In Stone's Clasp Read Free Page A

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