Christie Golden - Final Dance 2 - In Stone's Clasp

InStone'sClaspBooks by Christie Golden

Final Dance

--2 In Stone’s Clasp (2005)

Synopsis

Cast of Characters

In Arukan

In Lamal

Other Players

Prologue

Part I: Spring-Bringer

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Part II: The Ice Maiden

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

Part III: Stone Dancer

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

Epilogue

Glossary

Final Dance

--2 In Stone’s Clasp (2005)

Synopsis

Flame Dancer Kevla of Arukan seeks the missing elements -- Stone and Sea,

Wind

and Soul -- that must join to preserve their world from destruction. Sensing

that the Stone Dancer, the master of Earth magic, would be found in the icy

north, she and her dragon companion fly to a country mired in an unnaturally

long winter. When at last they find Jareth, the Stone Dancer's own anger and

pain make him reluctant to accept his destiny. His need for vengeance against

the old gods who betrayed his people is powerful -- powerful enough to lead

the

group farther into the snows, searching for the legendary Ice Maiden, who may

be

responsible for the forced winter. But betrayal doesn't come only from the

gods

-- and the forces against them are vast. Before their quest is over, Kevla

must

realize that while Flame can break through the chill of the winter, Stone can

withstand anything . . .

First edition September 2005

IN STONE’S CLASP

ISBN 1-55254-360-9

www.LUNA-Books.com

All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the

author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or

names.

They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to

the

author, and all incidents are pure invention.

This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

® and TM are trademarks of Harlequin Books S.A., used under license.

Trademarks

indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark

Office, the Canadian Trade Marks Office and in other countries.

utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic,

mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including

xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or

retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the

editorial

office, Worldwide Library, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.

This one’s for the men—

May it serve to honor the Fisher Kings and wounded heroes who have survived

their own seemingly endless winters and emerged, whole, into spring.

Cast of Characters

In Arukan

Jashemi-kha-Tahmu: Tahmu’s son, Kevla’s half-brother and the Flame Dancer’s

Lorekeeper, deceased

Kevla-sha-Tahmu, formerly Kevla Bai-Sha: the Flame Dancer

Dragon, the: Kevla’s Companion animal

Meli-sha-Tahmu: Kevla’s half sister

Sahlik: head servant of the Clan of the Four Waters, five-score

Tahmu-kha-Rakyn: Kevla’s father, khashim of the Clan of the Four Waters

Yeshi Bai-Sha, formerly Yeshi-sha-Rusan: wife of Thamu, mother of Jashemi and

Meli

In Lamal

Hanru: Taaskali guide

Ice Maiden, the: legendary coldhearted woman

Ivo: headman of Skalka Valley

Lukkari, Altan: Lamali bard, twin brother to stillborn Ilta

Lukkari, Ilta: stillborn twin to Altan

Lukkari, Ritva: Altan’s mother

Lukkari, Veli: Altan’s father

Ovaak, Larr: Jareth’s boyhood friend

Paiva: wise-woman/healer

Ranin: friend to Olar Tulari

Relaanan, Kivi: wife to Orvo, mother to Taya and Vikka

Relaanan, Orvo: headman of Two Lakes, father to Taya and Vikka

Relaanan, Vikka: youngest daughter of Orvo and Kivi

Tulari, Gelsan: head woman of Arrun Woods

Tulari, Mylikki: daughter of Gelsan

Tulari, Olar: son of Gelsan

Vasalen, Annu: Jareth’s daughter

Vasalen, Jareth: the Stone Dancer

Vasalen, Parvan: Jareth’s son

Vasalen, Taya: Jareth’s wife

Other Players

Advisors to the Emperor

Emperor, the: enemy of the Dancers, very powerful

Ki-lyn, the: magical creature imprisoned by the Emperor

Prologue

“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.

Part I: Spring-Bringer

1

“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.”

Jareth swallowed. Then, slowly, he began to speak. She listened attentively,

then laughed.

“These do not worry me at all. It is natural and healthy for a young man your

age to begin to dream of mating. And to have…appropriate physical reactions.

Have no fears about these, Jareth. But I find it hard to believe your parents

would be concerned about these dreams. They are not unfamiliar with such

things.

Is there more you wish to tell me?”

In a low voice, he spoke of the other parts of his recurring dream: of the

taaskali woman, of the gods bringing spring, of the stranger sitting behind

him

whom he trusted but whom at the end, he always feared.

“And I dream that everything around me—even the rocks, even the grass—has a

voice,” he continued, trying to put the images and sounds and sensations into

something as confining as words. “Sometimes, I think the trees are trying to

talk to me.”

Sweat gathered on his skin, trickled down in slow rivulets. Here in the smoky

darkness, the only light provided by the glowing stones, his thoughts didn’t

seem quite so foolish. “And when I walk with bare feet in summer…it’s almost

as

if I’m walking on something that’s—that’s alive,” he finished in a whisper.

“There is something else you haven’t told me,” Paiva said. Jareth swallowed.

Did

the woman see into his very thoughts?

“Yesterday—yesterday I found a blessing cloth.”

Paiva’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “There was no mistaking it. It smelled like summer, and it glowed,

just like the stories said.”

“What did you do with it?”

“I let it go. Larr wanted to keep it, and so did I at first, but—when I

touched

it, I couldn’t. I just…couldn’t.”

Paiva reached into a pouch and threw marked bones for a while, perusing the

symbols in silence. Then she took Jareth’s hand in hers and held it for a

moment. Her hand was gnarled, the palm sweaty and moist. She closed her eyes

and

concentrated. At last, she sighed and released him.

“Whatever these dreams are,” she said, “I sense nothing evil in them, or in

you.

You are as sweet as the day I brought you into this world, Jareth.”

He blushed, and thought that “sweet” was hardly a compliment for a growing

young

man like himself.

“That you dream of the gods is a sign that you are protected by them,” she

said,

“and perhaps you are simply more aware of the spirits than the rest of us.

The

dream of the taaskali is clearly associated with the blessing cloth. As for

the

man standing behind you, he may represent your fear of the dreams. No one

likes

to be different, child, and these dreams are telling you that you are

different

in some way. Blessing cloths don’t come to just anyone. And it is at this

point

in the dream that you awaken, wanting to trust the dreams and yet afraid of

them.”

She pursed her lips, considering. “Prepare something nice for the tree

spirits

to eat, since you seem so close to the forest, and leave it out at sunrise.”

He nodded his understanding. And for the rest of the time, they sat in

silence,

letting the heat penetrate them and cleanse both skin and spirit.

The next morning Jareth went out at first light to leave the offerings. He

had

gone to his old friend the oak, who had given him the branch that was going

to

be a wonderful staff. At the oak’s feet, he offered his week’s share of

honey,

dried fruit and milk, pouring it all so it formed a puddle. Then, unable to

resist its inviting branches, he climbed the oak.

The wind shifted and Jareth gently swayed in his perch. The breeze stirred up

Christie Golden - Final Dance 2 - In Stone's Clasp

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