“Well, this is a surprise!” Rhodda said. “I've not seen you in many a year.”
“Has it been so long?” Evandar bowed to her. “Well, most likely so, and I'm sorry for that, my lady. But here I am, and I've brought you an interesting thing.”
“Oh have you now? Another book from the Holy City?”
“Not quite. Somewhat even rarer. A map, and it's from southern Bardek.”
In her study at the very top of the broch they spread the papyrus scroll out on a table. Rhodda whistled under her breath and ran a graceful finger along a line of elven writing.
“This looks new,” she said. “Where did you find it?”
“It's a copy, so indeed it's new, but the original is very old. As to where, you know, my lady, that a humble pedlar like myself has to keep his secrets.”
“Huh. Was it one of those collegia you keep telling me about?”
“What? Did I—”
“Dropped hints and riddles, that's what you did, about wonderful places in the Southern Isles where people meet to read and talk together. I dream about them sometimes.”
“Imph. I'm not going to say.”
“Then you stole it somewhere.”
“Naught of the sort! My dear Lady Rhodda!”
Rhodda laughed and continued studying the map. Evandar wandered round the room, a full floor of the broch and crammed with oddments. On the wall hung a line of shields, blazoned with the devices of the lords of Cannobaen—the grappling badgers of the original Maelwaedds, the dragon of Aberwyn that had come to them upon their elevation to the gwerbretrhyn, the red lion of Lovyan's clan, and finally, the dragon device yet once again, this one slashed with a bend sinister. Wooden cabinets filled the center of the room, and near the window stood a lectern, carved with badgers.
Over the years Rhodda had collected nearly twenty ancient books and over fifty copies of newer works as well, an absolute fortune's worth of learning in those days. To keep the air dry in Cannobaen's fogs, a peat fire smouldered in the hearth, but a few of the oldest books smelled of mildew nonetheless. One of them lay open on the lectern to a page so faded he could barely make it out: a list of the symbols in the Elvish syllabary, each labelled with its equivalent in Deverry letters. On a table nearby lay cut parchments, ruled and ready for writing—raw material for Rhodda's own book, a history of Eldidd and the Westlands.
“Can this truly be Rinbaladelan?” Rhodda looked up from the map at last. “Or is it just some scribe's fancy?”
Evandar debated. She would believe the truth much less readily than a lie.
“I have my doubts, too.” He joined her at the table. “I suspect that it's part fancy but mostly truth. Most likely some fragments of old maps survived, and perhaps an ancient book or two described more of the city, and then some scribe years ago put it all together on a map, which was copied here.” He tapped the parchment with one finger.
“That sounds reasonable. How much do you want for it?”
Rhodda straightened up and looked at him, her eyes narrow, her head tilted a little to one side. At that moment she resembled Rhodry so much that he smiled.
“It would gladden my heart,” he said, “if you'd take it as a gift.”
“What? Now that's a surprise!”
“I mean it truly. I'm on my way west, and I doubt me if I'll ever come here again, and I want you to have this to remember me by, the old book pedlar who came your way now and again.”
“How very odd of you!”
“It is, truly, but then, I'm a very odd man.”
She considered him a moment more, then laughed.
“Very well, and my thanks,” she said. “I'd be a churl indeed to turn down a gift, and especially such an intriguing one. I'm forgetting my hospitality as well. Will you dine with me?”
“I'd be honored, my lady, but I was hoping to reach the Wmmglaedd ferry by nightfall, and so I'd best be on my way.”
When he left, Evandar rode west for the look of the thing, but once he was out of sight of the dun, he doubled back east. Just at twilight, he reached the farm where he'd stolen the horse. In the conniving dusk, he turned it back into its pasture, then walked on the twilight back to his country and the mothers of all roads. How long had it been, he wondered, since Dallandra had sent the gnomes to fetch him? Too long, he told himself, and he headed north for Cengarn.
Dallandra had just begun to fear that Evandar had met with harm by the time he finally arrived in Dun Cengarn. Out behind the broch complex stood a little kitchen garden, deserted this time of year and far enough away from the dun's stores of iron—weapons, implements, and suchlike—which caused him great pain. Just at twilight of a day that had seemed almost warm they sat together on a small bench amid the mulched herbs.
“I need to discuss plans with you,” Dallandra said. “It's a long road to Cerr Cawnen, and so I was wondering—”
“Of course,” Evandar said, grinning. “I'll take you by the mother roads. I'm surprised you can't open them yourself.”
“I can to some extent. I can slip through when I need to, but I can't keep the gate open long enough for more than one person to come with me.”
“Ah, I see. Well, it took me a good hundred years or so to learn the trick myself. But never fear. Just send the gnomes to fetch me.”
“Very well, then, and my thanks. How fares Salamander, do you know? Rhodry was asking me about him the other day.”
“The news isn't good. His mind still wanders terribly. Which reminds me. Some while ago I received a vision that showed him sailing into Cannobaen come the height of summer. I'm not sure what this means. Would you and Devaberiel be welcome there? So you could meet his ship, I mean.”
“I should think so. After all, the lady of the dun there is Salamander's niece. And, for that matter, Devaberiel's granddaughter.”
Evandar blinked at her.
“A niece,” Dallandra said, “is the daughter of your brother or sister. Rhodry was her father, you see, and so Salamander's her uncle under Deverry law, even though he's but a half brother. And since Devaberiel is Rhodry's father, then he's her grandfather.”
“And isn't that a useful thing?” Evandar said, smiling. “I'm glad that Deverry folk take their kinships so seriously.”
“Well, and don't the People cherish ours as well? I've never heard of a race who spurned their kin. How could anyone survive without kin and clan?”
“I seem to remember that you walked away from a husband and a little son.”
“Yes, but for the sake of you and your little daughter.”
“So it was.” His smile vanished. “Did you do the right thing, my love? Or did I seduce you into something wrong?”
“I thought it was right myself, at the time. And I still do.”
“Good. This is splendid news, about Rhodda's kinship ties. It gives me exactly what I need to fulfill the omens.”
“What? What are you planning now?”
“Only what's best for Ebañy and his wife.”
“Indeed? Your plans have a way of turning out to have really wretched consequences. I wish you'd tell me what you have in mind.”
“It's simple enough. I've arranged him passage on a ship coming from Bardek to Cannobaen.”
“Oh. There shouldn't be any harm in that, then.”
And yet she felt a dweomer warning, a bare touch of the usual cold. No harm lurked in Evandar's plans, but they were going to bring trouble with them. When she started to ask him more, he smiled at her and disappeared.
• • •
Up in the Rhiddaer, to the west of the Deverry border, spring came earlier than usual that year—a good omen, or so some said. Early one pleasant day Councilman Verrarc left his house and walked uphill to the plaza on the crest of Citadel. At the end of the path he paused to look down over Cerr Cawnen, the city he loved second only to his new wife. Citadel, the island where he stood, rose steeply from the middle of a lake. Public buildings and the houses of the few wealthy families perched among its rocks an
d twisting streets. The blue-green lake itself, fed by volcanic springs, lay wreathed with steam in the cool morning air. Across the water on the lakeshore, the town proper sprawled in the shallows—houses and shops built on pilings and crannogs in a welter of roofs and little boats. Beyond them, marking out the boundary of Cerr Cawnen, stood a circle of stone walls and beyond those, the farms and woodlands of the Rhiddaer, all dusted with the green of sprouting leaves and growing things.
Soon Verrarc would ride out with his caravan, as he did every spring, to trade among the dwarven cities in the eastern mountains, but on this particular morning the thought of leaving made him profoundly uneasy. Although he was a young man, Verrarc had spent some years studying books and collecting lore about the witchroad, as the northern folk call the dweomer. At times his studies gave him strange omens and insights, but his random attempt at training himself had left him short of ways to interpret them. His unease might come from his wife's poor health, or it might be a token of danger lurking outside the city gates. Perhaps it meant nothing at all.
Verrarc shrugged the feeling off and strolled across the plaza, paved with stone blocks and bordered with stone buildings and a colonnade. In the middle of the plaza stood a public well, where townsfolk waited in a little crowd to draw water. He noticed his manservant, Harl, talking with young Niffa, the daughter of the town ratters, and waved as he walked past, heading to the Council House. At the door he paused with his hand on the latch. A sound rang in the sky, a distant boom like the slap of a hand on a wooden barrel, perhaps, but loud, growing louder. Verrarc spun around and looked up. Something was flying out of the north and heading for Citadel—a bird, he thought at first, but never had he seen one so big. It took him a few moments before he could allow himself to believe that he was seeing a dragon.
In the sun its scales glittered a greenish-black, tinged with copper about the massive head and talons. Its wings stretched out a good fifty feet on each side, he estimated, and cast huge shadows on the paving stones of the plaza as it approached. It banked one wing and lazily circled, then dropped lower as if it might land. At the well the townsfolk were screaming, except for Niffa. As the wyrm hovered near her, Niffa raised a hand in the sign of peace. With a huge flap of wings the dragon rose and flew off, heading south and east. The townswomen clustered around Niffa, all talking at once.
Verrarc stood transfixed. All his life he'd heard tales of dragons, but never had he actually seen one. And here, in his town? His unease returned in force. On a day touched by a dragon the unease had to be an omen. Verrarc started over to speak to Niffa, but the town's spirit talker, Werda, joined the lass. He watched the old woman lead her away, Werda so tall and fierce, with her mane of silver-grey hair and her white cloak floating around her, Niffa so slight and young in her shabby pair of brown dresses. Harl saw him and came hurrying over.
“Master,” Harl said, “the beast spoke to Niffa.”
“Did it now? There be a strange thing!”
“So I did think, truly. I did understand not one word of what it did say, and no more did anyone else there, not even Niffa.”
“And why did you think she would?”
“She did say the same to me.” Harl shrugged, smiling. “It be her second sight. Everyone does know how strange her dreams and suchlike are.”
“True spoken. For some while now I've meant to speak with you about somewhat. Is it that you're courting the lass?”
Harl blushed scarlet.
“So I thought.” Verrarc smiled at him. “Here, if you wish to marry her proper-like, I'll not say a word against it. But I'd not have you trifle with her.”
“Never would I!”
“Well and good then. She be a young widow and lonely. There are some men who'd take advantage of her condition.”
“Not me, I swear it. If she'll have me, I'd like naught better than to marry her one fine day.”
“If that comes to pass, my blessing upon it. There be plenty of rooms in the house, and no reason you and your wife should lack one.”
Harl beamed, as merry as the spring sun.
Beside the common decency of the thing, Verrarc had his own reasons to offer Niffa a place in his house should she want one. Later that day he discussed the matter with his own wife, Raena, when he came home for the noon meal. Since she was recovering from a long illness, Raena lay abed most of the day, propped by pillows so she could look out the window by their bed and see the garden trees windblown in the sunlight. Verrarc brought her food himself on a wooden tray, a big bowl of stew for the pair of them and a fresh-baked loaf of bread as well. When he came in he found her sitting up and awake, her black hair spread over the pillow behind her.
“How do you fare, my love?” Verrarc said.
“Far better than the day before, truly.” She smiled at him. “I think me I might eat some of that meal you've so kindly brought me.”
“Good.” He set the tray down on the little table by the bed. “You've got far too thin.”
He sat on the edge of the bed and broke the loaf up, handing her a crust to use as a spoon. She dipped it into the thick sauce and tried a dainty bite.
“Very tempting, truly,” Raena said. “And how was your morning, my love?”
“Strange indeed. You know, I think me you're right when you say young Niffa has great powers on the witchroad.”
“So she does, but what happened? Somewhat did, if you'd call the morning strange.”
“True enough. I went to the Council House to await the others, and whilst I did stand by the door, a dragon did fly over Citadel. Then the beast did stoop and hover like a hawk to speak to Niffa.”
Raena let the crust drop from her fingers.
“A dragon?” she whispered. “What sort of beast?”
“A black one, but a greeny sort of black that glittered and changed in the sun. About the head, though, the color was coppery.”
“Oh ye gods.”
“Is it some terrible omen, do you think?”
Raena shook her head no and took the goblet of water from the tray. She drank before she spoke again. “I fear that dragon, my love.” Her face had gone as pale as death. “From what you tell me, I think me I do know her, and she does hate me.”
“What? Where would you have met such a beast?”
“When I was about my goddess's service.” She leaned back against the pillows. “I be so weary, my love. Leave me, I beg you, and let me rest.”
Verrarc did as she asked, but he wondered, off and on throughout the afternoon, if she were speaking the truth or merely suffering from a sick woman's fancies.
As she flew south, Arzosah was grumbling to herself. She had smelled Raena's scent as she circled over Citadel. As much as she wanted to kill the wretched woman and be done with her, she'd been forced to leave her, safe in some hidden house, no doubt, surrounded by her own kind. It was just like a pack of stupid human beings to run around and screech at the very sight of a dragon! At least these particular villagers hadn't started throwing spears and rocks, but they had bad manners all the same.
Arzosah had been so addled by the noise, in fact, that she'd lost her chance to tell Niffa that her brother was safe and would be home soon. The girl herself had been polite, though it was obvious she hadn't understood a word. I should have spoken in Deverrian, Arzosah thought. She so hated using the language of humankind that she'd slipped naturally into Elvish instead. Soon, once she reached Cengarn, she would have to lower herself to using Deverrian exclusively—for a while, she reminded herself, only for a while, until Rori and I leave that stinking heap of a town behind.
At moments like these, when she flew free in a balmy sky, with the world below all green and teeming with prey, Arzosah wondered why she was returning at all. After all, Rhodry Maelwaedd had once enslaved her with a dweomer ring. But he let me go free again, she reminded herself— and the enslaving was Evandar's doing anyway. At the thought of Evandar she hissed aloud. How dare he call her faithless, how dare he insult all Wyrmkind? Well,
she was showing him, all right. She was keeping her promise to Rhodry, and Evandar could keep his wretched insults! Perhaps she'd even meet Evandar in Cengarn and finally take her revenge upon him.
Yet deep in her heart, Arzosah knew that she was travelling to see Rhodry again and little more. He was the first friend she'd ever had, and compared to friendship, even revenge paled.
Spring brought warmth to Cengarn and hope with it. The winter wheat had sprouted; soon it would be milk-ripe, fit for porridge if not for bread. This first harvest would be a scant one, since the farmers would hold back plenty of seed grain for the next planting, but still, the prospect of food to come raised everyone's spirits. The hope was rewarded, in fact, when just before the harvest an unexpected surplus arrived at Cadmar's dun. On a sunny noontide, Dallandra was studying one of the Jill's books when she heard shouting from the ward below.
“The wyvern! The wyvern! It's the king's men!”
Servants and noble-born alike poured out of the brochs and into the ward, then flooded like snowmelt down to the gates. Up in her tower room, Dallandra leaned dangerously out of the window to watch. Through the town and up the hill a procession came riding. At its head two heralds, mounted upon white horses, carried staves bound with ribands. Just behind them a lad on a pony held the banner of the Gold Wyvern, and then came a noble lord, whose shield, slung at the saddle peak, bore the same device, proclaiming him one of the king's household men. Behind them rode a squad of forty fighting men of the King's Own on matched bays, and after them creaked and crawled a long procession of wooden carts, loaded to the brim with heaped sacks of… of something.
Dallandra left her book and hurried down to the crowded ward. Over by the well stood a gaggle of boys, Jahdo among them. When she waved to him, he bowed to her so awkwardly that all the other boys laughed. In the doorway of the main broch stood Gwerbret Cadmar, leaning on his stick, with Prince Daralanteriel standing at his right hand and Princess Carra, accompanied by her wolfish dog, just behind him. She was carrying her own baby like a maidservant. Cadmar smiled when he saw Dallandra and waved her over to join him.
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