“I do not know. I know only that all the shards must be brought together, that Ere cannot know peace until the runestone is whole once more. Four missing shards. Four—”
“No, Ramad. There are not four. There are only three.”
“But I—”
“You carry the sixth runestone close to you. Do you not know what you carry?”
Ram stared at Canoldir. “I carry no other stone. I know no other stone. I carry no stone but these. What do you . . .?”
“Reach into your tunic, Ramad, and put on the table what you carry there.”
Ram drew out from the folds of his tunic the only other object he carried and placed it on the table before Canoldir. The bitch wolf grinned in the firelight, her long rearing body turned red-gold before the flame. Ram raised his eyes to Canoldir, unbelieving.
Canoldir did not speak. The room began to fade, fog to come around them, then the space to warp and remake itself, so Ram and Skeelie stood in a small stone chamber lit with torches round the walls. A young man dressed in a deep blue robe knelt there in some private ritual; then suddenly a brilliant white light shattered around them and they were in Tala-charen, Ram a child again holding the shattered runestone in his hand while all around him came figures out of Time to receive those shards in one flashing instant, and among them the man in the blue robe. Ram recognized his face from having seen it in a vision long before; it was NiMarn, a younger NiMarn than Ram had seen, who had fashioned the bell of bronze. NiMarn, founder of the cult of the wolf. Time warped again, a dark-clad forgeman labored by NiMarn’s side. The blaze of the forge flared and died and flared. He poured his molten metal, and NiMarn, in a strange, quick ceremony, placed the jade shard within. They saw the casting harden, they saw NiMarn raise the bronze bitch wolf aloft, smiling cruelly.
Long after the vision faded, Ram sat staring at Canoldir. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. “How can it be? The wolf bell was already made when—when the runestone shattered. How . . . ? It cannot be. The bell . . .”
“The turning in on itself of Time can be, Ramad. Not often does it happen, not even with the strongest powers. But the power that night on Tala-charen was power gone wild, power warping into new patterns, into new paths. Such a thing might never happen again, in all of Time. It was, it is. The jade is there inside the wolf bell and will remain so now until you yourself release it. Or until one close to you does. The sixth runestone of Eresu, hidden there inside the belly of the bitch wolf.
Ram touched the bronze wolf reverently. No wonder the bell had such power. And now—he lifted his eyes to Canoldir. “Three stones unaccounted for, then. Three stones to search out . . .” His voice caught with wonder.
“Three. But remember, Ramad, the wraith covets all of this,” Canoldir said, sweeping up the two jade stones and the starfires into the leather pouch and tossing it to Ram.
*
Once, late in the night, Skeelie woke to hear the wolves howling on the mountain. She turned over, hardly aware of them, her thoughts all of Canoldir. Fawdref’s voice raised in a wild, gleeful song, wailing, cleaving the night with furious joy. The others, the bitch and dog wolves, cleaved their voices to his in octaves like wild bugles ringing, crying out across the night against all that would fetter them.
Did another voice, a human voice, rise with their song, deep and abiding? Later, Skeelie could not be sure. She slept smiling, strangely unsettled.
TEN
Skeelie woke at dawn. Somewhere, Canoldir was singing in a deep, wild voice that stirred a memory she could not bring clear; as if she had slept all night hearing his song, as if she had dreamed of him. Puzzling, she rose and began to dress; then she remembered suddenly, stopped half dressed to stare into space, seeing the hall last night, seeing Canoldir’s face shadowed by firelight, hearing again his words.
Ram had left the hall, yawning. She had turned to leave when Canoldir stopped her with a look, and she had stood, her back to the dying fire, watching him.
“I cannot tell you what will happen, Skeelie, when you and Ramad follow the wraith. I can only tell you that I will put you where the wraith wanders. After that, there is nothing I can do. But I will tell you this. If you succeed in bringing Telien back with you, if you and Ramad succeed in rescuing her from the wraith and do not—are not destroyed yourselves, then—then, Skeelie of Carriol, I would speak with you.” He had turned then, paced the length of the hall, turned again in shadow to pause, a bear of a man, his force filling the room. Then he returned to stand looking down at her. “If Ramad brings Telien away from the wraith, they will be—you will be wanting to be away from them.”
Skeelie had stared into his eyes and nodded, her misery catching at her throat.
“If you will come to this place, Skeelie of Carriol, I would . . .” His dark eyes had looked so deep into hers she shivered. “I would court you!” he cried with a great shout. “I would court you! That is what I would do!” He had swung her around in a great dancing step like a bear, leaned to kiss her fiercely on the forehead, then had grown quiet, had led her down the corridor to her chamber, left her there with reluctance; she had felt his emotion like a tide, long after he had gone.
She stood clutching the door, filled with consternation. What was she to say to Canoldir this morning? That she would return if . . .? That she would not return? Yet she knew no answer was needed. No word need be spoken to Canoldir this morning—or ever, if she chose.
She thought of him with gladness, thought of his words with pleasure and with renewed strength. She stood daydreaming for some time, then took up her sword and bow at last and left the chamber to find Ram.
She never reached the hall. Darkness swept around her; she was whirling in darkness. Canoldir’s voice was singing deep but far away, his song ringing wildly. And Ram was there; they were tumbled on Canoldir’s song. Time and song were one. They fell, were swept through voids of Time into rising light, into golden morning light, buoyed by Canoldir’s song. Light burst through Time and through space as if they rode on liquid rays of sun. Ram shouted, but she could not make out the words. Canoldir’s song rang with joy; Time itself leaped in his singing as they touched moments in their lives all but forgotten, drowned in sudden emotions as Canoldir’s changing moods drowned them. His spirit surged; they could see his face sometimes as his shouting song rang down the wind; and the wolves came round them crying out in eerie mourning to join the song that leaped in cadences woven of all life.
Then Canoldir’s voice faded. Was a whisper. Was gone.
They fell, terror-ridden, into darkness, their loss painful, cold gripping them. Down and down in darkness . . .
They stood in a cave made all of ice, ice walls gleaming, the wolves close around them taut with power and wonder, their eyes filled with predatory fire. Skeelie knelt and hugged Torc to her. How far had they come, how many years? In what time were they, and where? She lay her cheek against Torc’s rough coat, hugged Torc hard, and the bitch wolf turned to lick her face. You are choking the breath out of me, sister.
Ram seemed confused. He stared at Skeelie for a long moment, hardly seeing her. Beyond the cave’s ice walls was a pale, milky sky. Ere’s two moons were thin crescents, white and lifeless. Skeelie approached the entrance, stood staring down appalled, then drew back. There was nothing there, nothing. No land below, only endless space. She shivered and pushed close to the others, chastened and afraid.
Ram made an effort to right his senses, felt for his sword, gave her a confused look that turned to defiance. Then at last he grinned, seemed himself again. “Great fires of Urdd, Skeelie, what kind of trip was that? Canoldir—great flaming thunder, what is he?”