“Does Lady Galla have a match in mind?” Salamander asked.
“She’s doing her best to find one. That’s the trouble with being out here on the wretched border, with the noble-born so thin on the ground. I don’t particularly want him marrying a common-born lass, but who else is there, eh?”
“Admittedly the choice is limited.” Salamander glanced at Gerran, as if inviting him to comment.
Gerran shrugged. He had no ideas on the subject.
“Might as well leave all that to the womenfolk,” the tieryn said. “Now, Gerro, I’ve been meaning to talk with you about the Falcon clan’s new dun. Cursed if I know who’s going to pay for it. You can’t just throw a few stones together like a farmer, eh? You’ll need a proper master mason from Trev Hael to plan the thing.”
“Well,” Gerran said, “my wife tells me that her brother owes her a fair amount of hard coin—an inheritance from an uncle, I think she said—but I’d hate to use that.”
“You may have to. We don’t live in the best of times, lad.” Cadryc paused for a long swallow of his ale. “We’ve got to get men and defenses out into the Melyn Valley as soon as we can. I doubt me if the Horsekin will have the stomach for raiding this summer, but sooner or later, they’ll come back. I’ve been thinking about our new overlord. The coin should come from him.”
“Do you think he has it?”
It was Cadryc’s turn for the shrug. Salamander heaved a mournful sigh.
“Do we even know where he is?” Gerran went on. “I swore to Prince Dar gladly, but ye gods, the Westfolk could be anywhere out in the grasslands. All I’ve ever heard is that they ride north every summer.”
“That will have to do, then, eh? Sooner or later he’s bound to ask us for dues and taxes, and we’ll find out then.”
Gerran looked at Salamander and raised an eyebrow, but the gerthddyn merely buried his nose in his tankard. Since they couldn’t speak openly of dweomer in front of the tieryn, Gerran let the matter drop.
Cadryc and Gerran weren’t the only men wondering where Prince Daralanteriel of the Westlands might be. A few days later messengers turned up at Cadryc’s gates, two road-dusty men riding matched grays and leading two more mounts behind them. The extra horses identified them as speeded couriers, and their tabards sported the royal gold wyvern of Dun Deverry.
One-armed Tarro, who’d been watching the gates that afternoon, showed them directly into the great hall. When Gerran realized who they were, he sent a page off to find his wife, one of the only two people in the dun who could read. The messengers knelt at Tieryn Cadryc’s side. One of them proffered a silver tube, sealed at both ends with gold-colored wax.
“From Prince Voran of Dun Deverry, Your Grace,” he said. “Humbly requesting a favor should Your Grace be willing.”
“Very well.” Cadryc took the message tube from him. “Go sit with my men. A lass will bring you ale, and tell her if you’d like a meal to go with it.”
“Our humble thanks, Your Grace.”
Both men rose and strode away to the far side of the hall. Cadryc scowled at the messages in his hand.
“You know, Gerro,” he said, “there was somewhat about the way that fellow spoke to me, so carefully, like, that troubled my heart. I was cursed glad to get out from under Gwerbret Ridvar’s overlordship last autumn. It was leave or rebel, truly. I know you agreed. It was good of Prince Dar to take us on. But—” He hesitated, groping for words. “Ah, by the black hairy arse of the Lord of Hell! I don’t know what I mean.”
“I think I do,” Gerran said. “We live outside of Deverry now, don’t we? We’re not vassals of the high king and the princes any more, so Voran has to ask, not demand. We might as well be Westfolk ourselves.”
“That’s it!” Cadryc grinned, then let the grin fade. “I knew that, of course, when we swore to Dar. But somehow I hadn’t quite grasped it. I have now.”
“I still wonder why he got the gwerbret to let us go. You’d think the royal line would want as many vassals as it can hold.”
“Ah, that’s the issue, lad! As they can hold, but they can’t hold a blasted one of us if we can’t hold our land for them. The Melyn Valley’s too far west. I’ll wager the high king knows it’d just be a wound on the kingdom, bleeding coin and men.”
“So he’ll let Prince Dar do the bleeding instead.”
“Just that.” Cadryc saluted him with his tankard. “But with all those archers he has, the wound won’t be a big one.”
When Solla arrived at the table of honor, Cadryc broke the seals on the tube and pulled out the letter inside, then handed it to her. She sat down in the chair to his right and unrolled the parchment to look it over.
“Just read it out,” Cadryc snapped, then ducked his head in apology. “Well, if you would, my lady.”
“Of course.” Solla began: “To his grace, Tieryn Cadryc of the Westlands, and his lords of the Melyn Valley, I, Prince Voran of Dun Deverry, send greetings. I have news of some import for your overlord, Prince Daralanteriel of the Westlands. Alas, I know not where he might be or where I might meet with him. If Your Grace should know, would he be so kind as to send me an answer by the messengers who have brought him this letter? I am currently residing at Gwingedd in Cerrgonney, but I plan to continue on to Arcodd as the spring progresses. I will be residing there for some while, as I have every intention of demanding some legal redress against Govvin, priest of Bel, for the insults he tendered me during last summer’s campaigns. If his highness Daralanteriel could join me there, I should be most gratified.” Solla glanced up. “The rest is all a formal farewell. He never says what this thing of great import is.”
“Blast him!” Cadryc muttered. “No doubt we won’t be able to pry anything out of those messengers, either.”
“They may not know,” Gerran said. “I doubt if it’s his action against Govvin. He wouldn’t need to consult Prince Dar about that.”
“Huh!” Cadryc said with a snort. “I wonder what the high priest down in Dun Deverry will think?”
“Knowing the prince, Your Grace,” Solla said, “I’d wager that he’s already brought the high priest round to his side.”
“Most like. Well, I don’t know where our Prince Dar is, and I don’t know how in the hells we’re going to find him, either.”
Gerran glanced around and saw Salamander, lurking behind a nearby pillar, convenient for eavesdropping.
“Leave it to me.” Gerran got up from his chair. “I’ve got an idea.”
When Salamander saw Gerran walking his way, he headed for the back door of the great hall. He knew that Gerran would follow him down to the dun wall, where they could have a little privacy away from the clutter of the ward. It was odd, he reflected, that Gerran would have so few qualms about calling upon dweomer, when most Deverry lords refused to admit that such a thing could even exist. Odd or not, he was glad to dispense with the usual verbal fencing and insinuations.
“I take it you want me to find out where Daralanteriel is,” Salamander said.
“Just that,” Gerran said. “Can you?”
“Easily.”
Salamander glanced up at the sky, where toward the west a few clouds drifted against the crystalline blue, and let his Sight shift to thoughts of Dar and the royal alar. He saw them immediately, a long line of riders followed by herds of horses, flocks of sheep, horses laden with packs and more dragging travois, dogs, children on ponies—all the usual straggling untidiness of Westfolk on the move. All around them stretched grassland.
“Somewhere west of Eldidd,” Salamander said. “I can’t tell exactly where, I’m afraid, because they’re out in open country.”
“Is there anything but open country west of Eldidd?” Gerran said.
“There’s not, and that, indeed, is the problem. Here, give me a while, and I may be able to tell you more.”
“Well and good, then, and my thanks.”
They walked back inside together, but Salamander left the lord at the table of honor and hurried u
pstairs to his wedge-shaped chamber high up in the broch. He barred the door, then sat down on the wide stone sill of the window. The sharp west wind drifted in, bringing with it the scent of the stables below. Salamander rummaged under his shirt, brought out a pomander, made of an apple dried with Bardek spices, and inhaled the scent.
From his perch he could see over the stables and the dun wall both to the meadows beyond, pale green with the first grass. The clouds had drifted a little farther toward zenith and grown larger as well. He focused on the white billows and thought of Dallandra. He saw the royal alar again, stopped in a swirl of riders and animals. Some of the men had dismounted and were strolling toward the various travois. Apparently they were going to set up the tents. In the vision Salamander realized that the western sky had already clouded over. Some distance from the alar ran a river. It looked to him like the Cantariel, but since it wound through flat meadowland as so many rivers did, out in the grasslands, he couldn’t be sure. Dallandra was standing at the riverbank and watching muddy water flow. He sent his mind out toward hers.
It took her some moments to respond. He could pick up her emotional state, a blend of annoyance and physical discomfort. Finally, she acknowledged him with a wordless sense of welcome and a wave of one hand.
“Are you ill?” Salamander thought to her. “Have you been hurt?”
He focused in on the image of her face. She looked pale, and dark smudges marred the skin under her eyes. “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m merely pregnant, and I spent the day on horseback. It’s not a happy combination.”
“I can easily contact you later—”
“No, no, I’ve been meaning to speak with you. I need to ask you something. It’s about Nevyn. You knew him well, didn’t you?”
“I certainly did, ofttimes to my severe distress and humiliation. The old man had the horrid habit of always being right, especially when it came to my faults, flaws, mistakes, and general ill-doings.”
He could feel Dallandra’s amusement as clearly as he would have heard her laughter had they been together. “Was he stubborn?” she said.
“Very. Like the proverbial bull in a warm stable. Getting him outside on a winter’s day is a most formidable task. Is Neb giving you trouble?”
“Aha, you guessed! I’m worried, really. He seems to want to shed his current personality and just turn back into Nevyn. Yet when I try to speak with him about it, I can feel his mind close up.”
“This sounds dangerous.”
“It is. Once the child’s born, my attention’s bound to be divided. I should have apprenticed him to Grallezar, I suppose, and taken Branna on myself, but at the time it seemed a better match this way.”
“I thought you made the right decision then, and I still do.”
“Thank you. At times I have trouble remembering why I made it.” She paused, and he received the general impression of a jumble of thoughts. “It was because of the healing lore, I think. He seemed to want to learn that as well, and Grallezar has none.”
“Is there anything I can do to help? I can easily take him through some of the work.”
“If he’ll listen to you, and he’d blasted well better!” Her image smiled in relief. “If nothing else, you can keep an eye on him for me.”
“Gladly, and if he won’t listen to me, I’ll smack him a good one.” He flexed one arm. “We mountebanks and jugglers have strong muscles, you know.”
Dallandra laughed, and the sense of relief strengthened.
“I may hold you to that,” she said. “But how are you? You sound well.”
“I am indeed, having survived another miserable winter. I was wondering, O Princess of Powers Perilous, where you and the royal alar might be.”
“Still in the Westlands, but ultimately we’re heading for the Red Wolf dun.”
“Splendid! I’ve got news for our prince. There’s a message waiting for him here from Prince Voran. His royal self sounded more than a little put out that he didn’t know where to send the message, too. He wants Dar to meet him in Cengarn to discuss some mysterious matter.”
“How odd! I’ll tell Dar, certainly, but we’re going to stop along the way. He wants to visit Lord Samyc, since he’s Samyc’s overlord now.”
“Ah, I see. However, if he could send Cadryc a letter, announcing his most regal plans, it would set at rest both Cadryc’s mind and that of Prince Voran.”
“I’ll have him do that. Neb can write it, and it’ll do him good to earn his keep.”
Salamander laughed under his breath. “How far away are you?”
“A good long way. We’re traveling up the Cantariel.” Dalla paused briefly, calculating. “We’re maybe a couple hundred miles from the coast. Well, maybe a little more, closer to two hundred and a half, say. I can’t be any more sure than that.”
“Of course. In vision it looks like you’re west of Eldidd.”
“We are. The traveling seems to drag on and on, somehow, but perhaps I’m just tired. It’s a good thing we started as early in the year as we did, or we wouldn’t reach you till high summer. As it is, we should get there some while before. Curse it all, at moments I wish Meranaldar were still riding with us! He could be a bore, but he knew how to mark out time.”
"Eventually we all will, O Mistress of Mighty Magics, whether we want to or not. Such things always seem to matter in towns, and towns, alas, lie in our Destiny. If naught else, having a royal dun would let his peers know where to send Dar letters.”
While the absent Meranaldar might have known how to mark out time, someone arrived at the Westfolk camp not long after who understood space and distances. Just as the alar was pitching the tents for a night’s rest, the silver wyrm flew in, circling high over the camp, then landing a good half a mile off to avoid panicking the horses. Dalla took her sack of medicinals and hurried out to meet him.
The dragon lay down to allow Dallandra to examine his wound, a thin pink stripe on his silvery-blue side. When she’d first been treating it, she’d cut a piece of leather, boiled it with wax to keep it from stretching, and marked the length of the cut upon it. When she measured the cut against the marked strip, she found the wound the same length as before. Although it looked pink and clean, it still opened into flesh, not scar tissue.
“Rori, you’ve been licking it!” Dallandra said.
“I have not!”
“Then why hasn’t it healed up?”
“Arzosah tells me that dragons heal as slowly as they grow, but truly, she’s as puzzled as you are.”
“Especially slowly, I imagine, when the dragon’s not done what the healer asked of him.”
“I swear it, Dalla, I’ve not licked it or scratched it or rubbed it against anything. Well, once by accident I did rub it against a rock, but it hurt so much I made sure I’d never do it again.”
Dallandra set her hands on her hips and glared at him. He raised his head and glared right back.
“At least it’s not bleeding,” Dallandra said. “Does it ever?”
“No,” Rori said. “But it’s driving me daft, itching itching itching ! Ye gods, sometimes I’m tempted to lick it, I have to admit. It’s worse to itch than to ache, I swear it.”
“I can wash it with willow water for a little relief now that you’re here. It might sting at first.”
“Stinging’s better than itching.”
Rori sat up while Dallandra got together a leather glove, a little heap of dry horse dung, a kettle of water, and the strips of dried willow bark. She lit the dung for a fire, brought the water to a simmer, tossed in a good handful of bark, then took the kettle off the fire and allowed the mixture to steep. While they were waiting, Valandario came walking out from camp to join them. She was carrying something clasped in her right hand.
“I was wondering if you could answer me a few questions,” Val said to the dragon, “about this.” She opened her hand to reveal a chunk of lapis lazuli the size of a crab apple, carved into an egg shape. A fine gold chain ran through a hole drilled int
o the smaller end. “Dalla told me it belongs to you.”
“So it does,” Rori said. “Or it did, once. I wondered what had happened to it.”
“I found it on the ground with your clothes,” Dallandra said, “after the transformation.”
“Ah, I see.” He sighed in a long hiss. “It’s of little use to me now. Val, it’s yours if you want it.”
“That’s very generous,” Valandario said, “but I assure you that I wasn’t trying to get it away from you. I was just wondering what it is. It’s got dweomer upon it, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. An old dwarven woman gave it to me—Otho’s mother, in fact.” He turned his massive head Dallandra’s way. “Otho the dwarf, the silver daggers’ smith—I doubt me if you knew him. He’s the one who got me to Haen Marn, in fact, for all the good it did the poor old bastard. I never met a man more sour than Otho, and I hope to all the gods that I never do, either. Be that as it may,” he turned back to Valandario, “his mother told me that no one could scry me out as long as I was wearing that talisman. She may well have been right, too. I know that Raena couldn’t find me when I was wearing it.”
“No more could Jill,” Dallandra said.
“Very powerful, then.” Val considered the lapis egg with a small frown of concentration. “Are you telling me that the Mountain Folk have dweomer? Here I always thought they mocked it.”
“The men do,” Rori said. “The women don’t. What their men think doesn’t matter a cursed lot to dwarven women.”
“Good for them,” Val said. “But are you sure that the women used dweomer on this stone? They could have come by this some other way, traded for it or the like.”
“That’s true, but I’d wager it was made right in Lin Serr. When I met her, Othara was ill and blind with sheer old age, but she still reminded me of Jill. You could feel power around her. And the trip down—” The dragon paused, looking away as he remembered. “She lived in the deep city, you see, where visitors weren’t supposed to go. I was still in human form then, of course. So a friend—Garin, it was—led me down hooded like a hawk. Once I was good and confused, he let me take off the hood. We went into a cavern where it was lit with blue light, oozing out of the walls. There were some women standing there, waiting to look me over and make sure it was safe to let me through the next doorway. Garin told me that the name of the cavern was the Hall of the Mothers.” The dragon shuddered. “I went cold all over, just hearing it.”
The Shadow Isle Page 10
