“The Westfolk camp is about two miles ahead,” Rori said. “They’ve seen me, and so I expect someone will come to meet us, probably Dallandra, the Wise One of the royal alar.”
“Does that mean a dweomerwoman?” Laz said.
“Just that. I wouldn’t advise lying to her. Sidro’s mentioned in the past that you have a penchant for that.”
Laz winced and considered the grass growing between the dragon’s paws.
Sure enough, when Berwynna looked to the south, she saw a group of some dozen riders coming, most of them mounted on horses whose coats shone a beautiful golden color, except for one woman’s silvery mare. Behind them trailed a man on a roan.
“There’s Dalla,” Rori said. “And the man in front is Calonderiel, the warleader. Behind them—some of the archers, I suppose. Cal never goes anywhere without an escort. Ah, wait! There’s Ebañy! Wynni, you have another uncle, and here he comes, my brother, that is, there on the roan horse.”
“Evan the gerthddyn?” Laz said.
“He goes by that name, too.”
“Then I have somewhat to give back to him. My apologies, I’ll return straightaway.”
Laz turned and strode off, heading back to his men and the remnants of the caravan, waiting in the tall grass. The Ancients, Berwynna thought, the fabled Ancients! The riders dismounted only a few yards away, because their horses showed no fear of the dragon, much to Berwynna’s surprise. Some of the men stayed with the horses while the rest, led by a woman with ash-blonde hair and gray eyes, walked over to the dragon. The man Rori had called Ebañy stayed a little off to one side and smiled, but Berwynna could see him assessing everyone with a cool gaze. Although her newly-found uncle looked like an ordinary human being, the other Westfolk shocked her. She’d heard about their strange ears, but no one had told her about their cat-slit eyes, their slender height, and the sheer beauty of their alien faces.
Rori spoke to the woman in a language that Berwynna had never heard before, and she answered in the same. He seemed to be telling her who everyone was, judging from the way she looked at each person in turn. Occasionally Berwynna heard names, and eventually her own. The woman smiled at her and spoke in Deverrian. “Welcome, then, Wynni. I’m Dallandra. Your father tells me that you have the heart of a dragon, though fortunately not one’s scales.”
“My thanks.” Berwynna curtsied, as best she could in her old brigga, simply because she had no idea of what else to do. “I be honored to meet you.”
Dallandra smiled again, then returned to her discussion with the dragon. Eventually the two of them told the others what they’d decided, that everyone who was willing would come to the Ancients’ camp, while those who preferred to camp elsewhere could find another spot, though one close enough for safety’s sake. By then Laz had returned, carrying a bundle wrapped in embroidered cloth.
“I’ll discuss it with my men,” Laz said.
“The Ancients tell me that there were Horsekin raiding on the Arcodd border,” Rori said in Deverrian. “Take no chances.” Rori swung his head Dallandra’s way, but he continued to speak in Deverrian. “Dalla, I smell wyrd in all of this. The man who led the caravan—he died defending it—was Jahdo’s grandson.”
Dallandra tossed up her head like a startled horse, and her mouth framed an O. “Wyrd, indeed,” she said at last. “And an ugly wyrd, at that. My heart aches for Jahdo and Niffa, too.” She shook her head and paused before speaking again. “Laz, we have friends of yours in our camp.”
“I know.” Laz gave her a lazy grin. “I scried for them.”
“Of course.” She considered him for a long moment. “You look as if you’ve met with some painful ill luck.”
“You could say that, truly.” Laz held out his maimed hands and the cloth-wrapped bundle. “Evan the gerthddyn! I believe this belongs to you.”
Berwynna’s newfound uncle strolled over and took the bundle. He unwrapped the rags to reveal something shiny and black, then laughed.
“I never thought to see this crystal again,” Evan said.
“There it is,” Laz said, “and I wish I’d never stolen the accursed thing. We have a fair bit to discuss, you and I.”
“And so we will, tonight, I hope. What about the white one?”
“Lost. It’s at the bottom of Haen Marn’s lake. I’ll explain that, too. I wish I’d never found it, either.”
“Where was it?” Dallandra stepped forward. “I’ve wondered about that for months.”
“In Rinbaladelan, fair lady.” Laz made her a bow. “And therein lies another long tale.”
“Which I very much want to hear, but not out in the middle of nowhere. Ask your men where they’ll camp, Laz. I want to get back to the alar.”
After much discussion, Laz’s men, even Faharn, decided to make a separate camp. They unloaded their pack animals about a quarter of a mile away from the sprawl of Westfolk tents. The remaining Cerr Cawnen men, however, chose to take refuge among the Ancients. Laz watched them leading their stock through the grass till they disappeared among the gaudy tents.
“What about you?” Faharn said.
“I’ll camp here with you all,” Laz said, “but I’m going to go fetch Sidro first.”
As Laz set off through the tall grass, he was considering what he would say to Sidro. He’d been raised in a world where women had the final say over who would be their lovers. If she wanted to keep Pir as her Second Man, he had no real objection, provided they both came with him when he led his men back to the Northlands. As her First Man, however, he was planning on asserting his rights by bringing her back to spend the night in his tent.
Laz had almost reached the camp when he saw Sidro, walking out to meet him. She wore Westfolk clothing, an embroidered shirt and leather leggings. Her raven-dark hair, long enough to trail along her shoulders, gleamed in the sunlight. He stopped walking and let her come up to him, but he could feel his sexual scent spreading out toward her in greeting, his beautiful Sisi, his again at last.
Yet when she drew closer, he noticed that she was carrying a bundle wrapped in a blanket. He turned cold—she couldn’t mean it, she really could not mean what that bundle signified to a Gel da’Thae man. She looked frightened, he realized, but when she stopped some three feet from him, she forced out a smile.
“Here.” She shoved the bundle against his chest with shaking hands. “Here are the things we shared in the cabin.”
“No!” Laz snapped. “You can’t do this to me, Sisi. You just can’t!”
“I can, Laz. Here!” She thrust the bundle at him again, and this time her hands were steady. “Here’s the knife, the red pottery plate, the two books, and this is one blanket from our bed. I’ve kept the length of linen, because you gave that to me as a gift.”
Laz tried to step to one side; Sidro dodged with him and thrust the bundle forward again. Laz began to wonder if he were having a nightmare. She could not mean it, she just couldn’t! He could smell his scent changing, shrinking back into his body, turning into something acrid with the taste of defeat. If only he could get close to her—he thought of a ploy, something temporary that would give him a chance to win.
“I could be your Second Man,” he said. “If you and Pir come with me, I—”
“That would be worse, wouldn’t it? Faharn would gloat, and the other men would sneer. Better to just end things between us cleanly.”
Once again she held out the bundle. Once again he tried to dodge around it—if only he could get her in his grasp, then she’d yield to him as she always had before. He was sure of it, but once again she swung around to face him and shoved that accursed heap of things in between them. Laz decided to change tactics. He raised his hands to display his maimed fingers.
“Sisi, I need you.” He allowed a quaver into his voice. “Please, can’t you see how much I need you?”
She wavered—he could see it in her eyes—then shook her head. “No, Laz,” she said. “You’ve got others who’ll help you.”
“I don
’t understand! Why have you changed like this?”
“Don’t you remember when you told me that I didn’t know how to be free? Well, I’ve learned.”
“I didn’t mean free of me!”
She considered him for a moment, then laughed. Laz cursed himself for the slip.
“Oh? So the truth comes out, does it?” She continued to hold out the blanket-wrapped bundle. “Pir and I are happy here. We’re going to stay.”
Laz realized that he could think of not one word more to say, not a truth, not a lie. He stared at her and tried to capture her gaze, but she focused her own on the bridge of his nose. She remembered that little safeguard against ensorcellment, too, and he cursed himself again for ever teaching it to her.
“You’ve got to take it, Laz,” Sidro said. “It’s the law of our kind.”
“I’m an outlaw, remember?”
When she pushed the bundle into his chest, he stepped back sharply. She considered him for a moment, then loosened the knot in the cloth. Laz had a moment of hope that she was about to take it back, but when he stepped forward, she shoved the wretched thing into his chest again. He raised his arms and let it fall between them. When it hit the ground, the unknotted blanket opened and spilled its contents. His two books, his translation of the Pseudo-Iamblichos Scroll, wrapped in its dragon cover, and the chronicles of the war at Highstone Tor, slid out to lie in damp grass. He stooped and grabbed them before they could soak up the moisture, then realized what he’d done. By taking even the smallest part of those offered goods, he’d agreed to the break between them.
She knew it, damn her! he thought. She knew I couldn’t let the books lie. Rage coursed through his body, hotter than blood. Although he stood up fast, Sidro had turned and was already hurrying away.
“Sisi!” he called out, but all he could hear in his own voice was the rage. “I still love you.”
She paused and glanced back, looking over her shoulder.
“As much as you can love anyone,” Sidro called back. “You’ll forget me soon enough.” She turned on her heel and strode away, hurrying back to the Ancients’ camp.
Laz stood staring after her. The sun was setting, the night wind was picking up, but still he stood, watching cooking fires bloom among the Westfolk tents. Pir didn’t even have the decency to come greet me, he thought. But then, why should he?
“He won, the sneaking sly little bastard!”
A woman was leaving the tents and hurrying toward him. For a moment hope flared; then Laz recognized Dallandra.
“Laz!” she called out. “I’d like to hear that tale about the white crystal.”
“It will have to wait until the morrow.” Laz considered face-saving excuses, then damned them all and told the truth. “I’ve just been bruised in my very soul, and I need to go lick my wounds like a whipped hound.”
With the books held tight against his chest, Laz strode away. He refused to pick up the rest of the things that Sidro had given back to him. I’ll get her back, he promised himself. Somehow or other, I’ll get her back!
Pir was sitting cross-legged in front of their tent, merely sitting and staring out at the sunset sky, yet Sidro considered him the most beautiful sight she’d seen in many a long year. When she sat down next to him, he turned his head and smiled at her.
“You didn’t think I could go through with it, did you?” she said.
He reached over and took her hand to squeeze it. “I thought you wouldn’t want to go through with it,” he said. “Glad to see I was wrong.”
“So am I.” She leaned her head against his shoulder. “So am I.”
He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. They sat together until the sun set and darkness sent them inside their tent.
After consulting with Prince Daralanteriel and Calonderiel, Rori left the royal alar under the guard of Arzosah and Medea and flew off north. He intended to take another look at that forward encampment he’d seen building, to say nothing of the migrating Horsekin. Grallezar had often described the Alshandrite leaders’ favorite tactic, to move the fanatical believers of the far north down to the cities in order to ensure a majority of their supporters in the formerly free towns. She’d lost her own position because of just such a migration. Her city, Braemel, had been the last Gel da’Thae stronghold free of Horsekin influence. Dar had pointed out that this new group might have been going to try to move farther south and rebuild another of the ancient cities that their ancestors had destroyed, a potentially more dangerous move than building near the new fortress. Once the Horsekin reclaimed and fortified one of the old cities, it would take far more men than they had available to pry them out again.
As he flew, Rori kept an eye out for Berwynna’s mule as well as for bands of raiders. When he reached the barrow lands, twice he saw stray mules, which he caught, killed, and ate. Neither of them carried a riding saddle nor, therefore, saddlebags. To search he flew a wider course, angling back and forth from east to west over a likely stretch of territory while still making progress toward the north. He saw no more stray mules and no bands of Horsekin raiders, either. The unit that had attacked Aethel’s caravan had most likely managed to reach the new fort in the north.
Perhaps they had Berwynna’s mule, perhaps not. He found himself curiously indifferent to the fate of that book. He simply could not decide whether he wanted to leave the dragon form and return to his former body. I’ll be old, he thought, old, half dead, unable to fight, unable to fly. In return, what would he gain? Hands, of course, the company of other men, and Angmar, back and within in his reach. Only the last gain seemed worth the losses.
If he found the book, and if the book contained the dweomer workings that Dallandra suspected it did, then in a strange way the decision might be made for him. He remembered his silver dagger, lost in Bardek, and how it had made its way back to him just as Jill had turned up to take him away from Aberwyn. The silver dagger had been a messenger of Wyrd. The book might well be another. If so, it would turn up, and then perhaps he would be able to make a decision. Perhaps.
As he flew onward, he put the matter out of his mind. It was more important, to his way of thinking, to discover what the cursed Horsekin were up to. Yet somewhere, deep in his soul, he heard a voice taunting him for a coward.
Every day at noon Angmar climbed the stairs of Avain’s tower to bring her firstborn daughter a meal. Despite her bulk, Avain ate but little: porridge in the morning, a plate of meat and bread in the middle of the day, a bowl of soup in the evening, a few apples when they were in season, or at times nothing at all before she went to her bed, a heap of straw upon the floor. Angmar had tried to get her to sleep in a proper bed in years past, when Avain was smaller, but she’d always refused. Now no bed in Haen Marn’s manse would have fit her.
Avain was sitting at her table by the window, watching the water dance in her silver basin, when Angmar came in with a plate, covered with a bit of linen to keep off the flies.
“Your meal, my love,” Angmar said.
Avain looked up with her strange round green eyes, lashless and unblinking. “Dougie’s dead,” she said. “Poor Dougie.”
“What?” Angmar set the plate down with shaking hands. “Ah, ye gods, the poor lad, indeed!”
“Wynni, she be with her da. Dragons!” Avain smiled and got up from her stool. “Dragons, Mama! Silver dragon, black dragon, green dragons, lovely dragons.”
“But what about Dougie?”
“He be dead, Mama.” She spoke in a calm, ordinary voice. “Wynni be safe with her da.”
“With Rori, you mean?”
“With her da, truly.”
“If her da flies this way, will you tell me?”
“Of course, Mama.” Avain held her arms out from her shoulders. “Lovely dragons! Avain want to fly, Mama.”
She tossed back her head and roared, then ran around and around the room with her arms outspread. As she watched, Angmar was thinking of her first husband, Enj and Avain’s father, who had lov
ed tales of dragons. He had blamed himself, Marn, son of Marnmara, for his strange daughter’s affliction, sure that somehow he’d attracted a dragon’s soul into her body as it grew in the womb. Everyone had called him daft. But he was right, Angmar thought, may the gods forgive us, he was right!
GLOSSARY
Alar (Elvish) A group of elves, who may or may not be bloodkin, who choose to travel together for some indefinite period of time.
Alardan (Elv.) The meeting of several alarli, usually the occasion for a drunken party.
Astral The plane of existence directly “above” or “within” the etheric (q.v.). In other systems of magic, often referred to as the Akashic Record or the Treasure-House of Images.
Banadar (Elv.) A warleader, equivalent to the Deverrian cadvridoc.
Blue Light Another name for the etheric plane (q.v.).
Body of Light An artificial thought-form constructed by a dweomermaster to allow him or her to travel through the inner planes.
Cadvridoc (Dev.) A warleader. Not a general in the modern sense, the cadvridoc is supposed to take the advice and counsel of the noble-born lords under him, but his is the right of final decision.
Captain (Dev. pendaely.) The second-in-command, after the lord himself, of a noble’s warband. An interesting point is that the word taely (the root or unmutated form of -daely,) can mean either a warband or a family depending on context.
Deosil The direction in which the sun moves through the sky, clockwise. Most dweomer operations that involve a circular movement move deosil. The opposite, widdershins, is considered a sign of the dark dweomer and of the debased varieties of witchcraft.
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