In Stone's Clasp (2 page)

“We have failed,” the Stone Dancer whispered.

She and her Lorekeeper, her soul, her beloved in this life and others, stood hand in hand on the shore and watched the Shadow come.

“We didn’t even have a chance to fight!” Her voice was raw with pain and disbelief. She turned large brown eyes to him, as if he could somehow change what was about to unfold. “We didn’t even….”

Her gaze drifted back to the obliteration that was slowly, inexorably approaching. The Lorekeeper folded her into his arms, equally unable to tear his gaze away from the pulsing gray Shadow as it closed in upon them, this island, this world.

Although she was the one with the ability to harness the power of the earth, of stone and soil and growing things, he had been her guide, her protector, her comforter. He had been blessed with the knowledge of all that had gone before. Older than she by more than a few years, he had known her from birth. He had been the one to train her. Since he remembered what she was capable of in past existences, he comprehended the scope of her powers better than she herself did. And during the years of training, he had fallen in love despite himself with this steady, tender, graceful girl who would one day help save their world.

He tasted bitterness in his throat.
Save their world.
No, not save it. Watch helplessly, unable to do anything, as nothingness marched steadily onward, prepared to engulf and erase them as if they had never been. How futile now seemed the discussions they had had, late at night by the fire. They had worried about how she would leave the island, where they would go, how they would find the other Dancers. What a waste of finite time those conversations had been. He wanted those lost hours back. He would spend them making love to this girl, telling her how precious she was to him.

They both knew what had happened. Somewhere, far away from this tranquil, white sand beach, this calm place of sea and sun, a Dancer had died.

The Lorekeeper found himself wondering with a macabre sense of curiosity which one it had been. Sea? Wind? Soul? Flame? How he—or she—had died. How old that ill-fated Dancer had been.

In the sheltering circle of the Lorekeeper’s arms, the Stone Dancer shivered, though the sun was yet warm on their bronze skins.

“It’s so unfair!” she cried, and despite himself, the Lorekeeper smiled at her outburst. She had barely known eighteen summers, and while she was possessed of an ancient power, sometimes she seemed to him very young indeed. “I never met the others…we never stood together, as we were born to do….”

She began to sob, and he held her even tighter, feeling tears sting his own eyes as he pressed her head to his breast.

“Things aren’t always fair,” he whispered, realizing how inane the words sounded even as he uttered them. “There will be another chance.”

She nodded and pulled away a little, wiping at her wet face. “Yes,” she stammered. “So you have said. One final chance.” She looked up at him and the love that washed though him almost tore him apart. He would do anything to spare her further pain; anything.

“We will be together again,” she whispered.

He reached and pulled her to him, kissing her urgently. He had loved her in all their incarnations; sometimes chastely, as a friend or parent; sometimes passionately, as he did now. He would love her again, whatever shape or age or form they would take. He would always love her. In the face of uncertainty and approaching destruction, he knew that, at least, would never change.

She returned his kiss and for a long moment, they clung to one another. The Lorekeeper hoped that this was how the Shadow would take them—locked in an embrace, heedless of the obliteration about to descend.

But the Dancer turned again to look out over the sea. The Shadow was beginning to hide the sun, and the ocean was no longer tranquil and blue, but gray, as if a storm was approaching. Gray and still. Whatever it was that created the ceaseless motion of the waves, the Shadow had taken it.

They faced the ocean together, she pressed into him, he clasping her about the waist.

“What will it feel like?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I cannot remember. The Lorekeepers recall much, but not that; not even what form the Shadow has taken each time.”

“Will it hurt?” she said. “To be…erased…or will we feel nothing?”

He, who knew her better than any living person, realized she was terrified. And he could say nothing to reassure her. This woman he adored more than life itself was about to die, perhaps painfully, certainly in the grasp of fear.

He could not permit that.

He pressed a kiss on her shoulder. “It won’t hurt,” he said, knowing he spoke the truth, at least for her. “You won’t feel a thing.” For the last time in this life, he whispered with infinite tenderness, “I love you.”

And then he placed his powerful hands on either side of her face and snapped her neck.

The Lorekeeper held the Dancer as she fell, taking her down to the sand with him. Cradling her limp body tenderly, he closed the slightly slanted brown eyes, placed her head against his shoulder, and waited for the Shadow to descend.

“Are you sure it was this tree?” Jareth Vasalen called to his friend.

“Yes, I’m positive,” Larr Ovaak called up.

Jareth sighed, blowing a stray strand of yellow hair out of blue eyes. Thirteen-year-old muscles quivering with the effort, he kept climbing.

Larr had spotted the blessing cloth—or, at least, what had certainly
looked
like a blessing cloth; no one had ever actually seen such a thing—dancing in the wind. It had led the two boys a merry chase, away from chores and family and other mundane things, and now Larr was convinced that it had gotten lodged in the topmost branches of this ancient oak tree.

“Think about it, Jareth!” Larr had exclaimed. “I’ll let you share it, since we both saw it. Everyone’ll be jealous!”

But of course, it was Larr who would keep the cloth, and Jareth who was expected to make the tricky climb on branches bare and slick with ice. Jareth didn’t really mind; he loved this old oak. Often he would sit for hours, cradled in its large branches, looking out over the farmland and watching it turn from green to gold to brown and finally, as now, swathed in winter’s cold blanket of white. He sometimes felt as if this ancient forest was more his home than the house he shared with his elderly parents, both of whom seemed exasperated by his frequent need to climb to the topmost limbs and look out over the world.

But though he had climbed the tree more times than he could count, Jareth had never ventured quite this high before. Up here, the branches were thinner, and seemed reluctant to bear his weight. Once he slipped, and his breath caught in his throat as he grabbed on to another limb. After a moment he regained his footing and continued to climb. If the prize was what they thought it was, it would be well worth it.

The people of Lamal believed the blessing cloths were woven by the mysterious, seldom-glimpsed people called the
taaskali.
Dark of skin, hair and eye—or so the songs said—the
taaskali
had unusual skills, even perhaps magic, and were believed to have a special connection to the gods who lived on top of the mountains. The
taaskali
were nomads, their entire reason for being to follow and protect the herds of the equally mysterious and seldom-glimpsed animals called
selvas,
whose milk bestowed health and long life.

The songs weren’t exactly clear on what the
selvas
looked like. Jareth imagined them as white deer with golden horns and hooves. Cloaks woven from their thick white wool were believed to turn arrows. All
taaskali
clothing was made from
selva
wool, including, and especially, the blessing cloths. Jareth remembered the
huskaa
of Two Lakes telling the tale beside the fire when he visited not so long ago.

“And each season,” he had said to his rapt audience, “the
selva
settle in their grazing fields. That’s when
taaskali
take that season’s magic and weave it into the cloths. They sing and play as the fabric is woven, infusing it with their hopes, and dreams, and blessings for the
selva,
themselves, and indeed all the people of Lamal. Then they release them, and the blessings fly all over the land.”

Jareth was more than half-certain that the cloth tangled in the tree was no more magical than the fabric that comprised his own clothing, but he was almost there now, and he was not about to descend without it.

“Can you see it?”

Jareth turned his head carefully, making sure he had a good grip on the branches. “No, I don’t think—wait.”

It looked just like any other scrap of cloth, but then his hand closed on it and he gasped. Slim, strong fingers, rough from working in the fields and forest since childhood, had never before touched something this soft. It was…he couldn’t think of any words to describe it.

Gently he untangled it with one hand. It came loose easily, and now he saw that it was more than simply white—it seemed to have the soft glow of the moon about it. Slowly, his heart racing, Jareth brought it to his face and inhaled its scent deeply.

Summer. This one had been woven in summer. He smelled the fragrance of soft breezes, flowers, good clean earth, all manner of fresh and growing things. It was unbelievable—this overwhelming scent of summer in the middle of winter.

They were real. The blessing cloths were
real.
That meant that the
selva
were real, and the
taaskali,
and—

“Did you find it?”

Jareth started from his reverie. He stared at the cloth. He couldn’t possibly bring this down and give it to Larr, who would shove it in his pouch along with his knife, interesting bits of bone and dried meats and whatever else his friend felt like carrying. He couldn’t have this brought out and showed around, an object to elevate himself and Larr in the eyes of their friends. This cloth was more important than that. It had a task—to bring blessings everywhere across Lamal. It was never made to be crumpled into a boy’s pouch like a skipping stone.

Jareth made his decision. He shifted his grip slightly for better purchase. When a breeze stirred his long blond hair, Jareth threw the piece of cloth as far up as he could. The zephyr gladly took it, and Jareth could have sworn he heard the cloth…singing. He watched as it danced away and vanished from sight.

“I’m coming down,” he called to his friend, not answering the question. Jareth was not looking forward to the inevitable confrontation but was secure in the knowledge that he had made the right decision. The thought of that beautiful blessing cloth crumpled and dirty made him feel slightly sick.

He had made it to the last branch and was about to jump down to the ground when he heard a loud
crack.
The limb broke beneath him and Jareth landed hard.

Larr helped him to his feet, laughing as Jareth gasped for air like a fish out of water. “You’ll be all right,” Larr chuckled, slapping his friend on the back. “But so much for all your bragging about climbing trees. So, where is it?”

Jareth got to his feet, wincing a little. “I let it go.”

“What?”

“That’s what you’re supposed to do,” Jareth said firmly.

“You didn’t even
show
it to me?”

Jareth hesitated, then said, “You said you wanted to keep it. I took you at your word. And it…Larr, it just wasn’t meant for keeping. I can’t explain it any better than that. I had to let it go.”

While Larr fumed silently, Jareth turned to look at the betraying limb. It was a bit taller than he, slightly thinner than his arm. A thought occurred to him as he picked it up.

“I could make a staff out of this,” he told Larr.

Larr frowned. “I want a staff too,” he said. Jareth looked at him searchingly. Larr had already begun to forget about the blessing cloth and all that it meant. Now he wanted a staff. Jareth smiled.

“Then let’s go find you one,” he said.

When Jareth finally returned home, the shadows were lengthening. He winced as he remembered all the chores he was supposed to do. Opening the door of his parents’ small house, he stepped inside. His father, recovering from the second illness he’d had this winter, lay on a pallet beside the fire. Jareth knelt beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching to hold his father’s hand. “I was playing with Larr, and the day ran away from us. I’ll work twice as hard tomorrow, I promise.”

His father looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes and squeezed Jareth’s hand. “It’s all right, son,” he said, and then began to cough. Jareth cast a worried glance at the smoky fire. He couldn’t help but think the smoke was aggravating his father’s condition, but there was nothing anyone could do. Fire was life here in the winter, and the smoke would have to find its way out as best it could.

His mother called. He hurried to where she was preparing the evening meal of fish and root vegetables.

“With your father so ill, we rely on you more than ever, Jareth,” she said quietly.

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

She turned from cutting the vegetables to regard him with pale blue eyes. He noticed for the first time that her once-golden hair was now almost silver.

“Winter is hard,” she said. “We can’t have you running off when there’s so much to be done. You were supposed to bring more wood. Now we barely have enough to get through the night, and your father needs the warmth.”

“I’ll do it right now.” He turned, determined to do something, anything, to remove the disappointed look on his mother’s face.

“Jareth, is something the matter?”

He froze. Had he—

“No. Nothing’s wrong. Light’s fading, I’d best get out there.” He almost ran out of the house before his mother could ask any more questions.

Jareth brought piles of wood from the village’s small central hut, carrying more in a single load than he had ever before. He was warm even as a light snow began to fall, but he threw himself into the task. Maybe if he exhausted himself, he would not have the dreams tonight.

The
taaskal
was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Tall, voluptuous, lithe, the scrap of fabric that served her for clothing revealed more than it concealed. Her skin was brown as bark, her hair black as the night sky, and her eyes warm and rich as loam. Were they all this beautiful? They must be, these weavers of the blessing cloths. If so, he wondered why more Lamali did not bring home
taaskali
wives and husbands. She smiled at him and turned away, walking slowly across the snow, seemingly unaffected by the cold.

Before his eyes, she shifted her shape and became a god. Even more lithe than she was in her human form, the great blue tiger strode boldly across the snow. Jareth felt tears sting his eyes as he saw the snow melt beneath each padded footfall. And when the god-tiger raised her paw, Jareth could see that just as the legends said, flowers bloomed.

“Spring-Bringer!”

The voices were loud and happy as the people of his village emerged from their houses and began to follow the god as she brought the welcome season. Jareth fell in with them, laughing and dancing as they all followed the great blue tiger. He heard other voices, too, and knew that they issued from no human throat. The thought ought to have frightened him, but it only comforted him. Soft hands slipped into his, easing him to the muddy, snowy earth that felt warm and welcoming. He was suddenly unclothed. Breasts trailed across his chest, lips closed on his mouth, hands caressed him between his legs and he surrendered to the pleasure.

Hands were on his face now, strong hands belonging to
someone who was standing behind him. Jareth didn’t know who it was, but he felt safe even as great sorrow washed over him. He stared out over a vast expanse of water, felt the hands move on his jaw, and there was an explosion of light—

Jareth bolted upright, his sleeping cloths wet with sweat, his groin covered in sticky fluid. His throat was raw and he knew he had been screaming, and when hands closed around his arms he struggled.

“Jareth, wake up!” His mother’s voice penetrated the haze of fear and confusion and his heart began to slow.

His mother held him, much as she had when he was a child, but her arms no longer went around a body that was growing stronger and larger with each day. Still, Jareth surrendered to the embrace and slowly calm descended on him.

“Tomorrow,” his mother murmured in his ear, “you will go see Paiva.”

After completing his chores, Jareth trudged through the snow down to the lake and the stonesteaming hut. The hut was the heart of every village, and Skalka Valley was no different. It looked like a small version of traditional houses, made of wood with a bark and sod roof. But every hole and crack was tightly sealed—there were no windows—and once inside, it was understood that one was in a different space.

Here babies were born, and the dead prepared for burial. Here wheat was dried, malt was fermented, meats were smoked. Here deep ritual was conducted, and here was where the people of the valley gathered to sit and let the heat and steam penetrate to their bones for restful, healing sleep.

Jareth knew the etiquette for ritual preparation. He stepped into the little room attached to the stonesteaming hut and stripped, shivering. He reached for a scrap of cloth from the pile that sat on the bench and wrapped it around his loins. It was all he would be permitted to wear; all the wise-woman would be wearing as well. Ritual was the only time men and women stonesteamed together.

He opened the little door. Steam, smoke, and the sweet scent of burning herbs greeted him when he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

“Jareth Vasalen.” Paiva’s voice always surprised him. It was musical and strong, better suited to a much younger woman. “Come forward. Sit on the bench with me.”

His eyes, adapting to the darkness, could make out the glowing stones, heated slowly for hours until they were the right temperature. The faint light illuminated Paiva’s slender form, upright and strong despite her years. Her unbound gray hair and slightly sagging breasts swayed as she reached and poured a ladleful of water onto the stones. More steam swirled and Jareth watched it raptly. This was the
hamantu,
the spirit of the stonesteaming. Jareth began to feel moisture on his skin as he obeyed the old woman’s command.

Paiva threw more herbs on the hot stones. Jareth breathed deeply of the pungent, sweet aroma. He was starting to feel both relaxed and a little dizzy.

“Your parents say you are having strange dreams,” she said. “Tell them to me.”