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

Skeelie stood frozen, saw one soldier running, saw Berd drop the saddles; she began to run too, toward the gray stallion winging down on the wind, dropping in silence between cottages. She saw Ram slide down, pale with fatigue. She felt the sense of Telien strongly. He was awash with concern for her. Telien, lying in a cave, hurt. She went to him then, began, with the soldier and Berd, to gather the stores he needed.

Mechanically, painfully, but with efficiency, she put into a pack herbs and salve, dried meat and new bread, roots, a pot to cook in, blankets, waterskins. She saw one soldier tying firewood into bundles, saw one preparing grain and feed. She worked dully, mechanically, caught in desolation.

When Ram stood looking down at her, prepared to depart, she could only look back at him and did not trust her voice to speak. His brown eyes were dark with pain—for Telien, but for her, too. And that made her feel worse. He pitied her, was trying to be gentle with her! She could not bear pity and gentleness, swallowed, could not speak. Choked back tears she would not let him see.

He extended his hand. “Friends, Skeelie? Skeelie . . . ?” He touched her arm. She turned away from him, then turned back with effort to look him straight in the eye.

“I hope she—that she will be well quickly, Ram. That you will care—care well for her.” She took his hand then with a solemnity she had not intended and could not avoid. “Good-by, Ram. Ramad of wolves . . .”

She turned and walked away. She did not run until she was out of sight beyond the sheds. Then she ran straight down the hill to the river and among the boulders to a sheltered place, pushed her face against a boulder, choking back sobs until she could no longer choke them back, until she could not help the sobs that escaped her aching throat.

*

The flight of the silver stallion was heavy now, loaded with bundles such as no winged one before him had ever had to suffer. Like a pack donkey, he let Ram know with some humor as he thundered aloft on straining wings. And Ram, so lost in remorse for Skeelie, so ridden with her pain, gave back little of humor, could only quip weakly that perhaps pack donkeys should grow wings.

The sun was low in the west, the dying afternoon stifling as heat rose from the cooling lava. Smoke drifted up, still, in the north between far peaks, and ash drifted down, burning Ram’s throat and making Dalwyn cough. At last they winged over above the cave and dove for its lip—and on the lip of that drop, Telien stood poised as if she would step into empty space. Before her, nearly without foothold, Fawdref couched. Ram could feel the wolf’s furious growl before he heard it.

The stallion remained motionless on the wind above her, weighted, struggling. One step and Telien would be over. Fawdref edged into her, forcing her back with bared teeth. She stared at him uncomprehending, and Ram felt her whisper, ‘They are waiting in the garden. I don’t . . . I must go to them!” Ram tried wildly to reach her mind, to awaken her, and could not. Fawdref pushed her another step back. The stallion dropped down to the ledge, and Ram leaped clear, was beside her lifting her away, saw Rougier winging down from the sky then, answering Fawdref’s summoning from some far distant grazing.

He laid Telien again on the stone shelf. Her ash-covered hair fell around her like dulled silver. She looked up at him blankly, her green eyes far away, seeing beyond him into—into what?

When he had stripped the packs from Dalwyn, seen the stallion leap skyward beside Rougier, he made a small fire, put a pot of water to boil, added herbs for tea, and began to prepare a meal for her. He laid out fresh bread and cold roasted meat, cicaba fruit that Skeelie had carried from Carriol, then put into his pack.

When the tea was ready, he led her to the fire. She knelt, held her hands to the warmth. Her eyes were softer now, very needing; she seemed so very frail. Yet beneath that frailty must lie an indomitable strength, to have brought her through that burning land; and, too, to have sustained her those long years living under AgWurt’s rule. He poured out tea for her and held it so she could drink strong, aromatic tea. “You were far away, Telien. Can you tell me where?”

She pushed her hair away from her face, struggled to remember. “I was . . . it was spring, Ram. Suddenly it was spring, and I was in a garden in the center of a wood. But a dark, ugly garden, all in morliespongs and ragwort and beetleleaf, great dark leaves, and someone was calling to me, soldiers were watching me and I—I must . . .” she stopped, raised her eyes to him. “Where was I to go? What were they telling me to do?”

“Was there a building there in the garden?”

“A—yes! A dark hall, a terrible dark castle with heads! Its top was made of three huge heads! The eyes were windows, the mouths . . .”

He stared at her, chilled through. The Castle of Hape had touched her. BroogArl had touched her. But why?