THE LETTERSEEKER

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

            Sated, the Dreadworm of Urtri laxed his unholy embrace. Iron-hard coils withdrew. When Maegeth Crowhair felt his touch no longer, the creature seemed to vanish. Bereft of sight in Arem-Deep, Maegeth knew body in no way save the tactile. This, she found, gave no assurance of extension in space—was there space about her?—but instead collapsed (so unredeemable was this dark!) into unextended feeling. Vision, it seemed, was the other face of matter, and the two had fled together.

            Indeed, without those profound caressings that had come upon her whether she willed them or not and had by touch defined her body for her in the Trackless Night, she would have dwindled, perhaps, to a final isolation. But though the creature left her now, she was not alone—never alone again! For she had drunk full draught of that fierce communion whose cup was filled with the Black Flame. Nay—not alone. A fire of alien form now burned within her womb: intolerable heat of dragonsperm that would have consumed her entirely, immortal though she was, save for the Cool of Arem wherein frailties of substance are eased.

            And while she gasped, knowing what she knew—herself, maiden impregnate!—the Dreadworm (whose seed she by a supreme effort nurtured and did not expel) itself underwent a transformation. By the pattern of his kind, with his first seedspilling his adolescence ended. He grew, shedding the soft sheaths of youth. His Days of Might were at hand!

            Pleased by these consummations, Urtri sent to him his passage-gift: It was that True Name by which She had fashioned him and knowing which he might achieve full self-mastery and power.

            Shlarrth he was, 'Grief' in the secret tongue of Arem.

            Maegeth did not hear this intimacy; but in the waxing of her new knowledge she guessed something of what had transpired, so when she felt him drawing near again by his fetid breath upon her cheek, she said:

            “Now, thing of night, I Maegeth, Warrior-Queen, have granted you my favor. Tell me then how I shall call you, that I may command you.”

            To deception are dragons born, this one no less than others. Shlarrth let Maegeth believe she had the mastery.

            “Rillqath hight I, Lord of the Black Flame. What now art thy commands, Maegeth-Queen?”

            Maegeth knew what she wanted: revenge—obliteration of that wizardous meddler who had caused the death of her bears. Yes, slow and horrible death for the scarface! And she would take from him the Nailshard, having Rillqath dissolve it to the last fiber in his fiery exhalation.

            This she commanded. But Shlarrth spoke at odds to her design.

            “She whom we serve has told me thus, O Queen: We may not at present enter the Broad Lands where thine enemy yet skulks, for the greatness of my form and the power of my flame require a gate attuned—a dragongate. No such stands there now, all having been cast down of old by Artil the cursed at the battle of Esling Vale when Grimbane my kin was slain and all his brood of wormlings with him.”

            “What? She says we cannot return?”

            “Not to the Broad Lands, no.”

            “But She opened a door, She brought me here! Can She not reverse this feat?”

            “A small door, that cost Her effort, for She was opposed. The Nail has been weakened (by thy daring!) but still it resists- -most strongly in the land where thine enemy has regained it.”

            “I scorched it! I burned it! It is half gone! Cannot Urtri overcome it now? Where is Her strength?”

            “Great is Her strength. Doubt it not! With it She forced that entrance, brought thee here. With it She gave me being and will send me forth with thee to do thy will. And with it She will bring about the defeat of the one thou hatest—for though we may not enter the Broad Lands now, She has other means. Many in Erta there are who would be her servants. Those who have forgotten her, She now reminds. By the weakening of The Nail the shadows in their souls once again admit the Image Nameless. Thine enemy walks now in constant peril. Thy revenge will be well achieved.”

            “What, then, is my value?” Maegeth spat. “Am I discarded? Have I—I, who blunted The Nail for Asli-Trrgja—become a tub for breeding worms, useful only as a spawning-ground? No! It will not be thus!”

            Shlarrth cast upon her a dragonsmile, beguiling and diverting, by which even deep humiliation might seem to taste of triumph. Maegeth felt it even in the dark, and it attracted her, stirred her newfound lust.

            She held back from it, for in their embrace just past she had found new strength of her own, and knowledge, and by it she began to distrust Rillqath. His tongue, perhaps, was as coiling as his tail. Yet his next speech seemed naive enough.

            “The breeding of dragons is beyond thy nature, immortal mistress—do not wish for it! My seed in thee, however pleasurably sent, must fall fallow, though thou hast honored me, and aided me, in milking it! Doubt not that I shall serve thee well in return.”

            “I doubt not that you will serve me, worm,” said Maegeth. “But what does Urtri plan, if we cannot attack the Bodla in the Broad Lands?”

            “In the far south of the Narrow Lands there is yet a dragongate. It is worn by the ages, but intact. This gate stands upon the Deathmote whereat of old the dragons ranged and bred, and blackened stone. There I will bear thee—”

            “If I command it, you shall,” said Maegeth. And now it was she who laughed within.

            Fool of a worm, I am more than you guess! I may not birth your dragonlet, but neither have I let die that precious seed. Nay, I nurture it and mold it to my making. Think you I would give myself for nothing?

            But Shlarrth, not perceiving her mind, replied: “Then so command it! For it is Urtri's will that we undertake an errand in the Narrow Lands.”

            “She tells you this? What errand?”

            “The Stoneshield there lies unwatched save for few beasts, weaker than myself, who roam its lofty plain. Urtri commands us to blast the stones and seek to melt the inner chamber.”

            “That task is to my liking,” replied Maegeth. “But if The Nail still holds—”

            “It holds, but it is doubly sapped. By the foolish braggarty of Berainn, which leadeth him to challenge Her at intervals, it is absent from its fortress where its power waxeth; and by thee it has been burnt. Berainn will rue this latest challenge! The dragongate is distant from the softened Nail and may be opened for a trice: enough! If we pass through and achieve the Stoneshield's ruin before the shard can be returned, the bolting will be broken. Then She may enter and thou shalt come into the dominion She promised you of old.”

            “Well then, Rillqath: Here in this black void you are Her emissary, and I doubt not that She commands as you say, for you would not dare speak awry in such a matter. But when we return to Erta forget not that I am your overseer, for know that the pact of old, of which you speak, grants me queenship of the Narrow Lands for as long as they endure, and knowledge second only to that of Asli-Trrgja Herself.”

            “Even now you rule me, Queen of Wisdom—and for as long as the Land endures.”

            “Kneel then, beast, that I may mount.”

* * *

            Gretta shivered. The sun did not penetrate the cleft of Meiush-Srrnyo save at noontide, and where she stood on the sloping bows of the Ashgar a chill breath, telling of ice ahead, made little of her woolens. All was silent except for the periodic cries of the sailor beside her calling back to Ferenth the depth, casting the line again and again into the black water.

            The breeze opposed them, but though cold it was gentle. The oars, aided by inflowing tide, took them smoothly south between looming fells. Ferenth had ordered the sails unbent to reduce drag. The two long lateen yards, upon fresh twin poles from the slopes of Barallas, oscillated with a steady rattle like rib-bones hung on a string to dry. Skeleton-grey in the gloom the ship glided along.

            “No bottom!”

            Never yet had the lead line, though it reached fathoms beneath the keel, found a limit in Meiush-Srrnyo. The fjord was beyond sounding, Garufel had said. But wary Ferenth set the call, for he did not venture strange waters cautionless. And by his prudence those below, oarsmen and soldiers, felt comforted, since, hearing the test, they knew their way was safe.

            Then a different cold crept over Gretta—this from behind. She stiffened and drew in her breath. She knew without looking what it was. It had happened with increasing frequency ever since they had entered the fjord. She turned her head. Behind her, 'midships, stood Thierknut the darkhaired prince.

            It was he whose life she had saved by her arrow at Rivermouth. In the first days after that he had been princely-solicitous and kind. But later a change took place. May be, lust perturbed him. Or memory of childhood-past, when he and she had been at odds over somesuch. But she did not like this gazing, or the sour smile with which he now regarded her.

            Her chin rose and she turned away, drawing her woolens closer about her, for it seemed he wished rather to remove them.

            “No bottom!” came the cry again.

            There were soft footsteps behind, and she whirled. But it was not Thierknut. Flarann approached, carrying the fur shawl she had left in the great-cabin.

            “Take this, my Lady,” he said kindly, setting it upon her shoulders. “The air grows colder. Garufel says we near the east- turn, and there will be ice.”

            Gretta smiled.

            “Thank you, Flarann. But, Flarann—” she lowered her voice, “—saw you not Thierknut as you passed? Was he not peering at me strangely?”

            “Strangely, Lady?”

            “Flarann, these cold waters, I think, do not sit well upon the prince's mood. Lately I seem to find him mocking me, or worse, with his eyes.”

            “Perhaps he looks to you for the sunshine he has lost. His style is not my own, that I must affirm; but he is a valiant man and a king's son. Surely he has manners enough not to mock a princess.”

            “Perhaps. This dull chasm does oppress the spirit. And I have not been over-kind to him in the past.”

            “He would be dead now, Lady, but for you.”

            “Aye, but I speak of earlier times than that. Well, no matter. I will take your warrant for now. But king's son or not I have never been comfortable with him—do not repeat that, Flarann.”

            “Never. But I would ease your discomfort. Need I tell you that I watch over your safety?”

            Gretta took Flarann's hand in her own and pressed it gently.

            “No, Flarann. I know it.”

            “No bot—'Ware now! 'Ware now! Bergs ahead!”

            Gretta released Flarann's hand. They both looked forward. The fjord walls were opening as the Ashgar nosed into a small triangular lake. A distance ahead to port a rounded lump of ice wallowed like the white bald head of a sea-troll submerged to his brows. Behind them Ferenth shouted a command. The oar stroke altered and the Ashgar swerved carefully to starboard. Slowly the berg drifted sternward as they passed it. Then there was a rumbling sound and the light turned gloomier than before.

            Lifting her gaze Gretta widened her eyes in wonder.

            “Look, Flarann!”

            Ahead and above, seeming to glower at them from beyond the cliffs, a mountain rose lopsided, its top missing. The summit was a dipping ridge of broken points like an upthrust claw, and from its grasp rags of flame flew skyward now and then amid a soot smudge that drifted lazily north, filtering the already-pale sunlight.

            “A mountain flaming!” said Flarann. “It is an awesome sight. The Falling Mountains, they say, both shake and burn. Here we have both, I think, for this peak has surely shaken itself to ruin.”

            “Let us see what this betides,” said Gretta. She turned and made her way to the stern. Flarann followed close behind.

            The prince had left his 'midships post and stood with Ferenth, who had been joined also by Driek, Thierknut's lieutenant, and mighty Garufel.

            The wizard wore a great-cloak of yellow fur broidered in gold. His booted legs were no longer bare after his fashion in the woods, but cased-leathern. He had outfitted himself by his own skill during the sea passage, using materials of the hunters. The cloak was aback over a shoulder, letting his longsword hang free. His hand rested upon the hilts, warming the amber cabochon set therein.

            Gretta smiled upon him as she drew near; and her copper locks seemed grateful to bask in the wizard's radiant aspect. Despite the cleft-gloom, they shone lively now where they fell in ringlets about her shawl.

            “What is this fiery sight, Garufel?” she said.

            “It is Zoak-tschut, Lady Princess. The northernmost of the volcanoes that ornament the Falling Mountains like a string of thunderbeads. There are twelve in all, and others are mightier. We have come to the fork of the sea cleft, which this hot mass overbroods.”

            “What manner of tongue speaks `Zoak-Tschut,' wizard?” asked Prince Thierknut, curling his lip about the strange phrase. “Much I have traveled, though ne'er north. Yet where I have been I have not heard such sharp syllables said by any man.”

            “Sharp they are, Red Prince, for they must pass through sharp teeth,” said Garufel. “It is the speech of the great beasts that guard the Stonemote and roam these charred hills. You will see them shortly and may hear more acrid names than this from them, if you will.”

            “I will not, if it be my choice,” the prince retorted. “He that speaks with beasts may turn beast himself.”

            “Ho, ho!” laughed the wizard, clapping Thierknut a friendly blow upon his shoulder (but one that near-toppled him). “Reckon you not, then, this 'beast' that stands beside you? For you have had discourse with me time and again upon this journey.”

            “No offense, Loremaster,” said Thierknut, recovering, “I meant only that in the kingdom of Mog we meet no feral speech save that of the wold-wolves, and them we slay ere they come close enough for conversation.”

            Flarann's eyes took on a red gleam. “It is different with the huntsmen, valiant prince,” he said. “Wolves we seldom slay, but honor. Some even count us kindred to the wolves of the Narrow Woods, though I think this means a kinship in spirit only.”

            Thierknut touched his mustache. “Aye, well I believe it, for you fought wolflike at Mim's mouth, give you credit for it! And your women—be they she-wolves also?”

            The prince was looking at Gretta.

            Before Flarann could frame an answer to this mixed compliment, Ferenth gave a shout. The oars raised and held, while the captain put his weight behind the sweep and thrust it to starboard. The Ashgar responded swiftly, veering in a long arc to port until the bow faced east and the flaming peak sat upon their right. The ship surged ahead as the rowers resumed their beat. Now all could see the new channel that slashed east-away through a thin gap in the fells at the apex of the three-cornered lake. As they stood out from the western face a light fell over them from behind. Gretta glanced aft, away from the prince's smooth insinuation.

            There the sun, though past noon and drooping west, seemed to undertake a second rising as the motion of the ship hove it into view. It was a white disc behind the soot cloud, and it cast a hard metallic sheen on the water. Prince Thierknut's face grew ghastly pale in the wintry rays. Ahead, two drifting pointed bergs took on an aspect of roughcut crystal; then each seemed to have a heart of fire, for Zoak-Tschut that moment threw forth a red-rimmed gasp that the ice mimicked upon its facets. The mountain's rumble swelled, as though to set the lake a-tremble.

            “No bottom!” cried the bow-watch, and he set his line again.

* * *

            Dohan settled the matter after dinner. Liesa would sail in the Pride with Trask and Stoneglow, but sleep in the Rose at anchor. Two safe anchorages, a day apart, lay on the route to Esti: there they would be at night. Lieth agreed to this and Liesa also. In the morning then Liesa came to the Pride with Trask, and at about the same time yulet, who had flown ashore during the night, returned and went to his place upon the pack in the cabin.

            The two boats stole silently seaward while the morningstar held the sky like a white flower tossed upon grey velvet. The wind being westerly and fair, Dohan led them on a broad reach until they were about three miles offshore. Then they turned together into the gathering dawn and, sails bellied and booms well slacked off, sped toward the sun.

            Dohan expected to shorten sail to match the smaller boat's pace; but as the day wore on he was surprised to find the Pride holding her own, keeping position off his starboard quarter.

            “Wait 'til the wind increases, Lord Stoneglow,” said Trask. “Then we might pull ahead!” But Stoneglow doubted this.

            An opportunity to test Trask's confidence in the Pride came not long after noon. The land was obscured in a white haze but otherwise the sky was clear and the sun bright. Gradually the wind rose until small whitecaps marched about beneath the gusts. Then Dohan dropped his gaff a little, shortening sail, and Trask, seeing his chance, snugged up the mainsheet and changed course, drawing the two boats closer together. He aimed at blanketing the Rose's air, slowing her enough to let them pass.

            Lieth saw what was happening and called to Dohan to let him hoist the gaff again. Dohan, coming on deck, took in the situation, smiled, and let Lieth do as he wished. With the sail spread full again the Rose picked up speed just as the Pride came alongside. Liesa, seated on the Pride's foredeck, waved and called out to her father and twin brother. The boats ran neck and neck for a while. Then the Rose pulled ahead. Trask adjusted the sheets again and again, but it did not help. They continued to lose ground.

            “Come on, Pride,” shouted Trask.

            Pride, Pride— the name echoed in Stoneglow's mind. He recalled his own frantic invocation on the night he had been blown ashore. The boat had responded to him then. He shut his eyes but kept his ears alert to the sounds of wind and sea. After a while he began to whisper to the vessel, letting the words shape themselves in accord not with his will alone but with the myriad of forces that swirled about them.

            Some of the words came in languages he knew; but as he let himself slip closer to that place where the personality of the supplicant may at last become the will of the elements that otherwise would continue their random play, sounds grew in his throat that were not of conscious origin; and Itu in his beast-sleep dreamed then strange dreams of winds and currents and sleek swift fish.

            Suddenly the Pride heeled sharply. The wind turned more to the south. Trask hauled like mad on the mainsheet, making the little boat take the bone even more tightly in her teeth. Liesa came back into the cockpit to avoid the spray and help Trask handle the sweep.

            Stoneglow felt the change but he left his eyes closed. He was clinging hard to the starboard gunwale, his mind deep into a place of sounds and movements: It seemed to him that he could almost hear Pride herself, singing. Then at last she came to him within his trance, an ivory- skinned woman with a yellow gown and sea-blue hair.

He seized her hand in his. The hills about, covered by long slender blades of shadowy grass that bent and recovered rhythmically in a spice-laden breeze, descended always, and he led her in a singing dance down the valleys, always on the quickest and easiest slopes— until she began to giggle gaily and then to laugh at their breathless speed...

            A hand grasped his shoulder. “Stoneglow!”

            His eyes opened. He thought he saw the wavewoman's yellow dress whirl before him a moment longer, but it was Liesa's hair flying about her face as she struggled to control it in the wind.

            “What, Liesa?” he said thickly.

            “See, we outrace Dohan,” she replied.

            Behind her Trask was grinning broadly. Pride was racing at a perilous angle; foam threatened to breast the lee rail. The new leeboard bit deep. They were ahead of the Rose, widening the gap with each swell. Across the spray-filled gap Stoneglow could see Lieth's determined but frustrated expression. Nothing Lieth could do with the Rose seemed to help. The little boat ahead, though scarcely two-thirds Rose's length, was showing them her heels.

            Then Dohan, who looked merely astonished, said something to Lieth and took the helm himself. A few moments later their gaff dropped again.

            “Ha, ha,” laughed Trask in triumph. “They surrender!”

            “We surrender too, Trask,” said Stoneglow. “Ease off. We have proven our point.”

            Secretly though he spoke again under his breath. Pride heard him and agreed. As a fledgling first stretching its untried wings, the boat had wakened to its potential, its limits, its proper balance. There was need to press them now. So she slowed as Trask luffed. And Trask was smiling all the more deeply now, for it was the first time Lord Stoneglow Threescar had given him a direct command.

            The seas and wind relaxed their optimal relationship to the hull that had driven the vessel forward at such an amazing clip. As the speed dropped the Rose drew alongside. For the remainder of the day, the two boats stayed together. And never after that was the Pride bested by the Rose, or by any other craft of like form and length.