In Stone's Clasp (19 page)

Jareth stared at the beautiful fire-woman.
“What?”

“I said, we will come with you.”

“Yes!” cried Altan delightedly. “Yes, of course we will. And when you have brought spring to the land again, then you will be free to accompany Kevla!”

Guilt sat heavily in Jareth’s chest. It was an old companion, and he had grown used to its weight. He knew what he was supposed to do, and he wanted to do it alone. For one thing, to drag Altan and these two women into what he was now beginning to think was a death quest was unthinkable, and for another, he had a feeling they would slow him down. His gaze flickered over to the enormous red creature that was the fire-woman’s Companion.
And I’m sure the gods or the
taaskali
will see
him
coming leagues away.

“No,” he said, firmly. “Altan, you and this young woman will return to safety. It will be a hard enough journey without me having to worry about you. Kevla, you and your friend will have to be about saving the world without my help.”

The Dragon, a beast unlike anything Jareth had seen or even heard tales of, stiffened. It lifted its head and regarded him balefully.

“I don’t think you quite understand,” it said in a deep, ominous rumble. “Kevla was not asking your permission to accompany you. She was
telling
you.”

Jareth felt his face flush and his breathing quicken. He wanted to yell. He wanted to hurt something, someone. The Dragon continued to regard him, narrowing its golden eyes.

“I hope you remember our little chat this morning.”

“Little chat” indeed. Jareth made a sound of contempt. He had woken before dawn and attempted to steal quietly away when the monster’s gigantic claws had closed about him, lifting him high off the earth. The Dragon had said in no uncertain terms that wherever Jareth attempted to go, the Dragon would follow.
I’ve got your scent, Dancer,
it had rumbled.
There is nowhere you can go now that I cannot find you.

Jareth remained silent, analyzing each of them in turn. The Dragon, a creature that had shocked him to his very core when it manifested above him, yanking trees from the earth with casual ease. Kevla, her dark skin and hair making her look more like a
taaskali
than a proper Lamali woman…but of course she wasn’t Lamali at all, was she? She hailed from a land far south. For a moment, Jareth thought the word
Arukan,
and a hint of heat, of dry sand and parched earth and the footfalls of animals completely alien to him brushed his mind. He almost fancied he could feel a warm wind stir his hair, smell spicy, exotic scents. Then it was gone.

She was beautiful, of course. Anyone with eyes could see that. She reminded him strongly of the woman in his dreams, who had seemed as unmoved by the cold as Kevla and who had transformed into the blue tiger god. He would have admired her capable, calm demeanor at any other time, any other place. Here, now, she was a problem. He had been quite awake when she had broken down at the fire last night; he had thought he would learn more from this odd group if he feigned sleep, and he had been right. She had clearly suffered, though he did not quite understand everything she had said. But Jareth Vasalen had no pity to spare for anyone, not even himself.

He dragged his gaze from the exotic Kevla to the familiar, eager face of Altan. The boy was so very excited to have found Jareth safe; no less pleased was Jareth to learn that Altan had been found whole and alive after hearing about his brush with death. But still, what was the boy thinking? He was no expert in forest craft; he was a musician, a singer of songs, teller of tales. Those slender fingers could coax forth a melody to make the hardest heart ache or the most sullen lips curve in a smile. That was Altan’s gift—an honored and important one, but one not conducive to the brutal necessities of survival. It was a wonder he had survived long enough to be found and rescued by the Flame Dancer and her Companion.

And this other girl—for girl she still was—what was her story? He could read part of it in her face. She was enamored of Altan, as most young women and more than a few young men were at one time or another once they’d heard him sing. Even Annu, who had grown up with Altan, had once confided—

No!

He jerked his head, as if he could shake the thought from his mind. His body tensed, twitched. “Jareth?” said Kevla, tentatively.

Pale and cold, like the Ice Maiden was believed to be, they lay where they had somehow fallen asleep. Waiting for him to soften the hearts of the gods, to talk the great blue cats into bringing life to the land, life to those he loved so much—

Hands on either side of his face, trusted hands that yet caused a shiver of fear—

Kevla, it was Kevla, walking in the snow in that revealing red garment that showed every curve, smiling, transforming into the god, flowers blooming beneath her feet—

He found and held her gaze. He saw her swallow, but he did not look away. Maybe she was part of this. Maybe he had seen her in these dreams because she had been supposed to lead him to the gods. To bringing spring again.

To bringing back those he loved.

“All right,” he said, surprising them all. He took a deep breath. He realized he was shaking and had spilled some of his tea. It was as if all the energy had rushed from him. “I could use some food,” he said.

“Of course,” Altan said quickly. He fished in one of the packs and gave Jareth a hunk of dried meat. The smell made Jareth’s mouth water and he gnawed at the chewy, tough flesh.

“We will have some hot grains here in a moment,” Kevla said. “Jareth, you must tell us what has happened to you over the last few months.”

“To what end?”

“We need to know how much strength you have left,” Kevla said quietly. “And what kind of challenges await us if we return to the mountain ranges.”

Images flashed through his mind. Snow. Ice that cut the hands until they bled. Storms. Attacks from madmen lurking, spying upon him. Kevla’s face in the fire and his subsequent determination not to light fires again. The coppery smell of bloody, raw animal flesh that had been his only source of food since then. The dreams that he banished from his waking moments but that always made him awaken screaming.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” he said.

A look passed between Kevla and Altan. Jareth caught another look, one that no one else saw, from Mylikki. The girl’s heart was on her face as she regarded Altan. He felt a faint twinge of sympathy, and the lyrics of one of the Ice Maiden songs returned to him:
Remember what drove me to be what I am; all that I wanted was love from one man.

The grains were soon ready and Jareth ate hungrily. It had been weeks since his body had ingested anything hot, liquid or solid, and even as the nourishment hit his stomach he felt warmth start to creep through his body. Perhaps it was not all bad, traveling with this little group; there would be warmth, shelter and food, three things he had been able to find only sparingly. Still, he knew that if he had the chance to elude them, he’d take it.

“Our purpose until now has been to find you,” Kevla told him as she gave him another ladleful of the hot, filling grains. “Now, we will go where you dictate. Altan and Mylikki say the gods live on a mountain range at the end of the world, as far north as one can go. But Altan tells me you couldn’t find them. How shall we proceed?”

His respect for her went up another notch. She had accepted the situation and was asking logical questions about what to do next. He realized with some embarrassment that his own thoughts were not nearly as well formed.

Swallowing, Jareth said, “I climbed the mountains and they were not there.” That had been some time ago, and the rage and bitterness still made him feel sick. Why did they deliberately elude him so? “I think the next thing to do is to find the
taaskali.
Our myths and tales have always linked them with magical powers and the ability to go between the worlds; to visit the realm of both gods and mortals.”

“But the
taaskali
follow the
selva,
” said Mylikki. “You never find one without the other. And the
selva
do not stay in any place for very long. How do you think you’ll find them?”

For answer, Jareth reached into one of the sacks and withdrew a handful of grain. Cupping the food gently, he closed his eyes and reached out with his mind. The sky was clear today; he always seemed to have better luck when it wasn’t snowing. This was something he had thought about doing for some time, but had never before had any food with which to tempt them.

Little brothers and sisters,
he thought,
I will share this with you in exchange for your aid.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, he heard a soft gasp and opened his eyes.

Perched on his knee was a small songbird barely the size of his palm, so tiny he had not even felt it land. Its feathers, normally bright gold in hue, were dingy. It had fluffed them against the cold and peered at him with bright black eyes. Jareth extended his hand and the bird hopped on his fingers and began to peck eagerly at the proffered grain.

“That’s our—” began Mylikki, but both Altan and Kevla hushed her. Jareth watched the little bird feed and felt a smile start to curve his lips. It was good, to give life instead of take it. Usually when the animals he summoned came, they came to die.

Others came, too; little sparrows, more songbirds in jeweled tones of blue and purple and green, and one brown, tufted-ear squirrel. Jareth let them all have some of the precious grain. When they had finished, he quietly asked:

I search for the people of dark skin, hair, and eyes. They wander the land, following the four-legged ones with white fur and golden horns. Be my eyes and ears, and let me know where they might be.

The yellow bird cocked its head.
Many wingbeats to the place where the mountains brush the sky.

Moving steadily in this direction, so it seems,
another one thought.

Isn’t there anything else to eat?
The squirrel looked at him hopefully, brown eyes pleading, and Jareth’s smile grew.

I will travel in the direction you have suggested. Return with more news tomorrow, and I will have more food.

As quickly as they had come, the creatures scattered, fluttering into the cloudless sky or the shelter of piney green boughs. He felt an absurd surge of hope. At least not all of his abilities had deserted him.

“The birds say that the
taaskali
are currently in the north, but that they are heading our way,” he informed his traveling companions.

“How do you know that’s true? Wouldn’t they just say what you wanted to hear in exchange for food?” Mylikki asked.

He felt a rush of anger, but tamped it down. In a heartbeat, the offense had subsided to a sort of sorrow.

“Nothing of the earth can lie,” he said, “except us.”

They packed camp and the tentative harmony that had been established was quickly shattered when Jareth stated, “I am not getting on the back of the Dragon.”

“What?” cried Kevla.

“You heard me. And he’s not to fly overhead as we go, either. Or scout out in advance.” He threw the Dragon a look. Kevla expected the Dragon to reprimand the Stone Dancer, but the great beast remained silent.

“The
taaskali
are shy at best,” Jareth continued. He closed the straps on his pack and shouldered it. “I’m not going to frighten them or the
selva
by having
that
hovering over them.”

“The Dragon can cover many leagues in a short time,” Mylikki said. “It is foolish to refuse such a gift.”

“I didn’t ask for the gift,” Jareth retorted. “You want to travel with me? Then these are my terms. I think the Dragon understands.” He shot the giant beast a look. “Don’t you.”

The Dragon had cocked his head and regarded Jareth intently. “Actually, I do,” he said, surprising Kevla. She whirled on her friend.

“What?”

“I am not for him, Kevla,” the Dragon said, and Kevla suddenly took his meaning. “And he is right. I do tend to frighten people who don’t know me.” A thin stream of smoke trickled from his nostrils as he added, “And I even frighten those who
do
know me. When they need it. If what the birds said was right, and I have no reason to believe the information incorrect, then our paths will cross soon enough. In the meantime,” and he grinned wickedly, “you will have to learn how to use snow walkers and
skelthas
after all.”

Altan laughed.

Olar wondered how it could be that the Maiden looked as beautiful on her throne, cold and white, as she did when she moved among the men. Then, her hair was gold as the sun, her lips as red as wine, and now, there was no color to her at all.

She had chosen him to sleep at her feet while she dreamed. Two others had protested. She had ordered them to fight one another as punishment for their audacity—how dare they question, even out of love for her! Olar, thrilled with her choice, had watched as the men went at one another with spears until they both lay bleeding on the floor of her palace. He did not give them another thought.

He looked up at her, felt an unspeakable wave of love rush through him, and longed to share her dreams.

The fire’s light flickered and danced, casting leaping shadows. Smoke curled upward, filling the air with its unmistakable rich scent. The only sound was the pure, sweet voice of the
huskaa
and his instrument, as he sang heartbreaking songs of love found, then lost.

The girl was in love. With the song, with the performer’s looks, with the night that seemed to her made for opening hearts and whispered intimacies. His long fingers caressed the
kyndela’s
strings; she shuddered as he imagined them touching her. His lips curved around the words, kissing them; she touched her lips and pretended it was his kiss. His body was slender and well made, his locks fair and curling, his face like that of a hero out of legend.

The fire’s crackle and glow kept darkness at bay, and served as a gathering place in the evening. The red-gold flames had drawn the stranger here, to sing in exchange for a place to sleep and some food. He would bring them news from other villages, make them laugh and weep, and then move on.

But he would not leave alone.

His eyes opened and fastened on hers, and her mouth went dry even as moisture blossomed in other, more intimate parts of her body. At last he finished. It seemed an age. She thrilled to the melodious sound of his voice, but now she wanted him all to herself. He bowed, graciously accepting the applause, slung his
kyndela
over his back, and yielded his place to a local youth who launched into a bawdy drinking song.

He came directly to her and clasped her hands. He kissed them, one at a time, then turned them over and pressed kisses
into her palms. She trembled at his touch, his lips like a brand on her skin. She curled her fingers closed over the kiss, claiming it, keeping it.

“Your songs are so sad,” she said. “Do you not have any happy songs? Any songs of true love?”

“Perhaps you could teach me some new songs, sweet lady,” he murmured.

“Songs of true love,” she whispered. It wasn’t proper, to be alone with a man she had only known a few days. But he had claimed her heart the moment he strode into the village. He was drawn to her as well, she knew it. And why not? She was one of the prettiest maidens in the village, with her long blond hair, large blue eyes, full breasts, and trim waist. Youths had come from leagues distant to court her, but she had wanted none of their callow attentions.

She wanted to be loved by a man, not a boy; a man who would claim her and take her away to a grand and glorious destiny. And now, he had come; no warrior with a spear or arrows to pierce her body, but songs aplenty to pierce her heart.

He released her only to shrug off the
kyndela
across his back, then his arms slipped around her once more and pulled her to him. She felt the strength of his chest and the bulge in his breeches. When he bent his head to kiss her, she was lost.

She clung to him, willingly opening her mouth to his. She’d never had such a kiss from the local youths, a kiss that made her feel weak and dizzy. His hand crept to the back of her head, taking control. She gave it to him gladly.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice deep and his breathing rapid. She went, her hand clutched in his, almost running to keep up with his long-legged, swift strides. He led her into the forest, well away from the fire and the sound of laughter and music.

Again he took her in his arms, bringing her to the soft, mossy soil which he had covered with his cloak. She reached up to him, helping his long, clever fingers undo the few ties on her dress. She felt as if she were on fire, consumed with passion, with a need to feel this man’s fingers and tongue and body on her, in her—

The pain was sharp, sharper than she had anticipated, and she gasped. He paused.

“I know it hurts. But it will pass, sweetness.” He kissed her lips, her throat, her breasts, until she again began to crave him. He moved, slowly and then more quickly, thrusting inside her. The sting between her legs had passed, as he had promised, and now there was only pleasure, hot and wild and liberating. She clutched at him, her fingernails drawing blood as she raked them across his broad back. His breath was hot and ragged in her ear. And then, before she could claim the burst of pleasure that she sensed she was building toward, he stiffened and cried out.

She held him through his moment of ecstasy, smiling against his cheek, and then he sighed and collapsed on her.

She kissed his ear, putting away her disappointment. No doubt that pinnacle of delight would be achieved next time. She looked forward to the striving.

Startled, the girl felt a sudden brush of cold across her naked body as he rolled off her and reached for his clothes. Of course; he would want to return before she was missed. She smiled at his thoughtfulness but said, “There is no need to worry, love.”

He paused. “What do you mean?”

“We will tell them tomorrow. They will have to know that I am leaving with you.”

He laughed, reaching and patting her cheek. “Oh, sweeting, that’s rich. I’m leaving, that much is certain, but only with my instrument.”

Her stomach clenched. “Wh-what?”

“Naught’s wrong with your ears. What, did you think I would marry you? That you were the first I’ve ever cast a lusty eye on? You were good for one thing, sweeting, and I’ve had it. Here, something to remember this night by.”

Fully dressed now, he tossed down his scarf. By the light of the moon filtering in through the trees, she could see that there were dark, wet marks upon it.

Her virgin’s blood.

The world swirled about her as she stared at the blood, black in the moonlight. She heard the crunch of his boots as he strode back toward the village.

She tried to stand, and couldn’t. She tried to cover her nudity, and couldn’t. All she could do was stare at the bloody scarf and slowly, numbly, begin to comprehend what he had done.

The blessed numbness shattered before the agony. She buried her face in the scarf and sobbed wildly. How could he have done this to her? She curled up into a tight ball, weeping as the pain swept over her. She loved him! She loved him!

So slowly she did not know when it happened, the pain turned to fury. It swept her along as an avalanche would anything unfortunate enough to be caught in its path. It made her blue eyes gleam, it stiffened her spine, it filled the ashy, empty place in her with purpose and resolve and hatred.

She would have her revenge. There were powers, dark and brooding, that could help her. She would grow strong in her hatred, and her vengeance would be terrible.

The heat and fury inside her turned to ice.

The travelers had eaten heartily at breakfast despite the dwindling supply of food because they had known they would need the energy. It was less difficult physically to travel on the broad back of the Dragon than it would be to move through the heavy snow step by step. Not for the first time, Kevla marveled at Jareth’s determination and physical endurance. He had been doing this alone for months.

Altan suggested that she try the snow walkers first. “It’s a more natural movement than the
skeltha,
” he explained as he and Mylikki tightened the sinew straps, securing the apparatus to her feet. “It’s still going to feel strange, but it’s much more like walking. You’ll get used to it quickly.”

It was indeed like walking—if one normally walked with enormous flat circles strapped to one’s feet, and took large, careful steps. But it was far better than sinking thigh-deep into the huge drifts.

She was surprised at how keenly she missed the Dragon. Since the day she had rediscovered him and learned her own identity, she had not been separated from him for more than a brief time. He had agreed to wait the day out where he was and rejoin them at night. Jareth had started to protest, but then apparently thought better of it at the look on the Dragon’s scaly face. He nodded his blond head once, and then strode off toward the north.

The day quickly assumed a pattern that Kevla felt certain would be repeated in the days to come. Jareth would move swiftly ahead of them, leaving a clear path in the curving drifts of snow, and they would follow, Kevla trundling awkwardly on the snow-feet. She bit back her resentment, her urge to scream out,
We could have traveled ten times this far on the Dragon’s back!,
her desire to beg,
Wait, don’t go so far ahead.

She knew that she was slowing all of them down. If it had not been for her—

If it were not for you, Mylikki would still be in her village, Altan would be dead, and Jareth would be an angry madman blundering about in the snow.

She smothered a smile at the Dragon’s voice in her mind, and felt a little bit better.

By the end of the day, Kevla wondered if she would be able to smile about anything again. Her legs ached, burning from toe to thigh. She rubbed them as they sat by the fire, too exhausted from the day’s efforts to prepare dinner as she usually did. Mylikki and Altan stepped in; the geese the Dragon brought them were not difficult to cook. Jareth ate twice as much as any of them, but she did not begrudge him a bite, now that she fully understood the level of his exertion over the past several months. He was a big man and once had clearly been wreathed in muscle, though now he was gaunt.

Kevla forced herself to eat, although she was so tired she had no appetite. She leaned against the Dragon while Altan sang and played something that almost lulled her to sleep. She jerked back awake, though, when Mylikki said, “I don’t think Kevla has heard the last song in the Ice Maiden cycle.”

Uneasily, she glanced over at Jareth. She was not in the mood for songs about snow and ice, and she didn’t think he was either. He was sharpening his knife; the same knife he had pressed to her throat. He seemed completely unconcerned about songs,
huskaas,
or Ice Maidens.

“You remember the first two, Kevla?” Mylikki asked, her fingers moving gently over the instrument as she tuned it.

“Yes,” said Kevla. “One was a warning from an old man to a younger, the second was sung by that young man who did find the Ice Maiden.”

Mylikki nodded. The sky was clear and had been all day, for which Kevla was grateful. Soon enough, they would have to deal with more storms, but she was happy for the calm times when they came.

“That’s right. The third one is sung by the Ice Maiden.” Her blue eyes met Kevla’s. “It’s a very sad song, even though it’s sung by the Maiden herself.”

She began, in a soft, urgent voice.

Altan studiously looked at his own instrument, his long fingers still on the strings. Jareth seemed engrossed in sharpening his knife, but Kevla sensed he was listening. She herself was barely breathing, hoping this song would not unfold the way she feared it would.