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

Were there, then, no surviving soldiers? With the Seer’s skills so destroyed by the dark, it was hard to know. Had Jerthon . . . oh, Jerthon could not be dead. Her brother could not be dead.

“No message? No news, no sense of the battle, Skeelie? Can’t you . . . ?”

“Nothing!” Skeelie snapped. “Nothing! Don’t you think I’ve tried! Don’t you think we all have!”

“But you—Tayba has the runestone. Hasn’t she . . .” But then his frown turned suddenly from Skeelie toward the door, changed to a look of concern, and Skeelie turned to look.

Tayba stood there, handsome even in faded coarsespun, but her dark hair wild, her cheeks pale. There was fear in her expression and something of guilt. Ram rose at once, catching his breath at the pain, and went to his mother’s side. “What is it? You . . .”

“Joheth Browden brought a woman and two children in from his little farm north of Folkstone.” Her voice was shaking. “Brought them in the wagon. They—they were nearly starved and they—they have been mistreated. They escaped from the Kubalese, but before—before that they . . .” She seemed nearly unable to speak. “Before that, Ram—they escaped from Burgdeeth.” She stopped, was almost in tears. Her dark hair lay tangled across Ram’s arm. She swallowed. “Those little girls saw their nine-year-old sister burned to death. Burned, Ram! Burned in Venniver’s fire! In Venniver’s cursed ceremonial fire!” She pushed her face against Ram’s shoulder so her voice came muffled. “It has come, Ram. A child has been burned alive. The thing we dreaded . . .”

Skeelie stared at them, her fists clenched, feeling Tayba’s awful dismay, and Tayba’s shame. Her own emotions were so confusing and unclear.

Tayba had been Venniver’s woman, in Burgdeeth. Tayba had nearly killed Ram, her own son, and nearly killed Skeelie’s brother Jerthon, too, with her treachery. If she had behaved differently, Venniver would be dead now and there would be no ceremonial fires, no children dying. Burgdeeth would be free and not ruled by a false religion. Tayba was suffering all of it now again, all the guilt and terror from those days, flooding out. “We thought to stop it in time,” Tayba whispered. “And we have not. A child has burned. A child—a Seeing child . . .”

Ram spoke at last, his voice strangely cold. “We have always known it, Mamen. We have always known it would come.” And then, bitterly, “We did not know our Seers would be blinded and unable to know when it was to happen.”

Skeelie stood watching them dumbly, then at last she pushed by them out of the room and went down the twisting stone flights to the kitchen.

 

 

 

TWO

 

In the kitchen the open fire had just been fed, its flames blazed up, lighting the faces of the three frightened refugees clustered around it: a tall woman, a girl perhaps thirteen, and a very little girl who was being bathed by Dlos in the wooden tub. The woman was half-undressed and washing herself in some private ritual as if to wash away all that had been done to her. A dozen Carriolinian women were bustling about preparing food, bringing clean clothes. Skeelie knelt by the tub and took the little girl from Dlos as the old woman fetched her out. The child was covered with sores. Skeelie dried her, then began to dress her. “What is your name? Can you tell me your name?” The child would not speak. Her lank brown hair was dark from the tub.

“She is Ama,” said her older sister. “I am Merden.” Merden had a long, thin face and lank hair like her little sister. They both looked remarkably like their mother. Little Ama spoke then, softly against Skeelie’s shoulder. “Our sister Chanet is dead in the fire. Why is Chanet dead? Why did the Landmaster burn her?”

The older girl touched her little sister’s shoulder, stared unseeing at Skeelie with an expression that brought goose bumps. “Chanet was only . . . she was nine years old.”

When Ram came to stand in the doorway, the tall young woman glanced at him, then carelessly pulled clothes around her as if she had been exposed so often to male eyes that another pair made little difference. As if her ablutions were more immediate than modesty. Ram turned away until she was dressed, then came to speak to her. Skeelie watched him in silence. He’d never begin to heal if he didn’t stay in bed, he had no more business coming down here—no more sense than a chidrack sometimes. She stared pointedly at his bloody bandages. He ignored her.