In Stone's Clasp (21 page)

“Mylikki, my lovely, dear girl, what have I done wrong?”

“Do you not hear yourself speak sometimes?”

Now it was Altan’s turn to look away.
Not Mylikki. Please let me not have said anything to hurt Mylikki.

He wondered, worried, what he had said to upset her so. Carefully, he felt his way.

“If I…said anything to you that hurt you, I didn’t mean it. There’s so much happening. This strange winter, Jareth losing his powers, meeting Kevla….”

“Yes, Kevla and Jareth,” she said, a hint of heat in her words. “They’re so very important.”

“They
are
important and you know it,” he said a touch more harshly than he intended. Maybe this was what she was talking about. Maybe if he explained it to her so that she understood—“You know what’s going on here. And I’ve known Jareth all my life—literally. He was at my
birth,
Mylikki—saw me and my sister coming into the world, helped my mother accept my sister’s death. What he went through—he needs me right now. He needs me and I want to be there for him. Can you understand that?”

“I understood that song,” she said quietly.

“You’re not being fair. I never did that to you!” Altan said indignantly. “I’ve never even kissed you, not that I haven’t wanted—”

Before he quite knew what was happening, her lips were on his, cold but full, soft and moist. Altan’s eyes closed as if of their own accord and relief surged through him as he kissed her back, his arms going around her to pull her tightly to him, his body responding to her softness by becoming hard and firm.

Cold, her flesh was so cold where his hands, warm and limber from the massage, touched her. But the inside of her mouth was hot and sweet. Her fingers reached to tangle themselves in his curly blond hair as she opened to him. Altan’s lips traveled to her cold ear, her cold throat where the vein beat, wanting to take away this chill he found in her, wanting to give her his heat. His arms moved under her cloak, around her waist, along her thigh, snaking upward beneath the fabric to press with a trembling hand flesh that was round and apple-firm yet so, so soft, and at last, warm to his touch—

What are you doing?

It was as if the voice had come from somewhere else, as if it was not part of his own hazy, desire-clotted thoughts at all. It seared through him and jolted him backward almost as if he had been struck.

Mylikki gazed at him through half-closed lids, still tasting his kiss on lips that curved in a smile. Then, slowly, her eyes widened and the smile faded.

“Altan?”

“You should pay better attention to the songs you sing,” Altan said, his voice dripping contempt. “Your heart wouldn’t get broken if you didn’t keep throwing yourself at men like this.”

He rose, dusted off his pants, and strode back to the circle. Mylikki felt as though he’d kicked her in the stomach. What was
wrong
with him? Why was he doing this to her? Was this a test? Was he pretending to scorn her so she would prove her love?

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, though he was gone. Tears again filled her eyes, spilled down her cheeks. “I love you, Altan. I’d do anything to make you love me. Anything.”

It was a grim and silent group that set forth the next day, and the weather mirrored their mood. They pressed onward, heading due north, following the advice of the birds that came to Jareth’s summons. Despite Altan’s best efforts at massage, Kevla ached all day as she tried to negotiate the
skelthas
with a body that was tight and stiff. She bit her lip when she wanted to hiss in pain, and said not a word of complaint.

Mylikki and Altan studiously avoided one another. Altan was hunched and miserable as they went, and Mylikki looked raw and broken. Jareth, of course, was as unreachable as ever. Kevla would not try again to engage him in intimate conversation. She knew what he had undergone, but she could not tell him that she knew. She wondered if he would ever be able to lower the walls he had built around himself like a fortress.

Around midmorning, the snow that had been threatening finally started to fall. They kept going. It did not lessen until after sunset, and it did nothing to brighten anyone’s mood.

Dinner—three small hares cut up and boiled in the pot—was eaten quickly and in silence. Neither player seemed to want to perform, and the
kyndelas
stayed carefully wrapped in their packs. At one point, the night cleared and the gods appeared in the skies. Everyone watched them without speaking. Kevla suspected they all found it so entertaining merely because it was something to do that did not emphasize the tension and unhappiness running rampant in the group.

Days passed in such a fashion. After a few days of heading steadily north, to where Jareth predicted they would find the
taaskali,
they finally ran out of supplies. From this point on, they would be forced to rely upon what the Dragon could provide and any creatures Jareth could summon. There was more than one day that passed with nothing to eat and only weak tea to warm bodies that grew increasingly vulnerable to the bite of the ceaseless cold. Mylikki frightened Kevla badly one morning when it took several minutes for the Flame Dancer to rouse her. Kevla could no longer bear to continue to listen to Jareth’s pain, spoken through the things of the earth. She wondered how he could. Neither did she have any patience left for the two younger ones and their might-be, might-not-be romance.

At one point, they had removed their
skelthas
and were moving single file through a tight tangle of trees. A sharp wind was blowing, and Kevla was glad for what little shelter the trees provided. Jareth had taken the lead and Kevla was behind him. She was looking down at her feet, negotiating the tricky roots, and ran right into him.

A retort was on her lips but it died there as she saw his face. For the first time since she had met him, there was a pleasure on his features. Beneath the bushy beard, his mouth curved in a smile. In his fabric-wrapped hands he held a piece of cloth and as she watched, he brought it to his face and inhaled deeply.

“I thought it was just a myth,” breathed Mylikki as she and Altan stepped forward.

“What is it?” Kevla asked.

In the gentlest voice Kevla had ever heard him use, Jareth said, “It is a
taaskali
blessing cloth. It’s woven from the fur of the
selva.
”

He held it out to its full length, and Kevla saw that it was about the size of a kerchief. The fabric seemed to glow as if lit from within, and she was unable to resist caressing it.

She murmured in pleasure. It was the softest thing she had ever touched. Not even the
khashima’s
bedsheets were this soft, this smooth between her fingers. And this was woven from the fur of a beast? It seemed almost impossible to contemplate.

“Smell it,” Jareth said. She looked at him sharply. He gestured. “Go on.”

She lifted the soft cloth to her nose and obeyed, thinking to smell a typical animal scent like wool or fur. Instead, her eyes widened. She inhaled no musky scent, but something sweet and clean and fresh, like grass, or fruit, or blossoms, or…

“It smells…it smells like spring,” she managed in a faint voice.

He nodded, then took the scrap of cloth and handed it to Mylikki and Altan. Kevla was shocked into silence, wondering how such a thing could be.

When Mylikki handed the cloth back to Jareth, he held it up so that the wind caught it. It snapped and danced.

“Listen.”

Silently they strained their ears, and then as a particularly brisk gust made the white, nearly radiant cloth flutter, she heard the sound. Like a
kyndela,
but not quite; like a sweet human voice, but more profound. Like nothing Kevla had ever heard, the song of the cloth filled her ears and made her skin prickle. Then, to her shock, Jareth let the cloth go. The wind caught it and bore it aloft to the blue sky.

“No!” she cried, startled by how painful the thought of never again touching this marvel was to her.

“It is not meant for keeping,” Jareth said. “The
taaskali
weave the blessing cloths during each season of the year, when the
selva
decide to stop moving for a time. They weave into its strands their songs and prayers and hopes, for themselves, the
selva
they protect, and all the peoples of Lamal. Then they release these cloths to the wind, to carry the blessings throughout the land.”

“I’ve never seen one before,” Mylikki whispered. Kevla looked at her, and for the first time in many days, Mylikki looked like the sweet, bright girl who had first chosen to accompany Kevla.

“Nor have I,” Altan said, his voice hushed with awe.

“I have,” Jareth said. “When I first discovered my abilities. I wanted so badly to keep it, but I knew what I was supposed to do. I had to let it go, so that it could continue to sing its blessings.”

“What happens to them?” Kevla asked.

Jareth shrugged, and at the gesture Kevla realized all over again just how broad his shoulders were. “It may get caught in a tree branch, and a bird might make a nest of it. Or it may fly until the wind rips it to tatters and the final song is sung. Whatever betide, it’s not for humans to keep.”

“You are wise indeed,” came a voice. “Had you kept it, you would never have found us.”

Kevla whirled.

They had materialized from nowhere, it seemed; now every tree she beheld seemed to have an archer behind it.

It was the
taaskali;
it could be no one else. They were smaller than the Lamali people, and Kevla now saw why everyone had first mistaken her for one of them. Their skin was as dark as hers, their hair, worn in various lengths and styles, a blue-black hue. Some of the men had long beards; others were clean-shaven. More than a few of those pointing the weapons at the little band were women. All of them looked deadly serious.

They wore garments that seemed to her to be made of the same shiny material as the cloth. Kevla wondered how they withstood the cold in such seemingly flimsy garb.

“I am Hanru. You are looking for us.” The voice, which sounded more like the wind in the trees than that of a human, belonged to a slender man who stepped forward, lowering his bow. “Which is a good thing, because we have been looking for you.”

They offered no further explanation. Hanru pointed wordlessly in the direction in which they had been traveling. Kevla and her companions exchanged glances. Jareth was the first to move; this was, after all, what he had been seeking. In stunned and slightly anxious silence, Kevla and her companions followed the
taaskali
out of the forest.

The
taaskali’s
feet never seemed to stumble as they touched lightly, then lifted off roots or earth. Kevla noted the boots on those clever feet, supple and smooth, apparently seamless; the clothing, the cloaks, all in that incredible shade of white that seemed to glow. Against their dark skins, the material seemed almost blindingly white. At one point, she stumbled and one of them was there to catch her before she fell.

The hand on her arm, warm and strong, was almost the same color as her own flesh, and she looked up into the first pair of brown eyes she had seen since arriving in this land. Even as this was familiar, it was strange; the
taaskali’s
face was rounder than the aquiline features of the Arukani, and her eyes were larger and seemed more deep-set. The woman who had caught her smiled slightly, in acknowledgment of their similarity, then moved on in lithe silence.

Finally, they emerged from the woods onto a flat plain that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. The snow, which Kevla had always thought so white, seemed dull and gray compared to the clothing of the
taaskali.
Kevla looked around, puffs of steam rising from her lips.

She had thought to be greeted by the sight of the
taaskali
camp, perhaps even catch a glimpse of the
selva.
But nothing met her gaze other than the wide expanse.

Kevla glanced at the others, who seemed as puzzled as she. She looked at the woman who had kept her from stumbling earlier and asked quietly, “Are we…here?”

The woman’s face slowly stretched into a grin. In a tongue that Kevla did not understand but that made her long to hear it spoken again, she called out to her companions. They all chuckled.

“Look again,” Hanru said, his strange accent caressing the words. “Look with soft eyes.”

Kevla understood what he meant. She looked out again at the white stretch of snow before her with the same slightly out of focus gaze she adopted when she scried into the fire.

She gasped at what she now beheld. What had at first seemed like snow clear to the horizon now resolved itself into various forms. She could make out tents and cloak-clad figures and—

“The
selva,
” she breathed.

How could she not have seen them earlier? They were enormous, striding calmly across the snow, pausing to dig at the white stuff with long, slender legs. They resembled
kirvi
deer, but only in the way a child’s sketch resembles the object he is attempting to capture.

They were much bigger than deer, and their coats were pure white and looked incredibly soft to the touch. Strong yet slender necks supported delicate heads crowned with branching golden antlers that gleamed as they caught the sunlight. Long, slim tails with tufts at the end swished lazily. She could not see what color their eyes were, but she knew they watched her carefully. The hooves with which the graceful creatures dug in the snow were as golden as their horns. Kevla felt a soft sigh escape her as she regarded them. She felt she could stand so and watch them until the end of time. No wonder these people were content to do nothing but tend to the creatures.

Beside her, Jareth stood as still as if he had turned to stone. His eyes were wide and he gazed at the
selva
as if stunned. Mylikki let out a soft, “Oh.”

“For nearly a thousand years, our people have tended them,” said Hanru. “They grace us with their milk and their soft wool, from which we weave our clothing and the blessing cloths. We follow them as they graze, keeping them safe from predators—of all kinds.”

“May…may we approach them?” Jareth’s voice, soft, awe-filled.

“If they permit you,” Hanru replied. “If they will not, leave them be.”

“Of course,” Kevla breathed. She walked slowly toward one of the beasts. She could not tell at once if it was male or female. While they resembled
kirvi
deer, the
selva
seemed to have at least one thing in common with the
liahs
of Kevla’s homeland in that both sexes had horns.

Step by step, feeling ungainly and graceless in the presence of such wondrous creatures, Kevla continued to approach. It lifted its great head from where it had been nibbling beneath the snow and regarded her calmly.

She almost forgot to breathe. Only a few steps away from the being, Kevla now saw that its eyes were gray, almost silver. Her heart was racing as she and the
selva
locked gazes.

Kevla felt—there was no other word to describe it—its willingness to let her approach and touch it. There was nothing so complex as words or even thought in the exchange, but Kevla understood it in her bones. Licking dry lips, she closed the short distance between them until she stood beside it. With a hand that trembled, Kevla reached out and touched thick, smooth fur.

And when the
selva
lowered its great head and nuzzled her cheek with its soft muzzle, Kevla felt something inside her shatter. She felt understood, accepted, welcomed…loved. She threw her arms around the slender neck and wept fiercely, her hot tears taken and absorbed by the soft, warm fur that smelled of spring blossoms and sunlight.