In Stone's Clasp (17 page)

The old man, skinny and white-haired and nearly toothless, had been told time and again that he was past his prime. Olar knew this to be true, although he had never witnessed such words being exchanged; he could see it in how the man held himself. He was thought largely worthless, but now, he and Olar had a chance to prove something to the others.

The snow began to fall more heavily, and the wind picked up. Olar didn’t care. They would be in the forest in a few heartbeats, he and the old man whose name he didn’t even know; killing and bringing home a
kirvi
while the women and the other old man stood and quarreled about whether they should turn around now or detour to check yesterday’s traps.

No one noticed them slip silently into the shadows of the forest. The scent of the trees wafted to their nostrils as they moved carefully over a carpet of leaves and needles and moss, the ancient trees providing a canopy that caught the snow. Olar knelt, and pointed silently to a fresh hoof print. The old man nodded excitedly, and they continued.

At one point, Olar did feel a pang of worry at how long they had been gone. He glanced behind him, reassuring himself that he could easily find their way back; back with food for two hungry villages.

He turned around, stepping over a curious streak of ice, and cried out.

The old man had already fallen to his knees, trembling arms lifted as if in supplication. Olar felt awe and wonder sweep over him and he too dropped heavily to his knees in front of the vision that had somehow appeared before him.

She was tall and slender and clad in white. She seemed to glow, and in the light that emanated from her it seemed to Olar that her skin was as white as the snow. Golden tresses tumbled down her back, and lips that were red as wine pulled back from teeth that were as white, as perfect, as the rest of her.

Perilous fair she was indeed, but it was already too late. Olar forgot about his mother and sister; forgot about his father, lost in these same woods months ago; forgot about his friends and his village and everything he had never known in this life except for the exquisite beauty who stood smiling before him. Even as he knew her smile was cruel, he yearned to kiss those lips; even as she laughed with triumph and hatred, he thought it the most beautiful sound in the world.

“Now, you will serve me,” said the Ice Maiden in a voice that sounded as clean and as musical as the snow-songs of a
kyndela.
“Now, you are mine.”

And they were.

“That sounds exactly like the sort of thing Jareth would do,” Altan admitted, frowning and shaking his head. “I
knew
I was right to worry about him. The fool will likely die trying to find the gods, and if he actually does manage to do so…I fear they will kill him for his impudence.”

Kevla closed her eyes and summoned the image of the Stone Dancer in her head. Every time she had seen him with the beast…the
tiger,
she amended…they had seemed to be comfortable with one another. One thing seemed certain to her—if Jareth did find the tigers, they would not harm him.

“Where do they live? Your gods?” Kevla asked.

“Go north as far as one can go,” Altan said. “Where the world ends, there live the gods. They dwell close to the sky so that they can leap off the mountains into the stars. That’s why we can see them playing sometimes.”

Light flooded in as the Dragon sat up, removing the “roof” from their shelter. Kevla looked up at her friend. “I have never been to the end of the world,” the Dragon said, “but I will take you as far as my wings can bear you.”

“Jareth is the Stone Dancer, but he is also only human,” said Kevla. “Wherever he can go, we can go. At least we have a direction now. And I don’t think you need to worry, Altan. In my dream, while Jareth was trying to find the tiger…it was also trying to find him.”

Altan gave her a wry look. “That does not altogether comfort me, Kevla. Our gods are not always beneficent.”

Altan needed a little help to climb atop the Dragon, as he was not yet up to full strength. He seemed pleased to have an excuse to hold on to Mylikki as they flew that day, though, continuing to puzzle Kevla. She couldn’t figure out what Altan’s feelings toward Mylikki really were. And judging by the cautious, surprised pleasure on Mylikki’s face, the girl wasn’t sure either.

That evening, Kevla again attempted to scry into the fire, but she had no success. Jareth had been alerted to her presence, and if her assumption was correct, was not overeager to be found.

She tried to open herself to his presence. The next day, she kept getting little tugs:
Bear left here. Go right there. Keep heading north; to the end of the world, where the gods play on their mountains and leap into the skies.

Her eyes closed, she silently implored,
Where are you, Jareth? We need you. This world needs you.

Two nights later, the Dragon landed in a clearing. They slid off his back, stretching tight muscles.

“I wish I could say that we were about to find him,” Kevla said. “I do sense that we’re closer.”

“Closer than what?” said Mylikki, grimacing as she arched her back. “What do we do if we
don’t
find him?”

“Don’t talk like that, Mylikki!” Altan chided. Kevla glanced at him sharply, wondering if this was another one of his cutting remarks to Mylikki that seemed to come out of nowhere. But he only seemed to want to hearten the girl.

“We’ll find him. We’ve got to. I have faith in Kevla and the Dragon.” He gifted Kevla with one of his openhearted smiles, and Kevla felt her spirits sink. She felt more like Mylikki. This was a big land, and a man was a small thing compared to the vastness of the wastelands and forests. But she did know they were on the right track. If only she could talk to him through the fire! Or even
find
his fire; she could then step into the flames and appear at his camp.

While Altan and Mylikki set up the camp for the night and the Dragon left to find them something to eat, Kevla went to the edge of the forest to gather firewood. She did not want to admit it to the others, but she was as weary as they. The constant traveling was taking its toll, and she had been forced to start rationing their food.

She frowned, scuffing the snow with her feet and searching for fallen branches. There did not seem to be much to be had, and she did not want to break limbs off of living trees. For living they still were, Altan and Mylikki had assured her, though to Kevla they seemed fragile and dead.

Her dislike of the forests, the dark, enclosed, shadowy spaces, rose in her again. Fiercely, she told herself to stop being foolish. “They’re just trees, Kevla,” she said aloud. “There’s nothing to be worried about.”

She stepped past where the snow lapped up against the trees’ roots and into the shaded forest. She stepped gently here, and the deeper she went, the more tinder she found. At last, her arms full, she turned and headed back.

The arm went around her waist so hard her breath was forced from her lungs. She dropped the branches in shock. The cold edge of a knife blade pressed to her throat.

Kevla had been in this position before; at the mercy of a man who was larger and stronger than she, with a knife at her throat. She knew what to do.

Heat,
she thought, knowing the knife would in an instant become unbearably hot to the touch. The man would have to drop it and then she could—

“Stop that,” the man behind her hissed, “or I’ll cut your throat.”

She could smell burning cloth, and smoke began to float from her throat into her field of vision. How could he continue to hold the knife? Sheer will? Insanity? Something had happened to the men of these small villages. Something that turned hardworking farmers, fathers and sons and husbands, into madmen to be feared as much as the winter itself. Kevla’s stomach clenched as she realized she must have stumbled upon one of them. At least she hoped it was only one….

He pressed the knife closer and she closed her eyes as a quick, startling pain told her the blade had broken the skin. At once, she ceased her attack.

Dragon!

“That’s better.” He moved the knife slightly away from her soft flesh, but did not drop it. His arm around her waist remained strong, holding her like an iron band. He pressed her into his body, the better to control any movement she might make. She had yet to see his face, but already she knew he was tall, powerfully made and shockingly strong. He was breathing quickly, from exertion or excitement, she could not tell.

“Who are you?” he demanded. He spoke without whispering this time, and his voice was both cold and rough.

“My friends and I are merely passing through. We have no quarrel with—with the men of the forests.”

“Men of the forests?” He sounded startled. In his surprise, his voice went from hard and angry to almost pleasant sounding. “You think I—”

Two things happened simultaneously. A clear, youthful voice cried out a single word, and next to Kevla, half a dozen trees were ripped from the ground. The man’s grip disappeared and Kevla, abruptly unsupported, fell forward. It took her an instant to make sense of what had happened.

The Dragon had come, tearing up the trees to find her, and Altan had cried out the name of—

“Jareth!”

“And now, all the players have appeared on the stage,” the Emperor said gleefully to his advisor, the Mage and the creature who crouched at his feet. “The Dancers, their allies, their enemies, the one who will ultimately betray them. I had thought to take them out of play one by one, but if I can eliminate two Dancers by the same treacherous hand, then I shall be well content.”

The advisor drew back pale lips from white teeth in a rictus that only the Emperor would interpret as a smile. He knew this
was but one game of many the Emperor was playing, and he also knew that he was being fed bits and pieces of information as the Emperor deemed fit.

In front of them, the bloodred, tapered
Tenacru
hovered.

He thought of the north, and a never-ending winter, and suddenly shivered
.

Kneeling in the snow where she had fallen, Kevla looked back to see the man who had held the knife to her throat running as fast as he could for the safety of the forest, fleeing from the huge shape of the Dragon which must seem like the embodiment of a nightmare to him.

But he would not make his escape so easily. The Dragon slammed a forepaw down in front of him. The earth trembled and the man fell backward. But instead of cowering or crying out for mercy, he bared his teeth like an animal and bellowed wordlessly, brandishing his knife against a creature ten times his size. His other hand fumbled for and hurled a rock, which bounced harmlessly off the Dragon’s scales.

Shocked almost beyond comprehension, Kevla stared at the bloodshot, wild blue eyes darting about for escape, the scraggly beard, the dirt that seemed permanently embedded in hard wrinkles around his eyes. Another rock sang through the air and the Dragon actually rolled his eyes.

This
was the Stone Dancer?

“Jareth?” she said in a quavering voice, hoping desperately that Altan had confused his friend with one of the crazy men lurking in the forest’s shadows.

The man’s fair head whipped around for an instant to stare at her, then he turned back to the Dragon. The Dragon sat back on his haunches, trees cracking beneath his bulk. Cautiously, Jareth got to his feet, staggering like a drunken man. When the Dragon did not move to attack again, he turned to Kevla.

“I saw your face in the fire,” he accused.

Kevla’s heart contracted with despair. This was indeed the man she had seen in her vision. This was the man who had seemed to her so proud and strong and capable, the man to whom she had hoped to surrender all her burdens. Instead, he was running wild in the woods, bedraggled and looking both lost and angry. How could he possibly help to save their world?

Jareth’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her. He opened his mouth and was about to speak again when Altan flung himself at him.

“You’re safe! Thank the gods!” Altan cried. Clinging to his friend, Altan looked even more slender and delicate.

Looking both furious and, strangely, almost frightened, Jareth made an angry noise and shoved Altan off of him. They stared at one another for a long moment.

“Altan?” Jareth’s voice was soft, confused. He reached out a trembling hand and placed it on Altan’s shoulders. The boy swiftly covered the hand with his own.

“Yes, it’s me, Jareth,” Altan said, his voice thick. He squeezed Jareth’s hand. “It’s really me.”

Abruptly, Jareth’s demeanor changed. “You idiot!” he bellowed, releasing his grip on Altan’s shoulder. “What are you doing? Why are you here? With her and this…this…” He glared defiantly up at the Dragon, who regarded him calmly.

“It’s called a dragon,” Mylikki said helpfully. She was making her way toward them, no doubt drawn by the commotion. Kevla got unsteadily to her feet and looked up at the Dragon. Their eyes met.

Not quite what we expected, is he?
came the Dragon’s dry voice in her mind. The comment was so understated that Kevla almost laughed out loud. She didn’t dare, though; she felt hysteria bubbling up inside her and knew that if she gave in to the dark humor and the bitter stab of disappointment, she would end up sobbing. She brushed snow and dirt off her
rhia
and tried to collect herself.

“Who are you?” demanded Jareth of Mylikki.

Something inside Kevla snapped. Jareth had every right to wonder about her—she looked completely different from anyone he had ever known, she could scry in the fire and she came on the back of a dragon—and he could be angry with Altan if he liked; Altan could take care of himself. But to yell at Mylikki—

“You will not speak so to her!” Kevla cried. Jareth turned the full force of his gaze upon her and she stood arrow-straight, full now not of fear but of righteous indignation. “You seize me from behind, you put a knife to my throat—” Her fingers went to her neck and came away red.

“You gave as good as you got.” Jareth held up his hand and she saw that the wrappings had been completely burned off.

“Jareth, what did you do to her?” asked Altan. “Oh, my friend, what’s happened to you?”

Again he reached for Jareth, and again the other man shied from any kind of touch. He turned his face away and Kevla saw a terrible grief etched on those features. She suddenly felt she was intruding upon something deeply private.

We should leave them,
Kevla thought to the Dragon.

Agreed.
The Dragon leaped into the sky. Broken limbs and leaves fell to the earth in his wake.

Kevla suddenly felt weak and sick. To have come so far, to have endured what she had, only to find that the eagerly sought Stone Dancer was in such straits was too much.

“Kevla?” It was Mylikki, slipping gently beside her. “How badly did he hurt you?”

“It’s nothing, just a little nick,” Kevla said. “Come. I feel the need for some hot food.” She headed back toward the clearing, leaning in to Mylikki and whispering, “The only one he’ll listen to is Altan—if he’ll listen to anyone in the state he’s in now. Let’s leave them to it.”

The Dragon awaited them, curled up in his favorite position like a granary cat, while the two women busied themselves preparing food from the rapidly dwindling stores and something hot to drink. The Dragon’s head was turned toward the woods, his ears pricked forward and his gold eyes missing nothing. Even if Jareth somehow tried to flee, he would not get far.

Altan wanted to weep.

Jareth had sunk to the ground. Whatever had fueled him sufficiently to attack Kevla, to brandish a knife at the Dragon, and to shove Altan away with so much strength that the younger man feared his chest would sport bruises had been burned up. Jareth now sat with his arms on his knees and his head in his hands, taking great, gulping breaths.

Miserably, Altan squatted beside him. “Jareth,” he said for perhaps the dozenth time. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Tentatively, he reached again to touch Jareth, sickly realizing as he did so that most of the bulk on what had once been powerful shoulders was now merely layers of clothing. “Please talk to me,” Altan begged. “Tell me what has happened to you.”

For a long moment, he feared Jareth wouldn’t—or couldn’t—speak. At last, he lifted his head. His face was hollow, haggard…old.

“I went to find the gods,” Jareth muttered, still not looking at Altan. “Something wasn’t…wasn’t right about the storm that night…” His voice broke and for a moment he was silent. He continued in a flat voice. “I went to the mountains, but they weren’t there.”

He dragged his reddened gaze to Altan’s and said almost petulantly,
“They weren’t there!”

Altan stroked Jareth’s shoulders like he might a cat, soothingly, rhythmically. His mind raced and he felt a chill. Had Jareth believed the gods could bring his family back? Did he still think that? What could he say to get Jareth to join them, to abandon this disturbing quest, to sit at their circle and listen to the information Kevla had for him? He couldn’t think of anything, just kept staring at the emaciated figure who seemed to have only his mission to keep him alive.

“So I’m going to find the
taaskali,
” Jareth said, nodding to himself. “The
taaskali
would know.” His gaze darted to Altan’s face, lit there like a butterfly, then flitted away again. “She a
taaskali?
”

“No,” said Altan, grateful for the excuse to talk about Kevla. “But she does have magic. She is from a land called Arukan. She’s called the Flame Dancer.”

Jareth’s grimy brow furrowed. “Arukan,” he said, slowly, as if dredging up a distant memory. “It’s warm there.”

“You know it?” Altan felt a surge of hope. If Jareth knew about Arukan, perhaps he knew about the Dancers and their task as well. It would make everything easier.

“The earth whispers to me of other places, sometimes,” Jareth said. “At least, it used to. Now, it is silent.” He looked up, his eyes roaming the tall skeletons of trees that surrounded them. “Everything is silent.”

Altan sighed. “You need food and warmth, my friend. Come sit by the fire and eat something.”

“You didn’t scare me, Father,” said Jareth in a whisper, his gaze unfocused. “Come eat. Please, come eat something.”

Chills ran down Altan’s spine, and not from the cold. “What?” he said, praying he hadn’t heard what he thought he had.

Jareth shook himself, blinking suddenly as if waking up. “Nothing.” He looked at Altan with eyes that really seemed to see him for the first time.

Altan fought back tears. He reached his hands to Jareth’s face and took it in his hands, one on each hollow, bearded cheek. Jareth sighed, a long, quavering sound, pressed the hands that cupped his face, then gently removed them.

“Please come to the fire with me, Jareth. Will you come?”

The bigger man nodded, slowly. Altan slipped his right arm around Jareth’s waist, pulling the other man’s left arm across the back of his neck. Gently, he helped his friend to his feet. Jareth had once been powerfully built. Now, he barely outweighed the little
huskaa
who guided his unsteady steps toward the fire that crackled, warm orange-yellow life against the blue-purple cold of the beautiful, deadly snow.