The Shadow Isle

by Katharine Kerr

  “Do that,” Kov said. “They’ve found a new vein of the fire opals, by the way. The city wants our help to mine it properly.”

  Vron’s eyes gleamed, and he smiled. “Do they?” he said. “It’s too long a trip for me, but my son’s back now. I’m off to have a bit of a chat with Aethel. And then I’ll see what Mic thinks about it.”

  For the dinner Kov put on his best shirt and took his envoy’s staff along, too, simply because it looked impressive, carved as it was with ancient runes. Servant boys brought extra chairs to the envoy’s quarters and set up a table; other boys loaded the table with food and flagons of ale so dark and strong that it was almost black. Fried bats, roasted root vegetables both red and white, served with butter, and brown loaves of warm bread—the cooks had outdone themselves, and everyone ate with little conversation till the platters shone, free of the last drip of gravy.

  “Well, here we are,” Enj said at last. “You’ve finally seen your home country, Wynni, and a bit of its city.”

  “It’s truly splendid,” Berwynna said. “I never knew places like this existed.” She turned to Dougie. “Is it more splendid than Din Edin?”

  “A thousand times better,” Dougie said, “and it doesn’t stink.” When she translated the exchange, everyone laughed. Mic saluted him with his stoup of brown liquor.

  “Tell me somewhat, Brother,” Berwynna went on. “Where’s the kingdom of Deverry from here? I’m wondering where my father might be.”

  “Deverry’s due south,” Enj said, “but we’re not far from the lands of the Westfolk. He could be in either place.”

  Otho made a rude noise. “Cursed Westfolk!” he announced. “Rori was half an elf before he turned into a blasted dragon, you know. Never did trust him. Goes to show what they’re like, getting turned into dragons.”

  “Why don’t you like the Westfolk?” Berwynna asked.

  Otho snorted for an answer.

  “Don’t get him started.” Enj rolled his eyes skyward. “Which reminds me, Otho, my lad, the silver dragon told me a fascinating little tale. There are more Mountain Folk down in Deverry itself, not far from a place called Cwm Pecl. Have you ever heard of them?”

  “I haven’t,” Otho said. “They must have come from the eastern cities.”

  “Not according to the dragon,” Enj said. “He told me they looked much like our folk here.”

  “Nonsense! All the Lin Rej refugees came here, those that lived, anyway.” Otho glanced at Berwynna. “Cursed elves wouldn’t shelter them when they begged for help.”

  “And a good thing, too,” Kov put in. “They were at the gates of Tanbalapalim, you see. The Horsekin captured the city soon after and slaughtered everyone in it.”

  Otho made a growling sound deep in his throat.

  “An excellent point, Envoy,” Enj said, grinning. “If you ask me, this pack of Mountain Folk down in Deverry? They must be those Lost Ones, Otho, the same group you’ve been carrying on about for the last five hundred years or so.”

  Otho’s mouth dropped open, and he sputtered with a drool of brown liquor. Berwynna grabbed a napkin and handed it to the old man, who wiped his beard with great dignity.

  “Can’t trust a thing an elf tells you,” Otho said feebly.

  “He’s not an elf but a dragon.” Mic joined in. “Go on, Enj. This is interesting.”

  “Not much more to tell, alas. He swears that there’s a colony of our people in the hills near this Cwm Pecl place, and that the women there walk about in the sunlight just like the men, the way they did in Lin Rej all those years past.”

  “Wormshit and maggot slime!” Otho’s color had turned a bright pink, a dangerous shade. “I don’t believe a word of it!”

  “Otho, please!” Kov said. “There’s a lady present.”

  The silence hung awkwardly over the table. Otho busied himself with wiping an imaginary speck off his beard.

  “Uncle Mic, can you tell me,” Berwynna said at last, “just how deep does Lin Serr go? It looks absolutely huge from what I’ve seen.”

  Good lass! Kov thought.

  “A mile or more,” Mic said, “and down near the lowest level you can feel the heat of the earth’s fires. That’s what keeps us warm in the winter, in fact.”

  As the conversation continued on safe subjects, Otho’s color slowly returned to normal. Long before the meal was over, the old man had fallen asleep, nodding over his plate.

  When the time came for everyone to leave, a pair of Mountain Folk appeared with the carrying chair to take Otho to his chamber. Mic and Kov went with them. Servant lads hurried in to clear away the remains of the food. When they left, Berwynna shut the door behind them with a grateful sigh.

  “Tired?” Dougie said. “I am, and confused as well.”

  “So am I.” Berwynna managed a smile. “The city’s overwhelming, and the way the people live—I still don’t understand it all.”

  “Particularly your clan.” Dougie frowned at the wall. “Now, Mic is your mother’s brother. Right?”

  “A half brother. His father is my mother’s father, and my grandfather. ”

  “But his mother, she’s not your grandmother?”

  “She’s not. My mother’s mother is dead.”

  “So your grandfather had two wives? One after the other, I assume.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t call them wives, not like back in Alban. And I think it was more or less at the same time.”

  Dougie sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. “Heathen, then, these people,” he said. “The poor women!”

  “Heathen, truly, but don’t waste your sympathy on the women. They choose the men they want, Enj told me.” Berwynna grinned at him. “Like I chose you.”

  “Then there’s somewhat to be said for being heathen.” Dougie returned the smile. “Not that we could be telling Father Colm that, if ever we return to Alban.”

  Berwynna took off her outer dress and placed it folded onto the chest by the window. She perched on the sill with her back to the long drop down and began to comb her hair. The crowded events of the day were finally settling in her mind, at least enough for her to begin to think them through.

  “You know, I’m worried about Otho,” Berwynna said. “He’s not well.”

  “He hasn’t been well in three years, lass,” Dougie said. “But truly, I didn’t like the look of him tonight either.”

  “Mic’s mother is somewhat of a healer, and Mic told me she’d look in on Otho tonight. I hope she’s as good with her herbs as Mara is.”

  “Or good enough, anyway. Your sister’s a fair marvel, and I doubt me if anyone can match her.”

  “True spoken.” For the first time it occurred to Berwynna to wonder if she missed her sister. Mayhap, she thought, but I don’t miss waiting upon her hand and foot!

  The morning justified their foreboding. With the rising sun someone knocked hard on the door. Dougie got out of bed, wrapped his plaid around him for modesty, and opened the door. Berwynna sat up just as a grave-faced Mic walked into the chamber.

  “I’ve got ill news indeed,” Mic said. “I’m afraid Otho’s gone to the ancestors.”

  Berwynna’s eyes filled with tears, and she found that she couldn’t speak.

  “That’s a shame,” Dougie said. “How did it happen?”

  “In his sleep.” Mic flung himself into a chair. “I suppose that it’s the best way to go, if you’re going. We found him in his bed this morning. His heart must have given out, or so my mother thinks.”

  Berwynna wiped her tears away on the edge of a blanket. “He always told me,” she said, “that he wanted to die back here in Dwarveholt. At least he got his wish.”

  “So he did, and he’ll be laid to rest here, too. My mother will preside. ” Mic turned to Dougie. “Wynni can go to the funeral, but it’s going to be down in the deep city, so I’m afraid they won’t let you come with her. I’m truly sorry, Dougie.”

  “Don’t trouble your heart over it.” Dougie paused for a yawn. “Funera
ls are a grim duty, and I shan’t mind missing one.”

  “Well and good, then,” Mic said. “Wynni, I’ll stand outside while you get dressed. We bury our dead quickly, and so they’re waiting for us.”

  Once she’d dressed, Berwynna joined Mic out in the circular entrance hall. He led her across to the mouth of one of the tunnels, where Vron was standing, carrying a big basket of what looked at first glance like cabbage.

  “For the light.” Vron hefted the basket. “It’s a kind of fungus.”

  “I see,” Berwynna said. “I’m so sorry you’ve lost your brother. I shall miss him.”

  “You may be the only soul in Lin Serr who does,” Vron said, but his wry smile took any sting out of the words.

  As soon as they left the dim sunlight in the entrance hall, Berwynna noticed that the fungus in the basket glowed with a pale blue light, just enough to light their way through a short tunnel with polished stone walls. At the head of a flight of stairs, Vron paused.

  “It’s a long way down,” he said. “I hope you’ve got strong legs.”

  “The way down won’t bother me,” Berwynna said. “The way up may be another thing.”

  “Well, we’ll see. If naught else, Mic and I can carry you.” They went down, and down, narrow stair after narrow stair, set steeply into the rock. The blue gleam from the basket of light reached only a short way into the darkness, a cold silent dark that grew deeper and colder with every flight of stone steps down. It was the only light Berwynna saw, even when they reached a landing. From these resting places side tunnels curved away into shadow. She could just make out doors set into their walls, but she never saw anyone go in or come out of them. After some five flights of stairs she stopped counting. The entire world seemed to have funneled into Lin Serr, and its only direction was down.

  At last the stairs led to a small open space and a broad corridor, running off to their right. The walls here, glowing blue, rippled with light. As they walked past, the glow brightened, then faded, only to brighten again. Berwynna could make out some sort of algae or mold, growing like fur across the worked stone. Ahead of them she saw stronger light, fungal blue laced with yellow candlelight, coming from a wide room.

  Inside, a procession had assembled: six men carrying a bier, covered with a heavily embroidered coverlet, a small group of mourners standing behind, Envoy Kov among them, and at its head a woman. Set into niches on the wall, candles glowed.

  “That woman is my mother,” Mic whispered. “Her name’s Miccala. You’ll walk with her in front.”

  Vron handed her the basket of fungus. Mic patted her on the shoulder, then turned and walked away with his father to take their places behind the bier. Watching Mic leave her side made Berwynna shiver with fear, even though she felt like a fool for doing so. Miccala came forward and smiled at her. She was a pleasant-looking woman, somewhat stout, with a streak of gray in her brown hair and a strong jaw. She wore a long dress of pale gray, clasped at the waist by a belt set with irregular chunks of onyx.

  “Welcome to the Halls of the Dead.” She had a soft voice, tinged at the moment with sadness. “I’m sorry we couldn’t meet at a happier time.”

  “So am I,” Berwynna said. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Just carry that basket of light and follow me. The ceremony’s a simple one, but it requires at least two women.”

  The Halls of the Dead. The name made Berwynna shiver once again, but she decided that she had no reason to let the fear show. She held the glowing basket high and steadily as she followed Miccala. The funeral procession fell in behind them as they made their way down one last short stairway to level ground and a level path. Above them she saw the rough stone of a crudely cut tunnel.

  “We go to the Hall of Bone,” Miccala called out.

  The men behind them sang one low note, almost a growl in the echoing chamber.

  As they turned onto the path, distantly Berwynna heard a murmur that at first she mistook for chanting. As they came closer, she realized that she was hearing the river, plunging down over its cataract somewhere far ahead. The cold air became damp, as clammy with silence as with water. Miccala called out, a long high note that hovered on the edge of song, and led the procession into a vast cavern. On the far side, several hundred yards away, the river ran, blue with phosphorescence.

  By its light Berwynna could see a stone forest. Misshapen cones of rock rose from the floor and strove to touch their twins hanging from the ceiling. Pale tan and white, they glittered with the water that dripped through the limestone. In and among them stood round platforms where the cones had been cut away about three feet from the ground. On each platform lay a skeleton, curled like a baby in the womb. From above, the lime-tinged water dripped, relentless.

  “They shall become part of the mountain forever,” Miccala said. “Soon enough the soft flesh rots away, leaving the hard bones. Slowly the stone covers the bones. They meld with the rock, become rock. Such is the destiny of our folk.”

  “I see,” Berwynna whispered. “Born of the mountains, and to the mountains we’ll come in the end.”

  “Just so.” Miccala smiled at her. “You learn fast, child.”

  The men carried the bier to one of the platforms and laid it down on the ground nearby. Miccala pulled back the coverlet to reveal Otho’s naked body, lying on its side, his limbs curled and his hands tucked under his cheek. He looked so peaceful, with all his bitterness and complaints stilled at last, that Berwynna felt her grief lighten. Two of the men picked him up and laid him onto the platform. Miccala carefully rearranged his body to fit.

  “Sleep well,” Miccala said. “You are home forever now.”

  Everyone raised their arms into the air and stood for a long moment, praying, perhaps, to the gods whose names Berwynna had yet to learn.

  “We shall remember our kinsman until we join him here,” Miccala said. “For now we shall leave him in peace.” Yet she laid a light hand on Berwynna’s arm to keep her at her side.

  The men picked up the bier and trooped out. Mic lingered, caught Berwynna’s attention, and murmured, “We’ll wait outside.” He hurried off after his father.

  “I have something to show you,” Miccala said. “If you’d not mind.”

  “Not at all,” Berwynna said. “This is fascinating.”

  Miccala took the basket of light and led the way into the approximate center of the cavern. As they passed the various platforms, Berwynna noticed skeletons, some covered with a thin film of translucent rock, others, more recently placed, merely spotted here and there. It would take a long time, she supposed, for the dripping sea-rock to do its work. Miccala stopped at a pair of very different platforms, rectangular and cut out of ordinary stone.

  Each on its own platform, two skeletons lay full-length on their backs, their ghostly hands crossed over their chests. The travertine had completely covered them to a depth of perhaps an inch, making it difficult to pick out details. In the blue light from the mosses and the river, they seemed to be encased in smoke turned solid.

  “Those aren’t Mountain Folk,” Berwynna said.

  “No, they aren’t,” Miccala said. “Some say they’re of the race known as the Children of Air, the ones that Deverry men call the Westfolk. Others say that they’re Deverry men. I don’t know which is correct.”

  “They must have been here a very long time.”

  “Well over a thousand years. The founders discovered them when our people first came to Lin Serr.” Miccala held up her basket and moved it this way and that to make the light fall upon the rib cage of one of the skeletons. “When I was a child, you could still see a gold bird with spread wings lying under the blanket of rock. It must have been some sort of ornament around the person’s neck. I can’t make it out now, though. I was a child a very long time ago.” She lowered the basket with a sigh. “Let us return to the land of the living.”

  At the entranceway they paused to put out the candles. Mic and Vron accompanied Berwynna the entire way up,
but Miccala left them, turning down one of the side tunnels after they’d passed several landings. By the time they climbed the long stairways back up to the entrance hall, Berwynna was panting for breath, and her legs seemed to have turned to mud under her. Fortunately, Dougie was waiting by the inlaid maze. He picked her up and carried her down the corridor to their chamber.

  After Otho’s funeral, Kov invited Mic and Enj to his quarters to partake of what he called a "restorative,” a golden liquor less potent than the dark brown stuff he’d served the night before. In his small reception chamber stood a stone bench with a wooden back and a welter of cushions for guests. After he set out the bottle and stoups, he himself took the only chair. In the dim bluish light from baskets of fungi, the liquor shone green. They toasted each other with the stoups, and each had a long sip.

  “I’ll be leaving soon,” Enj spoke first. “I promised Rori that I’d go find him if the island returned, you see. Little Berwynna’s bound and determined to go with me, too. He’s her father, after all.” He paused, thinking. “Well, he fathered her when he was still a man. I don’t suppose his being a dragon now would change that.”

  “Legally he’d still have paternity,” Kov said. “In my opinion, anyway. I suppose we could ask Garin if you’d like to make sure of that.”

  “No, no, your opinion’s good enough for me. You’ve studied the laws. I haven’t.” Enj swirled the liquor in his stoup. “I wish my sister had stayed safely at home, but she didn’t, and so here we are. I’d best start searching, but ye gods, he could be anywhere!”

  Mic leaned forward in his chair. “Enj, I’ve been thinking. I know your heart longs to return to Haen Marn. I’m minded to go west with Aethel’s caravan to see about those veins of opal-bearing rock. From what he told me, the city of Cerr Cawnen’s offering a nice bit of money for an assessment. I can keep an eye out for Rori easily enough. Why don’t I take on your vow? If we find him, I’ll tell him about the island’s return, just like you promised.”

  Enj nearly wept. He roughly wiped his eyes on his sleeve before he spoke. “A thousand thanks,” Enj said. “I’ll be in your debt for that.”