Why did such visions haunt him? He had never in his life had visions; his Seer’s skills had never been strong. These visions were so real he could smell the fire and the roasting rock hares, and feel the cold breeze. Feel sharply his need to speak to that Seer. Surely there was a meaning, surely it was the runestone he carried that made such power in him. But why did it do so now, when it never had before? Did the runestone itself have some mysterious link to that young, dark-eyed Seer?
Hermeth knew his skills had come stronger since his visions began. The conjuring he had laid upon the sheep pastures, to deceive the rabble raiders, had been more than satisfying; that memory still left him with a shock of surprise that he had been capable of such. And his power seemed linked to the other Seer; he felt that they were meant somehow to stand together in battle, though he could not divine the reason. Had that, too, to do with the stone? He felt increasingly that he needed that other Seer in a battle yet to come. He stared into the thickening dark, puzzling. A fitful wind touched his cheek, blowing down from the high deserts that rose above the rim, and he seemed to touch a sudden and desolate sense of space, of eternity, that dizzied him, made him draw back, want human company. He turned away toward the cookfires where his men were tending their wounds, knelt beside a young soldier and took the bandage from his hands, began to wrap the boy’s arm. When he looked up at last, the cast of firelight caught his men’s faces in a quiet brotherhood that stirred him deeply, the brotherhood of soldiers who knew they might die together, soldiers who fought together fiercely.
Wars had flared, died, moved across the coastal countries like a series of sudden storms, the raiders appearing in one place then disappearing suddenly. Sly, clever bands took shelter in the rough hills and woods, then slipped out to leave families dead and crops and homes destroyed. Slowly then the Herebian bands, provisioned from what they did not destroy and armed anew, drew ever closer to the ruling city of Zandour. So far they had been thwarted in Sangur and Aybil and Farr, or sometimes set one against the other when Hermeth could conjure friction and quarrels through a few trusted men who traveled among the enemy troops. This close, efficient network of spies was the first such in Ere since Carriol had come to power and, after the battle of Hape, sent out small cadres across Ere as protection against the dark Seers rising anew.
Though Carriol herself had changed her ways more than a generation ago and now spent her Seer’s powers—so much less without the runestone that Ramad had wielded, countless years back in her history—to hold solid her own borders, protecting those who would come to her for sanctuary, but letting the rest of Ere fend as best it could.
And now the sons of the dark twins, street-bred sons of whores, drew closer upon Zandour in these small, agile bands, easily lost among the hills and woods, impossible to track sometimes, except by Seeing. And Hermeth’s small handful of Seers was not omniscient. Seers tire, too. Seers grow weary in war and, grown weary, become uncertain in their skills.
He remembered with satisfaction that time in Aybil, in the curve of the bay nearest to the sunken island of Dogda, when he had laid a vision-trap that brought forty Herebian warriors down upon what they thought were sheep farmers and turned out to be soldiers herding boulders. That was a victory. But his skill of vision-making was uneven, and not often to be relied upon.
He thought of the power that that other Seer must wield. He coveted that power, not for himself, but to win this cursed war; envied the strength of mind he sensed in that Seer, was drawn to that young man who could command the great wolves and, most likely, command the powers of a runestone with none of his own hesitation. At times the stone would not work for him at all. He would feel a darkness then, a shadow around him; and the runestone would be lifeless in his hands so the visions would not come, let alone any illusion-making.
Then the veil would lift, and visions would come sharply. He would imagine that Seer and a great band of wolves fighting by his side, defeating the street Seers of Pelli. Was that Seer heir to Ramad, who had lived at the time of the Hape? Surely he must carry the wolf bell that had belonged to Ramad, for how else could he wield power over the great wolves? Hermeth scowled, puzzling. He thought of his father and the story of his victory over the dark twins. A mysterious warrior had fought by Macmen’s side. A warrior commanding wolves and believed by many in Zandour to have been Ramad of wolves come mysteriously across Time. Macmen’s own stories, when Hermeth was small—before Macmen died in Hermeth’s sixth year—had named that warrior Ramad. But mustn’t he in truth have been the grandson of Ramad, also named Ramad? The stories were garbled and unclear. The original Ramad had battled NilokEm nine years after the battle of the Castle of Hape, nearly ninety years gone in Ere’s past.
Hermeth felt overwhelmed with questions. It would make no sense for a vision to come to him of the original Ramad, long dead. Not when he envisioned so clearly that Seer fighting beside him. Could the redheaded Seer of his visions be the son of the second Ramad, son of the Ramad who had fought by Macmen’s side? Was this young man drawn to him now by the ties that their two sires had known on the battlefield?
*
When she had the drawbridge down, Skeelie found that an arrow was of little use in trying to undo the great iron lock on the door. Only the tip of the blade would go in, and the hasp was long and well set into the wood. It was hard to work by moonlight. She fiddled with the hinges, found one somewhat loose where the wood was softer. The panic of the closely approaching rider made her nervy, and she was fearful of the large band of riders farther off. Carefully, but with trembling hands, she began to dig out the hinge.
She hacked at the wood, dug, carved at it until at last she was able to work her arrow tip under and pry the hinge loose. When it came free, she began working on the lower one, which seemed solid indeed. She listened with growing tension for the galloping messenger, tried to plan what to do, swore at the lower hinge, which was set into the wood as if it had grown there.
She heard him before she had made even a dent in the wood. Exasperated, fearful, she drew back into the shadow of the door, her arrow taut in the bow.
He drew up his horse at the far bank and sat staring across, filled with apprehension, gazing into the shadows of the tower searching for the intruders who had lowered the drawbridge. Could he see her? The angle of the moons left only deep shadow where she stood, but some light came from the star-washed sky. She hardly breathed.
At last, with drawn sword, he urged his horse onto the bridge, approaching slowly and deliberately. The horse’s hooves struck hollow echoes. Skeelie knew the horse smelled her, could feel it tensed to shy. She soothed its mind until it calmed and came on quietly. Then when it was nearly on top of her she leaped out, shouting and waving her arms. The good animal screamed in terror and spun, nearly went over backward in its panic, dumped its rider and stepped on his arm as it lost its footing and fought to avoid the lake. It righted itself, then hammered away across the bridge and disappeared into the wood.
The rider half rose, groaning; crouched facing Skeelie, her drawn arrow inches from his face.
“Get up, soldier.”
He rose, staring at her with fury.
“Unlock the door. Hurry.”
He fumbled with the key, pushed it into the lock with shaking hands, got the door open at last, pushed it to. The cell room was dimly lit where moonlight crept through small cell windows. Barred cells rose all around, tier upon tier, with a winding stairway like a great snake leading up.