In Stone's Clasp (32 page)

She killed my family! She has perverted everything about being a Lorekeeper! She’s betrayed us both, Tiger!

You will not harm her!

Jareth began to scream incoherently. He fought against the Tiger, but he was mentally and physically exhausted and the enormous beast was far too strong for him. Jareth’s back was flat against the earth. He felt it, almost like a heart beating against his skin. He tried to send a command to the trees who held Altan prisoner, to tell them to rip him apart, but the Tiger’s blows distracted him and he was unable to concentrate.

Suddenly there was an eruption of fire. The trees holding Altan prisoner shuddered in pain, and Jareth felt it. He cried out, first with the pain of the fire, and then with the anguish of knowing that Ilta had escaped, that she would not have to pay for the evils she had done.

Suddenly the pressure that held him down was gone. Jareth struggled to get to hands and knees and tried to dig his fingers into the soil. A mighty cuff from the Tiger’s paw sent him reeling. Again he tried, and again the Tiger slapped him down.

Jareth lay in the mud, gasping for breath, the rage bleeding out of him leaving only ashy emptiness in its stead. He could feel Ilta’s footfalls growing fainter. She was making good her escape.

A shadow fell over him. “Jareth?” Kevla’s voice was filled with concern.

Blinking the mud out of his eyes, Jareth looked up. “Mylikki,” he muttered. “Altan…Ilta…took Mylikki.”

“I will find her,” the Dragon said quickly. “Stay with him, Kevla.”

Jareth let his head fall back into the mud and closed his eyes.

Kevla and the Tiger regarded Jareth. He was filthy. His body, now strong and healthy thanks to the rejuvenating power of the earth surging into him, was covered with mud. Seeing him sprawled in the mud, broken and gasping for air, was like seeing a mighty
simmar
brought low.

The Tiger spoke in a soft voice. “I blame myself. I did not know—I could not sense it….”

“Sense what?”

The Tiger sighed. “The body of Altan housed two souls—Altan’s, and that of the sister who died in the womb. The sister, Ilta, was Jareth’s Lorekeeper. His soul. It was she who killed Jareth’s family, using Altan’s body.”

The words horrified Kevla. “His own Lorekeeper did this?” she whispered.

The Tiger nodded her blue head. “She was in league with the Emperor, who had promised her Jareth. Poor Altan knew nothing of any of this.”

“It all makes sense now,” Kevla said quietly. “Altan’s dark moods and unkind words to Mylikki…It wasn’t Altan doing or saying those things at all, was it? It was Ilta.”

“His Lorekeeper. His soul. I should have known something was wrong when neither Jareth nor I could sense her. In the same way the Emperor was able to use the Maiden to block Jareth’s powers, he hid Ilta from our sensing. The
selva
knew, when they were in their animal form.”

“Why didn’t they tell us when Jareth restored them?”

“When the Lorekeepers were
selva,
they were under an enchantment. When Jareth freed them from that enchantment, they remembered nothing of what transpired while they were under the spell. The Emperor is a very clever and dangerous enemy.”

Kevla’s shock at beholding Jareth brought so low was fading, replaced by a deep compassion. She had been the death of her own Lorekeeper, and while the pain had been mitigated, it would never go away entirely. She would bear that scar forever. But Jashemi had never, would never, have betrayed her in this manner. And she had to wonder—if Jareth’s soul was so dark, so twisted…what would that eventually mean for the Stone Dancer?

Slowly, Jareth tried to sit up. The Tiger, who had been sitting quietly beside him, got to her feet expectantly. Jareth shot her a hostile look, and the Tiger flicked an ear.

“Kevla, stay with him if you would.” The Tiger’s voice was tinged with sorrow. “I doubt if he would appreciate my company now.”

I doubt he’ll appreciate mine,
Kevla thought, but she nodded. The Tiger walked away, moving with the graceful, undulating gait common to all cats, small, large, or Companions.

Jareth buried his face in his hands. Kevla sat quietly beside him.

Finally, Jareth spoke. “You heard,” he said dully.

Kevla nodded, gnawing her lower lip. “Yes. I heard.”

He fell silent again. “All this time, I thought it was my fault,” he said after a long pause. “That if I had been able to bring spring, they would be alive. Taya, my Taya, my beautiful girl Annu. And my little boy, just a few weeks old.”

His eyes started to glisten as they stared into the distance, seeing something that wasn’t there. Kevla tensed.

“I adored that woman,” he said in a thick voice. “She was…great-hearted. And wise. Taya knew exactly how to handle me. And the last time I saw her, I—
gods!
”

The word was ripped from him, raw and broken and bleeding with pain. “I said things to her that I never—I didn’t mean them, I didn’t mean them at all, I was just hurt and frustrated and angry and so helpless…but that was the last thing I said to her. I never got to tell her I was sorry. I never got to hold her one last time, to tell her how very much I—”

The tears welled up in his eyes, spilled forth. To Kevla’s horror, she saw that they did not trickle steadily down his cheeks, but got lost in the wrinkles around his eyes.
He has never wept for his family…and it has been so long, the tears don’t even know where to go—

For the third time, Kevla folded Jareth into her arms. His physical survival was not at stake, nor was she carried away by the passion a wildly awakening earth had sent racing through her. She was filled with soft, quiet, deep compassion, and a strong need to do what she could to ease the hurt.

She had a brief flash of memory—she and Jashemi stealing precious time alone in the caverns at the House of Four Waters. He was home from his first battle, sick with the poison of the horrors of war and the painful loss of his own innocence. She had gone to him then, despite her fear of impropriety, taking all the hurt and shock and angry grief into her soft, healing flesh, and now she went to Jareth with the same wide-open heart.

She eased his head down against her breast and enfolded his large frame as best she could. He clutched her desperately, and he shook with sobs.

“Taya, Taya, my sweet Annu, Parvan, Altan…Forgive me. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Jareth’s hot, healing tears were wet against her skin. Kevla ran her fingers gently through his muddy, tangled hair and murmured soft words that had no meaning, yet meant everything.

Weep,
she urged him in her mind, her own eyes filling with empathetic tears.
Weep, and be healed.

And when at last Jareth’s grief had run its course, Kevla held him to her as they eased onto the soft, welcoming earth, and he fell asleep in the warm circle of her arms.

Kevla awoke to the sound of a bird’s song. It was sweet, musical, merry, and she felt a smile stretch her face.
It is almost as sweet as Altan’s and Mylikki’s voices,
she thought sleepily. The smile faded as memory came back to her.

She sat up and discovered she was leaning against the warm strength of the slumbering Dragon. The trees rustled in a soft breeze. Spring had come again to the land, but the pleasure she felt in its coming had been tempered by the revelations about Altan and Ilta.

Kevla got to her feet, wincing. She had slipped on the ice many times yesterday and her body had not forgotten. She stepped around the Dragon’s large, red side, to where his head rested. There, she smiled, relieved. Snuggled tightly against the Dragon’s cheek, sound asleep, was Mylikki.

Kevla moved carefully so as not to awaken the slumbering girl. There was plenty of time to ask her what had happened later, and to give her some good, solid food.

But where was Jareth? Sudden panic flowed through her. She had held him while he wept for the deaths of his family, something he had not done since the tragedy, and she had a dim memory of falling asleep, their limbs tangled together. But now he was nowhere to be found, nor was the Tiger.

She wanted to call for him, but dreaded waking Mylikki. Even awakening the Dragon might disturb the girl, nestled against his cheek as she was.

Kevla decided she would scout around. The earth was still soft from the melting snows, and it was not difficult for her to pick up tracks of both man and giant cat. She followed them as they led her out of the meadow and into the fringes of the forest. She heard a strange sound, a sort of soft roaring, and quickened her pace as she moved toward the noise.

She came upon the little spring so suddenly she almost fell into it. This, then, was the sound—water rushing from a higher point over stones and into a small pool. Quickly, Kevla stepped back into the shadows of the tree.

Jareth was bathing in the icy coldness of the spring. He had rinsed his clothes, stiff with the mud and blood and sweat from months of wear, and they were drying on a broad, flat rock. His back was to her, and she saw that he was using his knife to trim his long, wild hair.

She was intruding on a private moment. She knew she should draw back, and yet she lingered, watching the play of muscle in his back and arms, his skin so pale in the dappled sunlight. Kevla had always admired the many statues that decorated the lavish garden of the House of Four Waters. Jareth could have posed for such statues, and Kevla simply found herself unable to look away from such a combination of beauty and strength.

A low rumble greeted her ears and she dragged her eyes away from Jareth to see the Tiger regarding her steadily. She was lounging on a rock, a cat enjoying the sun, and she looked at Kevla with a knowing gaze. Kevla blushed, and as she turned to hasten away, she thought she saw the great Tiger wink.

Jareth completed his ablutions and climbed atop a sun-warmed rock. The water’s iciness was cleansing and refreshing, but he welcomed the warmth of the stone against his skin. He turned his face up to the sun, letting its rays caress him, and thought about Ilta. Somehow he knew it wasn’t over between them. One day, they would meet again, and he had no idea how he would react upon seeing the Lorekeeper who had done such evil things. But at least that day was not today.

He reached for the pouch that lay atop his drying clothes and opened it. One by one he removed the items, laying them out in a row.

He picked up the small packet of precious soil, emptying it into his palm, and let it speak to him one last time.

Earth am I, soil and sand, ever-changing and ever the same….

He listened to it narrate how he had first become the Spring-Bringer, then, taking a deep breath, turned over his hand, opened his fingers, and let the dirt fall into the water.

Other items followed; a stone, a leaf, the handful of dirt from the floor of his home that had so recently imparted such dreadful tidings. At last, there was only one item left. As he held it gently, its withered leaves and petals undulated and danced, reviving and brimming again with life.

Wildflower am I, stem and petal and leaf still here though torn from my roots, brief lived but beautiful….

Tears spilled down his cheeks as the flower spoke to him of love. He heaved no racking sobs, not this time; the tears came as naturally as summer rain or melting snow, and the pain, though deep, was also tinged with sweetness. He suspected this was not the last time he would weep for his lost family, and realized that it was all right.

He trailed the flower across his wet face as his wife had done years before. “Taya,” Jareth said, aloud, as if the flower could carry the words to the one who needed to hear them, “I don’t need this flower to remember you. I didn’t want to believe you were gone, but you are. I have to face that. You and Annu and Parvan….”

A sudden memory came to him of a boy holding on to a white piece of fabric that glowed like the moon and smelled of summer. He had wanted to keep the blessing cloth for himself, but even then at the young age of thirteen, he had understood.

It just wasn’t meant for keeping,
he had told Larr.
I can’t explain it any better than that.

Nor could he explain it now. But he knew what he had to do. Ilta, the Ice Maiden—they had clung on to something long after it was time to let go. And they had caused so much damage, not least to themselves, in that struggle to hang on.

I had to let it go.

Jareth pressed the flower to his lips, then opened his fingers and watched it fall into the swiftly moving water. He followed it with his gaze as the current took it, swirling it around the jutting tops of stones and bearing it farther and farther away until his tear-filled eyes could no longer see it.

“Goodbye, my love,” he whispered softly.

Mylikki and the Dragon were awake when Kevla returned. The girl had already finished skinning the hares that either the Tiger or the Dragon had caught to break their fasts, and looked up.

“There are wild herbs growing everywhere,” Mylikki said. “We will have a feast.”

She smiled, but Kevla saw past the brave expression to the hurt and almost unspeakable weariness in Mylikki’s blue eyes. The girl had seemed so very young to Kevla when they first set out; now, she seemed to have aged years.

Kevla went to her and hugged her. Mylikki was stiff in her embrace at first, then returned the embrace. When Kevla drew back, both women had tears in their eyes.

“You are so brave, Mylikki,” Kevla said.

Mylikki shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

The hares were fresh and cooked quickly, and both women were famished. They put some aside for Jareth, and ate hungrily.

A thought occurred to Kevla. “Dragon, what of the men? And the Lorekeepers?”

“We have been busy while you and Jareth…recovered,” the Dragon said, phrasing things tactfully. “The men have no memories of their months with the Ice Maiden, and they all want to go home. The Lorekeepers, of course, have no homes. All the men of the various villages have offered their own to the Lorekeepers. Soon families will be reunited, and Lamal will finally have part of its history returned to it.”

Kevla thought back to the surprise the Ice Maiden had expressed at the inherent decency of the human heart, male or female. But she was not at all surprised.

When they had finished eating, Kevla said to Mylikki, “Can you tell me what happened?”

Mylikki sighed. Then she nodded. “You should know,” she said quietly. She spoke in a low voice of manifesting in the Ice Maiden’s realm, of how Altan appeared to her as female. How he—she—had struck Mylikki, tied her to a tree, and left her there.

“She gave me something to drink that would drug me, so I wouldn’t feel the cold,” Mylikki said. Meeting Kevla’s eyes, she said with pride, “I didn’t drink it.”

Kevla thought of what the earth had said to Jareth. Ilta had drugged Taya and Annu before opening the windows and doors so they would freeze to death. A shiver ran down her spine as she realized how narrowly Mylikki had escaped.

“I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through,” she said.

Mylikki shrugged. “There’s one thing that I hold on to, through all of this madness,” she said. “And that’s the fact that Altan loved me. Ilta said so. That’s why she had to kill me. Because Altan would have fought her to stay with me—”

Tears started in her eyes but she angrily wiped them away. “What happened to Altan? Do you know?”

Kevla shook her head. “No. We only know that Ilta is in control of his body. Whether he’s dead or just…trapped somewhere inside, I do not know.” She hesitated, then said, “Mylikki, would you like to come with us?”

Mylikki shook her head. “No,” she said. “There’s much for me to do here. I’d like to help the Lorekeepers find their new homes, help the men find their families.”

Kevla now realized why the Lorekeepers in their
selva
forms had not chosen Mylikki that night that seemed so long ago now. The
selva
had selected Kevla and Jareth because they were Dancers, and Altan because his body housed Ilta, Jareth’s Lorekeeper. Beautiful and special as she was, Mylikki was merely a human, and they did not need to speak with her. She wondered what they had told Ilta.

“I don’t think I’m cut out for adventures, Kevla. I think I’ll be happiest in my own little village, singing about adventures by a fireside instead of living them.”

“I will miss you,” Kevla said honestly, “but I understand. I do not think I would be on this…adventure…if I did not need to be.”

“The Lorekeepers and the Maiden’s former captives will appreciate your presence, Mylikki,” the Dragon said. “You are kind to think of them. It will not be a long journey, as a Dragon flies. Whenever you are ready, I will bear you to them.”

“Now, I think,” said Mylikki, startling Kevla. Both women got to their feet.

“Do you not want to say farewell to Jareth?” Kevla asked. She realized she was not ready for Mylikki to go.

“No,” Mylikki said. “All I’d do is remind him of Altan. Goodbye, Kevla. There were…there were parts of all of this that were good.”

Kevla hugged her tightly. “Goodbye, Mylikki. Please give my best to your family.”

“I will.” Mylikki climbed aboard the Dragon with ease and familiarity. Kevla was vividly reminded of the first time Mylikki had scrambled atop that broad, red back; how fearful she had been, and how much courage it had taken to conquer that fear.

As the Dragon gathered himself, Mylikki called down with a hint of a smile, “Good luck on your journey, Kevla. Rest assured that there will be songs sung about you here in Lamal!”

Kevla waved as the Dragon rose into the air, her hair and
rhia
blowing in the wind created by the beating of his enormous, leathery wings. She watched as the Dragon hovered for a moment, then elongated his neck and tail, banked to the right, and flew off into the distance.

For a moment, Kevla simply stood, thinking about all that had happened. So much, in so short a time. It was hard to believe it was all over, and the next “adventure,” as Mylikki and Altan would have put it, would soon begin. Finally, sighing, she began to pack.

A soft brush of warm fur along her legs alerted her to the Tiger’s presence. Smiling, she reached to scratch the ears of the big cat. She turned to greet Jareth, for she knew he would be with his Companion, but startlement stilled the friendly words.

Jareth was almost unrecognizable. His hair, cut now to shoulder length, and body had been scrubbed clean. His face was shaven, and for the first time Kevla saw the high cheekbones and strong jaw that had been hidden by his scraggly beard. His clothes were clean, if still damp and wrinkled, but most important, his eyes were clear and focused.

“There you are,” she said, and he smiled a little. He could not know what she was really saying. For here he was indeed—the Stone Dancer with the blue Tiger at his feet, as she had seen him in her visions. As Jashemi had seen him. A man with a good face, a kind face with laugh lines around the eyes and mouth, but who had clearly been through a great deal. This was the man she had imagined meeting, when she first entered this northerly realm. This was the man to whom she had thought to hand over her burdens.

Now she realized that while Jareth had accepted his destiny, there were some burdens he wasn’t supposed to carry, that were still hers and always would be. But for the first time, the thought didn’t distress her. Kevla knew that both she and Jareth Vasalen would be able to endure whatever they needed to. Fire and Earth, Flame and Stone. Strong and powerful; battered, both of them, but not broken.

As she gazed at him, she realized how dirty she herself was. “I think I need to clean up a bit, too,” she said.

“There’s a spring right over there,” Jareth said, reaching for the cooling haunch of rabbit they had saved for him. “Where’s Mylikki?”

“The Dragon is taking her to help the men and the Lorekeepers,” Kevla said. “She didn’t want to come with us.”

A shadow passed over Jareth’s features. “I don’t suppose she would,” he said. “She’s been through a great deal. If I could stay, I would.”

“As would I,” Kevla said. “The Dragon will not be long. I am aching for a bath.”

Kevla relished the feel of the water against her skin as she bathed. She had not realized she was quite so dirty. Little half-moons of grime were caked under her finger- and toenails, and she scrubbed at them diligently until her skin finally felt clean, if rubbed slightly raw in the process. She spied a cut piece of some kind of root lying on a rock, and when she picked it up, it lathered in her hand. Jareth had obviously used this for soap, and she eagerly did the same. She washed her long, thick hair, until it gleamed in the sunlight, and braided it while it was still wet. Emerging from the spring, she conjured fire in her palm, and from it wove a fresh red
rhia.