EIGHT
Alone on the cliff, Tayba stood looking down at the empty moon-washed plain, felt drained of all emotion and strength. No one spoke in her mind now. The power she had felt was gone—had never been there, was all illusion. Her aloneness stabbed at her like a knife. She started down the cliff trembling with apprehension and stood at last at the mountain’s base, gripped with terror at the emptiness, at the looming boulders. The eerie expanse panicked her—and she began to run suddenly and wildly toward Burgdeeth, dodging boulders and the reaching shadows, shivering, until at last she could see the lights of the town.
And a figure was riding toward her.
Venniver. Venniver coming to find her; riding in a fury, beating his horse, his shoulders hunched, coming straight for her. She imagined his quick, fierce anger and stared around her uselessly for a place to hide, a shadow to conceal her. What would he say, finding her here? What would he think?
Maybe he won’t be angry. Maybe . . . She remembered the wolf bell beneath her tunic and pulled her cloak across it. She could tell him that she . . . But he was on her, reining in his horse. She saw his face; fear sickened her. He swung down. She cringed away from him, tried to speak as he grabbed her arm. “Where in Urdd have you been! What are you doing out here!” His eyes were cold, appraising. “Who were you with? Who?”
“No one! I was with no one!”
“Don’t lie to me!” He jerked her to him, twisting her. “I can break that arm if I choose. Now where is he?”
“I’m trying to tell you! There is no one!”
“You didn’t come here alone! No one walks alone on this plain.” He stared at her with disgust. “Who were you with! Where is he!”
“Who would I be with when I could be with you? Don’t be stupid. Why would I . . .” She sighed, reached out to him. “I was walking alone, Venniver. Ram is sick, I was upset. The moonlight—there is nothing out here. It seemed so peaceful—as if a prayer, here . . .”
“A prayed Great Urdd! Don’t lie to me. You came here with some fracking guard!” He hit her full in the face, then spun her around to twist her arm behind her. “Some guard who—” His voice broke with fury. He slipped the stallion’s reins over a boulder; the nervous animal plunged and reared. His fingers bit into her arm; he threw her down so her cloak and tunic ripped, terrifying her. Then he stopped suddenly, staring.
He straightened up, to back away from her.
The wolf bell lay beside her, touched by moonlight.
Tayba swallowed blood, felt the cut on her mouth. She watched him helplessly. Well, he couldn’t know what the bell was. Why was he staring at it? Why would he . . . He bent to pick it up almost as if it would burn him. He examined it turned it over, held the clapper so it would not ring; looked for a long time with growing horror at the grinning bitch-wolf. Then he jerked her up, his fingers like steel, his voice shaking, nearly screaming. “What are you doing with this? I know what this is! I’ve heard the stories!” He stared at her, unbelieving. “You—you are one of them!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You are a Seer. This—this is the bell of the wolf cult! You’ve been on the mountain with—wolves!”
He beat her then until she went limp under his hands, her mind sweeping blackness into the pain, confusing her. She felt herself dragged, then was forced to walk. She felt the stallion plunge against her where Venniver led him. She was forced on and on down the plain. Burgdeeth’s lights swam before her. They were in the gardens, she thought; she could feel mawzee briars catch at her. She saw the back of the Hall but was not seeing properly, was so dizzy.
He forced her on. She was shivering, could hardly walk for the pain. She tried to pull her torn cloak around herself, wanted only to lie down. He stopped her at last. She saw the guard tower above the trees, heard the familiar ring of the iron door.
She was shoved into darkness, nearly fell, heard the door slam behind her.
She reached out and felt hands on her, felt the strength of someone supporting her. She hurt. Great Eresu she hurt.
*
She woke in the dim, close cell. She tried to roll over, went sick with the pain that struck sharp through her arm and side. Her face felt swollen. She touched it hesitantly. Her exploring fingers brought pain along her left side, her left eye. Her lip was big and scabbed over. The candlelight was very dim, flickering. Little groups of slaves reclined on piles of hides, were turned away from her talking softly, paying no attention to her. Out of kindness? Or because they didn’t care. She let her face drop down onto her arms. She would die in this place. She wanted to die.
“You will not die.”
She lifted her face and turned until she could see Jerthon where he sat beside her. She saw that she lay on hides, was covered with a thick goathide.
“You will not die. But you do look somewhat battered. Here.” He supported her head and held a mug for her. She drank greedily.
“More?”
She nodded, heard the water poured out, and drank again.
“That is enough, you’ll make yourself sick. Could you manage some bread?” Then, to her unspoken question, “Ram is all right. The fever is gone. The Seer has subsided into his black little hole—for the time being.” He broke bread for her. “Your right arm works. Take the bread. Sit up now and try to eat a little.”
Her ribs were very painful, were tightly bound. He helped her sit up. She leaned against the cell wall, nauseated with the effort. A few of the slaves looked at her, and a girl smiled. There was a warmth among them as they looked, a quiet solitude that reassured her. All but the stocky, short man there in the back. What made him scowl so? That was the man called Drudd, the other forgeman.
The girl who had smiled was younger than the other four girls, little more than a child. Her hair shone like fire even in the dim light. Jerthon beckoned to her, and she came to sit beside Tayba. Jerthon said, “This is Derin. She will sleep beside you, in case there is anything you want in the night.”
Derin said, “Dlos will bring herbs for the pain when she brings the morning meal. I put—I put what little we had in your water.”
Tayba held out her hand. “Thank you. It does hurt.” Suddenly she remembered the bell lying in the moonlight remembered that Venniver had picked it up. She stared at Jerthon. “Does Venniver have it—the bell? What did he . . . ?”
“He has it. Ram—Ram wanted to charge into his rooms and take it. He’s stubborn, that boy. It was all I could do to make him wait awhile.” Jerthon searched Tayba’s face, looked as if he would say more, then was silent.
She lay trying to puzzle it out, putting pieces together. Why had Ram been so ill? Why? What did HarThass . . . ? And suddenly it all did come together, the grotto, the Seer appearing on the high bridge; Ram’s determined attitude afterward; the Seer’s fury at Ram for something she did not before understand. She looked at Jerthon quietly. “You were in the grotto with Ram,” she whispered. “You were there with him—just like tonight.”
“Yes. We are five Seers here. We . . .”
She laid her hand on his arm. “What—what did Ram See in the grotto? What was in that high cave that HarThass didn’t want him to see, that he did see and came down so full of? He means—he made some commitment there.” Her fingers tightened on Jerthon’s arm, and she half rose to look at him, ignoring the pain. “What was it? What does Ram plan that—that HarThass would stop him from doing?”
Jerthon paused, studying her, sat for so long in silence she wondered if he would ever speak. When he spoke, it was reluctantly.
“Ram saw, in that cave—he saw pictures of a procession. He saw the gods lay to rest a box containing something of great power. Containing—the Runestone of Eresu. Ram—something is leading him, something compels him to bring that power out into Ere. There is need for it now. He is drawn there, and no one—not you, nor I—can stop him, now, from that quest.”