“The wench would not have the sense to come seeking me,” snorted Ceralt, moving a bit upon his furs. “I found her in the woods beyond Ranistard, she having first been found by others of those savage wenches, and she seemed so near to death as hardly worth the wondering. Spears had been used upon her in some savage rite, and her blood had marked the ground more clearly than the rains. We may thank no other than the Serene Oneness that she now stands before us, for my brother Lialt, who tended her, had not thought she would live.”
“And yet, she does live,” mused Telion, his eyes upon me as I turned from the hearth with two full pots of the stew. “And not only does she live, but she serves you without refusal. This is not the Jalav I remember so clearly.”
Ceralt, too, had his eyes upon me as I approached him, and a faint smile touched his lips. “She is quickly becoming the Jalav I have always desired,” said he, taking the pot which was his. “It is merely a matter of knowing the needs of a woman and using them to train her to obedience.”
Ceralt’s words had no further power to cause me pain, yet when I moved to Telion and gave him his pot, the male warrior’s eyes had narrowed upon the streaks of blood still visible upon my hand, and a frown shadowed within the narrowness of his gaze, to move immediately to my face. I avoided his eyes with what was now practiced ease, and returned to the hearth.
“I see,” Telion replied quietly, his amusement at my fate well hidden. I stood before the fire, caught by the jumping of the flames, the dimness of the room and the sounds of feeding a soft frame for the fire’s setting. After a moment or two, Ceralt’s voice came to draw me from the depth of the flames.
“Jalav, the stew is excellent,” said he, a good deal of pleasure in his tone. “I would venture to say that it is nearly the best I have ever tasted. Fill a bowl for yourself now, for you have truly earned the fruits of your labors.” He paused till I had reached down a pot and moved toward the stew, and then his voice came again. “How do matters proceed in Ranistard, Telion? Have any decisions been made upon the question of the strangers?”
“I know little more than I knew when last I saw you,” Telion replied about a mouthful of stew. “I attended no further meetings after your ejection, yet others informed me that the controversy still raged. Some wished to greet the strangers as deliverers, some wished to attack them on first sight, and others, like Galiose, still refused to commit themselves to a position. Galiose, I know, is deeply concerned over what weapons the strangers may bring to bear upon us, yet I am sure he will stand with us should it come to a battle.”
Ceralt was silently considering Telion’s words, therefore was I able to give myself no more than a taste of the stew, which I carried to the hearth corner. As I knelt beside the hearth, I saw Ceralt shake his head and sigh.
“I find myself capable of no such beliefs,” he said to Telion, his eyes hooded in the dimness. “I have always felt that Galiose must be assured victory before he will commit his forces, and these strangers will allow no such assurance. We may find it necessary to stand without him.”
“Then there is sure to be a battle,” Telion concluded, his provender momentarily forgotten. “When last we spoke, you thought it possible that a battle might be avoided.”
“There is still such a possibility,” shrugged Ceralt, “yet the possibility grows fainter with each passing fey. It is for such a reason that the journey must be undertaken as quickly as possible, before the battle becomes totally unavoidable.”
“I understand little of this,” Telion muttered in annoyance, shaking his head. “This journey you speak of, and the coming battle—how might one depend upon the other? And where does the journey take you?”
Ceralt consumed what provender remained within his pot, then put the pot to one side. Telion’s eyes were soberly upon him, and he met the other male’s gaze with a soberness of his own.
“Many kalod ago,” he began, “our village had a Pathfinder of unusual sensitivity and range. The man was able to read the Snows with uncanny accuracy, giving warning of impending events much further into the future than any before or since him. He prowled the Snows almost constantly, risking the danger of being unable to return, returning with everything he could to be considered and interpreted. And then, one fey, he stayed too long upon the Snows.”
Telion had begun feeding again, yet his movements seemed without conscious thought for his full attention was upon Ceralt.
Ceralt sighed and stretched out upon his lenga pelt, and resumed his narrative.
“Others of the village, knowing of the Pathfinder’s penchant for courting disaster, looked in upon his halyar, and finding his body untenanted, worked feverishly toward drawing him back. At long last they succeeded, yet his spirit was dangerously low and his body had begun to malfunction due to his mind’s long absence. It became clear to all that the Pathfinder would soon be no more, yet before he could be mourned, he regained consciousness enough to speak.
“There was a time of great danger ahead of all people, he informed those about him. Not only the Belsayah, but all upon our world would find their very lives threatened. A journey would have to be undertaken by a Belsayah High Rider and his choice of others, and one whose sign upon the Snows was a hadat must accompany them, else the journey would end in disaster for all. The hadat sign was unarguably female, and the journey’s destination was unarguably clear—the black altar beneath Sigurr’s Peak.”
“The black altar!” Telion breathed, his eyes unusually wide. “It has long been said that any who find the black altar may ask the aid of Sigurr the Terrible—if they dare—yet I had always thought the matter to be a tale to frighten women and children. Could there be truth to such prattle?”
“There is indeed truth to it,” Ceralt replied somewhat sourly, “and a good part of the truth lies in the danger awaiting any who attempt to use the altar so. It is no simple matter of approaching the altar and stating your needs, you may be sure of that. Risgar, the Pathfinder who first spoke of the journey, lived long enough to give a good number of details, yet the manner in which the altar may be approached is not one of them.”
“So you seek an alliance with Sigurr,” Telion said, keeping the eyes upon Ceralt as he finished the last of his stew. “Somehow, the suggestion does not surprise me. And the female hadat spoken of—it can be none other than Jalav. What if she had not lived?”
“Then we soon would have joined her,” Ceralt replied, moving his eyes to me. “I have delayed the journey, perhaps too long, yet it was necessary that she regain her health and strength. The spear wounds were not the only things which required healing, and should Galiose and I ever again face one another, he will learn of that which stands between us.”
Ceralt’s voice had grown so soft and cold that it caused a shiver in the very air about us, and Telion too, seemed oddly disturbed. Again I recalled the touch of the lash, cutting my flesh amid the fury of Mida’s tears, bringing agony and agony again with each new stroke, and the pot I held nearly fell from nerveless fingers. Galiose, aye Galiose. He it was who had given me to Nolthis, to be used and beaten and taught the beginnings of hatred for males, and he it was who might now be counted among those I hated. I had hoped one fey to be able to face Galiose across sharpened metal, yet now my hate must fester and turn my insides rotten with frustration, for never would I find the matter done so. Another male had captured me forever, and never again would Jalav be free.
“Galiose is scarcely in need of further troubles,” Telion put in with a clearing of his throat, drawing Ceralt’s eyes from me. “He finds difficulty enough in dealing with Ranistard’s newest citizens—and their bitter blood enemies, the Hosta. Ranistard seems more like a battleground than a city, and Galiose curses the fey he allowed the wenches within his walls.”