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

“How are they called?” Klingen asked, drawing in his breath.

“They are starfires; they are said to bring luck, though I cannot vouch for that. They are said by some to bring . . .” He paused, stared at Ram with that deep, yellow-eyed look that Ram could not plumb. “They are said to give to man a lightness of spirit, a lightness of being that will—that can do magical things. Though not,” he added, “not like the runestone of Eresu.”

“You know of the runestone?”

“Many in Ere knew of the runestone long before I—before I touched the unknown lands. I know of Tala-charen and of the splitting of the stone.” Anchorstar leaned back and touched his empty bowl lightly, then pushed it aside. “I know that Ramad of—Ramad of wolves is . . . He paused for a long moment, studying Ram, “is of great importance to Ere, to what—to what will happen in Ere.”

Ram searched his face, could not discern his exact meaning. Whether of hidden sarcasm—though he thought not—or of prophecy; or of something else far more certain. Anchorstar’s steady eyes seemed very certain.

“With the whole runestone,” Ram said, “perhaps I might be of importance to Ere. Perhaps. But the runestone is destroyed. Only a shard remains.”

A shift in the light of Anchorstar’s eyes might have been only the dance of firelight. “You are—one dedicated to the good, Ramad of wolves. Whatever comes to your hand will be used to the good of Ere. And if the runestone—the whole stone . . .” But he did not finish, turned away almost as if in sorrow, and sat gazing into Klingen’s fire.

At last Ram stirred and spoke. “And you, Anchorstar. What are you dedicated to?” For this tall white-haired man, whose look Ram could not fathom, was more than a traveler, more than a wanderer upon Ere. There was a dedication in him, a purpose in him strong as steel.

Anchorstar turned back to look at him. “A trader, Ramad. I am a trader.” He held up one of the amber stones. “What I traded for these stones was little. What I will trade them for could—could be much.”

*

In the cold dawn, with the rain abated but the sky dull gray, Blackcob looked forlorn indeed. The Kubalese attack had left burned huts and sheds, burned fences, grain stores scattered uselessly where the side of a shed had been broken away, very few horses in the corrals, and they the dregs of the lot. Ram found Anchorstar out well before him tending to his mount, and that mount made Ram stare with wonder. He had had no glimpse of him last night as they rubbed down and fed their horses in darkness. A tall, beautifully made stallion, dun in color, as steel gray as the morning sky.

Never had there been such a horse in Ere, such a magnificent, long-legged, short-coupled stallion; he was exactly what Ram and Jerthon had dreamed of, the fine wide eyes, the strong light bones—he could have been a product of their own breeding program many years hence. This dun stallion was not of Ere, never. Had Anchorstar found him somewhere beyond the far mountains; were there men there to breed such as this?

And when he questioned Anchorstar, Anchorstar’s confusion made him press his querying obstinately. Did the horse come from Moramia or Karra, or from somewhere on the high desert where the secretive tribes dwelt? Anchorstar would not say. Did he come from the far lands? Were there men there so skilled at the breeding of horses?

“He comes,” Anchorstar said at last, “from very far. Farther than you imagine.” Again there was the sadness, like a darkened cloak swirling around Anchorstar. “Yet this stallion is closer to you, Ramad, than you know.”

“And will you sell him to me, then? He would be the finest blood in our breeding, he . . .

“I know, Ramad of wolves, what he would do. But I cannot sell him. I cannot part with him in—I cannot part with him now.” Anchorstar would say no more, Ram could not get him to speak further of the stallion and gave it up at last.

They rode out of Blackcob together after Klingen’s huge breakfast, Anchorstar huddled in his cape but sitting his mount lightly, hardly needing to touch the reins.

Ram’s wound, freshly bound, did not pain him now. He had slept dreamless and deep, warmed by Klingen’s fire without and by Klingen’s numerous cups of hot honeyrot within, lulled by old Klingen’s snoring like wild hogs rattling—Anchorstar had snored not at all. Ram did not lead the pack mare now, had left her for the men of Blackcob. They would need every mount they could get to make the ride into Kubal two days hence.

He parted from Anchorstar at the forking of the rivers Urobb and Voda Cul. Ram headed up the eastern shore of the Urobb toward the dark mountains, on toward the valley of the gods, keeping well away from Kubalese eyes. Anchorstar rode direct for Kubal, against both Ram’s and Klingen’s advice.

“They will kill you for the stallion, if nothing else. And those stones; if the Kubalese see the starfires . . .”

“I must take my chances. I would—I would see this Kubal that has risen on the hills.”