In Stone's Clasp (20 page)

Again, Mylikki launched into the bitter, harsh words of the chorus. Her pretty face was flushed with the passion of the words, her eyes closed. It was as if it was her own pain she was pouring out, not that of some mythical woman. And Kevla wondered, as she looked from one singer to the other, if that was not indeed the case.

Kevla knew that by law, all formal
huskaas
were men. But clearly the Law did not forbid women from learning how to play and sing, merely denied them the title. She wondered, listening to the angry, heartbreaking song, if it had been a woman who had penned these words, long ago. She couldn’t imagine a man, even someone as sensitive as Jashemi, fully grasping the ache of a woman’s heart.

Even as the thought of her beloved came, she wished it away. His face rose up in her mind and, as always, guilt and pain raked her with merciless claws. Suddenly the song seemed slightly less tragic. Both this Ice Maiden and the pretty young maiden who was currently performing the song knew the shame and pain of rejection. She’d seen Altan by turns flirt with and scorn Mylikki, and knew how badly it had hurt. But the Lamali girl knew nothing of the agony of forever losing her beloved by her own actions—someone who had loved her with all his heart.

Kevla wiped at her eyes, grateful for the pain in the song, hoping that it might hide her own deeply personal grief.

Softly, Mylikki repeated the chorus. The crystalline sound of the
kyndela
faded into the clear iciness of the snowy night.

Altan was the first to speak. “That was beautiful, Mylikki,” he said quietly. “The student has surpassed the teacher.”

Their gazes locked. Suddenly Kevla couldn’t bear it anymore. She was physically weary, mentally and emotionally wrung out from the song and the feelings it had roused.

“I have been spoiled by flying on the Dragon’s back,” she said. “Perhaps tomorrow my legs will be cleverer with the snow walkers. Sleep well, I will see you in the morning.”

Kevla awoke fully alert. She must have heard something.

It is all right,
came the Dragon’s voice in her thoughts.

Jareth?

Do not worry. I can see him from here. He’s not attempting to leave.

Curious, Kevla emerged from the shelter of the Dragon’s body as quietly as she could. Her legs were stiff and sore, but they obeyed. The moon was bright and she had no trouble seeing the huddled shape of the Stone Dancer at the edge of the clearing. He was bent over something, but she could not tell what.

What is he doing?

Listening,
and the Dragon’s mental voice was very tender.

Kevla could hear it now; a soft, odd-toned voice, but she could not distinguish words.

Why does this not wake the others?

They are not Dancers, Kevla. Jareth thinks no one but he can understand the voices of the things that speak to him. But every Dancer can hear what he hears, though only he can speak to them.

Kevla nodded her understanding and slipped back into the shelter. As long as the Dragon kept an eye on Jareth and the Stone Dancer made no attempt to flee, he could listen to whatever he wanted.

She feigned sleep when he crept back a short time later. She heard the soft crunch of snow and felt him standing over her. Kevla kept her breathing soft and steady, and he moved away. She heard a deep, long sigh as he lay back down on the blankets, then silence.

As they walked the next day, her legs shrieking in protest, Kevla thought about the strange incident that had happened last night. What was Jareth listening to? And why? She sensed that the Dragon understood, but respected Jareth’s privacy sufficiently not to share his secret, not even with the Flame Dancer.

Kevla did not want to pry either, but she was not sure she trusted Jareth fully. He had not committed to his duty as a Dancer, not yet. She couldn’t help but wonder if he ever truly would. He was linked to the land in a way that not even she could fully appreciate. Her skill, her affinity, her nature was fire. His was earth. And unlike Kevla, Jareth’s powers had been honored and celebrated—even craved—by his community since he was thirteen years old. Fire was transitory. Any fire, anywhere, was as good as another to her. It was, she suspected, why she could scry and even transport herself via their crackling flames.

But earth…land was a deeply personal thing. She saw this even in Arukan, a place where many clans were nomadic and had no real roots. But they shared the same sun, the same sand, the same heat. They were bound together despite their many differences by this shared experience. How much more intimate a union might there be between the people of Lamal, deeply and powerfully connected to the earth through its seasons and its bounty, and the ground upon which they trod? Jareth probably knew each tree, each river in his little village. Even if his people weren’t suffering, might he not be reluctant to join Kevla and leave them—leave the land in which he was born, of which he had been caretaker for most of his life—possibly forever?

It worried her. And because it worried her, she overcame her reluctance to invade his privacy and waited for when he slipped quietly into the night, after he thought everyone else was asleep.

The second night, she realized with a shock that she was able to comprehend words. She moved closer to the entrance and strained her ears. Sure enough, just as she had experienced when she first arrived in Lamal, she was starting to understand a language with which she had initially been utterly unfamiliar. She tried to slow her racing heart and quiet her breathing, so she could hear better. The “voice,” if voice it could truly be called, sounded like nothing she had ever heard. It was deep, and rich, and as she listened, Kevla could almost smell the moist, earthy scent of soil.

Earth am I, soil and sand, ever-changing and ever the same. I am the flesh that was once living things, and the anchor to the roots of the trees and grass and all growing things. Earth am I, and I shall speak.

He trod with gentle feet, the boy, and sensed the stirring within. Kneeling, he placed his hands on me, young hands, wise hands, digging deep into the rich loam hidden beneath its white blanket of snow. I knew him to be kin to me, though I understood not how, and when he asked, “Let the spring come forth,” we all answered.

The snow melted at his word, surrendering its icy grip. Roots, huddled and dormant, awoke and their tender green grasses emerged. Soft blew the winds, bright shone the sun. And all who beheld this marveled at the youth, barely past thirteen summers, who had summoned spring by asking in a gentle voice, and who seemed more stunned than all the others at what he had wrought.

And when spring had waxed to its burgeoning fullness, came the youth to me again. Again he sank his human fingers into me, merging with soil and sand, and called summer. And summer came, obedient to his asking, bright and warm and welcome. Autumn and winter followed, and spring, and summer again.

So passed the years, and the seasons always came when he called.

There was more; flowing words and images that thrilled Kevla to her very core to hear.

The earth itself was speaking.

Kevla inhaled swiftly. She couldn’t see what was happening, but she could guess. Jareth had gathered a handful of dirt from the site where he had first called spring. And now that his powers were gone, he was reliving that moment.

How often had he done this, over the months that he had spent wandering alone? Remembering, listening to what he had once been and now was no longer. Two emotions washed over her: pity and a sense of horror that he was so obsessed with this that he listened every night to a reminder of his past glory.

She heard the crunching of snow and hurried back to her blanket, hoping he didn’t come and listen to her breathing, because she was certain it was rapid and shallow with the revelation she had just experienced.

Night after night, Kevla stayed awake until Jareth quietly moved from his blanket out into the crisp, open air. Night after night, she listened to his memories, captured forever by a stone, a leaf, a clump of dirt. During the day, Jareth was taciturn, saying little about anything and nothing at all about himself, although Altan always tried to draw him out while they sat beside the fire in the evening.

Jareth was the first person Kevla had ever met who was truly like her. While Jashemi, her Lorekeeper, and the Dragon, her Companion, were an intrinsic part of her, Jareth was complete unto himself. And yet, he was a Dancer. He was an element made flesh. She burned to ask him questions, to share her own experiences, but he kept them all at arm’s length.

These illicit moments, deep in the quiet of an icy night, were the only times Jareth revealed any part of himself to her. And though she was ashamed of herself, Kevla was willing to live with that shame in order to glean knowledge about this withdrawn, bitter man.

She heard him rise, heard the squeak of snow as he walked away from the Dragon and the clearing. She crawled to the entrance and listened.

The voice this time was sweet and lyrical; exactly the way the voice of such a speaker ought to be, she thought as she strained her ears to catch the soft sound.

Wildflower am I, stem and petal and leaf still here though torn from my roots, brief lived but beautiful. Petals red as blood, center blue as sky, I follow the sun on its path from dawn to dusk. Wildflower am I, and I shall speak.

With fingers soft as water he tore me from my roots; he felt me bleeding and sorrowed for me, but nonetheless took my long green stem and pressed it between the fingers of a woman. She brought me to her face and inhaled my scent, and for the tenderness the man showed me I blessed her with my fragrance. Held in her tender grasp I was then, and later I adorned her hair, and my petals were trailed over lips and breasts and body.

Cherished I was, my death an offering of love.

Kevla made a small sound and then clapped her hand over her mouth. The song of the wildflower, dying so that Jareth might give it to his wife, clearly used in their loveplay, nearly broke her heart. Fearing she had given herself away, she hurried back to her blankets, closed her eyes, and tried to steady her breathing.

Sure enough, she heard the quick sound of Jareth’s footsteps, then silence as, she assumed, he peered beneath the Dragon’s belly to see if anyone had heard him. After a long, tense moment, she heard him moving off again and relaxed.

Does he weep, Dragon?

I do not watch him closely, Flame Dancer, but no, I believe he does not weep.

And yet he forces himself to listen to…this…every night.

Sometimes, our pain is our comfort. It is the only thing that makes us feel alive.

Too tired to stay awake, Kevla drifted into an uneasy slumber wondering if the Dragon’s words were not entirely about the Stone Dancer.

Kevla was determined to learn to use the
skeltha.
Altan and Mylikki strapped the long, awkward poles onto her feet and did their best not to laugh at Kevla as she flailed, fell and struggled. If she had thought herself sore after a few days with the snow walkers, she had not understood the proper definition of the word. By the end of her first day, she could barely hobble to the fireside. Mylikki started to prepare supper, but Kevla saw her pause as she went through the packs.

“We’re down to the last of the provisions,” Mylikki said in a somber voice.

“What’s left?” Kevla asked. She eased herself down on a blanket beside the fire, arranging her
rhia
so Altan could massage her legs.

“A few more days’ worth of grains, about a handful of dried vegetables, eight strips of dried meat and another potful or two of tea,” Mylikki replied.

“We’ll need to start rationing,” Kevla said. “Make the soup with half the usual ingredients.”

Mylikki nodded and started the meal. Kevla hissed as Altan massaged her legs, but gritted her teeth and accepted the pain, knowing from experience that her muscles would be the looser for the attention the next day.

“What I wouldn’t give for one of your stonesteaming huts right now,” Kevla said as Altan worked on her calf.

Altan sighed. “What
I
wouldn’t give,” he said. “Don’t suppose we could construct a makeshift version?”

Jareth had been sitting silently by the fire, but now he spoke. “Kevla might be able to heat the stones sufficiently, but building even a basic one would be a waste of energy and time. We can’t afford to do that. We need to save all our strength for the journey.”

Altan sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Though it would be awfully pleasant. How about you, Mylikki? You and Kevla had one only a few weeks ago. Missing it yet?”

Mylikki muttered something, but clearly was in no mood for conversation. Kevla caught Altan’s eye, and in that fleeting instant saw confusion in their blue-green depths. Was it possible that Altan didn’t realize how his cutting comments hurt Mylikki? The youth quickly looked away and intensified his efforts on Kevla’s calf.

“Forgive my inexperience, I’m not skilled in such things,” Altan said as he watched her wince.

“Too bad it’s not one of you who’s sore,” Kevla said, forcing a smile. “I
am
skilled in such things.”

“How convenient of you not to have mentioned before,” Altan said in arch voice, the corners of his mouth lifting a little to make sure Kevla knew he was teasing. “Now that I know, I’ll make sure to remember that. Jareth, Mylikki, you heard her.”

He patted her thigh to indicate he was finished and she extended the other leg. “We know so little about you, Flame Dancer,” Altan continued. “Yet it seems you know all about us.”

Kevla glanced at Jareth. She knew more about him, at least, than he fully realized. Jareth had put up all sorts of barriers between himself and his traveling companions. Spying on him—for she was spying, no amount of calling it anything else would change the fact—had brought her closer to him than she would have been otherwise. She thought about the flower, and her heart ached as if the experience had been her own.

She felt it was time to balance things out. “I will tell you, then,” she said quietly. Something in her voice made Jareth look up and regard her with narrowed eyes.

While Mylikki quietly stirred the watery soup, Jareth worked on repairing a damaged leather boot, and Altan massaged her legs, Kevla spoke of her life. She spoke of how, as a child, she used to solicit customers for her mother. Of the day when Tahmi-kha-Rakyn,
khashim
of the Clan of Four Waters, had whisked her away to what appeared to be a comparatively glamorous life in the great House.

“He was my father,” Kevla said, “but I did not know that until much later.” She lay on her back now, protected from the wetness of the snow only by a thin blanket, not in the least bit cold. The night was again clear, and she wondered if they would see the dancing lights that indicated frolicking tiger-gods. Altan rubbed her feet with hands that were both strong and gentle if not experienced.

Kevla continued, speaking with only a slight hitch in her voice of her half brother Jashemi, who had befriended her and stood fast beside all that followed. She told of her powers, and how terrified she had been.

“But I was most frightened of all of the Great Dragon, who was the Lawgiver and protector of our people. He came in dreams every night, breathing fire on me, demanding if I knew who I was. You utterly terrified me!”

The Dragon shrugged his massive shoulders. “It was what was required,” he said matter-of-factly.

Kevla’s smile faded. It was one thing to speak of playing
Shamizan
with a half brother, and bad dreams, and taking care of the
khashima.
But what followed took a much darker, much more tragic path.

She gently placed a hand on Altan’s shoulder, stilling the movements of his strong fingers on her legs. “Thank you, Altan. That was lovely.” Kevla sat up. “I think that is enough for tonight.” Altan nodded, knowing that she referred both to her story and to the massage.

He sat up. “Where’s Mylikki?” he asked. Indeed, the girl was nowhere to be seen.

Jareth shrugged. The Dragon said, “She went to be by herself for a while.”

Altan tried and failed to hide a smile. “Looks like we’re almost ready to eat. I’ll go find her.”

It was easy enough to tell in which direction Mylikki had gone. The tracks betrayed her, and Altan followed them quickly, seemingly eager to have a moment alone with the girl.

Now, it was only Kevla, the Dragon, and Jareth. She went and stirred the soup, surprised despite Mylikki’s warning to see how thin it was. “Dragon, I hope you’ll be able to catch us something for tomorrow,” she said.

“I will do my best, but I cannot call the animals as Jareth can. I must hunt as the hawk and the bear do and I am not always successful.”

Kevla eyed Jareth. “Why is it you do not summon something for our meals, Jareth?”

He frowned. “I have lived on nothing but snow and animal flesh for almost a year,” he said. “The last few weeks, I’ve eaten it raw. We have some provisions left. It was…good not to have them come to me only to die.” Then, as if remembering something, he added, “I won’t let any of you starve, Kevla, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Of course I wasn’t implying that!” She stared at him, exasperated. In his own way, he was just as moody as Altan, and she wondered if all Lamali men were so contradictory. It was as if he were two people—the sullen, moody, angry man who seemed perpetually irritated by everything and everyone, and the man who roused each night to listen to inanimate objects sing in haunting voices of past joys and sorrows. Her annoyance fled as she recalled the voice of the earth, singing of the Spring-Bringer, and the flower, singing of Jareth’s beloved, and all the other voices who had spoken of the births of children, of the terror of losing one’s powers, of the agony of finding one’s beloved cold and lifeless, and all the other pieces of a shattered life.

Impulsively, she went and sat down beside him. He shied away, almost imperceptibly, but she didn’t miss the gesture.

“You said for the last few weeks, you’ve been eating raw flesh. Jareth, did you never light a fire?”

He looked down at his hands. “After I saw your face in the flame, I couldn’t risk it.”

She was silent for a moment, wondering if she would have had the strength to endure what he had.

“I know this wasn’t how you imagined things turning out,” she said at last, very gently. “My life certainly hasn’t turned out the way I thought it would, either. I know you wanted—”

He whirled on her so suddenly she gasped out loud. His lips were drawn back from his white teeth in a feral snarl, and his blue eyes were like chips of ice. For an instant, she thought he would strike her.

“I don’t want you here!” he growled. “I don’t want you, or Mylikki, or the Dragon, and certainly not Altan here. I don’t want you coming from your house of—of olives and dates and scented oils and soft pillows into
my
land,
my
life, and telling me what you ‘know’ I think or feel or want or imagine. The only reason I’m even here right now is because your big red bully of a Dragon physically won’t let me leave. Do you understand that? You’re not my friend, you’re not my ally, you’re nothing to me. What you want me to do is
nothing
to me. You don’t know anything about me, Kevla. You don’t know one cursed thing!”

But I do,
she wanted to tell him.
I know everything that matters.
Kevla tried to imagine this big, gruff, broken man making love to a petite woman on a harvested wheat field; tried to see him holding a baby daughter and kissing her forehead as he wept tears of joy. It was almost impossible, and yet she had heard such things with her own ears.

Jareth’s nostrils flared with each angry breath. He was daring her to respond as he would, daring her to grow angry and hurl cold words at him. Instead, she reached and squeezed his arm, and returned to the fire.

“Leave me alone.”

Altan stopped, surprised. “I thought when you left, you wanted me to follow. So we could have a few moments together, away from the others.”

Mylikki made a contemptuous sound. She faced away from him, huddled in her cloak.

“Mylikki, sweeting, what’s wrong?” he asked. “Are you angry with me? Have I done something wrong?”

She laughed shortly, a harsh bark. “You know.”

“Truly, I don’t. Is there anything I could do to make you feel better?”

“No.” The anger had faded, leaving only a deep sorrow in her voice. “There isn’t, so please, just go away.”

Altan sighed. “Look at me.” He reached for her hands. She tried to pull away, but not very forcefully. Reluctantly, she turned to face him. He held her hands between his, caressing them, noting their coldness and the delicacy of the fingers.

“You’ve got calluses on your fingertips,” he said. Not knowing how she would react, he brought her fingers to his lips and gently kissed the rough flesh. She trembled.

“That tells me you’ve spent hours and hours practicing. You have done an amazing job of learning to play, especially with no one to really teach you. I’ve been instructed by a
huskaa
since I was thirteen, and I think you’ll surpass me soon if you keep this up. You certainly surpassed me the other evening. I’ve never heard such a passionate rendition of that song in my life.” He squeezed her hands. “Was it just talent I was hearing, or was it something else?”

She looked at him fully then. Her cheeks and lips were flushed and her eyes swollen from crying.

“What do you think?”