Ram bent to hug Fawdref, who had turned away from his own reflection in disgust. The wolves seemed to find no humor in their distorted images. “Old dog! Can’t you laugh at yourself?”
Fawdref touched Ram’s cheek with his muzzle, then looked again into the deep black mirror. He was, he let Ram understand, considering that.
As they rose higher up the mountain, the power of something dark increased, watching them relentlessly. Yet it never showed itself, if indeed it had any form to show. Late the second afternoon the wolves killed a buck, and they stopped early to roast the haunch. It was difficult to find firewood this high on the mountain, but the droppings of wild goat and stag made a hot blaze. The children lay back against the packs, smelling the roasting meat, watching the wolves gorge on the carcass and little Pulyo grazing beyond them. Pulyo raised his head once, laid his ears back and snorted, rolling his eyes so the whites showed. At once the wolves were alert, staring up toward a mass of black stone.
“Did it move?” Skeelie said. “Did the stone move?”
“I—I don’t know.”
They watched for a long time, but nothing moved. The animals settled down to feed; but Fawdref’s message was plain in Ram’s mind. An evil was there, stirred from sleep by the Pellian Seer. Not yet fully alive, but malevolent and very able to breathe life into itself when it chose.
Ram felt the forces building around them. And the very sweep of opposing forces seemed to be pulling a curtain aside, through which another realm of existence could be glimpsed. That realm, to which his spirit had always yearned blindly, was so immense that its very size made it invisible, as a gnat would view a great, fierce animal and be unable to comprehend what it was. This journey, these forces building, were as a key to that other world, which in time would show itself to all people.
All around them the forces converged, the Pellian’s evil preparations, Jerthon’s long plan coming to its crux, Venniver’s stubborn self-interest—Tayba’s precarious balance between self and something more than self. The power of good on Tala-charen, and the powers of all the evil of Ere, seeking . . .
*
Jerthon and Drudd supported the bronze wing between them over the coals, heating the edge to be braised. Sweat ran down their faces, and little black gnats buzzed maddeningly. Jerthon looked up occasionally to watch the line of slaves carrying the cast pieces up from the pit. Derin appeared, bent nearly double under the weight of a bronze head, and Tayba struggled up behind, supporting the neck. Girls bent like work animals, their hair plastered with sweat.
The forge fire flared up. He rearranged the coals. This new fire, laid in the square, caught the wind and displeased him. He turned to adjust the metal baskets filled with coals that hung along the body of the Horse of Eresu, where the wing would be attached. The horse stood hollow and alone, headless, wingless, secured to the base; and the hollow base was set deep into dragon bone, ready to open itself secretly to the tunnel. He watched Tayba climb back down the pit, her dark tangled hair falling over her face, and felt her tiredness as if it were his own. Drudd said, “Does it please you that the women work like donkeys?”
“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.