The Red Wyvern: Book One of the Dragon Mage (3 page)

“Well, now,” Domnall said. “Do you all hail from the southern lands?”

“Who knows?” Otho snapped. “It could have been any wretched direction at all!”

“You’ll forgive my uncle, good sir,” Mic said. “He’s getting old and a bit daft.” He grabbed Otho’s arm. “Come sit down.”

Muttering under his breath, Otho allowed himself to be dragged away. Domnall had the uneasy feeling that the old man wasn’t daft in the least but speaking of grammarie. Yet his mind refused to take that idea in. He found it easier to believe in a lady sent away by her brothers after a husband’s death, or perhaps even a lady in political exile, allowed to take a small retinue away with her. The Sassenach chiefs were always fighting among themselves, and he’d heard that their women could do what they wished with their bride-price if their husbands died. The welcome fire, the warm straw, the steamy reek of his drying cloak and plaid, the taste of ale and bread—it all seemed too solid, too normal to allow the presence of magic. As he found himself yawning, he wondered if he’d merely imagined the man named Evandar and the blazing tree. They might merely have been the mad visions of a man come near death by cold.

At length Lady Angmar turned and considered him with eyes so sad they were painful to look upon.

“I can have the servants give you a chamber,” she said, “or would you prefer to sleep here by the banked fire?”

“The fireside will do me well, my lady, and I’d not cause you any more trouble.”

Her mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile.

“There’s been trouble enough, truly,” she said, then returned to watching the fire.

Angmar never spoke again. At length she rose and with her elderly maidservant left the hall. Young Mic brought Domnall a blanket; Otho banked up the fire; they took the lantern and left him with the dogs to curl up and sleep.

When he woke cold grey light edged the shutters. Otho was just letting the whining dogs out at the door. Stretching and yawning, Domnall sat up as the old man came stumping over, poker and tongs in hand, to mend up the fire.

“I’ll get out of your way, good sir,” Domnall said.

“You’re a well-spoken lad.”

“It becomes a Christian man to watch his speaking.”

Otho glanced puzzled at him.

“A what kind of man?” he said.

“A Christian man, one of Lord Jesu’s followers.”

“Ah. Is this Yaysoo the overlord in these parts?”

“Er, well, you could say that.”

Otho hunkered down and began lifting the chunks of sod away from the coals. Domnall pulled on his boots, bound them tightly, then stood up to wrap and arrange his plaid.

“The Lady Angmar? Has she lost her husband, then?”

“Lost him good and proper,” Otho said. “No one knows where he may be or if he lives or lies dead, and here she is, heavy with his child.”

“That’s a terrible sad thing.”

“It is, truly. If she knew he was dead, she could mourn him and get on with life, but as it is …”

“The poor lady, indeed.”

“It’s just like him, though, to do something so thoughtless. An inconvenient man, he was, all the way round. Ah, but who knows why women choose the men they do? She’s still wrapped in sorrow over her Rhodry Maelwaedd, no matter what we may say.”

That was doubly odd. What was a Sassenach woman doing married to some lord from Cymru? Or could this be the reason for her exile? Otho glared at the coals, then blew a bit of life into one of them and threw on a handful of tinder.

“Do you have a home near here, lad?”

“I do. I serve Lord Douglas and live in his hall.”

“Then let me give you some advice. Get out of here while you can and head home, or you may never see it again. The snow’s stopped falling, and the boatmen will row you across.”

“I’ll need to give the lady my thanks first.”

“She’ll not come down till well past midday. Her grief rules her. Get out while you can, while the sunlight lasts, and that won’t be long, this time of year. I warn you.” The old man glared up at him, his face red and sweaty as the fire leapt back to life. “Haen Marn travels where it wills, and faster than spit freezes on a day like this.”

Grammarie. His memories of the night before, of Evandar and the burning tree, came back like a slap in the face. Domnall grabbed his cloak from the straw.

“Then I’ll be off. Good day to you, Otho.”

The old man snorted and turned back to his work.

Outside, Domnall found a day ice cold but clear, with the watery sun just rising—he’d slept late. At the door he paused, looking around him in the crisp day. Wind whined around walls and soughed in trees. He walked a few paces down the path, then turned back for a proper look at the place. In the sun the island seemed much larger than he’d thought the night past. The manse itself stood long and low, with behind it a rise of leafless trees, pale grey and shivering, and behind them a tall, squarish tower, perched on top of a little hill. He shaded his eyes and studied the tower for a moment; it sported three windows, one above the other, and a peaked roof covered in grey slates.

In the middle window someone was standing and looking down. From his distance he couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman, but he suddenly knew that he was being watched, studied as intensely as he’d been studying the tower. There was no malice in the gaze, merely a shocking closeness, as if that person in the window had dropped down to stand in front of him. With a shudder he turned away. He could feel the gaze follow him until he started walking toward the lake. When he risked a quick glance back he found the tower window empty.

At the end of the gravelled path he saw the jetty and the dragon boat, riding high in the water. No one seemed to be about, but by the time he reached the jetty, the head boatman and his oarsmen came strolling down the shore to join him. Otho must have sent a servant down to rouse them, Domnall supposed.

“Ready to go back, lad?” the boatman said.

“I am, though I wish I’d had a chance to pay my thanks to Lady Angmar.”

“Ah, she won’t be down for a good while yet.” The boatman shook his head. “It’s a sad thing.”

They all boarded, and when the oarsmen settled at their thwarts, Domnall sat in the stern, out of their way. Here in daylight he noticed a bronze gong, hanging in a wooden frame. The boatman saw him looking at it.

“That’s for the beasts in the lake,” he announced. “In this cold weather they sink to the bottom and sleep, or some such thing. Like bears do, you know, in caves. In the summer, they’re a fair nuisance, but luckily they hate noise, and banging that gong keeps them off.”

“Beasts?” Domnall said.

“In the lake, truly. Huge they are, with long thin necks and mouths full of teeth. They can capsize a boat like this as easy as I can squash a bedbug.”

All the oarsmen nodded in solemn agreement.

“Ah,” Domnall said. “This lake must feed into Ness, then. That gives me hope.”

“Here! You know of the beasts?”

“Well, of one. It lives in our lake, though you don’t see it often.”

All the oarsmen glanced back and forth, nodding again, but in satisfaction this time.

“I think me,” their leader said, “that our island may have returned home. Interesting, eh, lads?”

The crew nodded but never spoke. The boatswain raised his hand and called out. When he shouted “three,” they all fell to their oars.

Since sunlight brought safety, the oarsmen could pull the boat close enough in to the narrow strip of sandy beach for Domnall to leap ashore. Still, as a precaution he took off his boots. Better to land barefooted in damp sand and snow than try to walk in wet boots. He made it ashore safely, called out his final thanks with a wave as the boat shoved off, then sat on one of the boulders to put his boots back on. With quick hard strokes the dragon boat fled back across the water, so dark under a winter sky it looked black, toward the rise of the isle. As the sun touched the loch, mist steamed on the surface. All at once Haen Marn seemed very hard to see. Grammarie! It can be naught else, he told himself. The tall tree that had blazed with fire the night before had disappeared, but then, he’d expected no less.

Ahead lay trouble enough without worrying about magic. He’d had a safe night instead of a cold death, but he still needed to reach home if he were to live through another one. The sun would stay up only a few hours at best, and if the clouds and snow returned, the light would fade even faster. When he thought over yesterday’s misadventure, he could only assume that he hadn’t gone far enough north before turning to search for the road. In the fresh fall of snow the countryside stretched around him like a place in a dream, featureless and forbidding. He commended his soul to the saints and headed out in the direction he hoped would lead him eventually to the road—if he could see it when he found it.

Yet in the event Lord Douglas himself, riding at the head of his men, found him and well before sunset. Domnall was just climbing a low rise when he heard the sound of horses and horns, blaring from the other side. He whooped, he yelled, he screamed out his lord’s name, and sure enough, in a flurry of answering calls they crested the rise and pulled up, waiting for him to flounder through the snow and reach them.

“My lord!” Domnall called out. “Never have I been so glad to see a man as you!”

With a toss of his head Lord Douglas laughed. A rider led forward a fresh horse and threw Domnall the reins. Calling out his thanks, Domnall mounted, then made a half-bow to his lord from the saddle. As the warband started off down the road, Douglas motioned him up to ride beside him.

“How did you live through the night?” Lord Douglas said.

To lie to his lord galled him, but breaking a sworn promise would have galled more.

“I hardly know. I prayed to every saint I could think of, and I found a hut of sorts. It stank of shepherd and sheep dung, but it was so small that I stayed warm. Well, warm enough.”

“Good. We give the saints and their priests enough in tithes. I’m glad to see they keep their side of the bargain.”

“My thanks for riding out after me, my lord. I thought you’d have given me up for dead.”

“I did, but you’re one of my men, and damned if I’d leave you out here without so much as a hunt.” Douglas paused, considering something with an odd look on his face. “Besides, Jehan would have sent me to Hell herself if I hadn’t ridden out. You should have heard her, weeping and cursing and carrying on.”

“Your daughter, my lord?” Domnall felt himself blushing and stammering. “But I never would have thought—I mean, uh er, my lord, I—”

“Hold your tongue, Domnall Breich. Her mother’s a strong-minded woman, and so is she, and I’ve spent all I’ve a mind to on her sister’s dowry. There’s not much left for hers, but you’d not be asking for much, would you?”

“My lord, if she would have me, I’d ask for naught but her and count myself the richest man alive.”

“Good. Then if you can provide for her, you can have her. What about that, eh?”

“My father promised me a steading if I were to marry. It’s not a great lord’s lands, but we’ll make do.”

“And I can spare you some milk cows and suchlike.” Lord Douglas considered, frowning. “How long have the pair of you been hiding this secret?”

“My lord, I swear to you that I never knew she favored me. I held her too far above me.”

“I believe you. She told me that she never knew she loved you until she thought you dead. ‘It was my grief that made me see,’ she said.”

Remembering Evandar, Domnall found himself speechless. Had Jehan loved him at all until the night just past? But who was he to question this splendid miracle, this gift beyond hoping for?

“Then, my lord,” Domnall said, “I’ll count the night I just spent the luckiest of my life, for all that I thought I was a doomed man.”

When they rode back to the castle, Lady Jehan stood waiting for them on the steps of the keep. As soon as Domnall dismounted, she rushed to him and flung herself into his arms. He held her tight, laid his face against her auburn hair, and thought himself the happiest man in God’s world. Yet even in his joy he remembered the lady of Haen Marn, mourning her lost lord. That night he went into the chapel and prayed for her, that someday Lord Jesu might let her see her Rhodry Maelwaedd again.

  PART ONE