There, where moonlight touched a thick bed of ice, something moved within the ice. An immense shape, trapped in the frozen mountain of white. The children looked and could not move, saw its eyes behind the ice. It faded, the ice seemed to ripple; then it reappeared closer to them. Skeelie said, The fire—will the fire keep it away?”
“Maybe,” Ram said doubtfully. He looked at the pitiful fire, fed with dung. “Maybe,” he said again, and knelt, held the wolf bell over the flame so the flicking light caressed the rearing bitch-wolf—and slowly he began to draw the fire out, to take it into himself and into the bell, to make it a part of the bell’s power.
The wolves moved beyond the firelight toward the ice. Ram made the fire rise to run along his fingers, his arms, in a wild blaze.
The ice cracked sharply as the creature began to push up through it. Ram made fire leap and blaze out of his hands. The white monster slid up out of the ice. It was huge, weasel-like, big as seven horses. Ram cast fire up at it, gave fire to the wolves so they were flaming death-wolves. Together they stalked the creature as it slid down toward them, its belly slipping over the ice and down onto stone, its eyes never leaving them as it sought the warmth of living blood. The wolves were flaming giants raging toward the slinking weasel. It reared, hissing, its icy tail lashing, its huge pale eyes gleaming—and the flame washed over it so it cried out its rage in a shrill scream. Fire tore at it, burning, melting.
Wolves leaped, blazing. Ram threw fire on it, was a human tower of fire.
At last defeated, the ice-weasel slunk away. Ram could smell its burning flesh. It shrank, twisted, down into the ice. Ram stood high on the ice watching it disappear and could feel HarThass’s black rage. The ice drew together. The wolves’ teeth shone white against their lolling tongues.
Ram returned soberly to the fire and sat staring into it with wonder at what he had wrought—and with the lonely cloak of fear wrapping him. For he had felt HarThass like a dark incubus choking away his power so it had taken all his strength to bring the fire. Could he, as they drew closer to Tala-charen, continue to hold against the dark Seer? Yet beneath that straining effort, beneath the limits he had fought to extend, lay a power still greater in himself, untapped and dormant; a power he had not yet learned to reach. A power he must reach.
*
Tayba was locked into Venniver’s rooms and left to herself. She had been bathed and dressed, like a child. Old Semma and Poncie had found the whole episode very amusing. Her temper raged. She stood looking at the fine room wondering what to destroy first. She was well bruised. She’d left scratches on the guard’s face deep enough to kill the man if they festered, and she hoped they would. She stood staring at the cold fireplace, then knelt and laid a fire from the wood in the basket She wasn’t going to sit in a cold room shivering. She crouched there warming herself, trying to decide what to do. She hated Venniver. She thought she would kill him. What did he have in mind, bringing her here? She sat looking around the room, letting its luxury touch her in spite of her anger.
She didn’t want to go back to that cell. She didn’t want to have to face Jerthon’s assessments of her, which had become so very painful. Maybe . . .
She looked up as the lock turned.
Venniver entered and stood looking down at her. She stayed where she was, crouching, warming herself, undignified and not caring. To Urdd with him. His hard eyes made her swallow. She stared up at him coldly. His voice was measured. “Now that you are clean . . .” He moved toward her. “We will talk. Where did you get the bell? We will start with that.”
“You could have asked me that when you found it instead of beating me. I would have told you; there was nothing about it to hide. I found it on that cursed mountain, in a cave, and I wish I never had.”
“You said you weren’t on the mountain. You said you were walking in the moonlight”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t on the mountain. You didn’t give me a chance to tell you anything. I had been on the mountain. I’d walked all night, praying for Ram. Out there—near the gods—”
“I don’t want your lies! Tell me where you got the bell!”
“I am telling you where. In a cave. I thought it was—what is it? Why do you go on about it? What is so important about it?”
He stared at her for a long time. She looked back defiantly, her heart pounding. At last he said, “We will go up on the plain. You will call the wolves, my fine Tayba. You will use that bell. If the wolves come to you and do not kill us, then I will know that you lie. If they attack us, then. . .” He smiled. “Then I will know you speak truly.” He took up his sectbow and knife. “Get up.”
She looked at him coldly, but afraid. He was quite mad. Well, the wolves were not on the mountain, could not be called. They were all with Ram. And didn’t he know the bell was gone? She stared at him with rising fear. “If I could bid wolves—if I had such power as that, you would never have locked me in that cell. Did you think of that? If I were a Seer, you would never have found me on the plain, Venniver.”
“You will bid the wolves come down. You will bid them lie down before me—”
“I cannot! Don’t you understand! I know nothing of such things. What makes you believe anyone could call wolves?”
He turned to the chest at the foot of the bed, opened it, removed the key, then fit that to the lock beside the fireplace. She watched him, terrified.
He opened the safe, reached—and stared, his hand poised. Then at last he swung to face her. “You have taken it!” His shout filled the room. “The bell is gone—you . ..
She stared at him dumbly when he hit her, went limp under his hands.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t have it! I don’t understand . . .”
He pulled her up and marched her to the window, unlocked the shutters, threw them back and forced her to climb through. He prodded her with his sectbow, then when she resisted, drew his knife to force her on. The wind was bitter cold, whipped the thin dress around her. The moons were pale slivers, the stars small and icy. They walked until Burgdeeth’s lights lay well behind them; he prodded her cruelly when she turned to look. When they stood between twisting stone giants, where even Burgdeeth’s lights were not visible, he stopped, halting her with a rude hand on her arm, pulling her around to stare down at her, his face grim and determined. “Call the wolves. You need no bell—if you have the skill.” And when she cringed from him, “You will call the wolves down. Or you will die here.”
She tried to think what to do. His knife flicked close to her face. “You have the knowledge of Seers. Call them. Bring them down to me.”
“I cannot, Venniver. I told you.”
“The bell comes from Zandour. You brought it here. Why else would . . .” His voice died as he stared past her. She turned slowly to look.
Wolves were there. Dark slinking wolves coming in between the boulders, beginning to circle them, their heads lowered, their eyes cold; they made no sound, must have watched in hidden silence as Venniver forced her up the plain. She tried to contain her panic, looked for Fawdref among them, for pale Rhymannie—and then real terror swept her.
This was not Fawdref’s band. These thin, creeping animals were not his wolves. They were smaller, their eyes not the knowing eyes of the wolves she knew, but the cold eyes of hunters moving intently forward to the kill.
She spun on Venniver. “Draw your bow. Shoot them. They’ll kill us, Venniver!” She wanted to run, knew they would leap at once. “Kill them before they kill us!” The circle drew in, complete. Their eyes never looked into her eyes, but shifted, appraising each movement. Now she felt Venniver’s fear, saw his sudden realization. “You can’t . . .” He raised his bow. His look was incredulous. “But you are a Seer—you . . .”