She saw their differences, and their likeness. Felt friendship course warm through both. Slowly as she halted, a picture formed which explained much to her. A human was frail in comparison to Keplians, Gray Ones, even the beasts. Therefore they must always think of tomorrow. They must make weapons, change the land they lived in to fit them so they could survive. Since they could not live naked and shelterless, they must find or make shelter, stitch clothing, store food for the places, the times when there was none close at hand.
Tharna felt strange, as if her mind were expanding, filling with new thoughts and ideas. Whole chains of logic built up and broke to re-form anew in different patterns. She stood, head hanging, a long slow shivering rippling along her body as the bonding continued.
Hylan nosed her gently. *Is all well with you?*
She roused herself, pulled back a little. *It is well, my son. So many new things, so much to think over.*
Eleeri’s laughter tickled both Keplian minds. “I, too, have learned a few things I never considered. Your mind is treasure, kin-sister.”
The truth of that touched them all for a moment. But the emotion was becoming too strong. The woman disengaged herself, sliding from the broad back. She trotted away across the grass toward the ancient keep. She was starving, and thirsty. She would eat, drink, and sleep on the day’s events. Behind her the Keplian knew what she would do. Without discussion, they moved away to drink and graze.
That night Eleeri slept the sleep of the dead. The day had been more than exhausting. The full sharing with Tharna had drained her until she could barely remain awake long enough to cool her throat, fill her empty belly. She fell then into a sleep so deep that she lay motionless, utterly limp within her bedding.
Into that sleep the man came walking. Tall and lean, eyes the gray-green hue, with black hair. The strong planes of his face denied the gentler molding of his mouth, matched the determined jut of chin. He was worn thin and the pallor of his skin betrayed a captivity, but pride still showed in the set of his head, in the litheness with which he yet moved.
About Eleeri’s throat the Keplian pendant flared to life. In her sleep her fingers clutched at it. His mouth opened to speak and she strained to hear. Nothing. He was speaking, but she could hear no sound. It was as if a thick pane of glass stood between them, walling off all he wished to say. But she came from a people to whom the hands could speak as eloquently. Without her willing it, her fingers lifted and signed. For an instant, blue-green fire hung in the air, and his fingers rose to trace the rune. The fire deepened.
Sound came then, so faint she must strain to hear, each word seeming to drain him. Quickly she signed that he should use his hands instead, remembering the sign language Cynan had taught her. He nodded, beginning quickly so that she understood they might not have long before what they did was noticed. She knew his name, but hesitated to give her own. Names had power in this place of dreaming, perhaps even more so than in waking life. He saw her thought and nodded. Eleeri grinned then. A name common enough to catch her attention, but no name of hers, that she would give.
She touched her breast. “Tsukup.” It was the Nemunuh word for an experienced warrior. One who had learned wisdom where the arrow flew. It was a word that might draw her, but never too strongly, since it was only of her people, not of her. Then she stared at him until his eyes rose to meet hers. Silently she shaped his name with her lips. He started back, a question showing clear. She began to sign, her hands flowing in graceful dance. Ah, he was nodding again. He grasped that she had learned of him from his sister. Gradually, with much signing, they were able to exchange some information.
But all the time the sign hanging before them faded. Suddenly it was gone, and even as it faded, so did Romar. His last look was one of despair. He might have been asking himself what good they had done, save to hold out a hope that would die before the Dark.
Eleeri came blinking awake in her bedding. She sat up cross-legged to ponder. Now she knew more of Romar. His limning had showed a boy, but it had been no boy she fronted this night. A man, a warrior had faced her. The boy had shown a sensitivity, an imagination in the lines of his face. This one might yet have those, but if so, they were deep buried.
She counted over the points he had been able to tell. He was indeed captive in the Dark Tower, but who or what his captor, he could not say. He was used as a—the only word she could think of was power-line. Using Romar’s strength, the captor fed his will to the Gray Ones and those Keplian males who served it. Recently the drain had become far greater; Romar was failing as his strength was pulled from him to serve evil purposes. If he was not soon freed, there would be no more than a brainless husk remaining. The desperation he felt had come across to her strongly, as had the despair.
She considered carefully. All her original reasoning still applied. More so now that she knew more. From hints she had received, she could guess that Mayrin, too, would be of use to the thing. Brother and sister could be linked to be far more than either was alone. But Eleeri could not be so used. She was not of Romar’s kin or blood, not even of this land. She had some of what they called the power here. But somehow she felt it was different, that the tower could not turn it against her. She marched to the beat of a different war drum. Her songs were not the songs of this place, but of another. Of a people tied to a different land, to other powers.
Best she move carefully in this. Allow the enemy no crack in which to slip a lever. She would learn what she could. Tharna had been able to tell her somewhat of the powers. She would continue to visit the keep also. Mayrin had some of the minor gift. She could tell more and Eleeri would learn. Then, when Eleeri was ready, she would try to call Romar. Two heads were better than one. With greater knowledge and some preparation, there might be a way they could free him.
11
But she was not ready when Romar intruded on her dreams once more. His face was thinner, and his eyes weary. She watched as his fingers wove back and forth, paid attention to his words. Why did he waste strength so? Then she saw past the warrior who warned her of dangerous paths, to the fearful man within. He had been isolated, bereft of friends and family. He came to her out of simple loneliness, came to the only one he could reach to share with. In turn, her hands flashed in the sign language they were mutually building.
“The Gray Ones fear you,” Romar signed.
“That we have ensured. But what of your master? Does he recognize our enmity?”
Romar nodded slowly. That which used him did indeed know something opposed it. As yet it was not greatly disturbed. It was confident in its own power and strength. The deaths of the Gray Ones were minor. There were always more.
Eleeri grinned. “One day there may not be. We’ll see if we can’t thin their numbers to where that thing does start to worry.”
“Well enough, so long as you do not cause too much notice to be taken. Better an enemy secure in its own mind.”
To that she nodded. Warrior sense. She would keep a balance, kill as many of the enemy as possible without alarming the leader too greatly. The talk turned to other things. Romar was eager to hear of his keep and kin.
“You have not told them?”
“It seemed unwise.”
He bit his lip saying nothing.
“Be assured that if danger rises, I will ride to warn them. They have become my friends. It is just that—” she broke off, shrugging.