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

“Do as I say. Your morning’s work belongs to me, and I direct you to stay in bed. I will send a message that you will not appear at weapons practice. And Bernaden will take your class of children.” Tra. Hoppa touched her cheek lightly, more worried than she wanted to show, and left her. Meatha lay staring at her ceiling, numb and confused, not wanting to think, yet unable to stop thinking.

Why was something deep within her frightened by the tale of Ramad? Why were her new, exciting powers shaken by that tale? Oh, but those powers could not be shaken. They could not. Too much depended on her. Too much—she was so drowsy, relaxed at last, the revulsion and fear fading, not really important . . . One thing was important, one thing. The mission she would accomplish for Ere. Nothing, no imagined fear, could change that.

Was she asleep when the image came? She jerked upright and sat staring around her, not seeing her room but instead a deep chasm and a fiery river running between jagged cliffs, the sky heavy with smoke. She felt a presence, but she saw no one at first, only after a moment became aware of a wolf, gray against gray stone, watching her. Then she saw in the dark shadows beside him a second wolf black as night. They were terrifyingly beautiful, both staring at her with eyes as golden as Ere’s moons. She could feel the intricacies of their minds probing her thoughts delicately. She quailed before their stares, before the touch of those minds. But suddenly they turned and vanished, and in their place stood a tall young man with tangled red hair, every color of red, and eyes black and fierce. He seemed so angry, had the look of an animal, predatory as wolves, half ready to attack something—but half at bay, too. And she thought, with a burning purpose eating at him, a cold unshakable purpose—not unlike her own. She wanted to reach out, to speak to him. Something prevented her. She crouched on her bed not seeing her room, trapped by the seething abyss and by the sense of him wild and appealing. And then the force she knew so well blurred her mind, and she closed her eyes and knew nothing more of him.

She woke to noon sun flooding her room. A girl stood with her back to her, placing a tray by the bed.

“Clytey?”

Clytey turned. “Tra. Hoppa said you were sick. Too sick for company? I brought enough for two, but . . .” The younger girl hesitated.

Meatha was muzzy from sleep. She tried to smile. The scent of tammi tea and of broiled scallops brought her more fully awake. She found suddenly that she was ravenous. She sat up, tried to clear her mind, to clear away shadows. A sense of excitement lingered, a sense of power she did not want Clytey to see. Blocking, smiling at last, she gestured for Clytey to sit down.

Clytey shook her sandy hair away from her cheek and pulled up a stool. “You are pale, you . . .” Her blue eyes showed concern, then changed to unease, and she bent hastily to serve the plates. What did she sense? “You need some food, some tea. The scallops were dug this morning on Fentress.” When she looked up again, she was more in control and smiled quietly. Both were blocking, a gentle, polite wall placed between them.

Meatha sat admiring Clytey’s healthy good looks, remembering too vividly how she had looked when first they escaped the Kubalese caves, thin and ashen, sick from the long weeks drugged by MadogWerg. She supposed she had looked the same. Now Clytey was rosy and lithe—and fast becoming a young lady. Clytey had been only twelve when they came to Carriol. Now at fourteen she was nearly grown.

“Not grown enough,” Clytey said, touching her thoughts delicately. “Not grown enough so Alardded will let me dive.”

“I didn’t know you wanted to.”

“I do. Oh, I do, Meatha. He won’t let me go even to the bay of Vexin; he says I’m too young and frail. He got so angry. I’ve never seen Alardded so angry. Meatha, I’m not frail at all. You’ve seen me work the fields!”

Meatha stared at her. “That’s not like Alardded.”

“What could the real reason be? I couldn’t touch his thoughts. I’m as strong as Roth, or nearly. I’m as strong as Nicoli, even if she does train the horses. What is it about me? Oh—I’m sorry. I’m rattling on and you’re ill. I—”

“I’m all right, it’s . . . I don’t understand, either, why he won’t let you. Maybe I can talk to him, ask . . .”

Clytey’s eyes brightened, then dulled. “It won’t do any good, he’s like a rock.”

*

Meatha puzzled over Alardded’s attitude and knew she would speak to him about Clytey. Something about Alardded’s anger alarmed her sharply, though she could not imagine why. She wanted passionately now to know everything about diving, as if Clytey’s very distress had unleashed a heated flood of interest in every detail, in Alardded’s every purpose and intention.