In Stone's Clasp (24 page)

A cry went up, and despite her sunken misery, something in Gelsan roused. Her hair, more silver than gold now, came up and she listened.

More screams. Now she could smell smoke. Slowly, her body remembering how it used to leap into action when needed, she put on a cloak and reached for a scythe.

She opened the door to chaos.

Gelsan saw and heard as well as smelled the fire now, crackling as it consumed a house across the clearing, orange red flame leaping into the sky. Not twenty feet away, a cluster of women were fighting for their lives against adversaries much larger than they. She heard the howls of madmen and something inside her sparked to life.

You will not take them.

Gelsan let out her own loud cry and charged into the melee. She swung the scythe, feeling it move like an old friend, cutting deep into the bodies of men who didn’t even look like people to her anymore. They were the men of the woods, lost during hunts, screaming insanely “For the Maiden! For the Maiden!”, driven mad by the winter as she was about to be driven mad, as all of them would eventually be—

She whirled, swinging the scythe, and nearly wrenched her arms out of their sockets as she tried to deflect the blow.

Standing in front of her was Olar. He was covered with blood, his hair thick and stringy and matted with filth. He bared his teeth at her like a fox, and she lifted the scythe with aching arms to parry her son’s attack. Grunting, he strained against her, the scythe’s shaft grating against a wooden staff, and leaned in so she could smell his stale breath and the reek of old and new blood.

“The Maiden will have it so,” he snarled. Tears blurred her vision and suddenly Gelsan stopped fighting. She would rather die by her son’s hand than keep living, knowing that this was what had happened to him.

The sudden lack of resistance made him stumble as she went down. He lifted the staff over his head, about to bring it crashing down on his mother’s skull.

Do it,
she pleaded.

But he stood as if suddenly frozen, cocking his head like a dog trying to listen to a distant sound.

“I hear and obey, my lady,” Olar said, his voice trembling with love. Gelsan heard the words repeated all around her, a rippling sound of tenderness incongruous amid the slaughter. Abruptly, every man turned and ran into the woods. It was over—for the moment.

For a long time Gelsan lay in the snow, trying to comprehend what had just happened. She got to her feet clumsily and went to aid the wounded. She went through the motions of cleaning and stitching wounds efficiently, but her mind was not on the task. Hammering in her head were the words her son had spoken:
For the Maiden! I hear and obey, my lady.

Dear gods,
Gelsan half thought, half prayed,
is it true?

Is the Ice Maiden real?

It was a gradual ascent at first. The iron spikes on their boots made the going safer but slower, as they had to stamp firmly with each step so that the spikes dug in well. From time to time they used their ice axes. True to his word, Hanru set a good pace. Because Mylikki was immediately behind him, the
taaskali
guide was able to assist her directly.

The sun kept traveling along the horizon. They took brief, frequent breaks for quick bites of food and handfuls of snow. The only one among them who was not panting and sweating was Hanru, who would stand and gaze from peak to sun, no doubt estimating how much time they had.

The two musicians had the hardest time. Mylikki had been in trouble practically since the outset, and Altan was clearly tiring as well. Slender as she was, Kevla had endurance, and although Jareth’s body had been punished for months, he had a sinewy strength and a stubborn purpose that kept him going. The
selva
-fur cloak was becoming hot and Jareth’s clothes were damp with sweat. He knew he would be exhausted and wrung out by the end of the day. If, he mused grimly, he was still alive.

After a few hours, the route’s difficulty increased dramatically. They edged past a cliff wall to discover what seemed like a vertical white surface.

“We’re climbing up that?” Mylikki bit her lip, but the words were said. Even Jareth had his doubts.

“It’s easier than it looks,” said Hanru, “but you must be careful and give it your full concentration. We’ll tie ourselves together. I’ll go up first and set footholds.”

They tied the rope around them, leaving some room for slack, and Hanru began to climb. He moved like a squirrel, Jareth thought. Quickly, with the experience of who-knew-how-many years—the
taaskali
seemed ageless to him—he pounded in metal stakes and scrambled up them until he reached the top. As he watched, Jareth saw that it probably would be easier than it looked; it was not quite as vertical as it first appeared, and the snow seemed hard-packed.

Mylikki was next. She looked terrified, but swallowed hard and began to climb. One small hand here, one small foot there. Jareth relaxed as she neared the top and Hanru pulled her the rest of the way. Next was Altan, and then Kevla. Instinctively, Jareth held out his hands, ready to catch her should she slip. In a distant part of his brain, he appreciated the workings of her legs and buttocks, clearly visible beneath the red garment she wore, as she climbed. Kevlasha-Tahmu might have been the worst thorn in Jareth’s side, but she was also an exquisitely beautiful woman.

Once she had made it to the top, Jareth followed, forcing himself to ignore the slight trembling in his arms, shoulders, thighs, and calves that signaled weariness. He hit the snow hard and lay where he fell, breathing heavily. Everyone else except for Hanru was doing the same.

Hanru waited a few moments, untying them and coiling the rope, but the look on his face told Jareth there was no time to waste. Fortunately, the next segment looked comparatively easy—a slope of hard-packed white snow at an incline that was challenging but not as steep as the previous one.

It was broad enough so that they were able to climb simultaneously. Jareth and the others used the ice ax and the iron spikes on their boots to good advantage. Hanru reached the top first, and turned to watch as the others made their way up. He hauled Jareth the last few steps as if the much larger man weighed nothing at all. Jareth sat, catching his breath, and watched the others. Unencumbered by a heavy cloak Kevla made good time. Altan was about halfway up, and Mylikki—

Even as he watched, her feet slipped out from underneath her and with a startled little cry she began to slide quickly toward the edge of the cliff they had just clambered over.

“Use the ax!” Altan shouted.

Mylikki was clearly trying to do exactly that, but the ax was not light and Jareth knew she probably had very little strength left in her arms. She struggled to swing the ax, to secure a hold and stop herself from hurtling to her death. With relief, Jareth watched as the ax found purchase and Mylikki slowed, stopped.

Hanru was already halfway there, but it was Altan who was closest. The
huskaa
was backing quickly down. With a grunt, he swung his own ax and embedded it solidly into the ice below the hard-packed snow.

“I can’t—” Mylikki’s voice was shrill. Jareth watched, wanting to move to her, knowing that Hanru and Altan were closer and he would merely add to the danger. His eyes were fixed on Mylikki’s little hand, and he saw the fingers slide slowly, slowly down the handle.

She screamed as her fingers, numb from hours in the cold, lost their grip. A strap around her wrist halted her fall for an instant, but also dislodged the ax from its purchase. She slipped toward the edge.

Altan’s hand shot out and closed on her wrist. Mylikki jerked to a halt. Both were now being supported solely by the weight of Altan’s ice ax. Mylikki’s legs dangled off the cliff into the air. Below her was a lethal drop.

Let the ax hold,
Jareth thought, his heart slamming against his chest.

Then Hanru was there. He grasped Mylikki by the other arm and began hauling her upward. Now finally able to do something to help, Jareth reached to assist him. Altan now clung to the ax with both hands. Once Mylikki had been brought to safety, Jareth went back for his friend. Altan gave him a grateful smile as Jareth’s arm went around his waist and he assisted the younger man in climbing. When Altan flopped down beside Mylikki, she threw her arms around him.

“You saved my life,” she sobbed.

Obviously close to crying himself, Altan hugged her fiercely and buried his face in her shoulder. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, his voice muffled. “Thank the gods. You’re safe.”

“This has gone far enough,” said Kevla. There was a hardness to her voice that Jareth had never heard before. When he looked at her, surprised by the tone, he saw her lovely face drawn in anger. “Altan, I know you love Jareth, and you want to be there for him. And you have. Mylikki, you are beyond exhaustion. If you keep pushing yourself you will end up dead.”

She looked up at Jareth. “Go on,” she said quietly. “We’re slowing you down. I can keep them warm while we wait for you. Hanru will take care of us.”

“Are you sure?” It was exactly what he had wanted from the first, of course; not to have to worry about the safety of the others. But to hear it from Kevla’s lips—

“Yes. This is your experience and yours alone. None of us needs to be there while…we will be there afterward, I promise.”

“Hanru?”

The
taaskali
guide nodded. “They are not called as you are. And the day is passing. It will be dark sooner than I would like. The path is easy enough to follow and you know what you are doing. She wants to see you. She will not let anything happen to you until she has done so. Go.”

Jareth looked back at Altan, who nodded resignedly. Mylikki still clutched him and shook with sobs. For the first time since Altan had found Jareth, he looked more interested in being with Mylikki rather than with his old friend. Finally, Jareth looked again at Kevla.

“Thank you,” he said, but he wasn’t sure why. She nodded. He turned and again set out on the path, moving forward, alone, to meet his god.

Jareth settled into a rhythm. He was aware of what he was doing, where he put his hands and feet and ice ax, but this was not his primary focus. He kept imagining himself in front of the great beast, standing straight and tall, commanding respect from his god.

She must listen to me. She can bring them back. She can bring spring back to the land. Everything will die if she doesn’t give me my powers back. I must convince her.

Jareth lost track of how long he had been climbing. He felt his muscles quivering with the strain as the time passed, felt his body growing more and more weary, but he denied it rest. He was so close to his goal. He couldn’t stop now for mere physical needs.

The weather remained clear, but the wind was not his friend at this altitude. It seemed to grow in strength with each step, whipping the protective hood from his head, catching the cloak and making it billow, and swirling snow so that he soon lost sensation in his face and ears. He felt ice coating his beard and eyebrows and eyelashes. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision, and that was when he saw it.

An opening in the cliff face, barely visible from this distance. A dark blue smudge against the myriad shades of blue and green and white of the ice. Hope surged through Jareth, lending him fresh strength. He pressed onward, and before he fully realized what was happening, he had pulled himself up onto a ledge and stood at the entrance to the lair of the gods.

He swayed in the wind, trying to collect his thoughts. This was the moment he had struggled toward for the better part of a year. Now he stood on the threshold as if rooted to the spot, and Jareth realized that he was terrified.

There could be no turning back now. There could be no more rage or self-pity beyond this point. He would either accomplish what he had set out to do or he would die. The certainty of either outcome was almost overwhelming, and he stumbled.

This is the moment, Jareth,
he told himself.
This moment is your destiny. Go forward and embrace it.

With the wind whipping his long, golden hair and tugging on his cloak, shaking in his very boots, his heart bursting with emotions he couldn’t even name, Jareth Vasalen, Spring-Bringer, Kevat-aanta, Stone Dancer, slowly stumbled toward his fate.

The cave of the god was formed entirely of ice. Only the stone beneath Jareth’s feet was of earth, and even that was slick with a clear, shiny coat of frozen water. Above and to each side, thick, green-blue ice enclosed the area. The ceiling arched high over his head, and the cave stretched on for some distance. It was surprisingly bright inside, but there was no source of illumination. Jareth wasn’t sure what to expect, but it was certainly not entering the cave and finding himself alone.

“I am Jareth Vasalen,” he cried, his voice strong and clear. It echoed in the icy chamber. “I have come to speak with you.”

When the sound of his voice died away, Jareth was met with a profound silence. He could hear his own breathing, raspy in his ears; the pounding of his heart was almost deafening. Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward, moving deeper and deeper into the ice cave.

The shadow came and went so quickly he wasn’t certain he had seen it. His fair head whipped around, but even as he moved, he saw another shadow, a reflection perhaps, out of the corner of his eye. Again, when he turned, it had disappeared. Blue, black, white, gray, green—colors appeared and vanished like flickering flames.

Suddenly Jareth was furious. He had come all this way, endured so much, and now the god was toying with him?

“Show yourself!” he demanded.

He heard the low, rumbling growl before he saw the creature. The sound made his skin prickle. The shadows stilled, solidified, and all at once, Jareth saw it at the far end. It lay on a block of ice that looked like a crystal pedestal. It was bigger than Jareth had imagined, the size of a small horse, its head easily as broad as Jareth’s shoulders. Its sinuous curves were indeed that of a large cat, but no purring rat-catcher Jareth had ever petted had fixed him with such a piercing gaze. Its coat was as blue as the heart of the ice, chased by black stripes on its body and limbs and creamy white on the underbelly. The unnerving eyes were large and golden, and the mighty tiger lay as still as if she had been carved out of stone save for the lashing blue-and-black striped tail.

Jareth’s mouth was suddenly dry. In order to reach this moment, he had focused on his outrage and loss, his sense of injustice, the pain of the dying land, the starving people and emaciated animals. But now as he stood before his god, all of that scattered like wheat chaff in a gust of wind.

The tiger made no sound. One blue ear flicked.

He had planned to make his petition from a place of strength, of logic, of selfless need for the land. Instead the words that escaped his lips were, “Give me my family back.”

Slowly, the huge cat got to its feet. Its golden eyes narrowed.

“Do you know why you are here?” it asked. The voice was a soft, feminine, dangerous rumble.

Jareth blinked. His old friend anger came back in a hot rush. “I’m here to demand that you stop this land from dying!” he cried.

The tiger leaped from its perch so quickly that it was a blue blur. Pain blossomed across Jareth’s chest and he fell back hard onto the cold, ice-slicked rock.

He looked down at himself in shock. Four lines oozed red blood.

“Wh—why did you—”

“Do you know why you are here?”

Jareth didn’t answer immediately. He touched the wounds and hissed in pain. “Because you can give it all back to me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Give
them
back…”

Again the massive creature sprang. Jareth raised his arms, trying to block the attack, and the tiger’s claws raked his forearms. Blood dripped onto his face and oozed onto the stone.

“DO YOU KNOW WHY YOU ARE HERE?”

Still angry, still defiant, Jareth struggled to his feet. The hot blood on the ice was slippery. He snarled, “I am the Spring-Bringer!”

This time the tiger snarled its displeasure before the blue paw shot out and laid open Jareth’s cheek. The strike narrowly missed his eye. He fell hard, and fear skittered through him. He refused to yield to it. It was not in him to beg or plead. If this being wanted his life, it could have it.

“I am here to help my people,” Jareth rasped, trying to get to his feet and only managing to kneel. Blood dripped into his eye and stung. He waited for another attack, but it didn’t come. He looked up and beheld the tiger standing directly in front of him. Blue eyes locked with gold.

“Do you know why you are here?”

It was the same query, but something was different. Jareth knew it. Something he had said before had been part of what the beast wanted to hear, otherwise, he knew, it would have attacked him again. His breath came in ragged gasps. He wanted to tear his gaze away from the tiger, to stand like a man in front of it, but he was too weak to move.

“I am here to…to help my people by persuading you to release your grip on the land. To give me back my powers.”

Faster than Jareth’s brain could register, the creature struck a fourth time. Jareth’s belly was ripped open and he collapsed. The cold of the icy stone against the wounds was almost too much to bear and for a moment he thought he might lose consciousness. He couldn’t rise, couldn’t even sit, and he lay on his lacerated belly sucking in air as he watched the padded blue feet pace back and forth in front of him.

“Do you know why you are here?”

And then he did know.

Jareth closed his eyes against the onslaught of comprehension, willing it away, but it had the bitter taste of truth.

When he was thirteen years old, he had felt drawn to the land. He had summoned spring simply by asking for it to come. He was the Spring-Bringer, the Kevat-aanta, whose touch on the land ensured the rhythmic cycles of the seasons. And he had let himself become the Kevat-aanta. He had enjoyed the honors his position brought him and his family, even though he never exploited his gifts and lived with the secret fear that one day, everything would fall apart. This was who he was, and it was why, when his powers had suddenly failed him, he had been so devastated. Part of it, the greatest part, was indeed that he did not desire his people to suffer.

But part of it had also been arrogance and, to an even greater extent, that constant fear. What was he supposed to do if not be the Spring-Bringer?

Who was he?

He had come thinking to reclaim this title he had held for all his adult life. He had come thinking to cow and bully his gods into bringing the dead back to life—both his family and the dead land. And he had come thinking that somehow, in this pilgrimage, he would atone for not being able to do these things himself, for not being able to feed his people, not being able to save his family—

But that was not why he was here. He was here, standing before the blue Tiger, existing in this world, to be not the Spring-Bringer, but the Stone Dancer. He was, as Kevla had tried to tell him, the element of Earth made into human flesh. She had been part of his dreams since his youth, the dark-skinned woman who changed into a god, and now he understood. She wasn’t taking him to the gods—she was leading him to his Companion.

And suddenly, as if making this connection had opened a door, memories flooded him.

The Tiger, the secret friend, found as a cub by a little boy who bonded with her and placed her on his standard. The Legion of the blue Tiger fought well for their king and country, even stood…and fell…against the Shadow when it came for them….

A scholarly girl, terrified of the mighty beast until her father, her Lorekeeper, explained the powerful connection of these three separate beings….

The only time he had preferred to feel a horse between his thighs rather than the warm, supple strength of the Tiger, when he had been part of a tribe that worshipped the animals….

A slender woman of eighteen, with dark skin and hair, gazing out at an ocean that was suddenly, unnaturally still, feeling the trusted hands of her Lorekeeper on her face before they tightened….

Before him stood not a god, but his Companion, also an aspect of Earth. Jareth was much more than an instigator for the changing of the seasons; more than a friend to the trees and grasses and animals and stones. Jareth’s allegiance was to things greater than Lamal, for
he
was greater than Lamal.

And if the Tiger is my Companion, and not a god…she can’t give Taya and Annu and Parvan back to me.

Jareth closed his eyes as blood seeped from his warm body onto the cold ice, this knowledge more painful than the blows he had endured from the Tiger. He understood now that he was here to set aside his personal wants and needs, however deep and raw they might be. He was to help his people by leaving them, possibly forever; to save them by saving the world they lived in. By accepting that his destiny lay not with the mountains and fields and deep, green forests of the place where he was born, but in places so alien to him that he knew it would make him weep.

By walking with Kevla and the Great Dragon, and searching for the rest of the Dancers.

He did not want this. But it was why he was here.

Taya, my love, you are gone, and I can’t even stay in the land where you lie….

His voice cracked when he spoke.

“I am here to be the Stone Dancer—to save my people by saving
all
the people,” he whispered. He squeezed his eyes shut, expecting another blow. But what happened next startled him more than anything he could have imagined.

With the gentleness of a mother with her cub, the Tiger stretched out a paw and pulled Jareth to her breast. A deep rumble sounded and Jareth felt the rasp of a warm tongue across his face, his chest, his belly. Fur softer even than that of the
selva
brushed his skin. The Tiger bathed him, and beneath the caress of that slightly rough but loving tongue Jareth felt his wounds close and heal, felt strength slowly seep into a body that had been abused and punished for almost too long.

How long the moment lasted, Jareth could not tell. He surrendered to the tender ministrations of the Tiger, and simply accepted. At last, he sighed deeply and opened his eyes, and when he gazed up at the Tiger, it was with true recognition.

“You,” he whispered. “It’s you!”

Healed by the powers of this being that he suddenly remembered was a part of him, Jareth reached up and threw his arms around the creature’s powerful neck and buried his face in the warm fur. He felt one paw—the paw that had moments before been slicing his flesh with apparent mercilessness—go around him to pull him even closer.

Jareth closed his eyes. His fingers gripped the striped blue fur tightly, as if he clung to a lifeline. In a very real sense, he did.

“Where were you? The last time, where were you?”

“You had not found me before the Shadow came,” was the loving reply. “You had found your Lorekeeper, but not me. I was a continent away.”

Yes, he had found his Lorekeeper…and his Lorekeeper had murdered him.

Jareth shuddered at the memory, then let it go. He heaved a deep sigh, feeling the last strains of fear and resentment escape with the cleansing breath, and sat up. He did not pull away from this being that he now knew was a part of him, but leaned, still weary, against his newly discovered old friend and drew strength from the furry warmth.

“Where is the last of our three?” he asked. “Kevla spoke of the Lorekeepers, but I have not met anyone like them. I have certainly not met mine.”

“And I have not been able to sense him or her,” said the Tiger. She rolled over onto her back, lazily pulling Jareth, no small man, with her. “It is unlikely that your Lorekeeper would be in another land, but such a thing is not impossible. We might have difficulty finding this part of ourselves, considering what happened last time. To murder one’s Dancer, even out of a misplaced sense of love—such a thing cannot help but do harm.”

The Tiger knew what had happened, even though she had not been there. Such was the power of their bond. Jareth sat back, taking a hold of one of the forepaws and examining it absently. It was large and soft, the claws retracted so that the Tiger could hold Jareth gently. Jareth squeezed the paw, and the Tiger obligingly extended her claws. They were as long as his fingers; the paw itself, bigger than his head. The Tiger made a deep sound of amused affection, sheathed her claws, and patted Jareth’s face. Jareth felt only comfort and trust. Never again would those claws be turned against him.

“So we find my Lorekeeper, and Kevla and I must travel to far distant realms to gather the other three Dancers.”
And my family stays here, their bodies hard and cold….
Jareth refused to follow that train of thought. He could not bear to let them go, not yet.

“Tiger…you have not told me…why did you remove my powers? How is it that I could even lose them, if I am truly the element of Earth?”

“Your powers were never gone,” the Tiger said quietly. “Were you not able to speak to the birds and animals?”

“Yes,” Jareth said. “But I couldn’t call spring. I couldn’t sense the stones, or the trees, or the soil anymore. I couldn’t influence them, make things grow.” The pain of that stabbed him anew and he swallowed.

“Your powers were not taken,” the Tiger said. “They were blocked.”

“How? Who could have done this?”

“The snow that has fallen since the first day you tried to call Spring is nothing natural,” the Tiger said. “It has awareness. Consciousness. And it has a mistress.”

“Who?”

Looking deeply into Jareth’s eyes, the Tiger replied, “The Ice Maiden.”

Jareth laughed. “Now you’re teasing me.”

The Tiger shook her head. “I would not toy with you about such a thing.”

Sobering, Jareth said, “But she’s just a story, a character in a collection of songs.”

“That might have been true once, but no longer. She is very real, and very powerful. She controls the snow and she is able to block your powers when it is present.”

“And it’s ever-present,” Jareth finished, thinking. “This makes sense. I could only call the beasts when the sky was clear—when there was no snow falling between me and them.”