Zephy’s and Thorn’s flight would end in a descent from the sky as dramatic and awe-inspiring as riders and horses together could make it: a descent wrapped in magic, in wonder, in illusion, to impress and so convert their quarry. Ceremony that Meatha knew was not any more to the taste of the horses of Eresu than it was to Zephy and Thorn. But necessary, if they were to win over the rising cults that had sprung to life in the coastal countries. If Carriol must win by subterfuge, by illusion, then so be it—though the cults were only a small part of Carriol’s problem. For since Meatha and Zephy and Thorn and Anchorstar, and all that small frightened band of Children of Ynell had fled the Kubalese caves two years earlier, Kubal had not only subjugated all of Cloffi, but seemed intent on defeating and ruling all the coastal countries. On the eastern peninsula, Pelli and Sangur were constantly threatened by raids, though so far they had held their own. In the west, Zandour seemed strong enough, its small council of Seers evidently hardier than the rulers of the central countries. And what was the source of Zandour’s power? Did that country indeed still hold a shard of the runestone, as was often whispered? Zandour’s Seers claimed they had none such, and many folk believed that when Zandour’s leader Hermeth died generations ago, Hermeth’s shard of the runestone had disappeared.
If Zandour’s Seers did possess a runestone, surely they would not keep it secret from the Seers of Carriol. The power of that stone, wedded to the power of the stone Carriol held, could strengthen both countries considerably against the rise of the Kubalese. Yet where were the other shards of the jade? Meatha wondered. Lost? Buried perhaps, as Carriol’s own shard had been buried beneath the city of Burgdeeth? Of the nine shards, Carriol held one, and one was drowned in the sea. Seven were unaccounted for. If we had them all, she thought, and the stone were joined—as Anchorstar dreamed, as Tra. Hoppa dreams when she pours through dusty volumes searching for clues to the disappearance of the shards—if Carriol possessed the whole stone, then we could defeat the Kubalese. She thought with distaste of the piecemeal battles—helping one country, then another—holding impregnable only Carriol. And before Carriol had possessed the one shard of the runestone, she had not been able to do even that, had been able only to defend her own borders, and the refugees who came to her for protection.
Below on the green, four winged ones were being laden with food packs. To see the horses of Eresu wearing pack harness, though it was of their own choosing, so appalled Meatha that she stood staring in dismay for some moments. When she turned away, she was dazzled by the lifting sun. She stood blinking in the brightness, then at last made her way down between broken stone walls toward the green. She could see Thorn now, his red hair bright against the neck of a white mare.
She shouldered through the crowd to the horses of Eresu, saw a slash of green where Zephy knelt, forgetting her silk gown as she reached to adjust the belly strap around a gray stallion, carefully setting the strap so the pack harness would not chafe him. Zephy, so loving horses ever since she was a tiny girl, when horses were forbidden to them, so close now in her relationship to the winged ones. The stallion’s silent voice told her where the strap was uncomfortable. He stretched his dark wings to feel his muscles pull against the harness, then bowed his neck to nuzzle Zephy’s shoulder, thanking her. Zephy scratched him under the foreleg with casual familiarity. Zephy, so direct and simple in her relationships—a directness belied now by her elegant clothes, her regal looks, she who cared nothing for clothes.
Meatha felt a strange shyness with her suddenly, as if Zephy were a stranger.
Zephy glanced up at her, her brown eyes puzzled as she touched Meatha’s unshielded emotions. “What’s the matter? You’re . . .”
Meatha blocked her thoughts.
“Is it because I’m got up like this? I’d rather not be!” Then, sensing Meatha’s deeper confusion, sensing her distress, she came to Meatha and put her arms around her. “What is it? What’s happened to you? Something . . .” And suddenly Meatha was weeping against Zephy like a child, the darkness engulfing her so it engulfed Zephy, too.
When Meatha calmed at last, Zephy drew away and held her by the shoulders. “Where did such darkness come from? What has happened?” She tried to sort Meatha’s thoughts. “Something—last night, so close to you. Something that terrified you . . .” Zephy swallowed and did not continue for some moments. Then, “It found something within you that made you fear it all the more.” She went silent again, sorting. And then with shivering finality, “You cannot find the shape of what touches you.” She swallowed. “Nor—nor can I. Oh, Meatha—take care.”
She studied Meatha. “Maybe you should tell the council. Tell Alardded . . .” Then suddenly the riders were mounting, Thorn leaping astride a golden stallion, and there was no time to say goodbye. Zephy tried to mount, was caught short in the silken gown. “Blast! I can’t do anything in this flaming dress!” Meatha gave her a leg up. Zephy settled her skirt around her, then bent swiftly to touch Meatha’s cheek. “It . . . tell someone, Meatha. Tell Alardded. And take care.” The gray stallion leaped skyward with a surge of joyful power, following the others, his wings turning the sky to night, then sun slashing across his flanks. Windborne, the winged ones filled the sky; there was a flash of green silk amid the slice of wings, then they were gone in a whirl of color, gone beyond cloud.
A short flight it would be into Pelli, and already plans for their ceremonious descent were sweeping from one mind to another, from rider to horse to the next rider and horse. Meatha felt the messages winging between them even after she could no longer see them; Saw the images they conjured and knew their rising excitement. She stood for some time with her hand raised in farewell, feeling the freedom of their flight; and feeling empty within herself, and lonely.
She turned away at last, awash with loneliness.
That night, again, her dreams trapped and possessed her. She woke more disturbed than the night before and went to her class of seven children so distraught that she made three children cry and spoiled the session for them all. No Seer, child or adult, could deal with a teacher whose mind was in such turmoil. She apologized to them and left them, ashamed, only to find herself weeping in an isolated comer of the tower, terrified by her loss of control, and by the darkness that engulfed her, by the heaviness that gripped her beyond her control.
And more terrifying still, there was a part of her that welcomed that darkness and embraced it.
She must talk to someone, in spite of her reluctance. She must talk to Alardded.
*
She found Alardded taking breakfast alone on the green. Usually there was a crowd around him, for his sweeping, unfettered mind and his solid, comforting ways drew men to him. He looked up from a plate of ham pie and charp fruit, watching her approach. He was, Meatha thought, in spite of his sometimes wild ideas, as steady as the great black peaks that rose in the north. As steady—and as unpredictable, too, for Alardded could burst forth with a sudden storming fury just as those peaks could burst forth with fire.
Was he alone now because he had known she was coming to him so distressed? His dark eyes were alert to the small, nervous movements of her hands, to the way she stood too stiffly before him. “Sit down, child.” His mind examined her blocking with curiosity, and she could not understand why she was blocking. “What brings you to the green so early? Have you had breakfast? Some tea?” He gestured to his small waiter, and the child came running, his long apron flapping around his ankles. She sat stiff and silent, blocking wildly, and puzzled at herself, as young Sheb brought tea. Why was she so reluctant to speak, or to make any vision, so shy and uncomfortable with Alardded?