerthon and their cause.
The fifth of those from Burgdeeth was young freckled Pol, a good-natured lad, skilled Seer, though he seldom said much. He was always there when one wanted something done, always there when a raid must be led or a scout sent out in the middle of a freezing night.
The other three Seers, two men and one woman, had lived on this land all their lives. They were good, kind folk who had used their Seer’s skills to protect their land and their families and had never had the need to delve into the dark compelling skills and acquaint themselves with lurid subtleties. The two men were older, bearded and creased and very much alike, except Berd’s hair and beard were white, and Erould was dark of hair and smooth-shaven. They were equally succinct and short in speech. The woman was young: a tall, square, dark-haired farmgirl who could wield sword and bow as well as any man and had a fun-loving way with the young, unmarried soldiers that added to the sharp-witted, rollicking pleasure of all concerned.
Jerthon leaned forward. They had been discussing the raids. His anger was deep, and searing. “No more than a handful of Herebian raiders—calling themselves a nation—Kubal!” His green eyes blazed.
“They would not be so free with us,” Drudd countered, “were it not for BroogArl and the cursed power he has amassed!”
“It will be a touchy job setting the captives free,” Jerthon said. “Even if the Kubalese prison is no more than a hog cage, it will be a job getting them out safe before the Kubalese shoot them from hiding, out of spite.” He unrolled a mat of blank parchment and began to sketch out quick plans for defending Carriol should the need arise. Drudd made a suggestion. Pol asked about horses in the north. They had nearly agreed to all the necessary details when Jerthon saw that no one was listening, all had turned to stare beyond him to the portal. He spun around, alarmed, as the wind, risen suddenly, swept into the citadel, lifting and tearing the maps, toppling chairs as the Seers rose to crowd around the portal, staring out. And in the wild sky Horses of Eresu were battling, tossed on the wind, their great wings torn by the gale; they were swept away, they beat against the wind, forcing themselves back, powerful animals buffeted like birds as they fought toward safety. A mare was blown to the ledge, fighting to keep her balance, two stallions were tumbled, descended at last, came in beside her. The Seers moved away from the portal as six more winged ones braced against wind, then pushed inside, heads down and ears back against the onslaught. Soon the whole band had fought its way down out of the seething sky to the ledge and into the protecting grotto. The winged horses came at once to the Seers, stood close; and the Seers spoke softly to them, made their minds open and receptive; but no thought passed from one to another. As if the horses had gone mute or the Seers deaf. Jerthon stood with his hand on a brown stallion’s cheek, trying to understand what had happened; what force had created such sudden chaos in the sky—though well enough he knew. Curse the Pellians! Curse this damnable silence! The dark made a web they could not penetrate. He tried to feel into the falling night for the shape and sense of the thing that had driven and buffeted the winged ones; he touched something dark and unyielding, and then his mind was torn and driven until at last he must withdraw.
A monstrous darkness lusting for blood, thriving on fear and confusion.
He sent for grains and the mild ale the winged ones so relished, and they made themselves at ease, some lying on the low stone shelves and outcroppings that had been worn smooth by their ancestors before them, some standing, still, beside the portal watching the darkening sky. When they were rested, Jerthon knew, when the danger was past, they would be off again, and the citadel would seem strangely empty.
The Seers moved among the winged horses caressing them and speaking to them with a reverence that came from awe, but too, from a gentle mutual understanding of this world that they shared so differently and yet with such like sympathies and fears. Skeelie stood beside a pale mare who seemed only slowly able to calm her terror. The winged horses had been, from her early childhood, the source of fierce wonder for Skeelie. Now, seeing them so distressed, her anger stirred painfully. Let the dark do battle with Seers, not with the gentle winged ones. BroogArl must hate everything beautiful, would kill all joy if he could. Surely the very essence of life, the wild freedom of the winged ones, offended him. She pressed her face against the mare’s pale neck, hiding tears of helpless anger—of rage at an evil they could no longer fight, rage at a force she did not know how to battle. She thought of Ram then, suddenly, Ram moving alone toward the dark mountains, vulnerable to attack, and she went sick with apprehension. What further evil would the dark be about this night? The mare shivered. Skeelie smoothed her neck, tried to reassure her; but her terrible fear was now for Ram. She prayed silently for Ram’s safety.
*
Ram watched darkness fall. The wind swept cold and damp down from the mountains and across the hills, flattening the tall ruddy grass, blowing the horses’ manes with sharp whipping motions. The darkness was early, hurried by heavy clouds. He looked toward the mountains, which were only a smear now in the falling night, and was gripped with a sudden sharp longing for the wolves, for Fawdref s wolfish grin and his cool wisdom.
It had been more than a year since they had met; Fawdref was growing old—even the great wolves grow old. Growing gray and thinner, Ram knew. He longed to go to him, to hold Fawdref’s shaggy head on his shoulder, to see gentle Rhymannie bow and smile at him; to be alone inside the dark mountains and the old grottoes, among the wolves once more. But he could not.
He had reached out again and again toward Burgdeeth, trying to sense something of what was occurring there. Had Venniver another victim for his fires? But Burgdeeth remained maddeningly locked away from him. He could only hasten, now, up toward the black mountains and into them, to seek as quickly as he could the hidden valley of Eresu, and then to use every skill he possessed to gain the gods’ help in stopping Venniver’s insane murders.
The wind blew clouds across the stars, hiding Ere’s slim moons. He could smell rain, and the wind chilled him through. He dug his leather cape from the pack none too soon, for thunder began to rattle; and then the rain itself came pelting sudden and sharp and cold. The pack mare lurched close to his knee, seeking protection. The night was black as sin, drear and damnably wet. His leather was near soaked through and the horses drenched when he sensed suddenly that a man rode beside him, just beyond his sight in the pounding rain. He felt the rider draw closer. He could see the darker shape then, in the heavy downpour. A tall man, on a tall horse, caped, he thought, and looking down at him. He could feel his stare like a lance. Ram slipped his sword from the scabbard, more irritated than afraid, and waited. He wondered that his horses gave no sign of fear, not a twitch from his mount He wanted badly to bark out a challenge, but held his silence.