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

Ram ate ravenously. The wound seemed to make no difference to his hunger. She wished he had not bled so much; he was very pale. She took his empty plate at last and stood staring out again at the town, while behind her he stirred restlessly, thrashing the covers. Partly from the pain, she knew, but already wanting to get up. If he would just lie there sensibly and let the wound heal . . . If she were closer to him, close in a different way, perhaps she could bully him into taking better care of himself. Perhaps. She scowled, annoyed at her own thoughts, and stared distractedly down at the street, where the wounded were being led and carried to their homes. The most critical would be lying in rooms in the tower where they could be doctored more easily and drugged against the pain. The stone sill beneath her hand was smooth from generations of use. This tower had seen so much, the lives of the gods who had dwelt here, the lives of the winged horses of Eresu and of those Seers who had come here for sanctuary in ages past: for in no age had the Seers of Ere been ignored by common men. Revered, yes. Worshipped and given rule, or driven out and killed as emissaries of the fire-spewing mountains, driven out so they came for sanctuary to the cities of the gods. Innocent Seers blamed for the fires of the earth, just as the gods had been blamed. And always there were evil Seers, too, revered by the ignorant and feared so it was easy for them to retain rule.

But never Seers left to themselves. In times past, only in the three cities of the gods had the gentle Seers found sanctuary from their evil brothers and from human ignorance.

She caressed the smooth stone sill, and again a sense of Time slipping away gripped her so strongly she shivered. Suddenly she was very afraid, afraid for Ram—as if Time wanted suddenly to pull him into its wild vortex as it had done once when they were children. She turned to stare at him, stricken, was terrified in a way she could not understand. Where did this sudden sense come from of such danger? And, this sudden sense of someone reaching out to Ram with tenderness? Someone . . . She, Skeelie, was not a part of this.

Down on the street many of the wounded were beginning to come out again from doorways, their fresh bandages making pale slashes against sun-browned skin. They came toward the tower, came haltingly together beneath Ram’s window, stared up at his portal, and their voices rose as one, supportive of him and vigorous, “Ramad! We want Ramad!” They shouted it over and over; then they began to sing Carriol’s marching song, Carriol’s song of victory, “. . . beyond the fire she stands unscathed, beyond the dark she towers . . .”

Their voices touched Skeelie unbearably. This handful of men loving Ram so, loving Carriol so they must gather, wounded and half-sick, to sing of Carriol’s victory—to reassure Ram of her victory. Skeelie heard Ram stir again, and turned expecting to see him rising painfully to come and stand beside her, to join with his troops.

But he had not risen. He lay looking across at her with an expression of utter defeat. “I can’t, Skeelie. Tell them that I sleep.”

She stared at him, shocked and chilled. Never had he refused to support his men, to cheer them when they were discouraged. Below her they sang out with lusty voices of defeating the Herebian, sang a song as old as Ere, as heartening as Ere’s will was. For always had the Herebian bands laid waste the land, and always had men risen to defeat them. Renegade bands plundering and killing, and little villages and crofts fighting back. Though in times past the Herebian lust for cruelty had been simpler, for the dark had not ridden with them as it now did. In times past the Herebian bands had attacked the small settlements and infant nations, done their damage, been routed and weakened and moved on to attack elsewhere. Now all that was changed. Now the dark Seers led the Herebian hordes, and Carriol must defeat them, or die.

If ever Carriol should lie helpless before the Herebian tribes, the Pellian Seers would come forth to rule Carriol and to rule every nation of Ere. If Carriol and her Seers were defeated, it would be a simple matter indeed for the Pellians to manipulate the power of the small, corrupt families that dominated most of the other nations, manipulate the lesser, corrupt Seers there, and so devour those nations.

The singing voices rose to shout of victory; and when the last chorus died, its echo trembled against the ever present pounding of the sea. Ram’s men stood looking upward waiting for him to appear.

‘Tell them I sleep, Skeelie, can’t you!”

“He sleeps—Ram is sleeping . . .”