The Castle Of Hape. Caves Of Fire And Ice. The Joining Of The Stone

Then Meatha drew away and let the mare be, to dwell on it, to come gently to terms with it as was Michennann’s way. She looked across the narrow sea channel to the isle of Fentress. Dawn touched the weathered cottages, and already half a dozen children had run out to scurry along the rocky shore with clam buckets, laughing and playing at tag before they settled to their morning’s work. She could not remember playing so as a child. In Burgdeeth, little girls were not encouraged to play. She left the cliff at last, eager to lose herself in her own morning’s work, and when she reached Tra. Hoppa’s chambers she found the old lady already seated at her table with the small leather-bound book Hux had brought open in front of her. Sea light played through the open window across Tra. Hoppa’s white hair, and a breeze stirred the pages over which she scowled. “It’s like hen scratching. I can make out so little.” The old lady’s thin fingers traced the nearly illegible text.

“But you’ve made notes,” Meatha said, looking down over her shoulder.

“I’ve made notes from the first part. That’s easier to read because it tells of what we already know. It speaks of Ramad of the wolves as a small child, battling the dark Seer HarThass. It tells how Ramad killed the gantroed atop Tala-charen, and how the forces spun around him so violently they cracked open the mountain and split the stone into nine shards. Then it tells how Ramad in later years battled the shape-changer Hape, clinging to its back as it flew over the sea, how the Hape dove into the sea and nearly drowned Ramad, and the runestone was lost. How Ramad and his companions burned the castle of Hape, and only one dark Seer escaped them. But then—do you remember the words Ramad’s mother wrote in the Book of Carriol soon after that battle?

“How could I forget? Tayba of Carriol wrote, Ramad is gone. The battle of Hape is ended and Ram is gone, I fear forever, from this place. I’ve never understood what she meant. Gone where? She can’t have meant that he died. There are tales of Ramad in later years, defeating NilokEm at the dark tower. And why would he go away forever from Carriol? But still, there is nothing more in her journal. The rest of the pages are blank.” Meatha looked at Tra. Hoppa, puzzling, then caught the faint sense of the old woman’s excitement. “What does this book say?”

“That Ramad carried another runestone,” the old lady said. “That after his shard of the runestone was lost in the sea, he came into possession of another—but then the book becomes muddled, for what I think it’s saying is not possible.”

Meatha studied the scrawling handwriting and could make out only a few words. Ramad’s name was repeated several times, making her feel strange, though she could not understand why. Tra. Hoppa followed the words with her finger, as if touching them would make them more legible. At last she sat back in exasperation. “Make us some tea, Meatha. All of this is so difficult. It makes no sense at all. It seems—there are parts of it that are like the ballad of Hermeth, and that simply adds to the puzzle.”

Meatha made the tea, replaced the tin kettle on the back of the clay stove, and found some seed cakes in a crock. When she returned to the table with the tray, Tra. Hoppa looked strange. “I’ve made out a few lines more,” she said, frowning. “But—what can it mean? I always thought the ballad of Hermeth was myth, embroidered from some incident long ago twisted out of its original shape. But perhaps . . .” She settled back, sipping the welcome tea. “Meatha, this book tells the same tale as the ballad, copied from an old, old manuscript. It tells of NilokEm and Ramad fighting beside the dark tower nine years after the battle of Hape—we have always known that NilokEm was killed in that battle. But now—this says that Hermeth of Zandour fought beside Ramad in that battle. Hermeth—who was not yet born. It says then that when Hermeth fought in that same dark wood eighty years later, it was the same battle. That the two battles were one. That men fighting in that later battle saw Ramad there, surrounded by wolves, fighting by Hermeth’s side. A young Ramad, no older than Hermeth himself.” She looked up at Meatha, her blue eyes lit with puzzled excitement. “What have we found, Meatha? Can we believe these words? That Ramad . . .”

“That Ramad moved through Time,” Meatha whispered, “just as the ballad says. That—that the ballad speaks truly.” She stared at Tra. Hoppa, shook her head uncertainly.