“Yes. I know that feeling. I had it too. We all did.”
“We must never again—never—allow our senses to be so dulled by reliance on Seeing alone. We must guard against that. We must train against it.”
“Yes. I know we must.”
Jerthon pushed back a lock of red hair so violently that a cloud of the white dust rose to drift in motes on the still citadel air. “I think the hordes will not march here, though I’ve given orders for double guard and for mounts kept ready.” He grew silent, as if he were drawn away. The choir’s voices rose to hit along the ceiling like the wash of sea light.
“. . . faith then, faith in men then, faith to do then, faith to be . . .” rising higher and higher, Skeelie’s voice clearly discernible now; but now that song seemed a joke in the face of the murder Jerthon had witnessed.
Ram hardly heard the voices that rang across the cave. He sat looking inward at his own failure. For if they had the whole runestone of Eresu in their possession, they could easily defeat the dark. That round jade sphere, which he had held in his hands, carried power enough to defeat every evil Seer in Ere.
He had held it, seen it shatter asunder, seen its shards disappear from his open palm—seen those shards vanish out of Time into the hands of others, mysterious figures come out of Time in that instant.
He had returned to Jerthon with one small shard of jade. That shard, that bit of the runestone, was now the only force beyond their Seer’s skills with which they could battle the dark.
That moment would burn forever in his mind. He had felt the earth rock, felt Time warp and come together, was shaken by thunder as Time spun to become a vortex out of Time. He had stood helplessly as the stone turned white hot and shattered in his hands. And something of himself had gone then, too. He had known, since that time, an oppressive loss, a loss he did not really understand.
He and Skeelie had come down out of the mountain Tala-charen the next morning to make their way across unknown valleys to meet Jerthon and Tayba, meet all those who had escaped from Burgdeeth and Venniver’s enslavement.
He had placed the jade shard in Jerthon’s hand, and Jerthon had looked down at him—a tall, red-headed Seer staring down at a nine-year-old boy who had so recently seen his dreams, his hope for Ere, shatter. Jerthon had read the two runes inscribed on the jade; “Eternal—will sing,” then had looked hard at Ram. “Did it sing, Ram?”
“If you call thunder a song. But where—the other parts . . . ?”
“It went into Time, and that is all we can know. Now, in each age from which those Children came, Time will warp again, once, in the same way.”
Ram stared at the choir unseeing, shutting their voices from his mind. Could he have prevented the shattering of the stone? And if he had prevented it, what would have happened differently these past twelve years?
They had begun their journey that morning from the wild mountain lands above Burgdeeth to Carriol, and to Jerthon’s home. Carriol then was a collection of small crofts and farms, of peaceful men and women holding their freedom stubbornly against the ever-threatening Herebian bands. Joyful, vigorous men and women ready always to battle for their hard-won freedom.
Now, twelve years later, Carriol was a nation. With the easy cooperation between the Carriolinian Seers and those who came from slavery in Burgdeeth, with an easy-open council, they had welded Carriol into a strong, cohesive country. The few crofts at the foot of the ruins had grown into a town. The ready bands that had ridden to defend neighbors’ lands had grown into four fierce, well-disciplined battalions of fighting men backed by women who were equally skillful at arms.
And as Carriol grew stronger, the wrath of the Pellian Seers had grown. The Pellian, BroogArl, had drawn the evil Seers of all nations into an increasingly malevolent unity directed toward Carriol, a unity of dark that breathed hate poisonous as vipers upon the air of that rising free land, rose in increasing anger that Carriol was a sanctuary where men could come in need to escape the evils of the dark Seers, and that Carriol was becoming too strong to attack.
All the political intrigue and manipulating among small-minded leaders in other countries that so increased the lack of freedom of an unwitting populace, all the atrocities done to common men for the pleasure and diversion of those leaders as their evil lust began to feed on itself—all of this was threatened if fearful serfs could escape to Carriol and be protected there.
There had been a great, concerted effort by Ere’s dark Seers to bring all the nations but Carriol under one iron-gloved rule, one dark entity that could devour Carrioclass="underline" a war-hungry giant that could crush her. The Seers of Carriol had so far prevented that, with the help of the runestone. But if they had had the whole stone, had held that great power, what more could they have done?
Surely they would have prevented—made impossible—the burning of a Seeing child in Venniver’s fires.
Ram glanced at Jerthon and found him scowling. He touched Jerthon’s arm, seeking for some silent contact, but caught only a fleeting sense of unease, nothing more.
Jerthon loosed his leather tunic, looked as if he would like to pull off his boots. “Lieutenant Prail told me the winged ones pulled you out of that bloody trap in the south.” He stared at Ram. “The horses of Eresu did not come near us, we did not see them or feel their presence. It seems to me something goes on with them, but I can’t make out what—as if there is fear among them. I think that evil stalks the winged ones just as evil stalks us. Only once did we hear their voices in our minds for a moment—beseeching voices laced with fear. Then the silence returned.”
Ram shifted, easing the strain on his wound. It itched abominably now that it had started to heal. “The golden mare who brought me had a sadness about her. Also, Jerthon, something is amiss with them, as well as with the world of men.”
Jerthon stared across the citadel to where Skeelie stood tall in the choir, the sun striking her robe. His sister sang as if her whole soul were lifted and buoyed by the music. He said, with more heart, “I ride in a few hours to rescue the captives taken in the north; I came back only to get fresh mounts and more men. Arben’s battalion rides north of Blackcob now. They will wait for us just below the mountains, to come on the Kubalese camp from high ground. I ride south, and those few men left in Blackcob ride out direct over the hills eastward. We will come upon Kubal from three sides. But there . . . I think there is someone in the Kubalese camp who is in sympathy with us. I had only a fleeting feel of it, but perhaps he can help us if we can summon the power to reach him. It would be good to have a spy inside to loose horses, cut saddle bands and otherwise cripple the Kubalese.”
Ram felt a strange sense stir him, an unfamiliar excitement. He paused, feeling outward, but could make nothing of it; and it was gone so quickly. He brought himself back to Jerthon. “Yes—perhaps I know of whom you speak.” What was this pounding of his pulse? “Perhaps I know, for we have had news of Kubal . . .” And the very word Kubal seemed to speak to him in some way; but he could make nothing of it. He reached out, tried to sense whatever it was, and could not, frowned, irritated himself. “There are captives from Kubal come three days ago, brought in by wagon from Folkstone. They escaped from Burgdeeth after a child was—burned to death in Venniver’s sacrificial flames.”
“You . . .” Jerthon stared at him. “It has begun, then. The burning has begun.”
“Yes. What we feared has begun.” Ram looked away toward the portal. This defeat, on top all the rest, was nearly unbearable. Well, it must be told. Jerthon waited to hear. He sighed, continued.