Ram had caught his breath, stood watching, sensing out.
“He will touch that stone,” Anchorstar continued. “I feel certain of it. He is linked with your prophecy, Ramad. Found by the light of one candle, carried in a searching Linked in a way I cannot fathom. But
Ram . . .” Anchorstar laid a restraining hand on Ram’s arm.
“Telien is not in this time, nor does he know of her—nor do I feel that she will come to this time. That young Seer— I think he is hardly aware of his gift. It is an ignorant time, ignorant!” And then, his voice fading, “Kubal is rising. Can’t you feel their dark intent?”
He was gone, mountain and valley gone. Ram and Skeelie stood alone in fog and snow, freezing cold, the blue lake below. Anchorstar’s horse was gone, its hoofprints ending suddenly in the deep snow just where Anchorstar’s footprints ended. Their own two horses pressed close to them, shivering.
An after-vision filled their minds with Anchorstar, not on that dark mountain now but riding the dun stallion along a flat green marsh next to the sea. “He is in Sangur,” Ram breathed. “Surely those are the marshes of Sangur. How . . .? He stared at Skeelie. “What mission must he now endure, in order to make his way back to the mountains, and to that young Seer? Is there sense of it, Skeelie?”
She could not answer him. They stood staring at one another, caught between wonder and fear at the forces that moved around them, that flung them so casually across Time. Was there sense to it, reason? She remembered, suddenly and vividly, standing with Ram inside the mountain Tala-charen, could hear his voice, a child’s voice, yet very certain of the words he spoke. There is one force. But it is made of hundreds of forces. Forces balance, overbalance—that is what makes life; nothing plans it, that would take the very life from all—all the universe. It is the strength of force in our desires for good and evil, Skeelie, that makes things happen. . . .”
He touched her thoughts. She whispered, “Do you still believe that?”
“I—I don’t know. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I’m not sure how much. I guess—I guess I have more questions now than I did then. Anchorstar is gone. He brought us to this place and is gone. What forces . . .?” He looked at her long and deep, then at last they turned in silence, the sense of their wondering flashing between them, but no words adequate to answer such questions. They looked down at the lake, wreathed in mist, then started down toward its shore.
As they descended, snow turned to ice, for all was frozen here where the lake’s steam melted the snow again and again, then cold winds froze it. The far steep shore glistened with ice, rising up to the mountains. Their boots broke through the thin layer of constantly melting and refreezing crust, and the horses pawed, sidestepping, uncertain and suspicious, moving one wary step at a time. Across the lake, the shore was riddled with caves, visible now and then through the mist, and there seemed to be caves beneath the water, too, dark, indistinct patches.
At the lake’s edge Skeelie knelt, scooped warm water into her cold hands, then plunged her face in, came up dripping. The wary horses settled to drink at last as the wolves crowded around them to lap up the clear, warm water. For some moments, no one saw or sensed the man who stood in the shelter of a snowbank watching them, a big man swathed in white furs, nearly invisible against the snowbank. Fawdref sensed him first, sprang around suddenly, snarling, ready to leap. But then he stopped, did not advance on the stranger.
The man pushed aside the flap of white fur that had covered his face and stared down at the wolf with eyes like fierce black embers. Within the white hood, his face was a dark oval, sun-browned, creased with lines, craggy, his black beard clipped in a square manner, sharply defined. His dark eyes smiled suddenly, eyes filled with depths that seemed to engulf them all as completely as the warp of Time could engulf them. Skeelie fought his power, wanted to pull away; yet his strength remained aloof, did not crush her as she felt it could easily do. He said abruptly, without preamble, “Come then,” turned from them and started around the icy shore, never doubting that they would follow him.
They went in single file, Ram leading his mount, then Skeelie leading hers, the wolves coming behind, austere and silent. The only sound was the crunch of frozen snow as they made a solemn journey around the lake to where a white hill lay, a long mound with smoke rising from its center. The power of the man drew and enfolded Skeelie until she no longer wanted to be rid of it. She did not attend to how his power affected Ram, so caught was she in the sense of this man who was the Cutter of Stones.
As they drew close to the white mound, they could see a white door in its side. The Cutter of Stones pushed that door open, and they entered through the wall of snow into an inner court, open to the sky. Log outbuildings and stables stood on three sides of the court, their roofs covered with high banks of snow. A long, low house of heavy logs flanked the right side, snow roofed.
Two stalls had been made ready for their horses, with dry grass and grain and leather buckets of fresh water. The goats and sheep in the other stalls watched with marble eyes as Skeelie led her bay gelding into a stall and unsaddled him. She was tired suddenly, aching with weariness. Perhaps a weariness born of the intense isolation of this place—outside of Time, outside of any world they knew. Or perhaps it was a weariness born of her sure knowledge that she and Ram moved now, inevitably, toward crises in their lives, toward turning places. She was not sure she was ready for any kind of crisis. At this moment, all she wanted was a drink of something hot and supper and a warm bed. She began to rub the saddle marks from the gelding’s back. He ate greedily. When she turned from him at last, Ram was leaning in the doorway.
She studied him, his brown eyes, his olive skin glowing now from the cold, the long, thin bones of his face, unruly thatch of red hair. Wanting to touch his cheek, she shielded her thoughts from him, feeling stupid and ashamed of her love for him, because he could not return it.
“We are farther than the end of the world, Skeelie. Farther than any world, maybe. Farther . . .” His jaw clenched, pushing back the pain of Telien.
“You let it eat at you, Ram! What good—you . . .” She turned from him, furious, then was ashamed all over again. What was she so angry about? He couldn’t help it. She was tired, needed a hot meal, a bath. She turned back, took his hand and pulled him out into the courtyard. It was starting to snow. The wolves rose from around the door like a pack of great dogs, grinned and were off through the court and up the side of a hill to hunt. Ram dropped her hand, was unaware he did so, or that he had been holding it. She stared at him reproachfully. There was nothing she could do to make him aware of her when he did not want to be. And nothing she could do to relieve his pain for Telien. She could only stay beside him and help him search and do whatever was needed. Doormat! she thought angrily. Doormat! But it was what she wanted to do, must do, or life would have no meaning. When he had found Telien, when they had gone off together—if they could save her, if they could release her from the wraith—then, Skeelie thought, she could dissolve into self-pity, and after that make a new life for herself. Now there was only the search for Telien, and it didn’t matter if she was a doormat.
They entered the hall. Skeelie dropped her pack by the door, thankful to be rid of the weight. The warmth of the great room and of the blazing fire engulfed them. It was a huge, square room with three log walls, and a fourth of stone where a fire blazed beneath a deep stone mantel. Rafters thick as a man’s waist caught the reflection of leaping flames. Cushions were stacked before the hearth, and beside them a low table made of some dark, dull wood. There was no other furniture. Fur hides and fur cushions were strewn in piles about the room. A black stewpot hung to one side of the fire. The Cutter of Stones was stirring this.