“Here you go.” Raddyn laid it down on the table, which wobbled under the weight.
“My thanks,” Neb said. “I much appreciate this.”
“What I don’t understand is why a scribe wants to look at a book like this. It describes medicaments, not letters.”
“I come from Trev Hael. That plague or somewhat like it is mentioned in here. I’m wondering if it explains how the thing spread so fast.”
“Ah. Well, corrupted humors, as usual, would be my judgment.”
“But how do they get from one person to another? I mean, I can understand if a person with an excess of watery humors becomes ill. But why should the person next door or the wife who’s sharing his bed then become ill in turn?”
Raddyn shrugged with a look of profound regret. “If I knew that,” he said, “I’d be serving down in the king’s court, not moldering up here with our miserly gwerbret.”
“One person’s corrupted humors must corrupt the next one’s. Somehow.”
“No doubt. ’How’ is indeed the question. You know, sometimes I wish I were but a scribe like you.” Raddyn turned away and perched on the stool. “Ye gods, it drives me half mad sometimes, how little we know!”
He leaned over sideways, rummaged in the clutter a bit more, and pulled out a leather bottle. When he unstoppered it, Neb caught the smell of mead.
The scribe who’d copied the book of Bardekian lore had done a splendid job, writing in a clear large hand that could be read easily by candlelight. He’d left wide margins, too, which generations of chirurgeons had filled with notes about their successes or failures with the various herbs. One set of notes, concerning ulcerations of the stomach, struck Neb as oddly familiar, even though they weren’t in Nevyn’s hand. He turned back to the first page and found a list of men who’d owned the book, but none of the names jogged his memory.
Eventually Neb found the passage he’d seen before only to realize that it offered him no answers, merely a brief description of the effects of the plague. The marginal notes remarked only that no herbal remedies had proved efficacious. He shut the book with a sigh.
“My thanks,” he said to Raddyn.
“Welcome,” the chirurgeon said. “If you ever find out how these poisons spread, let me know, eh?”
“Oh, I will, rest assured.”
Neb left the chamber and hurried down the stairs. He was just coming out into the ward when he saw Salamander, heading toward him. He was tempted to duck and run, then decided he was being foolish by avoiding the gerthddyn. Besides, I do need to concentrate on my real work, he told himself. I’ve been wasting too much time worrying about herbcraft. Yet something Raddyn had said—poisons, he called the plagues. He’d doubtless only been describing them in a fancy way, but what if, Neb thought to himself, what if there was some substance involved, something that acted like a poison? Caught by the idea, he nearly ran into Salamander, who stepped aside just in time.
“There you are!” Salamander said. “I was just wondering if you were ill or suchlike.”
“If I were, I wouldn’t go to Raddyn,” Neb said. “I feel sorry for anyone who comes under his knife.”
Salamander blinked at him.
“Any news from Dallandra?” Neb said. “About Haen Marn?”
“None,” Salamander said. “The problem is that it’s an island. Scrying it out will therefore be impossible. All we can do now is hope it returned, and if it didn’t, then, well, we’ll just have to wait and see.”
Riding the river down to Lin Serr proved to be both more tedious and more dangerous than Berwynna had been expecting. During that first day, the river ran slowly between broad banks, thick with forests and ferns. In places the shallow water became nearly solid with purplish-green water reeds. The little coracles bobbed peacefully along at the river’s whim. Dougie and Enj used their paddles mostly to steer clear of floating tree branches and other debris. The slow water allowed the spring crop of mosquitoes and blackflies to swarm around the boats. Berwynna took off her apron and flapped it to keep them away from her and Dougie both. By midafternoon, her arms ached.
Toward sunset Enj yelled over from his coracle that it was time to go ashore. When they saw a sandy beach at a bend in the river, Enj paddled hard across the current and headed for it. Dougie followed his lead, and the river reluctantly let the men run the coracles up onto the land. Dougie helped Berwynna out and grinned at her.
“My rosy-cheeked lass!” he said.
“That’s sunburn,” she snapped. “I’m also bug-bitten and damp.”
Another difficulty came storming up to them in the person of Mic, who planted himself in front of Berwynna, set his hands on hips, and scowled.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Berwynna said in Dwarvish. “I never should have come along, Mother will worry, and I’ll only be a burden and nuisance.”
“I was going to say that you’ll be putting yourself in danger,” Mic said, “which is more to the point than calling you a nuisance. What in the name of Gonn’s Hammer did you think you were doing?”
“Getting away from Haen Marn. Mara can clean the stinking fish and sweat over the bread oven from now on. I’m sick and tired of being her servant, thank you very much!”
“Ah.” Mic suddenly grinned. “Well, good for you, lass! I have to admit that I’m glad to see you finally stand up for yourself.”
“You are? I always knew you were my favorite uncle for a reason. ”
Mic laughed. “A true compliment,” he said, “and you can’t blame an uncle for worrying about his favorite niece.”
“Well, that’s true. But I also do want to find my father, and Enj is going to look for him.”
“Reason enough, I suppose. But what about your mother?”
“Avain will see us in her basin. She’ll keep an eye on all of us. Did you think she wouldn’t?”
“No, you’re right.” Mic paused to study her face. “You’d best put some butter or lard on that sunburn. Did we bring any?”
“I did, and a good thing too.”
Berwynna helped Enj unpack the food for their meal. While he carried it over, she hurriedly checked the precious dweomer book and found it safe and dry. Looking at it lying among the mundane supplies made her profoundly uneasy. I shouldn’t have stolen it, she thought, but it’s too late to take it back now.
Their dinner of flatbread and jerky did nothing to soothe Berwynna’s aches and pains, nor did sleeping on hard ground. She reminded herself that she’d been determined to sneak away for this adventure and had, therefore, only herself to blame. If the travails of travel were proving ill for her, though, they were far harder on Otho. That morning she had to help the old man get free of his tangled blanket and sit up.
“Otho,” she said, “can you truly do this?”
“Hah!” Otho snorted like an angry horse. “And what choice do I have now, eh? I was stupid enough to start the journey, and now I’ll have to finish it. Here, lass, if you’ll lend me your shoulder to lean upon, I think me I can stand up.”
So he could, but barely. Mic hurried over and helped the old man walk to the privacy of a cluster of young saplings to relieve himself. By the time they returned, Otho seemed more his old self, grumbling and griping about the weather, the flies, the choice of camp-site, and the food.
The day’s travel started out much like the last, but by noon the river had narrowed. Instead of ferns and water reeds, big tan boulders lined the banks or sat sullenly on the river bottom itself. The water turned choppy. At times the boats swirled through white water that slammed the coracles back and forth between rocks and threatened to tip them with swift curls of waves. Fortunately, taking her sister over to the mainland had taught Berwynna to handle a paddle. It took both her and Dougie’s efforts to keep the leather boat upright and untorn. When they finally beached for the evening’s camp, she ached in every muscle and tendon.
So, apparently, did everyone else. Except for the occasional curse from Otho, no one spoke during their s
oggy meal of moldy bread and cheese, eaten around a small, smoky fire. After dinner, Berwynna had a moment alone with Enj. She tried her best to sound casual when she asked him how much farther they had to go.
“I’m ever so eager to see Lin Serr,” she told him.
“Not too long now.” Enj paused to think something through. “About two days and a half, and we’ll reach the canyon wall. Then we’ll have to climb up the cliff, and finally hike the rest of the way. So four days more, say.”
Berwynna blinked back tears and smiled as brightly as she could. “That’ll be splendid. I wonder how I’m going to get up the cliff in these dresses, though.”
“Imph, well you might wonder. That lad of yours, too—does he always wrap himself in that blanket thing?”
“It’s called a plaid, and he’s wearing all the clothing he’s got. He wasn’t planning on leaving Alban, you know, when the island took us away.”
“Of course not! Doltish of me! But as for you, Mic should have a spare pair of brigga in that overstuffed pack of his. Ye gods, did he bring everything he owns?”
“Most likely. I’ll ask him about the brigga. They should fit me well enough.”
Indeed, Mic did have a pair of brigga to give her, and a shirt as well. Wearing them made her feel as if she were no longer the Berwynna she’d always been. I’m not just Mara’s twin anymore. The thought made her feel like dancing in joy. That night, wrapped in Dougie’s arms, she decided that the ground made a soft enough bed.
With the rapids past, the river turned calm again, and the rest of the journey passed more easily. For the final day’s run, Berwynna rode in the first boat with Enj, who surrendered the larger boat, and Mic and Otho, to Dougie and his longer arms and greater strength. Just as Enj had predicted, they reached the canyon when the sun had climbed almost to zenith. Its pale walls rose so steep and straight that Berwynna asked him if mortal hands had cut them out of the rock.
“They did, truly,” Enj said. “But I’m not sure who the hands belonged to. The stone masters in Lin Serr say they had naught to do with it.”
“Well, if it’s linked to Haen Marn, I’m not surprised there’s a mystery behind it.”
“Neither am I.” Enj smiled at her. “Now hang on, sister of mine! Dangerous water ahead!”
Inside the canyon the water at first ran fast though reasonably smooth. Berwynna had the leisure to look up from time to time at the pale limestone walls, glaring with light since the sun stood directly overhead. She thought she saw markings of some sort upon the walls, but she had to pay too much attention to her paddle to ask questions. As the space between the walls narrowed, the water ran faster and faster. The final cliff loomed over them by the time that Enj shouted the alarm.
“Dougie, bring her in!”
The two coracles spun out of the river to a shallow beachhead cut out of a cliff face. The men leaped out and hauled the little boats ashore. As Dougie helped Berwynna out, she looked up and saw a narrow set of stairs cut deep into the rock face in a serpentine pattern. Together with Mic, they unloaded both coracles and piled their gear on the strip of sand while Enj helped Otho sit down in the shade of the cliff.
“The river runs into the city, you see,” Mic spoke in Alban for Dougie’s sake. “I was hoping we could just ride in all the way.” He turned to Enj and repeated the remark in Dwarvish.
“We can’t risk getting sucked in where the river goes underground, ” Enj answered in the same. “The water comes up to the roof, as far as anyone knows, and we’d drown. There’s a cataract deep inside the caverns where the river comes down to bedrock.”
Mic translated, then added, “I didn’t realize all that. It’s a good thing Enj knows what he’s doing.”
“Oh, we could have guessed.” Dougie pointed at the juncture of the river and the cliff. “Follow the bubbles, Mic.”
Indeed, gleaming in the last of the noontide sun, a raft of bubbles was swirling in an unsteady vortex just where the river fell under the stone. With one last swirl it disappeared, and another clutch of bubbles formed in its place.
“Ah, truly.” Mic rubbed his chin. “That’s why I hired you as a bodyguard, Dougie. You’ve got better eyes for danger than I do.”
Berwynna turned to Enj. “Do those stairs reach all the way up?”
“They do.” Enj tilted his head back to look at the rim. “Now, the lads at Lin Serr did cut those, they told me. By Gonn himself, they’re steep! I’ve only ever seen them from the top, so I had no idea. We’d better watch our step, eh?”
“You think they would have cut a railing while they were at it,” Berwynna said.
“Oh, there are handholds now and then. Getting our gear up’s going to be a job and a half, though. It’s a cursed good thing we’ve got rope with us.”
Berwynna spoke in Dwarvish. “It’s Dougie I’m worried about.”
“He does have big feet,” Enj answered in the same. “And there’s no Mountain blood in his veins. Well, I’ll give him a quick lesson in climbing. And then there’s Otho.”
“Haul him up on ropes,” Mic joined in. “Just like the gear.”
Although Otho protested in a storm of foul curses, in the end carry him up they did. Despite Berwynna’s fears, Dougie made the climb fast and safely. At the top, dressed only in his shirt and loin-wrap, he used the boat ropes and his plaid as a sling to haul up first the gear, then a sputtering, snarling Otho, with Mic panting along behind to keep the old man from swinging out and banging back against the rock.
Berwynna went next with Enj close behind her. Near the top, she paused to catch her breath on a flat landing beside a secure knob of rock cut for a handhold. She refused to look down and focused her gaze on the cliff face. Next to the cut knob she could see one of those mysterious markings she’d noticed earlier, but rather than a rune or some other symbol, it appeared to be the edge of some roundish flat thing embedded in the rock itself. It looked like the edge of a pottery plate but beveled like a coin. She had no idea what it might be and returned to climbing.
At the top Dougie was waiting to catch her hands and help her to safety. She walked well away from the edge of the cliff, then allowed herself to look down. The river looked only as wide as a riband, shiny between the cliffs. The sheer distance made her head swirl like the river vortex.
“All up!” Enj’s good cheer steadied her down again. “Mic, here’s what I suggest. I’ll go on ahead while you all make camp here. There’s a farm not far away where we can borrow a mule.”
“How far?” Mic said.
“Oh, about half a day’s walk. I’ll be back on the morrow by noon, no doubt.”
“How far is it to Lin Serr?” Berwynna said.
“Another half a day past the farm. Near, but too far to carry all our gear and Otho.”
The elderly dwarf was sitting on a flattish boulder nearby. Berwynna knelt down next to him. His face had turned bright red, and he was sweating profusely.
“Otho?” she asked. “Are you well?”
“No, of course I’m not!” Otho snarled. “Hauling a man around with ropes doesn’t fetch him much good, lass. I’m not a cursed fish.”
“Would it have been better for you to climb? I don’t think so.”
When he scowled at her, she took the expression as a silent admission that she was right. Rather than say so, she fetched a water bottle and helped him drink.
They had come up onto a fairly flat stretch of tableland, a good many miles wide, she decided, since it ran from horizon to horizon. Nearby stood a copse of straggly second-growth pine trees. Enj took his pack and walking stick, then set off, heading south. The rest of them got Otho into the shade of the trees and set about making camp.
Yet, as it turned out, they had no need to camp. Enj had barely disappeared into the glare of the horizon when Berwynna noticed a cloud of dust at the same spot. Quickly it resolved itself into Enj, a pair of mules, and a squad of Mountain Folk, all coming their way. At first Berwynna thought that the men were carrying unusually
long walking sticks, but when the sun glittered on the flat blades at the end of each handle, she realized that she was seeing war axes, the weapons her mother had so often mentioned in her tales of the homeland.
“Ye gods!” Mic said. “I wonder how they got here so fast?”
Enj announced the answer to that question as soon as he came close enough to shout. “Someone saw our boats on the river,” he said. “So they sent guards to investigate.”
“And welcome they are!” Mic stepped forward to greet the leader of the squad. “Pel! Ye gods, you’re a grown man now!”
The man called Pel laughed aloud and came striding up to them. Instead of an ax, he carried a short-bladed sword. Judging from the way he used it to point at things while he called out orders, it marked him as the squad’s officer. He was a solid-looking fellow, with dark hair and a messy dark beard straggling over his chin and neck.
“You’ve been gone a long time, Mic,” Pel said, smiling. “I was just a sprout, not even thirty, when you up and disappeared on us.” He turned to Berwynna and bowed. “Greetings, my lady. Enj tells us that you hail from Haen Marn.”
“I do, indeed.” Berwynna dropped him a curtsy in answer to his bow. “And this is my betrothed, Douglas of Alban.”
Pel looked at Dougie—looked up at him, in fact, as if he were surveying a tree—and bowed to him as well.
“He doesn’t speak the Mountain language,” Berwynna went on, “but I’ve been teaching him some of the tongue that Deverry men speak.”
“Well and good, then.” Pel spoke in that language. “Welcome to Dwarveholt, Douglas.”
“My thanks,” Dougie said. “It glads—it gladdens my heart to meet you.”
The Shadow Isle Page 22
