“I will avenge my father’s death in the killing of Dracvadrig.”
You do not see clearly. The bitch wolf’s ears were flat, her lips curled back over gleaming teeth. Your hatred warps your senses, Lobon, son of Ramad! If you deny Ramad’s quest, if you do not defy evil, not only do you refuse to avenge his spirit, but you deny the rebirth of your own soul. If you fail the purpose of your own life, your soul will wither, your powers wither. Your shriveled spirit will crave only to lie in limbo, as does Cadach, locked forever locked into the trunk of a tree in the caves of Owdneet.
“I don’t care about my soul! And the tale of Cadach is nothing but an old woman’s tale!”
It is not, Lobon. Cadach lives. Your own mother spoke with him when she came into Owdneet’s caves searching for a way into Time, seeking to follow Ramad into Time. And Cadach’s white-haired children live, and move through Time, choosing to atone for his evil. Know you, whelp, that the woman Gredillon who raised your father was one of Cadach’s white-haired children, as was Anchorstar, who helped your father save one shard of the runestone and acquire another. Never think, Lobon the big-headed, that Cadach is a myth—or that such could not happen to you!
“Well, but Cadach—”
Cadach denied his heritage and sold his soul for avarice and greed—in your own time, Lobon, in this time, before he was swept back in Time to die a living death in the tree, never to know the progression of his soul.
Lobon scowled. He did not want to believe in Cadach. He was not sure he believed in the progression of souls. Such things were a nuisance to think about.
The two dog wolves raised their muzzles and stared at him with hard yellow eyes. Crieba said, Shorren is right, you are guardian of more than you are willing to embrace, Lobon. You lust for revenge alone, and that is not enough, even in the name of your father. You shame Ramad.
Lobon turned from them, furious, and swung away down the cliff. His own mother had said those same words before he left the house of Canoldir, told him that he shamed his father’s name with his self-centered fury. “You must temper the purpose that leads you into battle before you will be equal to Ram! As you are now, Lobon, you are not fit to hold the fate of Ere in your hands!”
He had shouted, “I don’t care about Ere! I care only to avenge Ramad!”
“Then you are not man enough to be Ramad’s son! You will leave this house without my blessing, and without Canoldir’s blessing!”
He had not spoken to her again, had gone out of the house of Canoldir in a rage, the three wolves leaping to join him unbidden. He had found his way down the ice mountains, warmed by his own terrible anger, had come at last to the lands where Time flowed forward like a river, had crossed the mountains to the range below the glacier, driven by rage and by the sense of the runestone there coupled with the sense of Dracvadrig, and never once had he thought or cared that he could not even have left Canoldir’s house without that man willing him back into the mainstream of Time.
The wolves had censured him constantly for his temper. “And why,” he said now, scowling, “why, Shorren the wise, why does Dracvadrig seek out that one stone in Carriol, when the four stones I carry are so much nearer to hand? Answer me that riddle!”
Dracvadrig thinks to have your stones easily enough. He considers them already in his hand, to be plucked when he is ready. He is most pleased that you bring them closer to him with each step we take. Dracvadrig lusts after the more unattainable stone—that stone that hangs in Carriol. And he wants, also, the stone that lies in the sea. Shorren stretched and stared down at the broken crevices below them, then looked back at Lobon. Her white coat caught the slanting light. You, Lobon, he considers but a plaything. If you knew Dracvadrig as you should, you would see him taking the form of the dragon simply for the pleasure of catching a fire ogre and tossing it, teasing it, letting it run, then snatching it up and, much later, killing it. Just so does he play with us, just so does he watch us descend to him, just so does he send fire ogres and serpents to harass us.
“Why do you remain with me, then?” he said sarcastically. “And how do you know more of Dracvadrig than I, bitch wolf?”
We follow because we must. We are linked to Ramad just as you are. And we know Dracvadrig because we attend to the subtleties of his presence, Lobon, while your mind is fogged by his thoughts, and by your fury, and by your preoccupation with the girl.
“The girl could be useful! You don’t—”
Useful to you in gaining revenge. Not useful in preventing Dracvadrig from having Carriol’s stone. Not useful for the good of Ere.
“You talk drivel! Revenge is all that is needed.” He was sick to death of her censure. He snatched the wolf bell from his tunic. “All three of you talk rubbish.” He stared at them in fury, his dark eyes flashing, his unruly red hair gone wilder, as if the very power of his anger made it flame. He hated the wolves in that moment. They were arrogant, filled with senseless dreams. They did not understand or care how he felt. He didn’t need them; he would be better off without their haranguing. He raised the wolf bell and brought a power to banish them, to drive them away. Let them return to Skeelie and the rest of their cursed band. “You will—”
A black streak leaped, Feldyn’s teeth gripped his arm, Feldyn’s weight crashed into him. He went down, the black wolf’s teeth inches from his face, Crieba and Shorren crowding over him. He could feel their breath, see nothing but killer’s teeth. He stared up at them unbelieving. Never had the wolves acted so, never. He was their master. He was master of the wolf bell.
Feldyn’s thought came sharp: You are not our master, Lobon! Not as Ramad was, though you hold the wolf bell. You have not Ramad’s level of power, or his caring, yet to master us. You are our brother, yes. And because you are, we speak truths to you, and we command that you listen to us!
Crieba’s voice was cold behind his silver snarl. The great wolves have power of their own, Lobon! You will not banish us. This mission is ours as much as it is yours. Our sire died by Ramad’s side battling Dracvadrig, and we too will avenge. But there is more to avenging, Lobon the hot-tempered, than you are willing to admit. You will fail, Lobon. You will ultimately fail unless you accept the whole of Ramad’s commitment, as do we; unless you strive to win that which Ramad himself would win.
The wolves turned away from him then and left him sprawled. You can stay or follow us, Shorren said, just as you choose.
He stared after their retreating backsides. Their tails swung jauntily. He looked down at the wolf bell clutched in his sweating hand. His fury was spent, his doubts painful and raw. He cursed them silently and ground his fist against the wolf bell.
He rose at last and started on. They could die in the blasted pit for all of him. He would seek Dracvadrig alone.
*
In a land of ice that lay beyond Time, in a villa walled by banks of snow, a woman watched in sharp vision Lobon’s rude and foolish defiance of the wolves. When she let the vision go at last, she stood staring into the cold ashes of the fireplace, her fist pushing against the stone mantel in a gesture very like Lobon’s. A tall woman, thin, inclined to stand stooped unless she remembered and straightened. The knot of her dark hair was half-undone, twisted over her shoulder. Lines of care and loss creased her face. She was alone in the raftered hall, for Canoldir was hunting far back in the ice mountains; though even at such a distance he touched her now and again with a warmth that helped to ease her distress. The seven wolves who hunted with him touched her mind, too, whispering now, Sister, be of cheer, sister of wolves: We tell you that not Shorren nor Feldyn nor Crieba will leave Lobon. They will see him safe, in spite of his surly ways.