RilkenDal shifted his weight and belched. “You speak of subtlety, Kish, as if you understood the word.”
She gave him a look he could interpret any way he chose. Dracvadrig retreated into the trancelike state where he touched Lobon’s mind most easily. The other two watched him, then reached out with their thoughts to enter his mind as fluttering moths might enter a path of dulled light. Together the three observed Lobon working deeper into the pit, saw him ever following the false sense of Dracvadrig that the firemaster had laid for him. They saw he was alone, that the wolves moved elsewhere along the rim of the smoke-filled chasm. “He believes you are down there,” Kish said, pleased. “When he reaches the nether levels and comes to the dungeons . . .”
“Yes. Then he will know what Urdd is.” Dracvadrig smiled. “And he will know what we intend for him.”
“Not all that we intend,” she said, stretching her long body pleasurably, then flowing down on the bench beside him in one sinuous movement.
“No.” Dracvadrig smiled. “Not until we bring the girl. He should like that well enough.” He moved closer to Kish, as if the turn of their thoughts inspired him.
“He will come to the gates tonight,” she said, laying her cold hand carelessly on his knee. “The wolves will soon know the gate is there. They—well but the boy and the wolves have quarreled. Still, I wish they would go away.” She glanced at Dracvadrig. “I wish you would kill the wolves, I don’t like them. Dragons can eat wolves.”
Dracvadrig did not answer. He had abandoned Lobon and moved into the mind of the girl, manipulating her thoughts, casting the runestone’s image sharp across her desires. He stayed with her, prodding her, for the rest of the afternoon, stayed with her until she went to her bed at last, shortly after supper.
*
She was so tired, sick with exhaustion, was asleep almost before she had pulled up the covers. She cried out once in her sleep, but she could not push the darkness away. The dark was warm and comforting, and she could not bring herself to awaken. She began to cleave to it, soon was resting gently against it.
She woke to early dawn. Sea light rippled across her stone ceiling. Her head was filled with a muddle of facts that startled her, with details of the talents of Carriol’s Seers as if their personal habits at plying their skills were important to her; with the details of Alardded’s diving suit and with his plans for bringing up the lost stone. Why had she marshaled such knowledge? What had she dreamed, to dredge up such facts? And over it all lay the image of the runestone, clear and bright and beguiling.
She had begun to think of the stone as her stone. After all, it was she and Zephy who had found it hidden in the tunnel in Burgdeeth. It was she who had hidden it in the donkey saddle, to get it out of Cloffi in safety. She turned over and pulled the blankets up. Despite the strange thoughts that filled her mind, she felt rested. Calm and strong and—excited. Her whole being anticipated something wonderful. Something yet to be revealed to her.
She could hear the movement of horses below in the town and the voices of men and women starting the day. Then she heard a nicker from high within the tower and knew that a band of winged ones had come together in the citadel in some gentle and private ceremony—perhaps before departing for battle. The citadel had been theirs long before humans came, long before Carriol’s Seers gathered there. Below, the rattle of cart wheels struck across cobbles, a heavy wagon, probably iron ore or grain. She rose at last. The odor of frying mawzee cakes came from the kitchens. She began to dress, hungry suddenly; very sure of herself, very calm despite the eager anticipation that welled deep within, that made her heart pound; but that must be pushed back now, and hidden.
FOUR
Zephy tugged at the gold band woven into her hair, loosed the braid and let it fall, then began to unbraid it. Her head itched, she disliked her hair done up so and needed badly to brush it. She sat cross-legged in their tent, Thorn lying stretched out beside her, already snoring. She turned the lamp wick down to a dull glow. She was so tired even her arms ached as she brushed, so weary from days of creating visions to add wonder and glamour to their every simple task, of surrounding their treatment of the sick with magical incantations, even of accompanying the doctoring by Carriol’s true healer, Nebben, with added ceremonies. All meaningless, but all creating wonder in simple minds, presenting to the cults an aura of magic and power like a golden cloak to heighten even further Carriol’s reputation of strength. The cults must come to believe in Carriol’s Seers utterly, must be awed by Carriol to the extent that at last they would speak freely of their warrior queen, she who lurked so mysteriously in the background. None would speak of her, even think of her except in involuntary fleeting shadows, vague darkness gone at once, without image.
Zephy sighed. They must learn the nature of this leader, for in her lay the true nature of the cults. So much deception, so much secrecy. Why? And now there was the worry over Meatha to nag at her, to try her own loyalties unbearably. Meatha, caught in some mysterious and urgent mission that she completely blocked from them. Why would she block? What secret need she keep? Meatha, closer to her than any sister could be. She knew she could not give up her trust in Meatha, despite her unease; at least for a little while. That she must give Meatha time to prove herself. And then tonight, such a sharp vision of Meatha standing on the cliff among the ruins calling out in the darkness, speaking across the mountains to the mare Michennann. Why such secrecy? She had blocked furiously as she called. What did Meatha plan, what did she intend? Stealth was not natural to Meatha.
Thorn woke with the turmoil of her thoughts. He sat up and touched her hair, felt her distress as his own, took her face in his hands and studied her, then touched the frown between her brows with a gentle finger. “It will come right, Zephy. Perhaps your unease is for nothing. Though—though no one knows Meatha better than you.”
“What is she doing? Why is she so upset, so secret? What is so urgent? Why does she call the mare now? Why does she block me so I can’t speak with her?”
He put his arm around her, drew her close.
“And why does she block from the council, Thom? Why?” She looked up at him in the dim lamplight. “I know I should speak to the council. But I can’t. At least—not yet.” She blew out the lamp. They heard the horses stir once above the pounding of the sea. She must trust in Meatha, she must have faith in Meatha. She could not abandon their friendship so lightly.
*
Meatha went to sleep at last. She was not at all sure the mare would come, was puzzled at her reluctance. They were close, they had fought battles together. What was the matter with Michennann? She could not forsake her now, Michennann who, above all the winged ones, could be trusted in this. She must call Michennann again and again, until it was settled.
She woke at first light to return to the cliff and renew her call across half of Ere to where the gray mare grazed. She felt Michennann’s resistance again, was hurt by it; but she pressed stubbornly on until at last she felt the mare soften.
Then Meatha drew away and let the mare be, to dwell on it, to come gently to terms with it as was Michennann’s way. She looked across the narrow sea channel to the isle of Fentress. Dawn touched the weathered cottages, and already half a dozen children had run out to scurry along the rocky shore with clam buckets, laughing and playing at tag before they settled to their morning’s work. She could not remember playing so as a child. In Burgdeeth, little girls were not encouraged to play. She left the cliff at last, eager to lose herself in her own morning’s work, and when she reached Tra. Hoppa’s chambers she found the old lady already seated at her table with the small leather-bound book Hux had brought open in front of her. Sea light played through the open window across Tra. Hoppa’s white hair, and a breeze stirred the pages over which she scowled. “It’s like hen scratching. I can make out so little.” The old lady’s thin fingers traced the nearly illegible text.